William Vance - The Raid at Crazyhorse

"Get moving?" he said. "Don't just stand there."

"We ain't lost nothin' in Crossroad Corners," Evans drawled. "You're a white man. That's white men—and women and children—those Indians are shooting at!"

"We ain't gonna go off and leave our families and property unprotected."

Sam didn't feel that he had time to argue with them. He lashed his horse into a dead run and left them standing there staring after him.

He came into the town and found it empty of Indians except for a few dead ones here and there. He slowed his again-faltering horse to a walk, his heart hammering, his thoughts on Molly. A few people moved among the dead and wounded. He saw two old men carrying Ora Ketterman's body into the hotel. He caught a glimpse of Molly holding the door open and he called.

She ran to him, her face drained of color. He jumped down and held her, feeling the rapid beat of her heart.

She shivered, holding on to him. "They—they came like wildfire . . . all painted, screaming and shooting. . . ." She looked wildly up at him. "But why are you here?"

"I saw them," he said "The Indians. I thought they'd hit the camp in the grove. But they came here instead."

"Clay and all the able-bodied men went after them," she said. "We need help, Sam. So many wounded . . ."

"I'll find Doc. You do what you can for them and I'll be along later."

She felt better now that Sam was here. She felt secure for some reason she didn't bother to fathom. She hugged him briefly and ran back into the hotel.

The street, usually quiet and peaceful, looked as if a cyclone had struck. A wagon was overturned in front of the livery, the team that had pulled it dead in their harness. Ike Newman, a crippled man who worked for Ketterman, lay dead beside the watering trough.

Doc Sawyer sat on the porch floor against the front wall of The Mint, staring at a dead savage at his feet. He motioned feebly to Sam.

Sam approached the doctor and saw that he was holding his chest; blood seeped out through his fingers. Sam knelt beside him.

"Ain't it awful, Sam?" he whispered. "You killed the wrong man, son. It should have been Kenton you put that bullet in." He toed the dead Indian at his feet. "Ever see him before?"

Sam looked through the fixity of death, and the paint, and 'felt a flicker of recognition. "Breed. He used to work for Kenton."

"Still does, Sam Or did till he caught that bullet. Kenton set up that raid, fed them liquor, gave them guns. S'posed to massacre the farmers. Hit the town instead."

"Let me get you to the hotel," Sam said running his arm under Doc's knees and sliding an arm around his shoulder. “Molly'll take care—"

"No. I'm done for. Self-diagnosis, Sam." He coughed and red bubbles appeared on his lip. "Kenton . . . I lied about Liz Porter, Sam. Kenton . . . was the man who . . ." His head rolled to one side. He went limp with the stillness of death.

Sam supervised the removal of seven wounded men to the hotel, burning his raging hate in action. He led a detail that carried the dead to the cooling room in The Mint. These numbered eight. Five Indians had been killed, as well as three horses and a yoke of oxen. By four o'clock in the afternoon the street began to look as it did before the attack.

Pausing for a moment, Sam watched a farmer stop his horse. The horse was harnessed and dragging a singletree. The farmer had just returned from dragging a dead animal away from the town. He wiped his sweating face and turned red-rimmed eyes to Sam. "This town is finished," he said with finality.

"The land's still here," Sam said and he kmew Kenton would return to claim that land. An eagerness rose in him for that meeting as he wheeled and walked toward The Mint, needing a drink badly, forgetting for the moment that Leo Maury was in the hotel with an arrow in his belly. He knew he shouldn't be looking for a drink at this time but he was full of explosive tension that had been building for a long period of time. And the cause of all of it was his continuing encounters with Jesse Kenton.

He wondered now about the qualities of a man that made him act as Kenton did in seeking dominion over men and land. Was the fervor for land like that some men have for gold, money, for power? Or the passion for a woman? Where had he himself gone wrong? Had he made a mistake in not listening to Kenton, perhaps even pooling his strength with the man for whatever it was he planned? He discarded this almost without thought. Kenton had made too many moves that went against Sam's grain. Sam tried to recapture his feeling of awe of Kenton, such as when Sam was a spindly kid and Kenton a grown man, a powerful man whom everybody looked to for leadership and guidance.

He couldn't conjure up the old image.

Sam stopped before the door of the saloon, deep in thought, eyes studying the town that was almost normal again as far as outward appearances were concerned. The decision came to him full-blown that when Kenton returned he'd face him, have it out once and for all.

Then the gut-wrenching cry rang out. "The Injunsl They're hittin' again!"

XV

THE

SUN

was higher and hotter when Kenton led his men into the Crazyhorse, through a low saddle, bare of trees or cover of any sort. In the far distance a herd was strung out in a long, thin line, with the higher shapes of the herders on point, outriding, dust hiding the drag riders.

He stopped his crew with a wave of his hand, drew his pistol, and inspected it for full loads.

"They don't act like they expect trouble," Kenton said without turning his head. "Let's not let a one of them get away." After a moment, he said, "Them people had a chance to go back where they come from. They askin' for whatever we hand 'em. It's enough to make a man sick at his belly but I'm holdin' on to what's mine come hell or high water. Let's go get 'em."

He led out and his riders followed. They fanned out as they rode, heading directly for the herd at full gallop. Kemton felt a rising sense of power tinged with joy at the impending action. He forgot momentarily his puffed face and injured pride. He was a man in motion, fighting to keep what he had and to get more to add to it. It was almost like being with Liz Porter, he thought, and wondered again how a full-bodied woman like that could erase the magic of life with a pistol. And one, by God, he'd given her himself. Then he put all that out of his mind.

Ahead of them the dark shape of the herders suddenly cut away toward the distant river. It seemed to Kenton that they moved on signal. He dug in his spurs and shouted, "Hurry or they'll get away!"

It was then that the line of trees on their left and on their right seemed to erupt. A wild glance over his shoulder showed men toppling from the saddle. His own horse went down and Kenton, kicking his feet free of the stirrups, sailed bodily over the horse's ears. He struck the ground with a great thump and lay still, immobilized. He was not conscious but paralyzed, unable to move. He felt the earth shake with the sound of many hoofs and the burst of gunfire. He tried to rise but the thrashing ironshod hoofs of a maddened horse knocked him rolling. He heard shouts, curses, and then more shooting. Sudden quiet descended following the receding beat of running horses fading, dying completely.

With a mighty effort he struggled to his kmees, staring. A few riderless horses drifted here and there, aimlessly, reins dragging.

Of all the men who rode into the valley only he, Jesse Kenton, remained alive. He staggered to his feet and walked erratically toward a horse, his mind recoiling from this utter defeat. He remembered Sam Harden's warning:

You tackle John Cooney and not many of your men will come back.

He looked at the bodies, still in death. The powder smell lingered in the dry air. Cooney's men had killed and run. He realized now the riddle of the small herd. Cooney had deliberately set a trap for him. He caught the dangling reins of a horse and as he started to mount he heard a weak cry.