Warriors of the Night (21 page)

“I feel the same way,” Ben replied.

“Yes? But you’re different, my friend.” Peter eased back and studied the red-haired young man riding tall in the saddle alongside him. “I’ve watched you these past several days. You’re not the same Ben McQueen who squired me around Philadelphia and showed me all the pretty girls. You’ve taken to the trail like a thirsty man to water. I’m enduring this ordeal. But you seem born to it.”

“Maybe I am,” Ben said. He studied the looming hills and the jagged silhouette of the mountains rising up beyond the ridges. Peter had called it correctly. Ben McQueen felt he had been riding toward this moment all his life. He had never felt more alive.

Virge Washburn nodded in the saddle. He had started to slide from horseback when Clay Poole tossed a pebble that struck him in the back of the neck. He straightened up, startled, and slapped at his skin, then craned his head around and scowled at his tormentor.

“You cut that out,” he warned.

“Suits me. The next time I’ll just let you slide out of the saddle and break your fool neck.”

“I ain’t never fallen off a horse yet.”

“Cause I’m around to look after you,” Poole said.

“You don’t need to play nursemaid to me,” Virge complained.

“Somebody’s got to,” Poole chuckled.

Virge didn’t like his weaknesses showing. Beneath his breath he muttered something Poole couldn’t quite hear, although he heard the words “fat” and “meddlesome” and “old.” Then Virge touched his heels to his horse and the gelding trotted forward and put a little extra distance between its rider and the Ranger at the rear of the column.

“I have kept my word,” Spotted Calf said, leaning forward on his horse. Along with Ben, the Comanche studied the moonlit passage and the cluster of mud-walled adobe houses and
jacales
in the center of the box canyon and the stark fortresslike walls of the hacienda farther back. The only way in or out, save for the treacherous deer trail up on the crest of the ridge, was straight up the wheel-rutted path they sat astride of. A half hour after leaving Gandy, the column had halted twenty yards into the canyon. There they stalled an extra fifteen minutes to give Snake Eye time to work his way along the south rim and get himself in position.

The men waited in silence, all except the Comanche, who seemed more nervous than any of the white men.

“Cordero Canyon,” Spotted Calf said with a wave of his hand. Thoughts of revenge faded the closer he came to El Tigre’s lair. Now, with his quarry in plain sight, his first instinct was to get as far away from these black ridges as possible.

“Yes, you have kept your word,” Ben said. He unslung his rifle and removed a powder flask and shot pouch from his saddlebag. He handed the rifle to the Comanche. With Zavala’s corpse still fresh in his mind, Ben could not bring himself to release Spotted Calf unarmed to face the danger of these rugged mountains. Still, he was glad Gandy wasn’t here to see the gesture. The Comanche stared at Ben in amazement. Slowly he extended his hands and took the rifle from the white officer.

“Our paths must not cross again, Bitter Creek,” Spotted Calf said. “For if that day comes you will see only a red man you must kill.”

“And you will see only a white enemy,” Ben said.

“It is the way of things,” Spotted Calf replied. Then he raised the rifle in salute. “But this night I say farewell, my brother.”

Spotted Calf rode back up the draw, the darkness swallowing him and muffling the hooves of his departing horse.

“We could be ridin’ into trouble,” Virge Washburn cautioned as Ben trotted his horse to the head of the column.

“I’ll lead the way,” Ben said. He glanced around at the three men behind him. “Come along if you’ve a mind to.” The lieutenant didn’t wait for a reply but started down the path toward the settlement.

Hoofbeats reverberate off the canyon walls: clatter-clatter-clop-clop, like drums keeping time to the beating heart. Pulse throbs, veins feel about to burst with each passing yard. And the starkly silent adobe huts and thatch-walled jacales, ominous and ill-lit by moonlight, draw nigh. Atop a mound of boulders, the remnants of a rock slide, fireflies spiral and swarm, drawn by what power unseen, spinning and aglow?

“Where the hell is everybody?” Ben muttered, echoing the sentiments of the day before.

They were among the houses now, squat, humble-looking structures whose blank windows and doors watched the intruders thread their way through the settlement. Virge was to the right and Clay and Peter fanned out to the left.

Ben could feel the sweat bead on his lower lip and trickle down the back of his neck. His chest tightened with every breath and tension, like a branch in a gale, bowed to the breaking point, nearly snapped.

Movement in the dark. The fireflies swirled with furious intensity. Time hung in the balance. Then explosions rocked the night.

Ben reined up as gunfire rippled along the walls of the hacienda nestled against the western slope. For a moment he thought they were under fire from Anabel’s bandits. Gun in hand, he almost squeezed off a shot despite the distance, before realizing that the people on the walls were fighting a battle of their own.

Gunshots erupted on the south ridge. Snake Eye in trouble? Ben didn’t have long to worry. In a matter of seconds he had problems of his own. A warrior detached himself from the roof and in a blur of motion hurtled through the air and slammed into the lieutenant, knocking him from the saddle. Ben landed hard and lost his grip on the Patterson Colt. His attacker crashed onto his chest. Ben could make out the warrior’s yellow and black streaked features, framed by an eagle headdress. The warrior was about to cleave his victim’s skull with an obsidian hand axe.

Ben’s hand shot out and batted the axe aside. The obsidian blade bit into the earth inches from his skull. Ben caught his attacker by the throat, dragged him forward, and shoved free of the man astride his chest. Both combatants scrambled to their feet. The warrior charged like a maddened bull, his squat, muscular body leaning forward as he swung his war axe. Ben threw a handful of dirt in the warrior’s face, momentarily blinding him, then stepped aside and caught his attacker by the back of his feathered body armor. Ben added his own strength to the warrior’s momentum and drove the axe-wielding killer headfirst into the nearest adobe wall. After a sickening crunch, the body sagged lifeless in Ben’s grasp. He dropped the man and turned to look for his gun. A spear thudded into the wall.

Striker, eldest of his clan, fitted another spear to his atlatl and hurled it at the white man. The crafty warrior wasn’t prepared for the big man’s speed. Ben spied his revolver on the ground and dove for it. Striker’s second spear tore the back of Ben’s buckskin shirt, glanced off the ground, and buried itself in the doorway of a
jacal.
Ben landed in the dirt, one arm outstretched, and reached the Patterson Colt. He rolled to one knee, brought up his Colt, and aimed. Striker was gone, leaving only a patch of empty moonlight in the space between the two
jacales
where he had been standing.

The noise of battle seemed to come from every direction. Ben heard a gunshot, followed by a scream, off to his right and headed toward it. He rounded a
jacal
as three eagle clan soldiers dragged Virge Washburn from the saddle. The Ranger crumpled to earth as obsidian long knives and war axes rose and fell in the moonlight. Virge tried to stand, tried to lash out with the barrel of his Colt. Then he collapsed, bleeding from a dozen wounds.

“Bastards!” Ben shouted, then charged. The warriors turned away from the dying man to face the new threat. Ben shot one through the heart. An axe flew toward him, fanning his cheek. Ben shifted his aim and fired. A dark figure doubled over. Ben fired again and again, the gun kicking in his iron grasp. Explosions and shrieks of pain and fury and Ben’s own wild war cry filled the air. The third warrior staggered backward as bullets dusted his quilted coat. Then there was no one left to shoot at and Ben was standing over Virge. The Ranger looked up at Ben and clutched at his trouser leg. Ben knelt at his side.

“Tell Clay… watch for… watch… hell, I’ll tell him myself.” Virge coughed and died. The hairs rose on the back of Ben’s neck. He turned and spotted Striker standing on the roof of an adobe house not ten feet away. At this range the warrior wasn’t about to miss with his lethal-looking spear. Ben snapped up his Colt and squeezed the trigger. The hammer struck an empty cylinder. All five chambers were spent. Ben had a loaded cylinder in his pouch, but no time to reload. He spotted one of Virge’s guns tucked in the dead man’s belt. He didn’t hesitate. He only had one chance, and took it, but the revolver snagged on the Ranger’s shirt and Ben knew he had lost his gamble. A shot rang out as Ben tore the revolver free and swung around in time to see the warrior on the roof drop his spear and throwing stick and topple to the ground. Striker bounced once against the hard earth, raised up, then collapsed and breathed his last.

Ben McQueen’s benefactor rode his horse between the buildings and waved his smoking rifle toward the lieutenant. Ben was stunned to see Spotted Calf. Then the sound of battle galvanized him into action. He ran toward the war chief and vaulted up behind the brave on horseback.

“Ha-hey, my brother. The bond remains,” Spotted Calf said.

“I never thought a Comanche could be such a pretty sight,” Ben yelled in the man’s ear. “What brought you back?”

“A man must walk his path,” Spotted Calf said. “He cannot change what will be.” The brave nudged his mount’s rib cage and issued a harsh command, and the horse galloped off toward the hacienda. Gunfire still flared along its walls. It looked like more trouble, but there was no other choice. Ben spied two riders several lengths in the lead, no doubt Peter Abbot and Clay Poole. The two riderless horses belonging to Ben and Virge had already reached the hacienda. A third horseman blasted away at his unseen attackers, reached the floor of the canyon, and galloped toward the front gate. Ben figured it had to be Snake Eye Gandy. Evidently Gandy had abandoned any thoughts of stealth or subterfuge for the comparative safety of those ten-foot-tall walls.

The gate swung open and the riderless horses were brought inside. Then Peter Abbot and Clay Poole darted through the opening, followed by Gandy, who wheeled his Appaloosa beneath the arched gateway and fired his guns back at his pursuers.

Ben clung to horseback and loosed a couple of shots at a pair of suspicious-looking shadow figures as they retreated into the night. Short, obsidian-tipped spears came whirring out of the dark in reply and narrowly missed the two men on horseback. Ben gritted his teeth and waited for one of the shafts to plunge between his shoulder blades. Then the walls of the hacienda loomed overhead and Ben could hear Gandy holler a welcome as he retreated out of harm’s way.

The arched entrance sped past, and after what seemed an eternity Spotted Calf jerked his mount to a savage halt. His horse reared and skidded in the dirt and collided with Ben’s riderless mount.

Ben slid off the horse’s rump and took his bearings in the courtyard. Chico Raza stood by the gate door. The bandit promptly bolted the door and drew his revolver. Gandy, Clay, and Peter Abbot stood in the yard. Above them on the walls, Jorge Tenorio, Miguel Ybarbo, and Anabel Cordero were astonished at the identity of these new arrivals. Anabel had seen riders coming from the settlement and assumed they were some of the lost people returning to the hacienda. Seeing Peter and the Rangers, Anabel and her men trained their guns on the intruders in the courtyard. Snake Eye Gandy and Clay Poole lost no time in selecting targets on the wall. Peter’s left arm hung limp at his side; his shirt was bloody near the shoulder.

“Peter!” Matthew Abbot recognized his son and, with no thought for the situation, hurried down from the wall.

Spotted Calf reloaded his rifle. He searched the wall, spied Anabel, and raised his muzzle loader. Ben noticed the Comanche’s actions and stepped forward to place his hand on the rifle barrel.

“No,” he said. One shot could trigger a melee that few would survive. He forced the rifle down. “Take to the walls, men,” Ben called out. He lifted his gaze to Anabel. “Or we can shoot each other down and the survivor gets to wait for those butchers outside to finish him. Or
her
.”

The guns were aimed but no one fired, as the wisdom in Ben’s admonition began to sink in.

“Peter, My God, it is you,” Matt Abbot blurted out. He hurried down from the wall and crossed the courtyard at a run. Ben was surprised to find the former general not only armed but apparently fighting alongside his captors. As Matt hurried to embrace his son, Snake Eye Gandy holstered his guns.

“Ben’s right. We got bigger trouble than each other. I don’t know who these bloodthirsty devils are, but I came upon their handiwork back of the ridge yonder.” The Ranger shook his head; his wiry shoulders sagged. “I seen the remains of a whole passel of folks, and every one of ’em carved like that Zavala fella.”

Chico, shaken, staggered forward. “The children? Did you find the children and the señoritas?”

“I found ’em. And wish to God I hadn’t,” Gandy replied. “It’s a sight to plague a man all his days.”

“No—Natividad—oh, no.” Chico moaned.

“What of Zavala?” Anabel called down.

“Buried him yesterday,” Clay spoke up.

Chico blessed himself at the mention of his friend’s demise. Then his expression turned hard and mean.

“How did our
compadre
die?” Anabel pressed the matter as she descended the steps. Miguel swaggered at her side, showing his contempt for these gringos.

“Not quick enough,” Gandy exclaimed.

“He had been mutilated. Like some kind of sacrificial lamb,” Ben added. “We buried him where he lay.”

Anabel closed her eyes a moment. She regretted all that had happened, and even blamed herself. Drums began to softly toll an implacable warning that soon all of the people in the hacienda would suffer a fate similar to that of Tomas Zavala.

“Say—where’s Virge?” Clay spoke up. He glanced around until his gaze settled on Ben McQueen.