“Ambushed by who?” Emmett asked, not trusting the old man.
“Kiowa, I think. But they could be Pawnee. My eyes ain’t as sharp as they used to be. I seen one of ’em stick a head up out of a wash over yonder, while I was jawin’ with you. He’s young, or he wouldn’t have done that. But that don’t mean the others with him is young.”
“How many?”
“Don’t know. In this country, one’s too many. Do know this: We better light a shuck out of here. If memory serves me correct, right over yonder, over that ridge, they’s a little crick behind a stand of cottonwoods, old buffalo wallow in front of it.” He looked up, stood up in his stirrups, and cocked his shaggy head. “Here they come, boys … rake them cayuses!”
Before Kirby could ask what a cayuse was, or what good a rake was in an Indian attack, the old man had slapped his bay on the rump and they were galloping off. With the mountain man taking the lead, the three of them rode for the crest of the ridge. The pack horses seemed to sense the urgency, for they followed with no pullback on the ropes. Cresting the ridge, the riders slid down the incline and galloped into the timber, down into the wallow, the whoops and cries of the Indians close behind them.
The Preacher might well have been past his so-called good years, but the mountain man had leaped off his spotted pony, rifle in hand, and was in position and firing before Emmett or Kirby had dismounted. Preacher, like Emmett, carried a Sharps .52, firing a paper cartridge, deadly up to seven hundred yards, or more.
Kirby looked up in time to see a brave fly off his pony, a crimson slash on his naked chest. The Indian hit the ground and did not move.
“Get me that Spencer out of the pack, boy,” Kirby’s father yelled.
“The what?” Kirby had no idea what a Spencer might be.
“The rifle. It’s in the pack. A tin box wrapped up with it. Bring both of ’em. Cut the ropes, boy.”
Slashing the ropes with his long-bladed knife, Kirby grabbed the long, canvas-wrapped rifle and the tin box. He ran to his father’s side. He stood and watched as his father got a buck in the sights of his Sharps, led him on his fast-running pony, then fired. The buck slammed off his pony, bounced off the ground, then leaped to his feet, one arm hanging bloody and broken. The Indian dodged for cover. He didn’t make it. Preacher shot him in the side and lifted him off his feet, dropping him dead.
Emmett laid the Sharps aside and hurriedly unwrapped the canvas, exposing an ugly weapon, with a potbellied, slab-sided receiver. Emmett glanced up at Preacher, who was grinning at him.
“What the hell are you grinnin’ about, man?”
“Just wanted to see what you had all wrapped up, partner. Figured I had you beat with what’s in my pack.”
“We’ll see,” Emmett muttered. He pulled out a thin tube from the tin box and inserted it in the butt plate, chambering a round. In the tin box were a dozen or more tubes, each containing seven rounds, .52 caliber. Emmett leveled the rifle, sighted it, and fired all seven rounds in a thunderous barrage of black smoke. The Indians whooped and yelled. Emmett’s firing had not dropped a single brave, but the Indians scattered for cover, disappearing, horses and all, behind a ridge.
“Scared ’em,” Preacher opined. “They ain’t used to repeaters; all they know is single shots. Let me get something outta my pack. I’ll show you a thing or two.”
Preacher went to one of his pack animals, untied one of the side packs and let it fall to the ground. He pulled out the most beautiful rifle Kirby had ever seen.
“Damn!” Emmett softly swore. “The blue-bellies had some of those toward the end of the war. But I never could get my hands on one.”
Preacher smiled and pulled another Henry repeating rifle from his pack. Unpredictable as mountain men were, he tossed the second Henry to Emmett, along with a sack of cartridges.
“Now we be friends,” Preacher said. He laughed, exposing tobacco-stained stubs of teeth.
“I’ll pay you for this,” Emmett said, running his hands over the sleek barrel.
“Ain’t necessary,” Preacher replied. “I won both of ’em in a contest outside Westport Landing. Kansas City to you. ’Sides, somebody’s got to look out for the two of you. Ya’ll liable to wander ’round out here and get hurt. ’Pears to me don’t neither of you know tit from tat ’bout stayin’ alive in Injun country.”
“You may be right,” Emmett admitted. He loaded the Henry. “So thank you kindly.”
Preacher looked at Kirby. “Boy, you heeled — so you gonna get in this fight, or not?”
“Sir?”
“Heeled. Means you carryin’ a gun, so that makes you a man. Ain’t you got no rifle ’cept that muzzle loader?”
“No, sir.”
“Take your daddy’s Sharps, then. You seen him load it, you know how. Take that tin box of tubes, too. You watch out for our backs. Them Pawnees — and they is Pawnees — likely to come ’crost that crick. You in wild country boy … you may as well get bloodied.”
“Do it, Kirby,” his father said. “And watch yourself. Don’t hesitate a second to shoot. Those savages won’t show you any mercy, so you do the same to them.”
Kirby, a little pale around the mouth, took up the heavy Sharps and the box of tubes, reloaded the rifle, and made himself as comfortable as possible on the rear slope of the slight incline, overlooking the creek.
“Not there, boy.” Preacher corrected Kirby’s position. “Your back is open to the front line of fire. Get behind that tree ’twixt us and you. That way, you won’t catch no lead or arrow in the back.”
The boy did as he was told, feeling a bit foolish that he had not thought about his back. Hadn’t he read enough dime novels to know that? he chastised himself. Nervous sweat dripped from his forehead as he waited.
He had to go to the bathroom something awful.
A half hour passed, the only action the always moving Kansas winds chasing tumbleweeds, the southward moving waters of the creek, and an occasional slap of a fish.
“What are they waiting for?” Emmett asked the question without taking his eyes from the ridge.
“For us to get careless,” Preacher said. “Don’t you fret none … they still out there. I been livin’ in and ’round Injuns the better part of fifty year. I know ’em better — or at least as good — as any livin’ white man. They’ll try to wait us out. They got nothing but time, boys.”
“No way we can talk to them?” Emmett asked, and immediately regretted saying it as Preacher laughed.
“Why, shore, Emmett,” the mountain man said. “You just stand up, put your hands in the air, and tell ’em you want to palaver some. They’ll probably let you walk right up to ’em. Odds are, they’ll even let you speak your piece; they polite like that. A white man can ride right into nearabouts any Injun village. They’ll feed you, sign-talk to you, and give you a place a sleep. Course … gettin’ out is the problem.
“They ain’t like us, Emmett. They don’t come close to thinkin’ like us. What is fun to them is torture to us. They call it testin’ a man’s bravery. Ifn a man dies good — that is, don’t holler a lot — they make it last as long as possible. Then they’ll sing songs about you, praise you for dyin’ good. Lots of white folks condemn ’em for that, but it’s just they way of life.
“They got all sorts of ways to test a man’s bravery and strength. They might — dependin’ on the tribe — strip you, stake you out over a big anthill, then pour honey over you. Then they’ll squat back and watch, see how well you die.”
Kirby felt sick at his stomach.
“Or they might bury you up to your neck in the ground, slit your eyelids so you can’t close ’em, and let the sun blind you. Then, after your eyes is burnt blind, they’ll dig you up and turn you loose naked out in the wild … trail you for days, seein’ how well you die.”