William Johnstone - A Good Day to Die

Leering, he grabbed fistfuls of fabric at the front of her dress and tore it open. Shredding it, he bared the soft, abundant flesh of her upper body.

He lifted her skirts, bunching them up around her middle, and pulled down her drawers, ripping them off.

Firecloud threw himself on top of her. Under his breechcloth, he was hard. Rampant and ready, he took hold of himself and lunged into her, ripping, tearing, thrusting.

Lydia stood midway between the back of the house and the treeline. She couldn’t see what was happening, but she could hear it—the fierce exultant shrieks and agonized outcries. She’d been unable to warn her mother and save her. She now risked the same fate.

The sound of hoofbeats broke her paralysis of will. A gut-twisting jolt of fear told her she was undone. Panicked, she turned to run for the brush.

A lone mounted man rode east on the road north of the ranch. A white man.

Changing direction, Lydia started toward him, terrified that he wouldn’t see her and would ride on. The road seemed a long way off. She waved her arms over her head. “Wait, wait! Help, please! Help!”

From the corral, Little Bells heard the thin, wailing cries and things fell into place in his head. When he was in the house, he’d thought he’d heard a voice calling from somewhere outside. The woman had put up unexpected resistance, more fight than he’d bargained for, and in the excitement, he’d ignored the cries, forgetting them.

Hearing them again, he ignored them no more. Running to his horse, he unhitched it and climbed on its back. Drawing his rifle from the saddle scabbard, he turned the horse’s head north and kicked the animal into a run. He rode between the east side of the house and the trees, breaking into the open field. A young female, a slip of a girl, ran toward the road, yellow braids streaming after her.

Lydia’s long thin legs flashed, a blur of motion. War whoops sounded behind her. She glanced back only to have her worst fears confirmed. A brave on horseback was pursuing her, and he was closer to her than she was to the stranger.

She couldn’t outrun a horse, but gave it a good try. Legs scissoring, she ran all out, scenery flashing by. She tripped over a half-buried root and fell forward, sprawling in the dirt and weeds.

Not fair! It isn’t fair! Lydia got to her feet, swaying unsteadily. She looked over her shoulder and realized the Comanche was only a few horse lengths away and closing. As she stared at him, something changed in his face and he swung up his rifle.

Tensing, Lydia braced herself for the shattering impact of a bullet.

With Sentry Hill on his left, Sam Heller searched for a way off the south rim of the plateau. The uplands were crawling with Comanches and the sooner he was quits of it, the better the chances of keeping his hair. He’d been ducking scouting parties for several hours.

He worked his way east on Rimrock Road, looking for a safe route down the south slope. He’d passed several ranches along the way in the last hour, and the one yonder was the first one he’d seen not burned to the ground.

Nearing it, he heard shots.

The mule’s-leg cleared the holster, filling his hand. Looking southward, he saw a long field leading to a ranch house.

A girl raced across the field toward the road, waving her arms to attract his attention, crying out to him. He couldn’t make out the words but he didn’t have to. Her fear and desperation were plain to see. Sam turned Dusty toward her, angling across the field as the girl stumbled and fell.

A Comanche swung into view, charging north.

“Yah!” Sam put the boot heels to Dusty’s flanks, and gripped the reins between his teeth, freeing both hands to work the mule’s -leg.

The Comanche had a rifle. Veering off from his pursuit of the girl, he changed course to meet Sam head-on.

Little Bells fired first, his rifle bullet zooming past Sam’s ear like a fat bumblebee buzzing by. Sam fired second, but better, tagging the Comanche dead center.

The Indian shuddered.

A second round followed, ripping into him. A third knocked him backward off his horse, and Little Bells hit the ground hard.

Sam hauled on the reins with his left hand. Dusty slowed. Little Bells’s riderless horse rushed past and kept on going.

Sam reined in short of the fallen Comanche. A glance showed the brave was as dead as they come.

Nearby, the girl stood swaying, shaken but unhit, gasping. “More of them—at the house. Ma! They’ve got her!

“How many?” Sam asked.

“Don’t know.”

“Go hide in the brush. I’ll be back for you. If not—stay there till it’s dark and then try to make it to the flat.”

“Hurry, please! They’re killing her!”

Sam rode toward the house, coming in on the west side, a shifty tactic that might edge the odds a hair more in his favor. He rounded the corner, entering the dirt yard.

Firecloud was on top of Ada, raping her in the dirt. Thorn stood nearby, armed with Greasy Grass’s carbine, preferring it to the single-shot musket he’d discarded.

Sam reined in hard, pulling Dusty up short. The horse reared, rising on his hind legs as Sam shot Thorn.

As the hooves of Dusty’s forelegs touched ground, Sam shot Thorn again, watching as he fell in the dirt.

Firecloud raised himself up on elbows and knees. Quickly, Ada reached under him, clawing the six-gun out of the top of his belt. She shoved the muzzle into his belly and worked the trigger, emptying the gun into him. His gut came undone, spilling entrails.

Dying, Firecloud drew his knife and plunged it into Ada, burying it in her heart.

Thorn was still twitching. Sam swung down off his horse and shot him again. Thorn stopped twitching.

Ada and Firecloud were dead—leaving Sam and the girl alone in a country alive with Comanches on the warpath.

FIVE

Johnny Cross and Luke Pettigrew stopped in the Dog Star saloon, a dive on the south side of Hangtown. The saloon was a long, low, shotgun-style shed.

Outside, it was midday, inside, twilight time. Day or night, a smoky gray dusk compounded of gloom, smoke, and whiskey fumes reigned over the place.

A bar ran along one long wall. Tables and chairs were grouped along the opposite wall. The saloon featured raw whiskey at a low tap. A couple whores plied their trade in a back room.

Behind the bar, drinks were served up by Squint McCray, proprietor. Two men, shiftless, lazy loafers who were reasonably honest as long as he had his eye on them, worked for him. Some joked that he’d developed the squint from watching the help closely.

That was untrue. The squint was the result of a wound sustained in a knife fight, causing one of his eyelids to have a permanent droop. The undamaged eye glared fiercely, as if outraged at having to do the work of two good eyes.

McCray preferred to hire relatives. The men were his cousins; one of the whores was his niece. The other whore was unrelated to him, McCray having no other female kin in that line of work. When he caught kinfolk in one of their petty dishonesties, as he inevitably did, he made allowances for them. Being family, he let them off with a roughing up or at worst, a beating. He didn’t have to bust them up bad, club them, cut them, or shoot them, as he might have felt duty-bound to chastise those with whom he shared no ties of blood.

As for the whore who was no kin of his, she was scrupulously honest. She turned over to McCray all the money she made from rolling drunks, meekly accepting whatever portion of the loot he doled out to her in recompense.

Such docility vexed him. It wasn’t natural. As a result he kept an even closer watch on her. He found himself wishing he could catch her stealing so he could let her off with a beating and break the tension created by her seeming integrity.