Authors: William W. Johnstone
A Good Day to Die (24 page)
“Not to worry, there's plenty more where that came from. Got 'em in my bag. It's the only way to get through this godforsaken country,” Donahue said.
“Donny and me have been selling the territory for our firms. We both got on the stagecoach in Santa Fe. That's Apache country, but there's been no sign of hostile Indians till now,” Brewster said.
“These ain't Apaches. They're Comanches,” Sam said.
“They're sure as hell hostile, whatever they are,” Donahue said. “They came out of nowhere, hooting and a-hollering like banshees, running us down.”
“They're on the warpath. I saw a couple hundred of 'em up in the north hills not more than a few hours ago. This is the second bunch of 'em I've seen on the flat.”
Donahue started, white-skinned pallor showing on his face under the red whiskey flush. “Good God! Let's get out of here!”
“I aim to do just that as soon as we get squared away,” Sam said. “In the meantime, you gents could help by gathering up any repeating rifles you see. They could come in handy.”
“Let's get to it, Donny,” Brewster said.
“Watch out for live onesâComanches, that is. They look dead, but you never know when one's playing possum. They're full of tricks,” Sam said.
“I hear you, brother,” Donahue acknowledged. Reaching into the stagecoach, he grabbed his traveling bag. It rattled when he moved it. Opening the top and reaching inside, he pulled out a pint bottle of whiskey, uncorked it and chugged a quarter of its contents. It put the red back in his face. He offered it to Brewster.
“Maybe later,” Brewster said.
“You?” Donahue asked, holding it out to Sam.
“Hell, yes. Thanks.” Sam took a good, solid belt. It burned going down his throat, blossoming into a ball of liquid heat in his belly, rising to the top of his head.
Latigo's hand reached down from the top of the stagecoach. Sam put the bottle in it. Latigo drank up. The bottle was empty.
“Another dead soldier.” Donahue took a fresh pint bottle from his bag, dropping it in a side jacket pocket. Putting the bag back in the coach, he joined Brewster who was already scavenging the bodies of the dead Comanches for rifles. A third of their number had been armed with repeaters, but some had been downed a good distance from where the stagecoach was halted. A couple rifles were strewn nearby.
Latigo heaved the driver off the side of the stagecoach. The body fell heavily, thudding to the ground, the impact startling a high thin cry of fright from twelve-year-old Sally in the coach.
Sam and Latigo gathered up their own horses, hitching them all to a string secured to the back of the vehicle. They moved quickly but surely, glancing up frequently to look north and west. Sam removed his gun case and saddlebags from his saddle, setting them down on the ground beside the stagecoach's open door.
Brewster and Donahue each managed to find a working rifle; Brewster also scavenging a bandolier half full of cartridges.
“Every bit helps,” Sam said. “Give me a hand with these bodies.”
He and Donahue stepped inside the coach and Latigo and Brewster followed. Sam and Donahue took hold of the dead man.
“Name's Perlmutter, Arkansas bound. Never did catch the lady's name, Lord help her,” Donahue said.
“Mrs. Hamer,” Brewster said. “I got to talking to her at a way station. Her husband died in California and she was going back east to live with her sister.”
Mary Anderson started as Perlmutter's body was hauled across the coach floor. “What're you doing?!”
“Need to travel as light as we can, ma'am,” Sam said.
“Can't you carry them in the back? Take them to town for a decent burial?”
“Folks'll come back for 'em later, when it's safe. It ain't safe now,” Sam said. He and Donahue carried the body out of the coach and laid it down at the side of the road. Latigo and Brewster did the same with the body of the woman.
Sam stepped back into the coach. Setting himself, he leaned over June. She was still unconscious. She didn't look any worse, but she didn't look any better, either. Sam's left hand gripped the shaft of the arrow six inches above where it entered the girl's chest.
“What're you doing? You said it was too dangerous to take the arrow out,” Mary Anderson said in a frantic rush of words.
“I been studying on the matter, ma'am, thinking it over. I reckon it'll be safer for the girl if I break off as much of the arrow as I can, before we set off. There'll be less danger of it bumping into something and doing her worse hurt, if we hit some rough ground.”
Or get chased by more Comanches,
Sam thought, keeping it to himself. No sense scaring the poor woman even more.
Or get chased by more Comanches,
Sam thought, keeping it to himself. No sense scaring the poor woman even more.
Come to think of it, he was scared, too. Not for himself, but for June. He was taking a risk intervening. It would be easier to wash his hands of any responsibility and let things be. Easier for him, but not for the girl. Her chances were better if he acted now.
“Please, be careful!”
“I'll be very careful, ma'am. I wouldn't do it if it wasn't needful.” Sam's right hand closed on the arrow a few inches inches above the top of his left fist where he gripped the shaft. His strong hands, the wrists as thick around as ax handles, were rock steady. A bead of sweat rolled down his nose.
He applied increasing pressure to the shaft, breaking it in two. It snapped with a sharp cracking sound. An involuntary outcry escaped Mary Anderson's lips.
June remained inert, seemingly undisturbed. Her breathing continued shallow but regular.
Sam eyed the wound where the arrow entered flesh. No fresh blood oozed up at the point of entry. “No harm done. It should help on the ride.”
“Thank y-you,” the woman murmured.
As Sam got out of the coach it occurred to him that it might have been wiser to carry out the first aid before drinking Donahue's whiskey. Then again, if he hadn't drunk it, he might not have ventured the effort at all. Conscious of the broken arrow in his hand, he threw it away. He took off his bandanna, using it to mop the sweat from his face, then retied it loosely around his neck.
Latigo sat up front in the driver's seat, clutching the reins.
“Ever drive one of these before?” Sam asked.
“I drive plenty wagons for Don Eduardo,” Latigo answered, somewhat insulted.
That was good enough for Sam. Hefting his gun case, he climbed up onto the guard's side of the driver's seat. The drummers, Donahue and Brewster, got into the coach, sitting on the forward seat bench, each at a window, each armed with a repeating rifle taken from slain Comanches.
“Everybody ready?” Sam called.
“Let 'er rip!” Donahue replied.
“The lady have good hold of the girl?”
“She's all set.”
“Ma'am?” Sam asked.
“Yes, I'm ready,” Mary Anderson said, a tremor in her voice.
Sam nodded to Latigo.
Latigo released the hand brake, taking up the long reins. “Yah!
Vamonos!
” he shouted.
Vamonos!
” he shouted.
The team of horses started forward, straining against the harnesses. Wheels rolled and the stagecoach advanced. The horses fell into step, picking up the pace, carrying the stagecoach forward with them.
The road was hard and rutted. The vehicle's springs had taken a beating and didn't have much bounce left in them. Sam was conscious of every bump and jostle as the stagecoach increased its speed. It was going to be rough on June.
Setting the gun case on the tops of his thighs, Sam lifted the lid. He lifted the mule's-leg and started fixing the extended barrel in place. He could have put the long gun together on the back of a galloping horse and had, many times. Assembly swiftly completed, he put the gun case in the front boot, behind the footboard under the seat. Latigo's carbine was already stowed there.
The road ran more or less directly east over the plains, good green land with gentle rises and hollows, speckled with trees and rock piles. Latigo drove the team at a brisk pace, but not all out. The horses had used up a lot of energy fleeing their pursuers earlier, and he wanted to leave them with some reserves in case they had to bolt hell-bent-for-leather.
Sam's eyes scanned the north, on his left-hand side. Often he glanced back over his shoulder, west. The string of four horses trailing the rear of the stagecoach trotted along nicely.
The day was waning; the sun hung low in the west, an orange ball floating a few degrees above the skyline of the Breaks.
Sam faced front. The tallest object in Hangtown, the white church steeple, would be the first to show above the east horizon. He longed to see it. Several miles rolled past. On the north, a row of stepped ridges ran east-west, the nearest an eighth of a mile away.
A line suddenly formed along the crestâa long line made of mounted men ranked side by side. One second they weren't there; the next, they were.
Donahue stuck his head out of the stagecoach's paneless window, shouting, “Injins!”
Latigo was already urging the team forward, shouting, throwing a snap into the reins to get more speed out of them. The driver's long whip would have been of service, but it had gotten lost somewhere back on the road. Sam fired a shot close above the horses' heads to hasten them along.
A black wave of riders came rolling down the slope, whooping and hollering. No scouting party, this; it was a significant group, numbering perhaps forty braves in all.
Red Hand was not waiting for night to make his move. He was striking close to town by day. Sam wondered if the war chief had brought his whole force down from the hills and, if so, how close they were to Hangtown.
The stagecoach's race for life would be a close-run thing. It had a good lead and was off to a fast start, but riders on horseback were faster than horse-drawn coaches. And when the riders were peerless horsemen like the Comanches, the odds became narrower still.
The stagecoach careened along the road, wheels blurring, the landscape unrolling at high speed. Comanches angled across the flat, closing on the road. Some opened fire, bullets whipping through the air.
The nearest riders were those who'd been on the east flank of the line atop the hillcrest. The most distant, those who'd been on the west flank, crossed the road and plunged south, gradually curving southeast.
They were forming a crescent whose ends pointed east; their goal was to envelop the stagecoach on both sides, closing in on it with the tips of the horns and goring it preparatory to making the kill. Relentless, they were howling pack of hellhounds closing in on their quarry.
Gripping the side rail bordering the stagecoach roof, Sam climbed up on its flat top, rifle in hand. If any of the passengers' baggage had been mounted there, it had been shed sometime during the earlier pursuit, for the roof was clear and unencumbered.
Sam lay prone, facing west. He hooked the sides of his booted feet under the side rails to brace himself in place. The first Comanche bullets were a few missiles buzzing by through empty air. They were still too far away for bows and arrows to do any damage.
Sam opened up on the horsemen, firing from the prone position. He pointed the gun at a brave in the lead and shot him. A second shot felled the next.
The number of enemy shots increased, some tearing into the rear of the vehicle. It was the cue for Donahue and Brewster to stick their rifles out the windows and open fire.
The stagecoach plunged down a dip in the road, across a valley, and up the other side. Sam silently cursed each degree of slowness added by the slope. Sighting on a feather-bonneted brave on a tawny horse, he squeezed the trigger.
The brave lurched when hit, dropping his rifle. After a pause, he slumped sideways, falling off his horse.
Topping the rise, the stagecoach's front and rear wheels left the ground for an instant. Sam felt it in the pit of his stomach. The wheels touched down, the coach's upper works slamming against the undercarriage with a bone-jarring crash.
Latigo shouted, “Gringo! The town!”
Sam turned his head, looking east. Sunlight shone on the slim white obelisk of the church steeple, turning it to gold.
Three Comanches crested the rise behind the stagecoach. Sam shot the one in the middle. Knots of braves began swooping over the ridgetop. So many bullets were flying, it was as though the Comanches were pegging hornets' nests at the stagecoach, peppering it with hot lead stingers.
Riders at the tips of the curving horn drew abreast of the stagecoach. Sam downed several on his right-hand side. Point. Squeeze. Shoot. Kill a man.
Repeat. Point. Squeeze. Shoot. Kill!
Donahue and Brewster kept banging away with their rifles. Donahue engaged in a running gunfight with a Comanche closing in on him, finally potting him.
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