Ralph Compton - Doomsday Rider

But there was no easy way around what had taken place here.

“They were caught out in the open and didn’t have a chance,” Fletcher said, his eyes bleak. He nodded toward a wheel at the rear of the wagon, one of the spokes broken. “They stopped to fix that, probably told the others they’d catch up. Then the Indians hit them.” Fletcher pulled an arrow from the side of the wagon. “I’m not an expert on these matters like Bill Hickok is, but I’d say this is Sioux, and over there”—he nodded toward the young skinner—“judging by the otter fur and eagle feathers, that war lance is Cheyenne.”

Fletcher swung out of the saddle, knelt and felt the neck of one of the men. He looked up at Estelle. “He’s still warm and the blood on him hasn’t dried. I think this attack happened no more than an hour ago.”

“My God, Buck,” Estelle whispered. “The president.”

Fletcher nodded, rising to his feet. “Yes, Estelle, the president. And us.”

He searched the wagon, but the Indians had taken everything of value. Ammunition boxes had been smashed open and their contents removed, and the gun belts had been stripped from around the waists of the dead men and their rifles and skinning knives taken.

The Sioux and Cheyenne had no love for buffalo hunters and their indiscriminate slaughter, and the dead men had been mutilated badly, ensuring that they would wander the afterlife maimed and crippled, unable to exact vengeance on the warriors who had killed them.

Swinging into the saddle, Fletcher turned to Estelle. “We’ll catch up to the wagons very soon, maybe in a couple of hours.” He tried to smile, managing only a joyless grimace that never reached his eyes. “Better get your speech ready.”

“I’m ready,” the girl said, her face rigid. “My speech has been ready since my son was murdered.”

Fletcher nodded. “So be it. Let’s ride.”

Twenty-six

The way across the grass was still clearly marked by the remaining wagons.

It was snowing, but not yet hard enough to cover the tracks, though white showed on the blades of the buffalo grass, and a shifting haze that looked like a tattered lace curtain blowing in the wind shrouded the distance.

It was an hour before noon, but the moody day had gathered a depressing gloom around itself, made gloomier still by heavy, lowering clouds, their black billows touched here and there with streaks of rust. The flat, featureless land seemed empty of life, and there was no clear dividing line between earth and sky, both merging into a single, drab backdrop of gray and white.

A man could lose himself in this land. He would no longer believe that he knew north from south, east from west, and here he would die, to be buried by the wind and snow, uncaring undertakers for a passing that would go unmourned and unnoticed but for the ravenous coyotes, unwelcome guests at his funeral feast.

But somewhere ahead were the wagons, and Buck Fletcher knew his showdown with Falcon Stark was very close.

Would Grant listen to Estelle? Would he care? It was an uncertain thing. Falcon Stark was a smooth, polished, and practiced talker, and his honeyed words could prevail over any accusation his daughter made.

And what of himself? What of Buck Fletcher? If Estelle failed to convince the president, all that might be left to him would be to shoot his way out of there and spend what little remained of his life as a hunted fugitive.

And, inevitably, that thought brought Fletcher to Wild Bill Hickok.

In this situation Bill was an unknown quantity. High-strung, unpredictable, and lightning-fast on the draw, he might be the deciding vote. And, like he always did, Hickok would make his mark on the ballot paper with his guns.

Fletcher told himself he was riding with Estelle Stark into more trouble than a man could reasonably be expected to handle. The outcome was uncertain, and perhaps even now his life was measured, not in years or months or days, but in hours.

Beside him Estelle rode with her head high, eager for what was to come, her need for vengeance driving her.

Fletcher smiled at the girl. “How are you holding up?” he asked.

“I’ll make it,” Estelle said. “He’s very close now, isn’t he, Buck?”

The big man nodded. “Those wagon tracks are fresh and so are the horse droppings. I’d say we’re real close.”

They were—close enough to hear a sudden burst of gunfire.

From where Fletcher and Estelle sat their horses, the plain rose away from them in a gentle rise for about two hundred yards. Too shallow to be called a hill, the slope was yet high enough to conceal what lay beyond—and the gunfire was coming from that direction.

Fletcher swung out of the saddle and silently indicated to Estelle that she should stay where she was.

He slid his Winchester from the boot and, crouching low, made his way up the slope. Before he reached the crest, he dropped to all fours and crawled to where he could look over the rise at what lay below.

As it did on Fletcher’s side, the slope fell away gradually for several hundred yards, but here it ended at the bend of a creek, where there was a thick stand of willow and cottonwood.

Stark’s wagons, five of them, had been drawn into a rough semicircle around the trees, the rear wheels of each of the outer wagons resting on the creekbank.

Fletcher saw at once that the site had been well chosen for its defensibility, perhaps by Grant himself. The trees gave cover from anyone attempting to attack from the other side of the creek, and the wagon mule teams and riding horses had been taken inside the wagon circle.

Mounted Sioux and Cheyenne warriors, about thirty of them, had drawn out of rifle range and were milling around, brandishing their guns, yelling at the men behind the wagons as they worked themselves up to launch another attack.

If no one had yet been hit, Fletcher calculated there were at least four fighting men holding the wagon circle, Hickok, Stark, Grant, and presumably the Russian count, who would have had military training. There were servants with them, and muleskinners, but he had no way of knowing how many of them could use a gun.

When the attack came, Fletcher could add his fire from the crest of the rise, but up here, out in the open with no cover, he’d quickly be ridden down and killed.

He brushed snow from his mustache, thinking it through, then made up his mind. He would have to get inside the wagon circle and add his guns to the defense.

A dead Falcon Stark would be of no use to him or Estelle.

Fletcher backed down the slope, then rose to his feet and caught the reins of his horse. “Get ready,” he told the girl, his voice brusque. “The wagons are under attack and we’re going to join them.”

Estelle did not question Fletcher’s decision. The gunsmoke-streaked air was full of trouble, and her father must remain alive, at least long enough for her to confront him. Wordlessly she swung her horse around, obediently following Fletcher’s beckoning hand, and reined up on his right.

The snow had stopped, at least for now, but the temperature had dropped, and Fletcher’s breath hung in the air like mist as he talked.

“When we go charging down that slope, stay here, on my right side,” he said. “That way I’ll be between you and the fire from the Indians.” He studied the girl’s face closely for a couple of moments. “Think you can do this?”

Estelle nodded. “The Lord is my buckler: He will protect me.”

Fletcher nodded. “Maybe so, but He’s not the one getting shot at.” He grinned. “Let’s do it.”

He spurred his horse and, startled, the big stud galloped up the rise, Estelle’s mount keeping pace. They crested the slope and charged toward the wagons. Fletcher threw his Winchester to his shoulder, cranked the lever, and fired into the Indians, who were still crowded close together. He saw a warrior fall, then fired again and again.