A Coffin for Tomahawk, page 20
Another hour crawled by, and there was still no sign of the Apache.
But Callahan had spotted the hills in the distance ahead. He wondered if Henry Jacobs was already on his way back with the scouting report. He wondered if the mission up ahead was as Espinoza had described it. He wondered if the people would be there to meet the wagon train. He wondered how far the Apache were behind them.
It was all wondering and no answers.
The hills grew closer, and Callahan was tempted to have Pete Duchamp sprint for it. But mules weren’t built for speed and couldn’t keep up a fast pace for long. Callahan would have to wait and time it just right. The hills crawled closer and closer at a painstakingly slow pace.
He was glancing over his shoulder all the time now, but the Apache were never there. Maybe just this once good luck would—
And then he saw them.
He blinked, not sure if he was seeing what he thought he saw, dots bouncing on the horizon in the blur of desert heat, and he watched a minute to be sure. There was no doubt. Riders. A lot of them, and they were going faster than the wagon train.
He looked ahead of them at the hills.
Still too far. We need to get closer. Just a little more.
“Mr. Callahan!” someone called. “Mr. Callahan!”
Callahan turned to see a rider coming hard. It was Henry Jacobs. The kid reined in his horse abruptly next to Callahan, kicking up dust and rocks.
“I don’t suppose you happened to see Chance Gilbert and his traveling barnyard,” Callahan said.
“I passed him on the way there and on the way back again,” Jacobs told him. “They should be up and through before we get there, but it’ll be a close thing.”
“So the pass is open?” Callahan asked.
“Well … sort of?” Jacobs said.
“Dang it, son, I need straight answers,” Callahan told him.
“There’s been a rockslide,” Jacobs reported. “Looks like it happened a long time ago. There’s an opening, but …” He shook his head, not sure what to say next.
“Can the wagons get through or not?” Callahan demanded. “This is important.”
Jacobs looked unsure of himself. “The chuckwagons won’t be a problem nor any of the Conestogas or … well, it’s the big flatbeds. I mean … I just don’t know.”
“Henry, I need you to listen to me,” Callahan said. “If the wagons can’t make it through, we need to think of something else. Maybe circle the wagons or … look, I just need to know.”
Jacobs looked panicked for a second, but then suddenly his face hardened with resolve. “The wagons will make it through. It’ll be tight, but they’ll just scrape through, I think.”
“Then that’s the best we’ve got,” Callahan said. “Get up front and show Pete Duchamp the way when the signal comes.”
Jacobs wheeled his horse around and headed for the front of the train at a full gallop.
Callahan looked back at the Apache. The dots had become slightly more recognizable as men on horses. He looked back the other way at the rocky hills, his hand dropping to his six-shooter.
Not yet. Not … yet.
The hills came closer.
But so did the Apache.
Not … yet.
Callahan drew his six-shooter, held it over his head, aiming at the sky.
Callahan thought about his volunteers, hoped they were ready for what was coming next. He’d specifically asked Conrad for men with cavalry experience, be it recently against Indians or back in the war. Short of that, he’d take anyone who fancied he could ride and shoot.
He thumbed back the hammer of his revolver. The Apache were getting close now.
Callahan fired three quick shots. That was the signal.
He put the six-gun back in its holster.
Then he drew the Henry rifle and laid it across the saddle in front of him.
Up ahead, he knew Pete Duchamp had heard the signals and was giving his mules the whip. It took a while for the domino effect to filter all the way to the end of the wagon train, but soon all the mules were galloping full speed—or full speed for a mule anyway—all the wagons rattling and rocking as they raced for the hills.
Callahan hoped the wagons wouldn’t all shake apart before they got there.
He fell back among the volunteers in the rear. They rode off to the side of the wagon train a bit as the wagons’ increased speed caused them to kick up more dust. He looked from one side to the other. He recognized all the faces but was ashamed to realize he didn’t know a few of the names. He’d traveled with these men for weeks. He was supposed to be a leader. He should have known. These men might die with him today. He should have known every name.
Callahan vowed to rectify this oversight if they all came through this alive.
“Gentlemen, it’s time!” Callahan shouted to be heard above the din. “Just like we discussed it!”
And they all turned their horses to face the Apache.
Young Bull would not have been surprised if, by the end of the day, the most heroic thing he’d done was to hold his tongue.
It had been nearly impossible, especially as his impatience grew. Walks in Starlight and Stone Raven insisted there was no hurry. Let the wagon train find its way into Mexico. Let the white men think the Apache were not coming.
And then, after the men of the wagon train had been lulled into thinking themselves safe, the Apache would descend with rage and death. Young Bull could not really default the thinking, but it was just more waiting …
“Look,” Baby Elk said, riding next to him. “Is that them?”
Young Bull squinted ahead and grinned. The wagon train. They were catching up at last. He turned to Stone Raven to tell him they should charge but stopped himself. Of course, that was wrong. Even Young Bull could see it was too soon. Why tire the horses right before a battle? Stone Raven would wait until they were much closer before calling the charge. Until then, Young Bull would have to content himself with the knowledge that they were slowly gaining as they trotted after the wagon train.
“Young Bull.” Baby Elk rode close to Young Bull and pitched his voice low.
“What is it?”
Baby Elk swallowed hard. “Do you fear death?”
The question surprised Young Bull. “I do not welcome it. But fear it …”
He wasn’t sure. Young Bull had never really taken the time to think about it.
“There will be a battle soon,” Baby Elk said. “I am nervous.”
Young Bull thought about that. “Without danger and fear and death … then any glory we won for ourselves would be worthless. To overcome fear, to spit into the face of death … therein lies the glory.”
A weak laugh spilled out of Baby Elk. “That is not as comforting as you think it is.”
Young Bull wondered what Baby Elk needed to hear. “Stay close to me. Fight your best. It will be okay.”
Baby Elk nodded. “Thank you, Young Bull.”
A grumble rippled through the braves. Young Bull looked up to see what was happening. A cloud of dust grew ahead of them. He blinked at it, trying to understand.
Walks in Starlight nudged his horse in between Young Bull’s and Baby Elk’s. Stone Raven pulled even on the other side.
“The wagon train flees,” Walks in Starlight said. “They kick up dust as they run.”
Young Bull turned his head to look at Stone Raven.
Stone Raven looked left then right, then squinted up at the position of the sun. “I estimate we have long passed the bluecoats’ invisible line.”
“Then we should attack,” Young Bull urged. “Yes?”
A long silence from Stone Raven as he looked ahead at the fleeing wagon train with hard eyes, the dust cloud growing. Then a curt nod. “We attack.”
Young Bull thrust his rifle into the air and howled his war cry. Others followed his example a split second later. And then all the braves thundered forward, a great mass of them like a single, snarling animal, Young Bull’s jet-black braids streaming in the wind behind him as the horses’ hooves dug up turf at a full gallop.
He chanced a glance left to see Baby Elk riding next to him, a nervous grin on the young brave’s face.
Fight your best, my friend. We will win!
They couldn’t see the wagon train now, for the dust cloud in front of them blocked the view. The cloud grew to fill their vision. Young Bull whooped and cried and spurred his horse faster, all around him Apache gripping rifles, relishing the day that had come at long last. Today Young Bull would bathe himself in glory and—
They came out of the dust cloud like ghosts congealing before their very eyes into the forms of men. They lifted their guns as they galloped toward the Apache.
Young Bull’s eyes widened. No!
The crack of rifles and a line of flashes. Hot lead tore through the front ranks of the Apache. Baby Elk was snatched from his horse. Another volley followed, more ragged but just as deadly, and more Apache fell.
Confusion reigned. The white men were among them. Gunfire from every direction, the cloud of dust sweeping over them, visibility reduced to nothing. Young Bull’s horse reared and staggered into the horse next to it.
Young Bull was thrown.
The world tumbled and blurred, the ground coming up so fast to smack him in the face. Young Bull pushed himself up, spit dirt. Horses all around him, hooves gashing holes in the earth. One hit him on the side of the head with a glancing blow, and for a moment he saw stars.
Then shouts.
The sound of retreating hoofbeats.
Young Bull staggered to his feet. Where was his horse? He saw other braves moving in and out of the dust cloud like wraiths, some mounted, others not.
He stumbled over something and almost went down but managed to right himself. He looked to see what he’d tripped over.
Baby Elk.
No.
The body lay sprawled and bloody, eyes open but seeing nothing.
Young Bull sagged to his knees, gathered Baby Elk in his arms.
No, no, no …
CHAPTER 22
“Let’s go!” Callahan shouted above the fray.
The men of the wagon train turned their horses and galloped away at full speed. A hundred yards away, Callahan abruptly called a halt and ordered his men to face the Apache again.
“Pour it on ’em!” he shouted.
Callahan lifted his Henry rifle and fired, levering in another shell and firing again. The men all around him did the same, shooting at the vague figures in the dust cloud. It didn’t even matter if they hit their targets as long as they added to the confusion. They fired until their rifles clicked empty.
“Back to the wagons!”
Callahan looked around as they galloped full speed back toward the wagon train. He felt relief and satisfaction when he didn’t see anyone missing. They’d given the Apache a good punch in the mouth and had left them confused and disarrayed. Callahan hoped it would delay them. He wanted to think his little show of force would be enough to make them rethink their pursuit.
But he knew better. They weren’t out of the woods yet.
He leaned low in the saddle, spurring the Appaloosa to its best speed.
By the time they caught up with the wagon train, Callahan was pleasantly surprised to see how far they’d come, the path leading into the hills and up to the mission dead ahead. The mules floundered along, a feeble burlesque of a gallop that might have been comical if lives weren’t at stake.
Callahan caught up with Pete Duchamp at the head of the column where he was still urging his mule team forward.
“The animals are winded,” Duchamp said. “They’ll be out of steam right quick, I’m sorry to say.”
“Just get them through the pass,” Callahan said. “Henry Jacobs knows the way.”
He rode back to the rear of the wagon train where the volunteers waited in a cluster.
“Any sign of them?” Callahan asked.
They all shook their heads, saying there’d been no hint of the Apache.
“Oh, they’re coming,” Callahan said. “Just reload and be ready. They’ll be along.”
Just not too soon, I hope.
A brave Young Bull knew as Swift River brought him his horse.
“Walks in Starlight is dead,” Swift River said, handing the reins to Young Bull.
The news hit Young Bull like a physical blow. “What?”
“And Stone Raven is wounded in the leg,” the other brave said. “He cannot ride.”
Baby Elk dead. Walks in Starlight dead. Stone Raven wounded and out of action. Many of the braves were scattered. Some had lost their horses like Young Bull had. The white men had caught them completely by surprise. Perhaps this had all been a mistake. A sick panic began to rise inside him.
No.
I will make of my heart a stone.
“Gather the braves. It is time for the white man to pay.” Young Bull mounted his horse. “And they will pay in blood.”
Nobody would call the Mission San Inocente impressive. A blocky building of baked adobe with cracks and missing plaster. A large arched doorway with the door gone and a line of arched windows above. A square bell tower twenty feet high with the bell having vanished. There was a crumbling outer wall six feet high, but with so many gaps, it couldn’t have kept out a lazy herd of sheep let alone the Apache.
And while the pass was narrow, it had been wide enough once upon a time for two wagons to pass each other going in opposite directions. The hills rose up steeply on either side of the pass, and to the right, a big rockslide had tumbled down years ago to block much of the path. The wagon train had been reduced to an excruciating crawl. Henry Jacobs had been right. The wagons could fit through, but it was a close shave, and each wagon had to ease through carefully.
“This is giving me an ulcer.” Bert Conrad wiped the sweat from his face with a handkerchief, his Winchester resting on his shoulder. He kept looking back down the mountain path as if he’d see the Apache there any moment.
Which, of course, he might.
“I think I better put somebody up in that bell tower to keep watch,” Callahan said. “I’d like a little warning if the Apache show up.”
Conrad jerked a thumb at the tower. “Already got a fella on the job.”
Callahan craned his neck to look.
Chance Gilbert sat on the edge of the bell tower, feet dangling over the side, a Sharps carbine cradled in the crook of one arm. The boot was off of his left foot, ankle wrapped tightly in bandages.
“What in Sam Hill happened to you?” Callahan called up to Gilbert.
“The dang fool in charge of this wagon train had me stumbling around in the dark all night, and I stepped in a hole,” Gilbert shouted down to him. “Twisted my ankle.”
“Then shouldn’t you be riding in one of the wagons down the other side of the hill?”
Gilbert shrugged. “I like it up here. Nice view.”
“Then I’ll trust you to keep watching that view,” Callahan said. “If it fills up with Indians, give us a whistle.”
Callahan lowered his voice and leaned toward Conrad. “So somebody was supposed to meet us here?”
Conrad blew out a sigh. “Supposed to.”
“And?”
“And I hope they damn well show up.”
Callahan watched the wagons squeeze through the gap one at a time, fearing any second the Apache would arrive. They finally got down to the last half dozen wagons. Callahan was starting to feel like they might just make it. If they could just get the wagons through the pass—
A shrill whistle drew his attention. He looked up and saw Gilbert waving. “They’re at the bottom of the hill and coming strong!”
Callahan waved one arm frantically at the final wagons. “Come on, come on! Move! No time to be careful. Get the lead out!”
The wagons sped up, a couple of them knocking hard and scraping against boulders as they passed. Finally, they were all through and heading down the other side of the hill.
Callahan ran for an empty wagon parked off to the side. “Some help over here!”
Pete Duchamp had done exactly as instructed. He’d taken four wagonloads of miners and had crammed them into three, leaving the final wagon for Callahan to use. He got behind the wagon, put his shoulder against it, and began to push. “Come on!”
A half dozen of the volunteers swarmed around the wagon, and together, they pushed the wagon into place, blocking the gap.
They could hear the thunder of hooves now as the Apache came up the hill, getting close.
“Flip it on its side!” Callahan shouted. “Hurry!”
They all went around to one side, grabbed the underside of the wagon, and began to heave. Slowly, the wagon rose. Callahan grunted, face going red, sweat pouring down his face.
Thing is … dang … heavy.
And then suddenly a huge man was right next to him, grabbing hold of the wagon and lifting with strong arms. The wagon went over on its side, effectively plugging the gap.
“Figured you could use a hand,” Barker said.
Callahan blinked at him. “What are you doing here, Barker? Shouldn’t you be with the rest of the miners?”
Barker held up his pickaxe. “Somebody’s got to represent the miners. I’m ready and willing.”
“Well, you can’t fend off the Apache with a pickaxe.” Callahan drew his six-shooter, checked the load, and handed it to Barker. “Make every shot count.”
“Will do.” Barker stuck the pistol in his belt.
“Here they come!” Gilbert shouted from the bell tower.
“Grab some cover!” Callahan shouted as he went for his rifle. “Hold your fire until I give the word!”
Callahan’s volunteers spread out behind the wagon and the rockslide. A couple were on the roof of the mission, rifles up and ready. Callahan found a place at the edge of the overturned wagon, Conrad right next to him.
They could hear the whoops and war cries of the Apache. The ground shook with the pounding hooves of their mounts.
Callahan’s mouth felt dry as cotton.
