William Johnstone - A Good Day to Die

Five Comanches lay sprawled around him. Two he was dead sure of: the brave he’d shot at point-blank range and the one he’d shot through the top of the head. The others looked dead, but he delivered the coup de grâce of a bullet in the head to each of them.

The mule’s-leg had spat out a lot of lead, but with a capacity of seventeen rounds, he could afford it. He reloaded, fingers initially thick and fumbling as he pulled the first cartridges from their loops on the bandolier and fed them into the receiver. The dizziness receded as he executed the practiced routine, recovering much of his usual dexterity toward the end.

He made sure his Navy Colt and Green River knife were in place. He wanted nothing so much as to stagger back to his horse and ride out, but knew he’d be a fool not to take advantage of the prime vantage point. Steadying himself, he went through the gap toward the far end of the cliff top.

Beyond the boulders lay a patch of stony ground shaped like an egg with the narrow end pointed toward the edge. Measuring about twenty feet at its longest axis, the outcropping was covered by thick, tough grass and bare, brown clay. It looked like the hide of an animal afflicted with the mange. Shards of a shattered brown whiskey jug lay strewn about, explaining the Comanches’ lack of proper precautions. Sam told himself that he’d’ve gotten them all anyway even if they hadn’t been drunk. He almost believed it.

He prowled around, still too unsure of his footing to go too close to the edge. The cliff top thrust out into nothingness like the bow of a ship coursing through sky-blue seas, giving a panoramic view of the countryside below.

The south slope of the plateau was a rampart stretching for miles to east and west. In some places, it showed long, gently rising hills which could easily be climbed by even the least sure-footed horses and their riders; in others, fault lines created jagged ravines, steep gullies, and precipices that only a mountain goat could climb. Some sections were thickly forested, with woods spilling out into the flat; others were bare of all but a few sparsely scattered bushes and clumps of dwarf trees. The slope was marbled with thin blue veins that were brooks, streams, rivulets and runs, branching out across the plains.

More important, Sam Heller saw no Comanches in view, not on the slope or the near ground of the flat. In the middle distance, there were various widespread dots of motion that could have been roaming cattle or mounted men—they were too far away to make out.

Turning, gazing inland across the tops of the boulders walling off the summit, Sam saw thin lines of sparsely scattered smoke rising from among the thick-belted trees of the plateau. He knew them for the grave markers of burned ranch houses, farms, and wagons, but they would have been meaningless to any unknowing passersby on the plains, if any there were.

Sam went back the way he came, passing through the boulder gap. He picked up each Comanche’s rifle and broke it in the middle against a rock, wrecking it so it could never be used again. Two were repeating rifles, so new they still had the grease on them.

“I’d give a plenty to know who’s supplying repeaters to the Comanches,” he said to himself.

He walked the cliff trail back to the fork. The stampeded horses had long since fled, a thin brown smudge of dust in the sky the only sign of their passing. With all the Comanches gathered at Locust Lake, the horses would not escape discovery for long. The braves were expert trackers, so—best get a move on.

Sam neared the glade at the side of the trail. Lydia stepped into view, holding a rifle at her side and the horses’ reins in her other hand. Blue eyes glittered in the taut white mask of a face framed by a pair of yellow braids.

Had he expected some great effusion of emotion at his safe return, some reaction, even, Sam would have been disappointed. But he wasn’t one for such expectations.

“Took your time, didn’t you?” Lydia said.

Was she joking? If she was, it would be a good sign, but Sam couldn’t tell. Her expression was dead serious. He showed a halfway grin. “Any trouble?”

She shook her head. “I heard the shooting. How many did you kill?”

“Five,” he said, not bragging, just a simple statement of fact.

She nodded. Sam took Dusty’s reins from her and mounted up. Lydia climbed on Brownie.

“Let’s ride,” Sam said.

“You’re the one holding things up. I’ve been waiting on you,” Lydia said.

“Yes, ma’am,” Sam said sarcastically, taking the point. They followed the trail’s east fork to the bottom of the glen on the flat.

TEN

The stream widened out below Hopper Glen, running east through a belt of woods at the foot of the plateau’s south slope. Sam was glad to have the cover of the trees hiding him and the girl from any hostiles roaming flat or heights.

When they were a mile or so away from the glen he judged it was safe to water the horses. Dusty and Brownie stood at stream’s edge, heads down, drinking thirstily. Swarms of gnats hovered over some of the shallow pools and side pockets.

Sam’s sore head throbbed. He longed for a smoke but the betraying scent of burned tobacco would carry a long way in the outdoors. A drink of whiskey would have been even better, if he hadn’t taken the head-knocking. As it was, he was afraid a drink would make it worse, so he abstained from tapping the bottle in his saddlebag.

Hauling back on the reins, he caused Dusty to lift his snout out of the stream. “Don’t let the animals drink too much. It’s bad for ’em. Slows ’em down and that’s bad for us.”

Lydia urged her horse away from the water.

“We’ll trail east through the woods as long as they hold out, then break out across the flat to Old Mission Road,” Sam said.

“Hangtown’s a long way off,” Lydia said doubtfully.

“We’re not going to Hangtown. We’re going to a ranch I know. It’s a lot closer.”

Scorn replaced doubt on the girl’s face. “With all them Comanches out on the warpath? What ranch could hold out against them?”

“This one can. It’s held out against Comanches for a hundred years. It’s built like a fort—Rancho Grande.”

“I know of it,” she said, unimpressed. “A big spread, owned by Mexes. They got no use for Anglos, Mister Yank, in case you ain’t heard.”

“I know a few folks there.”

“Friends of yours?” She sneered.

“Yes and no.”

Lydia laughed without humor. “If that ain’t a Yankee for you! Talking out of both sides of your mouth and not a straight answer out of either.”

“It’s complicated. I’ve got a few amigos there, and some others who’d cheerfully cut my throat,” Sam said. “But even enemies put aside their differences when Comanches are on the loose. They’ll be glad of an extra gun.”

“Two guns,” Lydia said quickly. “I can shoot, too. And I got me some evening-up to do.”

Sam nodded, urging his horse forward. The girl followed. “Yankees and Mexes! This state is sure going to the dogs,” she muttered.

“Let’s hope it doesn’t go to the Comanches.”

Lydia was silent after that. They rode on. The woods were thick with wildlife. Birds flew overhead, and small critters such as hares, chipmunks, and red and gray squirrels scurried through the underbrush. Deer tracks showed on muddy stream banks. Sam regretted the prime deer carcass he’d had to cut loose on the heights.

A mile went by, then two. The woods followed the base of the slope. When the slant began to curve north, away from where Sam wanted to go, they paused at the edge of the treeline, scanning the broad, empty plains. Sam took a piece of jerky from his saddlebag, cut off a slice and offered it to Lydia.