Sidewinder (16 page)

‘It is well,’ the chief said and let the tipi’s door flap fall. ‘Sidewinder has not been here.’

‘He left no sign of it if he has,’ agreed the Kid, ‘Shall we wait to see if he comes?’

‘No. After what has happened, I think the chiefs will listen and sign the treaty. Even the ones who waited to hear of Sidewinder will know that be has failed and be willing to make peace.’

Mounting their horses, the men rode away from the death camp. Dusty turned in his saddle and looked back at the tipi.

He wondered what, if anything, the Kid knew about Fire Dancer’s death. One thing was for sure, Fire Dancer’s death was for the best; whether the poison had been administered accidentally or with deliberate intent. With her gone, the white men who opposed the making of the treaty had lost a powerful and dangerous ally. Dusty doubted if Sidewinder would deal with white men on a friendly, or co-operative basis without his mother forcing him to do so. A major threat to the chance of making a lasting peace lay dead in that tipi and Dusty felt disinclined to inquire too closely in how she came to die.

Apart from the
Kweharehnuh
, who only the most optimistic observers had expected to come in, the majority of the Comanche people felt reconciled to making peace and living on a reservation. It seemed that only Sidewinder among the leaders might spoil the signing of the treaty and, with his band demoralized, scattered or dead, he should prove less of a threat than he had only three days before. Dusty could not think how the chief might accomplish anything more.

On returning to the Fort, Dusty found that Temple Houston had not been wasting time in his absence. The lawyer obtained permission to visit Bristow, the captured whiskey pedlar, and at first had no success with the man, So Houston made a plan and put it into operation. On the night that Dusty left, a shot through the window almost silenced Bristow — although, as Houston fired it, the man was in no great danger. Scared by what he regarded as a narrow escape, and believing that the people who hired him aimed to take the easy way out of their difficulties regarding him. Bristow fell eagerly into Houston’s suggestion that he saved his neck by talking. While he knew little, Bristow told Houston the name of his contact and the only person he had met concerned with the plot. The pedlar gave Houston a lead which subsequently brought about the arrest of several members of the ring involved in trying to disrupt the treaty council.

That evening, a further piece of good news arrived. After some discussion, the assembled chiefs of the Comanche decided to meet the white members of the treaty council with a view to making the final arrangements for signing the treaty.

Everything seemed all set for the successful conclusion of the council and the beginning of an era of peace between the majority of the Comanche Nation and the people of Texas.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Tim day of the treaty signing could not have been better. Overhead the sun shone brightly and only a light breeze stirred the air. General Handiman and the Congressional Committee sat at a table with all the papers before them, faced by the senior chief from each Comanche band that aimed to sign. To the right, formed up and wearing their best uniforms, sat three companies of cavalry and on the left of the table gathered a large number of Comanche men, women and children all dressed to the height of fashion,

Every detail had been thrashed out in meetings, with the Kid stood by to act as interpreter for the Comanches and at last the big moment had arrived. In a matter of seconds the treaty would be signed and a start at a lasting peace made.

Even as Handiman reached for the pen which lay ready for use, two shots rang out. Every eye turned in the direction of the shooter, looking out over the range and up a broken, bush-dotted slope. Six Indians, one of them sporting the war bonnet of a chief, sat their horses on the top of the slope.

‘Sidewinder!’ growled Long Walker as the war bonnet chief waved a Winchester carbine over his head.

‘Hey, Comanches!’ yelled Sidewinder. ‘What frightened dogs are you to let the white men force you to make peace? Who rides with me to live the old way?’

‘Captain Connel, take men and—,’ Handiman began.

‘Hold it, General!’ interrupted the Kid! ‘That’s not the way to handle it.’

‘Damn it, Kid,’ Handiman snorted. ‘We can’t let him get away with it, even if I have to send all three companies after him.’

‘And how’d that look to the Comanche down here?’ asked the Kid. ‘Sidewinder’s likely only got those five jaspers with him. They’re here to bust up the council, or die — and they won’t die easy. Happen you send men against them in that broken stuff, they’ll kill off plenty afore you get them. And while the fighting’s going on it’ll only take a wrong move on either side down here to spark off a shooting fuss.’

All of which Handiman could see plainly enough when he paused for a moment. Sidewinder might have lost his medicine, but could easily regain it and pick up a following if the assembled
tehnap
and
tuivitsi
saw his small band inflicting heavy losses on the Army. And they stood a good chance of inflicting those losses, for the nature of the ground favoured the Indians.

‘What can we do?’ Handiman growled, knowing that doing nothing would be as disastrous as sending forward soldiers.

For a moment the Kid did not reply, but his eyes went to the ink pots on the table. While one contained blue ink, the other held red ink of a thick kind to be used in making the Indians’ marks.

‘I reckon it’s long gone time that me ‘n’ Sidewinder settled up old scores,’ the Kid said and laid his rifle on the table.

Standing among the other honoured guests at a distance behind the table, Dusty and Mark watched as the Kid peeled off his shirt. They exchanged glances and moved forward for they guessed at what the Kid aimed to do and wanted to know if they might help in any way. While acting as interpreter for the Comanches, the Kid wore his Indian clothes and retained his armament. No Indian ever expected to have to lay down his arms at a peace council, that would be a sign he did not trust the other party involved.

Watched by the amazed white members of the crowd, the Kid stripped off his leggings and retained only moccasins, breechclout and gunbelt. A low mutter ran through the assembled
Pehnane
ranks, echoed by such of the other Comanches who knew the ways of the Quick Stingers, as the Kid poured red ink on to his palm and made the imprint of his hand on his chest. A quick grab raised his rifle from the table and he ran to where Manners stood holding the General’s horse.d

‘
Pukutsi
!’ roared the Kid, leapfrog mounting over the horse’s rump and snatching the reins from Manners’ amazed hand.

‘
Pukutsi
!’ boomed back the voices of the
Pehnane
as they watched the Kid send the horse leaping forward in the direction of Sidewinder’s party.

Sidewinder watched everything from where he sat his horse on the rim. While he had not seen the Kid since they were both boys, the chief knew that only one white man would act in such a manner. A snarl of fury left Sidewinder as he pointed at the charging Texan.

‘Kill him.’ he ordered.

Knowing that the only way to halt a man riding
Pukutsi
in the
Pehnane
fashion was in the way their chief commanded, three of the braves sent their horses leaping forward to meet the Kid. Two of them carried rifles and the third held a bow to which he notched an arrow as his mount hit a full gallop.

Up swung the Kid’s Winchester as he rode with the reins lashed up and hanging over the horse’s neck, steering it with his knees. He sighted and fired, tumbling one of the rifle armed braves from the saddle. Levering home another bullet, the Kid changed his aim and saw the second brave lining a rifle at him. Flame licked from the Kid’s ‘yellow boy’ as the brave fired at him. The Kid felt his mount jerk as the bullet struck it, heard its squeal and sensed it collapsing under him, Before the horse’s body crumpled and hit the ground, the Kid had left its saddle and landed on his feet with a cat-like agility born in him and improved on by long training. While landing he saw that his second shot had taken effect, for the other rifle-armed brave lay sprawled on the ground.

That left the third brave, and to the Kid’s way of thinking the most dangerous. Armed with a bow and showing every sign of being a master in its use, the brave tore nearer. He ignored the fate of his companions, concentrating on the Kid with awesome intensity and determination to kill. Tense and ready, the Kid saw the bow’s string released and the arrow spring towards him. Timing his move perfectly, he swung the Winchester and its barrel deflected the arrow’s shaft. A quick swivelling movement swung the rifle back into line slanting it up as the Kid prepared to leap aside and avoid being ridden down. He had no time to raise the rifle to his shoulder and fired from the hip. A flat-nosed .44 bullet drove in under the brave’s jaw and burst out of the top of his head. Darting aside, the Kid evaded the horse and its lifeless rider crashed almost at his feet.

So busy had the Kid been in handling his first trio of attackers that he did not notice the remaining pair of Sidewinder’s companions approaching. They came on foot, one carrying an Army Colt and the other wielding a war club. Firing on the run, the Colt’s user lacked the ability to aim accurately and missed. Before he could cock his revolver, he paid the penalty. Still held hip-high, the Kid’s rifle spat and its bullet tore into the
Waw’ai’s
left breast and tumbled him backwards.

The last brave charged in from the Kid’s right side, so close that there. would be no time to turn the rifle. Instead the Kid hurled his Winchester at the other’s head. Throwing up his left arm, the
Waw’ai
knocked the rifle aside and his other hand swung the war club at the Kid. The two pound flint head — six inches long, with a width of three inch at one end and tapering to two inches at the other, secured by green rawhide, which shrunk and dried almost to the consistency of iron, to a sixteen inch wooden shaft — whistled through the air. Swiftly the Kid twisted his body, bending it under the arc of the club’s head. While doing so, the Kid drew his bowie knife and swung a wicked backhand slash. Razor sharp steel bit into
Waw’ai’s
belly, laying it wide open. A scream left his lips, the war club dropping from his fingers and his hands clawed down at the terrible gash in his body. Staggering a few steps, the
Waw’ai
sank to his knees and fell forward, writhing, on his face.

A bullet tore over the Kid’s head and he flung himself forward in a rolling dive that carried him into cover. There had been no time to collect his rifle and he drew the old Dragoon as he landed. Peering cautiously around the rock behind which he landed, the Kid saw no sign of Sidewinder. Clearly the chief retained sufficient respect for his old enemy’s shooting ability to take no chances.

Rising, the Kid darted from cover to cover up the slope. He went fast but no shots came his way. Not for a moment did he think that Sidewinder had fled. While the chief might not relish a fight, he could not avoid one if he hoped to show his face among the Comanche again. Sidewinder and the last of his followers came to the treaty council in a desperate bid to regain their lost medicine and so must be willing to die trying. Sidewinder knew that and hid somewhere, hoping for a chance to finish the Kid. If he did so, there might be braves willing to rally to him, enough to ruin the council.

Coming to a halt on the slope, the Kid stood erect and looked around him.

‘No Father!’ he roared in
Pehnane
Comanche. ‘Come and fight, lame dog. This is no time to run as you did when we last met. Show yourself and I’ll kill you as my father killed Bitter Root.’

The vicious crack of the chief’s carbine came after the Kid’s words, every one of which had been spoken as a deadly insult. To call a name-warrior by the title he held as a child was bad enough, but using the name of a dead father offered an even greater insult.

‘He’s been hit!’ Mark Counter gasped and a rumble of sound rose from the other members of the watching crowd as the Kid spun around, dropping revolver and knife then crashing down to roll out of sight.

Thrusting himself from the bushes in which he had hidden. Sidewinder limped forward. A savage grin twisted the chief’s face as he advanced to where he last saw the Kid. In falling, the Kid went into a gash torn in the slope at some time by a heavy flood of water, but since grown over. Sidewinder might have hesitated to follow so dangerous an enemy into that kind of area — even in their youth the Kid had few equals at the art of concealment, silent movement and stalking — but the sight of weapons gave him heart. With his rifle lying back down the slope and the Colt and bowie knife in plain sight, the Kid had no weapons with which to defend himself.

Discarding his carbine for the better close-quarters handling qualities of the Army Colt he took from Salmon’s body. Sidewinder advanced down the gash’s side. He could see no sign of the Kid, yet felt sure that his bullet took effect. Possibly the other, badly wounded, had crawled into some cover and only needed finding to be finished off.

A hand came out from under a bush, took hold of Sidewinder’s good ankle and heaved at it. Sidewinder had never been a skilled player at
Nanip’ka
, Guess Over The Hill, where boys hid and the one from beyond the hill had to locate them. So he failed to see the Kid. With a yell, he tumbled backwards and his Colt fired a wild shot into the air. Like a flash the Kid lunged forward, meaning to land on the other’s body and clamp hands on his throat. Poor
Nanip’ka
player Sidewinder might be, but he could move fast. Constantly bearing the brunt of carrying him, his good leg had extra strength. Its foot rammed against the Kid’s body, halted his progress and hurled him aside. He landed rolling and Sidewinder sat up, lining the Colt. As a bullet cut the air over his head, the Kid caught up a rock the size of a baseball and snapped it in Sidewinder’s direction. His aim proved to be better than the chief’s for the rock caught Sidewinder in the face. However, the Kid knew he could not reach Sidewinder before the other recovered and going closer made him a larger target, Instead he rose and flung himself up the slope. Blood trickled down Sidewinder’s face but he did not let that interfere with his intention. It was kill or be killed now.

The Army Colt roared and the Kid felt lead slam into him, tearing through the fleshy part of his thigh. Exerting all his will, he flung himself forward and his right hand reached out. He felt the cold, comforting touch of the Dragoon’s walnut grips under his palm and closed his fingers around the butt. Already Sidewinder came up the slope, travelling fast despite his injured leg, determined to get in so close that he could not miss. Up came his Colt, lining towards the Kid.

Rolling over, the Kid brought up the Dragoon and held it cocked ready for use. An instant before Sidewinder felt sure of his aim, the Kid fired. Not for the first time the Kid found cause to be thankful for keeping that heavyweight, out-of-date handgun. The soft round lead ball struck with shocking force, hurling Sidewinder backwards even though it only struck him in the shoulder. Before the chief recovered, or had a chance to, the Kid sat up, took careful aim and sent a second bullet into the other’s chest.

Rising, the Kid stood for a moment then limped to where his knife lay. He took up the big weapon and approached Sidewinder. Bending down, the Kid gripped the dead chief’s hair and dragged his head up from the ground. Around came the knife, its blade ready to bite into flesh and remove the scalp. The fighting madness ebbed slowly away and his left hand loosed its grip of the hair. There at his feet lay his old enemy. Loud Voice and Comes For Food, the friends who died saving the Kid’s life, had been avenged at last. With Sidewinder dead, the treaty could be signed. The old days had gone for ever and the Kid could not take the scalp.

Slowly the Kid turned. Walking to where his Colt lay, dropped when he took up the knife to scalp his dead enemy, lie picked it up and holstered it. Sheathing the bowie knife, he limped up the slope and looked at the treaty council.

‘Well,’ he mused as his friends ran up the slope towards him ‘We’ve done it now. I sure hope that it’s the right thing now it’s done.

THE END