Texas Rifles (19 page)

Read Texas Rifles Online

Authors: Elmer Kelton

BOOK: Texas Rifles
4.82Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
“Testin' us,” Cloud said.
Guffey replied, “And I hope they found out what they was after. This ain't no bunch of helpless immigrants.”
The Indians moved away from range of the Texans' guns and regrouped. Cloud stood back and wiped grimy sweat from his face and looked to the men. He made a quiet round of inspection and found they were all right.
Easter Rutledge had time now to bind Miguel's wound. Then she again held Joanna Moseley in her arms, gently patting the little girl's head. Joanna still sobbed a little, but no longer with the terror she had shown.
Now,
thought Cloud dismally,
who's goin' to comfort Easter?
The Indians came again, yelping and screaming even before they got in range. They presented an uneven front of painted horses and half-naked, painted men, feathers streaming. Even as he watched, his hands sweaty on the gun and his scalp prickling, Cloud could not escape the pagan beauty of it, the savage spectacle of these wild horsemen bearing down in a thunder of hoofs, a roll of dust.
Cloud took a look down his own line of waiting riflemen, saw the excitement flare in their eyes. He sensed the men were waiting for him to take the first shot. He picked a Comanche with a long headdress and leveled his rifle. It was going to be an easy shot, for the Indians were coming almost straight at them. It was so easy he almost hated to do it. He squeezed the trigger and flinched at the recoil. He saw the Indian slide off the horse.
Around Cloud the gunfire suddenly blazed, and more
Indians and horses went down. But the other Comanches kept coming.
Bound and determined! Goin' to get us or die tryin'!
Close by, Cloud heard a man gasp and turned to see Quade Guffey hunched over, gripping his left arm, cursing softly. Guffey cast a wide-eyed glance over the wash and began trying to reload his rifle. Blood ran down his arm, and he couldn't handle the rifle well enough to get another load in it.
Cloud shouted at Easter. “Easter, Quade's hit! Help him reload!”
Easter stood up and took the rifle. She fumbled with it, then the tears broke and she handed it back to Guffey.
“I can't …” she sobbed, sinking to her knees. “I can't. They're still my people.”
Guffey, his teeth clamped tightly with his own pain, murmured, “It's all right, ma'am; it's all right.” He drew his pistol and waited for the Indians to get close enough that he could use it.
Fire from the wash was gouging gaps into the Comanche line. The thunder of guns drummed into a man's brain until he could hear nothing except the guns themselves and the ringing sound they left driving in his ears. Cloud could still feel his hand sweaty on the rifle. He could taste dirt and sweat and could smell the warm odor of blood and the sharp biting tang of gunpowder that drifted around him in black clouds of smoke.
Now the Indians were close enough that he could see their painted faces, could see the mouths open in savage screams that barely penetrated his ringing ears. He could feel the vibration of the earth beneath the pounding hoofs. He fired the rifle and saw a man fall and knew he didn't have time to reload. He brought up his pistol and held it steady, waiting for a close shot.
He saw that the Indians were going to try to ride right
up over the wash and overwhelm the Rifles by sheer force of numbers.
Now it was short range—rifles empty and no time left to load them. It was pistols against Comanche short-bows. The Texans poured pistol fire into the screaming faces, the painted bodies that bore down upon them. The first of the line was right upon the wash now. The Indian horses slowed, trying to avoid a crashing fall into the gully ahead. The Comanches tried to whip them up, to keep them running. But the horses balked, and as they did, the Texans had time to cut down the Comanches with a blistering fire.
One horse fell, spilling his rider into the wash almost atop one of the Texans. The Texan whirled, grabbing his empty rifle and using the butt of it to brain the Indian before the man could move.
It was an insane swirl of dust and smoke, a bedlam of shouting, cursing men, of blazing guns and screaming horses. Around him Cloud could sense a frenzy of movement, but he forced himself to keep his gaze on what was just ahead of him, what was in range. He sensed that the Indian line had faltered, badly riddled.
He saw a magnificent warrior charging straight at him, a lance poised for the strike. Cloud's mouth was bone dry, his heart hammering. He wanted desperately to fire, but he had no idea how many shots were left in his pistol, if any at all. He couldn't fire until he knew he would not miss, for there might not be a second chance.
A few seconds seemed an eternity. He had time enough to study the Indian's painted face, red-streaked body, the buffalo shield with the scalp tied to it, the long blonde hair streaming out.
A cold fury welled up in Cloud. He felt the pistol buck in his hand, saw the Comanche jerk and come off the horse. The Indian hit the ground rolling and came over
the edge of the wash, right on top of Cloud. Cloud shoved the pistol into the man's belly and pulled the trigger. There was only a dull click. He went down backward, the Indian's weight on top of him.
He could smell the grease, the woodsmoke odor that clung to the man, and he smelled the blood where he had caught the Indian in the shoulder. But there was strength in the man, even yet. The Indian grabbed at the knife on Cloud's belt and slipped it out of the buffalo-tail scabbard. Cloud gripped his wrist and wrestled with him for possession of the knife. He could feel the sweat breaking on his face, burning his eyes, and he knew the desperation in the Indian. But the Comanche was wounded, and this gave Cloud an edge. He wrested the knife from the man's hand and savagely slashed upward with it. The blade drove into the Indian's stomach. The man screamed and sagged forward. Cloud jerked the knife out and drove it forward again, plunging it hilt-deep between the warrior's ribs.
He pulled away then, letting the Indian slide to the ground. Cloud's eyes were afire from sweat and dirt, his hands desperately feeling over the ground for the fallen pistol. He found it and started to reload it. But even as he did so, he was aware that the gunfire was diminishing.
He blinked away the pain in his eyes and stood up. On the ground before the wash lay a pitiful scattering of dead and wounded horses, dead and wounded Indians. Off to the right, he could see the settling dust as the surviving Comanches retreated.
Quade Guffey stood beside him, holding his wounded arm, his sleeve crusting with blood and dirt, his face slowly paling from shock he had not had time to feel before.
“Reckon they've had a gutful, Cloud,” he said thinly.
“They could take us, even yet. But they know it'd cost too much.”
Already some of the men were climbing up out of the wash, searching for fallen Indians that might still be alive. Now and again they found one and finished him with a shot or the silent thrust of a knife.
Cloud knelt and picked up the buffalo shield where it had rolled into the wash. With trembling fingers he untied the scalp. No question to whom the long hair had belonged.
Seward Prince stepped up to Cloud and watched him finish the unpleasant job. He asked solemnly, “That girl back at Moseley's?”
Cloud nodded.
Prince cleared his throat and looked about uncomfortably. “Maybe she'll rest easy. We sure took that bloody vengeance the preacher was talkin' about.” He nodded toward the scalp. “You want us to take that out yonder a ways and bury it?”
Cloud nodded. “It'd be the Christian thing, I suppose.”
Prince said, “I'll get the preacher to go with me.” He recoiled a little as the scalp passed into his hand. He paused before saying, “Cloud, you done all right. You sure done all right.”
“Thanks, Prince,” Cloud answered. “You all did.” He turned toward Easter Rutledge, who sat in a huddle against the side of the wash, still holding the little girl. Easter didn't look up. She sobbed quietly, her shoulders heaving.
Regret passed through Cloud, and he wished they'd gotten away without all this slaughter.
Her people! And they always will be.
He put his hand on her shoulder and said gently, “It's all over now, Easter. We're goin' home.”
 
 
The men had ridden wearily, drowsiness in their eyes. But as they came upon the first cabin of the Brush Hill settlement, they began to straighten. They broke their long silence and started talking. They waved at three small children and their mother who stood in the shade of a dog run. A little boy jumped on a horse and kicked him into a lope, moving out ahead of the rifle company to spread the news that the men were coming home.
By the time the men rode into the main part of the settlement, the people stood out beside the road waving, shouting them a welcome.
Cloud swung down as a couple of old men eagerly rushed to shake his hand.
“Glad to have you boys home again,” one said with a grin.
“You kill aplenty of Indians?” the other pressed.
Cloud glanced back at Easter. “Enough of them, I reckon.” Then, rushing to ask his own question before the two had time to throw another at him, he said, “I been worried about Captain Barcroft. Did he get in all right?”
One of the old-timers nodded. “Yep, couple of the boys brung him. He's over to the Lawton house.”
Thanking them, Cloud remounted. He turned to Quade Guffey, who rode along with a stiff arm hanging at his side. “Quade, how's about you takin' the bunch on up to headquarters? I best stop in and visit with the captain first. See you directly.”
Guffey nodded and gave a slight wave with his good hand. Cloud motioned for Easter to stay with him. He watched while the Rifles moved on down the dusty road, the settlement people walking out to shake hands with them as they passed.
A long way to Virginia,
he thought,
a mighty long way. The war they're fightin' there don't seem to mean much here, don't even seem real somehow. We got our own war
to fight, and we got the right men to fight it. Good men, every last one of them, the best men in the country.
He pulled up in front of the Lawtons' stake fence. Hanna Lawton stepped to the door and saw them. She called back into the cabin, then came running. By the time Cloud had helped Easter down from her horse, Hanna was there, waiting to throw her arms about Easter. Cloud reached up and lifted the little girl down, setting her gently on the ground. They'd stopped at the creek a while back, and Easter had scrubbed the girl the best she could.
Hanna stood off at arm's length, looking Easter over. She said, “Cloud, we never expected to see her again. What … how … ?”
“It's a long story, Hanna,” he said. “We'll tell you later. But first I better report to the captain. How is he?”
Cloud could see happiness in Hanna's smile. “He'll be all right, Cloud. It'll take a while, but he'll be all right.”
Mother Lawton came out of the house, and Henry Lawton hurried along from the store. It took a few more minutes to get the howdies said to them. Then Cloud went into the cabin.
He blinked against the darkness and found Aaron Barcroft sitting up in a rocking chair, rocking impatiently, waiting for him. Cloud saluted. “Reportin' in, sir. We did what we went for.”
As his eyes became accustomed to the room, he could see that the captain was pale and drawn. His eyes seemed drawn back into his head, but even so, Cloud could see the same spark which had always been there. The captain asked anxiously, “What about the little Moseley girl?”
Cloud smiled a little. “We found her, sir, and we brought her back. We found somebody else, too. We brought Easter Rutledge home.”
The captain's eyes widened momentarily in surprise, then Cloud could tell the man was glad. Barcroft asked,
“She went after her baby. Did she find it?”
Cloud shook his head. “It was dead, Captain.”
Barcroft dropped his chin, regret in his face. “I did that to her,” he breathed. He was silent a moment. Then, “How about losses?”
“Two men killed, sir. Several shot up a little—none that won't get over it.” He gave the captain a brief review of the campaign, stressing Easter Rutledge's part in it.
At last the captain said, “I guess everybody needs to be laid flat on his back once in a while, just to force him to take time to do some thinking. I've done a lot of it the last few days. One thing I've realized is the wrong I did to Easter Rutledge. Now I'll never be able to right it.” He frowned, his gaze on the floor. “I suppose she still hates me. I don't guess she'll ever forgive me for what I did.”
“She'll forgive you, sir. You did what you thought was right. She respects that.”
The Lawtons came into the room, bringing Easter and the little girl. The captain stared at Joanna Moseley, and Cloud could see Barcroft's dark eyes melt into tenderness.

Other books

Southern Fried by Rob Rosen
Deadly Stakes by J. A. Jance
MacAlister's Hope by Laurin Wittig
The Burning Girl by Lisa Unger
Atlantis: Devil's Sea by Robert Doherty
Saint Camber by Katherine Kurtz