A Frontier Christmas (30 page)

“He looks about as happy as he's ever gonna be,” Chait agreed.

Eagle Feather frowned fiercely, a study in furious concentration as he hefted the rifle, weighing it first in one hand, then the other, then with both hands. Lovingly he ran caressing fingers along the machined cold metal barrel and the fine-grained wooden stock.

A thoughtful look flickered across his face as he worked the lever, then turned the rifle so that it was leveled on Honest Bob.

“It's not loaded,” the gunrunner said.

Eagle Feather bared stained yellow teeth in a snarl. He shouldered the rifle, pointing it at a distant vulture flying high overhead. A metallic click sounded as he pulled the trigger and the hammer came down on an empty chamber. “Empty gun no good,” he said, scowling. “Maybe shoot straight, maybe not. Who knows?”

Honest Bob was ready for that one. He handed Eagle Feather one bullet. Just one.

“Bob's taking a long chance,” Half-Shot said, worried.

“Not so long,” Hump Colway said. “If Eagle Feather cuts up, he'll be cut down fast. Look at Melbourne and Chait itching to throw down on him.”

“Fat lot of good that'll do Bob.”

“Bigger shares for the rest of us.”

“Always looking on the bright side, ain't you? Shares depend on who's left standing, Hump.”

“I'll be there,” the hunchback said. “Hell, the Comanches ain't so dumb as to start a fight they can't win. They like living just like we do.

“But if something jumps off, don't forget to duck.”

“Thanks. That's a big help,” Half-Shot said. “But a shoot-out's like a prairie fire. Once it gets started, it eats up everything fast.”

Eagle Feather fed the long bullet into the breech and changed his grip on the rifle.

A shot sounded.

Honest Bob lurched as if hit by a hammer. He was violently thrown down to the ground. He lay there inert, unmoving, showing not so much as a twitch of motion.

A breathless pause hung shimmering in the air as everyone held their breath, not knowing what would happen next, yet knowing the inevitable consequences of the fatal shot.

No one looked more surprised than Eagle Feather, who stood stupidly staring at the rifle, turning it over in his hands. He hadn't fired it. It hadn't shot, but a man was dead.

“You killed him,” Sefton said to Eagle Feather, drawing his gun.

Again, a shot sounded.

It tagged Eagle Feather with a
thwack.
Like a wooden mallet slamming into a side of beef. He crumpled in the middle and went down.

Blood splattered on Han-Tay and Maldito, who were standing on either side of Eagle Feather, striking their faces and necks with stinging force, speckling them with ruby-red dots like scarlet teardrops.

It was Sefton's turn to look surprised. The gun in his hand was leveled and pointing at Eagle Feather, and yet he knew he hadn't fired it. No gunpowder smell, no smoke was curling from the barrel.

Both shots had come from Sam Heller's Winchester 66. His move put a thumb on the scales and tipped the balance back to hate—hate and fear. He paused to watch the party start. He did not have long to wait.

Sefton's gun had cleared the holster when the second shot struck, making it look like he'd shot the Comanche war chief. Maldito was the first to react, stepping inside Sefton's guard and clamping one hand down on the wrist of the outlaw's gun hand. His grip of iron immobilized Sefton's arm, numbing it where those thick strangler's fingers clutched it.

Maldito's free hand pulled a knife from a belt sheath at his hip. He thrust the blade deep in Sefton's belly, ripping it open, disemboweling him.

Maldito jumped back to get out of the way as gray loops of viscera spilled from Sefton's split belly.

The fight was on!

That's all the belligerents knew. For critical instants, both sides had been taken aback, neither side believing that the other would make a dumb play so disastrous, so fatal to the hopes and lives of all.

So of course it happened, or so they understood it. After the heart-stopping pause, they got to it with no holds barred.

Fitch drew and shot two braves standing opposite him on the other side of the crate. Dog Fat was next in line but proved slippery and elusive as his namesake. He threw himself to the side, ducking behind a rock. He dove, came up rolling, and ran to his horse, jumping up on its back.

Fitch ran after him, chasing and shooting. Dog Fat kept zigging when Fitch thought he was going to zag, causing Fitch to keep missing. He pegged another round, missing the Indian but creasing the horse's rump. With a shriek, it upreared on its hind legs.

Dog Fat grabbed his rifle from where it was tied to the saddle, taking it with him as he fell off the horse. He lay prone on the ground, shooting at Fitch, whose gun was empty. He hit Fitch in the middle, mortally wounding him.

Fitch staggered but kept on going, mechanically working the trigger of his empty gun.

Dog Fat shot again and Fitch fell down.

On hands and knees, the brave started to get up, but his fear-crazed horse stepped on him, trampling him under. Dog Fat screamed, trying to get out from under flailing razor-edged hooves.

Frightened all the more, the horse began dancing on him, pounding him flat. Finally breaking loose, it ran away. Dog Fat lay in place, writhing like a half-squashed bug.

Still standing by the crate, Maldito was next on Sam's list. He was a bad one. Sam knew his history, knew the world would be well improved by his removal from it. But Sefton, though dead, was blocking Sam's clear shot on the dwarfish brave.

Sam shifted gears, swinging the rifle in line with another target—one of the outlaws guarding the corral. Sam's shot slammed him to the ground.

Thinking his partner had been downed by Comanches, the other guard cut loose at the nearest knot of braves, levering his rifle as he pumped lead. Shrieks rang out as braves went down.

Similar scenes were being enacted all over the place. Comanches and gun sellers were blasting at each other. Blood, noise, and death were everywhere.

Horses in the corral panicked. They crowded near the gate, pressing against it, shying, sidling, and shouldering. The gate flew open, slamming back against the fence, tearing loose from the rope hinges. The animals bolted from the corral, fanning out, racing for open spaces. Woe to anyone luckless enough to be in their way!

They ran down white and red men alike, plowing them under. Trampling was not necessarily fatal but it didn't help. When the last horse had escaped the mangled victims were in pretty bad shape. They wouldn't be getting up in a hurry.

The fugitive horses kicked up a lot of dust, further obscuring the scene.

Ricketts's jaw had dropped in open-mouthed astonishment when the shooting started, causing the lit cigar to fall. It dropped into the trough of the boot beneath the box seat. He ducked down and fumbled for the cigar, dropping it several times before getting a good grip on it.

He had a mission to carry out—blow up the wagon if the Comanches tried to take it. Well, if they didn't take it, it wouldn't be for lack of trying. They were sure enough on the warpath.

With trembling hands, Ricketts pressed the lit end of the cigar to the tip of the fuse, whose curling cordlike length terminated in a wooden keg filled with black gunpowder. The fuse sputtered into life, burning like a Fourth of July sparkler.

A bullet tore into his upper body, knocking him off balance. It threw him for a loop, and he let go of the fuse. A canny Comanche had shot him to forestall lighting the fuse, but he was too late. The fuse was lit and burning.

Ricketts pitched forward and to the side, falling in front of the wagon. He rose to his knees. A shot drilled him through the chest. He went down again, not getting up.

A Comanche brave rushed the wagon, knife in hand, intending to cut the fuse before it touched off the gunpowder. He clambered up the front seat of the wagon just in time to catch a bullet from Chait's gun. He pitched backward into the dirt.

The sputtering fuse burned lower, way low. Maldito started toward the wagon but shifted course fast when he saw the brave who was climbing the wagon get cut down. He flung himself to one side, saving himself from the bullet Sam pegged at him. Sam wanted Maldito dead and that gunpowder bomb blowing the gun wagon to kingdom come.

Maldito scrambled behind some rocks, crawling on hands and knees, too low for Sam to hit.

Sam breathed a silent curse.
Maldito is lucky, damn him!

He stayed out of Sam's line of fire, preventing Sam from taking him down with a follow-up shot.

A couple of braves leveled rifles to cut loose on Melbourne and Chait. Rifles traded fire with six-guns. Chait dodged for cover, catching a bullet for his trouble. Melbourne swung his gun around to cover Chait. A Comanche rifle tagged him, spilling him into the dust.

Grounded, they were prime targets for Comanche bullets, which riddled them. They writhed and spasmed as each fresh slug ripped them, but soon they lay still and unresponsive. They were dead.

Sam had fewer opportunities for clear shots, but he managed to pick off one or two shapes amid the dust and smoke. Comanches and gunrunners were doing a pretty good job of picking each other off without his help.

Bison Creek was aswirl with gun smoke and dust. Men became dim outlined forms, stumbling and staggering. Gunfire lanced the murk with bright red and yellow lines seeking targets. Outcries sounded when a shot speared a man.

Time had run out on the fast-burning fuse. Its last fractional length sparked and sizzled its way into the big keg of black powder. There was a chuffing sound, like the heavy outrush of breath of some great beast, as the gunpowder ignited. Detonating.

The wagon and its contents vanished in a flash of light. A glare bright as the sun filled the space where the wagon had been. The explosion was a vortex of blazing forces—heat, light, and noise.

Sam ducked down, curling up in the hollow of the shooter's nest. He flattened himself as best he could, keeping his head down, clutching his rifle, and hugging it to him.

The ground shook. A brief thought flashed through him. It would be a hell of a note if the blast tore loose the rim of the cliff top where he was perched, sending him crashing down amid tons of rubble to add his remains to the boneyard.

A pillar of smoke and fire thrust skyward from the flat below. A vortex sucked up wreckage, hurling it aloft. The blast was followed by a rain of debris.

Sam was temporarily deafened by the explosion. The earth had been hammered like a gong, making his ears ring. Sam was in none too much of a hurry to stick his head up, not with all the debris pelting down. Some of it was big enough to knock a man's brains out. The cliff top was peppered with the stuff.

The downfall lessened, playing out. Sam uncurled himself, sitting up. His body ached from head to toe, the result of the concussive blast. He felt beat up, like he'd been hammered with iron fists and feet.

Beaten up? A thought struck him, making him grin. “Think this is bad? You should see the other fellow!”

Things had worked out better than he'd expected thanks to the keg of black powder Honest Bob had rigged as a last-ditch defense against being plundered by Comanches. It might not have made a clean sweep below, but Sam reckoned there wouldn't be many survivors.

Standing up on shaky legs, he brushed himself off.

Finding out if dirt had gotten into the rifle barrel and inner workings was a top priority. He didn't dare fire the rifle until he'd given it a clean bill of health. At least the cliff side hadn't come tumbling down, taking him with it. He grinned again.
A lucky break!

Sam peered through the brush at the flat below. There wasn't much to see—dirty air, dirty sky, all paled by dust and smoke, like a low-level sandstorm. Yellow-brown billows slowly rolled across the plains, stately as sailing ships. Strands of black smoke coiled serpent-like through earthbound yellow-brown clouds.

Sounds? All he could hear mostly was the ringing in his ears.

He didn't want to break cover yet in case there were any survivors below to see him. That wouldn't fit in with his long-range plans.

Let gunrunners and Comanches alike think that the other side had betrayed them. Let the word go out to the bucket-of-blood saloons and deadfall dives, up into Comancheria, and south down the Comanche Trail deep into Mexico. Rumors of treachery would sow suspicion, causing discord and mistrust between gunrunners and Comanches and poisoning relations between the two.

Time passed. Dust settled though the yellow-brown haze that remained, deepened by long shadows of gathering dusk.

Bison Creek looked like it was, a battlefield. Bodies of men and horses littered the flat. The gun wagon was gone, pulverized. A wide shallow crater still smoldered, marking where the wagon had stood. The crater walls were streaked by veins and rays of dark brown earth heaved up to the surface. A heavy gunpowder smell hung over all.

Stray horses that had fled the corral roamed the prairie. Of the two-legged survivors of the battle and blast, there were only a few. A handful of riders raced south. Another small group hurried north. Neither bunch had the heart to keep fighting. They were getting out while they could.

Easy enough to figure what had happened. The Comanches who'd come out alive were the ones riding south, while the last gunrunners ran north.

The ordinarily horse-mad Comanches must've been pretty hard hit to pass up the chance to round up some of the many strays roaming the range. If they wanted to return to the Quesada homeland in the Llano, they'd have to get clear of the cliffs before striking west.