Apache Rampage (5 page)

‘Something’s coming! Look at that dust!’

Ellwood looked in the direction of the pointing finger and saw dust, but not enough for the stage-coach to be making it. The others were watching the dust without giving any thought to how much or little there was. A few malicious grins were directed at Ellwood, and the men were ready to mock their marshal for having been taken in and fooled by the four Texans.

The grins faded from the faces as one riderless horse came into sight, turned from the range trail and headed down to the town on the run. A horse without a saddle, but with broken harness trailing behind it. The horse was flecked with sweat, the ears were laid back and the eyes rolled in panic as it ran. Ellwood was the first to react. He leapt forward and caught the horse’s trailing reins, bringing it to a stop. Talk welled up from the crowd, excited and frightened talk as they looked at the big bay horse. Even without the stage-line’s brand on the hip, everyone in the crowd knew where it came from. They saw the raw, bloody furrow on the side and all could guess at the cause of it.

There were no grins now, no thoughts of mocking their marshal for being a fool. The coach would not be coming, that was obvious. It would be out there on the trail some place, wrecked, the driver, guard and passengers either dead, or wishing they were. This one horse must have broken free, driven wild by panic and started to run. It must have followed the trail and turned down to the town through instinct, doing as it always did when hauling the stage.

‘I reckon we’d best get those rifle pits dug now,’ Ellwood snapped, and for once there was no argument to his orders.

Never did the citizens of Baptist’s Hollow throw themselves into a task with no personal gain as they did right now. They worked with the speed that only fear could inspire. Hands long unused to doing heavy work swung picks, shovels and crowbars with vigour, if not skill, sinking the pits as deep as the rock would allow. It was not as deep as Ellwood would have liked, but there was no other way to make them deeper. Not without blasting powder, and Ellwood did not wish to take time out to blast the holes. He climbed into one and found that by kneeling a man would be able to fire his rifle and still find safety. Ellwood was satisfied with the finished result. Knowing his people he’d never hoped to get so much done. In that he did the citizens of Baptist’s Hollow an injustice. They knew their lives were in danger and were willing to work hard at anything which would save them.

A man suddenly dropped his shovel and gave a startled yell, pointing off towards the hills. ‘Look up there!’ he yelled.

The others looked and panic filled them. Dust was rolling up in the hills, a moving cloud and coming their way, beneath the dust could be seen vague shapes of riding men. It was at that moment the working party realised how few of their number were armed.

Millet, as befitting a leading member of the community, gave an example of how to act in such an emergency. Dropping his shovel he gave a howl of:

‘Run for it. Apaches!’

Ellwood was watching the dust and he snapped, ‘Apaches, nothing. They’re miners from the hills.’

‘Miners?’ asked Millet, scowling, then raising his hand to peer at the figures from under its shade. ‘So they are. I’ve not got me spectacles with me, or I’d have seen that afore.’

For all that Millet licked his lips and looked ready to bolt. The figures were closer now, and he could make out that they were definitely not Indians. He recognised most of the riders, but this was the first time he’d ever seen so many of them coming into town at one time.

Seventeen men rode slowly towards the town, travelling in a loose group. Tall, lean, grizzled and bearded men wearing buckskins and riding shaggy Indian ponies. Each of this pair nursed a Remington Rolling Block rifle across his knees and belted a revolver. Every other man in the group was armed, rifle out and ready, revolver holstered at his side. They made a hard-looking bunch, fighting men all of them, and men who knew the Arizona country. They were worried men also. That showed in the wolf-cautious way they rode and watched the surrounding country.

Ellwood watched the approaching party. He knew all of them and most had been in his jail for drunkenness at one time or another. The two old-timers in front and the short, broad oldster, riding a mule and leading a burro, at the rear, were always cautious. There was more than just plain caution right now.

The miners came nearer without changing their pace any. The two men in the lead brought their horses to a halt. The taller looked down at the pits, spat out a well-chewed wad of tobacco and asked:

‘You heard something, Major?’

‘What about?’ asked Ellwood.

‘The Apaches done put their paint on. That’s why me’n ole Ike here cut out and found the other boys,’ the miner said, indicating his partner. ‘War a few we couldn’t find. Found one family and buried what was left. So we didn’t take no more time out to find the others—what’s left of ‘em.’

‘Have you seen any Apaches?’ Millet asked worriedly. These men were all well-versed in Apache ways, and their testimony was more to be believed than the words of a bunch of Texas cowhands.

‘Plenty in our time, me’n Zeke have,’ the man called Ike answered. ‘War seeing ‘em real regular until two-three days back.’

‘Then we stopped seeing ‘em,’ went on Zeke grimly. ‘So we concluded to git up and the hell out of the Dragoons for a piece. Us and all them as could.’

The other miners gave a grunting agreement to the words. They knew Apaches and knew full well when it was time to yell ‘calf-rope’ and head for a safer area than their small mining claims in the Dragoon Mountains. Any white man still in the Dragoons would likely be staying there permanently.

‘What do you mean?’ asked Haslett, looking nervously around and imagining Apaches behind every bush. ‘You come in when you
stopped
seeing Apaches?’

Zeke took his attention from the rifle pits and looked at the scared face of the storekeeper. ‘Waal, I ain’t eddicated, but there’s one lil thing I allus did l’arn. When you sees Apaches everything’s all right and peace falls full ‘n’ rich on the land. When you stops seeing ‘em it’s full gone time to start and worry—And mister, we done stopped seeing ‘em.’

‘So you just left your claims and walked out?’ Millet inquired.

‘No friend,’ replied Zeke, sun-squinted eyes on the fat man. ‘We didn’t walk at all—we ran.’

‘You’ll excuse me iggerance, Major,’ put in Ike, before the spluttering Millet could say another word. He indicated the rifle pits with a contemptuous wave of his hand. ‘Jest what do ye brand them things with?’

‘They’re rifle pits,’ Haslett pompously explained.

‘Now me,’ grunted Zeke. ‘I figgered you’d started in to dig for gold. You fixing in to fight Apaches from them things?’

‘What else would you have us do?’ Ellwood growled. It was a pity that his nerves were jumpy, and his tone held such a note. He really wanted help from these men, but his tone was sharp and forbidding.

‘Nothing, Major. Nothing at all,’ Ike replied mildly. ‘Allow you all knows what you’re doing.’

‘Of course he does,’ barked Millet, annoyed that these uneducated miners were trying to interfere. ‘The Major fought in the Civil War.’

‘Saloon open yet?’ drawled Zeke, interrupting Millet’s speech.

The saloon-keeper dropped his pick and rubbed his hands on his trousers. ‘It can be, if you want something.’

‘Hold hard there,’ Millet snapped as the saloon-keeper turned to head for the town. ‘We don’t want men traipsing off—’

‘Wants us some powder, lead and hulls, too,’ Ike interrupted.

Millet’s good intentions faded off right away. He swung his shovel over his shoulder and headed for town. The other men watched Millet and the saloon-keeper and prepared to leave. Ellwood allowed the miners to ride by, then called the citizens back. They came slowly and reluctantly, facing him.

‘I want these pits manning all night. We’ll split the town into two groups.’

‘Can’t the miners do it?’ asked Haslett. ‘They’re stopping in our town and they ought to take on the defence of it. You could bring them here and—’

‘I said all of you would take it in turns,’ Ellwood cut in, his voice cold, grim and determined. ‘I’ll see the miners and ask them if they’ll take a turn, but we can’t force them to. I think that the Town Council should take the last turn, just to set the others a good example.’

There was a lot of agreement to this, although the members of the council were not among those who agreed. For once the council was voted under and Haslett went off with Deacon Routh muttering to themselves, threatening to get a new town marshal elected as soon as this trouble was over. Ellwood followed the digging party back to town, satisfied with what he’d done so far towards the safety of the people. The arrival of the miners was a blessing, for they confirmed that the Apache were out. They were also a most useful addition to his fighting strength and if they would help man the pits might hold the Apaches out of town.

The miners reached town and left their horses in the livery barn. The short old-timer called Walapai kept his burro with him. He never went anywhere without his old Winnie-Mae at his heels. He and the burro were just about inseparable, he even took it into the saloon with him. Winnie-Mae could put away a fair amount of beer, although she never developed a taste for whisky.

Heading for Haslett’s place first the miners stocked themselves with food. It was unfortunate that Haslett was not there, for his wife sold at the normal price instead of shoving the value up. With their food, they headed for Millet’s store and found him there waiting for them. Millet was no hero, and there was a look in the grim eyes of the miners which warned him not to try and make a sudden profit out of them. He went down into the cellar, through the trapdoor behind the counter and brought up powder from the big barrel where he stored it. The miners bought their supplies of ammunition, powder and lead, then made for the saloon. Zeke stopped at the door of the store and looked at the shelves, the rifles in the rack, the pistols of various kinds in the display counter.

‘What you fixing in to do with all this lot, Millet?’ he asked. ‘Might be as well to get it down to the old church there, ready for them when the attack comes.’

‘It might be,’ agreed Millet cautiously.

‘Me’n the boys’ll bear a hand to tote it down,’ Zeke offered, and to do him justice he had no ulterior motive in the offer.

‘There’s no need for you to bother,’ Millet replied hastily, sure the miner was only offering so as to rob him. ‘I’ve got it all arranged.’

‘Nice to know,’ grunted Zeke and left the building.

Ellwood knew where to find the miners when he came to town. He looked at the sun as it sank in the west, reddening the sky. They’d wasted so much time and it would be dark before he could think of starting to move the arms from Millet’s place to the church. The miners would be a big help to him now. They would form the mainstay of his defence.

Pushing open the saloon doors Ellwood stepped inside, looking at the miners. They were seated in small groups, silently nursing glasses of beer. He could see very little drinking was being done and this surprised him. For a miner out of the hills, a trip to town usually meant a prolonged drinking spree. His eyes went to old Walapai, who sat with his moccasined feet on the table top, then to the burro as it sank its nose into a bucket filled with beer. None of the miners spoke and at last Ellwood asked:

‘How many of you’ll come out to the rifle pits after dark?’

There was no reply to this, the miners carrying on with their quiet drinking. Finally Zeke put down his glass, spat into the spittoon and came to his feet.

‘You want some advice, Major?’

Ellwood did want advice. Needed it badly. But his cross-grained nature would not allow him to accept it. ‘I want to know if you’re willing to fight under my orders. That’s all,’ he snapped back. ‘How about it?’

‘Sorry, Major,’ Walapai spoke up. ‘I get screwmatics bad. Couldn’t stand in a hole all night.’

‘They allows the dawn air’s real bad in one of them things, comes to that,’ Ike drawled. ‘Deal me out.’

‘I might have expected that,’ Ellwood barked, although the very refusal ought to have warned him. ‘All right, finish your drinks, this place’s closed. See to it, Mannering.’

The saloon-keeper nodded sullenly. He was looking forward to a good and unexpected night’s business and did not like the idea of having it spoiled. There was no arguing with the town marshal, not when one word would close the saloon for good. ‘You heard the man, boys,’ he said miserably. ‘I’ve got to do it.’

‘Finished drinking any ways,’ Zeke replied, watching the doors close behind Ellwood. ‘Damn fool. What do you reckon, Walapai?’

‘I floats my stick along of you, Zeke. Should try and talk ‘em into moving the powder and shot to the church. Don’t reckon they will though. Ain’t going to listen to no low folks like us.’

‘He’ll get these folks killed for certain sure,’ Ike drawled. ‘Let’s call us a miner’s meeting down to the church and decide what we aims to do.’

Whatever the thoughts and anxieties of the miners, the citizens of Baptist’s Hollow felt none. They were contented that they were safe behind that line of holes in the ground. Why should they worry, they were led by a man who fought in the Civil War and learned his business under real war conditions, against white soldiers. The defence of the town could safely be left in his capable hands.

CHAPTER FIVE

‘I never thought to see you out this way, Captain,’ Phyllis remarked to the small Texan as they left the town and turned on to the main stage trail.

‘Could have knocked me down with a buffalo bull when I saw you, Miss Phyl,’ Dusty Fog replied, smiling. ‘We came out this way to pick up a bunch of blood horses from Colonel Raines, up to Backsight. Found the two miners and came into town to let them know about it. Say, Mark, this here’s Madam Fiona. I told you about her. Met her in Gratton while I was handling that chore for Sam William.’

Phyllis’s rich smile showed her pleasure at the meeting, and the pleasure was not entirely selfish. She was pleased to have Dusty Fog’s escort, but she would have been just as pleased to meet him at any time. The small Texan was something of a hero to her, even though he was the cause of her losing the only fight of her career.

‘Right pleased to know you, ma’am,’ drawled Mark, touching his hat brim to her. ‘I’d surely admire to see you in action.’

‘And you shall, you shall,’ boomed Thornett delightedly. ‘Madam Fiona is defending her title against a challenger at Fort Owen.’

‘Who’d that be, ma’am?’ Mark asked with some interest. He was a keen student of the art of pugilism and could have contended for top honours in the ring.

‘Some girl Paddy Magoon found,’ Phyllis replied. She was never ashamed of her fist fighting and would talk of it any time. ‘I don’t know who it is they’ve got up at Fort Owen. Last time Paddy got a two hundred pound Osage squaw.’

‘Magoon?’ Dusty put in. ‘He wouldn’t be a big, red-haired Irishman with a thirst that’d empty a barrel, a temper touchier than a teased rattler and more guts than you could hang on the big corral fence?’

‘It sounds like you know him well,’ replied Phyllis, smiling. ‘I’ve only met him three times, but he proposed to me each time.’

‘I know him all right,’ Dusty agreed, also smiling. ‘Met him in the Black Hills country in seventy-five.’

Mark studied Phyllis with some interest, for he’d heard about her. He’d seen several women bare-fist boxers, for they were as popular as girl wrestlers were later to become. He knew that while some of the girls could not punch their way through a well soaked sheet of paper, there were others who could have given a strong man a hard match. From all he’d heard of Phyllis she was one of the latter. From her appearance she looked strong and capable.

Patty, Rosie and Molly were at the front of the wagon, looking at their escort with some interest. Janice and Elwin were in the wagon, talking a blue-streak to each other, making plans. Janice was changed now, wearing a clean gingham dress and her face cleared of blood.

‘Say, wasn’t you the lady fist-fighter Miss Freddie wanted to get to her place in Mulrooney, Kansas, ma’am?’ Waco asked, winking at Rosie.

‘We arrived and the match was arranged, my boy,’ Thornett answered. He knew why the Texans were talking. They wanted to prevent the girls thinking of the danger they were in. They were in danger, he knew that from the way the Texans drew their saddle-guns as soon as they left the town and were nursing the Winchesters as they rode.

‘Are the Apaches really out, Kid?’ Molly asked, rifle in hand.

‘Out and waiting, gal,’ answered the Kid, eyeing the rifle. ‘Don’t you go shooting me in the leg with that thing.’

‘Molly’d hit anything you could, faster, neater and further off,’ Rosie put in, full of pride in her sister.

Molly looked down at the rifle in the Kid’s hands, biting off an exclamation at what she saw. It was a magnificent weapon, the barrel rich blued and engraved by a master craftsman, the woodwork finest black walnut. It was one of the superb, ‘One of a Thousand,’ Winchester Model ‘79s and set into the butt was a tarnished silver plate on which she could just read the engraved words:

‘Presented to Loncey Dalton Ysabel,

FIRST PRIZE, Rifle Shoot, Cochise County Fair.’

There was respect in her eyes as she looked at the Indian dark boy, for Molly knew how much skill and shooting savvy was needed to win that rifle shooting match. The finest rifle-shots in the West were entered for it and this was the man who won. Nudging Rosie hard in the ribs Molly warned:

‘You keep good and quiet, little sister. This’s one man I won’t want to tangle with in a shooting match.’

‘Say Phyl,’ Mark said. ‘You all ever meet up with a German girl called Eeney Haufman?’

‘Sure, that’s going back a few years. She gave me a good fight. Did you know her?’

‘Why sure,’ Mark agreed.

Dusty slowed his horse to a walk, allowing the wagon to pull ahead of him. He left Mark and Waco to talk with the girls and keep them amused, for Dusty wanted to do some fast, uninterrupted thinking. He wanted his plans made ready, in case the Apaches jumped them. He also wanted to think over the situation and call on the Kid’s Indian savvy. He saw the Kid was allowing the wagon to pass and rode alongside his friend. Neither spoke for a moment, then Dusty asked:

‘How do you see it, Lon?’

‘Like this. Ole Ramon was a friend of the white-eyes, now he’s dead. Lobo Colorado’s in Ramon’s place and he’s going to strike out.’

‘You sure of that?’

‘Sure as I am of salvation, or even surer. He’ll hit out with his men to show the others how he hates white-eyes.’

‘Then we’ve got to guess where he’ll hit first,’ said Dusty. ‘How do you see that town back there?’

‘Be a good place for him to make his move,’ agreed the Kid. ‘Man said Ramon went to their church, was their friend. That makes them the best bet for it. You can bet all you’ve got that Lobo Colorado’s got them folks figgered out for what they are and knows for certain they’d be the easiest place to make a start. Easy kills and easy coups, plenty of loot to show the others who aren’t ready for war. Yes sir, Dusty, Baptist’s Hollow’s the most likely place for him to hit.’

For a moment Dusty thought of heading back and offering to help defend the town, but he discarded the idea. There was no guarantee Lobo Colorado would strike at the town, only a guess. The sooner the Army learned that an uprising was in the air the better. Now Dusty and his party was clear of the town there was no sense in their going back. Their best bet would be to push on to the fort and warn the Cavalry. Dusty knew that there might be trouble if he returned. He was not the sort of man to stand by and watch a job botched. If the defence of the town was not being handled correctly he would step in, and he knew the kind of people who inhabited Baptist’s Hollow.

Dusty turned to his Indian-dark friend, and the Kid knew orders were coming. So did the other two Texans, and they left off talking to hear what Dusty said.

‘Lon, take a point ahead. Make a sweep along the trail for the next three or four miles. Do you know this part of the world, Doc?’

‘Never been out here before,’ Thornett answered. ‘Perchance our young friend in the wagon might know something.’

Elwin came to the open front of the wagon, having unwillingly stopped talking to Janice. It took a minute for Dusty’s question to sink in, for Elwin to think out a sensible answer. His head was full of thoughts about a pretty little girl who appeared to like him and who thought he could make a living juggling. Finally he managed to sort out a reply.

‘There’s a relay station about six or seven miles ahead, mister.’

‘Make for it, Lon,’ ordered Dusty. ‘See how the folks who run it are. If you don’t come back and tell us different, we’ll follow you up slow and easy like. Hold your team down to a walk, Doc. We don’t want them tiring any if we have to make a run for it.’

The Ysabel Kid rode ahead, allowing his huge white stallion to pick a fast, easy pace, the kind of gait the huge horse could cover miles at and still keep enough left inside for a real fast run should one become necessary. He rounded a bend in the trail and was out of sight of the wagon, thick brush closing in on either side of the trail. This was not the sort of country a man would ride through, happen he was given first pick at the remuda, but Dusty was right in having a scout out ahead.

Sliding the rifle back into the saddleboot the Kid rode on, alert and with every sense working full time. In this sort of country he would not need the extra range and magazine capacity of the Winchester. If he needed a weapon at all the shorter barrel, harder hitting power and better, easier handling qualities of the Dragoon would be called for. His rifle would only be in the way, so he shoved it back and relied on that four-pound thumb-busting giant made in Hartford sometime around 1851 which now, in his holster, was ready to prove time had not diminished its powers.

Riding scout, even in dangerous country like this, was the Ysabel Kid’s favourite sport. Playing off his alert, keen, Indian-smart senses against a dangerous and deadly enemy was a good gamble. Even with his life and the lives of his friends as forfeit if he failed. At such times he was far more Indian than white, the wild Comanche blood taking control of him as he rode. His dark face was impassive and emotionless, his eyes flickering this way and that in fast, all-embracing glances which missed nothing. Beneath his legs the huge white stallion appeared to have caught the feeling of the situation, caught the tenseness in the air, it looked far more like a wild creature than a domesticated animal. Moving along almost in complete silence the huge white stallion held its head up, ears cocked to catch any slight sound and nostrils quivering to detect any wind borne scent. It looked as alert, nervous and ready as a mule-dear sneaking through a well-hunted thicket.

For three miles the Kid rode, holding his horse to the same fast lope and pulling further ahead of the wagon all the time. He did not allow this to worry him, the further ahead the better he liked it. If he ran into an ambush, there would be a better chance of his getting clear and back to allow Dusty to prepare a defence. He knew the Apache pony was not sired that could outrun the big white. If he once got clear of the ambush, they would never catch up with him.

All the time the Kid watched the trail and the bush for any sign which might give him warning. He saw nothing, but that did nothing to lull him. That was the time when the Apache was most dangerous, when he was unseen. If anything, the lack of sign made him more alert. His every instinct warned him he was being watched, and he had no cause to doubt his instincts. They seldom, if ever, failed him. Somewhere near at hand an Apache, or maybe more, was watching him.

The big white threw back its head and snorted. At the same moment the Kid heard a faint fizzing sound. He heard it as he fell sideways from the back of his horse, falling, right-hand twisting, palm out, to lift clear the old Dragoon gun.

Even as the Kid tipped sideways from the saddle there sounded a dull bellow, and he heard the slap of a close-passing bullet. The shot passed through where his body had been an instant before. It was a neat ambush, well laid and well executed. The charge of the smoothbore musket would have torn through his body, without his superb co-ordination of mind and muscle. A slower thinking and acting man would have resulted in one very dead white-eye.

The Ysabel Kid pitched from his saddle, and the big horse shot forward, running down the trail. This was an old and well-learned trick. The big white headed out of the possible firing area, then swung off into the brush and, once clear of the track, stood hidden and waited for further orders.

Lighting down, rolling, the Kid went under the shelter and cover of a scrub-oak by the side of the trail. He ended his roll facing the trail. Dragoon Colt cocked in his right hand, eyes glowing savagely. He was full ready to shoot, for there would be at least one Apache, maybe more, at the other side of the trail. They were awaiting for another crack at him, waiting patiently. There was no sign of them, and the Kid did not expect any sign for some time, so he settled down to wait, to allow the Apaches to make the first move.

Knowing Apaches, the Kid was ready for a long wait. They were just as patient and lay watching the place where he disappeared. The Apaches would be waiting for him to make the first move. It was the Apache way, a deadly war of nerves and death waiting for the first to make a wrong move.

Slowly, silently, an inch at a time the Kid braced his left leg under him ready to lunge forward when the Apaches showed themselves. His keen ears, working even more keenly at such a time, caught a faint scraping sound, a sound so slight that less keen ears would have overlooked or missed it completely. The Kid neither missed, nor ignored the sound, for he knew what made it. One of the braves on the other side of the trail was ramming a fresh charge down the barrel of the old flintlock smoothbore. The scraping sound was caused by the ramrod on the inside of the barrel.

All went silent again, silent as the grave. Off in the bush the Kid knew his big white stallion was standing like a statue, waiting for the whistle which would bring the horse back to him. The pitch of the whistle would tell Nigger if it must come back at a walk, or with a rush.

Nothing moved, everything deathly still. Even the birds were silent, as if they knew the deadly drama being enacted by the sides of the trail. The Ysabel Kid lay still and unmoving as a deadly black shadow, his old Dragoon gun ready to fire.

Then suddenly there were two young Apaches on the trail. They came into view in complete silence. One minute the trail was empty, the next they were on it and moving forward, towards where the Kid disappeared when he fell from his horse. One held an old flintlock mustket, the other carried a bow, arrow on string but not drawn back as yet.

Their sudden appearance almost took the Kid by surprise. They should have waited much longer before making an appearance. It was then the Kid saw how young the two were, boys fresh from horse-herding. It was all clear now, older hands would never have shown themselves that way, or come out so quickly. Come to that, older hands carried better than an old flintlock muzzle-loader which fizzed out a warning as the powder in the frizzen-pan burned before igniting the main firing charge in the barrel. These were not old hands, they were but boys on their first war trail. They were never going to make it to being battle-tried, experienced warriors. Or if they were Loncey Dalton Ysabel was slipping badly.