Texas Rifles (18 page)
Authors: Elmer Kelton
The men began moving back. Seward Prince rode in first, wiping sweat from his face onto his sleeve and leaving a streak of mud. He touched his rifle barrel, then jerked his head back from the blistering heat.
“What's the idee, Cloud? We need some fresh meat in camp, but not all that much.”
Cloud said, “I got a purpose. Better go water out.”
The men drank all they could stand of the gyppy water and filled their canteens. Then they let their horses in to take a fill. Hot and thirsty, the animals drank better than they otherwise would.
When everyone had finished, Cloud said, “Now let's take some ropes and drag them buffalo carcasses up into the waterhole. Way I figure it, time the Indians get here they'll be plenty dry. So'll their horses. But if we can foul the water, they won't be apt to drink it.”
Prince looked northward, his eyes narrow. “Reckon that'll stop them?”
Cloud shook his head. “I don't know. Maybe it won't, but it ought to help slow them down. It might make some of them turn back. And even if they catch up to us, an Indian on a give-out horse won't be near as troublesome. We'll have the edge, because our horses will have watered since theirs did.”
Quade Guffey said sorrowfully, “In a country as short of water as this is, it sure does seem like a big waste to mess up a waterhole.”
Cloud shrugged. “It'll clean up. But it'll be a long time.”
They had ridden until far into the night, then stopped for a dry camp without fires. At daylight they were up and preparing to ride.
Cloud was moving around, hurrying everybody up. “Come on,” he was saying, “Let's get movin'. We got us a long lead, and we sure don't want to lose it.”
Miguel Soto appeared, his face grave. “Maybeso we already lose it.” He lifted his arm and pointed northward. Cloud turned and heard himself groan.
On a rise behind them he saw two men a-horseback, just sitting there watching them.
Indians!
Q
UADE GUFFEY SAW THEM AT ABOUT THE SAME TIME as Cloud did. He stood stiff-backed a moment, staring with his mouth open. He turned to Cloud and asked tightly, “Comanches?”
UADE GUFFEY SAW THEM AT ABOUT THE SAME TIME as Cloud did. He stood stiff-backed a moment, staring with his mouth open. He turned to Cloud and asked tightly, “Comanches?”
Cloud's mouth twisted as he watched. “They sure ain't none of
our
bunch!”
our
bunch!”
“But they
couldn't
have caught us already.”
couldn't
have caught us already.”
“You don't never want to figure on what an Indian can't do. They could've ridden all night. They knew what direction we were headed in. They could've eaten up the difference in the dark.”
“Still, them two could just be a pair of strays that come up on us by accident.”
Cloud asked, “You want to wait around and see?”
Quade shook his red head and lifted himself into the saddle, ready to ride. “No, thanks. If they got any business with me, I reckon they'll know where I'm at.”
Sight of the Indians was all the group needed. As they rode away, Cloud looked behind him and saw a column of smoke spiral upward. In a moment it had turned into a grayish cloud, and he could see the dancing of flames licking through the dry grass.
Signal to the others, he thought. The main body of Indians must have sent scouts out to locate the white men as soon as it was light enough to see. Now the smoke, visible for miles around, would rally the scattered Comanches.
Looking at the spreading fire, Guffey commented sourly, “Damned prodigal with their grass.”
Cloud said, “There's still a world of it left.”
They rode steadily, moving part of the time in a jog trot, occasionally spurring up to an easy lope, being as merciful as they could on the horses but at the same time trying to gain on the pursuit. From time to time Cloud rode out to one side and turned to look back. Sometimes he saw Indians, sometimes he didn't. But one thing he knew: they were there, and they were coming as surely as sundown.
He looked apprehensively at Easter Rutledge and at the tiny girl who now sat in front of the doctor, Walt Johnson, in his saddle.
“Miguel,” Cloud said, “there's no dodgin' it anymore; we're fixin' to have us a fight. The only thing we got a choice about is where to make our stand.”
Miguel swung his hand in an arc. “It makes little difference. All this country, it is the same.”
Cloud nodded, glancing back over his shoulder again. “Yeah, all wide open. But somewhere up yonder there ought to be somethin' to hide us a littleâeven a buffalo wallow if nothin' else.”
Miguel humped his shoulders, showing he had little hope. “I do not know this country. I am only a scout. It
is not for me to find something which is not there.”
is not for me to find something which is not there.”
They rode on, the smoke of the prairie fire hovering grimly behind them, a stark symbol of relentless pursuit. Cloud could see the growing tension in the faces of the men around him, in the blue eyes of Easter Rutledge. It was not so much the thought that they could not beat back the Indians. In almost any open battle anymore, the white man had the superiority in fire power. That was why the Comanche relied mostly on sneak attacks, on quick stabbing raids and immediate flight. But an Indian attack, even if repulsed, was almost certain to cause casualties out in the open this way. Worst of all, it was just as certain to result in a heavy loss of horses. Even victory in battle would be hollow indeed if many of the Texans were to find themselves left afoot out here in this waterless land, so many days from home.
The only one not showing the strain was little Joanna Moseley, slumped over a-doze in the lap of Walt Johnson. Cloud could feel his own nerves drawn tight. His mouth was dry, and he knew no amount of water could wet it.
He saw the old animal trails without realizing at first what they could mean, for he was too preoccupied with the Indians. Suddenly it came to him: Somewhere there was water, or had been water. The trails had been made by buffalo, drifting in to drink.
And where there was water, there was apt to be a depression of some sortâa hollow, a creekbed. Anything would serve better than this open country.
“Miguel,” he said, “we'll stop the company a little and let them catch a breath. You ride up this trail one way, and I'll go the other. We got to find out which direction the water is.”
He veered off to the left and let Miguel take the right. He rode possibly ten minutes. During that time he found two more trails converging into the one he was on. That
was enough to satisfy him. He rode up onto a rise, fired his pistol into the air and waved his hat over his head. He saw the company pick up and move his way. On a far rise he saw Miguel Soto pause a moment, then come spurring. A moment after Miguel quit the rise, three horsemen appeared where he had been. Cloud saw smoke puff from a rifle.
was enough to satisfy him. He rode up onto a rise, fired his pistol into the air and waved his hat over his head. He saw the company pick up and move his way. On a far rise he saw Miguel Soto pause a moment, then come spurring. A moment after Miguel quit the rise, three horsemen appeared where he had been. Cloud saw smoke puff from a rifle.
He couldn't see Miguel, for the Mexican was behind the rolling hills. He saw part of the company split off and go back after the scout. For a moment the three Indians held their ground atop the hill and continued to fire. Now the sound of rifles began to reach Cloud, muffled by the distance. He never heard an answer he could attribute to Miguel. A premonition struck him. Without seeing, without hearing, he sensed somehow that they had brought down Miguel.
He could see the company sweep up the hill and drive the Indians down the far side. He looked in vain for Miguel's horse. The men turned back, dropping out of sight a minute or two as they came down from the rise. Later, for a few seconds, they came into view again much closer. They were riding fast. But Cloud had time to see they were supporting one man on his horse. Miguel!
Now the main body of the company came up to Cloud. He turned his horse around, leading the way up the trail in an easy lope. He slipped his saddle gun out of his scabbard and held it across his lap, on the ready.
He wondered how far it was to whatever he was looking for. The trail hadn't been used in a long time and was half grown over in grass. If it was a spring, it might have dried up. It
must
have, or there would be fresher sign of game. Even when he got there, it might not be any good for cover. It might be only an outcrop of rock or some such.
must
have, or there would be fresher sign of game. Even when he got there, it might not be any good for cover. It might be only an outcrop of rock or some such.
But in a time like this a man didn't stop to question.
He rode and hoped, and looked to his guns.
He rode and hoped, and looked to his guns.
Off to the left he saw movement. Indians paralleling him and coming fast!
There is something up there, he realized suddenly.
They know it, and they're trying to beat us to it!
“Come on,” he shouted back over his shoulder. “Spur for all you're worth!”
It was a race, a hard race, the grass flying by beneath the driving hoofs of the horses. Cloud stood a little in the stirrups, leaning forward for better balance to give his horse a chance. He looked back again and again and found the company keeping up with him. Those who had gone to help Miguel were coming up behind, perhaps a quarter mile in the rear.
From Cloud's left came a paint-streaked Comanche warrior, desperately quirting a gray horse and heading straight for Cloud. The Indian swung up a short bow and with a quick flip of his wrist brought forward an arrow from the quiver at his back. Cloud saw the draw of the bowstring, saw the arrow streak toward him. He checked his horse, almost making it stumble. The arrow passed in front of him.
Can't waste a rifle shot,
Cloud thought,
for God knows when I can load another.
He shifted the rifle to his left hand and used his right to draw his pistol. He fired once at the warrior and missed. The Indian had another arrow drawn back when Cloud fired the second time. The Indian's horse suddenly plunged forward, driving its nose into the ground. The Indian rolled and came up on his feet. By then some of the riders behind Cloud were in range. Half a dozen shots blazed, and the Comanche fell.
Cloud thought,
for God knows when I can load another.
He shifted the rifle to his left hand and used his right to draw his pistol. He fired once at the warrior and missed. The Indian had another arrow drawn back when Cloud fired the second time. The Indian's horse suddenly plunged forward, driving its nose into the ground. The Indian rolled and came up on his feet. By then some of the riders behind Cloud were in range. Half a dozen shots blazed, and the Comanche fell.
Ahead, Cloud saw what he had been looking for: scrub brush growing along the edge of a narrow dry wash.
No wonder they've tried to beat us to it,
he thought.
Good place to make a stand.
he thought.
Good place to make a stand.
But the race wasn't won yet. The Indians paralleling him were still making a desperate run for it. Cloud turned to urge the Texans to ride faster. But he didn't have to. They'd seen the wash, and they'd seen the Indians. They were spurring, quirting, doing all they could. From here on it was going to be a test between horses.
For a few moments it was close. But gradually Cloud realized his company was going to win. The Indians' horses were playing out, falling back.
Tired out, Cloud knewâtired and dry. Fouling that waterhole had paid off.
Nearing the wash, Cloud reined to one side and stepped out of the saddle, dropping to one knee with his rifle ready. He waved the men on past, trying to get them into the protection of the wash. Some of them pulled up and jumped to the ground beside him, helping give cover for the others while they found a way to get the horses down the four-and-five-foot wall of the wash.
As the first wave of Indians came upâten or twelveârifles roared and black powder smoke billowed back into the Texans' faces. The Indians hauled up. A horse and a man fell. One wounded horse began to pitch, the Comanche rider trying to hold on. After several jumps the horse went to its knees, exhausted. In the interval when the Indians drew back uncertainly, Cloud and the others loaded their rifles and began to pull toward the wash afoot, leading their horses. Cloud walked backward, his eyes warily following the Indians.
He heard the pounding of hoofs to the left of him and glanced around to see the rest of his company coming up hard, bringing Miguel. From bellied-down Indians on a far rise, smoke puffed and bullets whined past the fast-moving riders. A horse went down rolling, its rider sprawling helplessly in the grass. Other riders pulled in,
helping the dazed man up behind one of them. Cloud waved the newcomers into the wash.
helping the dazed man up behind one of them. Cloud waved the newcomers into the wash.
Realizing the Rifles were about to make cover, the Indians began closing in. Cloud heard the whisper of spent arrows, shot from too far away to take effect. Those Indians who had rifles were using them, but the bullets kicked up little geysers of dust and clipped off cured grass, none doing any harm.
Spooked by rifle fire, some of the horses balked at picking their way down the steep sides of the wash. It took two men to get the horses downâone pulling from below, one pushing from above. Once a horse began to scramble and slide, the man beneath jumped back out of the way. Cloud heard a leg snap and knew they'd lost a horse. But they could do much worse if they didn't hurry.
Cloud was the last man into the wash. He dropped to his belly and rolled over the edge, tasting dirt. He held his rifle high in his right hand to keep it clean. He didn't have to give any orders. The men knew well enough what to do. They had scattered out along a hundred-foot width of the wash and peered over the edge, rifles ready. The flush of excitement rode high in their faces, but there was no panic. They'd loosed their horses in the center of the wash, some of the men stringing ropes to keep the animals from getting away.
They had set Miguel down on the ground. Cloud stepped to the Mexican's side and dropped to one knee, cradling his rifle across his left arm. Miguel had caught the wound high in the shoulder. Easter Rutledge knelt on the other side of the Mexican, trying with canteen and cloth to stanch the flow of blood.
Little Joanna Moseley pressed herself against the bank of the wash and screamed for her father, recoiling in terror every time a rifle blazed.
To Miguel, Cloud said, “Too bad, old friend.”
Gritting his teeth, his face drained of color, Soto leaned his head back against the side of the wash. “Is all right, my frien' Cloud. I stomp a many snakes. Is sure thing, someday one of them bite me.”
The little girl still screamed. Easter left Miguel to hold the wet rag tight against his own wound, and she moved to hold the little girl in her arms, to comfort her.
“Cloud,” she asked anxiously, “what are our chances?”
“We got protection here, better cover than they have. All they can do is come in and try to run over us. Comanches hate to make a direct charge thisaway. They like the odds in their favor. That open country around us gives us the edge.”
“There are more of them than of us,” she pointed out.
“It ain't always
how many
that counts. Sometimes
where at
means a sight more.”
how many
that counts. Sometimes
where at
means a sight more.”
She looked out over the edge. “A lot of them will be killed, I suppose.”
He didn't answer, knowing it was pointless. She bit her lip. “I hoped it wouldn't be this way,” she said. “I hoped they wouldn't catch us. They're still my people ⦠.”
She looked down a moment. “Cloud, if it comes to that, I don't want them to take me back. I've betrayed them. I know better than anybody what they'll do.”
A chill passed through him. “They won't take you, Easter.”
The rifle fire quickened. Quade Guffey yelled, “Cloud, they're comin' at us!”
Cloud shifted the rifle back to his right hand and jumped to his feet. He saw forty or fifty Comanches angling toward them in a ragged line. The Indians were still three hundred yards away. The Texans held their fire until the horsemen were near enough for some accuracy. Then rifles began to blaze. Three horses fell, for horses were an
easy target. Three men sprawled out on the ground. Two of them got up, one didn't. The Comanche line wavered and turned, sweeping off to the right without ever getting close enough for the Indians themselves to do any damage.
easy target. Three men sprawled out on the ground. Two of them got up, one didn't. The Comanche line wavered and turned, sweeping off to the right without ever getting close enough for the Indians themselves to do any damage.
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