“Because they’re kicking up enough dust for a dust storm, that’s why.”
“Why would a posse be coming from the south?”
“They wouldn’t be. I don’t think it’s a posse.”
“Then what?”
“They’re coming this way from New Mexico, Brent. Who travels in large groups like that?”
“Cavalry?”
“They’d be riding in a column. These horses are all spread out.”
“Indians?”
“Possible—or something even worse.”
“What’s worse than Indians?”
Brian looked down at his brother and said, “Comancheros.”
“Jesus,” Brent said.
Brian looked at the man again. He could tell that he had also seen the dust cloud. The man had a decision Tomake. He could ride off or ride to the church for cover, in which case he’d have to tangle with Brian and his brother.
Brian felt sure that the man would ride away.
He was wrong.
Dead wrong.
The crazy son of a bitch started riding hell-bent for leather for the church!
“He’s coming in!” Brian shouted. “Brent, he’s coming in!”
“Shoot the bastard!”
Brian leveled his carbine at the man and fired off a shot, but the bastard was moving too fast, and Brian never was much of a shot anyway.
“Fire again!”
Brian was about to shoot again when something occurred to him.
“If I fire, the comancheros or Indians—whatever they are—are liable to hear it and come looking.”
“Well then get down here. Between the two of us we’ll have to take him without any more shooting.”
Fat chance of that. In fact, the son of a bitch was coming so fast Brian didn’t think he could get down from the tower in time.
“Take cover, Brent! Take cover.”
Chapter XXXIV
The church had big windows, and it had big doors, too, but the doors were closed and probably locked from the inside. The windows, however, were large and without glass.
His mode of entry was obvious.
When Decker saw the dust cloud, he knew trouble was heading his way, and he made his decision on the spur of the moment. He was going to have to take his chances with the men inside the church rather than the ones outside.
First he took out some extra shells for his shotgun and put them in various pockets. Then he dug his heels into John Henry, asking him for speed, and the little gelding responded. He heard the single shot fired at him from the tower, but knew after a second one didn’t follow that it never would. They had seen the dust cloud, too, even clearer than he had.
He rode ol’ John Henry straight as an arrow at the church and picked out his window.
The gelding knew what he had to do, and he did it.
He launched himself through the air, cleared the window easily, and Decker was inside.
As John Henry’s hooves hit the floor, Decker launched himself from the saddle. He landed rolling and came to a stop next to what was left of a set of church pews. Meager cover at best, but at least it was something. He pulled his gun and waited for the commotion to subside.
John Henry’s arrival had spooked the other two horses in the church and they began Tomake a racket.
Decker saw the red-haired man who had been holding the horses get pulled off his feet by them. He was not quick to rise, and Decker assumed that this was the wounded brother. The healthy one would have climbed into the tower.
As if to confirm his thought, the second man dropped down from the bell tower, hit the floor, and dashed for the pews at the far end of the church.
John Henry found himself a nice quiet corner and walked over to it to stand perfectly still. Somehow his actions dictated those of the other two horses, who followed his lead and did the same thing.
It was quiet and they could all hear the approach of thundering hooves.
“Foxx?”
“Yeah!”
“We’ve got to put this off until those riders pass by. I don’t know if they’re Indians or comancheros, but whichever it is they won’t be friendly.”
Silence.
“We can’t stand them off alone.”
Silence, and then one of them spoke. Decker thought it was the one from the bell tower.
“All right. Nobody moves until they’ve passed.”
“Agreed.”
The three of them sat stock-still and listened. From Decker’s vantage point he was able to see out a front window. None of them had seen the approaching riders until it was too late. Decker had been intent on the church, and the men in the church on Decker.
Now they had to hope that whoever they were— they were surely some kind of scavengers—they wouldn’t decide to check the church out for what was available.
Suddenly the riders were upon them, riding past the church. Decker could hardly see through the window because of the dust, but he saw enough to tell him who they were.
The worst scavengers on the plains.
Even worse than the Indians.
Comancheros.
Brian couldn’t see Brent from where he was, but he was hoping that his brother wouldn’t try anything foolish. They had enough trouble without attracting the passing riders.
The horsemen were riding so close that the church began to fill with dust that filtered through the windows. Brian craned his neck to see out a window, and his worst fears were realized as he saw the riders.
It seemed to take forever for the comancheros to ride past, and from the sound Decker guessed that there had to be at least forty of them.
Decker would have preferred to deal with Indians than with comancheros. Indians were at least honorable— for the most part. You could impress an Indian with courage, or intelligence, or sincerity.
A comanchero was the lowest form of life on earth, as far as Decker was concerned. They were whites, Mexicans, Indians, the scum from every race imaginable, and they respected nothing and no one. And what they had been known to do with women…
Jesus, he thought, the women!
They were heading straight for Rebecca and Felicia.
“Foxx!”
No answer.
“Foxx!”
