When together they reached a bend in the canyon where their progress slowed, then ground to a halt, they found Lone Wolf’s Kiowa stalled among the rocks, taking cover behind the trees on the outer perimeter of their village, firing back at not-so-distant targets. Here and there a white face swam through the gun smoke and wispy trails of abandoned fires. Still, most of the faces of those making this attack were dark. Many times they had been told to expect that the first wave they might encounter in an attack on their village would be the Seminole and Tonkawa trackers. This day these were dressed in the same dark-blue shirts as the yellow-legs themselves, their hair tied up provocatively for battle. It was disturbing to see that many of those dark faces had been mockingly painted … while the Kwahadi had no time for their medicine toilet.
“Look!” Antelope shouted in his ear, nudging him sharply and pointing to their left.
Against the far side of the canyon wall snaked a dark column of more soldiers, leading their horses, winding their way down the thousand-foot descent from the prairie above. As fast as they could inch along the narrow footpath, the yellow-legs were coming to augment the Indian scouts who pressed the point of the attack.
Abruptly it seemed the Kiowa were up and moving, coming back toward the Kwahadi now. More noise crashed ahead of them in echoing reverberations as Lone Wolf’s warriors fell back first at a walk, then one by one broke into a run past the Comanche who had just arrived on the battle line.
Then he saw them clearly—the Tonkawa trackers and soldiers draped in blue, down here in the cool, dark shadows, their horses snorting wispy streamers of gauze into the autumn air, horses’ legs like throbbing pistons hammering the streambanks as they charged among the rocks and trees the Kiowa were abandoning helter- skelter.
“Come, Tall One!”
Antelope hollered at him a second time, tugging on his elbow. Around them the rest of the Kwahadi and Kiowa were backtracking now like bits of ghostly flotsam adrift on the mist and canyon shadow—stopping hurriedly to turn and fire from behind a boulder, next time stopping behind a wide cottonwood, wheeling off again to reload quickly on the run before they would wheel and fire another shot at the pursuing soldiers and their Indian trackers.
Tall One found the pistol in hand, his arm outstretched without thinking, yanking back the hammer with the other hand before he squeezed the trigger—pointing the muzzle at one of the Tonkawa riding down on him. The tracker’s horse skidded stiff-legged to a halt, twisting its head savagely to the side, heaving its rider off in a tumultuous shudder, pitching the tracker into the brush as it went down in a heap, legs flaying.
Its unearthly cry sent shivers up from the base of Tall One’s spine.
A bullet’s snarl cut the air beside his ear angrily. He felt it pass so close, it smelled of brimstone and death. Suddenly the cold air hissed through the icy furrow along his neck where the bullet had creased him. Some of his long hair stung the open wound, matted in the first beading ooze of that raw tissue.
As quickly as he saw the puff of smoke from the enemy’s weapon, Tall One whirled on his heel and sprinted off, his heart singing. He could not claim killing one of the enemy trackers—but there was little doubt he had spilled the rider and killed the Tonkawa’s horse.
To put an enemy afoot was a great coup!
But just as his heart began to soar with his brave feat, Tall One’s heart sank. Beneath his feet he felt the ground tremble. Around him the air reverberated with the thunder of hooves. Hundreds of hooves rising to a great, raucous crescendo as they charged ever on down the canyon, following the throaty call of those bugles.
While he had unhorsed one—there remained more than he and the rest could ever knock from their saddles.
Glancing over his shoulder as he ran, heedless of the brush he stumbled over, tripping only to pick himself back up and rush off again, Tall One sprinted along with the last of them, the warriors heading for the rocks against the side of the canyon where the women and children had gone to climb upward toward the prairie, toward the sun, to safety.
Where the thundering of those yellow-leg horses would not find them.
Where no man might know of Tall One’s doubts.
38
THE MONTH WAS growing old. In less than a week, someone had said, it would be February.
February. Jonah laughed humorlessly. Why, he was still far from accepting the fact that another year had thrust itself upon him!
Still, five days ago there had come a break in the weather that imprisoned these southern plains, and Captain Lockhart had given them three hours to make ready for the trail.
They had left their station at the headwaters of the South Fork of the Pease River at sundown four of those days ago, riding the moon down that long winter’s night, marching west at a hand-lope, the hard breast of the wind fresh in their faces, so cold it brought tears to a man’s eyes without letup.
West toward the great monolithic wall of the Staked Plain.
Into the caprock of that barren buffalo ground they rode down the second and into their third day, stopping long enough to water the stock when they were lucky enough to run onto sinks and springs, unsaddling for a spare six hours each successive night—just long enough for the men to grab three solid hours of sleep, the captain having his men stand two watches at guard.
“If we’re up and moving now that the weather’s gone and broke,” Niles Coffee explained, “it’s bound to reason the Comanch’ are up and roaming too.”
From the look on Two Sleep’s face, it seemed the Shoshone wanted to ask the same question Jonah had posed of the Ranger.
“You got any idea where we’re heading, Sergeant?”
“There’s a place out there,” Coffee replied, pointing with the blade of his folding knife he used to curl a sliver of chew from a dark plug he shoved back into the pocket of his canvas mackinaw. “We get on up where the White River comes in—you can sit there and keep an eye on a whole bunch of country.”
“That’s what the cap’n wants to do, you figure? Damned cold for a man to do nothing more than keep an eye on things.”
Coffee grinned, his tongue noisily slipping the sliver of chaw to the side of his red-whiskered cheek. “It’s country the Comanch’ gotta go through if they’re on the move, Jonah. If they been wintering down south of us where Heck Peters’s Ranger company runs their territory, then the Comanche gotta come back north through that White River country. And if the red bastards been wintering up farther north in Cap’n Roberts’s country after Mackenzie’s Fourth give ’em the rout back at Palo Duro Canyon … then we’ll catch ’em traipsing south again. Either way, I see it through the same keyhole as Cap’n Lockhart does.”
“You can’t mean you think there’s only one way in or out of this piece of country!” Jonah exclaimed.
“I know you got scars and experience hunting Injuns up north, Jonah,” Deacon Johns said quietly in that way of his as he eased down beside Hook beneath the cold starshine. “But you gotta remember we been fighting
“That may be so, Deacon. But one thing I’ve learned about the Injuns I’ve tracked and fought,” Jonah said, “is that when you figure you’ve got an Injun figured out—he’s already one jump ahead and bound to outsmart you.”
“Maybeso these Comanch’ ain’t really any different from other Injuns,” Coffee said.
Johns nodded. “Could be. But what we do know of these godforsaken fornicators—the Comanch’ are creatures of habit. For generations they been moving up and down their buffalo ground, following the trails the buffalo use. Don’t matter if they’re moving their village, gone hunting for hides and meat, or taking out on the warpath. The Comanch’ follow the old trails they know, trails going into and out of a piece of country.”
“If they come onto the ground this company of Rangers is sworn to protect,” Coffee said, his voice low, laden with resolve, “by God they’ll have to come through a narrow door in the caprock less’n three mile wide.”
Jonah followed where the Ranger pointed, Coffee’s arm extended toward the last rose tint to the twilit sky. Against the pale pink of that aging sunset stood the rising bulk of the caprock that surrounded the immensity of the
