Fire on the Plains (Western Fire) (20 page)

“What are they doing?”

Ben shrugged. “Taunting us more than likely. Don’t pay it any mind. You need to reload your weapon.”

Lydia did as
her husband ordered, grabbing a handful of copper rimmed cartridges out of the large ammunition box. Glancing at Dixie’s underground hideaway, she was only now beginning to appreciate what an inspired idea it had been. She just wished that they could have dug a deep enough hole for the three of them to climb into. For with each thundering gun shot, each shrill war whoop, she’d suffered the pang of an almost unbearable guilt, knowing that it was
she
, not Ben, who had originally suggested making the journey to this savage, Godforsaken land. If Ben was shot, or if Dixie’s hiding place uncovered, the blame would solely be hers.

And s
hould either of those dire calamities occur, she would be unable to live with herself.

Lacking
a handkerchief, Lydia wearily wiped the perspiration from her brow with her dress sleeve. To her surprise, the gaily printed calico fabric came away covered in grimy gunpowder. Peering over at Ben’s smoke-blackened face and torso, she could only assume that she was just as dirty, the air around them redolent with the acrid smell of gunsmoke.

Ben handed her a canteen, the letters U.S. incised
onto the shellacked exterior. “If you need a sip of water, get it now while you still have a chance.”

Thirsty, Lydia
took several unladylike gulps, not realizing until that moment that she was utterly parched.

“Not so fast,” Ben cautioned. “Your stomach will cramp up on you if you swallow too much of it.”

Trusting her husband implicitly, Lydia took smaller sips, smiling her thanks as she passed the canteen back to him. Ben lifted the cedar container to his mouth and refreshed himself with a quick drink, wiping his lips with his forearm before recorking the canteen.

Silently, the two of them stared at the Indians on the other side of the riverbank
. Neither of them remarked on the half dozen gaudily-painted, scantily-clad Comanches haphazardly sprawled where they’d fallen. Forcing herself
not
to think about the fact that she’d killed one of them, Lydia girded herself for the next charge. While she wouldn’t wish this nightmare upon even her worst enemy, she was grateful to have Ben at her side. If it hadn’t been for his valiant, steadfast composure, she’d never have gotten through that first blood-chilling attack. Just having him at her side imbued her with an extra measure of courage.

“Here, take this.”

Lydia turned, baffled to see that Ben was holding a leather wallet in his hand. “What am I supposed to do with that?”

Her husband’s
smoke-blackened face creased into a wry grin. “Since you aren’t wearing any drawers, I guess you’ll have to tuck it inside your dress bodice.”

Leaning her rifle against a barrel,
Lydia took the wallet out of Ben’s hand. She then unsnapped the leather purse, surprised to see a thick wad of U.S. greenbacks. “This appears to be a substantial amount of money.”

“Although I wish there was more of it, it’s all the money we have,”
Ben matter-of-factly informed her before turning his gaze on the Indians still whooping and posturing on the other side of the river.

“Why give this wallet to me?”

Several moments of tense silence ensued, during which Ben didn’t give her the courtesy of even a quick sidelong glance.

“Answer me, Ben!”

With a resigned sigh, her husband inclined his head in her direction and said, “I gave you the wallet because the Comanches kill male captives as a matter of course.”

Lydia slapped the leather wallet against
Ben’s bare arm, refusing to contemplate, let alone discuss, so horrific an outcome.

Cursing
softly, Ben leaned toward her. Before she could protest the assault upon her person, he unbuttoned her bodice and stuffed the leather wallet into her chemise, wedging it between her breasts.

“You listen to me, Lydia. No matter what happens, no matter how horrible it is, you
do whatever it takes to stay alive. Do you understand me?” Ben’s fingers gripped her upper arm, his warm breath hitting her full in the face. “You
stay
alive. Now hurry and fasten your dress,” he muttered as he reached for his rifle. “Here they come.”

H
eartsick, Lydia fumbled with the cloth-covered buttons, hastily securing her garment. As she lifted the rifle to her shoulder, her stomach lurched. Lulled by the temporary cessation of hostilities, she’d secretly hoped that the Indians would call retreat.

It was not to be.

At hearing the dreaded splash of water as the Comanches forged the river, Lydia gripped her rifle, the blued steel still warm to the touch. As if rehearsed, the band of warriors split into two groups, this time charging either side of the wagon rather than leading a frontal attack as they had previously. A well-devised plan, it meant that she couldn’t rely on Ben to lend assistance as he would be too busy defending his side of the wagon.

Faced with the prospect of fending off half a dozen warriors all on her own, Lydia held her rifle at the ready as the Comanche
s raced their war ponies forward, all six riders suddenly disappearing from her gunsights. Disbelieving what she was seeing, she watched as the warriors perilously clung to the sides of the charging beasts, somehow managing to fire dozens of arrows from under their horses’ necks.

Stifling a fearful scream,
Lydia’s body went rigid as a shower of arrows rained down upon them. Unthinkingly, she fired her rifle, too terrified to take proper aim.

Quickly glancing at their makeshift fortress, she offered up a heartfelt prayer, relieved to see that most of the arrows were imbedded in the trunks and barrels
that shielded them.

“Why aren’t they firing their muskets?” she cried out, frustrated that the Comanche
s were using their legendary riding skills to make themselves as difficult a target as possible.

“Trying to conserve ammunition, more than likely,” Ben replied, able to get off two shots even as he spoke. “If you can’t get a bead on an injun, aim for his horse.”

While it was utterly inhumane, Lydia knew that it was their only chance of survival. All around them, the earth seemed to have sprouted feathered sticks, the ground in front of the wagon littered with scores of spent arrows. If she and Ben could not turn the tide of battle in their favor, those arrows would soon find their true mark.

Clenching her jaw, Lydia cocked her rifle and
pulled the trigger, ignoring the pain in her shoulder as the powerful weapon recoiled against her. Again and again, she fired. If not with complete accuracy, then at least with utter determination.

When the next volley of arrows pelted their breastworks, she mentally distanced herself from it. Cringing in fear would not deter the arrow from its trajectory. If an arrow pierced her flesh, she would deal with the injury when it happened, and not one moment sooner. She certainly would not
—

“Ben!”

It happened so quickly, Lydia had no time to react as a Comanche warrior, his mount galloping at breakneck speed, leapt from his horse. Gripping a huge knife in his hand, he hurled himself upon Ben’s back. The momentum of the attack sent both men toppling over a barrel, Ben’s rifle loosened from his grip.

Frantically, Lydia tried to take aim at the warrior, but with four arms and four legs wildly thrashing about, she feared
that she might unintentionally shoot her own husband. As they continued to wrestle one another, she was alarmed to note that the Comanche brave still had the knife clutched in his hand.

Unable to intercede,
Lydia helplessly watched as Ben’s attacker used his knife with brutal result, the blade slicing across Ben’s midsection, leaving a red trail in its wake.

Just then, a shot rang out, the warrior rolling to the ground, a bloody hole in his stomach.
In the next instant, Ben shoved himself to his knees, Lydia surprised to see that he held a smoking revolver in his hand. Until that moment, she’d forgotten that he’d earlier tucked the firearm into the waistband of his trousers.

About to rush to Ben’s side, a large copper hand suddenly clamped down on her rifle, yanking it
out of her grasp. A split second later, Lydia found herself staring into the barrel of her own weapon. As she frantically peered about their encampment, she saw that they were completely surrounded by Comanches. Having dismounted, the warriors began to slowly encircle them. To a man, they were heavily armed, some holding muskets, others with tomahawks clenched in their fists.

“Whatever you do, don’t make any sudden moves,” Ben quietly ordered, his revolver aimed at the scowling warrior who held a rifle to her.

“I wasn’t p-planning on it,” Lydia sputtered, her heart pounding against her breastbone.

Terrified, she took
stock of their enemy. Up close, they were even more fearsome-looking than they had appeared from a distance. Those who weren’t tattooed were garishly painted in a dazzling array of colors.
Black. Red. Yellow. Ochre
. It was a sight unlike anything she’d ever seen before, the Comanches having used their well-muscled bodies as a macabre canvas upon which they created an even more macabre art.

The Indian who’d commandeered her rifle spoke to the encroaching band of warriors, his guttural command causing them to come to a standstill. From his proud bearing,
he appeared to be their leader, his word obviously holding sway over the others.

Using the tip of the Henry rifle, the leader motioned to Ben’s revolver before swinging the rifle back in her direction. “You want woman live? Put down pistol.”

He spoke English!

If Ben was as surprised as she by their captor’s command of the English language, he gave no indication of it.

Slowly, never taking his eyes off of the imposing Comanche, Ben lowered his revolver to the ground.

Stepping forward, the gruesomely painted Indian leader, one side of his body painted red, the other side
painted black, handed Lydia’s rifle to the warrior closest to him. Bending at the waist, he retrieved the loaded revolver.

“You fight pretty damn good,” the Indian said with a grudging nod of the head as he examined the sidearm. Then, almost as an afterthought, he raised the revolver, firing it point
-blank into Ben’s left arm.

Horrified, Lydia screamed as Ben careened backwards with an agonized
grunt. Cruelly disregarding his gaping wound, two warriors dragged him away.

Without a thought as to the consequences, Lydia flung herself at the Comanche war leader, gouging her fingernails down both sides of his painted cheeks, giving vent to her fury. Raising an arm, he pistol
-whipped the right side of her head, causing her body to violently spin like a child’s top.

As she struggled to catch her breath, Lydia watched, st
unned, as utter mayhem set in.

Everywhere she looked, the Comanche
s were opening trunks, hurling kegs, tearing, ripping, and smashing in their voracious quest to uncover booty. Two fierce-looking Indians, struggling over a flour sack that each had laid claim to, pulled it apart at the seams, both of them hacking and coughing in the ensuing deluge of white powder. Another warrior, her discarded drawers tied around his head, was whooping and yelling in front of the wagon. Yet another had smeared his chest with red Tabasco sauce, perhaps thinking it a pigment of some sort.

Mercifully,
none of the Indians had moved the large trunk that safeguarded Dixie.

Momentarily forgotten in the chaos, Lydia turned full circle, searching for Ben. When she caught sight of him, she gasped aloud. Staked to the ground, spread
-eagle on his back, Ben struggled in vain against his leather wrist and ankle restraints as a quartet of Indians began slicing away his trousers.

Screaming, Lydia rushed forward, her right hand fearfully splayed over her heart. Feeling an unusual protuberance, she came to a full stop, taking a moment to hurriedly unbutton her bodice. Shoving her hand into her opened dress, she extracted Ben’s leather wallet.

“Money! I have money!” she screamed frantically as she ran toward the Comanches who were crouched over top of her husband’s immobilized body. Coming to a halt approximately twenty feet from them, she waved the wallet to-and-fro, hoping to lure them away from Ben.

The Comanche
s stopped what they were doing and eyed her suspiciously. Having garnered their attention, she opened the wallet and removed the thick wad of greenbacks, enticingly fanning it in front of her face.

“Look
! Lots of money,” she cooed in as tempting a voice as possible.

Turning their backs on their captive, all four warriors strode toward her. As each one approached, she handed him a few pieces of paper money. Clearly fascinated by the ornate engravings, they excitedly compared the various denominations. Hoping to keep them away from Ben long enough for her free him from his bonds, Lydia tossed th
e remaining bills into the air.