William Johnstone - A Good Day to Die

Sam gave the blade a final, wicked twist before withdrawing it. The Comanche collapsed. Sam panted for breath as if he’d run a race. He wiped the blade clean on the brave’s shirt.

Looking around, he saw that the rocky platform overlooked the south end of the plateau and the flat below, making it a natural observation post. Going to the edge, he scanned the landscape.

The south slope of the plateau was less than a half mile away. It was cut by a gully that reached down to the flat. Trees lined both sides of the cut; through them he glimpsed a down-rushing stream.

The round-topped slab blocked the hill’s south end, barring him from the west side. Turning, he started back toward the notch, planning to return the way he had come. Without warning a Comanche rounded the spur thrusting out into the ledge.

He and Sam saw each other at the same time. Nine feet of space stood between them. The brave wore a red headband over two black braids and held a rifle at his side. Surprise, wrath, and indignation flickered across his face. He must be the throat clearer.

Sam still had the knife in hand.

It was tricky, throwing it by the hilt rather than by the blade—a complicating factor. A knife of that size needed some fourteen feet to make a complete turn in midair when thrown. Throwing it by the hilt, the knife should make a half turn in seven feet, bringing the point in line with its target.

A master knife thrower, Sam calculated at lightning speed, took a step forward to compensate for the extra feet between him and his goal, and threw the knife.

The brave raised his rifle.

The knife took him dead center in the middle of his torso, striking home with a thunk. The blow exerted a paralyzing effect, keeping him from crying out. He staggered, venting a noise between a grunt and a snort.

His rage knew no bounds, but he was already too dead to do anything about it. He sat down hard in the middle of the ledge, then flopped on his back, lying faceup.

Sam drew his Colt. Any more Comanches and he would come up shooting, no matter what. Stepping around the spur, he saw that the rest of the ledge was empty, untenanted.

He went to the edge and looked down. Two horses were hitched to a tree in a nook at the foot of the east side of the mound, presumably the horses of the Comanche sentinels.

Looking up, Sam turned his gaze to the north. Sentry Hill loomed in the middle ground, dominating the scene. There were no real mountains as such in that part of Texas but it was a high hill, hundreds of feet tall.

At the foot of its south face, two rocky spurs reached out like outstretched arms, forming a horseshoe shape with the ends pointed southward. The horseshoe enclosed Locust Lake. Near the base of the hill a spring rose, feeding a broad, shallow green lake.

Haze overhung the lake and the woods bordering it. Not a haze of fog or moisture but of smoke—woodsmoke, coming from dozens of campfires burning at various sites around the area. The fires of a Comanche camp, a small army of several hundred braves. Poised on the high ground, they were in position to swoop down in force on Hangtree County.

The sight shook Sam Heller. He rubbed his eyes and looked again to make sure he wasn’t seeing things. The unnerving image persisted.

Rounding the rock spur, he recovered his knife, wiped it clean, and sheathed it. He wedged his gun in place, climbed up to the notch, and squirmed through. He wasted no time descending the west side of the mound.

The girl had stuck. She was still in place, mounted on horseback with rifle in hand.

Sam unhitched Dusty and swung up into the saddle.

“Did something happen? What did you see?” Lydia asked.

“Too much,” Sam said. “Let’s ride!”

NINE

Sam and Lydia entered Hopper Glen. It began as a gully, narrow and high-sided, walls spreading out as the cut descended the south slope of the plateau. A stream ran through it, part of the overflow from the lake at Sentry Hill. It was heavily wooded.

The trees gave and they took away, providing cover for the duo while potentially concealing any lurking Comanches. A thin trail ran along the west bank of the stream.

Sam and Lydia rode down it single file, Sam in the lead.

He fought the urge to race down the cut and streak across the plains to Hangtown. That was the surest way to get killed. The terrain was treacherous for man and mount alike. Tangled thickets, snaky vines, and low-hanging branches could knock a too hasty rider senseless. Gopher holes and rocky spurs could trip up a horse and break its leg or send it plummeting down a steep drop.

A canopy of treetops roofed the glen, filling it with cool shadows. The smell of foliage and moist earth was thick. Knee-high green rushes lined the stream banks. A silver thread of falling water widened into a series of shallow pools.

Hopper Glen took its name from the hordes of grasshoppers infesting it. The grassy ground was thick with active insects the color of new leaves. A number of them lay crushed along the trail, trod under by the hooves of horses that had passed that way earlier. How much earlier, Sam couldn’t tell.

A splashing sound stung him into reaching for his sidearm, until he realized it was only a false alarm, caused by a bullfrog jumping into a pond. Sam’s hand drifted away from the mule’s-leg. Not too far away, though.

Sam halted at a pile of horse droppings on the trail, Lydia reining in behind him. Getting down from the horse, he hunkered down beside the spoor, prodding and poking it with a twig.

He rose, standing beside Dusty, resting a hand on top of the saddle horn. Lydia looked questioningly at him. “Comanches have been down this way, about five or six of them,” he said, low voiced.

“Maybe it’s white folks,” Lydia said.

Sam shook his head. “Couple of the ponies were unshod, Indian-style. The spoor’s partly dried, so they passed this way a couple hours ago.”

“What do we do?”

“Same thing we’ve been doing. Keep going with our eyes open.”

Lydia nodded. Sam mounted and they started forward. Down and down they rode, descending two-thirds of the long, rolling hill. The glen, having in the course of its descent widened into a ravine, culminated in a gorge at the bottom third of the slope. The west side of the gorge was bordered by a rocky promontory about seventy-five feet high. Commanding a broad view of the flat below for many a mile, the summit would make a fine observation post.

The trail forked in two directions. One branch followed a saddle-shaped ridge to the cliff top; the other dipped down into the gorge along the east face of the cliff.

The cliff trail showed crushed grasshoppers, trampled weeds, and hoof prints on patches of bare ground. Sam glimpsed motion through a gap in the bushes on the summit. “We just found the scouting party,” he whispered.

Lydia gazed steadily at him, level-eyed.

“Can’t get past ’em without going through ’em,” Sam said.

Rocks and brush hid the Comanches on the summit from view. He couldn’t see them, they couldn’t see him. If he’d had a clear sightline on them he could have picked them off from a distance. The mule’s-leg was no long gun, lacking the accuracy even of a carbine, but he had a remedy for that in the flat wooden box tied to the side of the saddle. Too bad he couldn’t put it to use. He’d have to do it the hard way.

He and Lydia backed their horses behind a bend in the trail hiding them from anyone on the cliff top. They dismounted, Sam leading Dusty into a small glade to one side of the trail. Lydia followed, leading Brownie. He handed Dusty’s reins to her.

“If I don’t make it, get off the trail and hide till dark. Then go down to the flat and break for Hangtown,” Sam said.