Authors: William W. Johnstone
A Good Day to Die (14 page)
“Maybe it's not too late to help.”
“Hear any shooting?”
“No.”
“It's too late, girl. Comanches have already been and done. Any Oakleys left alive, they'd be shooting and the Comanches would be shooting back. It's over.”
“You don't know that for a fact.”
“I ain't risking my hair to find out,” Sam said. “You?”
“No,” Lydia said, swallowing hard.
“Let's get clear.”
If we can,
he thought. He pointed his horse north, Lydia following. They rode along the base of the ridge until they struck Rimrock Road, running east through a gap in the ridge.
If we can,
he thought. He pointed his horse north, Lydia following. They rode along the base of the ridge until they struck Rimrock Road, running east through a gap in the ridge.
Sam scouted the road. It looked clear. Quickly, he and Lydia crossed over to a long, grassy slope and trailed north along the foot of the ridge. He holstered the mule's-leg as they rode on.
The ridge flattened out as the long grassy slope crested. Beyond, in the middle distance rose Sentry Hill, its base hidden by thick woods.
Sam and Lydia made a right-hand turn, going east once again. Below, a line of trees screened the Oakley ranch from view, but they could see the inverted pyramid of smoke rising amid the mass of leafy green boughs. Black at the base, it lightened to gray as it fanned out into the sky.
The fugitive duo crossed an open space, coming to a thicket of woods. Riding south along the treeline, they searched for an opening. A gap showed, revealing a game trail winding east through the brush. Sam and Lydia entered the narrow passage, forcing them to ride single file. Sam took the point, Lydia following. Shady groves alternated with sunny glades.
The trail bent southeast, the ground sloping downward. Once again, they crossed Rimrock Road. Beyond, the trail angled south. It widened, and they rode side by side.
The slope leveled off, the trail continuing south. The woods thinned out, showing bright, open sky. Ahead on the left, a massive shape loomed.
“Stickerbush Knob. We're almost at Hopper Glen,” Lydia said in a hushed voice. “The glen'll take us down to the flat.”
Stickerbush Knob was a sugarloaf-shaped mound, slant-sided and round-topped, with a rocky dome rising out of its south end. Its sides were covered with scraggly brush, dwarf trees, and weedy undergrowth. They rode south along its west side.
Sam halted a short distance from the knob's south end. Lydia reined in, too, sour faced. “What for you stopping?” she demanded.
“Ever heard of âlook before you leap'? I don't want to go down the glen to find Comanches there,” Sam said.
They spoke in whispers.
“I'm gonna climb the mound and take a looksee.” Sam dismounted and hitched Dusty's reins to the branch of a bush. “Sit tight. I'll be back directly.”
“What if redskins get you?” Lydia asked.
“Then I won't be back.”
“What'll I do?”
“Run.”
“How'll I know if they got you?”
“If you hear shooting and war whoops, ride out. Leave Dusty behind in case I make it.”
“I'll wait.” Lydia looked doubtful. She loosened her rifle, holding it across the saddle, her eyes wide and watchful.
Sam didn't blame her, he felt doubtful himself. But it was dangerous country and he'd feel better if he got the lay of the land. Trust the Comanches to set scouts watching the south slope to look for escapees. If he could spot them in advance, he and Lydia would have a better chance of evading them. He padded to the foot of the mound, glad he had on hunting moccasins instead of boots. Stepping carefully, he avoided treading on fallen twigs.
He didn't think the girl would steal his horse and abandon him. She didn't seem the type, but he'd figured folks wrong before, especially females, young ones, too. Besides, nobody could ride Dusty but Sam, as more than one horse thief had found out to their dismay. A sharp whistle from him and Dusty would come running.
At first glance, the thorn bushes massed at the base of the mound seemed impenetrable, but a closer look revealed gaps in the wall of brush. Slipping through an opening, Sam started up a fan of loose dirt and stone. He kept a sharp eye out for snakes; rattlers especially liked the kind of loose rock piles heaped up at the bottom of the mound. His feet turned sideways, Sam climbed to the top of the fan on the edges of his soles for better traction and to minimize disturbances of the dirt. His passage was noiseless.
Above the fan, the dirt was hardpacked and covered with short, thick, colorless grass, eliminating the need to climb sideways. Spurs and slabs of bare rock jutted out at odd angles, serving as steppingstones as he scaled the slope. Stems of gnarly bushes served as handholds.
He broke clear of the tops of the trees hemming the mound, out of the shade and into sunlight. The midday sun was high and hot, causing him to break into fresh sweat. His shadow, a small blob of blackness, pooled at his feet.
Above and to his right, a rock ledge thrust out from the side of the hill. Circling around toward it, he clambered up onto the shelf. It was about four feet wide. He was a hundred feet above the ground. Through spaces in the tree boughs he could see the girl and the horses.
He climbed up the ledge up for another forty feet before it gave on to a wide, platformlike outcropping that decked the mound's south end like a natural terrace. A rocky, razor-backed ridge ran north-south along most of the summit, cutting it in half and screening the opposite side. A tilted, round-topped slab stood thirty feet high, blocking most of the terrace, making it impossible for Sam to get around to the other side.
V-shaped gaps in the ridge looked promising. The notch in the nearest gap was wide enough for him to pass through. The gray-brown rock had plenty of handholds and footholds as Sam climbed up eight feet to the bottom of the V, four feet wide and lined with hardpacked dirt.
He looked for snakesâlooked hardâbut didn't see any, before easing into the notch. He started through to the other side.
Somebody cleared his throat ... and it wasn't Sam. He froze.
The man hawked something up and spat. The Navy Colt filled Sam's hand as if it had leaped into it.
Silence.
Sam inched forward, wary of any betraying noise. Crouching, legs bent at the knees, he moved ahead with infinite care.
He stuck his head out past the edge of the rock just enough to look beyond it. A dirt-covered ledge lay eight feet below the bottom of the notch on its east side. The ledge was six feet wide, a narrow game trail running along its length.
To the left, about ten feet away, a spur thrust out from the side of the ridge, narrowing the ledge by half.
To the right, the ledge continued for another thirty feet, widening out into a rounded outcropping twenty feet wide. A Comanche squatted near the edge, holding a rifle across the tops of his thighs. He scanned the vista below, his back to Sam.
Sam could have finished him off with the gun but he didn't want to shoot, not knowing if there were other Comanches in the area. The throat clearing had sounded closer than he was, but placing locations was tricky when you had only sound to go on. He stuck his gun back in his waistband, wedging it in tightly.
The side of the notch was steep but not so much so that he couldn't climb it. Testing each handhold and foothold before trusting his weight to it, he went up the south side of the notch like a lizard climbing a rock wall.
The top of the ridge was four feet across at its widest, narrower in other places. It stretched unbroken to the round-topped slab at the end of the mound.
Sam drew the Green River knife at his left hip. It came free of the sheath with nary a whisper. Fashioned after the famous Bowie knife, the weapon had a foot-long blade with narrow blood grooves running horizontally below its upper edge, a wickedly sharp point, and a razor-keen cutting edge. The maker's mark G
REEN
R
IVER
was engraved on the shining steel just above the crossbar guard.
REEN
R
IVER
was engraved on the shining steel just above the crossbar guard.
Wrapping his hand around the hilt, Sam started forward. Bent low, almost double, he soft-footed along the ridgetop. Stealthy though he was, he didn't trust his ability to sneak up on the Comanche by crossing the ledge. Comanches were spooky folk, ever-alert, wary. Sam reckoned he had a better chance of closing on his foe undetected by approaching from an unexpected direction, coming from above.
He reached the end of the ridge, the round-topped slab barring further progress, and estimated his prospects. He was ten feet above the ledge; the Comanche was some fifteen feet away from the base of the ridgeâtoo far to risk a long dive. The Indian was so close to the edge that Sam was likely to go over the side with him.
He'd have to get closer. He didn't like that part of it, but then he didn't like running into a Comanche scout, either.
Easing over the steep side of the ridge, Sam lowered himself to the boulder jutting out five feet below him, dislodging a few tiny pebbles in the process.
The Comanche stiffened.
Sam hopped down to the ledge, lunging toward the brave. The Comanche stood and spun around, swinging his rifle toward the intruder. Closing with him, Sam slapped his left hand on top of the rifle barrel, holding it in place for an instant.
Wiry and strong, the brave broke free, but that split-second delay made all the difference, allowing Sam to thrust his knife deep in the other's vitals. Burying the blade below the breastbone, Sam thrust up and deeper, seeking the other's heart.
They struggled, hand-to-hand, face-to-face. The knife point found its mark deep in the Comanche's left breast.
Sam saw the light go out in the other's eyes. Blood, so dark it looked black, filled the brave's gaping mouth, spilling down the sides. The rifle slipped from his hands, clattering on stone, but did not go off.
Sam gave the blade a final, wicked twist before withdrawing it. The Comanche collapsed. Sam panted for breath as if he'd run a race. He wiped the blade clean on the brave's shirt.
Looking around, he saw that the rocky platform overlooked the south end of the plateau and the flat below, making it a natural observation post. Going to the edge, he scanned the landscape.
The south slope of the plateau was less than a half mile away. It was cut by a gully that reached down to the flat. Trees lined both sides of the cut; through them he glimpsed a down-rushing stream.
The round-topped slab blocked the hill's south end, barring him from the west side. Turning, he started back toward the notch, planning to return the way he had come. Without warning a Comanche rounded the spur thrusting out into the ledge.
He and Sam saw each other at the same time. Nine feet of space stood between them. The brave wore a red headband over two black braids and held a rifle at his side. Surprise, wrath, and indignation flickered across his face. He must be the throat clearer.
Sam still had the knife in hand.
It was tricky, throwing it by the hilt rather than by the bladeâa complicating factor. A knife of that size needed some fourteen feet to make a complete turn in midair when thrown. Throwing it by the hilt, the knife should make a half turn in seven feet, bringing the point in line with its target.
A master knife thrower, Sam calculated at lightning speed, took a step forward to compensate for the extra feet between him and his goal, and threw the knife.
The brave raised his rifle.
The knife took him dead center in the middle of his torso, striking home with a
thunk.
The blow exerted a paralyzing effect, keeping him from crying out. He staggered, venting a noise between a grunt and a snort.
thunk.
The blow exerted a paralyzing effect, keeping him from crying out. He staggered, venting a noise between a grunt and a snort.
His rage knew no bounds, but he was already too dead to do anything about it. He sat down hard in the middle of the ledge, then flopped on his back, lying faceup.
Sam drew his Colt. Any more Comanches and he would come up shooting, no matter what. Stepping around the spur, he saw that the rest of the ledge was empty, untenanted.
He went to the edge and looked down. Two horses were hitched to a tree in a nook at the foot of the east side of the mound, presumably the horses of the Comanche sentinels.
Looking up, Sam turned his gaze to the north. Sentry Hill loomed in the middle ground, dominating the scene. There were no real mountains as such in that part of Texas but it was a high hill, hundreds of feet tall.
At the foot of its south face, two rocky spurs reached out like outstretched arms, forming a horseshoe shape with the ends pointed southward. The horseshoe enclosed Locust Lake. Near the base of the hill a spring rose, feeding a broad, shallow green lake.
Haze overhung the lake and the woods bordering it. Not a haze of fog or moisture but of smokeâwoodsmoke, coming from dozens of campfires burning at various sites around the area. The fires of a Comanche camp, a small army of several hundred braves. Poised on the high ground, they were in position to swoop down in force on Hangtree County.
The sight shook Sam Heller. He rubbed his eyes and looked again to make sure he wasn't seeing things. The unnerving image persisted.
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