Kiowa Vengeance (14 page)

The Kiowas galloped toward Wolf Creek, their
battle cries splitting the air.

Sheriff Satterlee had stationed himself on
the roof of the blacksmith’s, with Angus Sweeney, Emory Charleston,
and Marshal Gardner. The sheriff shouted down to the men on the
line.

“Hold your fire, boys, till they’re in range
good—then let ‘em have it!”

He had no sooner spoken than Angus Sweeney’s
Austrian rifle boomed and a warrior flew off his horse. The rangy
blacksmith in the Confederate
kepi
shrugged at the
sheriff.

“Hell, G. W.,” he said. “They’re in
my
range.”

Sergeant Nagy and his troopers, who had been
manning the north barricade, rushed to the main line, and the
defenders started firing. Indians and horses fell in tangled
heaps—but the Kiowas who kept surging ahead returned fire. First
bullets, then arrows, began thunking in to the barrels and wagons
of the barricade. Down the line from Benteen, a cowboy went down
with an arrow buried in his eye socket. Another was knocked
backward by a rifle slug.

“Howie!” one of the cowboy’s pards, Billy
Below, yelled. His other
companero
, the Cherokee drover
Jimmy Spotted Owl, limped over to help him—Jimmy was still nursing
a thigh wound received in a shoot-out with the Danby gang weeks
earlier.

Howie waved the Cherokee youth back. “I’ll
be fine, Jimmy, get back on the line!”

The defenders were shooting furiously into
the approaching Kiowas. Benteen could not help noticing the cool
efficiency with which the men on either side of him operated—for a
barber who claimed to know little about fire-arms and an English
dandy with a paintbrush, they held up under fire like seasoned
professionals.

The wave of Indians collided with the
tightly packed barricade, and several of them clambered over the
top and dropped into the middle of the defenders. One leaped onto
the back of the Lucky Break’s house gambler, Sam Jones, and dragged
him to the ground. The Kiowa raised his tomahawk high to bash the
gambler’s brains in; before he could do so, the bounty hunter known
only as Rattlesnake Jake tackled the Indian and wrestled him to the
ground, repeatedly pounding an Arkansas toothpick into his chest.
Deputy Marshal Quint Croy pulled Jones to his feet.

Nagy’s troopers swarmed over the Indians who
had made it inside—after several hard-fought moments the Kiowa were
dispatched, but not before they had killed two citizens and Trooper
Klein.

The withering fire from the barricades drove
the other Indians back, and they wheeled around in retreat. Several
citizens up and down the line cheered—but the more experienced ones
knew it was only a temporary respite. The Kiowas regrouped, just
out of range.

David Appleford, editor of the
Wolf Creek
Expositor
, ran a shaky hand through his sandy hair. He had seen
a Kiowa cave in the skull of the man standing next to him on the
line, and had barely turned his revolver in time to shoot the
warrior in the face and avoid having his own brains dashed out as
well. All his normal daily concerns seemed trite now. His only
thoughts were the hope he would live to see his thirtieth birthday
in September and the regret that he had ever left Denver to come
out here and marry that Wichita pastor’s daughter—who had abandoned
him the first time she laid eyes on Wolf Creek and gone home to
papa anyhow, leaving him with no comfort save Wil Marsh’s salacious
photographs.

Appleford leaned against the barricade and
took a deep breath. He was not surprised to see Marsh, tripod under
his arm, examining the still-twitching bodies to decide the best
camera angles. Even Soo Chow’s Chinese “nephews” were on the line,
fighting to defend the helpless of Wolf Creek—but not that bastard
Marsh. Appleford tried to spit in contempt, but his mouth was too
dry.

“That was just the first charge, boyos,”
Corporal Sligo called out. “They was just testin’ us out—they’ll be
hittin’ us again, probably soon!”

John Hix stared at the distant Indians. “We
thinned ‘em out some, I reckon,” he said, “but there’s a right
smart of ‘em still left.”

Benteen noticed some movement off to the
east and said, “And maybe a lot more.”

Sheriff Satterlee had clambered down from
the roof. He looked at the gunsmith, then followed his line of
sight. Another group of Kiowa had appeared.

“Jesus,” Satterlee said. “Get ready!” he
called out.

“Wait,” Benteen said. “Look.”

Stone Knife and his men turned to face the
new line of Kiowa.

“Hey,” Satterlee said, squinting. “Is
that—it is. There’s a soldier with that second bunch.”

“Sheriff!” Sergeant Nagy said, running over.
“You see ‘em. That’s the Captain with them others.”

“Dent,” Satterlee said, “with Old
Mountain.”

While the men watched from their barricades
and rooftops, several members of each group broke away from the
main force and met in the middle.

“That’s Charley Blackfeather with ‘em,” Em
Charleston said.

“You sure?” Satterlee asked.

“I know Charley when I see him.”

“What are they doin’?” Satterlee said.

“Looks to me like they’re palaverin’,” Hix
said.

Old Mountain edged his pony closer to that
of his rebellious son Stone Knife. Charley Blackfeather and Dent
were close behind; the cavalry captain felt extremely vulnerable,
and would much rather have been on the other side of the barricade.
On a very, very soft cushion. Charley leaned forward in the saddle
and strained to hear the conversation between the two Indians—Old
Mountain’s voice was soft, though firm. There was no need for
concentration to hear Stone Knife’s angry replies, however.

“You have shamed me, my son,” Old Mountain
said in Kiowa.

“You and those other old men shame us all!”
Stone Knife responded. “Negotiating with the white soldiers, when
our brothers were murdered by those ‘buffalo hunters’! If the
soldiers see us acting like women, they will treat us like
women!”

“The women of our clan are wiser than you,”
his father said. “They know that life is taken, and life is made,
and life must continue. White killed our young men during the last
moon, our young men killed some of them, the hunters killed some
more of us—and now you have killed whites. Our warriors’ blood has
been avenged, and balance has been made, but it must stop now. If
we keep fighting the balance will be disrupted even more—all the
horse soldiers from the fort are coming here even as we speak, and
there will be more killing than can ever be answered for.”

“We are not afraid of the horse soldiers,”
Stone Knife said, waving his arms angrily. “We can kill all of
them, too!”

“You cannot. And even if you could, it would
not matter, for that is only one fort of many. If you wipe out this
white man’s town, they will send more horse soldiers, and
more—there are always more.
But there are no more of us.
Who
will protect our women and children, and elders, when our warriors
have all died, no matter how bravely those deaths were met? How
will our people survive?”

Charley noted that several of Stone Knife’s
warriors were mumbling to one another. The old man’s words were
hitting home.

“We are not dogs!” Stone Knife said.

“And we are not wolves,” his father said.
“At least dogs protect their village.”

There was more murmuring, and several Kiowas
moved their ponies closer to Old Mountain. Stone Knife looked
around his band, hoping for support, but found very little. He
snarled in frustration.

“Fine, then,” he said. “We will go back. We
have done enough—next time they will know, and fear us!” He
motioned to his followers, and they all galloped away.

Dent, Charley, and Old Mountain rode slowly
toward the town. The chief’s contingent remained still, watching
from their ponies.

“Here they come,” Satterlee said. “Guess
we’re gonna find out if we got a reprieve or not.”

The three men rode slowly up the street
toward the barricade, with men staring down at them from the
rooftops along their rifle barrels.

Satterlee stepped out from behind the
barricade to meet them. Benteen remained behind, his gun ready.

“Charley,” Satterlee said, “Captain.”

“Sheriff,” Dent said. “This is Old Mountain.
He’s managed to convince Stone Knife to take his people back to the
reservation.”

The white-haired Indian spoke in a
surprisingly even and deep voice. Charley Blackfeather spoke back
to him briefly in the same language, then turned to the white men
and translated for them.

“The chief says the blood has to stop
flowin’, else the wounds ain’t never gonna heal.”

“So it’s all over?” the sheriff asked.

“It’s over,” Dent said.

“For now,” Charley Blackfeather added.
“Stone Knife is the kind of fella that likes to pick at scabs.”

Sampson Quick looked at Benteen and said,
“Looks like we might have some time to get to know one another
after all, good sir.”

“You staying around Wolf Creek, Mister De
Courcey?”

“I haven’t quite made my mind up yet, Mister
Benteen. My original plan had been to make this town a temporary
station and then move on.” They looked out again at Stone Knife and
his men, who were almost completely out of sight. “But at least I
now have that decision to make.”

Sampson turned back and looked over the town
of Wolf Creek. The remaining members of his old gang would have no
way of knowing that Keene and Pettibone had not succeeded in their
mission to assassinate him, and then both fallen to the Kiowa
raiders. If he kept a low profile, a town like this could make an
ideal base to operate out of—maybe he could quietly assemble a new
gang, or even retire for awhile and work as a legitimate artist.
For awhile. He smiled to himself.

“This does seem like a lovely little town,”
he said aloud.

Hix was at his shoulder. “It suits me good,”
the barber said.

“I reckon it suits us all,” the sheriff
said. “But I’ll say one thing, it damn sure does stay lively.”

Dave Benteen looked once more into the
distance. The hostile Kiowas had disappeared completely. But
Charley Blackfeather’s words still echoed in the gunsmith’s
ears—Stone Knife likes to pick at scabs. The town only had a
temporary reprieve. Something else was bound to stoke the Kiowas’
ire and put them back on the vengeance trail, it was only a matter
of time.

Benteen tore his gaze away from the horizon
and turned it on the citizens of Wolf Creek. They had proven
themselves to be a bunch of tough customers today.

They’ll be ready.

ABOUT THE AUTHORS:

1
BILL CRIDER

I’m a native Texan and former college
teacher and administrator living in scenic Alvin, Texas, near
enough to the Texas Gulf Coast to have been through two hurricanes.
I’ve written around seventy-five novels in various genres,
including both standalone westerns under my own name and series
western novels under various house names. My mystery novels
featuring Sheriff Dan Rhodes have been appearing just about every
year since 1986. I’ve been nominated for the Edgar Award and the
Shamus Award for my novels, and I’ve won the Anthony and Derringer
Awards for my short crime fiction. My wife, Judy, is my proofreader
and constant inspiration. I owe everything to her, and she never
lets me forget it. If you want to learn more about us, check out my
website at
www.billcrider.com
or follow my
peculiar blog at
http://billcrider.blogspot.com
.

JACKSON LOWRY

Jackson Lowry's first western, SONORA NOOSE,
won acclaim and was nominated for the 2011 Western Fictioneer's
Peacemaker Award for best novel. It also received a 2011 New Mexico
Book Awards nomination. A short story, "The Silver Noose," was
included in the anthology THE TRADITIONAL WEST and another short
story, "Fifteen Dollars," is available for free download from the
online store
www.robertevardeman.com
For
more information, see the author's website
www.JacksonLowry

KERRY NEWCOMB

Kerry Newcomb was born in Connecticut but
had the good sense to be raised in Texas. He is a New York Times
reviewed bestselling author of forty novels, two produced plays, a
smattering of published poems and the occasional bathroom wall
limerick. He is married to Patricia Blackwell Newcomb, PhD
and beloved Southern Belle.

ROBERT J. RANDISI

Robert J. Randisi has been called by
Booklist
“ . . .
one of the last
true pulp writers.” He has been published in the western, mystery,
horror, science fiction and men’s adventure genres. All told, he is
the author of 540 books, 54 short stories and the editor of 30
anthologies. He has also edited a Writer’s Digest book, WRITING THE
PRIVATE EYE NOVEL. In 1982 he founded the Private Eye Writers of
America, and created the Shamus Award. In 1985 he co-founded
Mystery Scene
Magazine
and the American Crime
Writer’s League, all with Ed Gorman. He is a co-founder of Western
Fictioneers. His newest western is BULLETS & LIES (Berkley
2012), the first book in his Talbot Roper series.

FRANK RODERUS

I live in Florida...but the WEST coast
of Florida. I have always been fascinated by the people and the
places of our American west and count it a great blessing to be
able to make a living writing about them. I have been writing
virtually all my life (my first was a short story, a western,
written when I was five), full time for more than thirty years
after a career as a newspaper reporter. I have been honored with
Spur Awards twice and as a finalist six more times. I was also
greatly honored to have been chosen as the Western Fictioneers'
first president.