Bloody Trail (19 page)

“
Dirty Kiowa, dog dead,” Charley
Blackfeather said with a tight smile. “Odds getting better.” He
barely got it out before gunfire rained down on them. The Indians
were trying a new tactic, setting up in the trees and rocks to try
and pick them off.

“
This could be a damned long
affair,” Charley said. In moments, he shouted out. “How much water
you fellas got?”

“
I got most of one canteen,” Spike
said. “I used the other to soak the beans.”

“
I got a canteen and a goat gut
full,” Billy Below said. “Maybe a quart and a half.”

“
A canteen and a quart of Who Hit
John,” Rob Gallagher called out.

“
I guess I should have filled up,”
Derrick McCain said. “I only got a half a canteen.”

“
It’ll be hell to pay, come
tomorrow afternoon,” Charley said, and for the first time, Spike
thought he detected worry in the big man’s tone. He studied the
hillside below his position. “Let’s hope these Kiowa start missing
their women.”

“
Will they come at night?” Spike
asked.

“
Doubt it, but who knows? If they
keep us here until late tomorrow, we may have to kill that gray of
yours and chow down on him. Hot wet meat’s better than no moisture
at all.”

“
The hell you say,” Spike snarled.
“I’ll ride him down there and take them all on before any of us put
our teeth to him.”

Charley spoke without looking over, still
staring down the hill. “We’ll see if you say that tomorrow
afternoon. Pray to that Lutheran God of yours for rain.”

“
Humph,” Spike managed.

****

They didn’t come again that afternoon.
However, with the dark, they could see fires below on all four
quadrants. The stars shone bright all night, and dawn came without
a cloud in the sky. The good Lord would be no help with thirst
quenching rain. They’d nursed their water, but all of them were
sweating their internal moisture away throughout the warm night,
and none of them slept. With only five of them, and each only able
to watch a section of the hill, there could be no
sleeping.

They were able to have beans for breakfast,
but Spike wished he hadn’t salted them. They were not thirst
quenching. They were down to a canteen of water each, and that was
gone by noon, then, even knowing it would probably compound their
thirst, they passed the bottle of whiskey around, killing half of
it off. As Charley suggested, they were better off with the
moisture in their gut than in their canteens.

The Kiowa waited until the sun was overhead,
then began the feinting tactic again. As they had ample ammunition,
and would run out of water long before they ran out of powder, the
men began taking pot shots at the riders at a hundred yards
distant. The Indians rode hard, staying low in the saddle, very
tough targets at a swift gallop. Still, the men felt they’d hit two
more and knew they’d hit one solid, as his horse had drug him over
the hill, his head bouncing along the rough ground.

“
It’s about time,” Charley
said.

“
Time for what?” Gallagher called
out from the opposite side of their position.

“
They’ll either give up, or charge
hard. And the Kiowa don’t give up. They’ll figure we’re damn tired
and can’t see worth a hoot in this bright sun, with the sweat and
all, and knowing we probably didn’t sleep a blink.”

As if he were reading the enemies’ minds, they
suddenly came at once, from all directions, at least four of them
coming at every man.

“
Hold until you’re sure!” Charley
shouted.

Spike dropped a man out of the saddle with the
long-shooting Austrian almost as soon as he’d topped the rise, and
rather than try to reload, grabbed up his revolvers and began
firing offhand. McCain and Charley were firing a slow steady pace,
considering the Indians would be on them in another ten seconds,
and Gallagher was firing the Yellowboy as fast as he could lever
it.

All but one of the Indians turned, firing over
their shoulders as they retreated. The one that didn’t turn tail
was riding hard in Spike’s quadrant at a full gallop, low in the
saddle, a revolver in hand.

Spike rose and fired once, missing, then both
revolvers snapped on empty chambers. He clambered for the
scattergun—the Indian was only twenty paces away, coming hard,
screaming heathen curses. Spike barely got his weapon up as they
both fired at the same time.

I’m kilt, Spike thought—he felt as if his
chest had caved in, and he was blown to his back as the Indian’s
mount leapt over him. His vision faded, then he felt the others
lifting him. The half-empty whiskey bottle touched his lips, but he
was coughing, coughing too hard to drink.

His eyes cleared and he felt for the wound,
surprised he still could, as he knew half his heart had been blown
away. He grasped his chest, then realized his meerschaum was
smashed in his shirt pocket. He coughed again, then ran a hand
inside his shirt, picking shards of pipe out of his chest, but
finding no hole spurting blood.

“
Damned if you ain’t still alive,”
Charley managed.

“
Damned—damned if I—” he coughed
again, “damned if I ain’t,” Spike said, then sat up. He could see
that both barrels of double-aught had blown the Kiowa brave out of
the saddle, and he didn’t fare nearly so well as Spike
had.

“
I think—I think I done broke a
rib,” Spike managed, rubbing his chest. “And that was a fine pipe,
the likes of which I’ll never find again. Som’bitch kilt my lion.”
He couldn’t help but grin stupidly.

“
Son of a bitch,” Charley said.
“You’re worried about the damned pipe? You’re lucky you got a heart
and a lung.” He began to laugh as Spike collected himself. Then
Spike stood, still rubbing his chest, and gathered up his
weapons.

He quickly reloaded the Austrian again,
catching a lot of deep breaths as he loaded the rest of his
arsenal.

“
Will they come again?” Spike
finally yelled at Charley, as he retook his position with the
Austrian again on the hard rock shoulder.

“
Odds are.”

“
Good,” Spike said, “I’m out of
water anyway. Let’s end this, my damn chest hurts.”

But they didn’t come. And they didn’t
leave.

Night fell, and the campfires below teased
them again. They decided to set pickets, as they had to have sleep.
Two would sleep, and two would pace from position to position,
taking two-hour watches.

Morning came—to their dismay, another
beautiful morning, warm and welcoming. Scissortails winged
overhead, dodging in and out of a flight of crows. Had they not all
had swelling tongues and throats you could strike a Lucifer upon,
it would have been a morning to shout about.

Again a barrage of gunfire erupted, this time
as soon as it was light enough to see. It went on, with sporadic
fire until mid-morning.

Finally, Charley shouted over to Spike, “I’m
ready to cut that gray’s throat and roast us up some equine
backstrap.”

“
You got enough folks shootin’ at
you already, Charley,” Spike snapped. “We’ll finish off that quart
of whiskey long before we roast my horse.”

Billy Below gave them a quiet laugh, then
said, “Oh, yeah, and we’ll be fine shots cross-eyed drunk. I’d as
soon down my fourth of what’s left right before I’m being
scalped.”

As he finished the sentence, all hell broke
loose, and the barrage from below seemed to erupt into a crescendo
of gunfire, each shot melding into the next until it seemed
constant. Far more than they’d had at any time before.

Each of the men set up, ready to take on the
charging Indians. To their surprise, a few of them broke from the
cover of the trees, riding their way, but firing back over their
shoulders. They broke away to circle the hill.

Spike rubbed his eyes, not believing what he
was seeing. The Indians rounded the hill, not trying to crest their
position, and more than one tumbled from his horse in the
process.

What the hell was happening?

The men stared from their lofty position,
waiting as the growing silence compounded their
curiosity.

In moments, at least twenty riders began
sifting out of the trees, and these men were in wide-brimmed hats,
riding the pommeled and horned saddles of cowmen.

Spike, Charley, Rob, Billy, and Derrick rose,
a little shaky from the lack of water, and watched gratefully as
the men stopped at each fallen rider to make sure the Kiowa had
gone to meet his Maker, then continued on up the hill.

A barrel-chested man was in the lead, white
hair to his shoulders, his gray porkchop whiskers askew and
bone-white handlebar mustache drooping, his blue eyes cold, hard
and unflinching. He dismounted, seemingly having been more
comfortable in the saddle than on foot, and walked over and
extended a ham-sized well-calloused hand to Spike.

“
Mister Sweeney,” he said, “I
appreciate your keeping this band of hostiles busy until we could
catch up and take care of business.”

“
Our pleasure, Mister Sparkman.”
Spike croaked. “Glad to see you, but to be honest, we’re even more
pleased to see your canteens.”

CHAPTER
ELEVEN

“
What’re you fellas doing out
here?” Sparkman asked. None of them answered immediately. They were
all thirstily drinking the welcome, if warm, water that Sparkman’s
men carried.

Finally, Derrick drew a sleeve across his
mouth and said, “We’re after a gang of outlaws, Mister Sparkman.
They’re what’s left of Danby’s men. Rode into Wolf Creek a few days
ago and shot up the town. We aim to track ‘em down.” He glanced
around at Sparkman’s men. None of them would meet his eyes. It was
plain they’d rather go after the Kiowas than join in the hunt for
Jim Danby’s crew.

“
We could sure use some help, if
you can spare—” Spike began, but Sparkman cut him off.

“
Sorry, Sweeney. We’ve got our own
rat killin’ to attend to. I can’t spare anyone for your manhunt
right now—not until we catch up with these Kiowas and teach them a
lesson about stealing from Ward Sparkman. Sorry bastards. This is
the third time this month they’ve dared to try it.”

“
But,” Billy said, “we’re talking
about Danby’s men killing people! You’re just wanting to stop the
Kiowas from rustling your cattle—”

“
I’m afraid it’s a matter of
pride, son. Pride and money. I’ve lost at least fifty head of
beeves, just this month. I’m not going to lose any
more.”

He turned in his saddle and motioned to his
men. “Let’s find these gentlemen’s horses so they can be on their
way, shall we? They have business to attend to, and so do
we.”

****

Less than half an hour later, the scattered
horses had been gathered, and Sparkman and his men had started off
after Stone Knife’s Kiowa raiders once more.

“
Where’re we gonna fill up our
canteens?” Billy Below asked, watching them ride toward the
west.

“
We’re not far from the Arkansas
River,” Derrick answered. “No more’n prob’ly ten miles or
so.”

“
Not far, if you ain’t bein’ shot
at by a passel of Kiowas,” Spike agreed.

“
Can’t believe Sparkman couldn’t
spare us a few of his men,” Rob muttered. He settled his hat on his
head, but it did nothing to shade the disgusted look he shot the
retreating riders’ backs.

Charley shrugged. “We’ll manage without ‘em.”
He glanced at Derrick with a faint grin. “Long as we remember to
fill up our canteens.”

Derrick’s quick anger faded as he realized
Charley was teasing. He’d made a mistake he wouldn’t repeat
again—not in the unforgiving terrain of Indian Territory, and
especially, not in this July heat.

“
Let’s head for the river, boys,”
Spike said easily. “Canteen fillin’s gotta be the first order of
business. Then, we’ll head out after the bastards. We still have
some daylight left to follow this bloody trail we’re
on.”

****

They’d watered up and started back toward the
southeast again, following a track along the Arkansas in the area
where Stone Knife had said the eight outlaws were when the Kiowas
ran into them. Charley had picked up their trail easily—they’d made
no effort to hide it.

After an hour or so, Charley rode close to
Derrick and offered him a piece of jerky. “You never got much of a
breakfast this mornin’, Cherokee,” Charley said quietly. Derrick
shot him a quick questioning look, and Charley laughed. “Don’t take
offense white boy. I ain’t gonna spill your secret.”

Derrick took the dried beef with a nod of
thanks.

“
I don’t have a secret,
Blackfeather. It’s all in your mind. One of your damn peyote
visions or somethin’.”

“
Oh, I think you got plenty of
secrets. You know the place where they’re headed, don’t you?”
Charley asked, dropping the sore subject. “Danby’s man that died
back at the farmhouse—he talked some before he passed. Said there
was a couple of places Danby’s gang could be headed for in the San
Bois Mountains. Course, I had to persuade him a little—but I think
he told the truth, in the end.” He paused, then said, “Stone Knife,
he said he heard one of ‘em mention the San Bois Mountains
too.”