Apache Rampage (12 page)

‘Good luck, Cap’n,’ Harris called back, weak but still defiant.

The soldiers, each one loaded down with ammunition and weapons, left the store on the run. Dusty and Mark were the last to leave, their guns out as they prepared to fight their way back to the church. Only the Apaches who’d been facing the hardware store were affected by the explosion. There were many more on hand.

Standing on the wall of the church grounds, Waco could see all that was happening along the street. He saw Dusty and Mark fighting their way back towards the church and knew how slight their chance of doing so was. There were more Apaches moving in all the time, flitting towards the sound of shooting.

Waco turned to Magoon, his eyes blazing. ‘They don’t have a chance on foot. I’m taking horses to them.’

‘Boy’s right,’ growled a miner. ‘I’m with you, Texas.’

Waco leaned his rifle against the wall and bounded to the ground. He hit down running, eight soldiers and miners following him. The young Texan did not waste any time in the finer refinements of horse-mounting, like placing his foot in the stirrup irons. He went up into the saddle of that seventeen hand stallion in a single bound, scooped up the reins and put his Kelly petmakers to work. The huge horse went forward in a leaping bound, the eight other riders following. Waco went through the open gates and at the Apaches like a bat out of hell. The other men rode fast, but they could not keep up with the wild-eyed Texas boy.

Like a raging devil, his guns out and snarling, Waco tore across the plaza and on to Church Street. He rode like a centaur and shot like a fiend, tearing at the Apaches and along Church Street towards his friends. Waco’s plan was simple. He was going to save his two friends or die trying. If Dusty Fog was going to be killed, Waco aimed to die by his side.

Dusty saw what was happening and swore that, at the first opportunity, he would take that blond heller and beat some sense of discipline into him. Waco should have stayed in the church where he would have been safe, not charged out on to the street and risk being killed.

The horsemen scattered the gathering Apaches and tore along the street. Waco brought his paint to a rump-scraping, sliding halt and was swinging the big horse in a tight circle even as he reached down a hand to Dusty. He’d holstered one gun ready for this, and catching Dusty’s hand, swung him up behind the saddle of the paint. There was a sheepish grin on Waco’s face, as he saw the look Dusty gave him.

‘Never was no hand at choosing hosses,’ Waco said cheerily as Dusty settled down behind him. ‘And I sure didn’t want to do it with Ole Devil waiting at the other end to look ‘em over.’

Dusty swung around, twisting on the back of the horse, to make sure all his remaining men were mounted. He saw a miner slide from his horse, then a soldier, the veteran who threw the dynamite, slump off the horse he’d mounted. The rest were all mounted now, and nothing could be gained by delaying their departure.

‘Let’s go!’ Dusty yelled.

At his shout the horses were running, carrying double, but still making good time. Three more were shot down before they tore across the plaza and through the open gates of the church.

Dusty and his men came into the church grounds to the sound of cheering from the watching defenders. Every man, even those who lived in Baptist’s Hollow, knew what that gallant group attempted to do. The cheers came from the heart, even Millet lifting his voice in them, although he was secretly wondering if he could make the town pay for the ammunition at some later date.

Dusty was in no mood for either the cheering or the eager congratulations which were being showered on him from all sides. Of his party only Mark, himself and four soldiers made it back to the church. The small amount of ammunition they’d managed to bring would not go far.

Wild with excitement and delight at Dusty being safe, Magoon was by the small Texan’s side and slapping his back. Then the big sergeant stopped, his face flushed with embarrassment at his lack of respect for Captain Fog. Dusty hardly heard a word of Magoon’s spluttered apologies. He was looking back towards the store and waiting. The explosion should have come by now, he thought. Perhaps Harris collapsed and was unconscious. Perhaps the Apaches shot Harris without his having a chance of setting off the, powder charge.

In the cellar Harris sat on the hard chair and listened to the noises above his head. He’d been able to guess what happened, from the two explosions, Dusty’s shouted farewell, and the sound of running feet. Now he sat alone, a grin, mirthless as on the fleshless face of a skull, playing on his lips. His lower body was numb and without feeling but his head was clear and his hands steady as he lit the cigarette. The smoke felt good as he drew it into his lungs, the harsh tobacco biting at the back of his throat. He blew out smoke and relaxed, hand held over the open top of the barrel so that the glowing cigarette end would fall into the powder even if he collapsed. So he sat there, waiting for certain death, yet neither afraid nor worried by it.

Above his head Harris heard soft footfalls and drew on the cigarette once more, sucking in the smoke and watching the glowing tip. His eyes raised to the Apaches again.

One brave stood at the top of the steps, then drew his knife and started to move down. To kill an enemy with a rifle was to count coup but not counted as so great an honour as killing with a knife. So the young Apache moved in with his knife in hand, to take the life of this strange white-eye soldier who grinned at him as if welcoming death. On the floor of the cellar the young Apache tensed for a spring which would carry him on to the white man and allow the knife to sink home.

It was at that moment Harris threw the red, glowing cigarette into the barrel.

The thunderous roar of the explosion shook the town from end to end, smashing windows even as far as the church, flattening nearby buildings and sending a wave of blast rushing out in all directions. Where the Millet store was, now only a few smoking, shattered timbers and a large hole in the ground remained.

The blast of the explosion threw the Apaches into confusion, flung Lobo Colorado to the ground and almost brought the attack on the town to a close. He rose and called his messengers to him, then sent them to gather all men at the houses facing the plaza. He thought of launching a big, all-out attack on the church and regaining the hold his medicine appeared to be losing.

Dusty Fog stiffened into a military brace, as the explosion brought women and children running from the church. His face was set, hard, and fighting down expression. A man was dead, a brave man dead to prevent those stupidly left supplies from falling into the hands of the Apaches. Dusty hated the thought of leaving Harris to blow up the store in such a way. Hated it even though there was no way he could have brought the man back to safety.

The citizens of Baptist’s Hollow stood in a fast talking, gesticulating bunch and the miners gathered near to where Dusty stood with Magoon, ready to take his orders.

‘That explosion, Cap’n,’ said Magoon, knowing something was troubling Dusty. ‘Reckon you must have left a fuse to Millet’s powder supply.’

‘Not exactly!’ Dusty’s voice was harsh. ‘Harris took lead on the way in, was hit in the stomach. He said he’d stay on and—I didn’t want to leave him back there and I couldn’t bring him back with me.’

‘You did the right thing, Cap’n,’ Magoon replied, seeing Dusty was worried and feeling badly about leaving Harris. ‘You couldn’t have stayed behind, your place’s here, running the defence.’

‘I know that, Paddy. It’s just that I hate to leave a good man to die like that—and Harris was a good man.’

‘Asking your pardon, Cap’n,’ Magoon said, stiffening into a brace and reddening with embarrassment at what he was going to do. ‘It’s time you started to make plans for the living. We’ve hit the Apaches hard, even if it did cost plenty of lives. If it hadn’t been for your handling of things this place’d be wiped out by now. I don’t know of any man who could have handled things better than you have. And there’s damned few who could have handled it anywhere near as well as you have.’

‘Thank you, Paddy. Thank you,’ Dusty answered. He shook his head and then, once more, he became the keen, efficient man Magoon could always remember him as being. ‘When you put in your report of this fight I’d like you to commend the bravery of Private Harris. See he gets a special mention, will you?’

‘That I will, Cap’n. He might have been a trouble-maker and a drunken gold-brick, but by the Lord above, he died like a man.’

‘That’s right, Sergeant Magoon,’ agreed Dusty. ‘He died like a man.’

A better epitaph Private Harris, drunk, brawler, trouble-causer, killer and real brave man, would not have wished for.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

‘All right, Sergeant Magoon,’ Dusty said, laying aside thoughts of Harris and starting to give his orders. ‘I’ll have the men split into two—’

‘Now hold hard there,’ Ellwood snapped as he and the citizens of Baptist’s Hollow started to move forward. ‘We’re grateful for what you’ve done but I’ll take command now.’

‘We don’t like the high-handed way you’ve been handling things,’ squawked Millet pompously.

Dusty’s voice was mild and gentle as the first whisper of a Texas blue northern storm. There was no other sound in the church grounds and his words carried to a lot of interested people. ‘You don’t huh? So you don’t like the highhanded way I’m handling things?’

‘We don’t,’ Millet replied, waxing brave with the backing of the rest of the town. ‘This’s our home and Major Ellwood’s our town marshal. He—’

‘He’s the damned, stupid, callous fellow who left two prisoners locked in the cells and left a stand of rifles that the Apaches could have used against us,’ Waco began hotly, riled up by someone implying Dusty Fog couldn’t do everything better than any other man. ‘He didn’t even have sense enough to get the powder and arms out of the hardware store.’

Ellwood’s face darkened in a mixture of anger and shame at the words. He knew every word Waco said was true. He’d meant to release Scully and Willy and meant to return to the jail as soon as he brought Zeke to the safety of the church. It was just that there had not been the time to do so. He’d been worse than stupid on the other thing, the moving of Millet’s stock. His failure to do so cost men their lives. He opened his mouth to say something but Dusty spoke, bringing Waco’s angry tirade to a halt.

‘The boy’s telling the truth. You and all your people were warned and you still left arms, ammunition, powder and stuff behind for the Apaches. The miners would’ve helped but I bet you were so bow-necked you wouldn’t even listen to them. Then you try and fight cavalry from rifle pits and haven’t the guts to hold them long enough to let your folks get to safety. Mister, this’s your town all right and if it didn’t mean stopping an Apache uprising I’d say the hell with you and pull out right now.’

‘You blew up my store,’ snapped Millet.

‘That’s right, mister. I blew up your store,’ Dusty replied, voice throbbing with anger. Mark moved behind his friend, ready to grab him if Dusty started one of his sudden and deadly dangerous karate attacks. Mark knew Dusty well and could tell the rage which was building up inside his friend. If Millet said or did the wrong thing Dusty would strike in the deadly way Tommy Okasi taught him and the big man would be rolling in agony, if not in his death throes, on the ground.

‘Mister,’ Dusty went on, ‘I blew your store up and I wish you’d been in it when it blew. I lost six good men trying to do something which could have been done in safety last night. You could have done it but you didn’t. Or didn’t you reckon the Apaches would bother with it after you’d locked up and run out?’

‘Most all you say’s true,’ Ellwood put in. ‘But the citizens think that I, as mayor and town marshal, should take command again.’

‘Like hell!’ Magoon bellowed. ‘Why you—’

‘Hold it down, Sergeant!’ Dusty barked out. ‘This’s between me and the marshal.’

‘Asking your pardon, Cap’n Fog,’ said Ike, the miner, stepping from where his friends were interested onlookers, ‘But it ain’t for him or you to say at all. It’s for us that’s got to follow who’s got to say—’

‘What Ike there’s trying to say, Cap’n,’ interrupted Walapai, moving forward to flank his friend. ‘Him not have an eddicated throat like, is that we’ve all seed the way you handled things and the way they was mishandled up ‘til you arrived—’

‘So us uneddicated ‘uns,’ Ike cut in, ‘allows you’re the man to lead us. But we’ll stay true to the democratic principles of our great ‘n’ glorious country and put it to a vote.’ He dropped his hand to the worn butt-of his Remington revolver, his eyes appearing to pick Millet’s fat stomach as first target. ‘I call down six votes for Captain Fog.’

‘Why, it’s taking the Army vote you are, Cap’n darlin’,’ Magoon went on, rubbing the walnut grips of his long barrelled Colt Cavalry Peacemaker. ‘And any Army man who doesn’t agree’ll be policing the stables for the rest of the time he’s enlisted.’

‘Which same’s corruption,’ a soldier drawled from the wall where he was standing watch. ‘But I goes along with it and votes down for Cap’n Fog.’

There sounded an ominous double click as Big Em eased back the hammers of her sawed-off twelve-gauge and put her deep contralto voice in: ‘Us freighters stand for Cap’n Fog and graft-free administration.’

‘The show folks lay down solid for Captain Fog, even those under-age,’ Phyllis went on and ranged herself alongside Big Em.

Scully swung from his place on the wall, his revolver hanging negligently in his right hand, eyes on the citizens of Baptist’s Hollow and the town marshal who abandoned him to an almost certain death. ‘As a convicted person,’ he said, ‘I don’t get a vote. But I’m taking one for all that. Captain Fog and better food in jails.’

Ellwood listened to the way the voting was going and watched the faces of the voters. True his supporters outnumbered the others and in a truly democratic election could carry the day. They would get nowhere in attempting to point this out, for the only reliable fighting force was solidly aligned behind Dusty Fog.

All too well Ellwood knew his own failures in this business. His lack of positive action in the organising of the defences, in the matter of the hardware store, they were all against him. He knew if it was not for Dusty Fog’s well-timed charge the town would have been wiped out, every person in it either dead or wishing he were. Ellwood was sure that the town would never have been left in so poor a position of defence with Dusty Fog in command. There was only one thing to do right now, and Major Ellwood was still man enough to do it.

With this thought in mind Major Ellwood not only conceded defeat at the impromptu polls, he swung his own vote solidly behind the man opposing him.

‘Majority rules, Millet,’ he said, ‘and I go along for Captain Fog.’

Dusty was never a man to gloat if he won. He turned his attention to the serious business on hand. They were fairly safe in the church as long as their food and ammunition held out. The man who was headed for Fort Owen would get help, and a troop of cavalry would be on hand in time to help them before the Apaches could get in. With that thought Dusty began to organise the defence.

‘Let’s not waste any more time. How are we off for food?’

‘Not bad,’ grinned Ike. ‘Got enough for a week if none of us eats much. Got it stored in the back room of the church, guarded by our good friend Zeke, bust-up leg and all.’

Dusty could guess where the food came from, for Ellwood showed some surprise at the statement, and Haslett looked both puzzled and worried. He asked no questions and got on to the important details.

‘Phyllis, you, your gals and Big Em are the only women to be allowed outside the church. You’ll take charge of the food, and I want a meal cooking up as fast as you can. Lay chivalry aside for one time and feed the menfolks first. Allow for a week and share the food accordingly. Major, you see to it that your womenfolk all know what I’ve said. That way there’ll be no arguing.’

‘Yo?’ Ellwood found himself giving the automatic reply he’d heard so often from cavalrymen.

‘Why should those women be in charge of the food?’ Haslett whined.

‘Because the cap’n said so,’ growled Magoon. ‘Now shut your mouth, darlin’, or I’ll be compelled to do it with a boot.’

Which ended any further objections the good citizens of Baptist’s Hollow might have thought of raising and allowed Dusty to carry on without interruption.

‘Mark,’ Dusty went on, hardly noticing the interruption. ‘Split the party into two groups. You and Paddy take charge of one, the Major and Corporal Tolitski handle the other. Find the four best shots and send them up in the tower under Chet Bronson.’

Dusty turned then to the Ysabel Kid. ‘How about it, Lon?’ he said.

‘Waal, I wasn’t exactly taking much notice, way we come through them, but my herd count reads Lobo Colorado’s got Mescaleros, Pintos, Tontos, few each of Minbrenos, Chiracauha and Coyeteros. Could have just a touch of White Mountain boys to help bring on the whole boiling. But like I say, I couldn’t be sure on that last.’

‘Sounds like some from near on each tribe of the Apache nation,’ remarked Dusty. ‘How the hell did they get together so fast after the shooting?’

The Kid shook his head. ‘I’m only part Indian, Dusty. And I gave up trying to figure out Indian thinking when a Comanche witch-woman told me all about the Battle of the Lil Bighorn—the morning after it happened.’

Dusty nodded. He’d seen and heard of other such examples. ‘What do you reckon Lobo Colorado’ll try now?’

‘Nothing for a spell. He’s got us here safe enough. We can’t go no place and he surely doesn’t want to, not until he’s been in here and talked some to us. So he’s setting back and waiting for something. More men, maybe, or he could be making medicine, trying to figger a way to get at us. We hit him hard, cost him men and his medicine’s likely shaken. He’ll have to do something slick and fast, or the other tribes’ bad-hats’ll reckon his medicine’s no good. They won’t follow a leader who’s lost his medicine.’

Dusty knew he could rely on the Ysabel Kid’s Indian-savvy to get them through. ‘Was you Lobo Colorado, how’d you get the folks out of here?’

‘That ain’t a fair question. I’m Comanche and we fight different from Apaches.’

‘Just make a try at guessing anyways.’

‘Like I say, I’m Comanche. I’d wait until dark, then hit. Apaches don’t make war in the night, though they might try to get men in to poison the well. They’ll maybe not try again today. Comes dawn they’ll make their move, just like they did this morning.’

‘Could be safe until dawn then?’ Mark asked.

‘Could be—’

‘Dusty, there’s some more braves just come in. Been three fair-sized bunches arrived, now a small one. Look tolerable excited about something,’ Bronson’s voice came floating down to them.

‘Watch ‘em, Chet!’ Dusty called back. ‘And don’t go to sparking with Miss Molly until that’s over.’

‘You go to hell and fry there!’ Bronson yelled, and the others did not know how he was blushing.

‘Been thinking about it, Dusty,’ remarked the Kid. ‘Lobo Colorado don’t know how we stand for shells, but he’ll figure we aren’t long on them. So he’ll start to try and make us waste it by sending fast riding bunches in. It might cost him a few men, but it’ll use up our supply fast enough.’

At that moment Waco returned. For once his young face was not smiling and friendly. It was hard, cold and deadly serious. Dusty knew something was wrong, but the result was worse than he expected.

‘It runs to about ten rounds apiece for the revolvers and about one magazine full each for the Winchesters. The Sharps rifles or the Remingtons have a mite more, but not much. Looks like there’s not much powder left for the percussion guns and no lead to make fresh loads.’

At that moment they heard the fast drumming of hooves and Bronson yelled, ‘Three braves coming along Church Street, Dusty, look tolerable excited.’

Dusty and Mark turned and looked over the walls. There were buildings burning in the town and the smoke, whipped along by the wind, was in their faces. They saw the three young braves hurling towards the plaza. One was wearing an ill-fitting cavalry jacket and waving something that looked like a ball in his hand.

The three braves came hurling on to the plaza and for the church walls. Dusty and Mark did not intend shooting, for there was no chance of the three making a serious attack. The braves were just making a name, taunting the defenders and with the smoke stinging the eyes added to the speed they rode there was not much chance of hitting them.

A revolver cracked from the gate, another took it up and before Dusty could stop them several men were pouring, wasting valuable bullets in an attempt to hit the fast riding braves.

‘Stop that shooting!’ Dusty roared; the soldiers and miners held their fire at the words, but the townsmen continued to shoot wildly.

One brave slid from his horse but the other two were in close and riding fast. The brave in the cavalry coat threw the thing he carried over the wall, yelled a derisive insult, whirled his horse and rode back unscathed by the hail of lead.

All eyes went to the thing the Apache threw over the wall. The Ysabel Kid bent down and rolled the severed human head over. The features were twisted in an expression of agony and barely recognisable. The tawny hair, side whiskers and big moustache told the Kid all he wanted to know. He straightened up, his face hard, Comanche-mean mask and his voice a deep-throated Dog Soldier’s grunt:

‘That soldier you sent to the fort, Dusty—He didn’t make it.’