Double Mountain Crossing (20 page)

Confident now, he slowly raised an arm. His fingers were within inches of the hackamore. As his hand crept into the bottom of his vision he realized with horror that his fingers were still dripping with the Indian's blood. He hesitated, and during that brief snatch of time the pony caught the blood scent and jerked its head.

“Take it easy now, boy. I said there, take it…” The chestnut rushed forward, teeth snapping and muscles rippling. He bit at Alison's shoulder and pushed past him, his ribs throwing the man aside. Alison tumbled to the ground and came up snarling after the fleeing animal.

“Goddam horse.
Git back here, you no good, ornery son of a bitch.
I'd like to blow that stupid fleabite brain out of your bitchin' head…”

The threats did no good. Apart from his curses and the rasping of his breath thought his clenched teeth, all that could be heard was the swishing of the pines and the clumping of the chestnut's unshod hooves. Alone with the dead Kiowa at his feet, Alison stared at the empty trail, a hand massaging his bitten shoulder.

“Goddam injuns.
It ain't enough with the bugs, but I have to get bit by a blamed, no good Kiowa pony…” He had needed the chestnut. It carried a saddle and he didn't think he could bear the packsaddle much longer. And it could have shared the precious load of the gold.

Angry and sore, he turned away. Look on the bright side, he told himself. If nothing else, now there are only five savages to worry about.

The thought gave him no pleasure.

Thunderhawk was furious. He leaned out from his war pony and touched the bloody saddle. At the sound of approaching hoof beats he had waved the war party off the trail to wait in the timber, levering a shell into the
Winchester
's breech. The chestnut was stretched out in a flat run, wild eyed, when it came into sight. Recognizing Littleman's mount, Thunderhawk rode out to block the trail. The chestnut lost momentum when it saw the friendly ponies ahead, hooves digging into the soft earth, flanks heaving and neck lathered as it came to a halt. The chief leaned over and caught the trailing hackamore. More than once the pony had stepped on the loose end of the rawhide thong for it had torn his
mouth,
and now he had stopped running the fat deerflies was swarming over the festering wound.

Thunderhawk examined the blood on his fingertips from the saddle then glanced at Crowfoot. “The fat-taker is being clever.”

“He must have been. Littleman is not a good scout for nothing.”

“You speak straight. Perhaps he is only wounded and has fallen from the saddle?” Thunderhawk's eyes met Crowfoot's. Both knew it was unlikely. Even a badly wounded Kiowa would stay on his pony if it meant clinging on by his teeth and fingernails. “We shall see.”

While they spoke, Soldier edged his pony between the others, sitting straight-legged in the saddle. The
Winchester
was crooked in his left arm and his solitary eagle feather hung proudly from the knot of his black hair to brush at his shoulder. His face was solemn, befitting a brave scout about to offer his services. Thunderhawk saw his approach and looked past him.

“Coyote.
You, the hunter,” the chief said tersely. “You ride scout. First we find Littleman.” Angry at the loss of his guide, he nudged his pony aside to give Coyote room to pass and ride ahead. In back of him, Soldier's chest sagged, ego deflated, and once more he looked only the boy he was. Crowfoot, ever-watchful, observed the transition, a smile cracking his thin lips. Your turn will come,
Eks-a-Pana
, Soldier, he said silently to himself.

Thunderhawk knew what they would find. As a veteran of many war parties nothing came as a surprise. Coyote was sitting his pony beside the trail. As they neared, the brave made a sour face as he gestured along the narrow trail with his rifle. When they reached the clearing, the five Kiowas fanned out around the central pine tree on which hung Littleman's corpse. The deerskin shirt had been ripped from his torso and replaced by a criss-cross design of knife slashes. The leggings and breechclout had been cut away, leaving his legs a dripping mass of gore. Fingerless hands hung empty at his sides.

Soldier sat his pony stiffly, swallowing hard as he forced himself to look upon the scout's mutilation. His eyes travelled slowly up from the feet to the legs and to the chest, but his confidence failed him and he turned away after the briefest of glances at the face. The head hung awry, tilted by the rope knotted about the neck and looped round the pine bough above. Littleman had suffered the greatest degradation any Indian could suffer. His nose had been sliced away completely, leaving two ragged holes in the centre of his face. His braids had been shorn and his scalp taken.

But the mouth was the worst. The cheeks were puffed where the fat-taker had stuffed the scout's genitals. There was not one part of him undefiled. Not one shred of dignity allowed to the dead Kiowa.

It was all
Soldier
could do not to vomit. Each time he thought he had it under control, the frozen image of the dead man's face crawled into his mind and he found himself gagging.

Across the circle of fidgeting ponies, Thunderhawk grimly watched the slight sway of the corpse. Although his stomach was hardened to the obscenity of war, his heart cried aloud his anguish and disgust. For each moment he stared, the disgust was slowly replaced by a growing fury in his heart. He was totally unaware he was snarling aloud, his lips flecked with spittle like a ravenous wolf. It was a thing of the blood, heirloom of centuries of hunting and killing. His heritage told him the time for killing was now.

Their chief's audible anger fed the hunger of the braves. Running-Dog, after the initial shock, was beginning to grow angry too. Coyote, who had already had time to digest the atrocity since he was the first to discover it, was furious. Beside him, Soldier had conquered his rebellious stomach and the feeling injected into the mountain air by the other braves was beginning to affect him. It was so strong it hung in the air like a seething, alive thing, filling him with courage and the desire to kill and tear and mutilate with no thought to the consequences. It was as if the hate actually oozed from the collective pores of their skin. Even Crowfoot found himself restlessly fingering his rifle, eyes raking the timber, anxious to be on the trail.

In all of them the anger blanked out all emotion except the raging bloodlust demand for vengeance. In the turmoil of Thunderhawk's mind, the names echoed over and over.
His brother, Comes-Walking, mown down by the big killing gun.
The buffalo medicine man, shot from his pony's back, and now Littleman's name was added to the list. He knew nothing of how many of them would die before it was finished, but one thing he was sure of. The fat-taker would die, even if all of them walked the trail of stars together.

With a war whoop of such defiance and hatred that echoed back from the tall pines of the clearing, Thunderhawk wheeled his black war pony and sharply dug his heels into its flanks. He leaned low over the whipping mane, features distorted,
snarling
lips over clenched teeth. In a stamping of hooves and shouts the other braves thundered into the timber behind him. Eager for the chase, the war pony laid back his ears and opened up his stride, nostrils flared and heart racing with the urgency transmitted from his master.

The trail was narrow, branches lashing from both sides as they rode, twisting in and out of the sentinel pines. Before them in the soft earth the tracks of the white man's horses goaded them onward, barely a glance necessary to keep to the trail. Crushed between the towering walls they galloped headlong, eyes burning with hatred, throats hoarse with yelling.

Abruptly, they broke cover. The pines ended and before them was a long grassy slope which fell away before climbing up to the rising of the hogback ridge. As they broke into the open they fanned out, five blood hungry Indians urging their ponies to the last ounce of speed.

They rode straight into the gaping barrel of Shuck Alison's Henry rifle.

***

He watched them coming. Sweating lightly, he rubbed his damp palms alternately on his pants and adjusted the brim of his hat to perfect the shade that stretched down below the bridge of his nose. The light was right. Satisfied his edge was good, he resighted along the Henry's barrel then levered a shell into the chamber and patted the sun bleached stock.

The Kiowas were still closing. He shrugged as he hunkered down against the crest of the basin he had chosen. On all sides the grass sloped up to the rim, giving him a three hundred and sixty degree arc of clear fire. He had hidden the mule and its load of gold out of harm's way, and kept only the black picketed down in the hollow. He would have preferred not to have had even the black present, but that would have meant no avenue of escape should the need arise.

Alison was sick of running. It seemed he had been running all his life.
And now these Indians.
He knew they would never give up. The time had come to make a stand. Then maybe he could get a good night's sleep and eat a hot meal without constantly watching his back. He lay on the
grass,
the open box of shells at his elbow, the Henry nestled into his shoulder. And the Kiowas rode on, the range lessening by the second.

He wiped his hands again,
then
gripped the Henry. The rifle sight swung along the line and settled on the chief's chest. Alison admired the eagle feather war bonnet, almost flattened by the wind. He would be first. On the chief's right he could make out the boy who had made the run across the clearing. He would be next. Yes, he would begin at the centre and work to the right then back to the left. What he missed on the first sweep he would get when they hit the ground.

The drumming of hooves grew louder as they swept down towards him. Soon they would hit the bottom of the slope before attempting the steady climb to the rim of his basin.

They were almost there.

His trigger finger tensed automatically.
Wait
, a little voice inside his head said. Don't lose it now, just when the odds are thinned.
Wait
. The sweat's starting on the forehead. Hope it doesn't run into your eyes. Blurred vision is no good at a turkey shoot. Your hands are wet again. There's no time to wipe them now.
Slow
. Take it easy.
Wait
. Your stomach's got that hollow feeling again.
Strange how you forget about it until it creeps back up on you.
Ignore it
. Keep your eyes on the shooting gallery out front. You're getting tense.
Relax and wait
. Another voice materialises out of the depth of your conscious mind, slightly hysterical.
They're almost on me!
You're scared but the other voice is deadly calm.
Wait
. It's nearly
time
, but not yet. Your mouth is suddenly dry and you wish you'd taken another mouthful from the canteen. It's the shouting. Their screams are gnawing steadily at your frayed nerves. But your hands are steady, aren't they? Keep it that way. Shut out all the distractions. Only greenhorns let that bother them. Keep the sights plumb dead centre on the chief's chest. Nearly, nearly…
NOW
!
Now you bastard, now,
NOW
!

The Henry jumped in his hands and the butt plate slammed into his shoulder like a metal fist. Without looking to see if he had hit, he worked the action as he swung, then squeezed off the next shot. Time after time he fired, dextrously working the rifle mechanism. Spent brass casings jumped into the air and fell twisting in the grass. All the hours of experience racked up along the string of trail towns paid dividends. In his capable hands the Henry was second to none.

On the slopes of the greening grass below him, ponies were struggling, pulled down by wounded riders or shot themselves. Wild screaming mingled with the harsh cries of their masters. Someone was firing back. A bullet dug a furrow to his left, throwing up dirt. He cursorily brushed his face, worried about his eyes, then fired again. Unsure now, shooting through a pall of his own gun smoke, he began placing shots indiscriminately across the centre of the slope, and could not see if he gained any hits among the milling ponies and grounded riders.

The edge was gone now. They knew as well as he did, it was him up there and it was now up to them to come up and have at it.

The hammer clicked on an empty breech. Alison rolled quickly off the skyline and grabbed a handful of shells from the box. One after another he fed them into the magazine under the hot barrel. Loaded and ready, he rolled again to a fresh spot on the rim and came up on his elbows.

Gun smoke smeared on the breeze.

The ponies were scattered and gone, except the black the chief had ridden. It was laid on its side in the hollow. Nearby was the still body of an Indian, and he could see the feathers of the war bonnet trapped underneath. To the right another Kiowa thrashed in agony, arms uselessly flailing the bloodstained grass. A flicker caught his eyes and he focused on a figure that came up running from the grass on his left flank. A quick sweep with the Henry and he pulled the trigger. The Indian leapt upright then fell backwards to lay motionless.

Three down. Where the hell were the other two?