Wolf Creek (7 page)

Quint spotted the tops of some cottonwood
trees off in the distance perhaps half a mile ahead. He’d ride over
and see if there was any water to be had for his horse. He could
use a break himself, to stretch his legs a little.

When Quint brought his horse to a halt
beneath the cottonwoods, he found just a trickle of water in the
streambed. He dismounted and let the sorrel work on sucking what he
could from the shallow water. Quint chose to take a drink from his
canteen. Doing everything one handed was tricky. His wound ached a
little from the riding, but he was confident the injury would not
cause him any real trouble. He’d slept badly last night but that
wasn’t anything new, his sleep had been restless ever since that
bullet had put a hole in his arm when those Andrew Rogers hands had
bushwhacked him at the marshal’s office. Quint was more worried now
about what lay ahead. Worried but dogged in his determination to
get on back to Wolf Creek and do what needed done. He reflected on
the words of Marshal Sam Gardner, “Always be ready for anything.”
That was fine for disturbances occurring in Wolf Creek where there
were plenty of willing hands to assist. Out here on the prairie was
a different story. He knew he was poorly equipped to do much in the
way of defense and there was no one around to call on.

Quint looked back south toward the massacre
site but the distance now was too great for him to see anything. He
swept his eyes around to the other directions. There was a faint
breeze stirring the cottonwood leaves. That breeze did little to
disguise a rise of dust in the distance to the northeast. His heart
jumped a beat. He cupped his good hand over his eyes to shield them
from the sun. He muttered a curse for not having a field glass;
there was no sence in him thinking that the dust was rising under a
wind. The soldiers had ridden off south, so it most likely was not
them. That left the possibility that Indians were riding on a
course that would intersect with his intended route. He was not
going to wait around to say hello. Quint was grateful that it had
not rained recently. Even a brief shower would have kept the dust
down and the Indians would have been on him before he spotted
them.

He hurriedly unbuckled his saddlebag flap
and took out a second six-gun and holster then strung it over his
saddle horn. He stuck another six-gun from the other saddlebag into
his waistband. Eighteen shots was his total arsenal. He doubted
that, once the shooting started, he would have time to reload even
if he could manage it. He had not brought along a long gun. He had
figured that attempting to jack a fresh round into the rifle’s
breech, one handed, would be time consuming and awkward when he
could be firing a six-gun.

Quint snatched the dangling reins and swung
up on the sorrel. He needed to put distance between him and the
bunch headed toward him. He pulled the reins to guide the horse
away. He held the horse back for now; saving for a hard run later,
if need be. He did not want to create a dust cloud himself. If he
could see their dust cloud then it was reasonable that they could
darn well see the one he made as well.

Quint had little personal experience with
Indians prior to coming to Wolf Creek. A couple years ago, when
trailing a herd to Abilene, was the first time he had occasion to
be up close to an Indian. He and others in the crew stood by while
the trail boss, Jack Wells, negotiated with three braves. When done
with the talking, Wells ordered a couple trail riders to drive two
footsore steers to a nearby group of twenty Indians. It was a
peaceful meeting.

Some of the older men in camp talked of past
skirmishes with both the Southern Kiowa and Comanche, who had
joined forces when prodded off their ancestral homelands to the
Indian Territory in the north. One man noted that the Kiowa were
notorious for long distance raiding.

Quint figured the group of Indians coming
his way was most likely a mix of Northern Kiowa and recently allied
Cheyenne, led by Stone Knife, and he didn’t believe the gathering
was intent on peace. The Northern Kiowa’s homeland was just south
of Wolf Creek near the Arkansas River and close to the border of
Kansas.

When he looked back, he could see the dust
cloud had changed direction a little and now headed straight toward
him. Figuring he had been spotted he kicked the sorrel into a run.
If only this horse would last, not fold up and send him flying to
the ground then gouged by a spear point or at least run over by a
screaming Kiowa’s horse.

The sorrel stretched out his long neck and
lengthened his powerful stride, muscles flexing with machine
precision. Quint knew though that a sustained long horse race would
end in disaster. The game gelding would not be able to keep up the
pace for any long length of time. He prodded the animal no more,
letting the horse run at his own comfortable speed.

Before long, his horse was starting to flag
a little after the hard run across the prairie. Quint reined the
sorrel back to a walk. It was frustrating, knowing that the Indians
might be gaining considerably on him, but it would be even more
disastrous if he ran his horse into the ground. A man who galloped
his mount until it quit and died beneath him most likely stood a
good chance of winding up dead alongside the horse.

He pulled rein near some cottonwood trees,
hoping to give the animal a little respite. Before he could
dismount, he picked up the distinctive sound of hoof beats growing
closer.

Quint believed his death was inevitable and
imminent. He did not even consider that any one of those braves
would kill him without remorse. He just palmed his six-gun,
figuring to take a few with him, but first he would ride as far and
fast as this tired horse would take him.

He wheeled his horse and urged the lathered
animal on while muttering oaths under his breath. You’d think the
savages’ horses were just as tired and could use a rest but they
were close now, smelling blood, intent on catching him.

When the tops of the buildings came into
view, Quint didn’t know for sure whose place it was, most likely
the old Nickerson place. He had heard that Irishman Kelly O’Brian
and his group were dealing to buy it. He’d seen O’Brian and the
others on the streets of Wolf Creek a while back. At least it gave
hope for a possible sanctuary.

A rifle cracked and a bullet sliced through
the air over Quint’s head. He turned for a quick glance. None of
the Indians had come in striking distance to him yet, but they were
sure getting closer.

Maybe, just maybe his horse could make it to
the ranch up ahead. He hoped who ever lived there could see what
was going on and give him some assistance. As he got nearer, he
could see a barn, corral and the rectangular main house out on a
treeless plain. The folks that lived here had to be in fear because
of the recent Kiowa raids and the killings that had taken
place.

Quint could see a man outside between the
house and barn. The man began running towards the house when he
recognized that a group of Indians were chasing and firing upon a
lone rider.

Quint could now hear the yipping and howling
of the braves behind him. They were close enough to curdle a soul
with fear. An arrow seeking his life whizzed past his ear. He
cocked his six-gun then turned in the saddle and fired the .44 colt
at an advancing warrior scarcely ten yards away. The brave threw
his arms out then tumbled backwards off his horse. The other
Indians were twenty yards or so behind the fallen one.

Quint leaned over his saddle then turned and
fired his six-gun until empty toward the horde of screaming
warriors charging toward him.

As Quint neared the ranch, a volley of rifle
fire from the house whistled past him and into the charging
Indians. The Indians reversed their dust, bringing their ponies to
a halt. The leaders of the group turned the horses away to assess
the situation. They had not caught the lone rider on the open
prairie, but still intended to finish the job. Some stilled their
mounts then took aim with their rifles and sent some lead hornets
toward Quint. Fortunately, though close, none of the bullets hit
him but gave the message that the two-legged wolves were not about
to desert their prey.

Quint holstered his empty .44 then took in
hand the spare six-gun from the holster on the saddle horn. He rode
right up to the front of the house then whipped a leg over and slid
from the saddle before the horse had even stopped. Despite trying
to keep his balance, Quint lost his footing then pitched forward,
twisting at the last moment, to land on his good shoulder and
making a dust cloud with the impact. He was briefly stunned but not
out. Kelly O’Brian rushed from the doorway of the house to Quint’s
side. He grabbed Quint under his good arm and half dragged him
inside the building. Someone kicked the door shut as rifles boomed
from the windows.

Quint’s horse, his sides heaving, still had
the sense to shy away from the thundering rifle fire and headed out
of the line of fire toward the corral.

Despite what many whites believed, Indians
were not stupid. They would not just throw their lives away by
riding into the barrage of lead coming from the house.

They would assess the situation, then use
the best strategy available to them to get at those in the
building. With numbers, along with time and possible stealth on
their side, they could take their time.

At a distance, the Indians drew their horses
into a group while one, their leader, began giving out
instructions…

Chapter Four

Kelly O’Brian unlocked his office with a
skeleton key. The door was located on the side of the adobe and
stone house. He sat down and began going over the ranch ledgers,
following the request of his partner, Claude Barber. The atmosphere
in the tiny office was stifling. After a half hour of concentrating
on the account books, he had all he could take. Fresh air was what
Kelly needed, and he needed it now. Standing up from his desk, the
big man opened the heavy wooden door and stepped outside. One could
not say that the view was breathtaking, but it was certainly
interesting. The stone and adobe ranch house was built on a rise
overlooking a wide sweep of flat ranch land that extended out for
miles and miles. The land was virtually treeless, as most of Kansas
was. Below was a small lake, and around it cattle gathered. Some
lay upon the rich green grass, others stood with their backs
against a gentle wind, and several were knee high in water,
quenching their thirty gallon a day thirst.

Kelly looked up at the large wide open sky,
and then back at the distant horizon. What he saw before him filled
him with great pride. In fact, it brought a smile to his face that
made the worry lines fade. The miles of grassland belonged to him
and his two partners. All his life he had wanted a ranch to call
his own and this place was it. It made all that he had gone
through: escaping Ireland, the coffin ship, the Great War, the
railroad, hide hunting, escape from slavers—all he had struggled
and fought against, worthwhile. Now that he had procured this
ranch, he would never allow anyone to take it away. Here he would
live out his life, building up the spread as best he could.

As important as the ledger books were,
O’Brian was sick of going over financial figures even though every
count of livestock meant value and future income. Sales were not
increasing fast enough, yet the monthly bills were piling up and
had to be paid. They needed to find a way to earn more money. He
would discuss it again with his partners, Claude Barber and his
brother Shane. Perhaps some hide hunting was a possibility, but
Charley Blackfeather had advised against it. It would turn Indians
against him, the friendlies as well as the hostile Kiowas. There
was mustanging—the capture and taming of wild mounts. One large
herd often crossed the five thousand acre ranch. Maybe that
was…

Gun shots echoed far off in the distance.
Kelly listened intently. Then came another fusillade, somewhat
closer. There were far too many explosions to be anything other
than trouble. A great number of men with rifles were shooting, and
someone must be fleeing before their attack. Without hesitation,
Kelly went to the ranch triangle used to call for dinner, and for
emergencies. Picking up the dangling iron bar hanging by a leather
strap, the big man vigorously banged against the triangle and the
sound of clanging iron rang out. Elizabeth and her Seminole friend
Sawni rushed from the wooden cabin next door.

Claude and his son, Billy, came from the
wooden barn and stood in the corral. The horses raised their heads
high and stared in the direction of the exploding sounds. Helen
Barber raced from the house, shouting to Kelly.

“What’s happening?”

“Trouble, for sure. To the house!” ordered
Kelly in a stentorian voice.

Claude ducked down and squeezed between
rails in the corral fence. Billy climbed over. Sawni and Elizabeth
came running. Searching desperately, Kelly saw his brother, Shane,
nearly a mile distant, on horseback. He was pushing a small herd of
cattle towards the lake. Summoning his brother, the big Irishman
drew his Navy Colt and pointed it in the air and fired three quick
shots. Pulling a handkerchief from his back pocket, Kelly began
waving it high over his head. Claude, his wife, Billy, and the two
young women were now standing on the stone porch. They watched the
distant rider hesitate and then dust rose as the horse and man
began racing for the house.

“We’ve planned for this,” said Kelly to
those gathered around him. “You know what to do. Claude and Billy,
you take as many rifles as you can carry and climb up on the roof.
The rest of you follow the plan. Sawni and Elizabeth, close the
shutters, bar the doors, and carry as much ammunition as you can up
to the parapet. Mrs. Barber, you take as much food and water up
there as you can carry. No telling how many there are or how long
this will last.”