Ralph Compton - Doomsday Rider

But Fletcher wouldn’t let it go, the man’s smug grin making sudden anger boil up in him as it had with Hickok.

“One way or another, Stark,” he called out to the senator, “it will all end here, but you won’t walk away from it, damn you!”

Fletcher was aware that Grant and the senator with him were looking at him, puzzled and shocked by his outburst. Even Count Vorishilov snapped his head around, trying to figure out the significance of what he had just heard.

Grant opened his mouth to speak, but a bullet thudded into the wagon near Fletcher’s head. The Indians were attacking and the time for talk was over—at least for now.

The Sioux and Cheyenne warriors had learned from their mistake.

This was no reckless, mounted charge. The warriors were on foot, advancing in a loose skirmish line, disappearing every now and then as they took advantage of every scrap of cover they could find.

Fletcher heard the boom of the count’s heavy rifle and the sharper crack of Winchesters. He aimed at an Indian darting closer to the wagon circle and fired twice, missing each time, his aim thrown off by the gusting wind and swirling snow.

Count Vorishilov’s rifle boomed again, and the warrior threw up his arms and went down. Then Hickok’s rifle hammered, Wild Bill cranking and firing so fast his right hand working the lever was a blur of motion.

The attack was broken up and ended as quickly as it had begun, the Indians drawing off again out of range.

At least two warriors lay dead in the snow, this fight costing the Sioux and Cheyenne war party a higher price than they ever imagined.

Throughout the remainder of the gray afternoon, the Indians were content to snipe at the wagons from a distance.

For the most part, their fire was ineffective, but just before nightfall one of the cooks manning the defenses among the trees was burned across the neck by a stray bullet. The man slapped a hand to his wound and squealed like a piglet caught under a gate until the teamster beside him cursed him for being “a damned boogered pilgrim” and scowled him into a whimpering silence.

As day shaded into night, the immediate danger of an all-out attack seemed to be over. The Indians continued to fire into the wagon circle, but their shots were growing fewer and even more wildly inaccurate because of the darkness and thickening snow.

Hickok strolled around the wagons and ordered that no fires should be lit and that the defenders should stand by their arms at their positions.

One danger had lessened for now, but for Fletcher another had taken its place. He fixed Stark’s position. The man stood at his post between two wagons, kneeling behind a pile of boxes and flour sacks. He wasn’t looking in Fletcher’s direction, all his attention seemingly fixed on the surrounding darkness.

But Fletcher knew Stark was capable of putting a bullet into his back, and it could be explained away later as a lucky shot from an Indian marksman.

Earlier Stark had been shrewd enough to realize that they needed every rifle for the defense of the wagons, but now that threat had passed, Fletcher was fair game.

The gunfighter loosened his Colts in their holsters, his eyes on Stark. If the man made any sudden move with his rifle he’d be ready . . . and to hell with Hickok.

Shortly before midnight the women, including the countess and her maids, delivered food to the defenders. Estelle brought Fletcher a thick beef sandwich and a bottle of Bass Ale, Wild Bill Hickok’s favorite brew.

The girl looked pale and drawn, the strain of the past days beginning to tell on her.

“Stay close to the other women, Estelle,” Fletcher whispered, his gaze on Falcon Stark. “There are a lot of stray bullets flying around.”

The girl grabbed at his meaning and nodded. “I caught him looking at me, Buck. I saw only hate in his eyes. He looked like a . . . a . . . demon.”

Fletcher bit into his sandwich and chewed thoughtfully for a few moments, then said, “If you can’t convince Grant, I don’t think either of us will get out of here alive. I believe your father will manufacture an incident and Bill Hickok will make his play. Maybe the teamsters will join him, and that will make for some long odds.”

Fletcher’s face was bleak. “Estelle, I don’t know if I can shade Hickok, and I sure as hell don’t care to try unless I’m really put to it.”

Estelle’s face was stiff, her eyes accusing. “Do you want me to back off, forget the whole thing?”

“I don’t. We’ve come this far and we might as well let the cards fall where they may.” Fletcher forced a smile. “Hell, we’ve been in tighter spots than this and come through.”

“No, we haven’t,” Estelle said.

Head held high, she turned on her heel and walked back to the countess and her maids.

Twenty-seven

The butler who had been struck by an arrow died during the night, and a shot from the darkness drew blood from the cheek of one of the teamsters.

But when the long night faded to a gray, snowy dawn, the Indians had gone, carrying their dead with them.

The reason for their hasty retreat became apparent an hour later when a troop of Buffalo Soldiers led by a middle-aged white captain trotted up to the wagon circle.

The officer sent half his troop to pursue the hostiles, and the remaining soldiers dismounted and formed a perimeter around the wagons, carbines at the ready.

A fire was lit and soon the odors of coffee and frying bacon hung in the air as the surviving muleskinners hitched up their teams and hauled the wagons into column, this time the lead wagon pointing north.

The cavalry captain, a man named Ward, was taking no chances. He would escort the president back to Fort Hays.

Fletcher stepped to the fire and spread his cold hands to the flames. The cook who’d been stung by the bullet, looking ruffled and unhappy, handed him a cup of coffee, and Fletcher accepted it gratefully.

Falcon Stark was standing with Grant, Ward, the other senator, and Count Vorishilov. Stark still held his .44.40 Winchester, and Fletcher noted that the hammer of the piece was eared back, ready to go.

“I’m sorry our trip ended so badly, Count,” Grant was saying. “Perhaps our next hunt will provide better sport.”

The Russian smiled. “Mr. President, I believe I’ve had all the sport I need for some time to come. In fact, I must admit I’m quite looking forward to getting back to the safer environs of St. Petersburg, where there are no Indians.”

The men around the count laughed, and Fletcher was struck by the contrast between the tall, elegant aristocrat in his tailored uniform and Grant. The president wore a shabby army greatcoat in Confederate gray, and a battered old campaign hat. His boots were scuffed and down at heel and a long, green muffler looped carelessly around his neck. Fletcher reckoned you could buy Grant’s entire wardrobe for two dollars and get fifty cents’ change back.

Now Grant was staring hard at him, his smile vanished, and when Fletcher returned his look, the president inclined his head, nodding to a spot near the lead wagon where there was no one around.

Grant made a polite apology to the others and walked over to the wagon, and Fletcher followed, aware that Falcon Stark’s hostile eyes were burning into him every step of the way.

The president took the cigar from between his teeth and studied Fletcher for a few long moments. Finally he shook his head slowly and said, keeping his voice low, “Major Fletcher, I’ve been hearing some very distressing reports about you and, quite frankly, I’m appalled.”

“From Stark?”

“Yes, from the senator and others. And I do read the newspapers, Major.”

“I believe I know what you’ve heard, Mr. President,” Fletcher replied. He smiled, his face grim. “And it’s all a pack of damn lies.”