Kiowa Vengeance (11 page)

No one answered.

***

John Hix shivered in the night chill and
moved onto the downwind side of the fire he had built from the
embers of burnt house timber. It was smoky there, but warmer. The
others were inside the barn to get out of the wind. He used a sharp
stick to roll the slab of beef over onto its other side. The meat
would be covered in gritty ash and taste like hell, but he had
eaten worse—much worse—during the war.

The meat was as done as it needed to be, he
decided, using his stick to pick it up and carry it inside.

The Mannings had been buried, everyone in a
common grave. No one had read over them—there was nothing to read
from, the teacher had left her books behind and any Bible the
Mannings had was burned with their home. De Courcey recited part of
a poem by an Englishman named Donne, something about bells ringing.
Miss Cora Sloane had remained inside the barn even after the badly
desecrated bodies were in the ground and covered with a layer of
dirt.

“We should take turns standing watch
tonight,” De Courcey said. “The savages may return.”

“Why would they do that?” Weatherby whined.
“Besides, isn’t it true that Indians won’t fight in the night? They
are afraid of spirits or some such, right?”

De Courcey snorted. “Where did you hear such
tripe? No, it isn’t true. Indians will fight any time they think
they can win. Then, for no reason at all—at least no reason that a
civilized man would understand—they might stop fighting and walk
away. Don’t try to think about what an Indian might do, Weatherby.
You won’t be able to make sense of it.” He grinned. “You’ll just
give yourself a headache if you try too hard.” De Courcey looked at
Hix and said, “Wouldn’t you agree, Mister Hix?”

“Oh,” Hix said, “I wouldn’t know anything
about such. Nor about guns or horses or fighting or…or…I just don’t
know about those things, that’s all.”

De Courcey practically hurt himself he
laughed so hard at that. The laughter made Hix almost sure the man
had once been a guerrilla raider himself, and now recognized John
Hix as another of his own ilk.

“My mistake,” De Courcey said. “It must have
been your feral eyes.”

“I’ll take the first watch,” Hix
volunteered. “And this meat is getting cold. Who has a knife so we
can cut it up? You,” he said, gesturing with his chin toward the
gunsmith, Benteen. “Can we use your knife again? I did give it back
to you after I butchered the calf, didn’t I?”

“No, you left it lying there beside the
carcass. I had to find it and clean it myself.”

“Well, can I borrow it again?” Hix
asked.

“No, you can’t.” The man took out a folded
Barlow, opened the big blade then leaned down and sliced a generous
chunk of charred meat off the cooked slab. He took his supper and
walked away from the others.

De Courcey shot the man an ugly look, took a
knife from his belt and used it to cut a portion of the meat. He
gave that piece to Miss Sloane. Then he offered the knife to
Weatherby. “Pass it around,” he said. “I’m in no rush to get it
back.”

When everyone had a piece of meat, De
Courcey said, “I think I’ll check on my horse.” He disappeared
toward the back of the barn.

Hix took his chunk of half raw beef, as
gritty and tasteless as he expected, and walked outside to begin
his watch. He barely had time to become comfortable with memorizing
where everything about the Manning ranch yard was located, and what
each object looked like in the night shadows—so he would be sure to
notice if something changed—before De Courcey joined him, moving as
silently as the mist.

“I remember you now,” Reginald De Courcey
said softly. “You were at Rock Island. You stabbed a guard there,
one who was especially nasty to the Confederate prisoners. Several
of us saw you, but no one said a word.”

Hix looked the man in the eyes and said, “I
don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve never in my life been
anywhere called Rock Island.”

De Courcey paused for a moment. Then he
nodded. “All right, friend. I believe you. Whatever you say, I
believe you.” He smiled. “So long as you remember—I wasn’t there,
either.”

Hix smiled and stuck his hand out. “Thanks.
Friend.”

The two shook hands. “Although if you had
been at Rock Island,” De Courcey said, “you would no doubt be
interested to learn that Major Seth Allison, a very sadistic
bastard, met with an unfortunate accident after the war. Not too
dissimilar an accident than that which befell that sergeant of
his.”

“What a shame.”

They stood in silence for a few moments
more, then De Courcey nodded and returned to the barn.

John Hix stood in the darkness, leaning
against the front wall of the barn, smelling the stink of embers
and cold ash, and the long familiar scents of death and
destruction.

How many nights, he mused, had he stood
watch like this. Watching for Redlegs or damnyankee regulars. The
regulars—he hated to admit it, but the bastards could fight. The
Redlegs, in his opinion, were just so much vermin in need of
extermination.

And the man who called himself De Courcey.
Hix was certain now that he remembered seeing him at Rock Island
prison, not among the guerrilla bands. Except he was an officer
then. And his name was not De Courcey. Hix was fairly sure of that,
too.

What he wished he was sure of was where the
Kiowa raiders were now. Would they be coming back through the
Manning place? If they did they likely would feel no need for
stealth, he thought. That would make them easier to spot in time
for the stagecoach passengers to mount a defense against the
savages.

But there were so few whites to defend
against—how many? And they had so little in the way of armament.
Hix wished he had his heavy saber, the one with CSA on the guard,
but that fine weapon was hidden away in his wardrobe back home in
Wolf Creek.

He thought about the weapon and he smiled.
Ah, it was a fine thing, that saber. An old and trusted companion.
Steel. Cold steel had always been Hix’s choice. It would be a shame
for him to be killed now and not have the saber in hand. That would
not seem fair somehow. Dying was one thing. Doing it as a mere
barber would be worse. And before he could have his revenge on the
Redlegs—that would be criminal.

Hix shivered and turned the collar of his
coat up as high as he could get it. His eyes burning with fatigue
as he tried to penetrate the darkness in search of enemies—real or
imaginary.

CHAPTER SIX

Dave Benteen didn’t like people much.

This was not an arbitrary decision on his
part. It was an attitude that had been well earned over the years.
People had consistently proven themselves untrustworthy during that
time. And unlikeable. And he hadn’t seen anything in the people on
the stage to change his mind. Oh, he’d been on his best behavior,
especially with the new schoolteacher, but he would just as soon be
off on his own than with them. And it didn’t help much when the new
fella—De Courcey—came along on his horse.

The one thing he knew for sure about people
was that they all had their secrets. And he was sure this bunch was
no different. De Courcey, Hix, and Cora Sloane. Well, except maybe
for the drummer, Weatherby. He was probably just what he appeared
to be—useless.

He finished his meat, cleaned the grease off
his Barlow and his hands on his pants as Hix came up to him.

“Listen, Dave,” Hix said, “you and me gotta
talk.”

“Don’t you and De Courcey have things all
figured out?” Benteen asked.

“Just that the three of us should stand
watch tonight,” Hix said. “I’m taking the first.”

“Fine,” Benteen said. “I’ll take the
second.”

“But what do we do tomorrow?”

“That’s easy,” the gunsmith said. “We’ve got
to get to Wolf Creek without getting killed.

“Not so easy,” Hix said.

“Not for all of us, maybe.”

“What are you thinking?”

“We’ve got one horse,” Benteen said, “and I
think one of us should use it to get to Wolf Creek and warn
them.”

“And get help?”

Benteen laughed.

“They can’t help us. They’re gonna have to
fort up and help themselves.”

“So what about the rest of us?” Hix asked.
“We just sit here?”

“No,” Benteen said, “we keep walking.”

Hix thought it over a moment, then said,
“Okay, so who goes? You?”

“No, not me.”

“The woman, then?”

“There’s no way we can send a woman out
there alone, not even on a horse,” Benteen said. “No, the horse
belongs to Mister De Courcey. I think he should go.”

“I guess we better tell him what we’re
thinking, then.”

“There’s no rush,” Benteen said. “We can
tell him that in the morning. We should get our sleeping
arrangements together so the lady can get some rest.”

“Okay,” Hix said. “Will you come back to
camp with me?”

“Yeah, sure.”

They started back.

“What’s going on between you and De
Courcey?” Benteen asked.

“Going on?” Hix asked. “Nothing. I mean, I
don’t know him. Met him the same time you did.”

“Hmm.”

When they got back to camp Miss Cora Sloane
had put in an appearance, again. Probably figured it was safe now
that the bodies were buried, Benteen thought.

“Aren’t you supposed to be on watch?”
Sampson Quick—alias De Courcey—asked Hix.

“I am,” Hix said. “Just found Mister Benteen
out there, and he had an idea.”

“Is that right?” De Courcey looked at
Benteen. “And what would that be, sir?”

“Watch?” Weatherby spoke up. “Who’s on
watch? Do I have to stand watch? I can’t do that. I’d never be able
to—”

“Nobody expects you to stand watch,
Weatherby,” Benteen said, “so shut up for now and let the grown-ups
talk.” Then he looked at De Courcey, realizing that thanks to Hix,
they were going to talk about this tonight. “I think somebody needs
to use your horse to make a run for Wolf Creek.”

“For help?” Cora Sloane asked,
anxiously.

“No, Ma’am,” Benteen said. He resented her
interruption just as much as Weatherby’s, though he brooked it with
more grace. “To warn them. They need to know what’s coming at
them.”

“You don’t think they already know?” De
Courcey asked.

“I don’t know,” Benteen said. “I can’t say.
I haven’t spent any time there, yet. I don’t know about the
people.”

“Why are you moving there, then?” De Courcey
asked.

“An acquaintance of mine sold me his
business,” Benteen said. “And I need a placed to live. It sounded
as good as any.”

“All right, then,” De Courcey said,
“proceed, please. Who do you suppose should make this run on my
horse? You?”

Benteen looked at Hix, who glanced away
quickly. “Why’s everybody asking me that? No, not me. You, Mister
De Courcey. It’s your horse. You know the animal. You can probably
make the best time on it.”

De Courcey studied Benteen for a few
moments.

“If he can ride to warn then,” Weatherby
said, “he could also ride to get help.”

Everybody ignored him.

De Courcey looked at Cora Sloane.

“I believe you should go, Mister De
Courcey,” she said. “Mister Benteen is right. Those people need to
be warned. If you can help them, you should.”

“That would leave you here with these
gentlemen,” De Courcey pointed out.

“After what happened on the stagecoach, I
believe I can trust Mister Benteen and Mister Hix.” She folded her
arms across her chest. “You should go.”

De Courcey hesitated, then said, “Very well.
I will leave at first light.”

***

In the morning they all gathered as Sampson
Quick walked his horse out of the barn.

“As soon as I reach Wolf Creek, I’ll send
help back for you,” he promised them.

“God go with you, Mister De Courcey, and
keep you safe,” Cora Sloane said.

“You need a gun?” Benteen asked

“I have my own, thanks,” De Courcey
said.

“Uh,” Weatherby said, timidly, “couldn’t two
people go on the horse? Ride double, I mean?”

They all looked at him.

“I mean—I was, uh, talkin’ about the lady,
of course.”

“De Courcey may end up having to outrun some
Kiowa braves,” Benteen said. “He’d be hard pressed to do that with
another person on the horse. So no, riding double isn’t an option.”
He looked at De Courcey. “You better get going.”

De Courcey nodded and said, “I’ll see you
all soon.”

He put his spurs to his horse and rode off
in the direction of Wolf Creek.

Benteen looked at the others and said, “I
guess we better start walking.”

***

Sampson Quick had not ridden very far when
he became aware of the fact that he was being watched. He reined
his horse in and stood in the stirrups. Sure enough, off in the
distance to the East he saw about half a dozen renegades. At first
he thought they were riding in tandem with him, but then he
realized that while he had seen them, they had not, in fact, seen
him—yet.

He considered spurring his horse into motion
and riding hell bent for leather for Wolf Creek, but he thought
that would actually draw their attention. He would do better to
withdraw slowly, until he was out of their sight, and then ride
back to the others and warn them that they might be walking right
into the path of hostiles.

Or he could simply go his own way, forget
about the folks who were on foot and the people in Wolf Creek. Let
them fend for themselves. But he had already set a precedent when
he stopped for those people once. He might not have, had there not
been a woman with them. And it was probably the presence of the
woman that was taking him back there now.

He backed his horse up slowly, then when out
of sight of the raiding party—perhaps the same one that had torn
his former colleague apart—he turned and put his heels to his
horse.