Rebel Yell (4 page)

Sam's empty stomach rumbled. No hot meal for him. He dared not risk lighting a fire. He used his blade to cut off a chunk of beef jerky, jammed it between his jaws, and went to work on it. Strong white teeth slowly ground it to pulp. It had to be chewed slowly if he wanted to keep those teeth intact and unbroken. He washed it down with sips of muddy water from his canteen.

One of many such cheerless meals he'd had on the trail, but that was how he managed to stay alive.

The sun set, a cool breeze whipping a snaky line of dust eastward. Venus twinkled low in the west, stars brightening in a blackening sky.

Sam rose, shaking out the kinks of knotted muscles from his long vigil. He went to his horse, stroking its muzzle. He took some dried parched corn from his saddlebag and munched it, washing it down with several mouthfuls of water. He made camp nearby, a simple camp with no fire. He spread his bedroll on the ground and used his saddle for a pillow. He lay on his back and went to sleep with the Navy Colt in his hand under the blanket.

Sam awoke sometime during the night. He sat up, blankets falling around his waist, Navy Colt held steady in his hand. What woke him? Natural body rhythms or something afoot in the night? He looked around, eyes accustomed to the dark. Dusty stirred nearby, aware he was up.

A half moon hung in the sky. Fitful night breezes rose out of the west and northwest. Somewhere out on the plateau a coyote howled, a lonesome sound that never failed to send a chill along Sam's spine.

It sent the same reaction, but for different reasons. Was it a coyote? Or a Comanche imitating a coyote, signaling to his fellows, maybe giving the signal to move in for the final assault?

The night cries were not repeated. Sam sank back down, pulling the blankets up, and went back to sleep, gun in hand.

When he woke again, the sky was lightening in the east. He stretched, then got up. “Going to be a big day!”

It was a cold cheerless breakfast he fixed for himself. No coffee. A fire was needed to make coffee. He consoled himself with a slug of whiskey gulped from a pocket flask he carried. “For medicinal purposes only,” he told himself. It was no time to go on a tear, but a drink wouldn't do him any harm. Might do a bit of good.

He took a generous swallow of the stuff, a line of fire plunging down his throat, blossoming into welcome heat in his belly. Welcome recompense for his dog's breakfast of pemmican and parched corn washed down with tepid murky water.

Another belt of the whizz would sure go down good, but he capped the flask and put it away. Only half-joking, he said, “Satan, get thee gone . . .”

It was light enough for him to get about his business, so he picked his way along the cliff rim, returning to the spot he had chosen for his sharpshooter's nest. The brush screened him from those on the flat below. Through spaces in the foliage, he could spy on the gunrunners' camp without being seen.

Sam set to work shaping up his shooting platform and readying his weapon. It was a good feeling, knowing the showdown was nigh.

He'd been on the trail for days . . . weeks. Weeks of burning days and chilly nights. Even the steadiest nerves became taut and worn from relentless stress.

However long the wait, he could stand it, especially with the end in sight. The nearness of his quarry was a tonic.

It was more than a bit provocative, that nearness. He had to fight the urge to start lining up the gunrunners in his sights and opening up on them, burning them down. He was seized with an almost overwhelming desire to get an early start on the cleanup but fought it down.

The long day wore on. Sam told himself he should have known that the Comanches would wait till the last before showing.

They did it deliberately, of course. It was a stalling tactic designed to prey on the nerves of the gunrunners, wearing them down. Comanches were always looking to maximize their advantage at the expense of their foes—or friends; the role could change in a moment according to want and whim. If they saw an edge they'd take it; if not, they'd make it.

 

 

Sam readied. “The gang's all here,” he muttered again.

Tension was thick among the gunrunners. They lacked the Comanches' mask of stolid indifference and were no good at hiding their emotions. Inside their heads, fear and anxiety warred with greed.

It wasn't that the Comanches didn't give a damn whether they lived or died. They did. In a shooting scrape, they were careful not to risk themselves pointlessly. They were known for breaking off attacks they thought they couldn't win, showing that they valued their lives no less than the whites.

The numbers between the two groups seemed about even, with the gunrunners having a slight advantage.

That was not so good for the whites perhaps, since each Comanche warrior reckoned himself to be the match of two or three
taibohs
—whites. It was how the Comanches saw themselves.

Was it true? That remained to be seen. But that confidence bordering on arrogance might give them an edge.

Grouped in a loose semicircle whose ends were anchored to the cliffs, the gunrunners had their backs to the rock walls and stood between the Comanches, the corralled horses, and the gun wagon. The outlaws' postures were stiff with tension, most of them sharp, angular. A few affected nonchalance and might even have meant it. But in the main, no matter how calm and uncaring a man looked on the outside, it was hard to remain cool and unruffled in the presence of hostiles whose fondest wish was to hang them head down over a small fire . . . just for starters.

The gunrunners were heavily armed. Rifles were held pointed down or away from the braves. Not too far away, though.

Sam recognized the band's Quesada markings. They knew something of him, too, or would have had they known of his shadowy presence, for the Comanches well knew of the one they called
El Solitario
, the lone rider with the long gun who dogged their war parties, killing them from a distance.

El Solitario who rides alone. The Man with the Devil Gun.

Comanche braves were born hunters, successful predators in a hard and unforgiving environment. It was rare that the hunter became the hunted, rarer still when the hunted were the Comanches themselves. But in recent moons, their bravest and boldest had fallen victim to the Taiboh with the long gun.

Whoever he was, El Solitario threw a wide loop, roaming most of Comancheria deep into the panhandle country between the Arkansas and Red rivers. He prowled west into New Mexico, south to the Rio Grande, even venturing into the remote vastness of the western Llano wilderness they proudly claimed for their own.

As they saw it, the phantom killer struck without warning, not for gain or plunder, which they could understand, but simply for the killing. They could understand that, for they often fought merely for prestige and glory, but it was not a trait they generally attributed to white men. El Solitario opened fire on warriors in camp or on the trail day and night, and when he struck, bodies piled up.

More than one campfire conclave had concluded in blood and slaughter as the unseen rifleman lurked in the darkness beyond the flickering circle of firelight. But of the nearness of Man With the Devil Gun lurking on the cliff top above, Quesada braves and outlaw gunrunners alike were blissfully unaware.

 

 

Wiry and long-limbed, Eagle Feather was at the fore leading his braves to the gun wagon. He was sided by henchman Han-Tay, his second in command. Han-Tay was deeper in the chest, thicker in the arms. The notorious Maldito rode abreast of but apart from the other two in the leading wave.

“Maldito? That little fellow?” Gunslick Melbourne scoffed. “He ain't big enough to carry that name considering all I've heard about him. What a killer he's s'posed to be—”

“He lives up to his rep,” Hump Colway said curtly.

Maldito was short even for a Comanche, almost dwarfish, being some inches short of five feet tall. His upper body development was powerful, impressive.

“Look at the size of them arms, them hands,” Half-Shot marveled. “Strangler's hands if ever I seen them. He gets them hands on you, he could tear your head off without half-trying!”

“Well he ain't gonna get a hand on me. I'll shoot him first,” Melbourne said. “Now what do you think of that?”

Maldito's head was wider than it was long. A triangle of muscle descended from ears to his shoulders, making it look like he had no neck. His eyes seemed on the verge of popping from their sockets. They were the fierce rolling eyes of a wild horse. The rest of his visage was stony, blank-faced.

The band of braves were loosely bunched together, except for a rider or two bringing up the rear. Among them was Barbero, the scalp hunter. The reins of his horse were decorated with scalps of all types and colors.

“Looky there! One of them scalps come off a yellow-headed woman,” Half-Shot husked breathlessly.

“A couple look like they come off kids. They're smaller,” Sully said.

“Seeing that makes my blood boil,” Melbourne muttered. “It ain't right. He's flaunting it. Might as well be waving it in our faces!”

“That's why he does it,” Hump said matter-of-factly.

Chait's elbow nudged Melbourne in the ribs. “Careful you don't get yourself a halo to go along with that sermon you're preaching, Mel.”

“How do you mean?” Melbourne asked.

“Way you're carrying on, you'd think you're in the wrong line of work.” Chait said. “What do you think the Comanches are doing with those guns Honest Bob sells them?”

“I dunno. I never gave it much thought before now,” Melbourne said.

“Well, don't. Let it go, Mel. Let it go. This is just another job for us, a job of work. It don't bear too much thinking,” Chait said.

“That's right. We came here to trade, not to fight,” Sully agreed.

“Who asked you?” Chait said, turning on him.

Sully shut up.

More Comanches neared the gun wagon, gathering around. Dog Fat, an oily fellow with a big belly, brutish Spotted Calf, and lofty Tizane, almost a head taller than his fellows, Thieving Crow, Wolf Track, and others.

Shepherding the gun wagon as the Comanches grouped around it, Ricketts puffed away at his cigar. His closed fist was sweaty where he gripped the fuse cord attached to the gunpowder bomb.

“You know you can trust me, Eagle Feather,” Honest Bob said with bluff heartiness, beginning his pitch.

“You no trust Comanche. You trust Dynamite Man,” Eagle Feather said, indicating Ricketts perched on the gun wagon.

Unhappy at being singled out by Eagle Feather, Ricketts started, the cigar almost falling from his mouth. The result was to make him look even more guilty and self-conscious.

Honest Bob smiled, unabashed. “That's for safety's sake, Eagle Feather. Yours and mine. Any hothead tries to steal the guns gets them blown up in his face. A simple precaution, that's all.”

In the blind above, Sam heard it all. “Ol' Bob's got the soul of a natural-born horse trader,” he whispered.

Eagle Feather spat to show what he thought of Honest Bob's line of reasoning. He turned toward Ricketts. “You, Dynamite Man! Blow up wagon, you blow up, too!” Eagle Feather paused to let it sink in. “How you like that, eh? Damn you!”

Ricketts was dumbfounded, at a loss for words.

“He likes it fine,” Honest Bob said airily, doing the talking. “He knows that everything's gonna go fine today with no trouble at all.”

“You lie. Him scared,” Eagle Feather insisted.

“Ricketts just ain't used to meeting a famous war chief of the Comanches like you, Eagle Feather. He's overcome by your greatness.”

“You think you pretty damned smart, Honest Bob!”

“I can't deny it. But now to business.”

“Honest Bob—businessman.”

“That's me, Eagle Feather.”

“Do not brag of it. All businessman liars,” Eagle Feather said.

Such testing and taunting on the part of Comanche clients was nothing new or unexpected to Honest Bob. It came with the territory. It happened each and every time. They'd come on a lot more threatening and frightening than Eagle Feather. He just kept his eye on the main chance, pushing the deal through. That's why he was still alive, as well as being one of the best in his line.

“You bad friend,” Eagle Feather said, going off on another tack. “We ride long, far. We Comanches thirsty, but you give us nothing to drink.”

“Why, there's plenty of water all around!” Honest Bob said, pretending to misunderstand. “The creek's over there. Help yourself!”

“Water,
phaugh
!” Eagle Feather's expression of disgust was a cross between a choking cough and a throat-clearing. “Honest Bob funny man,” he said, unamused. “Eagle Feather want whiskey—whiskey! What you drink!”

“No firewater here, Chief. No redeye hooch or whiskey. It's for your own good, for my good, for the good of us all. I ain't like them other fellows, crooks I call them, who pose as a friend of the Comanche. Honest Bob is a
real
friend. I don't get you all liquored up drunk with bad whiskey so's I can cheat you. You keep a clear head, you know what you're buying.”

Some gunrunners did give the braves liquor to sweeten them up, Honest Bob knew. There was a word for such traders—
dead.
When a Comanche got liquored up, he went crazy drunk, indulging every mad murderous whim or notion he got in his head. Once he got a skinful of redeye, there was no stopping him . . . short of killing him.

“Remember, you know what you're buying from Honest Bob,” he reminded Eagle Feather.

“You cheap crook and bad friend. That's why you no give whiskey to Eagle Feather.”

“Wasn't there something about guns, Eagle Feather?” Honest Bob prompted, trying to get the deal back on track. “You want guns, don't you? That's why you're here. You want guns and Honest Bob's got them. Good guns!”

“Show me,” Eagle Feather said, arrogant and demanding—his usual mode of address to white and red men alike.

“Show me the gold,” Honest Bob said.

Eagle Feather nodded to Han-Tay. The warrior untied a pouch hanging from his neck by a rawhide thong. He gave the pouch to Eagle Feather, who opened it, pouring some of its contents into an open palm.

Fragments of yellow metal glinted in the blue-shadowed gloom below the cliffs. The glint of gold was sharp and bright even to Sam up in his perch on the cliff top.

The take represented a heap of scavenging. Mexican and American gold coins, gold pocket watches, wedding bands, chains, lockets, and bracelets—all of them gold. There were even a few raw golden nuggets in the mix.

Gold was in short supply for the vast majority of settlers and emigrants on the frontier. Most of those who actually had gold stayed the hell off the frontier. Sam wondered,
How many wagon trains were waylaid, stagecoaches robbed and plundered, and ranches and farms raided and pillaged to collect the take?

Honest Bob breathed hard, his heartbeat quickening. His face lit up at the sight, underlit by golden highlights reflected off the handful of loot. “I think we can do business,” he allowed, sounding out of breath.

“Gold—white man's firewater,” Eagle Feather said, sneering. “You loco for yellow stone.”

For once Honest Bob had no reply. He turned to face the outlaw gang. “Bring the crate with the star on the lid!”

The starred crate stood at the rear of the wagon's flatbed hopper, edging the extended tailgate. It looked the same as the others except for a palm-sized red star hand-painted on the upper right corner of the lid.

Fitch had his gun back but was still in the doghouse for killing Lank. He had a hangdog look. He was still pretty well hungover. He kept his head down, walked soft, and did what he was told without complaint. He and Sully hauled the crate across the wagon tailgate, wrestling with it.

“It's heavy!” Sully hissed through gritted teeth.

“Help 'em out, Half-Shot,” Hump Colway said.

“Why me? Why do I have to do it?”

“Because I said so and I'm ramrodding this chore.”

Half-Shot pitched in, joining the other two. Huffing and puffing, the three of them managed to manhandle the crate off the wagon and across the ground to Honest Bob and Eagle Feather. The haulers set the crate down on the ground with a crash.

“Open it,” Honest Bob said.

Hump handed Fitch a crowbar, and he went to work, wedging the prying end of the bar between the lid and the top of the crate. Squeals and screeches sounded as he levered up the cover and nails gave way.

The lid splintered, cracked, and broke. Fitch pried the pieces loose. Inside the crate were new guns—rifles.

Eagle Feather was no fool. Before he was done, he'd have every crate opened to ensure that they held the guns and ammunition he wanted and weren't filled with rocks. But the first crate had his full attention.

His mask of aloof indifference slipped. The unveiling of the armaments interested him intensely and he showed it. He crowded in, looming over the crate. Han-Tay stood close beside him. Wild-eyed and stony-faced, Maldito moved in alongside them for a better look.

More braves gathered round, dark eyes glittering in leathery faces.

Honest Bob pulled a rifle out of the crate, holding it in his arms, cradling it. “Winchester Model 1866, just like the pony soldiers have at Fort Pardee. My gift to the mighty war chief Eagle Feather!” He handed the rifle to Eagle Feather, who snatched it up greedily in both hands.

“The redskin's sure loving that piece,” Melbourne snickered, low-voiced.

“He looks about as happy as he's ever gonna be,” Chait agreed.