Novel 1966 - Kilrone (v5.0) (16 page)

Kilrone stretched out on the floor beside Ryerson and Lahey. Reinhardt, Teale, and Rudio were actually asleep, some distance away. Hopkins, Kells, and the women stood guard at the windows.

He felt utter exhaustion. There was a dull, throbbing ache in his head, complete weariness in every muscle. He lay still, his eyes closed, trying to think.

He believed it was unlikely the Indians would try again to enter through the roof. But somebody might still be alive up there. This was probably so, and a live Indian, especially a wounded one, was a dangerous Indian. Yet if they wished to escape, that was the way they had to go.

He thought again of Gus Rybolt, headed this way and not far off now, riding forward unsuspectingly with his guard of six men. Iron Dave Sproul himself or some trusted envoy could meet the detail in a likely spot for an ambush. Kilrone felt quite sure that Sproul would send somebody else, some expendable man, and let him be killed along with the others. He would use Indians, for they would prefer the rifles he had to the money in the wagon.

The chances were the man would be sent to warn Rybolt. Sent to a specific place where there would be an excuse for him to wait and not ride on. That would mean a cross-place that offered concealment for a good body of Indians; a chance for one quick, smashing volley, with several guns aimed at each man. The whole thing could be over in a matter of minutes, Rybolt and his guard massacred, Sproul’s messenger dead, or if he did get away, only able to say that he had been sent there to warn Rybolt.

The more Kilrone thought of it, the more he believed this was what would happen. He hoped he was wrong, but he could not make himself believe it.

And how long before help would arrive here at the post? There was no calculating on that. If they started back at once…if they took a leisurely or a hurried pace…if they were not attacked themselves…

It would be one day more…two days…And when they arrived there would still be four or more Indians for every white soldier.

But Paddock would be sober; and sober, he was a good soldier. And Mellett would be there, a fighting veteran who knew what to do and when to do it.

He was dead-tired, weary in every part of his body. And Barnes Kilrone, ex-officer in the Army of the United States, thinking of these things, fell asleep at last.

Betty came to him with a blanket and stretched it over him. Denise Paddock looked at her and smiled wanly. “He is a good man, Betty, one of the best. A good man and a gentleman.”

Betty looked down at him soberly. “I think so,” she said, “but I don’t think he has even noticed me.”

“Don’t be foolish! Barnes Kilrone never missed seeing a pretty woman in his life. Particularly,” Denise added, “if she had good legs, and yours are beautiful.”

Betty flushed. “I don’t think he knows I’m alive,” she said.

“He’s been rather busy,” Denise said dryly; “give him time.” She looked over at Kilrone. “This is his life, you know. I know of no man so trained and conditioned for fighting. I mean mentally conditioned. Frank himself has often said that. I think one of the reasons why he believes I still love Barnes is because he admires him so much. He said he never knew a man with such an immediate and instinctive grasp of a battle situation.”

Alice Dunivant came up to them. “Mrs. Paddock,” she said, “please get some rest. I can take care of Tim.”

Betty glanced around, suddenly remembering the Indian girl.

Mary Tall Singer sat huddled in a corner, a blanket over her head. She sat very still, staring at the floor. Her features were dimly visible in the vague light from the shielded kerosene lantern on the floor. Betty remembered then that she had neither moved nor spoken since being brought to Headquarters by Kilrone. The thought worried her. Yet these were her people who were out there, and some of them had died up there in the loft.

It was not a good thing to think about. And Mary must now be wondering where she belonged—in here with her adopted people, or out there with the Indians.

When Denise had gone to lie down, Alice Dunivant came over to stand beside Betty. It was very quiet now. No sound or movement came from above. Alice kept looking up at the ceiling. “I wonder if any of them are still alive?” she said. “It’s horrible to think of them up there dead or dying.”

“It would be worse to think of them down here…alive,” Betty replied shortly. “That would be the last of us.”

“I know. I wonder how he thought of it. I mean, shooting through the ceiling like that. You would think a board would stop a bullet.”

“One of these rifles or pistols will easily shoot through boards like that. I have heard Uncle Carter talking about it.”

Barney Kilrone slept for two hours. A struggle at the door awakened him—a struggle, followed by a shot.

He lunged to his feet. Kells was fighting with two Indians who were forcing their way through the door. At that moment there was an explosion in the inner room. Kilrone palmed his gun and fired, his bullet smashing one of the Indians back into the darkness from which he had come. Kells fell, and the other Indian leaped past him and into the room. In an instant the doorway was filled with them.

The Indian who had leaped into the room, a warrior of powerful build, had grabbed Betty as she came running from the other room and spun her toward him. From the corner of his eye Kilrone saw that, but he had no time to act on that, for he had opened up with his six-shooter on the packed mass, struggling to get into the room.

Teale, who also had been sleeping, lunged in, swinging his clubbed rifle. The butt struck an Indian on the skull, and Teale, grasping the rifle with both hands, waded in, striking first with one end, then the other. Kilrone, shoving his empty gun into its holster, whipped his bowie knife from its sheath and closed with the nearest Indian. Behind him he heard a scream…he dared not turn. If once the Indians broke through this door the battle would be lost. They would all be dead within minutes, including the women and children in the other room.

Suddenly the attack broke. One last Indian at the door swung at him with a knife and Kilrone parried the blade with his own, then lunged, the knife’s cutting edge up. It sank into the Indian’s belly, and he ripped it upward, the keen, heavy blade cutting through the breastbone. The Indian fell forward and, grasping him by the hair, Kilrone pitched him back out of the door.

Swiftly, they repiled the broken door and broken furniture across the opening. Only then could Kilrone turn.

The Indian who had gotten into the room was dead. He lay sprawled on the floor, the back of his skull crushed.

“She did it,” Betty said, indicating Mary Tall Singer. “He would have killed me.”

The Indian girl had ripped the Indian’s own tomahawk from his belt and struck him with it. She still held it now, looking down at the dead man. “I know him,” she said. “He came often to my father’s lodge.”

“It was a brave thing you did,” Kilrone said quietly, “a very brave thing.”

Martha Whitman and Alice Dunivant were kneeling beside Kells. The teamster was in a bad way. A bullet had gone through his body and his skull had taken a wicked blow from a tomahawk or hand-axe.

Kilrone went from window to window. The hours of darkness grew fewer, and still he had not decided what to do. Did he dare make an attempt to break out to warn Rybolt of what was coming? Did Rybolt need the warning? Barring something unforeseen, Gus Rybolt would be coming into the likely ambush area within the next twelve hours.

Did he dare even think of leaving here when the defenders and their defenses were growing more and more battered? Every rifle would count. Yet he might get a messenger off from Rybolt to Paddock—something, anything, to speed him up.

He would need a horse. That meant getting one from the Indians; or better still, one from Hog Town. There should be horses there, for there had been no signs of fighting in that direction, and no flames.

But before he could think of leaving, they must move to the warehouse and carry on what fighting they had to do from there. His original idea of defending all three buildings had been good enough then, but it was no longer so. If they intended to protect the rifles and ammunition from Medicine Dog, they could only do it from the warehouse. And whatever was to be done must be done soon.

Kells and Ryerson were out of action, and in the warehouse Mendel was in as bad a state. Every few minutes a bullet smashed through one of the windows or the door and ricocheted across the room. So far they had done no damage.

He looked up at the trap door, wondering what the chances were. What if there was an Indian alive up there? An Indian with a breath of life in him never stopped fighting. Nonetheless, if the move was to be made it must be from roof to roof.

Teale came up to him. “Cap, if you’re thinking what I think you’re thinking, you better have another think.”

“What do you mean?”

“The moon, Cap Kilrone, the moon. It’ll be comin’ up within the hour. Once that moon’s in the sky, you ain’t got a chance.”

He was right, of course, and there was a good chance the Indians were waiting for that moon. They probably had plans. The Bannocks did not mind fighting at night—not Medicine Dog’s men, at least.

“Denise, get Sergeant Ryerson and Kells ready. They will have to go first, then the children.”

“Without their mothers?”

“No, they will have to go, too.” He turned. “Reinhardt, are you a builder? I think I heard somebody say you’d been a carpenter?”

“Yes, sir. That’s right.”

Briefly, quickly, he explained. “Rudio, you take the door. Keep your eyes open all the time. Hopkins, you go to the back window again. Teale, you work around from window to window. Shoot at anything that moves out there.”

There was a stepladder in the closet. Kilrone got it out, took his gun in his right hand, and went up the ladder. While the others waited tensely, he eased the trap door to one side. Nothing happened. He hesitated, feeling the cold sweat down his spine. When he stuck his head up there he might get a bullet through it. He glanced down at the upturned faces, showing faintly pale in the gloom. Teale had his rifle lifted, ready for a shot.

Kilrone hesitated a moment longer, then removed his hat, put it on the point of his pistol and lifted it slowly. Nothing happened.

He knew suddenly that he’d made a mistake. If there was anyone up there they would be watching not only for his head to appear, but listening for the grate of his foot on the stepladder or for the creak of the ladder rung.

Again he started to lift the hat, and as he did so he let his boot slide off the rung and lift. Instantly a gun bellowed, his hat jerked on the gun muzzle, and in that same instant Teale fired and Kilrone went through the trap door with a lunge.

The Indian was no more than ten feet away, and as he started to rise the movement stirred against the ceiling and Teale fired again. There was a jerk and the thump of a heel, then a slow exhalation of breath…and silence.

Through the trap to the roof Kilrone could see two stars, and a broad sky. Shielding the glow with his hand, he struck a match.

There were four Indians, all dead. He blew out the match, then eased himself through the trap roof. The air was fresh and cool. He lay still a moment, breathing deeply; then he slid along the roof to the parapet, gingerly lifting his head, expecting the concussion of a blow at any instant. All remained dark and still, with a few scattered clouds overhead and many stars.

Across the twelve-foot space, the roof of the warehouse seemed equally empty.

Was the sky already lighter from the moon? Or was that his imagination? Did they dare risk it?

In any event, there was little time left. The bodies of the four Indians were brought up and tumbled from the roof; the joists were ripped out and lowered into position to span the gap between the two buildings. Four joists were laid a few inches apart, with cross-pieces tied in place with rawhide string. The bridge they made was flimsy, and it was dangerous, but that was a chance they had to take. They worked swiftly, helped from time to time by one of the other men, and by the women. Well within the hour they had brought the children one by one to the roof-top.

“I will go first,” Denise said. “It will be better if I try it, and the children can come to me on the other side.”

She got down on her hands and knees and crawled across. After a moment, they sent the first child across, with Martha Whitman close behind. The others followed carefully, one by one.

Now the sky was growing faintly gray. There was little time left.

“Get Ryerson and Kells,” Kilrone said.

He had kept that till the last, knowing the risk there would be in moving the two wounded men. It would be a slow process, and the feeble bridge might even collapse under them.

“How will you do it, Cap?” Ryerson asked. “I am a heavy man.”

“We’ll slide you on a plank. We don’t have a stretcher, and the plank is narrow, but if you lie still and help to balance yourself, I think we can do it.”

And they did.

At the end, there were six of them remaining in the Headquarters building.

“All right, Hopkins. You first.”

“Look, Kilrone, I—”

“You first, I said. No nonsense now. There’s no time to waste.”