Bloody Trail (18 page)

Spike shook his head and smiled wryly. Ward
Sparkman owned the largest spread in the vicinity of Wolf Creek,
and he was a hard man, not having built the biggest ranch in the
area by handing stock over to every passing band of Indians. The
Kiowa could have chosen easier prey. Spike knew Sparkman well,
having done lots of work for him—most of the Crown-W spread was in
Taylor County, and Sparkman’s house was twenty miles southwest of
Wolf Creek. Spike knew that the old man would chase this band to
the ends of the earth had they driven off one of the geese he kept
in a pond near the house, much less two or three hundred dollars
worth of stock. And they left a trail wide as a St. Louis street.
These Kiowa would rue the day…

“
They did sign where the outlaws
were headed,” Charley said, “and where I can pick up the trail east
of here. Seems they saw a passel of them, eight or so, only
yesterday. Let’s get what we can stowed in our saddle bags and
pound trail before these dirty Kiowa go to missing their man and
ride back to find him.”

Spike was feeling good about what Charley had
accomplished. They rode on at a lope until they picked up the trail
of shod horses again, then had to walk their horses before they
collapsed. They made camp early on the crown of a low
hill.

“
I don’t see what the hell we’re
stoppin’ for,” Gallagher said, “when we’re so close to those
killers we can almost smell ‘em.”

“
I reckon that’s why I’m a cowboy
and you’re a store clerk,” Billy Below said with a grin. “If we
don’t rest these hosses we’ll be walkin’ through the Nations. And
as long as they’re resting, we might as well do the
same.”

“
They’ve got horses, too,” Charley
added. “And they’ve already slowed their pace considerable, their
tracks tell me that. They probably figure they’re home free in
Indian Territory and no posse can follow ‘em—plus, so far as they
know, Wes Hammond and the others that lagged behind to ambush the
posse either wiped us out or sent us packing back to Wolf Creek,
and are bringing up the rear now for the main group. So they’ll be
restin’ their horses tonight, same as us, and we’ll set out in the
morning in a much bigger hurry than they’re in. I figure we’ll
close in on ‘em sometime late tomorrow.”

“
God willin’ and the creek don’t
rise,” Spike Sweeney said. “And these creeks don’t look like
they’ve rose in a long spell.”

Billy laughed at the comment, but Gallagher
scowled and walked off.

Spike shook his head, and spoke in a low voice
so that only Billy could hear. “That boy’s showed a lot of pluck on
this trip,” he said. “I don’t reckon none of us would’ve expected
him to handle his self as well as he has. But he sure as hell has a
burr under his saddle.”

“
Yeah,” Billy agreed. “It ain’t
like him, neither, I’ve always knowed him to be good-natured. Of
course, everybody’s good-natured around me, on account of I’m so
blamed charming. Maybe all this shootin’ and gettin’ shot at is too
new to him.”

Spike grunted. “Wish I could say the
same.”

CHAPTER TEN

Spike rolled up as the first light turned the
eastern sky to brass, and noticed that Charley had already done so.
The scout’s gear, including his saddle, was piled ready to pack on
the back of his mount, but he was nowhere to be seen. Spike went
ahead and poked up the fire. They’d soaked beans overnight in a
pair of canteens, so Spike dug out a pot he knew Charley carried
and got the beans to cooking while he carved some fat slices of
bacon and, using his skillet, got them to browning and spittin’
fat. The other men were slow to rise, and Spike saw no reason to
hurry them, as the beans weren’t done and Charley was still down
the hill somewhere.

He was just draining the beans—while the other
three had walked out of camp to relieve themselves—when he heard
some shouting coming from down the slope, where an elm lined ravine
cut across the meadow. Spike kept his eyes peeled at the area,
while he added some salt and bacon grease to the beans.

In a heartbeat, he set the frying pan full of
bacon and the pot full of beans down beside the fire to keep warm.
Charley broke out of the ravine below at a dead run. Spike hustled
for his Austrian and took up a prone position beside a granite
outcropping, a shoulder of which would serve as a rest for the
heavy-barreled weapon. It was a good thing he did, as Charley was
still a hundred yards from camp when two Kiowa crashed out of the
ravine on horseback, firing handguns as they came.

By the time Spike had sighted in on the
leading rider, the man was only a hundred paces from Charley and
closing fast. The big Austrian roared and bucked in Spike’s grip,
and the leading Kiowa’s horse buckled under him, throwing the rider
hard. He figured it better to stop the rider than try and kill him.
The other three of his compatriots had made it to their weapons,
and gunfire barked as the second Kiowa spun his horse and, laying
low across the animal’s neck, wisely galloped for the
elms.

Charley stopped cold, turned, eyed the
situation, and strode back to the fallen Kiowa—who, although
knocked senseless, was trying to regain his feet. Charley easily
relieved the man of his revolver, which must have been emptied, and
shoved it in his own belt. The big Bowie Charley carried was as
quickly in hand, and he shanked it to the hilt, deep into the
Indian’s gut, allowed him to fall, then took his hair with three
clean slices of the knife. He wiped the knife blood-free on the
Indian’s breechcloth, which he wore over tattered trousers. An old
percussion rifle had been thrown clear and Charley walked over,
picked it up, examined it, then smashed it across a nearby chunk of
granite. Only then did he turn and stride casually up the hill to
the camp. He’d almost reached the crest when gunfire broke out from
the line of trees, kicking up dirt all around him. He took up a
trot and soon dropped down beside where Spike hunkered down behind
his ledge, reloading the Austrian.

“
You couldn’t sleep, or what?”
Spike asked him, as a couple of shots from the ravine below sung
over their heads. McCain, Gallagher and Billy returned
fire.

“
Don’t trust those damn dirty
Kiowa,” Charley said. “And a good thing. They was working up a head
of steam down below that ravine, figuring on divvying up the rest
of our goods and critters come sun up.” Charley turned his
attention to the others for a moment. “Don’t waste your powder
until you got a good target.”

“
How come they saw you?” Spike
chided.

“
They didn’t. Damn crow got to
yappin’ at me.”

“
Thought you Indians could talk to
the wild things?” Spike continued to chide.

“
He must have been a Kiowa crow,”
Charley said, “He paid me no mind.”

That brought a chuckle from Spike, but he
became serious once more as he continued to watch the Indian
Charley had scalped. The man was now on his knees, one hand on his
profusely bleeding scalp, one on his stomach wound.

“
He’s not dead,” Spike
said.

“
Didn’t mean to kill him quick. It
be fine if he suffers a while. He’s a Kiowa.”

Spike shook his head. “Not fine. I don’t care
if he’s a skunk.” He picked up the Austrian, and at one
hundred-and-fifty yards, blew the man’s head apart. “Won’t suffer
now,” Spike said.

“
You wasted good lead on him,”
Charley said.

“
I wouldn’t let a rattlesnake die
that hard. I saw too many men, gut shot, crying for their mamas out
in some frying-pan-hot field.”

“
Speaking of frying pans,” Charley
said, looking around. “Is that bacon I smell?”

“
Damn sure is, if you can get to
it. I guess we’d better divide it up. May be our last meal.” Spike
motioned to a meadow five hundred yards down the hill, where at
least fifteen Kiowa braves had gathered.

“
Guess we should eat quick,”
Charley said, “then figure out how to best defend this damned ol’
dry hill.”

The firing from below had stopped, so Charley
bravely rose and walked to the fire, retrieved a hand full of bacon
and some hardtack Spike had laid out there, and returned and handed
it to Spike.

“
Obliged,” Spike said, then added,
“they’ve split up in four bunches of three or four each. I imagine
they are going to try and flank the hill. You may think I’m crazy,
but we should turn the stock out before they take it on themselves
to shoot them down.” He rose and headed for the horses while
Charley moved to join the other men at the fire and
food.

“
What’s he up to?” Rob Gallagher
asked.

“
Turning the horses out,” Charley
said.

“
The hell he is,” Rob snapped, as
he strode away to head Spike off.

“
Hey!” Charley yelled, and Rob
stopped and turned back.

“
You’re a greenhorn at this. Spike
knows what he’s doing.”

“
But—“

“
No buts. Get back here and bean
up. It could be a long while before you’ll have a chance again.
Loose horses is better than dead horses, don’t ya know.”

As Spike drove four of the horses away, and
only held onto Hammer, his steel gray, Rob Gallagher reddened and
started to stomp toward him. Charley swept a moccasin clad foot
under the retreating man, and Gallagher hit the ground hard, rolled
to his side, and gave Charley a look that could kill.

“
He’s keeping his own damn horse
and running our’n away,” Gallagher sputtered.

Charley shook his head, sighed, and explained,
“He’s risking his horse, while letting ours live. And should any of
us live, we’ll need a mount to round the others up. Eat your
breakfast, then make peace with your Maker, for it’s a good day to
die. In about ten minutes, we’ll be totally surrounded.”

Spike found a place fairly well sheltered from
any fire coming from lower down the hill. He staked the steel gray
out and moved to his gear. He removed a pair of hobbles from his
haversack then turned to the others. “Any of you got
hobbles?”

All of then shook their heads or
shrugged.

Spike continued, “Any of you got a lead rope
in your saddle bags?”

“
I got a piece of rope,” Gallagher
said grudgingly.

“
Fish it out.”

Spike took it, returned to the steel gray,
hobbled his front feet with the leather hobbles, forced the animal
down on his side, then tied his back feet, keeping him down out of
the line of fire unless the Indians got high on the hill, which
would most likely no longer matter as it would mean they were in
camp, and they’d all be dead.

Then men took up positions at each quarter of
the compass. Each of them had more than one weapon, Charley with
his Army Colt and a scarred Winchester Yellowboy studded with brass
tacks, McCain with a pair of Navy Colts, and Rob Gallagher with a
‘66 Winchester Yellowboy. Gallagher’s rifle was bright and shiny—it
had probably never been fired. It had been loaned to him by his
boss for this venture. The store clerk also had a pair of rare
newly acquired baby LeMats—he’d relieved one of the dead outlaws of
that valuable load. He was now a squad of men all by himself, when
it came to fire power. The Smith and Wesson he’d left town with was
tucked into his waistband. Spike laid his two Rigdon and Ainsley’s
in easy reach, his double barrel stage guard’s scattergun and its
twenty double-aught brass shells in the crack of rock, and settled
down to watch his quadrant.

At the moment, as the sun climbed, it was the
only enemy in sight. The humidity seemed to keep up with the
temperature as they all began to wipe the sweat from their eyes.
Spike finally rose and left his post for a moment, took his
canteen, and wet Ham’s lips. The big gray was no virgin when it
came to being in prone position on a battlefield, but it was
usually with Spike holding him down, lying across him to lay fire
on an approaching enemy. The big horse didn’t like being tied down,
and whinnied his objection upon occasion.

“
Here they come,” Charley shouted,
and Spike sprinted back to his position. Charley continued, “Don’t
get in a hurry, they’ll run some feints first to try and get us to
burn powder.”

And he was right. They rode to within a
hundred yards, then broke away, dropping to the sides of their
mounts away from the hilltop.

They disappeared back into the trees or the
ravine, or behind a ledge where they couldn’t be seen from above.
It was a quarter hour more before they came again.

Charley yelled again, “Let them get to fifty
paces before you fire. They’ll make three or four of these mock
charges before they hit us hard.”

Spike was happy to comply, until one of the
Kiowa reined his horse up almost two hundred yards down the hill
and sat, defiantly, shaking his rifle at the men above.

Taking a deep breath, quieting his heart,
Spike lay down on the man. The Austrian roared and blew enough
smoke that Spike couldn’t see the result, until he heard Rob
Gallagher speak up. “Damn good shot, damn good.”

Spike saw the man’s rider-less paint horse
galloping away, and the crumpled body of the Indian being dragged
off by two of his fellows. In seconds, they were out of sight in
the ravine.