“Now you try it,” Harris said, holding his hand out toward the gun and stepping away so Cut Nose could move behind the gun. Cut Nose stepped behind the gun and started turning the crank. It began firing, but because Cut Nose was not bracing it, the gun pivoted about on its caisson wheels, spraying bullets everywhere. Harris and his men managed to get down. But one Indian and two of the Indian ponies were hit, and they went down.
Despite the fact that he had shot one of his own, and two ponies, Cut Nose let out a shout of enthusiasm and excitement. After that, he started dancing around, and the others joined him.
“Listen to that! That’s a Gatling!” Falcon said, slapping his legs against the side of his horse and urging him forward.
Dorman hurried behind him.
After a short gallop, they were close enough that they could hear some of the bullets cutting into the trees around them.
“Whoa, hold it!” Falcon said, reining in his mount. “I don’t know what’s going on, but we’d better stop here.”
Both riders stopped, then led their horses into a little draw where they would be protected from stray bullets. Pulling their carbines from their saddle sheaths, they climbed up the side of the butte to get into position to look down on the other side. Once in position, they saw the two guns, and those who were gathered around them. One of the Indians was pushing shells into the magazine, while one of the white men was showing him how to do it.
“That’s Cut Nose,” Dorman said quietly, pointing to the Indian. “He’s a mean one, all right. If he could get these guns back to the Indians before the gen’rul runs into ’em, why, he could become the top dog among ’em.”
“And I recognize two of the white men,” Falcon said. “That is Clete Harris, and that is Jim Garon. It’s no wonder now that Garon beat the stagecoach robbery charge. Harris was the foreman of the jury. The two men were in cahoots.”
Suddenly, an Indian leaped out from behind them and with a yell, charged with his war club erect. Falcon turned just in time to see him and, as the Indian closed on him, Falcon grabbed the Indian by the wrist to keep him from using his war club, then fell on his back, put his feet in the Indian’s stomach, and threw him over. The Indian went over the edge of the butte, screaming as he fell, headfirst, over one hundred feet down.
“Harris, up there!” one of the white men shouted, and Cut Nose pushed the magazine into place, then elevated the gun and began shooting.
He could not elevate the gun high enough, and the bullets ricocheted off the stone wall, several feet below Falcon’s position.
The others began firing as well, and their shooting had more effect as the bullets whizzed by very close, some of them even kicking up little chips of rock that cut into Falcon’s face.
Falcon and Dorman began returning fire, and one of the white men went down as well as two of the Indians.
Cut nose turned and leaped onto one of the mules that were still attached to the Gatling gun and with a yell, started the team running. Seeing him, one of the other Indians jumped on the back of the mules attached to the other gun, but Falcon shot him, and the mules stood their ground.
There was a further exchange of fire; then all the Indians and the whites were gone, the Indians going one way, the whites another.
“Which ones are we going after?” Dorman shouted.
“We have to get that other gun back,” Falcon said. “We can’t let the regiment go up against them.”
Retrieving their horses, Falcon and Dorman rode back down into the flat where they had seen the guns. There were three dead Indians and two dead ponies. The Indians had gotten away with one of the guns, but the other one was still there. There was one white man lying near the gun and he was alive, but barely.
“They left me,” the white man said. “The sons of bitches run off and left me.”
“Who are you?” Falcon asked.
“The name is Richland. Ken Richland,” he said. “You are Falcon MacCallister, ain’t you?”
“Yes.”
Richland coughed, and blood oozed from the corner of his mouth. “I thought so. You don’t know me, but I’ve seen you before.”
“I recognized Clete Harris and Jim Garon,” Falcon said. “Who was the other man?”
“Why should I tell you that?”
“Why not? Like you said, they ran off and left you.”
“Yeah,” Richland replied, his voice strained with pain. “Yeah, they did, didn’t they?”
“The third man. What is his name?”
“His name is Bryans. Jay Bryans.”
“Why did you do this, Richland? Why did you put Gatling guns in the hands of the Indians? Don’t you know they are going to use them against whites?”
“We did it for money,” Richland said. “And we got us a lot of money for them guns. A lot of money.”
“It’s not doing you a lot of good right now, though, is it?” Falcon asked.
The smile left Richland’s face as he realized the truth of what Falcon was saying. Then his face was racked by a spasm of pain. He coughed again, coughing up more blood, then, with a gasp, quit breathing. His eyes remained open, but the stare was sightless.
