Apache Rampage (10 page)

The night was dark, the moon a mere sliver, and even the stars faded into almost nothing. There was nothing to be seen by the two men as they sat with their backs to the wall. Dick would much rather have been standing on the stone ramp and looking over the wall for some sign of the approaching, expected Apaches. He sat for a time without moving, the knife in his hand, eyes on the dull bulk of the church which loomed before him.

‘I can’t hear a thing for them damned crickets,’ he hissed after a time.

‘Yeah, lovely sound, ain’t it?’ Walapai answered, holding his voice down as low as Dick’s whisper. Then his hand tightened on Dick’s sleeve, ‘Listen!’

Dick strained his ears to catch the sound which attracted Walapai’s attention and brought the urgent hissed warning. He could hear nothing, not a sound of any kind. Even the crickets no longer chirped. By his side he sensed Walapai was standing and came to his feet, facing the wall. He did not know what to make of things and opened his mouth to whisper an inquiry. It was too late, Walapai had faded off into the blackness.

Some instinct made Dick look up. The wall rose black above him, the top of it making a darker slash against the dull sky. Straight and level the wall top ran. Dick gulped down something, his mouth suddenly going dry. The wall top above him was no longer straight and level. There was a bulge on it, a lump which was not there a few seconds before. Something was on top of the wall and swinging over.

A feeling of panic hit Dick, but he held his nerves in control. He realised what that shape was, even before it began to slide down the wall towards him. There were two other shapes on the wall top even as Dick lunged forward. He drove his knife forward and into the shape, feeling the point bite home and sink in. There was a gasping cry from the yielding thing as the knife sank home. At the same moment Dick heard a muffled rush of steps and a soggy thud. Then he felt a weight of the Apache coming down on him, falling backwards. His hand slipped from the sticky, wet hilt of his knife, and he staggered to fall. The hot, half-naked, sweaty body of the Apache landed on top of him.

Grappling with the Apache Dick struggled desperately throwing his arm around the bare throat, while his other hand struck wildly. Then he heard a sound which almost caused him to let go. It was a sound which would scare any man who heard it, a sound Dick knew well. Deep and harsh it rolled out in the darkness, the coughing, roaring snarl of an enraged grizzly bear. In desperation Dick rolled the Apache from him and was about to attack again when he saw the man was still. It struck Dick then that the Apache was dead, had been within a couple of seconds of the knife going home.

Dick came to his feet, hand fanning to his side, and found an empty holster; he had forgotten to re-fasten it. He was unarmed and there were Apaches in the church grounds. More, there was, or appeared to be, a mean old silvertip grizzly near at hand. He looked up. The top of the wall was suddenly straight and clear again. On the other side he thought he heard the gentle swish of fast-running feet. Then after a few minutes of silence, the crickets started their chirping again.

A hand gripped Dick’s arm. He gave a yell and swung a wild fist, the yell came again as his knuckles hit the wall. The yelp of pain brought a low chuckle, and he made out that it was Walapai standing by his side.

‘See you got one, boy,’ Walapai said, and his voice was the sweetest sound Dick ever remembered hearing. ‘Good, I got me another. Rest’s gone now and they ain’t likely to be back.’

Dick sank to the ground, for suddenly his knees would no longer support his weight. Then he realised Walapai was talking in a normal voice and gasped. ‘What the hell was that growl? It sounded like a silvertip.’

‘Did, huh?’ Walapai sounded just a little mite pleased. ‘I’ll bet them Apaches thought it war, too.’

‘You did it?’

‘Why sure. See Apaches think the silvertip’s bad medicine. Allow the spirits of the bad folks go into silvertips when they die. Won’t go within a country mile of a silver-tip, won’t any Apache. Good thing to remember, boy. Lost something?’

Dick was trying to find his revolver without Walapai noticing his folly. He heard a rasping sound, and the flickering light of a match showed him his gun. He went to pick up the Colt, and heard Walapai grunt. The old timer was bending over Dick’s victim, and pulling out the knife.

‘Waal I swan, boy,’ Walapai grunted as he came to Dick’s side. ‘I wronged you and that little bitty knife of your’n. I never thought you could kill a man with it, I surely didn’t.’

Dick was pleased the darkness prevented Walapai seeing the flush of embarrassment which came to his face. All the time he’d been looking down on Walapai, thinking the big, wicked looking old bowie knife was a thing long out of date. At the same time Walapai must have been laughing at Dick’s own knife as a toy unfit for the doing of any kind of man’s work.

‘Maybe they’ll be back,’ remarked Dick, as he sheathed his knife and holstered the Colt.

‘Tain’t likely, boy. They’ll allow their medicine’s bad, us waiting for them and hearing a silvertip. They was only a small bunch. Knowed we was inside the church and snuck in the back way. Didn’t aim to stay on here, we was too many for ‘em.’

‘What’d they want then?’

‘Kill one of our look-outs if they could. And leave his body down the well.’

Dick gulped. A body down the well would ruin it, pollute the water. That was why the small bunch of Apaches came, not to take and hold the church until the other Apaches wiped out the town. It was a devilish plan and one well in keeping with the way the Apache fought.

‘Maybe they’ll be back, Walapai.’

‘Sure, but it ain’t likely. We’ll bide here just the same, until dawn. You can go fetch our rifles when the boys come back.’

Dick was still straining his ears, trying to catch any slight sound from the other side of the wall, ‘Damn those crickets I can’t hear a thing for them.’

‘When you don’t hear them it’s time to start worrying,’ replied Walapai. ‘It means there’s somebody coming when they stops singing out. Now me, I could stop here and listen to them singing all night.’

‘Tell you something, Walapai,’ Dick replied, sounding very sincere. ‘So could I. It’s the sweetest sound I ever did near.’

The other miners made for the Haslett store. They did not know what was happening in the church, but all knew Walapai could take care of himself. Their own business was of more importance at the moment. Church Street was dark and deserted. Not a light showed. The rest of the town was not brightly lit either, but there were enough lights showing through curtained windows to indicate how few people were sleeping in Baptist’s Hollow.

Zeke worked fast. He sent his men to keep watch, then went to the side window of the store and looked in. The building was dark and there was no sign of any life in it. With the Hasletts spending the night with the Millet family and their hired help having left that morning, there would be no one in the building. That was all to the good for Haslett would not take kindly to what the miners planned on doing. Even if he and his friends were the ones who would benefit by it.

Carefully Zeke put his old hat over his palm and began to push on the pane of glass. For a moment it held, the snapped and fell in with a slight tinkle. Inserting his hand, Zeke unfastened the window catch and lifted the protesting sash. He was about to slip in when one of the other men whispered:

‘You done this sort of thing afore, Zeke. Sure the Pinkertons aren’t looking for you?’

Zeke grinned and slipped in through the window, followed by Ike. They struck matches and went to work fast. A pile of sacks was found first. Then they began to fill each sack with food. They worked fast and took only the essential foods, for there was not much time. At midnight the guards at the rifle pits would be changed, and this must be done before that happened. There was a chance Haslett might come to the store on his way to the pits, but it was not likely. Zeke wanted to be finished before that happened.

With each sack filled it was passed out of the window and a miner would make a fast trip to the church with it. They used a small room at the rear of the building as a store, leaving one man on watch there and not disturbing Walapai.

Zeke and Ike took all they needed, enough food to keep the town supplied, on short rations, for almost a week. There was little left of Haslett’s stock by the time they finished. A raid on the Haslett kitchen brought a limited supply of cooking utensils. Then the men left.

Back at the church they re-lit the small fire and settled down. Walapai joined them with word of the raid and praise for the way Dick handled himself. Then plans were made for the following morning. After that the miners settled down to sleep, stretching out on the hard ground. They took turns in watching and, as the first distant streaks of light showed in the east, rose.

‘Soon be coming,’ Ike remarked.

Zeke nodded, it would soon be time. The attack would begin and all hell would break loose on the town of Baptist’s Hollow.

CHAPTER NINE

The sky was just faintly tinged with a fine, first red glow in the east. It was that first glow which, while not affecting surrounding darkness, brought a warning that dawn was on hand.

Resting his rifle on the earth in front of his rifle pit, Major Ellwood tried to see through the blackness of the night around him. It appeared to him, as he strained to see something in the darkness, that the night was blacker now. In his pit he heard Haslett and Millet stirring and knew they were as awake and alert as only badly scared men could be. The other pits were manned ready, although it had been no easy task to stir the men out to relieve their friends. Ellwood did it in the end, making enemies of many people. Somehow he did not mind that. His time in the town was limited. The Town Council would never forgive him his action in making them take their fair share of the defence of the town and would have him out of his office as soon as they could. That did not worry him, he meant to leave Baptist’s Hollow and make a fresh start in some other town.

Looking around him, even in the blackness, Ellwood could feel the tension and nervousness of the other men. Soon they would know if Lobo Colorado planned to make his attack. It would be the moment of truth for many of them. Lobo Colorado was going to get the surprise of his Life when he ran up against the rifle pits.

That was where Ellwood made his biggest mistake.

Lobo Colorado knew all about the rifle pits, had known almost as soon as they were begun. His men were watching the town and had been ever since Ramon went under. They moved in ready the day after the treacherous attack on their village, for this was to be the first town in Lobo Colorado’s plan to sweep the white-eyes from the Apache lands for ever.

The chief did not know what those rifle pits were; the Army had never been foolish enough to use such things against a fast-moving, agile and vindictive fighter like the Apache, having learned their lesson against lesser tribes further east; he did know the tremendous disadvantage being in the pits was for the white-eyes. He made no move to stop their being dug or manned. They would be graves for the men who sat in them.

Even now his brave-heart warriors were moving in on the pits. Men slid forward along the ground, inching silently ever nearer, in the Apache way. With weapons held ready, they were closing in on those foolish white-eyes and by the time there was light to see by would be ready for their final rush. It would be a sudden, violent and spectacular move. The white-eyes would find themselves faced with a mass of yelling, shooting Apaches, would be smashed under, swarmed over in one wild rush. At the same moment smaller parties of men would be rushing on foot down the slopes on the other three sides of the town. Then, while panic and pandemonium reigned among the white-eyes, the main body of the Apache force, mounted and ready, would hurl themselves in through the open end of the Hollow.

It was a well-laid plan, one worthy of a great leader. It was a war plan such as the other Apache greats, Mangus Colorado, Cochise, Geronimo or Victorio made and put into operation with success.

So it was a pity that all Lobo Colorado’s men were not veterans, battle-tried and found true in such a situation. One of the advancing party was a mere boy, a stripling fresh from horse-herding and newly initiated into his father’s war lodge. The boy was wriggling forward with the older men, his old single-shot rifle held across his arms as he advanced. His eyes picked out the shape of the rifle pit ahead of him, making out the shape through the darkness.

This would be a great day for him, a day for doing deeds long to be boasted of in the wickiups. That he was sure of.

He wriggled on faster than the other braves and drawing ahead of them, his head full of thoughts of how he would count many a coup this day.

Fifty yards from the pits the boy came to a halt, the whole of the creeping line freezing down like statues, hugging the earth and lying without a move. The boy watched the white-eye stand up in one of the foolish holes, an urge to kill came over the young Apache. It would be something for his father to sing over, at the great victory feast that night, how his son, in his first fight, killed the first white-eye. With that thought in mind, forgetting every order Lobo Colorado gave him, the youngest brought up his rifle and fired.

In the pits, the light getting better by the minute, there was a vague uneasy feeling that they’d been wasting their time. Haslett grunted his disgust and stood erect to try and get a better view around him. The storekeeper could see nothing and turned to say:

‘There’s nothing out there. I told you—!’

The rifle bullet ripped Millet’s hat from his head, sending it spinning to one side. With a howl of fear Millet went back into the hole like a gopher hunting cover. Even as he dropped every Apache came up, screaming out their wild war yells, and charged.

The men in the pits were taken completely by surprise and that very surprise saved them from being trampled under in that first rush. Every man held a loaded, cocked rifle, finger on trigger. In a purely involuntary move every finger tightened, and the resulting volley sounded like a crack from a well-trained troop of cavalry. What it lacked in accuracy the volley made up in sound. Five Apaches went rolling in the dust, and the rest hesitated. Ellwood tried to press his advantage by controlled volley firing, but there was no controlling those scared men in the pits. The only good thing was that each of them, in his panic, kept up a rapid, if mostly wild, fire. The sheer volume of fire brought the Apache attack to a halt, sending the warriors dropping flat to the ground. The attacking party just seemed to disappear, fading down into the soil and going out of sight.

Beyond the rim Lobo Colorado heard the first shot, then the roaring volley, followed by the rapid crash of fire. The chief did not own and would not have known how to use a watch, but he was a fair judge of time. When he heard the first shot he knew something was bad wrong. One shot must mean that one of his men had been seen and the surprise attack brought up short.

Jumping his big horse to the head of the slope Lobo Colorado looked down and saw his men going into the ground. It was fast getting light now, and he could see all that happened below. He knew he must bring his other force in before he wanted to. Swinging around on his horse’s back he let out a wild, ringing war yell which brought the mounted Apaches pouring forward, up slope, on to the stage trail, and down towards the rifle pits.

When Ellwood’s men saw the Apaches hit the ground and start back up the slope they thought things were over. They heard the wild yell which started the foot Apaches moving back and began to cheer. Haslett lifted his face from the ground where he’d kept it since nearly getting shot, looked at Millet and asked what was happening.

‘We’ve got ‘em licked!’ Millet howled in delight. ‘We’ve licked ‘em—!’

The words came to an abrupt end, and Millet’s fat face lost all the florid colour it had originally showed, his eyes bulged out at what he saw. A mass of mounted Apaches came into view on the stage trail, and with a wild ringing roar of war-shouts sent their horses hurling forward.

Half a second ahead of the others, Millet saw what the miners knew all along. The rifle pits were a death trap when faced with the onrush of cavalry. He knew they had no chance. That was when Millet lost his head. In a wild panic he threw aside his rifle, clawed out of the hole and ran for it. Haslett, as befitting a leading citizen of the town, was next to go, dropping his Winchester and making good time in his dash for town. The panic was infectious, man after man leapt from the pits and ran for the safety of the town.

Ellwood saw his men running and with the four who remained firm tried to fight a rearguard action. They fired fast, and their fire held back the braves for a few vital seconds, allowing them to start backing off for the town.

In the town, even as the first shot was fired, the miners were ready. They split into four parties, Walapai with three men to hold the rear wall of the church. Ike took three men to defend the left flank of the town, four more going to the right. Zeke, with the other four headed as fast as they could along Church Street to give what help they could to the men in the rifle pits. By the time they were passing the last building, they heard the steady crash of shots all round the town and knew the big attack was on.

Zeke brought his men to a halt by the final building of the town, their rifle fire directed with accuracy on the attacking braves. Millet raced by them, sprinting along at a speed which was surprising in one of his bulk. Behind him came the other men, running with the fear of death on them, only a few had even brought their weapons with them.

It was only the arrival and straight shooting of Zeke’s party which saved Ellwood’s life. His backers were all down, and he fought a desperate covering action to try and hold back the charging Apaches. The rapid fire of five men who could lay a rifle and call down their shots brought confusion to the attackers, but it was only a temporary confusion. Zeke and his men all knew it. Behind them all was confusion and pandemonium as women, children and such men who were not in the rifle pits streamed from their homes. There was a rush for the church, a few, a very few, men stayed on to help the miners, or came to back up Zeke and the group at the end of Church Street.

The Apaches who made their attack on foot were back to their horses now. On the rim Lobo Colorado saw his first party of horsemen milling under the rapid fire of the five accurate rifles. Throwing back his head Lobo Colorado brought out a shout from his deep barrel of a chest. It was a shout which carried to the men on the edge of town. Zeke spoke Apache, and the words brought the hair standing bristly and stiff along the back of his neck.

‘Brave up, brothers!’ Lobo Colorado’s booming shout rang out over every other sound. ‘This is a good day to die!’

It was a shout no self-respecting Apache brave could resist. Not when their great war chief was hurling his horse down the slope towards them. The braves sent their horses leaping forward, hurling down the slope to count coup, to loot, to kill.

Ellwood stopped by Zeke’s side, rubbing the blood from his face and then forced bullets into the breach of his Winchester. The old miner was coolly firing at the Apaches, working as fast as he could to reload the old Remington rifle. He hoped for a clear shot at Lobo Colorado but did not get the chance. Glancing sideways at Ellwood, he growled:

‘Reckon this’s where we go dead, Major. Head for the church!’

Zeke and his men, except the two who would not be coming, backed off, their steady volley firing slowing the charge of the Apaches. Then Zeke gave a grunt of pain and dropped, a bullet through his leg. Ellwood bent, helped Zeke up, got him across his shoulders and tried to lift the rifle.

‘Head for the church with Zeke, Major,’ a miner gasped out. ‘We’ll do what we can to stop them.’

Ellwood did not hesitate, he turned and ran for it, carrying the wounded man across his shoulders. He went by the jail, ignoring the scared yells of the two prisoners, making for the church to leave Zeke and return to help the remaining miners.

It was at this moment Dusty Fog brought his party into the attack, coming in behind the charging Apaches. They came from the stage trail and down the slope towards the town, a charging, shooting, wild yelling body of men with the wagons rocking and swaying in the centre of the bunch. They smashed into the Apaches from behind, the attack coming as a complete surprise.

It was a brief, hectic madhouse as guns roared, horses squealed, men shouted and cursed. Through it all, even in the wild rush Dusty could find time to admire the superb horsemanship of the Apaches as they wheeled and turned their light war-ponies before the heavier cavalry mounts.

Bogran came boiling up in the churned-up dust behind Dusty. He saw the small Texan ahead and a light of hatred came over his face. This was his chance to avenge himself on the man who beat and humiliated him. Bringing up his revolver he lined it on Dusty’s back, then drew back the hammer. Then he stiffened, a piece of the front of his tunic erupted in a bloody mess and slowly he keeled out of the saddle. Harris, the prisoner, came by, levering a fresh bullet into the chamber of the Springfield carbine. He looked down as his horse went by Bogran’s back-shot body.

‘You won’t abuse no more prisoners, Bogran,’ he hissed, ‘nor shoot a good man in the back either.’

Dusty Fog would never know how close he came to death, or that he owed his life to a man who was going to the Stockade for life.

Dusty saw a painted, screaming warrior ahead of him. There was no time to do anything but send the huge paint smashing into the war-pony and hope for the best. Down went the little Apache horse, and Dusty’s right hand Colt wrote a finish to the warrior.

Then they were through the Apaches, but their trouble was only just beginning. Lobo Colorado’s men were taken by surprise by the sudden and unexpected attack from behind. They broke and scattered, not knowing for sure how many men were in the attacking party. Now they knew and could figure odds of over ten to one being good medicine. They were reforming and preparing to come on Dusty and his men like a pack of wolves on a hamstrung buffalo.

‘Fight on foot!’ Dusty roared. ‘Waco, three men to run the horses to the church.’

Waco waved a hand in answer to the order, although he did not wish to leave his friends in the middle of a good fight. He and the three men Dusty allocated the task of handling the horses closed in and headed them for the church, heading along the now almost deserted Church Street. Behind him, on foot, the men ranged alongside the startled miners, and Dusty’s voice shouted an order for volley firing.

The first volley crashed out as Waco was approaching the jail, he heard a yell and looked at the barred cell window. To his amazement, two scared-looking faces peered out at him. It didn’t take a mind-reading Comanche witch-woman to know what the two men wanted, or what had happened. It also took Waco less than half a second to go into action. He yelled to the men to keep on and swung his horse, leaving the saddle at a fast run. The big paint was headed on with the rest of the horses and Waco lit down on the sidewalk, went across it and tried the jail door. The door was locked and Waco wasted no time in thinking of rights of property. His right foot came up and smashed into the side of the lock. The door held for the first kick, then burst open on the second, and Waco went in fast.