William Johnstone - A Good Day to Die

It was good that Red Hand had united the bravest of the brave under the Fire Lance to take and sack the town, killing the Texans, save for such captives to be taken as slaves or given up to the torture.

Black Robe’s band had been busy, raiding small ranches in the Breaks, burning them out and killing their occupants. Moving east, they slew a number of hapless travelers crossing the flat. A good day in all, but the next day would be better. The next day was the Day of the Great Raid.

For now, Black Robe and his men still had work to do, scouring the plains for such whites as they could find and take. Chance favored them with the sight of two more victims riding out in the open.

The gods were kind, for one of the fugitives was female. She would afford Black Robe and the others some trifling amusement throughout the night before being put to death before dawn light of the Day of the Great Raid, assuming she lived through the ordeal of rape and horror.

As for the man, he would be killed, probably outright, though if he could be taken alive, great sport would be had putting him to the torture.

Black Robe led his band in pursuit. As always, the prey sought to escape, though their fate was a foregone conclusion. Two against twelve, miles from the nearest ranch with no cover and nowhere to run, they were doomed.

Black Robe was surprised when the fugitives broke off the chase to stand and fight. “A great joke, eh, my brothers!” he crowed.

How the other braves laughed! Perhaps one or two of them would be wounded or even killed during the chase, adding the spice of danger to the chase. So much the better! Each brave was confident his own personal power would protect him from harm and ensure that ill luck would befall one of the others.

A Comanche band in full charge was an impressive sight, fearsome to those unfortunate enough to be the object of their wrath. Closing on the rocks and skinny tree where the fugitives would stage their pathetically futile defense, Black Robe was chagrined to find his pony unexpectedly faltering.

The animal favored one leg, causing it to lose speed. From the feel of the mount under him, Black Robe guessed the cause was nothing more serious than a pebble caught under a hoof of one of the forelegs. Had the distance been greater or the foe more formidable, he would have halted to dislodge the obstruction, but his galloping band was fast nearing the two in the rocks and there was no time to waste.

He resolved to ride the horse full out. If the hardship crippled or lamed it, he would replace it with one of the Texans’ horses. Still, it was irritating to lose his place at the head of the charge while his fellows overtook him on uninjured mounts. As leader he must ever be at the fore, outdoing others in deeds of valor and horsemanship.

Furious, he kicked the horse’s flanks with his heels, cursing the animal, urging it to greater speed. His efforts were for naught. Worse, the animal’s pace slowed even further.

In battle, in the heat of the chase, rank and precedence counted for nothing; each warrior must show himself to best effect, seeking always to surpass all others. No brave slowed to wait for Black Robe to catch up. In truth, each was secretly delighted by the ill luck suddenly afflicting their vaunted leader.

It had all the makings of a great jest, one that would be told and retold around the campfire with relish—just the kind of reversal of fortune a Comanche delighted in, so long as it happened to the other fellow and not himself. What a joke if Black Robe was last in line to take enjoyment of the leavings of the girl, after all the other braves had had her first! Ah, the sly jokes and smirks at his impotent fury at being bested!

Though perhaps not too openly, for Black Robe was a fierce fighter with a wicked temper, a well-respected killer. Still, he who comes first to the spoils is first served.

Advancing in a loose, wide arc, the riders fanned out on both sides and rode rings around the two whites in the rocks. The man would be downed quickly no doubt, but not the female; she must be taken alive and intact. A slip of a girl with a pair of yellow braids bracketing a wide-eyed, ghostly face.

Shouting and catcalling to each other to be heard over the clamor of the charge, the braves marveled. “Look, she has a rifle!”

“Waugh! That is good! She has spirit!”

Like Black Robe, about a third of the band were similarly armed with repeating rifles. Others had cavalry carbines or single-shot rifled muskets. Several relied on the bow and arrow and their skill at letting loose shaft after shaft in quick succession.

The Comanches opened fire, rifles cracking. Arrows whizzed, arcing through the air, and falling well short of the mark, but getting the range.

Sam had readied to take out Black Robe first. Kill the leader and break the spirit of the band. But when he fell behind, Sam swung his rifle toward the Indian at the head of the charge. Lining him up in his sights, he squeezed the trigger. Tagged dead center, the lead brave fell off his horse.

Sam swung the rifle slightly to one side, sighting on the next in line. The trigger was pulled, the rifle barked, and another man went down. The riderless horse raced away.

Sam picked off a third Comanche. He was knocking them down like targets in a shooting gallery, the deed done as passionlessly as if he were clearing a row of tin ducks. Shot followed shot in quick succession from his long rifle. Each shot hit its mark, killing a man.

Once or twice when Sam targeted a foe, the wounded warrior remained upright, still on horseback. With barely a pause Sam shot again and that man fell and died.

The braves focused their ire and weapons on the source of the furious firepower. Bullets smashed into the rock shielding Sam like hail peppering a flat roof. A round clipped the edge of his hat brim, nicking a half-moon shaped hole out of it.

Arrows shattered on the slabs of the rock pile, spraying Lydia’s face with stinging splinters, but missing her eyes. That stung her into action. Drawing a bead on a Comanche, she fired—and missed.

Taking aim again, she discovered her target’s horse was empty, the brave having been felled by Sam, who had already moved on to the next foe.

It was done without thinking—point, squeeze the trigger, kill a man, find the next target.

A rider on the right flank of the arc of charging braves swung farther to the right, his purpose to swing around the rocks and get behind the defenders. He was on Lydia’s left.

Adjusting her aim to lead him, Lydia fired. Hit, the brave spasmed, the rifle slipping from his hands. He clutched his horse’s flowing mane with both hands, holding on tight. Losing his grip, he slipped off the side of the horse, spilling into the dust.

Of the twelve braves who’d begun the charge, only six remained on horseback by the time they’d halved the distance between them and the rocks. The charge was breaking up, falling apart.

The surviving braves were stunned by the vicious counterstrike. It was like riding full tilt into a wall of hot lead. Comanches were no strangers to the repeating rifle, more than a few of them were similarly armed. But none had ever come face-to-face with a repeater wielded by such a dead shot as Sam Heller.

Even their best marksmen were at a disadvantage. They were on horseback, charging across uneven ground. Sam, dismounted, worked from a stable firing platform.

He had some cover. The Comanches had none. They were being decimated by a sharpshooter with the world’s latest and most lethal application of mechanized mass death available to a lone individual.

The braves were no fools. They were in the game to kill, not to die, but it was all happening too fast for them to break off the charge. No sooner did they realize the damage done than it was too late to turn back. They had a mountain lion by the tail. Or rather, he had them.