Drifter 5 Read online

  The 6th Wisconsin used what little ammunition they had left and cut the Confederate troops to ribbons. On their left, the 7th Wisconsin fixed bayonets and charged. Once they had closed far enough, they too unleashed a leaden hell and forced the Rebel troops back.

  After it was all over, the 6th Wisconsin regrouped and prepared for the next attack.

  Around midnight, Lieutenant Tally found Savage and said, ‘We’re being relieved. Gather your men and fall back.’

  Savage breathed an inward sigh of relief. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘One more thing, Sergeant. Good work, today.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  When they withdrew, the 6th had lost a total of ninety men. Eleven killed and seventy-nine wounded.

  It was here at Turner’s gap that the brigade, which consisted of the 2nd, 6th, and 7th Wisconsin, along with the 19th Indiana regiment, earned the nickname, “The Iron Brigade”.

  In a few days, the 6th Wisconsin, along with Savage, would be back in battle once more at a place called Antietam, in a bloody killing ground filled with corn.

  Let the Blood Flow!

  It took Trent and his men the best part of four days to round up the cattle and horses after the stampede. Then, for the next two days, the herd was still skittish, so Trent refused to push them at any speed.

  Eventually, they made the vicinity of Las Vegas and Trent sent the cook and another man into town to find another suitable chuckwagon, plus two more hands.

  While they were gone, Trent rested the herd and let the Longhorns feed on a large patch of new grass that they were lucky enough to find.

  From there they moved the herd north at a slow rate, letting them graze as they went to re-gain some condition before reaching Raton Pass.

  The herd had not long crossed the Canadian River when things turned deadly once more. It was early one morning and most of the crew were eating a breakfast of biscuits and coffee as the sun climbed above the northern part of Llano Estacado to the east. Long fingers of sunlight turned the sky pink.

  A nighthawk came in and sought out Trent. He motioned for him to follow, out of earshot of the others as they ate. The ramrod could see the concern on his face and tossed the last dregs of his coffee on the ground and walked beyond the perimeter of the camp.

  ‘What is it, Chris?’ Trent asked him once they were far enough away.

  The grim expression on the man’s face never changed. He said, ‘You’d better come with me and I’ll show you.’

  Trent walked over to the picket line where his horse was tied. He threw the saddle on it and a few minutes later the two men were out, cutting through the Longhorns to get to the other side of the spread-out herd.

  Once on the other side, he followed Chris around behind a clump of brush and found another nighthawk, Tag Morris, waiting for them.

  That was when Trent saw the body of the third nighthawk, a man called Beaumont, on the ground, arrows sprouting from his back, scalp missing, a large, blackened crust of dried blood left behind.

  Trent cursed. ‘Shit! Was it Comanches?’

  ‘Sure looks that way,’ Morris said.

  ‘Are we missing any cows?’

  They looked at each other and shrugged.

  ‘Maybe a couple,’ Morris answered.

  ‘How many Indians do you figure?’ Trent asked.

  ‘Five or six.’

  ‘Okay. Morris, you take over the drive. Bury Beaumont and move on. Chris, gather up a couple more men and we’ll go get our cows back.’

  The trailhand hesitated.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Are you sure you want to worry about just a couple of damned cows?’

  Trent’s voice grew harsh. ‘A couple now, more later. Damned right I want to get them back.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll do it.’

  He rode back towards the camp and once out of earshot, Morris asked, ‘What are you going to do with the woman?’

  ‘She’ll come with me.’

  ‘I was kinda hoping you’d say that. Leaving her here around this crew would be certain trouble.’

  ‘Ain’t that the truth. C’mon, let’s get back.’

  Once back at the camp, Trent found Mavis cleaning up after breakfast, and said to her, ‘You’re coming with me and a few of the others.’

  ‘Where?’ she snapped.

  ‘Some Comanches killed one of the nighthawks and stole some cows. I aim to get them back.’

  ‘I’ll stay.’

  ‘Look around you, May. Do you really want to stay here with them?’

  She hesitated then said in a quiet voice, ‘No.’

  ‘I didn’t think so.’

  He left her there and went to find Morris. ‘If we’re not back by tonight, find some good water and rest the herd again until we return.’

  ‘Fine. I’ll make sure everyone has got rifles with them too. The Comanches could show up while you’re gone.’

  Trent nodded. ‘One more thing. If we ain’t back in four days, we’re dead.’

  Tracking the Comanches across the dry, broken ground was slow, tedious work. Along with Trent and Chris were two other trailhands, Peters and Wallace. Mavis brought up the rear.

  By about midday, they had covered maybe five miles when Trent noticed Chris riding back towards the group.

  ‘Someone’s in a hurry,’ Peters said.

  ‘Maybe he found the Comanche nation out there somewhere,’ Wallace joked.

  Chris brought his mount to a stop in front of them. ‘I found the cows. The Indians must have figured we were trailing them and left them in a low patch of ground about a mile or so up.’

  ‘There was no sign of them?’ Trent asked.

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘All right, let’s go have a look. But keep your eyes open. It ain’t like them just to give something away so easily.’

  A mile further on they found them; four Longhorns, exactly where Chris said they would be, in a shallow depression in the ground. Trent looked about and saw nothing but flat terrain littered with sparse brush that wouldn’t hide much of anything.

  Wallace said, ‘Looks clear enough.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Trent grunted.

  ‘Let’s get them cows and get out of here,’ Peters said, a nervous edge to his voice. ‘I got me a tingle running down my spine something fierce. I agree with Trent. Comanches don’t give up nothing unless there’s something in it for them.’

  ‘I don’t think they will either,’ Chris said, looking out beyond the depression.

  There’s one thing about flat land that was learned early on by travelers throughout the west. It’s not always as flat as it seems. In this case, a dry watercourse which was deep enough to hide thirty or so Comanche; the ones now strung out along the ravine’s top lip, which Chris was looking at.

  ‘Oh shit! We’re dead,’ the words burst from Wallace’s lips.

  ‘Not yet,’ Trent said. ‘We’ll just leave the cows and back up the way we came.’

  It was Peters who dashed those hopes. ‘Ah, no. I don’t think we will.’

  Trent turned in the saddle and saw about the same amount of Comanches filing in behind them.

  ‘Oh, my Lord,’ Mavis gasped.

  Chris looked to the ramrod in desperation. ‘What are we going to do?’

  No one moved. Not even the Comanches. Trent said, ‘I guess we’ll have to wait and see, won’t we?’

  ‘Looks like we’re about to find out,’ Peters said.

  To their front, the mounted Indians started to close the gap between them as their horses moved forward at a steady pace.

  The ramrod glanced back over his shoulder and saw that the Indians behind them were doing the same.

  The line of Comanches that came towards them from in front, let their horses pick their own way through the depression and up the other side to where they stopped no more than five yards away from Trent, Mavis, and the three trailhands.

  Every one of the Comanches had some form of paint on his face. The one opposite Trent wo
re yellow and black daubs in twin horizontal stripes across his cheeks and nose. His hair hung in two long braids and twin eagle feathers stuck up proudly from the top of his head. He was armed with a long lance adorned with more feathers, plus straggly looking tufts which Trent made out to be human hair.

  Beneath the deep-chested warrior, his paint-daubed horse shifted then steadied itself, its head bobbed then stilled.

  The Comanche growled something none of them could understand.

  ‘What did he say?’ Peters asked.

  Trent hissed, ‘Do I look like I know?’

  The lance came up and the wicked-looking stone head was pointed at the six-gun on the ramrod’s hip.

  ‘I think he wants us to get rid of our guns.’

  Chris gave the Comanche a defiant glare. ‘The hell I am.’

  The warrior snapped a few words and Chris’ chest sprouted two painted shafts complete with feathers. His jaw dropped at the suddenness of it and the shout of pain died in his throat as he coughed a thick spray of crimson.

  A soft cry escaped Mavis’ lips at the violence unfolding before her. Then she stared in horror as Chris slid sideways from the saddle and crashed to the ground beside his horse.

  ‘Christ, damn it!’ Trent snarled and brought up his left hand in a display of defense. ‘Wait! Wait! We’ll do it. Put your guns on the ground.’

  Both Trent and Peters dropped their six-guns and left their saddle-guns in their scabbards.

  However, Wallace had his own ideas about what he was going to do, and throwing his weapon away wasn’t one of them. Instead, he brought the gun up and placed the hard muzzle against the side of his head. He thumbed the trigger back and squeezed the trigger.

  The roar of the six-gun made Mavis start again and the sight of the bullet erupting from the opposite side of Wallace’s head in a bright-red spray sent her over the edge. She sat in the saddle and screamed.

  Mavis fainted when the Comanches surged forward.

  A high-pitched scream pierced the night and died away to a hoarse moan. A burst of excitement followed it and then another scream sounded. And so, it had gone on for one long, agonizing hour.

  Trent looked at Mavis who sat beside him, hands tied, like his, behind her back. Her eyes had taken on a distant stare as she tried to block out the screams coming from Peters as the Comanches toyed with him.

  The ramrod wondered how long it would be before they came for him and started his endless torment. Maybe he would have been better off if he’d shot himself like Wallace. Even shot Mavis to spare her the agony of what was to come. What had he been thinking?

  ‘May?’ he whispered. ‘May?’

  She turned her head to look at him, without seeing him. ‘Yes?’

  Her voice was distant.

  ‘I’m sorry, May.’

  ‘It’s okay. It’s not your fault, Pa.’

  ‘No, May. It’s me, Trent.’

  ‘Oh,’ was all she said and then went quiet again.

  The following morning, after hours of endless torture, the noise emitted by Peters had stopped. By this time, Trent’s nerves were frayed raw. He’d tried three futile escape attempts in the hope that the Comanches would kill him. They hadn’t, and he suddenly realized that it was his turn next.

  He cast a side-long glance at Mavis who lay on her side facing away from him. He wasn’t sure if she was asleep or awake. Perhaps she was already dead. Just maybe the shock of it all had been too much, and her heart had stopped beating.

  But it wasn’t to be. Nothing but wishful thinking. The longer his eyes lingered, he was able to see the soft rise and fall of her side as she breathed.

  Then they came for him.

  ‘What do you think?’ a trailhand named Curtis, asked Morris.

  Morris, who was staring out across the landscape to the east, shrugged. ‘He said four days. They’ve only been gone one.’

  Morris had found ample water for the cattle in the form of a creek. Not wide, nor deep, but the water and grass around it would keep the Longhorns happy for the next few days.

  ‘Even still. They should’ve been back by now.’

  Morris nodded. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘What do you make of the two new men?’

  ‘They seem okay.’

  ‘One of them was asking questions about the woman the other day.’

  Morris’ head snapped around. ‘Which one?’

  ‘Olsen.’

  ‘Keep an eye on him. I knew it was a bad idea to hire new trailhands. I’ll tell Trent about it when he gets back.’

  ‘If he gets back, don’t you mean?’

  ‘Quite possibly.’

  The pain!

  The mind-numbing, wish-you-were-dead type of burning pain. Every nerve ending in Trent’s body seemed to be alive with it.

  His fingerless right hand dug a furrow in the loose earth as he tried to pull himself forward. His left arm lay useless beside him. Grit covered his pain-wracked face, stuck to the still-oozing blood that came from the gruesome, blackened patch where hair had once been.

  Trent wore no clothes. The Comanches had ripped those from his body at the start. After that, they had cut one of his Achilles tendons. They watched and laughed as he’d tried to run, only to stumble with constant regularity.

  When he’d fallen for the last time, a warrior had knelt on his back and grabbed a handful of his hair. Then he’d pulled Trent’s head back far enough to be able to run a razor-sharp knife around it and pull the scalp free.

  Trent had screamed his loudest then. So loud his voice broke, and from then on, nothing more than a hoarse croak came forth. Even when the Comanches took his fingers.

  Now Trent’s body was a myriad of cuts and missing parts. His right eye, his left ear, his balls, all gone. They taunted him, poked him with their knives, even pissed on him. The Indians did everything they could except take his life, and he still breathed.

  By Christ, kill me!

  A shadow fell across Trent as he continued trying to pull himself forward. The painted warrior rolled him over onto his back. The ramrod looked up at the Comanche’s face and could make out the mirthless smile which showed yellowed teeth, through his one good eye.

  ‘Kill me.’

  Trent’s voice was no more than a whisper.

  The Comanche held a knife in his right hand and his eyes flickered to it as he contemplated the white man’s wishes. Then he shook his head, grunted, and spit in Trent’s face.

  The ramrod never flinched as the spittle hit him in the face. He was too tired, weak. Instead, he mustered every, last ounce and said, ‘Fu—’

  That was when a .44 caliber slug blew through the bridge of the Comanche’s nose and the brassy notes of a bugle rang out.

  ‘There’s something you need to see up ahead,’ Llano Sam told Savage and Bannister.

  ‘Like what?’ Savage asked, adjusting his hat against the bright, morning sun. ‘Did they have another stampede?’

  ‘Easier if I show you.’

  Savage nodded. ‘All right, lead on.’

  They had made good time since leaving Deadman and crossed the Canadian River the day before. Savage figured they may catch up to the herd in the next few days.

  Sam brought them to a halt near a grave. The riders gathered around it and stared, first at the grave, then at Sam.

  ‘It’s a grave,’ Hanson snapped. ‘So what?’

  Sam gave him a cold glare. ‘How about you shut your punk mouth before I go and do it for you.’

  ‘How about I put a bullet between your eyes, you son of a squaw.’

  ‘How about you both shut the hell up,’ Bannister snarled. ‘Sam, you brought us here for a reason. What was it?’

  Sam gave one last glare at Hanson and then said, ‘It’s a grave, sure. But that’s not all. Something happened here.’

  ‘What?’ asked Savage.

  ‘Comanches raided the herd and took some cows. They killed the man in the grave.’

  ‘How many Longhorns did they take?’ />
  ‘That’s just it. Not many. A few head and they took them east.’

  Savage looked at Bannister. ‘If I was in the Big Bend country and they were Apaches, I’d say it was a trap.’

  Bannister agreed. ‘I’d say the same thing. Did anyone go after the cows?’

  ‘Five riders. One of them is a woman.’

  Savage cursed. ‘Shit. Are you sure?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Yesterday morning.’

  The Drifter clenched his jaw as he thought of all the scenarios that could have played out in that time. He only hoped that the feeling in the pit of his stomach was wrong. But he knew it wasn’t. He was certain that the five riders had ridden in pursuit of the raiders and fallen into their trap.

  He looked at Bannister. ‘I’ll take eight men with me.’

  ‘And do what? You know as well as I do that the Comanches will more than likely have them, or killed them by now.’

  ‘The woman is with them, Mike. I have to know one way or the other. By taking eight of the hands with me you’ll still be able to move on the herd.’

  ‘You want me to keep on after the cattle?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s it.’

  ‘All right, but what if you don’t come back?’

  ‘Then, you got yourself a herd of cows. I’ll take Sam with me. You got the kid.’

  ‘I ain’t going to be shooting at my own kind, Savage. I’m part Comanche, you know?’

  ‘That’s fine, you just find them for me. I don’t want to start a full-scale war if I can help it. I only want to get the woman away from whoever has her.’

  Sam nodded abruptly. ‘Okay then.’

  ‘If I ain’t back by the time you get the herd, Mike, take them north.’

  ‘There is one problem, you know?’ Bannister pointed out.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Raton Pass. There’s a feller up there who built himself a gate on the line between New Mexico and Colorado. If we get the cows, we need to pay the toll.’