Hatcher put his hand out dramatically, grabbing the front of Rowland’s blanket coat. “We do that, Johnny— not knowing where them women are, where yer Maria is in that bunch, they’ll kill all them prisoners in the dark afore we can get in there to know who to shoot, who to save.”
“She’s … Maria … damn—”
“I know,” Hatcher said, turning to look at the others again. “So how much time ye boys figger we got till it gets light enough for them Comanch’ to go riding off?”
“Not much,” Rufus said.
“Tell me how long.”
Bass had been studying at the position of the moon hung there a little south of west in the sky, slowly laying one hand lengthwise right above the horizon, then laying the other horizontally atop it, then the other hand on top of that one until he had a count of distance from the horizon.
In that heavy silence Titus said, “We got less’n four hours left.”
“Then we gotta get our trap set in three hours,” Hatcher said. “I don’t wanna take the chance we’ll get caught moving, so we’ll figger they’ll be up and on the trail afore first light.”
“Three hours,” Rowland repeated. “Then what?”
“Then we’ll kill the sumbitches.”
“How we gonna do that?” Solomon asked.
“Let’s get moving,” Jack suggested. “We’ll sort the rest out once I find us a good place to spring the trap.”
Bass didn’t know what Hatcher had in mind; then, again, he figured he did know. Simple enough what they had to do: they were going to be waiting somewhere ahead for the Comanche.
“But before we set off again,” Jack said, “Scratch—I want ye to ride back to tell Workman what we’re planning.”
“Us to get ahead of ’em?”
“Have Willy tell the soldiers to keep on coming, no stops now. That goddamned noisy bunch gotta be coming close enough for to scare the Comanch’ into moving outta their camp.”
“And us,” Scratch replied, “we’ll be waiting on down the trail for them Injuns to come running right smack into us—right?”
“Right on one count: we want them soldiers to flush them Injuns into us.”
But Bass was confused. “What d’ya say I’m wrong on?”
“You and Workman can’t come catching up to us.”
“Why not?”
“Someone’s gotta keep them soldiers up and humping, high behind … or this plan ain’t gonna work,” Hatcher advised.
“So you want me to stay behind with Workman and the soldiers?”
“You two just make sure them greasers are close enough ahind the Comanch’ that ye can jump on in the fight when me and the rest of the boys here start up the band.”
“When’s that gonna be?” Rowland asked impatiently.
Hatcher turned to him. “I hope we can wait till sometime after we got enough light to see Injun from greaser … from American.”
“God pray that we have enough light,” Kinkead mumbled.
“That’s the plan?” Bass asked, not sure if he had it all square in his mind.
“Ye just have them soldiers ready to run up on the back-ass of them Injuns soon as ye hear us lay down the first shots into their faces,” Hatcher explained.
“Merciful heavens! We’ll have ’em in cross fire,” Caleb declared.
“That’s a touchy place to put us,” Rufus argued. “Out front like that.”
Jack fumed a moment, then growled, “Any of ye got a better idea what to do here and now?”
As he glared at them one by one, most of the rest turned their faces away.
Finally Hatcher said, “Awright. Since’t none of ye got a idea what’s better’n mine, we’ll go with my plan. Scratch, ye take off now.”
Holding out his hand, he shook with Jack, Kinkead, and three more before he said, “See you boys afore sunrise. Keep your goddamned eyes peeled and don’t shoot anything that looks like me, you hear?”
Some of them grinned nervously as Scratch mounted up and reined the horse around, adjusting his position in the Spanish saddle. Its seat was a bit too small, even for his bony butt, but with its stirrups the saddle was better for making a long ride than having nothing at all.
“See you, boys,” he said once more.
“We’ll find us a hollow piece of ground,” Hatcher explained as Bass was bringing his horse around. “Where we can hold out if we have to hunker down and make a stand.”
“A hollow?” Bass asked, reining up a moment.
“Low place, not no high ground. We’ll wait up the hill from that hollow and open fire when the Comanch’ are under our guns.”
Scratch grinned. “You boys just remember my purty face and don’t shoot at it when the time comes.”
He pulled hard on the reins, tapped heels into the horse’s ribs, and quickly pulled away from them, engulfed by the brooding dark of the night forest.
“This ain’t nothing new,” William Workman quietly explained in something just above a whisper as they rode along ahead of the Mexican officer and his mounted soldiers.
Scratch asked, “The Comanche been raiding the greasers for a few years now, eh?”
“Not no few years. They been raiding that poor town even before there was a town.”
The whiskey maker went on to explain how the Comanche, even the Navajo far to the west, both had raided the ancient pueblos for food, plunder, and prisoners far back into the telling of any of the ancient stories.
“It’s something that’s always been. Always will be, I s’pose,” Workman declared. “The Injuns come in and steal and kill. So the Mexicans work up enough nerve to go find a camp of Injuns and kill them. So the Injuns come in and steal again. Which means the Mexicans gonna work up a bunch to go kill Injuns again.”
“So it never stops?”
“Ain’t never stopped,” Workman replied dolefully. “And right now—it don’t appear it’s gonna stop anytime soon.”
“Leastways not near soon enough to leave off this here fight,” Bass grumbled.
“Like Jack wanted, we’ll just have these damned soldiers ready when the rest of Hatcher’s boys open up on them Comanche.”
The two of them talked quietly from time to time as they rode along, able to hear the murmur of the soldiers whispering behind them each time the cold wind died in the trees. Bass began to grow edgy when he found the moon near to setting at their backs.
Minutes later he thought he smelled something different in the air as the chill breeze drifted toward them. Then he was sure as they came into a small clearing.
“Hold ’em up here, Willy,” he commanded as he kicked down from the saddle.
Holding on to the reins, Bass led his horse toward the far line of trees. He let his nose lead him until he was sure, bending down finally when he could smell that unmistakable spoor—horse dung. Using one bare finger, he probed its surface. Just starting to dry, and cold as could be. With the way the temperature had dropped through the night, it wouldn’t take long at all for a steaming pile of dung to cool off completely.
Then his nose caught wind of something else. A little different sort of smell. He followed his nose here, then there, the way old Tink would have stayed locked on the scent of a coon back in Boone County. Going to his hands and knees to get closer to the ground as he inched his way-back among the trees, Scratch found it. Another pile of dung. But this was left by a human.
Damn, he thought. Now I’m sniffing the snow for Comanche shit.
But just as he turned away, his nose caught the scent of something new, yet something recognizable. He had smelled this before. And instantly he knew. Nothing else quite like that sweetish tang on the air, an odor going old and rancid.
Crouching low once more, Bass moved another two steps, sniffed, then a second two steps. Again he sniffed, moved to his right, and the smell hit him all the stronger. In five steps he was standing over it in the dark.
