Ralph Compton - Doomsday Rider

The girl threw up her arms for quiet as the disciples crowded around her, angry and spoiling for a fight. “Listen, as I’ve told you before, the Chosen One is alive. He cannot die until doomsday comes to pass. Stay right here. He’ll come back to us, perhaps today, maybe tomorrow. But he’ll come back. He would not leave his people stranded in this wilderness with no one to guide them.”

“He screamed all night,” somebody said. “He can die just like the rest of us.”

“Yes, he can die,” Estelle said, “like any mortal man. But, since he is the Chosen One, he will be resurrected to glory and return to us.”

Fletcher saw hesitation and doubt in the faces of many of the disciples, including that of the bearded man, and it was he who spoke next.

“Do you tell us the truth, Estelle? Will the Chosen One live again?”

“Oh, yes, oh, yes, he will. This I believe with all my heart and soul.” The girl’s eyes swept the crowd, her face shining. “He came to me in the night, after my grief for him was spent. He bent low and whispered in my ear, ‘Grieve no longer. I shall return, for I have been granted the power over death itself.’”

The disciples were silent for a few moments, then began to talk among themselves. Finally the bearded man said, “We’ll wait until this time tomorrow. If the Chosen One returns, he can lead us out of the wilderness.”

Charlie leaned toward Fletcher and said in a hoarse stage whisper, “Ain’t none of us gonna be here this time tomorrow.”

Estelle rounded on Charlie angrily. “Oh, ye of little faith. The Chosen One will return and he will save us. You’ll see.”

“Lady, for your sake as well as mine, I hope you’re right,” was all Charlie said.

* * *

The Apaches attacked again an hour after dawn.

This time they walked their ponies toward the pueblo in a long skirmish line, firing as they came.

Dozens of bullets thudded into the wall near Fletcher and Charlie, and a flying chip of stone nicked Fletcher’s cheekbone and drew blood.

Fletcher fired until his rifle ran dry, then went to his Colts. He stood at the window, his guns hammering, then ducked down again as bullets split the air around him.

Two Indians lay sprawled on the snow, but the rest kept on coming, a slow, inexorable walk toward the pueblo, firing as they rode.

“Buck,” Charlie said, setting aside his empty rifle and drawing his bowie knife from his belt, “I think this is it. You got a bullet for me?”

Fletcher glanced out the window. The warriors were very close and he had only a few rounds left in his Colts.

“I’ll save one, Charlie,” he said, meaning every word of it.

Charlie brandished the bowie. “Just let me stand at the door and cut a few first.”

Scattered firing broke out somewhere behind the advancing Apaches, in the direction of the valley. This was followed by a smashing volley as most of the warriors in front of the pueblo turned their ponies and began shooting.

“Now what the hell?” Charlie yelled.

More and more Indians were streaming away from the pueblo toward the valley, yipping their war cries.

The reason became apparent a few moments later when a small wagon drawn by a pair of mules galloped into the flat.

The mules were being driven hard, and Fletcher caught a fleeting glimpse of two men up on the box and the painted U.S. Army sign above crossed sabers on the side of the wagon.

One of the mules went down, but the impetus of the wagon dragged the dead animal with it to the front of the pueblo.

The two men, one in cavalry blue, jumped from the box, leveled their rifles, and blasted shot after shot at the Apaches, their firing accurate and deadly.

From the window Fletcher emptied his Colts at the galloping, whooping warriors, and the Indians, confused by this firestorm of lead and losing men, broke and streamed back to the valley.

They left six dead on the snow, their blood splashing red around them.

Fletcher and Charlie stepped out of the pueblo and walked toward the new arrivals, and beside him Fletcher heard Charlie’s startled yelp of surprise.

One of the men was Sgt. Andy Wilson, the other Scarlet Hays.

And with that recognition the cold realization came to Fletcher that both had vowed to kill him.

“Well, well, well, fancy meeting you here,” Hays said. “If it ain’t the great Buck Fletcher.” The gunman’s fingers moved to his split lips. “Last time I seen you was at Fort Apache.”

The threat was implied, and Fletcher took it as such.

“What are you doing here, Hays?” he asked as his eyes shaded to a cold gunmetal gray. Had this man come to murder Estelle?

The hatchet-faced gunman smiled, his teeth showing crooked and stained from chewing black plug tobacco. “Hell, we was driving south, heading down Nogales way, when we was jumped by Apaches. We came tearing in here and . . . well, here we are and there you are.”

Acutely conscious of his empty guns, Fletcher said, “We’re not out of the woods yet, Scar. Those young bucks will be back.”

“Maybe so.” Hays looked out at the Apache dead. “We hit ’em pretty hard, me and ol’ Andy here.”

Hays turned his head to the sergeant. “Oh, my sincere apologies; you two haven’t been introduced. This is—”

“I know who he is,” Fletcher said, cutting him off.

Wilson was a big man, huge in the shoulders and thick in the arms, his hands big-knuckled and scarred, the fighting mitts of a pugilist. His hair was cropped close to his head and a full cavalry mustache hung limp and untrimmed under a nose that had been broken many times. There was an air of casual, heedless brutality about the man, and this was reflected in his black, soulless eyes and the arrogant, aggressive way he held himself.

“We’ve met,” Wilson said to Hays. He nodded at Fletcher. “Me and him have a score to settle, only this time he won’t have a damn officer to hide behind.”

Hays’s smile was insolent as his fingers strayed to his lips again. “Yeah, well, we all got scores to settle, Andy.”

Fletcher’s eyes slid past Hays as though he was a thing of no importance and rested on the wagon.

“Pay wagon,” Hays said, grinning. “Me and Andy here, we found it an’ we’re saving it for General Crook.”

“Sure you are,” Charlie said. “An’ pigs fly.”

If Hays was offended he didn’t let it show. “Had three other boys with me, but they never showed,” he said. “Told them to catch up, but they didn’t.”

“They’re dead,” Fletcher said. “Apaches got Clevinger and Gittings, and the Kid drew down on me.”

“The Kid was greased-lightning fast,” Hays said.

“I was faster,” Fletcher said.

The disciples had poured out of the pueblo and, curious, surrounded the pay wagon, Estelle among them.

Hays saw the girl and a thin smile tightened his mouth.

“That’s how I like them,” he said to Wilson out of the corner of his mouth. “Once they swell they’re available all the time, and they’re all big butt and bobbers.”

As Wilson guffawed, Hays set his derby hat at a jaunty angle and stepped beside Estelle. “How do, pretty lady?”

The girl looked at Hays and didn’t like what she was seeing, and her eyes grew wide with something akin to fear.

“Hey, Scar,” Charlie said, “that woman just lost her husband.”

“Well, ain’t it just too bad.” Hays grinned. “Now she needs a real man to look after her.”

Estelle tried to walk back to the pueblo, but Hays blocked her path. “Please step aside,” she said. “I’m tired and I must rest.”

Hays’s face was ugly. “Don’t you come the high-and-mighty fine Eastern lady with me,” he said. “I got a feeling you and me is going to be heading down Nogales way together, an’ that’s a lot better than me leaving you to the Apaches. Well, some better, at least.”