Sidewinder (9 page)

FOUR miles from the Fort night came on so dark that the Kid could no longer read the sign of even so large a party as the Lancer detachment.

‘Reckon we’d best night here,’ he said. ‘Could follow the stream until it joins the Elk Creek if you like.’

They had been following the smaller stream which served the Fort as water supply before joining Elk Creek and the Kid waited, showing remarkable tact, for Manners to make a reply. Sensing that the other displayed good will in even offering to share the decision, Manners shook his head.

‘You’re the one who’s following the sign. The Lancers might turn off and us not know until too late though. I’d say bed down here.’

On that note of friendly co-operation, the Kid slid from the saddle of the big iron-grey horse borrowed from his grandfather. He had left his white stallion at the Fort, knowing his two companions could care for Nigger’s basic needs and that the horse needed a rest after the hard work done over the past weeks. Dismounting from the fine looking bay charger, one of a pair presented to him by his family on his being sent West, Manners glanced at the Kid and then set to work attending to his horse’s welfare.

Feeling almost naked without his bedroll, food supply, change of clothing and all the other items the soldier — or his horse — carried when on patrol, Manners wondered how the Kid expected them to exist until they caught up with the Lancers. Fortunately they both found time to eat a good meal before leaving the post, but that would hardly last for a day or more. From what Manners could see, the Kid did not appear to be worried by the lack of food. One thing the lieutenant noticed, the Kid clearly needed no supervision in matters of horse management.

‘They’ll do,’ the Kid drawled, when the horses had been cooled down, off-saddled, watered and hobbled on good grazing.

Suddenly Manners realized that his companion regarded him as the one who might need supervising and the feeling irritated him. After all, he was a well-educated man, a product of the West Point Military Academy and a potential commander-in-chief of the U.S. Army. Yet that Indian-dark Texan who—

‘How about lighting a fire?’ Manners asked, fighting down his annoyance.

‘I wouldn’t,’ the Kid replied.

‘But we’re not in hostile territory,’ Manners objected.

‘Anywhere’s hostile to somebody,’ countered the Kids ‘And a couple of good hosses’d make mighty fine pickings for some young buck, even happen he’s headed for the peace council.’

‘How about cooking our food?’ Manners said, suddenly conscious that he had failed to bring any supplies along.

‘Grandma Maria gave me a couple of
awyaw:t
of pemmican,’ drawled the Kid. ‘It’ll do us and don’t need any cooking.’

Like most soldiers on the frontier, Manners was acquainted with pemmican. He knew many officers who regarded ‘Indian bread’, as they called it, as a delicacy but had never grown to like it himself. However he learned there was a vast difference between the hard, tasteless mass all too often traded by Indians to unsuspecting soldiers and the real pemmican put up by a Comanche squaw for home consumption. The Kid’s grandmother, as became the
pairaivo
, could claim to be an artist in pemmican preparation, knowing how to mix the pounded, heat-softened meat, cherries, plums, peccans, pinons, walnuts and chestnuts, merging the whole with tallow or marrow fat so that they blended and each added its own taste to a mouthwatering, delicious whole. Wrapped in the parfleche container known as an
awyaw:t
, the whole coated in melted tallow which hardened to form an air-tight seal, the pemmican could be stored for almost indefinite periods.

‘This is good,’ Manners praised, carrying a second slab after finishing the first.

‘Grandma Maria knows how it’s done,’ admitted the Kid. ‘Tastes better with honey smeared on, though. When we was up in the Cross Timbers country we’d find the bees’ nests — don’t ask me why, but there were more there than in any other area we knew — put the honey in skin bags and use it on pemmican.’

‘It’s good even—,’ began the young officer and stopped as the Kid made a silencing gesture.

For a few seconds the Kid sat his head cocked slightly on one side, looking like a hound dog trying to locate some distant, half-heard sound. At last he looked at Manners and said, ‘Somebody’s riding by down that ways.’

‘The Lancers?’

‘Nope. Half-a-dozen of ‘em at most and going away from the Fort.’

‘Who could that be?’ Manners asked before he could stop himself.

‘Not soldiers, that’s for sure,’ drawled the Kid. ‘They’re travelling too quiet and like they know where they’re going.’

Before Manners could make a reply to the comments on Army ability, the Kid stretched out on the ground and used his ears once more. The young officer kept perfectly still, knowing what his companion hoped to do. Although he strained his ears, Manners could not detect any sound other than the usual night noises. Lifting his head, the Kid looked at the officer.

‘Like I said. Six of ‘em, riding unshod hosses. Likely a bunch of bucks going back to the village. Not every
tehnap
came in and the ones still out’ll want to know what’s going on,’

‘Is that all they’ll be doing?’

‘I don’t reckon they’ll be painted for war, or even raiding. There’s no way we can find out anyways. Let’s get some sleep, we’ve a hard day’s riding ahead of us afore we catch up with the Lancers.’

Although Manners felt that he should be doing something about the departing Indians, he could not think what. So he settled down and tried to make himself as comfortable as possible with only a saddle for a pillow and two blankets to replace sheets and mattress as a bed. Much to his surprise he did fall asleep and nothing woke him before dawn began to creep on the eastern skyline. It seemed to Manners that the Kid had also slept well and the young officer did not know that twice during the night his companion awoke to listen to small groups of riders passing in the same general direction taken by the first party.

After eating pemmican, washed down by stream water, the Kid and Manners rode on. Tracking proved to be no difficulty and at first the Lancers followed Elk Creek’s winding course. Manners noticed that the Kid seemed unusually silent and alert, but asked no questions. If it came to a point, Manners found no time to ask. While he thought of himself as a skilled horseman, he rode with a master long used to extensive, fast travel and needed all his ability to keep up with the Kid.

Four hours of hard riding brought them to where the Lancers made camp for the night. Even without the Kid’s help Manners could see that the men they followed had left the Creek on moving out at dawn. The Lancers’ tracks led off across the open range, but the Kid did not start along the new line straight away. Leaving the horses to rest, he circled the area on foot, When he rejoined the officer, he looked serious and disturbed.

‘Feller met up with them just afore they made camp last night,’ he said. ‘He came up from the way they’re going now.’

‘It could be their scout and he’s found something,’ guessed Manners. ‘And if I’m right, we’d best catch up.’

‘And quick,’ agreed the Kid, walking to his horse. ‘They pulled out at about the same time as us. We’re going to have to push these hosses, mister.’

Once clear of the river, they rode through rolling, open range dotted with clumps of bushes or trees and gashed by gullies, dried-up water-courses and hollows. While not slowing the pace any, the Kid tried to follow a route which kept them out of plain sight as much as possible and Manners found himself admiring the other’s success in doing so. They saw no sign of the Lancers, nor was the range’s surface conducive to producing a dust cloud which might lead them to their goal. Underfoot the close-cropped buffalo grass held in firm soil which did not pulverize and churn into the air. It was ideal cattle country and offered a home for a type of animal found only on the plains of the United States.

Staring ahead in the hope of locating some sign of the Lancers, Manners saw first one, then more flickers of white about threequarters of a mile ahead and far too scattered for them to be caused by the sun glinting on lance heads.

‘Over this way,’ snapped the Kid before Manners could ask a question and led the way into a small draw with bushes along its rim.

Dropping from their saddles, the two young men moved to the top of the draw and peered cautiously through the bushes. Manners held a pair of field glasses he brought along and glanced at the Kid before offering to use them. After studying the position of the sun, to make sure that its rays would not be reflected from the glasses’ lens, the Kid nodded his agreement. Focusing his glasses, Manners quickly found the cause of the flashing, although he had already guessed, correctly, at its source.

‘Pronghorns flashing,’ he said casually, attaching no great importance to the discovery and wondering at why it caused such a reaction from the Kid.

‘What’s making ‘em flash?’

‘Huh?’

‘They only do it when they’re spooked by something and want to warn their pards of trouble coming.’

Antilocapra Americana,
the pronghorn antelope, was in many ways a unique creature which possessed a number of unusual traits. Not the least interesting was its habit of ‘flashing’. Controlled by a pair of muscular disks, the circular white patch of hair on its rump could be erected in an abrupt manner which caused the light to reflect in a heliographic manners On spotting danger, a pronghorn would erect its hair and flash a warning to be taken up and repeated by other member of its herd until all received the warning and the plains seemed to be dotted with the flickering spots of light.

However, as the Kid pointed out, the pronghorn only flashed in times of danger. There were a number of animals which the pronghorn might regard as dangerous; with man standing high on the list, With that thought in mind, Manners lay concealed among the bitterbush and scanned the range around the pronghorn as they started to run towards his hiding-place. Even without artificial aids to sight, the Kid beat Manners to the discovery. He knew from the escape route taken that the pronghorn had not been flashing warning of his and Manners’ presence and guessed at the right place to look.

‘Over there,’ the Kid said, ‘Coming down that dry-wash by those half-dozen scrub-oak trees,’

Turning his glasses in the desired direction, Manners gave a low gasp. Some dozen Indians rode in single file down the dry-wash and wended their way across the plain.

‘Are they Comanche?’ he breathed, although at that distance there could be no need to whisper.

Taking the glasses, the Kid gave a closer study to the Indians and shook his head. ‘Nope. Kiowa.’

‘On a war-trail?’

‘They’re not painted for it, anyways. Best way to tell’d be look at their arrows though.’

‘How’s that? I’ve heard the scouts say an Indian used war arrows, but they never explained.’

The Kid broke a twig from the bush at his side and used it to illustrate his points ‘You know how the feathers are fixed. Well a hunting arrow always has its head fitted so that it stands straight up when it’s on the bow. A war arrow’s head is always crossways.’

‘Why? To make it harder to remove?’

‘Nope. Easier to go in. A hunting arrow’s for use against deer, elk, buffalo and they stand on four legs. Their ribs are most time straight up from the ground. A man stands on two legs, his ribs are level with it.’

Once explained, Manners saw the whole thing and felt surprised that the primitive Indians would know such a thing or be able to deduce the difference between the normal standing position of human and animal ribs.

‘What do we do?’ the officer asked.

‘Keep moving, They’re headed in the same direction that we are, so we’ll have to ride careful.’

By staying in cover, the two young men managed to continue their journey and avoid being seen by the Indians. Although they could no longer stick to the Lancers’ tracks, the Kid found no difficulty at first in following the correct line, Indian-wise, he watched everything and had seen other significant tracks all going in the same general direction. All too well he knew what the gathering of the small bands of Indians meant.

Unless the Kid sadly missed his guess, the Lancers rode into just about the worst kind of trouble — and with the most inadequate armament any U.S. Army outfit had carried since the days before the Colt Dragoon brought repeating firepower to their aid.

Following a circuitous route and moving faster than the Kiowa, the Kid and Manners drew ahead. Then they reached a dead end, or rather a sheer drop, which brought them to a halt. Spread before the two white men, with a hundred foot cliff dropping down to it, lay Wide Valleys Sitting their horses among the rabbitbush clumps which scattered along the cliff top, the Kid and Manners stared down with the sickening knowledge that they had failed in their mission, The valley spread wide and almost as level as a race-track. Out in the centre of the valley Przewlocki’s Lancers halted in ten lines of ten men, their officers before them, watching Billy Salmon ride towards the mass mounted
Waw’ai
bucks who faced them at a distance of just over a quarter of a mile. The Lancers made a brave, inspiring sight as the sun glinted on their lance blades and the pennants fluttered in the breeze. Yet all they did to the Kid was fill him with a sense of foreboding. Even before either he or Manners could make a move, they saw themselves to be utterly and irrevocably too late.

Sick with anxiety, Billy Salmon rode forward to deliver Przewlocki’s ultimatum to Sidewinder. Although the scout tried to plead a lame horse, Przewlocki refused to be deprived of his services. Rather than ride double, Salmon stuck to his own horse and took comfort in the knowledge that his usefulness to the Death Bringer should save him.

Even as Salmon began to deliver a warning and demand that the
Waw’ai
accompanied the Lancers to Fort Sorrel, he saw Sidewinder bring up the Winchester carbine which was the chief’s favourite war weapon. Shock stabbed into the scout, to be driven into the background of importance as he felt the sickening impact of a bullet, It seemed that Sidewinder had decided to wait no longer before collecting the much-coveted Army Colt.

So suddenly and unexpectedly did Sidewinder move that Colonel Count Ivan Mikola Przewlocki just sat and stared. Then, as his scout’s body tumbled to the ground, he gave the order to charge and, sabre in hand — officers did not carry a lance — led his men at the waiting
Waw’ai
,

This was the moment, for which Przewlocki had waited and trained his men, when they would prove themselves in action. All opposition to his plans would be swept aside when he brought in a beaten village of Comanches and he could raise his regiment at the Government’s expense. With the support of a full regiment, he could roam the Great Plains and select a suitable piece of land on which to establish a ranch, The weight of public opinion would ensure that the hero of Indian campaigns received his just rewards, of that he felt sure. There would be other benefits; not the least of which were large numbers of Indian horses taken as loot from captured villages, to form the nucleus of his ranch’s stock. However, first he must deal with the
Waw’ai
; least respected fighters of the Comanche Nation.

Holding his men in the same tight formation so as to present a solid block of lances rather than a single line, Przewlocki saw the
Waw’ai
coming to meet him. The sight did not worry him for his men rode big horses and could smash through their opposition by sheer weight.

Up on the rim top, Manners stared in fascination and kept silent. At his side, the Kid swung up the Winchester rifle. Although he could not recognize his childhood enemy, the Kid knew that war bonnet chief leading the
Waw’ai
must be Sidewinder. Yet the dark young Texan did not shoot. Despite its manufacturer’s advertising claims, the Winchester Model 1866 lacked accuracy at any but short range. Over half a mile separated the Kid from Sidewinder and at that distance only pure luck would bring a bit, especially when shooting downwards and against a tricky cross-wind. Maybe the Kid would have taken his chance and hoped that
Ka-Dih
looked on with favour, but a movement caught the corner of his eye. Once he located the cause of the movement, he knew he must not fire if he hoped to take news of Przewlocki’s fate back to Fort Sorrel.

The drumming thunder of hooves filled the air, mingled with the war whoops of the
Waw’ai
and echoing back from the walls of the cliff. Closer came the two parties on what looked like a collision course. Down swung the lances into line, the eleven inch long, triple-edged blades designed to pass through a tent-peg, or human flesh, with the least resistance. Soon, or so it seemed, the lances would be feeling Comanche blood.

Then, at the last moment, the solid wall of
Waw’ai
split, horses whirling and carrying their riders to safety. Separating into two groups, the
Waw’ai
shot off to the flanks of the Lancers and cut loose with a hail of bullets or arrows. Down Went Lancers and their mounts under the remorseless storm of death-bringing missiles. The white men backing Fire Dancer had been lavish in presents of repeating rifles, ammunition and arrows which, although manufactured by machinery back East, carried steel heads as lethal as any which came from the hands of the most experienced Comanche
tsukup
.

Przewlocki found himself faced with a serious problem. If he tried to halt the charging horses, he would throw his command into utter confusion. So he took the only way out in trying to continue through the two groups of enemy, reform, and meet them on the other side. A savage face, hideously barred in scarlet paint, flickered momentarily before Przewlocki and flame tore from a rifle barrel. Searing pain ripped into the Colonel and he slid slowly out of his saddle. A moment later the hooves of his men’s horses churned over him, but he did not feel them.

Two minutes after the charge should have made its contact, Przewlocki’s Lancers ceased to exist as an organized fighting body. The valley bottom became dotted with still blue-clad shapes, while fleeing soldiers discarded their lances so as to be the better able to escape.

‘Did you see that?’ gasped Manners, his sole attention focused on the valley bottom and his heart filled with sick anxiety. ‘Those Indians performed a perfect “Caracole”.’

‘A what?’ asked the Kid, darting glances all round him.

‘A “Caracole”. It’s the oldest known cavalry manoeuvre.’

‘Is it?’ drawled the Kid. ‘We’ve been using it for years.’

‘Let’s get down there and help!’ Manners suggested as Przewlocki was shot.

‘How?’ demanded the Kid. ‘We’re not the only ones watching. Look along the rim a piece.’

Following the direction of the Kid’s gaze, Manners felt as if a cold hand touched the base of his spine. Not half a mile away the group of Kiowa braves seen earlier that day sat their horses and watched the fight.

‘How long have they been there?’ gasped the lieutenant, forgetting his surprise at having seen a band of savages perform a classic cavalry tactic.

‘Near on as long as we have,’ the Kid replied. ‘And now we’ve got to get the hell out of here,’

‘How about the Lancers?’

‘There’s nothing we can do for them now. They’ll have to take their chances the same as we will. Mister, that fight down there could blow up the whole damned peace council. We’ve got to head back to Sorrel, grab us some help, then come and whip the hell out of those
Waw’ai
. And we’ve got to do it now, afore them Kiowa stop us.’