The Warriors (50 page)

Christ, keep a tight hand on that fool!

The last brave passed him, intentionally stumbling, and driving an elbow into his ribs. Michael’s hand jerked toward the Colt but he kept his temper. He met the Cheyenne’s defiant gaze calmly and motioned for the Indian to precede him.

When he had, Michael grasped the handrail and went up the steps, fervently hoping Casement could conclude the visit and get the Indians away from the railhead before their anger exploded.

I
N THE BUNK CAR
it very nearly did.

Guns Taken hovered at Casement’s elbow, leading the line of braves down the aisle. The Indians stared but remained silent.

At the end of the car, Guns Taken paused beside the partially empty rifle racks. From his position at the rear, Michael heard the Cheyenne leader say something in a quarrelsome tone. The exact words were lost because the others blocking the aisle started growling agreement.

Gradually the hubbub diminished. Michael caught Casement’s firm, “No.”

“White man—”

“No.
Absolutely not.”

The line moved again. The Cheyenne shuffled out of the car. Michael drew abreast of Casement, who was still stationed beside the racks. The red-bearded construction boss whispered, “The big one’s really hot now.”

“Why?”

“He wanted some of these rifles, gratis.”

Outside, Guns Taken stood beside the roadbed, both hands on his bow lance. His braves had gathered behind him. The track boss went down the steps. Michael started to follow, then snapped his head around at the sound of ferocious thumping in the adjoining car.

Several of the Cheyenne heard the noise. Hands dropped to the hilts of knives and hatchets. But there was no further disturbance.

Guns Taken shook his lance at the car just vacated. “You show us something else.”

“What?”

“Show that the men of the fire road are truly friends. Give us”—he held up his left hand, the fingers spread—“this many guns.”

Casement said quietly, “I’ve already told you the guns belong to the railroad.”

Guns Taken thrust his fingers close to Casement’s nose. The smaller man didn’t blink.

“This many!”
Guns Taken insisted.

“No, and that’s final.”

Michael eased the Colt into his hand. The mood of the confrontation was growing ugly. All along the train, watching workers were stirring, anticipating trouble—

More temperately, Casement went on. “We have welcomed you peacefully. We have shown you the strength of the fire horse. We have poured sweet coffee.”

Guns Taken spat on the ground to show what value he placed on everything Casement had mentioned. The moment produced an unexpected ambivalence in Michael. He admired the audacity of the Cheyenne leader. It took courage to make demands in the face of vastly superior numbers. At the same time, he felt sorry for Guns Taken and his braves. In the masses of white men—and the humiliating speed of the locomotive—the warriors had glimpsed their coming defeat. Perhaps even their extermination.

Once more the construction boss resorted to sign language along with words. “I am deeply sorry Guns Taken is angered. We wish only friendship. But we cannot give away rifles which might be turned against us.”

Guns Taken thrust his bow lance into the shoulder of the roadbed, raking a long gouge in the gravel. He whirled and addressed his braves. Muttering, they followed him back to the ponies. While the Indians mounted, more cursing and thumping erupted in the other sleeping car.

Re-forming his braves into single file, Guns Taken began to ride out the way he had come in. He maneuvered his pony close to the front ranks of the workers, forcing them to fall back. A few didn’t want to, but the more prudent prevailed. The potential troublemakers were virtually dragged out of the way.

Michael and Casement followed the procession on foot. Michael observed the heightened tension—the scowls, the whispers—among the men, and despite good intentions, fell victim to it himself.

The hoofs of the ponies plopped in the silence. Puffs of dust blew away in the breeze. Guns Taken gazed down contemptuously at the Paddies he passed.

All at once he reined his pony to a stop opposite the whiskey wagon.

Dorn’s half dozen guards stepped closer. The merchant was still fuming. Behind him, Hannah stood white-lipped, her hat in her right hand and her wheat-colored hair glinting in the sun. Her eyes remained fixed on her father.

Guns Taken pointed the bow lance at one of the barrels.

“We drink water before we go.” He rubbed his palm across his throat. “We have a great thirst.”

Casement strode forward. “That’s not water. You can’t—”

Guns Taken paid no attention. He climbed off his pony and started toward the wagon. Casement caught up, snagged his arm.

“Guns Taken, the answer is no.”

The last word ignited the Cheyenne’s temper. “No, no! I have heard
enough
no!”

He shoved Casement away. Dorn cursed and took a step. Three of his guards caught and held him as Hannah pleaded for him to restrain himself. Then, without warning, Guns Taken lunged and rammed the iron head of the bow lance into a whiskey barrel.

Wood cracked and split. The Cheyenne jerked the lance head free, wonderment on his face. The odor of the pale brown liquid spurting to the ground was unmistakable.

The other Cheyenne identified it too. They began to murmur and gesticulate. One laughed.

“Goddamn you, let go!” Dorn puffed, trying to free himself. “If that red bastard steals—”

“Papa, be still!” Hannah cried.

Guns Taken drove his bow lance into the barrel again, increasing the size of the hole.

Chortling, the fat-bellied Indian squatted and put his mouth to the spouting stream of forty-rod. Dorn broke loose.

Casement called a warning. Men tried to catch the merchant, failed. He was halfway to the crouching Indian when one of the younger Cheyenne flung himself from his horse. Michael saw metal flash.

The young warrior ran with astonishing speed. Over by the train, a Spencer came up—too slowly. Dorn fastened his hands on Guns Taken’s neck. The younger Indian uttered a piercing yell and drove the blade of his trade hatchet at Dorn’s forehead.

Bone cracked. Dorn shrieked and staggered, the hatchet buried in the front of his skull. Blood trickled down both sides of the blade and into his eyesockets.

“Papa!”
Hannah screamed, running to help him.

Dorn fell against the wagon, dying on his feet. The blood poured down the folds beside his nose to his white-streaked beard. The young brave turned on Hannah, ready to fight barehanded. Michael jerked his Colt level but the girl was in the way.

He dropped the revolver and flung himself between the Indian and Dorn’s daughter. Casement shouted something he couldn’t hear. A Spencer blasted from the roof of the office car.

Had Michael not caught Hannah’s waist and dragged her down, the rifle ball would have hit her. It thwacked the wagon bed a second after Dorn’s guards scattered.

Michael sprawled on top of Hannah as Guns Taken scrambled to his feet and dashed for his pony. Hannah screamed again, hysterical now.

Lying on top of her thrashing body, he heard the hammer of boots, confused yells and curses, then a second explosion. The ball plowed a furrow a foot from where he had pinned Hannah to the ground.

He twisted his head to look. Through a tangle of mounted Cheyenne, Michael glimpsed Leonidas Worthing on the sleeping car steps. The Virginian levered a spent cartridge out of the breech of his rifle. His gray duster was torn, his face marked by cuts. Behind him, two of his three guards staggered into view. Both were badly bloodied.

The guards tried to jump Worthing. He eluded their hands, leaped down from the platform, and aimed at the Indians milling around Guns Taken to protect him while he vaulted to the back of his pony.

Casement was directly in the line of fire. He flung himself to the ground. The ex-Confederate blew a Cheyenne off his horse. Blood pattered on the ground next to Michael and Hannah. The shot unleashed pandemonium.

Two rifles roared. Another Indian shrieked. Michael jumped up, retrieved his Colt. A Cheyenne was aiming an arrow at Casement, who was climbing to his feet. Michael fired.

The Cheyenne toppled sideways off his pony. Michael winced at the sight of the gaping wound in the Indian’s belly.

Guns Taken kicked his pony and went racing away toward the end of the track. Here and there a Spencer banged. But Casement’s judicious placement of the guns now had an unexpected consequence. Those with the weapons were so spread out, and so many men were milling everywhere, the rifles couldn’t be used effectively. Drifting smoke from
Osceola
and dust raised by the Indian ponies only compounded the problem.

Virtually unmolested, the rest of the Cheyenne swung westward and galloped after their leader, who obviously knew they stood no chance, and refused to squander more lives in a futile fight.

Casement was on his feet now, wigwagging his rifle. “Let them go.
Let them go!
Someone see to the Dutchman.”

“Stand aside, you damn coward,” Worthing yelled, appearing behind Casement and clubbing at him with the stock of the Spencer.

Casement dodged. Worthing bellowed, “I’ll get one or two more before—”

Casement beat Worthing’s arm with the muzzle of his Spencer. The bloodied, demoralized men who’d permitted Worthing to escape goggled from the bunk car steps.

Casement avoided a second blow from Worthing’s rifle. The dust thickened. The last two Cheyenne leaned down from horseback with amazing suppleness, snatched up their two dead, and went racing away toward the trackless grade.

Michael and other men were rushing to help Casement. But not quickly enough. The Virginian’s third blow glanced off Casement’s temple and knocked him down.

Michael ran faster. Worthing saw him coming. Something uncontrollable had taken possession of Worthing. The Cheyenne were out of range, but he still wanted a target. The Spencer muzzle shifted through a quarter of a circle, aimed at Michael.

Worthing’s eyes glowed with perverse joy. Michael flung himself face forward in the dirt as the rifle thundered. The ball hit Dorn’s wagon and sent splinters flying.

“Pack of cowards!” Worthing bawled. “Wouldn’t have happened if you’d listened to me. You, Boyle.” He peered through the dust. “You’re the one responsible.”

He aimed for Michael again but couldn’t get a clear shot. Too many men were hurrying to Casement’s aid. They pulled up short as the muzzle of Worthing’s rifle menaced them. On his knees, Casement groped for Worthing’s leg.

Worthing had to concentrate on the closer adversary. Again he seized the rifle by the barrel. Started to bring it down stock first on Casement’s head.

Lying prone with his gun hand extended and his view all at once unimpeded, Michael yelled Worthing’s name. The man in the duster didn’t hear. Or if he did, he was too angry to care. He bashed Casement on the top of the head.

Casement cried out. Once again Worthing found Michael and leveled the rifle at him.
God forgive me,
Michael thought, and pulled the trigger.

The Colt boomed and bucked. Two men who had almost succeeded in reaching Casement took headers in the dirt.

Michael’s shot caught Worthing squarely in the chest, bulging his eyes and hurtling him backward.

Sick, Michael leaned his cheek on his forearm.

It’s the war again. In another place, another time, but it’s the war all the same.

I was a fool to think I could ever escape.

The railhead was in total confusion. Men were running, shouting. The one on the roof of the westernmost car fired vainly after the retreating Indians. It was too late. The last riders disappeared beyond the low hills near the river.

The sunlit air smelled of blood, powder, the excrement of dead men. Michael wobbled to his feet as a black face emerged from the drifting dust.

“Greenup? Look after General Jack.”

The black and Sean Murphy reached the construction boss just as he struggled to a sitting position, blinking and coughing. A patch of lacerated scalp gleamed redder than Casement’s hair.

“I—I’ll be up in a moment.” Casement gasped. He pushed with his hands, finally managed to stand. “How many are—hurt?”

“Catch him!”
Greenup cried as Casement collapsed.

Sean Murphy and the black started to lift the fallen man. “Don’t!” Michael warned. “Not till you see how badly he’s injured.”

He spun to a couple of Paddies who had crept forward to examine Worthing’s corpse. One wore a torn shirt. Michael had seen him behind the Virginian on the bunk car steps. He shook the Colt in the man’s face.

“How the hell did that lunatic get loose?”

“Jumped us,” the man panted, wiping his nose with the torn shirt’s tail. “Fought like a catamount.”

“Thanks to you, he did almost as much harm as the Cheyenne.”

“But we couldn’t help—”

“Shut your goddamn mouth!” Michael pivoted away.

He was growing sick at his stomach. He tasted sourness in his throat. Quiet began to settle all at once. A final rifle shot crashed and echoed.

In the silence, Hannah cried out. It wasn’t a scream. It was lower, a hurt, guttural sound. Michael flung the revolver away, turned and saw her crouching beside her father’s body.

She was trying to touch him. She rocked back and forth on her heels, her fingers an inch from the clothbound shaft of the hatchet. Young Klaus leaned against a wagon wheel, crying.

Michael forced himself to walk.

“Miss Dorn?”

No response.

“Miss Dorn, come away. We’ll take care of him.”

She raised her head and looked straight at him. He might have been transparent.

Suddenly her hand closed on the red-wrapped shaft. She wrenched the weapon out of Dorn’s skull. “Jaysus, she’s gone daft!” a man yelped.

Stunned workers watched Hannah clamber to her feet, a strange moaning sound coming from her clenched teeth. The hatchet dripped red onto the worn toes of her boots.