“Sitting on it. Tried to wrap it myself but too much going on. And I couldn’t see the damage.”
“Nope, that’s for sure,” Rudy said, “unless you got eyes in your ass. Now get yourself turned around. Tell me if you need my help.”
Jack gently lifted Thor’s head from his lap, and the dog sat up on his haunches, holding up his injured foreleg, and watched while Jack struggled to lie down on his left side to give Rudy a view of the wound.
“I’ve seen a hell of a lot worse,” Rudy said. “You’re right. It’s not bleeding a lot. That’s okay right now, but bleeding would help clean it out.”
Jack said, “Take my kerchief and bind the wound. Slice off some of my shirt tail if you need to. We’ve got to get back to Jordy and the others.”
“Can you walk?”
“We’ll find out, won’t we?”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Jack figured they probably made a pathetic sight and prime targets, two gimpy old men and a big dog bouncing along on three legs as they departed the stone building and headed for the wagons. Fortunately, the Comancheros were congregated on the south side of the canyon where most of the dilapidated village lay. The Kwahadi warriors hidden behind rocks on the slopes had helped take out the enemy on the north side and provided some cover now. Jack looked over his shoulder and saw that Throws Lance and his warriors were slowly descending the sloping wall now, apparently with the intention of joining the crew at the wagons to provide support.
They needed help there, as Jordy and Abel could not hold out for long. What had become of Tige and Swede? The Comancheros were working their ways toward the embattled wagons.
Rudy had the same concern. “There must be trouble. Hope to hell Tige and Swede didn’t take hits in there.”
Suddenly, the canvas covering the wagon ribs on the near side began sliding up, and they saw Tige and Swede, each claiming one end, pushing the covering up the support rods from inside, revealing Miss Molly in her shining glory. As they approached, Jack let out a sigh of relief.
Tige had been itching to try the Gatling gun Fort Concho had dumped as hopeless. He had purchased the weapon, which had been judged seriously flawed by the Army, for a pittance and had been making modifications and repairs to the gun for better than a year and tested it briefly on a few occasions. The weapon, which often sat on wheels for ease of shifting directions, was today attached to a heavy steel base that would be manipulated by sheer muscle, thus requiring Swede’s assistance. The gun operated with six rotating barrels moved by a cranking handwheel, and cartridges were dropped from a hopper to a carrier that fed the ammunition into the barrels. Properly operated, the gun would fire as many as two hundred rounds per minute.
Tige and Swede had been removing the gun’s components from the wagon’s false bottom and assembling the Gatling, which Jack figured Tige could do blindfolded. The plan was that Tige would handle the cranking and firing of the gun, Abel would feed the cartridges into the hopper, and Swede would handle any relocation of the weapon’s aim. The gun would more than even the odds if it worked and if Tige was not disabled during the battle.
Abel scrambled into the wagon to take his place, and Jack and Rudy claimed spots near the gatling’s wagon to defend the operators from blindsided attacks. Throws Lance and his warriors soon joined them and took up positions. The mules had been unhitched and moved to the sparse grass along the stream during the unloading of the wagons and were staked out there with the horses they had ridden into the compound.
Tige knelt on the wagon floor to speak to Jack. “I saw you limping, Boss . . . you and Thor. You going to be okay? What happened?”
“Thor and I both took bullets. We’ll be fine. Got a slug in my leg. We can deal with that later.”
“We’re going to yank the rest of the canvas off the wagon. Unveil the Miss Molly, you might say. There’s going to be a hell of a racket here in less than five minutes.”
“It can’t be too soon. It looks to me like they’re gathering for a rush.”
“Then I’d better get to it.”
Jordy moved in beside him. “Jack, I heard the gunfire from the house over there. Since Rudy’s shotgun was singing, I decided to stay put here, but I’ve been worried sick.”
“Rudy and Thor thinned their ranks some.”
“The leg?”
“Need a mite of patchwork, that’s all.”
The canvas dropped from the other side of the wagon, displaying the gun and its attendants to the southside Comancheros. There was almost a reverent silence for several minutes. Apparently, their adversaries were appraising the weapon’s significance to the conflict. Jack held out hope they would back off, but during his years of chasing outlaws, he had concluded that most such men were short on brains, and he feared it would take a dose of reality to get their attention. At least the women and any children had apparently found some type of shelter.
Suddenly the Comancheros broke the eerie silence and began to fire their guns and move toward the embattled wagons. They had spread out some, leaving a good number outside the Gatling’s line of fire.
Even with Comanche support, Jack figured his defenders were outnumbered three to one. Jack yelled, “Focus on the edges, boys. Let the Gatling take the middle.” Throws Lance said something to his warriors, but Jack had no idea whether the senior warrior had understood his directive.
Now the Comancheros were racing toward them, yelling at the enemy as they charged. The Gatling began its rhythmic discharge and the center of the Comanchero mass disappeared as bodies fell. One of the Kwahadis groaned as a slug drove into his head and he fell backwards. The Comancheros were closing
