Twice that morning
, the Head Splitters made a feinting attack, but stopped outside of weapon range. Even the crossbowmen, with their long-range projectiles, refrained from launching them.
The net result was only that the party was delayed each time while the lancers formed a defense perimeter. After the second encounter, Cabeza recognized the maneuver for what it wasâa delaying tactic. The word was passed to keep moving, but merely to protect the flank from which the attack came. Then, if the enemy wished to cause delay, he would have to force an actual attack, not merely a feint.
At the next sortie, the warriors of Lean Bull recognized immediately the tactics now used and pressed closer. A shower of arrows flew from the attackers. Most fell short, but one lucky shot felled the horse of a lancer.
Quickly, the man stripped equipment from the dying animal, salvaging weapons, blankets, and water.
“Keep moving!” shouted Cabeza, reining back to help the fallen trooper.
A couple of warriors rode forward to intercept, but the lancer swung up behind Cabeza and he wheeled the black stallion back toward the main column. One warrior loosed an arrow in frustration, but it fell harmlessly short.
The lancer slid to the ground to join the party on foot. There were no extra horses.
“Sanchez!” called Garcia. “Give him your horse!”
Sanchez looked for a moment as if he were going to object, but then realized that the time was not appropriate to assert his claim to authority. He slid clumsily to the ground. The trooper vaulted to the saddle and swung the bay mare into position. The party continued to move without pause and the disgruntled Sanchez took his place among those on foot. He placed himself squarely between two of the crossbowmen. It should be safer there among professional soldiers than with the poorly armed servants. Self-consciously, Sanchez touched his sword. He had never used a sword. Mother of God, how had he ever allowed himself to become involved in this idiotic expedition?
The savages appeared to be preparing for another attack. Cabeza rode back down the column, shouting to close up the ranks. Then he pointed to a nearby creek bed, with a scattering of trees and broken rock which would offer some defensive possibilities.
“Over here! Keep moving! Close it up!”
The party swung in that direction and moved toward the stream. During this season, there was little water, except for deep holes and back eddies of the creek. The stream bed was half a man's height below the level of the plain and would offer good cover and partial concealment.
Cabeza swung the leading lancers aside as they reached their defensive position. They took up a protective stance to cover the retreat of the others. The people on foot reached the bank and started to jump and half stumble into its protective shelter. Sanchez and one of the crossbowmen clattered into a loose pile of white gravel and the soldier turned to place his weapon at the ready. The man dropped to his knees, methodically placed a heavy bolt in the channel of his already braced weapon, and assumed a firing position with elbows on the
cutbank. Sanchez crowded as close to him as he could without attracting attention.
Now the last of the servants had tumbled into the protection of the creek bed. Half the crossbowmen turned and took up positions to protect the rear and the lancers reformed to present a solid line in front.
The savages were pushing forward now. Fascinated, Sanchez watched as the yipping, yelling warriors surged toward them.
At what seemed the last possible moment, Cabeza stood in his stirrups and waved his sword in the signal to attack. Side by side, he and Don Pedro Garcia led the platoon of lancers in a short charge to meet the yelling warriors.
Sanchez's heart rose in his throat. What if they rode too far out and the savages came around them? He gripped the hilt of his sword.
It was soon apparent that the lancers were not too far out in their defensive charge. The two groups met with a clash and the momentum of the savages carried the battle back toward the creek bed. Dust rose around the combatants. Sanchez saw Don Pedro expertly dodge the blow of a war club and thrust with his swordâand his adversary fell and lay still. An arrow whistled past and Sanchez ducked, long after it would have done any good.
He glanced at his companion and saw the crossbowman beside him, leaning over his weapon, sighting and seeking a target. No clear opportunity presented itself.
Then, out of the thickening dust of the melee, Sanchez saw Cabeza and a muscular warrior emerge. They were circling and sparring, coming closer to the cutbank. Still, the bowman had no clear shot.
The lieutenant was now crowding the other horseman, wielding his sword rapidly and pushing the warrior backward. Suddenly, the black stallion seemed to sag. His hindquarters sank and the knees buckled. With one last spasmodic lurch, the great horse fell and, for the first time, Sanchez could see a hand's span of feathered arrow shaft protruding from the animal's rib cage.
Cabeza attempted to kick free of the entangling stirrups,
but one boot caught and he fell heavily, trying to free the encumbered leg. As he struggled, the other horseman circled and readied for the final blow. His heavy stone war club dangled, swinging, ready.
The scene seemed only an arm's length in front of him and Sanchez was frozen, immobilized by his inability to help. He kept expecting the bowman to loose his bolt. “Shoot, in Christ's name, shoot,” he whispered. Still, nothing. He glanced at the other.
The soldier slumped over his crossbow in precisely the same position as before, the weapon aimed in the general direction of the battle. It took a long moment for Sanchez to notice that something was different. The man's posture was loose, his hands limp. Only then did Sanchez see the end of a feathered shaft jutting from the front of his tunic.
Panicky, he seized the weapon from lifeless hands and pointed it at the circling warrior. Cabeza still fought to free his left foot from beneath the dead animal.
Sanchez struggled with the unfamiliar weapon. He had never held one before. Now, how in Christ's name did they loose the bolt? Somewhere, there must be a lever or knob. Almost accidentally, the searching fingers of his right hand struck the release mechanism under the stock and there was a jarring twang. The crossbow bucked from the recoil and the deadly bolt leaped forward. Startled, Sanchez squealed in alarm and dropped the weapon, falling to his knees to cover his eyes with both hands.
A long moment later, he jerked his hands away. The warrior still sat on his horse, but his club now dangled loosely. He had turned and was now facing Sanchez, a confused, surprised look on his dark face. Slowly, he turned the horse and rode directly toward the stricken Sanchez. Cabeza was free now and scrambling to his feet, shouting something.
Just as the warrior had almost reached the gully, where Sanchez stood frozen to the spot, he paused. The surprise in his eyes faded to incoherence and he tumbled limply to the ground. The horse bolted and ran back the way it had come.
Cabeza trotted over, weapon ready, but the man was quite dead. The lieutenant pointed with his sword to a small round
hole in the right armpit, from which blood oozed slowly.
“Your bolt struck just as he raised his arm to use the club,” he said wonderingly.
Cabeza was still visibly shaken by his close call, but not so badly as Sanchez. The little man could not speak, could hardly breathe in and out. He sank to a sitting position in the white gravel of the stream bed.
The sounds of combat were fading and Sergeant Perez trotted up to report that the savages were retreating. Cabeza nodded, still weak-kneed.
“They will be back, with more warriors.”
Night had fallen.
The travelers had posted a heavy guard, though it was not thought that the savages would attack again. Small fires flickered. The hollow cry of an unfamiliar night bird was a sharp contrast to the moaning of the injured.
Cabeza threaded his way through the camp, pausing here and there to speak to a soldier or check on an animal. Casualties were heavy, though not so severe as he had feared at first. Two or three men down and bleeding look like half the platoon, he realized.
He passed the point where the body of his black stallion lay in the dim starlight a few steps away. A little further down the dry creek bed burned a tiny fire, where Don Pedro Garcia lounged. Cabeza clattered through the shifting white stones of the stream bed and sat beside the old man. Garcia looked up expectantly.
“Three horses dead, one missing. Three men, two more wounded.”
“Badly?”
Cabeza nodded and sipped from the waterskin.
“One very bad. Won't live the night. The other has a lance woundâhere.”
He touched his left upper arm just below the shoulder.
“How many of them?”
“Who knows? They carry off their dead and wounded. It does not matter. They will bring more now.”
Don Pedro acknowledged, seemingly unconcerned.
“Tell me, Ramon, is it true, what the men are saying? Did Sanchez really save your life?”
Cabeza nodded soberly. He had not fully recovered from the close encounter.
“It surely is! The other man was ready for the last blow and I was caught under my horse. It was close!”
Don Pedro chuckled and glanced up the creek to where Sanchez squatted with a couple of crossbowmen. He shook his head in disbelief.
“Remember that, Ramon. Men have strengths and weaknesses that do not show. You will see strong men whimper and weak men become heroes.”
He shook his head and chuckled again.
“By Christ's blood! Sanchez!” he muttered, half to himself.
Don Pedro had emerged from the fight unscathed, but the story of his valor was unquestionably second to the story of Sanchez's remarkable feat. One of the bowmen had chanced to see the entire episode, as the frightened little man snatched the dead soldier's crossbow.
As the story was told and retold, it grew slightly in the telling. Sanchez became practically a hero. He was suddenly accepted without reservation by the bowmen, friends of the dead man. They took him as one of themselves and began to teach him the use of his newly acquired weapon. Sanchez was responding admirably, with restraint and some degree of awe.
“What about tomorrow?” Cabeza was greatly concerned.
Don Pedro shrugged. “Who knows? It may be the best fight of our lives!”
Yes, thought Cabeza. Or the last, more likely. It was virtually certain that the Head Splitters would have sent for
reinforcements after the first abortive attack. He tried to estimate how long it might be until a messenger could go and return with other warriors. It would probably be noon tomorrow before they could arrive. Then the assault would begin. Then, or next morning. It would matter little.
Cabeza had racked his brain, but saw no clear solution. Theirs was a fairly defensible position. Water was accessible, but food was limited. The attacking force would be able to acquire both. He tried to guess how long they could hold out before they were picked off one at a time or succumbed to a final assault. Bad as their position had become, to attempt to improve it would make it worse. If they tried to move, they would be even more vulnerable.
The possibility that the warriors of Lean Bull would leave without a fight hardly seemed worth considering.
He was also concerned about the fighting strength of his party. They had lost three lancers, two dead and the one now moaning in the gully, mortally wounded. The other wounded man was a servant who had attempted to join the battle with a short sword. He had been simply outmanned. And, of course, the crossbowman, victim of a lucky shot, which was also nearly the death of Cabeza. He would have nightmares about that for a very long time.
Equally important to the living was the loss of the horses. With part of the party already on foot, the horses could become a critical element. They had now lost five animals. From a tactical standpoint, his force was now reduced by nearly one fourth already. Loss of another horse or two would cripple the lancer platoon. Cabeza wondered whether any of the packhorses could be ridden in an emergency. The present situation certainly represented such an emergency.
“
Señor
Garcia,” the lieutenant tried once more, “you are more experienced in such matters than I. What is to be done?”
The old don shrugged once more.
“Ramon,” he began in a kindly and patient tone, “I have been in harder places.”
Cabeza was afraid for a moment that the other was about to launch some of his endless and oft-repeated war stories. But it was not to be.
“We must take one day at a time. Something may happen to change things. Now I am going to sleep.”
Now Cabeza was even more alarmed. It was apparent that Don Pedro did not intend to give him any help. He was irritated at this turn of events as he sought his blankets. He should be able to count on his superior officer to aid and support him. Don Pedro was acting as if there were not even a problem.
Suddenly, the whole truth sank home and the lieutenant sat bolt upright in shocked realization. The old warrior's mind must have slipped. What had appeared to be bravery during the day was more like a reflex action. Don Pedro, stressed constantly and concerned over the search for his son, had finally snapped. His tired brain had refused to accept the reality of failure for the mission. He had happily returned to relive the campaigns of his best years.
“Mother of God!” Cabeza whispered to himself. “
Señor
Garcia has gone mad!”
A chill gripped him as he rapidly recalled the events of the past day. He could not remember that Garcia had even mentioned the search since they had left the Head Splitters' village. True, there had been no occasion to, but Don Pedro was fond of talking about it anyway. Today, nothing. His entire approach to the current happenings had slipped in and out of reality with a detached military effectiveness. Complete professionalism as a soldier was the only emotion left. This was the reason, Cabeza now realized, that the old don had seemed relaxed, almost happy. He was doing the thing he loved and that which he had done best.
The realization did not help the troubled thoughts of Cabeza as he settled down for a sleepless night. The sudden sense of total responsibility for the doomed expedition was almost overwhelming.
It was some time later when he noticed that the moaning in the darkness upstream had ceased.