“We gave your horse a proper burial,” Flagg said, “buried him deep to keep the critters from getting at him.”
“Thanks, Jubal. What about Horton?”
“We stripped Horton naked and left his corpse on an anthill. I expect he’s just bones by now.”
And then Dag had drifted off again. But he remembered the conversation, because he thanked Flagg again.
“You won’t believe what we found in Horton’s boot, Dag.”
“What?”
“It’s almost like a signed confession. It’s a contract between Deuce and Horton. Says if he murders you before we reach the Red, he gets your ranch and everything.”
“That son of a bitch.”
“You’re going to have to deal with Deuce when you get back home, Dag. But you got proof enough to send him to the gallows. We’ll all give testimony if there’s a trial.”
“There sure as hell’s gonna be something,” Dag said, a bitter tone to his voice.
Then the Comanches rose up out of nowhere, and they were everywhere, their faces painted for war, their arrows nocked on taut bowstrings, war clubs and lances piercing the skyline, tongues trilling, screams tearing from their throats.
“Look out,” Manny Chavez yelled on the left flank where he was riding point.
Flagg turned in his saddle and saw them, their feathers rippling in the wind as the Comanche converged on lone riders at every manned point on the herd. He drew his rifle from his scabbard and turned his horse. He levered a cartridge into the chamber, cocking the rifle. He brought it to his shoulder and picked out the nearest target, a nearly naked Comanche, chest and face daubed in brilliant colors, loincloth flapping, charging Chavez with a lance. He led the running brave, squeezed the trigger and saw him fall as he launched his lance into the air.
Gunshots rang out as startled drovers drew pistols and rifles and picked out targets. Flagg saw men fall from their horses with arrows sprouting from their bodies. He swung his rifle, dropped another Comanche, and then three of them came after him. He put spurs to his horse’s flanks and charged straight at them, firing once, swerving his horse, jerking the lever down, then back up and swerving again as arrows whistled through the air, then whispered past him, only to strike the ground and chip sparks from rocks or impale the ground at an angle, the shafts vibrating with a brittle hum.
A brave dragged a man from his horse. Another ran up and swung a war club. The club struck the man in the side of the head and smashed it like a ripe pumpkin, scattering brains and blood like boiled oatmeal streaked with ketchup. A drover riding drag took a Comanche arrow in the belly and screamed. Two warriors came at him on moccasined feet, slashing with war clubs. The rider swung his rifle at them, but the clubs smashed his knee-caps and shins. Ed Langley screamed in pain as he was dragged out of the saddle and brained until his face looked like a distorted mask floating at the bottom of a vat of water.
Jimmy Gough left Little Jake in charge of the remuda and rode to the rear of the herd, his rifle cocked. He shot on the run, dropping one Comanche, jacking another cartridge into the chamber and squeezing the trigger on another who was trying to kill one of the drovers with his lance.
Fingers and Jo halted the chuck wagon at the sound of rifle shots. But they were out of sight of the herd and could not see what was happening. Fingers turned the wagon broadside to the trail.
“Jo, hand me that Henry under the seat,” he said. “You grab the Greener and watch in case somebody comes after us.”
“Daddy, it sounds like the drovers are under attack.” She handed her father the rifle and put the shotgun on her lap.
Dag rose up in the back as the wagon was turning. He had been asleep. “Wha-what is it?” he asked, still groggy and thick-tongued.
“Felix, you lie still now, hear?” Jo said. “We’re just turning the wagon.”
“I hear shots.”
“I know. There’s nothing we can do about it. Now hush.”
Dag laid his head back down, realizing how weak he was. Just that small effort had put a sheen of sweat on his face, and brought back the throbbing pain in his arm.
The gunfire continued, fast and furious, sounding like the crack of whips in rapid succession.
Flagg saw them coming and swung his rifle on them. But at the same time, he saw a Comanche warrior drawing his bow back, aiming an arrow at him.
A dozen or more Indians came boiling over the ridge, leading an equal number of riderless horses, each to a man. The pack of charging warriors broke into single riders, who rode for the fighting men on the ground, picking them up one by one.
Flagg fired quickly, just as the Comanche loosed his arrow, then ducked. He saw the man jerk with the impact of a bullet just below his gullet, then collapse to the ground, blood spurting from his throat.
He swung his rifle toward the pack of Comanches, but by then they were split up. He saw what was happening. As each man on foot leaped on the back of a horse, the Comanches began cutting cattle out of the herd. They all converged and drove the stolen cattle off, yipping and screeching to keep them running away from the herd.
Flagg had never seen such horsemanship before. All of the Comanches were now mounted and weaving their ponies back and forth, herding the cattle perfectly while on the run. He fired a shot at one of the Indians, but it went high and wide.
And then the Comanches were gone, along with about a dozen head of cattle.
Matlee rode up, his face covered with sweat and dust. “Jubal, we goin’ after ’em?”
“Barry, there could be a hundred Indians just over that hill yonder, just waitin’ for us. Do you figger it’s worth it?”
“Hell, they stole our cattle. A couple of hundred dollars’ worth, at least.”
Flagg looked around. Men were moaning, lying flat on their backs or doubled up in pain. There were dead Comanches too. Riderless horses, under saddle, wandered in confusion. The cattle were bawling and milling, as if ready to bolt.
“This herd could jump at any minute, Barry. Let’s tend to what we got.”
Matlee scowled, but nodded, and turned his horse. “I got men down,” he said.
Flagg watched the dust hanging in the air, left by the retreating Comanches. He knew it was not worth the risk to go after the thieves when there was a chance they could lose the entire herd and spend days tracking the cattle down.
He waited until the dust dissipated and then reloaded his rifle, shoved it into its boot. He turned to the herd, saw that some men were tending to the wounded, while others were trying to calm the herd and keep them from stampeding.
“Manny, let’s string ’em out,” Flagg said. “Keep ’em movin’ ahead. Don’t give ’em time to think.”
“Yeah, boss,” Chavez said. He and the two riders from the Double C started cutting through the head of the herd, sending small bunches of cattle after the lead steer and the bunch following it into the stream heading northwest.
Flagg watched the herd for any sign of revolt, barking orders, holding the strays in, helping where he could. Soon the herd was strung out and moving at a good pace, settling down, following blindly behind the cattle in the lead.
“Manny, you let ’em graze when you think they’re ready. I’ll have riders keep an eye on our back trail. The drovers are set.”
Chavez nodded as Flagg rode up to Jimmy.
“They drive off any horses?” Flagg asked.
“I don’t know. I left Little Jake to watch the remuda.”
“Let’s find out,” Flagg said.
Little Jake’s face was drained of color. He had an old cap-and-ball pistol in his hand and it was shaking as if he had the palsy.
“Lose any horseflesh, Little Jake?” Gough asked.
“Nary a one, Jimmy. I didn’t even see one Comanche come near. But I was ready to shoot if one did.”