Kiowa Rising Page 2

  Squatting down at the wounded man’s head, Talbot said quietly, ‘Well, I reckon you must have settled with two of them. Leastways, I know I accounted for two and I don’t see any of ’em alive now.’

  ‘Yes, I got them both, but one of them got off a shot, too. It was bad luck.’

  ‘You’ll be all right. We’ll get you patched up.’

  The man shook his head impatiently and said, ‘There’s no time for a heap of foolishness like that. I’m dying. You need to help me.’

  ‘Surely,’ said Talbot, ‘you want a drink or aught?’

  ‘No, I mean you got to do something for me. Reach into my pocket, there. Inside my jacket.’

  As Talbot’s hand brushed against the man’s ribs, the fellow winced in agony. From the pocket, he extracted a long white envelope, addressed in exquisite copperplate to Officer Commanding, Fort Williams.

  ‘This what you mean?’ asked Talbot.

  ‘Yes. Listen carefully now, for we don’t have much time.’

  Chapter 2

  ‘My name’s Carson and I work for the Indian Bureau,’ said the dying man. ‘Three days back, I received intelligence that the Kiowa are about to rise. Word is, the Comanche’ll run with them.’ The effort of talking had seemingly exhausted Carson, for beads of sweat were glistening on his brow.

  ‘Take it easy,’ advised Talbot. ‘Surely this can wait?’

  ‘I had you pegged for a man of sense. You know full well, that I’m not long for this world. Just listen, don’t talk.’ Talbot Rogers shrugged and said nothing.

  ‘Night o’ the full moon, that’s four days hence, there’s going to be a raid on Fort Williams. You know it?’

  ‘I went there once,’ said Talbot. ‘Cavalry base, with a little town next to it. It’s as peaceful as can be up there, from all I’m able to apprehend.’

  ‘Gates are wide open. People go in and out, trading and such. Indians too,’ said Carson.

  The other passengers from the coach were standing around, looking like they didn’t know what to do next. The girl that Talbot had rescued was tending to her pa, the rest were talking in low voices. None of them came over to interrupt the conversation between Talbot Rogers and the man whose life could surely be measured in minutes now. They all seemed to understand that the two men speaking together had found some kind of common bond; although what that might be, none of them was able to guess.

  For some reason, Talbot felt the urge to make an uncharacteristically fatuous remark. He said, ‘You were in that much of a hurry to get to Fort Williams, I wonder you rode the Butterfield and didn’t just take horse.’

  ‘Ever tried riding a horse when you’ve only one sound leg?’ asked Carson irritably.

  ‘Can’t say as I have,’ admitted the other man.

  ‘Then stop asking a lot of damn fool questions and attend to what I say. The Kiowa are after the arsenal at Fort Williams. The place isn’t in posture of war, it’s open to all. Once that falls, all the territories right down to the Mexican border will be at the mercy of the Kiowa and their friends. There’s even a rumour as the Apaches might be in on the game. They got scores of their own to settle.’

  ‘What would you have me do?’ asked Talbot quietly, keenly aware that the man lying in front of him was nearly dead. As Carson was speaking, little red bubbles were appearing around the wound in his chest. Like a child’s soap bubbles, they grew a little and then burst, proof positive that the ball had taken him through the lung.

  ‘That’s the fellow,’ said Carson appreciatively. ‘Here’s the game. You take one o’ those horses right now. Leave these folks to shift for their own selves and make haste to Fort Williams. Hand over that letter and give ’em chapter and verse of how you came to receive it from me.’

  ‘That’s all? Just carry on the way I was headed anyways and deliver this letter?’

  The wounded man had closed his eyes, as though he were suddenly weary. Talbot wondered if he had slipped into unconsciousness, but a second later Carson opened his eyes and fixed him with a piercing gaze, saying, ‘Mind you do as I’ve said, now.’ His eyes flickered shut again.

  Wholly at a loss to know what to say, Talbot ventured, ‘You want I should say a prayer or something?’ There was no answer and as he watched, Carson took a deep breath, gulped and then breathed out again slowly. He didn’t draw breath again.

  Tucking the letter which the dead man had entrusted to him into his pocket, Talbot Rogers stood up and looked about him. Eight people, seven standing and one lying on the ground, stared back at him. He had the impression that they were now looking to him for counsel and advice on what next to do. Having seen him and Carson deal so sharply with the four men who had attacked the stage, they presumably expected him to pull a rabbit out of the hat now and transport them all safely to the next town. First things first, thought Talbot and went around where the luggage was stowed and began pulling at the tarp which protected the trunks and bags from the dust.

  Having rolled his cigarette, Ramon Mercador leaned back against a smooth and comfortable boulder and closed his eyes, inhaling the fragrant Virginia tobacco contentedly. He calculated that by the time he had finished his smoke, his friends would have completed their depredations down below and he could saddle up and join them as they made their way back to the town where they had been staying.

  The sudden and furious outbreak of shooting down below took Mercador quite by surprise. He opened his eyes in amazement and peered down to the barren plain through which the road wove its way. His first guess was that one of the passengers might have offered resistance and been shot down by two or three of the members of the gang as a reward for his impudence. Gazing now at the figures gathered around the stagecoach, which at this distance had the appearance of a child’s toy soldiers, Mercador saw at once that he had been grossly mistaken. He could see that one of the victims of the shooting was Bill Hilton; even at half a mile, the yellow neckerchief which covered the lower half of Hilton’s face was quite distinctive.

  ‘What the hell. . . ?’ muttered Mercador and sat up sharply to see what he could make of it all. Truth to tell, he knew that the robbery must have gone terribly wrong, because although Bill Hilton lay there, perhaps stone dead, nobody seemed to be firing at the passengers in order to avenge his death. Which meant that, incredible though it was to consider, all four of his companions had been killed or otherwise incapacitated in the brief flurry of shots which he had heard. Snarling an oath, the swarthy bandit leapt to his feet and unhitched his horse from the bristlecone pine to which he had secured her. Then he began picking his way carefully down the narrow trail towards the scene of the ambush.

  From a battered carpet bag, Talbot Rogers extracted a pistol with an exceedingly long barrel. This he tucked into his belt. Then he took out a box containing brass cartridges and reloaded his little Derringer. The others watched the drab and colourless little man, wondering what he would do next. In fact, he looked up sharply and said in an urgent and commanding voice, ‘You people get behind the stage here!’ He gestured in the direction which he wished them to go. Then he said, ‘You men take pistols from that pile. Don’t bother whether it’s your own, just arm yourselves.’

  The lone rider which Talbot had spotted was at the foot of the low range of hills now and was surely heading in their direction. It might be nothing to do with the case, but he was mindful that that was the self-same direction from which had come the rifle fire that had killed two of their horses. Once he had shepherded everybody out of the line of fire of the fast approaching horseman, Talbot knelt down and withdrew the strange pistol from his belt. He cocked it carefully and then leaned the barrel on the rear wheel of the coach and sighted down it, drawing down on the rider.

  As Mercador came to the level ground at the foot of the hill, he saw that all the people, men and women both, who had been standing round near the stage, were now scurrying to get behind it. He was no coward and perhaps the best shot in Texas into the bargain, but mounting a frontal assault on a
defended position in this way would be madness. He supposed, quite correctly, that the male passengers would by now be armed and mightily ticked off with him and his compadres. They’d open fire before he was a hundred yards from the stage; of that he had no doubt at all. Regretfully, he reined in and then spurred on his horse, back the way he had come. The sooner he reached Tom Hilton and told him of the death of his brother, the better.

  The young man whom Talbot had dismissed on first sight as a cowardly braggart, confirmed this view of himself by shouting, ‘Hooee, that’s one of ’em who couldn’t face a fair fight!’

  ‘He’ll be back with his friends ’fore long, or I’m a Dutchman,’ said Talbot, ignoring the youngster. ‘We best get clear of here and the sooner the better.’

  ‘What do you propose, sir?’ asked the man who had been sitting opposite Talbot on the coach, the man he had figured for a farmer. ‘Can we get this vehicle moving, do you suppose?’

  Bending down and surveying the state of the front axle, Talbot shook his head. ‘It’s pretty well mashed up,’ he said, ‘we’ve neither the time nor tools to remedy it. It’ll be shanks’ pony or horse riding for us, I guess.’

  ‘We’ve four horses with saddles and four without,’ remarked the farmer thoughtfully, ‘and nine of us. The sums ain’t lookin’ too bad.’

  ‘What about you ladies?’ asked Talbot. ‘There’s no question of riding side-saddle or any such nonsense. Are you all three able to ride a horse, straddling it like a man?’

  The farmer’s wife blushed to hear such plain speaking, but the fat woman who had been squashing Talbot during the journey laughed and said, ‘Needs must when the Devil drives. I can manage.’ She turned to the young girl and said, ‘What about you, honey?’

  ‘I’ve grown up with horses,’ said the girl shyly, ‘I can manage well enough, I think.’

  ‘That’s the spirit, miss,’ said Talbot, giving her a broad smile. ‘I have to say, you’re bearing up remarkably well after all that’s happened. How’s your pa?’

  The man who had been travelling with the girl was sitting on the ground, nursing his jaw. He looked to Talbot to be in pretty poor shape. Looking round at this group of ordinary people thrown into an unexpected and frightening situation, Talbot Rogers felt a surge of compassion. He knew that before he breathed his last, the man called Carson had expected him to mount up and abandon these folks, for the greater good. If Fort Williams were to be destroyed and the troops there killed, then there would be nobody to protect the straggling line of settlements which stretched out into New Mexico. Eventually, of course, the government in Washington would send an army to restore order, but by that time, hundreds, perhaps even thousands of farmers and settlers might have been massacred.

  Despite the unassailable logic, which required that Talbot Rogers should leave these eight men and women to fend for themselves, while he went haring off to warn the army at Fort Williams what was afoot, he knew that he would never be able to face himself if he left the passengers from the stage to live or die as they were able. They were a pretty sorry crew, from what he could see, and he knew that they would fall prey to the first bunch of Indian warriors or bushwhackers who might chance upon them. Sure, he would carry Carson’s letter to the commander of the fort, but he would first have to take these folk to safety.

  When the Hiltons and their gang had fetched up in the town of Indian Creek, the citizens of the place had at first sensed a business opportunity. Their town was off the beaten track and not many travellers came through. The arrival of a band of fourteen men had looked like the chance to raise prices and skin the passing travellers for as much as could be squeezed out of them. After all, tough as they looked, these men would be wanting rooms to stay in, whiskey to drink, horses shod and provisions to take with them when they left.

  They say that man proposes, but God disposes and in the present case, the Lord evidently had other ideas about how things were going to work out for those living in and around Indian Creek. If there was any exploiting to be done or advantageous bargains to be struck, then the Hilton brothers and their men figured that it would be they who would be dictating the terms. Although the farmers and storekeepers in the area were fond enough of carrying pistols at their hips, they were unaccustomed to using them and any shooting which did take place was generally against wild animals or Indians. Even that was by no means a common occurrence and the guns which the townsfolk carried were really little more than badges of masculine pride.

  With Tom and Bill Hilton, the case was very different. They carried guns and were all too ready to use them at the drop of the proverbial hat. One circumstance which had a slight bearing upon subsequent events was that both the Hilton brothers were dandies in their own way. They habitually used clothes brushes to remove dust and dirt from their apparel, and both men also affected brightly coloured silk bandanas, tucked around their necks. Tom’s was red and his brother’s yellow. These, they regularly washed, so that the colours showed clearly.

  On the night that the fourteen riders hit town, they found their way without delay to one of the two taverns in Indian Creek. For the first hour or two, things went well enough, with all the members of the gang throwing money around freely. As the evening wore on though, many of the usual patrons of the Silver Dollar began to drift off and move across the road to the Lucky Lady, the rival drinking establishment. They had begun to get a feel for the kind of people that the Hiltons and their boys were and did not wish to be around when the tough-looking crew became completely intoxicated. It wasn’t until nearly all the usual customers had left that the two Hilton brothers noticed anything amiss and when they finally realized that although it was still light outside, the saloon had almost emptied; they took it to be an insult.

  ‘What is it with the people in this damn town?’ Tom Hilton asked the barkeep truculently. ‘You’re an unfriendly bunch of cows’ sons, you know that?’

  The man behind the bar shrugged and kept his own counsel. He was perfectly capable of maintaining order in the bar when it was only a matter of one or two drunks to turf out and he had even been known to respond in a lively fashion when a cowboy began shooting up the place; he was not, however, up to handling fourteen heavily armed men.

  ‘You’ll have a drink with us, won’t you?’ enquired Tom Hilton of the barkeep, an unmistakable note of menace in his voice. Since the fellows who had driven away all his other regulars were spending freely and looked to be a more profitable bunch than the dirt farmers who usually drank in his place, the man behind the polished, wooden counter smiled cheerfully and accepted the offer of a whiskey.

  At this point Jack Martin, the owner of the Silver Dollar, felt that by taking a drink with these men, he had defused the situation and smoothed things over neatly enough. That was until Tom Hilton caught sight of a man sidling off towards the bat-wing doors, clearly doing his best to be inconspicuous about it.

  ‘Hey, you!’ called Hilton, ‘Where are you headed?’

  ‘Time I was off to feed m’ hogs,’ replied the man, reasonably enough. ‘I only came in for one drink an’ I’ve been here longer’n I ought.’

  For some reason, the man’s answer seemed to infuriate Tom Hilton and he said, in a voice choked with anger, ‘Hogs, is it? That your idea of a joke?’

  The man standing a dozen feet from the door looked perplexed at the notion that he had made any sort of a joke, saying, ‘No, sir, that ain’t no joke. I got thirty hogs I’m raisin’ an’ if’n I don’t get home to give ’em their vittles, they’re apt to go hungry.’

  ‘Well then,’ said Hilton, ‘where’s everybody else skedaddled off to? Answer me that, if you can. Strikes me as folk in this here town are an unfriendly crew and that’s a fact.’

  The hog-farmer scratched his head in bewilderment, hardly knowing what to say, when Tom Hilton detached himself from the bar and walked over to the door, blocking the man’s way out. He said, ‘I had enough o’ you people and your ways. Looks to me like none of you want to be in the
same room as us boys.’ Members of the gang exchanged meaningful glances. They were used to Tom’s sudden and irrational bursts of anger, especially when he was drinking. None of them felt inclined to get involved in the business. The only one who could handle Tom Hilton when he was in this mood was his brother Bill and he didn’t give the appearance of a man who was going to intervene.

  The farmer stood watching Hilton, by no means sure what the play was. He was, as he had intimated to the other, truly just concerned with getting home to feed his hogs. On the other hand, he was a proud man and he didn’t see why he should allow anybody to push him around in his own town. Some of this man’s feelings must have shown on his face, for Tom Hilton said, ‘I’m telling you now, fella, you want to leave this bar, you’re gonna crawl out on your hands and knees.’

  ‘The hell I am!’ muttered the farmer and moved forward a little until only twelve feet or so separated him from the bully who was blocking his way out of the saloon.

  ‘What was that, you son of a whore?’ asked Tom Hilton, cupping his hand to his ear as though he were a little deaf. ‘You say what?’

  Hearing such a deadly insult, touching as it did upon his mother, the hog-farmer said in a low voice, ‘You best get clear o’ that door now.’

  ‘Make me.’

  This was just the sort of pointless and violent confrontation in which Hilton gloried. Those who rode with him had seen a number of similar scenes played out in bar rooms, cathouses and corrals across three states. All those standing at the bar of the Silver Dollar watched breathlessly to see what would chance next.