Sidewinder (4 page)

WHILE Dusty and the others might have liked to hear more about the Kid’s reason for intending to kill No Father, or Sidewinder as he was now known, they knew they could waste no time asking about it. By showing ignorance of the Death Bringer’s identity, Hollenheimer could have weakened the
Waw’ai’s
faith in his spiritual powers. At any moment the Indian might realize that he had been tricked and stop demonstrations of Tommy’s
twneshiwari
powers, displays of other scientific wonders, nor the most painful physical tortures — would elicit further details from the
Waw’ai
.

‘Ask him what other men were sent out,’ Dusty told the Kid, with a sinking feeling that he already knew the answer and could even guess at the identity of the proposed victims. So far doubt had not crept too deeply into the
Waw’ai’s
head. He glanced at the hole in the wall, then towards the microscope and concluded that the white medicine man might be jealous of the Death Bringer’s powers and so pretended not to know her.

‘We were only one of the parties she sent out,’ he replied when the Kid passed on Dusty’s questions ‘Other brave-hearts also went to kill.’

Seeing Hollenheimer open his mouth to ask a question, Dusty swung around to put his back to the
Waw’ai
and face the savant.

‘So help me, Professor,’ he hissed. ‘If you ask another fool question, I’ll see if I can bring off one of Tommy’s stunts on you.’

While a man of some considerable importance and used to respect, Hollenheimer did not regard himself as a demi-god or expect everybody to worship at his feet. He realized that only a colossal blunder on his part would cause Dusty to address him in such a manner and a moment’s thought told him where he went wrong. So he held back from repeating the mistake and allowed the Kid to continue with the questioning.

‘All right,’ said the Kid, ignoring the interruption. ‘Who are those to die?’

Even as the Kid asked the question, a. man walked towards his death.

The Reverend Miles Boardwell strolled through the darkness towards his home on the outskirts of Mound Prairie, Anderson County. A tall, stalwart man of commanding appearance, the Reverend was a popular figure in his home town and the surrounding district; liked and respected despite his expressed views on the subject of fair play and decent treatment for the Indians. Any parson who made his sermons short but interesting, regarded moderate drinking and gambling as acceptable human weaknesses, and could forget his cloth during the week to the extent of going hunting or fishing with his parishioners, must be excused his one minor idiosyncrasy — especially in an area long removed from Indian depredations, So, although a few of the staider souls whispered that he should not associate himself with such a controversial issue, nobody raised any objections to his decision to attend the Fort Sorrel peace meeting.

Much as he hated to leave a promising coon hunt before the hounds sang to the skies that they had run old ringtail up a tree, the Reverend Boardwell did so. In the morning he would be leaving for Fort Sorrel and wished to catch some sleep before doing so.

He saw the two shapes rise from the gate in his home’s picket fence, but failed to take alarm. Too late he realized that they were not a couple of his hunting companions returned with news of a success on another part of Hurricane Creek.

‘Are you white-eye god-man who come to Comanches?’ asked the man at the left.

‘I am,’ Boardwell agreed. ‘Who are—’

Raw and rank to his nostrils came the smell of rancid antelope grease as the men sprang towards him and he saw steel glinting in their hands. Although he carried a shotgun under his arm, Boardwell never thought to use it; could not in fact, as he had removed the shells on approaching the edge of town. He let the gun fall and launched a punch, feeling his knuckles smash the nose of the man on his right. Bringing his knife across in the sideways stroke, which formed the second blow in the Indian method, the other man sank it deep into Boardwell’s side and ripped savagely. Almost the last sound the preacher heard as pain knifed through him was the deep-throated Comanche coup claim.

‘
A’he!
’ grunted the attacker. ‘I claim it!’

Ignoring the blood which spurted from his nose, the first man drove down his knife in a savage chop which sank it deep into the reeling preacher’s back. Boardwell crumpled forward and collapsed to the ground. With a snarl of rage the injured first attacker dropped to his knees alongside the feebly moving, dying man, tore off and hurled aside the low crowned black hat, then put his knife to work once again. His companion, more practical — and anyway having counted the first coup — took up the shotgun and rifled Boardwell’s pockets for shells to use in it.

On waking and finding her husband had not come to bed, Mrs. Boardwell rose. She crossed to the window, drew back the curtains, looked down — and started screaming. Attracted by the screams, men and women came running. Many of them wished that they had not when they drew near and saw the full horror of the preacher’s murder.

‘H — He’s been scalped!’ gasped a man.

‘This’s Injun work,’ another said. ‘Get up a posse. We’ll find the murdering red savages.’

A laudable ambition, but one which came to nothing. Although a posse was formed and duly went out, while the telegraph wires sang a warning to every peace officer in the area, no trace of Boardwell’s killers could be found. By the time the murder was discovered, the killers had covered thirty miles and rode on as only Comanches could; keeping out of sight even though they passed through a fairly well-populated section of the Lone Star State.

Although Boardwell’s killers escaped, word of his death went out and increased the objections of those people opposed to making any kind of peace with the Comanches. It also cost Dusty Fog’s party a valuable supporter.

* * *

Rance Counter owned a ranch the size of a small Eastern county and more cattle than he could guess at. If he signed a draft for ten, or even twenty, thousand dollars, it would be honoured in almost any bank or business house in Texas. But when he lost fifteen dollars and fifty cents in the stud poker pot, he swore to regain it no matter how long it took.

While the loss of the money would make no difference to him, Rance Counter strongly objected to it going to his best friend, foreman, and greatest poker rival, Tule Bragg. When playing poker, Bragg availed himself of every legal advantage and possessed a number of highly irritating methods of handling his opponents. While dealing, he formed the habit at the crucial stage of the game of looking at each card and sniggering knowingly before tossing it to the waiting recipient. Such a tactic, accompanied by comments on his boss’ ability as a poker player, so clouded Rance’s judgment that he stayed in a pot when every instinct warned him to fold.

‘Don’t let it worry you, Rance,’ purred Bragg, dragging in the pot. ‘You sure came out vice-president.’

‘Just hand over those damned cards and don’t waste time!’ Rance growled.

The surrounding cowhands exchanged nudges and grins, Unless they missed their guess, and none of them figured they did, it would be along, hard night.

Squatting in the darkness, two all-but naked
Waw’ai
braves tested their knife blades and watched the door into which Rance Counter entered shortly after night fell. Patient as growing plants, the Indians waited for the giant rancher to emerge and return to the ranch house. Hour after hour rolled by, light after light around the building going out until only one remained. Still the rancher did not make his appearance. Shortly before dawn, the ranch cook and louse came into view and the Indians withdrew.

Not knowing that the game had saved his life, Rance Counter scooped up a pot which put him on the winning side of the ledger. ‘There’s no point in going to bed now,’ he drawled, looking through the window at the lightening sky. ‘May as well have breakfast and get ready to go down into Mexico and pick up that herd of cattle.’

‘Unless he’s my boss I can’t stand a hombre who quits a winner,’ grunted Bragg, estimating that in twelve hours of highly skilled play he had lost the sum of thirty-eight cents.

When going into Mexico to purchase cheap cattle, Rance Counter took no chances of being robbed. Accompanied by a bunch of his riders, he left the
Waw’ai
no opportunity to follow the Death Bringer’s orders. After two more nights of disappointment they concluded their medicine must be bad and turned back to Texas.

* * *

The fates did not smile upon Colonel Hedley Huckfield, 9th U.S. Cavalry, in such a fortunate manner. Unlike many of his compatriots, probably because his experience of Indian warfare went back further and he possessed a more accurate picture of all its ramifications, Huckfield wanted an acceptable treaty. Leaving his regiment, he rode towards Fort Sorrel with the intention of throwing his weight on the side of the men who wished to make the correct type of peace. By doing so he might blast his Army career, but he did not care. Retirement loomed too close for him to worry over such a detail.

Always a light sleeper, and never more so than when camped with only a small escort in possibly hostile country, Huckfield woke at the slight noise made by the man who slipped into his Sibley tent.

‘Who’s th—!’ he began, reaching for the revolver which lay close to his hand and staring at the shape which reared up alongside his cot.

Bringing up the revolver, Huckfield became sickeningly conscious that he did not hold his tried and true Army Colt. Instead he gripped a present from his wife; one of the new Smith & Wesson metal cartridge revolvers which had become all the rage back East. A good gun mechanically, accurate and possessing certain advantages over the percussion-fired Army Colt — but only .32in calibre. Adequate to kill a man of course, especially at close range; yet lacking the Army Colt’s .44 calibre knock-down punch.

Brought out of their sleep by the sound of the shot, Huckfield’s escort dashed from their pup-tents towards the Colonel’s Sibley. They found an Indian, shot in the chest, trying to crawl to the gash he had cut in the Sibley’s wall to gain entrance; and Huckfield dead on the cot, knifed through the heart. The Indian would have become ‘good’ even without the ball from a Springfield carbine which tore off the top of his skull. Unfortunately for Huckfield, and the peace between the white and red races, the Smith & Wesson’s .32 bullet failed to kill or prevent the
Waw’ai
from delivering a fatal knife-thrust after being hit.

‘Damned stinking, lousy Indian!’ growled one of the escort, kicking the grease-covered body savagely. ‘And the Colonel was going to speak up for them being treated right.’

* * *

Despite the fact that he had never served in any branch of the U.S. or any other, Army, or attained greater rank than sergeant as a member of the volunteer Texas Rangers, Charles Goodnight bore the title ‘Colonel’. Texas awarded its favourite sons, when they reached a suitable age, with one of two honorary titles; ‘Judge’ and ‘Colonel’. Only a show of wisdom, not necessarily legal training, entitled a man to the former title. To gain the second, he must be a born fighter and a natural leader of men. Charles Goodnight could claim to be both.

All through the Civil War he roamed the Texas range country, fighting Indians and trying to hold their depredations in check. He knew the Comanche as friend and respected them as enemy. Being aware of the cost in human lives that a sensible treaty could avert, he travelled to Fort Sorrel; intending to throw his not inconsiderable influence on the side of Ole Devil Hardin’s representative.

Instinct gained by years of Indian-fighting and riding dangerous trails made Goodnight as wary as a much-hunted Texas red wolf. Throughout the day he had been continually nagged by the thought that somebody followed him. No matter how he watched his back-trail, he failed to see any sign of the hostile presence he felt in the vicinity. That meant most likely an Indian trailed him. Without being egotistical, Goodnight doubted if a white man could follow him through such open country and remain unseen.

When night fell, Goodnight halted his horse and dropped quickly from its saddle to flop belly-first and lay an ear to the ground. The following men must have real sharp ears for they also stopped their mounts. Not quite quickly enough though, and Goodnight heard enough to tell him two men on unshod horses dogged his tracks. The latter fact pointed with almost absolute certainty to Indians. Which made them just that much more difficult and dangerous to handle.

In appearance Goodnight might have been a typical Comanche by build; except that no
Nemenuh
ever sported a neatly trimmed full beard. He stood five foot nine, with broad shoulders and a barrel of a chest which hinted at the powerful, if chunky, body’s strength. A costly white, Texas-style Stetson sat on a close-cropped head of grizzled brown hair. What skin showed on his face had the colour of old saddle-leather. Sun-squinted brown eyes held a hint of humour, alert in their keenness. Clad in good quality range clothes, instead of the usual calf-skin vest he wore one made from the rosette-marked hide of a jaguar which strayed up out of Old Mexico and made the mistake of allowing itself to cross his rifle sights. That vest had gone through a whole heap of Indian-fighting, being worn so that his enemies could identify him and know that the one they called ‘Dangerous Man’ rode against them. Matched rosewood butted Army Colts rode the two contoured holsters of his gunbelt and a Winchester rested in the saddleboot under his left leg. If trouble came, Goodnight reckoned he ought to be able to handle it.

Rising, he swung into his big roan stallion’s saddle and started the horse moving at a fast walk. Without a doubt the following pair meant mischief and it would take some smart thinking to avoid becoming their victim.

Silently, but bitterly, Goodnight cursed his decision not to bring his foreman or another member of the ranch crew along, If he had only done so, solving the problem would be simple; slip out of the saddle with rifle in hand, allowing the other man to ride away with both horses and talking as if Goodnight accompanied him. Then when the trailing pair came up, Goodnight could hand them the surprise of their lives.

Unfortunately, being alone, he could not follow the plan. Well-trained his horse might be, but not sufficiently so to carry on walking without a rider for the time necessary to allow Goodnight’s pursuers to catch up. Some other means must be devised and, until that happened, all the rancher could do was keep moving.

Holding his horse to a steady walk, Goodnight remained alert for any opportunity and ready to catch the slightest warning sound. Apparently the following men did not intend to close with him, while he moved, for their horses came no closer. In fact if they had not stopped each time he halted, he might have thought them to be no more than chance travellers.

‘Damn it all, hoss,’ he said to the stallion between his legs. ‘I don’t aim to keep on riding through the night.’

Already the basis of an idea began to form. Riding on until he found a hollow which might serve as a camping spot, Goodnight drew rein. On dropping down and placing his ear to the ground, he found that the two men also stopped and estimated them to be almost half a mile behind, Apparently they sat their horses, waiting for him to make his next move. So he came to his feet and made it.

Searching the hollow, he found sufficient fuel to light a small fire. He moved for a time, as a man would when setting up camp, certain that his pursuers could not see him. Then, taking a silk bandana from his pocket, he stretched out on the ground again. With the bandana spread out, he laid his ear upon it. Some quality in silk magnifies sounds transmitted through the ground and with the bandana’s aid Goodnight could form a better idea of the other men’s movements. Any lingering doubts as to their intentions died away as he found the men to be advancing cautiously on foot.

Patient as any Indian, although not a little pleased at his shrewd assessment of the situation, Goodnight lay and listened. He figured the men would sneak in on foot rather than chance bringing their horses closer; and based his plan on that fact. Nearer they came, drawing further away from their horses all the time. In a few seconds they ought to be in sight of his camp. The time had come to act.

Rising swiftly to his feet, Goodnight pocketed the bandana and stepped to his waiting horse. Up in the saddle, he set the roan running and over its drumming hooves heard the startled exclamations of the men. Beyond the fire’s flickering glow he need not fear any but a chance bullet should shots be fired after him, None came and he swung at an angle to his original line. Timing the period it would take his pursuers to run back to their horses and take up the chase, Goodnight slowed the roan and then brought it to a halt in the shelter of a clump of mesquite.

On checking the ground-carried sounds, he found no cause for alarm, His two hunters appeared to have fallen for the trick and he heard their horses go by a long way off. As long as he made a dry camp, without a fire, he doubted if they would find him until daylight and then only had they retraced their tracks and took up his trail.

Dawn came and found Goodnight in his saddle. He travelled, as so often before when scouting for Indians, with caution and exercised all his skill at avoiding being seen. So well had Goodnight learned his work that he out-Indianned the pair of
Waw’ai
braves sent by the Death Bringer to kill him. By the time they found Goodnight’s trail, he had built up such a lead that they could not hope to catch him before he reached the safety of Fort Sorrel.