Double Mountain Crossing (22 page)

It was all so slow. Alison's mind and battle hardened reflexes were working overtime to build an advantage. A full eighth of a second before the
Winchester
spoke,
Alison's Henry both opened and closed the conversation.

With the bark of the rifle echoing in his ears, Alison worked the lever. The boy was dead, or would be very soon. His instinct told him it had been a good shot. But he watched.

The boy gasped and his eyes opened so wide Alison thought the eyeballs would fall out and roll down his cheeks. With the force of the bullet's impact, the right arm was thrown out from the body, still clutching the rifle, and he came up off the ground straddle legged, knees buckling. A hole seemed to appear as if by magic in the smooth skin of his stomach and blood gushed in a crimson spurt from his back as he twisted in the air and sprawled face down.

The relief at beating the boy to the crucial shot faded as Alison's mind began to jump to and fro. It was a natural; one from the front, one from behind. The fault had been in the timing. The boy had been too hasty; his kinsman had not yet made an appearance.

He turned fast and came up on one knee. Eyes raked the skyline. In avoiding the boy's first shot he had slipped seven or eight feet down the grassy slope and now all he could see was the inside of the rim. If he crawled back up he would be dead centre in the other Indian's sights when he came over the top. As the boy had come up on the left, then the chances were the other one would top out on the right. If he reached the rim before the Kiowa he might have a chance. He was already moving, the Henry ready as he stalked like a cat.

The Kiowa came from nowhere. One moment there was only the grass and the next there was a full grown Indian brave, straight and tall.
Hard, wiry, capable.
Possibly a year or two older than himself.
Lined and painted face. Long jet black braids, almost to the waist.
Broad and heavily muscled chest, tendons rippling in the wide shoulders.
Buckskin leggings, fringed with scalps.

No inexperienced boy this one.

The Kiowa burst into a blur of action. He spanned the distance between them before Alison could flicker an eyelash, much less bring the Henry to bear. Breath exploded from his lungs as though he had been struck with a hammer, then both men were rolling down the slope. The stink of the Indian was in Alison's nostrils as he suffered the embrace of sinewy arms. As they fell, he brought up a knee sharply and the grip relaxed, allowing his heaving chest to suck in air. He began to pummel anything that came within striking distance of his fists. Blows rained on his body, his chest echoing hollowly, but he was numb, giving as
good
as he received. In
a tumbleweed
of flailing arms and kicking legs they rolled on downwards.
Fists crashed into bruised faces and aching chests time and time again.

The Kiowa came up on top of him, lips snarling hatred and his breath washing Alison in a stink of bark tobacco and rancid meat. Powerful hands closed tightly around his throat. He twisted and jerked frantically and by the time his lungs were screaming they had slithered another few feet and it was he who was on top. He smashed down into the rotten teeth and was rewarded as they broke away at the gums, the Indian howling. Alison struck until his knuckles bled and momentum reversed their positions once more.

Mercifully, the strong fingers had been torn from his windpipe. His chest heaved, grateful for the rush of sweet
air,
and the darkness at the edges of his vision cleared. His relief was brief. Still rolling, he slammed into the picket post on the basin floor. The post held.

Alison had cut it himself, but when he sank it he had been in a hurry so he had not trimmed the top. It was still ragged with splinters. He narrowly missed them, the post striking right across the width of his shoulders. The black horse screamed, wall-eyed, head thrown back as it backed away from the two struggling men to the furthest extent of the picket rope.

There was no time to consider pain. Crowfoot was onto him again, hooked fingers gouging at his eyes. Alison kicked him away but before he could move the Indian was on his feet again and closing in. A moccasined foot swung at his head. Reflex brought his hands up to cover his face,
then
his brain took control. As the toe hit him he snapped his wrist round and grabbed an ankle. He twisted on the ground and jerked the leg as he rolled. Crowfoot lost his balance as he followed through with his kick and fell heavily onto the picket post.

The scream rang in Alison's ears. The post had smashed in Crowfoot's chest, staving in several ribs. As he pulled himself, groaning, off the post, blood started to pour through his gaping flesh. With pink foam from a ruptured lung bubbling at his lips, Crowfoot held one hand to his ruined chest and in the other appeared a glint of steel. Although he was dying, determination to have done with the white man was written all over his pain-twisted features. Alison eyed the chest wound with revulsion. He was so close the blood was spattering him, but when he saw the scalping knife his hand dropped to his holster.

The roar of the Colt died on the breeze, smoke drifting slowly from the barrel. Crowfoot was dead on the trampled grass, his left eye blown out through the back of his head along with the grey matter of his brain.

The Kiowa had been strong. Alison was on his knees, panting. His ribs were sore from pummelling fists and his back throbbed where he had slammed into the post. His right hand still held the Colt, and he raised his left to probe his damaged face. One cheek was tender from jawbone to eye socket and his eye was already half closed with swelling. A dribble of blood ran from his right eyebrow and another from a split lip. He fingered his nose, and although the bridge seemed bruised there was no blood to indicate it was broken. He had come off lightly.

His breathing more even, he came to his feet and looked up to the rim. When the Indian had leapt at him the Henry rifle had been smashed from his hands. It had to be up there on the grass. Where guns were concerned, he was a man of habit, and as he ascended the slope he tipped the used shell from the Colt and pushed in a new one from a loop in his gun belt,
then
slipped the gun back in the holster.

The Henry lay at the crest and Alison swore as he picked it up. The breech was smashed.
Useless.
An old
Springfield
carbine
lay
near it, likely the one he had heard earlier when he had pinned down the Indians on the slope below the rim. The hammer was broken off. Angry, he threw it down on the grass, next to the Henry.

Well, he thought, the next thing to do is get the hell out of here. He still had the gold on the mule to weigh in at
Clay
Springs
,
then
he could furnish himself with a brand new Henry. He turned back down the slope and as he walked he noticed his hands trembling.
Just nerves.
He'd soon leave this graveyard behind. His thoughts as he untied the black and mounted up were of dollar bills, rolls of them, or even more pleasing would be big golden double eagles. Paper stuff was just pretend money; nothing like heavy gold coins to give a man a good feeling. Then when he'd had himself a few luscious women and a gut full of beefsteaks and whiskey, he could come back and dig up the gold he had buried when the rattlesnake killed the other horse.

Yes, he was a rich man.

Yet as he rode over the lip of the basin and set off to where the mule was hidden in a timber copse, he felt disgruntled. The feeling crawled underneath the warmth he felt at his escape, or even his new found affluence. He could only put it down to the loss of the Henry. A rifleman at heart, he felt naked without one nestling in the saddle scabbard, the hard line of the barrel beneath his right leg.

Then he remembered.

The Kiowa boy had used a
Winchester
. It would be up on the rim. He pulled back on the reins and the black stopped in its tracks. He turned in the saddle and looked back. The rim was only a hundred yards behind him. He would go back and pick it up.

***

Eks-a-Pana
, the Soldier
lay
gut shot, dying on the grass so far away from his home. No time now to think of how his life might have turned out. He would never hunt again, or break the sleek grey pony his uncle had promised him from the herd, or pick a wife from the clutch of maidens who had already shown an interest in him. There was only time to think of his nearing death and the long walk over the trail of stars. He wondered who would bury his body to protect it from the carrion eaters, but knew there was nobody. There was not one of them left. The white man had seen to that.

From his awkward position, flat on his ruptured stomach, he had seen Crowfoot die. If he had not been dying himself he would have enjoyed watching the fight. Also, if the white man had not had the pistol, then Crowfoot would have taken his scalp, of that Soldier was sure. But the speed of the white man's hand! If he had not seen it with his own eyes he would not have believed it. It had been chain lightning! The hand had appeared to remain stationary, and yet there had suddenly been a gun in it, and the muzzle flash testified to the image. With the seeing of it, Soldier had immediately understood how the fat-taker had been so swift with the rifle.

His mind closed in self protection from the pain and his thoughts stumbled around in confusion. Images flooded in from all corners, overlapping each other, a fresh one quickly superseding the last, and always he was aware death walked close beside him. As one powerful image expanded it blanked out all the others, a vision of his meeting with Thunderhawk in the afterlife. The setting was the fertile valley where the water was sweet and the game was plentiful at the other end of the star trail. The chief said nothing, but his steely eyes beneath the eagle war bonnet stared reproachfully at the boy. The look said, “I put my trust in you, naming you Soldier, and bestowed on you a fine weapon to do my bidding. I should have known better. You failed me.”

The hallucination tormented him. His eyes snapped open and fell on the
Winchester
still clutched in his right hand. He concentrated through the circles of swirling pain, the concerted effort draining him as he strove to flex his numb fingers. Slowly, he screwed his head round and his gaze found the receding figure of the white man riding away down the slope towards the bottoms where the timber was grouped in patches. Soldier painfully manoeuvred himself into a shooting position, the
Winchester
's barrel resting on a clump of earth.

If the ability was still left in him he would do it.

He blinked slowly, forcing his eyes open against the ache throbbing in his stomach. It was a downhill shot, awkward at best, but he could only try. If he failed he would have to endure Thunderhawk's wrath throughout the endlessness of eternity.

But at least he would have tried.

He steadied the rifle, pausing while he retched, then squinted over the sights. As he took up the slack on the trigger he was amazed to see his target stop. The sight resting squarely on his chest, the horseman looked back, still as stone.

It had to be an omen. Soldier could not believe providence had thrown this one last chance for him to grasp with open hands. With a death's head smile he adjusted for wind and squeezed the trigger.

The
Winchester
barked. Soldier winced as the butt plate battered his shoulder,
then
feebly tried to reload. He had no strength. He switched his flagging attention back to the fat-taker, waiting for the smoke to disperse.
Long seconds later he could see.

Both man and horse were down.

For minutes he remained watching, shaking his head when the pain blurred his vision, waiting for it to clear so he could squint again into the near distance. In all the time he watched neither man nor horse moved.

It was done. It was finished.

Slowly, like a slim shark rolling over in deep water,
Eks-a-Pana
, the Soldier, turned over on the springy grass until his back flattened against the earth he loved and his sightless eyes stared at the unbroken vista of blue sky.

…Alison was drifting, suspended in a limbo in which he could find no way up, down, or more to his liking, out. The patches of grey thickened and swirled and in there too was pain that made him dizzy and nauseous. Gradually, he fought his way up through the layers, seeking, striving towards the light that shone through the back of his eyelids to draw circles of purple sparked with crimson.

He groaned and came up on one elbow. Behind his head was the rock that had knocked him out. The black horse lay near him, flat on its side. Looking at the position of the felled animal he counted himself lucky his boots had come free of the stirrups or he would have been trapped underneath, probably with a broken leg. Dizzy, he struggled onto his knees, then onto his feet. For a moment he stood as still as possible, warding off the darkness that threatened to engulf him. When things evened out a bit he tested his legs and arms. There was no damage. How come he had been knocked sideways out of the saddle? He walked over and inspected the black. It had been killed by a bullet in a neck artery. On closer examination he discovered the bullet had cut through the front of the pack-saddle and then ploughed into the horse's neck. But why had he been thrown to the ground?