A Good Day to Die (13 page)

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Authors: William W. Johnstone

BOOK: A Good Day to Die
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E
IGHT
Sam Heller cleaned up in the aftermath of the Comanche raid on the Fisher ranch. Climbing down off Dusty, he hitched the horse to the corral fence, away from where the Comanche horses were hitched. He holstered the mule's-leg and took hold of his Navy Colt .36, holding it in his right hand.
He crossed to the front entrance of the house, eyeing the braves sprawled in the yard for any signs of life. He'd put a bullet in any who so much as twitched. None did.
The house had to be cleared, to make sure no one was lurking inside, foe or, less likely, friend. Sam went through the open doorway, into the west room. He walked softly, gun ready. The smell of gunpowder hung heavy; gray-white gunsmoke drifted in midair.
Sam looked around, his hearing pitched to the highest level for a whisper of sound betraying the presence of anyone within. It was tricky work—a panicked settler could kill him just as dead as a Comanche could.
There was no one in his immediate view. Gun leveled, Sam used his free hand to part the blankets hanging from a metal rod screening off the rear of the room and stepped inside.
The partitioned-off space was empty. The rear window gaped open. Sam went to it, looking outside.
The girl was crossing the field toward the house. She moved slowly, stiff-legged, like she was walking in her sleep. She stared straight ahead, unaware of him at the window.
Two dead Indians lay in the grass, the one Sam had killed and one slain by a shotgun blast. Their horses were nowhere to be seen.
Not so good,
Sam thought. He didn't want any horses running loose to attract attention to the ranch. Comanche attention.
He turned, going through the dogtrot into the east room. It was empty, too.
Going outside, Sam started making the rounds of the fallen braves in the dooryard, making sure they were dead. Double sure. He'd checked before going into the house, but the possible threat of a lurker within had prevented him from a too-scrupulous inspection.
He wasn't taking a chance on any of them having enough life left in them to be a threat. It was an old trick of downed foes, white or red, to sham, playing possum, waiting for an opportunity to jump an unwary enemy. Sam had pressed his luck to the full already and didn't want to crowd it further.
No worry about the brave with the scalping knife. Much of his head had been blown apart by a load of 12-gauge buckshot. The settler he'd been working on with the knife was no less dead.
Nasty stuff, but Sam wasn't squeamish. Which was just as well, when he got a good look at the overgrown man-boy who'd been chopped up with the ax.
Sam was less certain about the brave who'd been raping the woman, approaching him with care. The brave was stretched out facedown on top of his victim. Her upturned face was showing. She looked dead as could be, open eyes glazed and unblinking.
Sam approached from the side, gun pointed at the back of the Indian's head, ready to shoot. Getting the toe of his boot under the brave's chest, he half kicked, half lifted the body off the woman. The brave was heavy; Sam grunted with the effort of moving him.
The body rolled off the woman, flopping onto its back. The bullets the woman had pumped into him with his own gun had inflicted a mortal wound, but not soon enough. He'd lived long enough to knife her. The blade was buried to the hilt in the woman's left breast.
Sam closed her eyes. He pulled her dress down where it was bunched up around her waist, covering her up. Sighing heavily, he straightened up. He stuck the Navy Colt into his waistband on his left hip, unholstered the mule's-leg and reloaded it with cartridges from one of his bandoliers.
The girl stood at the southwest corner of the house, her flat-eyed gaze taking in the whole scene. She stood very straight, hands clenched into fists at her sides. Her face was deathly pale. Sam went to her, trying to get between her and the bodies to block her view.
He hoped she wasn't going to scream. He was in a tight enough spot without her going into hysterics. They both were. Not that he would have blamed her for throwing a fit.
Sam studied her face. Her eyes were wide, dry. A nerve twitched in the corner of her mouth.
No way to sugarcoat it, best say it the way it was. “Your people are all dead. I'm sorry.” He kept his voice low, so as not to startle her. But his mouth and throat were dry and his words came out harsh and croaking.
She started forward, but he stood in her way, stopping her. “There's nothing you can do for 'em. I checked.”
She nodded, holding herself so taut Sam wouldn't have been surprised to hear her corded neck muscles twanging with the movement. He watched her intently. She didn't scream, didn't faint.
“Are you hurt?” he asked.
She shook her head.
“I've got to leave you for a minute, to check on those two braves behind the house, make sure they're dead. Will you be all right?”
She nodded yes.
“If you hear any shots, that'll be me, so don't let it scare you. I'll be right back. Then we're gonna get out of here.” Sam stepped around her, starting forward, then paused. “Your folks are safe from hurt now. Best not to look if you can. You don't want to see them.”
She was silent, staring at the bodies. Sam went around to the back of the house, drawing the mule's-leg. He fired a shot into the heads of both braves, loaded two fresh cartridges into the receiver to replace the ones he'd expended, and returned to the front of the house. The girl was nowhere in sight. Sam's flash of alarm was stilled by the sound of movement coming from inside.
She came out through the doorway carrying a stack of folded blankets. Setting them down beside the body of her mother, she took a blanket off the top of the pile, unfolded it, and spread it over the corpse.
Sam was reassured somewhat. The youngster was taking it better than he had thought she might, having just survived the slaughter of her family. Plenty of adults, even hardened frontier types, would have gone to pieces from the experience. But she might shatter anytime at the drop of a hat.
Sam knew they had to keep moving. Picking up a blanket, he covered the man-boy—most of him. A few body parts were scattered out of reach of the blanket. He helped the girl lay a blanket over her father.
She turned, starting toward the house.
“Where you going?”
“Getting a gun,” Lydia said.
Sam had been unsure if she had been shocked into speechlessness. That she could talk was heartening. He needed all the encouragement he could get. Things looked mighty grim for them. He'd been lucky to evade several bands of braves earlier after first encountering the slain emigrants and their half-burned wagon. Alone, it would have beeen touch and go whether or not he could slip the net of Comanches he'd seen covering the area. With a youngster in tow, the odds against him went up dramatically.
“Make it fast. We've got to move,” he called after her.
Lydia went inside, making no reply. A minute or two later she returned, carrying a rifle and a box of cartridges. It was a Henry's, a repeater—a good gun. She took some cartridges out of the box and started loading it, She handled it like she knew what she was doing.
Sam said, “We're in a heap of trouble, miss. The upland is thick with Comanches. Looks like the whole blamed tribe is on the warpath. More could come along any minute. We've got to get down to the flat, fast. Later when it's safe we can come back and give your folks a Christian burial. But now we got to run. Savvy?”
“I savvy,” Lydia said.
“Good. Let's mount up and ride.”
“I'll take Brownie.”
“Brownie? Who's that?”
“My horse. I'm not leaving him behind.”
Brownie, a strong, solid-looking gelding with good lines, was in the corral. The Comanches' horses were saddled up, but there was no telling what their dispositions were like. Sam didn't want to chance the girl being unable to control a strange mount. Best let her ride the animal she was used to and that was used to her.
Lydia went into the barn with him and pointed out a saddle. Sam carried it out while she toted a blanket. Brownie was anxious, unnerved by the blood, shooting, and violent death. Sam sympathized. He knew how the horse felt.
Lydia stood inside the end of the corral farthest away from where the Comanches' horses were tied up. Brownie came to her when she called him. She stroked the horse's muzzle and patted its neck, speaking softly to him, gentling him down. She put a bridle on him, then led him out through the corral door Sam had opened.
Sam unhitched the Comanche horses from the fence one by one and led them into the corral, then closed the door, penning them with the other horses. He didn't want them wandering off, attracting Indian scouting parties to the ranch.
Lydia spread the blanket over Brownie's back; Sam saddled him. She adjusted the saddle girth and the height of the stirrups, her movements deft and sure, her pale, slim-fingered hands steady.
Taking two handfuls of cartridges from the box, Lydia stuffed them into a pair of deep pockets at the front of her dress. She put the box in a saddle bag. There was no scabbard, but a set of leather ties allowed her to secure the rifle to the side of the saddle.
“My name's Sam, Sam Heller. What's yours?”
Lydia's eyes narrowed. “Why?”
“So I can call you something besides Miss.”
“You talk funny. You're a Yankee,” she said accusingly.
“That's right.”
“Hmmph. Miss will do just fine, thank you very much.”
“The war's over, in case you hadn't heard.”
“That's a sneaking Yankee lie. God bless the Confederacy and Robert E. Lee!”
Sam showed a quirked half smile. “Comanches don't make no difference between Yankees and Rebels, you know.”
“Well, I do.” Lydia Fisher had been raised to believe that Yankees were the Devil. The stranger had no tail, and if he had horns they were hidden under his hat, but she trusted him no more than she had to. Trouble was, she had to, at least until she was off the plateau and safe among decent, civilized Southern folk.Sighing, Sam mounted up on Dusty.
She swung herself up on Brownie's back. The horse's eyes bulged, nostrils flaring. He pawed the ground, sidling. Leaning forward, Lydia patted Brownie's muscular neck, murmuring comforting sounds into his pointed ears.
“Sure you can handle him?” Sam asked.
“Don't worry about me, Mister Yank. Brownie'll be okay once we get away from here.”
“What's the fastest way off the plateau? Can we get down from there?” Sam pointed directly south where a ridgeline screened the edge of the plateau from sight.
Lydia shook her head. “Can't go that way, it's too steep. No way down. The nearest trail's Hopper Glen, a half mile or so down the road.”
“Can we go through the woods? Any trails?”
She shook her head. “The brush is too thick. Got to take the road.”
“Great,” Sam said sourly. He and Lydia rode between the house and the woods, north across the field. Sam rode ahead, to scout Rimrock Road bordering the edge of the property. It was empty in both directions, as far as the eye could see.
Lydia came alongside him. They turned right on the road, going east. She did not look back at the ranch, not once, not even a glance.
“You look like you know how to handle that rifle,” Sam said.
“I do. Here in the hills, it's shoot straight the first time, or you don't eat,” Lydia said.
“Lord knows you got plenty of reason to want to even up. But don't shoot straight off if you see a Comanche. Make sure he sees us first.”
“What d'you expect me to do? Throw flowers at him?”
“Just don't give away our position if you don't have to.”
After a fifth of a mile, the belt of woods on the south gave way to fields dotted with dirt mounds and stands of timber. “Best stay off the road if we can. The Comanches are out in force,” Sam advised.
They turned right, angling southeast for several hundred yards. A game trail wound east through low, rounded hills. They followed it.
“We're coming on the Oakley ranch,” Lydia said after a while.
Sam couldn't see it. “Where?”
“Not far. There's a brook, then a rise. It's on the other side.”
A low, tree-covered ridge ran north-south, a stream winding along its western foot. Smoke showed over the treetops, a hazy gray curtain. Sam reined to a halt, Lydia pulling up beside him. Sam shucked the mule's-leg out of its holster, holding the reins in his free hand.
Lydia looked stricken. “The Oakleys?”
“Comanches got there first,” Sam said, shaking his head.

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