Buck squatted down beside the waiting horses. They had accepted his presence and stood patiently swishing their tails. He chewed thoughtfully on a stem of grass and considered Parcher’s position. It was well-chosen. The horse behind him stomped a restless hoof against the turf. Buck hoped the sounds of the horses would account for any noise he might make in his approach. A man of great patience, Buck was patient now. He waited for a sign from below. Movement! The movement was there and then it was gone. He waited, and there it was again: Parcher was moving to rest his back against the boulder. He had settled himself with his rifle across his knees.
As he watched and waited, Buck again allowed his thoughts to drift to Laura. In his reverie, he shifted his weight only a fraction, but it was enough to dislodge a cluster of pebbles near his foot. The stones tumbled noiselessly down the grassy slope. Buck, silently cursing himself, held his breath, waiting for them to lodge somewhere. But one pebble continued to roll and bounce, picking up speed until it struck and glanced off the boulder concealing Parcher with an unmistakable ping.
Parcher was instantly alert, lurching into a crouch but careful to stay within the protection of his rocky shelter. His rifle poised, he scrutinized the slope, peering cautiously in every direction. Buck was still hidden, scarcely breathing. After ten minutes of waiting and watching, Frank cautiously took a few steps out to make sure he was alone. He watched his horses standing unperturbed, swishing their tails, occasionally stamping a hoof, and, concluding that nothing was amiss, he settled back into his niche to watch for the train.
Buck waited almost half an hour, then slipped through the grass without a sound. About a dozen feet from Parcher he stood up and rested his hands on his hips. “You waitin’ for somethin’, Parcher?”
Buck watched the man’s back stiffen, his head suddenly thrust forward in surprise, but Parcher made no other move. He was trailwise enough to know that, if he did, he was as good as dead. Buck waited, letting his silence work on the man’s nerves. Finally, as he knew he would, Parcher began slowly to get to his feet.
“I’d be careful with that rifle if I were you.”
“I ain’t no fool,” Frank growled as he turned.
“I’d say you were. Not even a half-wit greenhorn would lay himself out as open as you did.” Buck could see that his taunt hit home when Parcher’s fingers tightened on the rifle.
“Say yer piece. I’m movin’ out.”
“Just one of us is movin’ out, and I figure it’s goin’ to be me.”
Frank’s legs spread and his shoulders dropped. “Ya think I’ll jist stand here and let a stinkin’ Injun shoot me?”
“You won’t have any say in it.” Buck’s voice was quiet and he appeared to be relaxed, as if they were having a casual conversation. “I’m going to shoot you, Parcher. For Mrs. Blanchet.”
“What? Who tol’ ya ’bout her?” he growled. Backed into a corner as he was, the man looked wolfish. His face was dark, his eyes hard and cruel.
“Taylor’s boy, Poppy. He watched you rape Mrs. Blanchet in the bushes, but slaves don’t talk about white folks to other white folks. They only talk to Mexicans and . . . Indians.”
“Niggers, Mexes, and Injuns! There ain’t a hair’s diff’rence a’tween ’em!” Frank sneered.
Buck grinned, his gaze on Frank’s face. When the man was about to make his move, Buck would know it by the look in his eyes.
“I’d say from the looks of your plunder and that second horse, you wasn’t plannin’ to trail alone, Parcher. Was good of you to give me two good horses instead of one.” Buck waited, giving Frank’s anger a little more time to stiffen him up, before he gave his final jibe. “By the way, did you hear that Lucas Steele has taken one of the women for his own? The pretty teacher with the flaming red hair is his woman now.”
Frank’s eyes narrowed, and Buck ducked to the side as he fired. Two guns boomed at once. Frank’s shot went wild; Buck’s found its mark. Frank was
flung back a half dozen steps. His rifle flew out of his hands as he grabbed his side. Buck crouched, waiting.
Frank writhed on the ground. He let out a cry and suddenly dug his heels into the turf, trying to push himself away from the spot where he’d fallen. Buck spotted the head of the big rattler as it swung around, startled from a doze when Parcher fell almost across its length. Its rattle quivered in warning, but Frank was unable to move away.
“Kill it!” he screamed. “For God’s sake, kill it!”
“Why?” Buck asked calmly as he walked over to pick up Frank’s rifle. “It’s only trying to protect itself.”
Clutching his wound, Frank tried to roll over to get away from the snake, but his movements only lured the creature in for the kill. He lay on his back and lifted his head, helplessly watching death close in on him. As he saw Buck standing by—motionless, looking on, not helping—the image of another such dance of death darted unbidden into his mind. He relived with sickening clarity the drama of a man being gored by a bull, while he himself sat watching unconcernedly. He let out a shuddering gasp as the rattler sank its fangs into his arm.
Parcher’s face was white and twisted. Buck walked over and looked down at him. “For Mrs. Blanchet, and anyone else whose life you’ve ruined.”
Frank’s mouth opened wide and his eyes became wild. “Don’t leave me like this! Leave . . . my gun!” he whimpered.
“So you can shoot me in the back?” Buck looked
upon him with cold, dispassionate eyes. “Too bad you won’t have to suffer as long as you deserve to. The snake took care of that.”
“Shoot me,” Frank pleaded. “Shoot me. Ya’d put a horse outta its misery.”
“A white man might, an Indian might not. I’m a breed, Parcher. Think on that while you wait for the buzzards to circle. It was a breed who did you in.”
Buck walked back up the slope carrying the rifle. He heard Frank calling—pleading at first, then cursing. Without looking back, he shoved the rifle into the saddle scabbard and mounted Parcher’s horse. Leading the spare mount, he rode up the incline, untied his own sorrel, and looped its reins over the saddle horn.
“Come on, boy. Let’s get back to the wagons.” He took up the lead rope, whistled for Dolorido to follow, and headed down toward the Overland Trail.
* * *
For some time Lucas had realized that this particular valley they were passing through was perilous. The slope rising from each side of the trail offered cover. It was the perfect place for an ambush. He wished to hell Buck would show up.
He was riding beside the lead wagon when he heard the shots. There were two of them, and they came so close together they could have been mistaken for one. But Lucas knew there were two as they barked hoarsely two, maybe three, miles away. He listened anxiously and scanned the landscape. There was silence and his anxiety grew. What was done was
done, he told himself, and he couldn’t do a damn thing about it but wait and see who came down out of the hills.
Up ahead the hills seemed to retreat. He wanted, suddenly, to get there as soon as possible. He shouted to Mustang to whip up the mules and pointed to the open country ahead. He wheeled his horse and rode down the line urging each driver to keep up. The wagons went lumbering by, the women driving the teams, calm and composed, doing what had to be done. They accepted the orders without the least sign of panic, and the train picked up speed.
At the end of the line he saw a rider coming at a dead run. It was Chata. He was leaning low in the saddle and didn’t slow up until he reached the end wagon. Then he drew up sharply, his horse rearing high.
“They come,
señor
!”
“Are they trying to catch up?”
“They come fast,
señor
.”
“Did they see you?”
“No. I do what
Señor
Buck say.”
“Then we’ll run for it and get as far out into open country as we can. Ride tail, Chata, and if it looks like they’re going to charge us, fire two shots.”
Lucas shouted to the drovers leading the strings of mules to move out ahead. The last wagon in line was a freight wagon. The driver shifted his cud of tobacco and nodded in assent to the curt instructions to stay behind but keep up. The Taylor wagon was next. Lucas wasn’t sure how the man would react under
pressure. “We got eight renegades coming up fast behind us. We’re heading for open country in case we have to stand them off.”
“We’ll keep up,” Taylor shouted, then to his wife, “Get the rifle, Alice.”
Taylor’s boy, Poppy, was driving for Emma Collins.
“Can you shoot, boy?” Lucas asked when he came alongside.
“No, sah.” The boy’s eyes became large with fright.
“Well, I can!” Emma called out and started climbing, painfully, over the wagon seat.
“Keep up! Keep up!” Lucas shouted to each of the drivers.
At Tucker’s wagon his eyes clung to her white face. The breeze created by the fast-moving wagon had blown her hat off, and her hair was a cloud of fire floating behind her. She glanced at him and back at the mules.
“Giddap! Get moving, ya blasted, worthless, crow bait!” she shouted, and Lucas couldn’t hold back the grin that creased his serious face. The whip snaked out smartly and flicked the rump of a mule. Lucas looked and looked again. It was Laura’s hand that held the whip! She sent it cracking out over the backs of the mules again. Tucker glanced at Lucas and saw him grin. She pursed her lips in a kiss. He returned the gesture. God! What a pair, he thought, and moved on.
The train that had stretched over a quarter of a
mile closed up to half that distance. Lucas scanned the landscape for signs of Buck. They were nearing the place where the valley opened upon the plains. Another mile would be as far as the mules could run. That should bring them well out into the open.
Lucas had almost reached the front of the train when he heard the two warning shots. Wheeling his horse, he raced back to see Chata motioning frantically. A group of horsemen, spread out, were charging the train at full gallop.
To run would invite disaster, for there was no place to run to. Lucas knew there was only one defense against a mounted attack: the circle. It had proven itself time and again against any number of raids when Lucas was freighting with his father.
Yelling like an Indian, he pushed his horse into a lunging run and raced for the head of the train. “Circle!” he shouted. “Circle the wagons!”
Mustang caught the sound of his voice and swung his team to the right. Conditioned from their many nights of making camp, the others followed. The frightened teams swung wide, but they followed Mustang’s lead. The drivers tried desperately to keep their seats on the jolting, bone-bruising ride across the rough prairie.
Shouting like a wild man, Lucas raced from wagon to wagon shouting instructions. “Keep up! Keep up! Tighter! Pull ’em in!”
Gunfire erupted from the end of the train. The fight had started. Lucas drew his six-gun and wheeled to face the charging renegades. He cut
across open ground and fired. A horse went down, throwing its rider over its head. In an instant he shifted his gun to another target and fired, then fired again. The second shot winged a black-bearded man who jerked with the impact. Instantly he swung his mount and headed for Lucas. As they came abreast, the lean, hairy man raised his gun to fire, then threw his arms wide and toppled from the saddle. The frightened horse raced on past Lucas dragging the man face down over the dusty trail. A wagon raced by and Lucas caught a glimpse of Emma Collins in the back, her rifle at her shoulder, firing coolly and cautiously.
The panic-stricken mules continued to run although the circle had been completed. The drovers had turned the stock loose when the fighting began, and now the frenzied animals charged into the middle of the wild scramble around the wagons.
The attackers had initially split up, half charging one side of the train and half the other. Now they were further divided by the circle. Lucas took in his surroundings, searching for a target. Not one of the four inside the circle was still standing. He started to ride between the wagons to the outside when a mule was hit by a blast from a shotgun. The stricken animal went to its knees, the wagon tongue jabbed into the ground as the mule fell, the wagon jackknifed and turned over.
Something lunged up from the ground and jerked Lucas from the saddle. It was the man who had been flung to the ground when his horse was shot out from
under him. The man was big, desperate, and fighting for his life. They grappled, rolling over and over in the grass, struggling, gouging. A rock-hard fist slammed against the side of Lucas’s head. He held onto his gun. He felt something tear into his clothing, felt the bite of the knife in his thigh. He smashed the man in the face with his gun barrel.
As suddenly as it had begun, the fight was over. The entire attack, from beginning to end, had lasted no more than a few minutes. Two of the raiders turned tail and ran for the hills, leaving their companions, dead or dying, among the chaos they had created.
The shooting stopped after a few wild shots were thrown at the retreating enemy. The mules stood trembling in their harnesses, their heads hung low and their sides heaving. The violence had ended. People poured out of the wagons and ran to help those who were hurt.