The Floating Outift 36 Page 8

  ‘Perhaps our having Winchesters scared them,’ O’Day suggested. ‘They’ll have learned what repeaters can do, I’d say.’

  ‘Should have, mister,’ Waco drawled, watching the braves with undeviating attention, ‘seeing’s now how every last mother’s son of ’em’s toting either a Henry, Winchester or Spencer.’

  ‘Know what I reckon, Ed?’ asked the Kid, indicating the interest that the braves were displaying in one member of his party.

  ‘Do tell,’ Dusty requested.

  ‘They’re not fixing to jump us right now. Nor so long as it looks like we’re taking Giselle back to Hell.’

  ‘Could be, Comanch’. There’s that tuivitsi who got away from us. He recognized her and that’s him sitting next to the war-bonnet chief.’

  ‘Shows a man could allus learn given the right teacher,’ grinned the Kid. ‘You couldn’t see that good when we first joined up together.’

  ‘Why thank you ’most to death,’ Dusty growled. ‘Now tell me something that’s going to help us out of this tight.’

  ‘Keep your trust in the Lord, brother,’ the Kid obliged raising his gaze piously in the manner of a hell-fire-and-damnation circuit-riding preacher. ‘If he’d be willing to look favorable on a bunch of miserable sinners like us.’ Red hazel eyes swung towards O’Day, who was displaying growing alarm. ‘Leaving you out, friend. Happen you’re not a miserable sinner like the rest of us.’

  ‘Right now I’m wishing that I’d led a better, cleaner life,’ the man answered. ‘I want to go to the town of Hell, not the other one.’

  ‘Given time, you’ll likely make both of ’em,’ the Kid remarked. ‘Only not right now.’

  ‘Why not, Lon?’ Waco asked and could have cheerfully bitten off his tongue after his mistake on the last word.

  ‘’Less I miss my guess,’ the Kid drawled and swung from his saddle. ‘Those boys aren’t looking for no war. They just want to see Giselle safe to home.’

  ‘Why are they so interested in the lady’s well-being?’ O’Day wanted to know. ‘Charming and gracious as she undoubtedly is, I’m sure that the Indians wouldn’t appreciate her sterling qualities.’

  ‘They want her for something or other,’ the Kid answered, carefully easing a piece of his property from the folds of his bedroll. ‘Question being, what’d it be they want her for?’

  ‘Could go up and ask ’em,’ Waco suggested, having identified the item in the dark Texan’s hand.

  ‘Happen I’d’ve figured that out in an hour or two,’ drawled the Kid. ‘But, seeing’s how you licked me to it, I lose and’ll have to be the one who does it.’

  ‘You allus was a good loser, Comanch’,’ Waco praised.

  ‘That’s just another name for a dad-blasted fool,’ answered the Kid.

  With that, the Kid opened out the item. It proved to be a buckskin cylinder with a heavy fringe on its lower edge and covered with decorative symbols colored red, white and blue. Sliding his Winchester into the mouth of the tube, he vaulted afork his saddle and looked at Dusty.

  ‘Happen they’re not in a talking mood, head out towards Hell. ’Bout a mile on, there’s a buffalo wallow you can fort up in—if you can reach it.’

  ‘What’s that on Mr. Blood’s rifle?’ O’Day inquired as the Kid rode slowly towards the Kweharehnuh.

  ‘It’s the medicine boot of a Pehnane Comanche Door Soldier,’ Dusty explained. ‘It’s kind of a lodge symbol, like a wapiti’s tooth is to the Elks. Boot the rifles.’

  ‘Boot the rifles!’ O’Day yelped. ‘You mean put them away?’

  ‘Do like Brother Ed says, hombre,’ Waco ordered, as he obeyed. ‘White folk aren’t Injuns. They don’t hold guns at a peace treaty meeting.’

  ‘You mean—?’ O’Day began, but did not comply with Dusty’s demand.

  ‘Matt means that Comanch’s asking for a parlay and we’ve got to do things right if he’s got “yes” for an answer,’ Dusty elaborated, thrusting his carbine into its boot. ‘So put up that Winchester.’

  ‘You mean to trust a bunch of savages?’ O’Day growled.

  ‘We can’t whip them in a fight, or run fast enough to escape—especially with that important pack-horse of yours along,’ Dusty drawled. ‘So trusting them makes good sense to me. And I’m getting quite sick of seeing that rifle in your fist. Boot it, pronto.’

  Any soldier who had served in the Texas Light Cavalry’s hard-riding, harder-fighting Company ‘C’ during the War, or cowhand who had worked for the OD Connected, would have identified Dusty’s tone of voice instantly. Gentle, almost caressing, it carried more menace and determination than a whole range of bellowed, blustering orders.

  Suddenly, to O’Day’s amazement, the small Texan was no more. He had been replaced with what appeared to be a man who towered over the others by the sheer driving force of his personality. There had been no suggestion of bombast or open threat in the quietly spoken words, just an assurance that the speaker intended to be obeyed.

  ‘You’re calling the play, Mr. Caxton,’ O’Day stated and leaned over to replace his rifle in its boot. Straightening up, he managed a smile and went on, ‘But if you’re wrong and I get killed, I’ll never forgive you.’

  Halting a hundred yards from his companions, the Kid set about preparing the way for what he hoped would be a peaceful parlay. Cradling the rifle encased in the medicine boot on the crook of his left arm, he held his bent right arm in front of his chest with his palm open and downwards. By moving the raised arm from left to right with a wriggling motion, he announced that he too was a member of the Nemenuh.

  At some time in the distant past, a party of the People had been making a long journey in search of fresh hunting grounds. There had been disagreement amongst the travelers as to which was the best course, to advance or return to the territory they had left. Those who wished to turn back had done so and the others had referred to them as resembling a snake going into reverse along its tracks. Since then, a Comanche—no matter to which band he belonged—always used the sign of ‘the snake going backwards’ when he wished to declare the identity of his tribe to other Indians.

  Having stated his connections with the Nemenuh, the Kid continued to signal other information. Taking hold of the medicine boot at the wrist of the rifle’s butt and muzzle, he raised it above his head so that the Kweharehnuh could identify its symbols. After raising and lowering the rifle three times, he removed his right hand and turned the butt forward with the barrel gripped in his left fist.

  As clearly as if the Kid had shouted the words in his most fluent Comanche, the braves—or the tehnaps and the chief, for sure—had received his message.

  ‘I am Nemenuh. A Pehnane Dog Soldier, and I want to talk in peace.’

  ‘Looks like they aim to make talk,’ Waco breathed as the chief answered the Kid’s signal and the dark Texan started the blue roan moving up the slope. ‘I came close to being scared they wouldn’t.’

  ‘I didn’t come close,’ O’Day commented. ‘I was scared.’

  Flickering a grin at the man, Waco noticed something so out of the ordinary that it intrigued him. The evening sun was still warm and O’Day was clearly feeling the strain of their situation as much as, or even more than, Dusty and the blond youngster. At least, they had the advantage of knowing that the Kid had been reasonably confident of success. Yet the man’s face showed none of the sweat which dappled both Texans’ features.

  In later years, Waco would gain considerable acclaim as a very shrewd peace officer and, by his ability to observe and reason things out, be able to solve a number of puzzling crimes. 20 Even with deadly danger hovering so close, the youngster could still take an interest in the unusual. So O’Day’s absence of perspiration was a source of speculation. Either the man was a whole heap cooler and less worried than he was acting, or he could control whatever internal function caused sweat to roll. Waco wondered which, or what other unforeseen circumstance, was responsible for the phenomenon.

  Although satisfied that t
he danger of an immediate attack was over, Dusty did not allow himself to become complacent or incautious. So he turned to study the terrain behind them. As he had expected, the two women were holding weapons. Emma had taken out the nickel-plated, pearl-handled 1851 Model Navy Colt which had been thrust into the waistband of her divided skirt. Gripping a compact, equally fancy Colt 1871 House Pistol with a four-shot ‘cloverleaf’ cylinder, which she had carried in the pocket of her riding jacket, Giselle was pointing the .41 caliber muzzle of its one-and-a-half inch barrel at the center of O’Day’s back.

  ‘Watch where you’re pointing that gun, ma’am,’ Dusty advised quickly, but gently.

  Giselle’s thumb was resting on the little revolver’s hammer. If she drew it back, the unguarded trigger would emerge from its sheath ready to be pressed and make the weapon fire. Being aware of how light that particular model of Colt could be on the trigger, Dusty had felt that a warning was called for. At his words, the brunette snatched the revolver out of alignment. Her face showed guilt which appeared to go far beyond that caused by having been caught in a stupidly dangerous, but inadvertent act.

  ‘I have never felt happy around ladies who hold guns,’ O’Day commented, swinging around. ‘So few of them take precautions with one in their dainty hands, I’ve always found.’

  ‘Who are—?’ Giselle began, in a strangled, frightened tone.

  ‘Lon’s coming back—Brother Ed,’ Waco said and the brunette’s question went unfinished.

  ‘It’s all right, Ed,’ drawled the Kid, riding up. ‘They’ll not bother us—just as long as we keep going towards Hell.’

  ‘Why are they so friendly?’ O’Day asked. ‘The ones we met earlier weren’t.’

  ‘They was just a bunch of tuivitsis, young bucks, wanting to show what ornery, mean cusses they were,’ the Kid replied. ‘Seems like Doc Connolly, Happy Youseman and some of the others allowed that there’ll be an ammunition hand-out same as always, Ed. Only Ten Bears’d heard about Giselle pulling out and didn’t believe it. So he sent the braves to fetch her back. Now she’s headed that way, they allow it’s all right and we can go on.’

  ‘May I ask why Giselle—if a chance-met stranger may be permitted to make use of your given name, ma’am—is so important to the allocation of the ammunition?’ O’Day said, looking at Dusty.

  ‘She used to help her husband trick the Comanches so they wouldn’t try to steal our ammunition,’ Emma explained, for the brunette refused to answer.

  ‘Now I see,’ O’Day stated. ‘You must be the lady who is sawn in half. Your husband must be a very competent illusionist, Mrs. Lampart.’

  ‘He w—’ Giselle commenced.

  ‘A real good one, friend,’ Dusty put in, before the brunette could announce her widowhood. ‘They’ll not fuss any with us, huh, Comanch’?’

  ‘Not so long as we’re taking Giselle back,’ the Kid confirmed. ‘Seems ole Ten Bears wants to see the whole ceremony when the ammunition’s handed over.’

  ‘But they can’t!’ Giselle croaked, realizing what was meant. ‘With Simmy dead, nobody can work the sawing in half routine. I’m going back—’

  ‘You try it and we’re all dead,’ warned the Kid. ‘Ma’am, your only hope of staying alive is to make for Hell.’

  ‘That’s what we’ll do,’ Dusty declared. ‘Once we’re there, Giselle, we’ll figure out some way of bluffing him. Find us a place to camp, Comanch’.’

  ‘Keep riding a whiles, there’s a stream up ahead,’ the Kid replied. ‘Have somebody on guard all night. You won’t get attacked, but some of the tuivitsi might try their hand at raiding.’

  ‘That’s hoss-stealing to us civilized white folks, mister,’ Waco informed O’Day. ‘Way you talk, Comanch’, anybody’d think you wouldn’t be along with us.’

  ‘They’d think right,’ drawled the Kid. ‘I won’t. Wolf Runner, the chief up there, allows that I’ve got to ride with him and his boys. Just so’s he can be sure the rest of you’ll keep going to Hell.’

  Chapter Eight – I Don’t Want to Go to Hell

  ‘Suppose we tell ole Wolf Runner we’re right took with your company?’ Waco demanded, scowling at the Comanches on the rim. ‘And that he can go climb up his own butt end.’

  ‘He wouldn’t like that one lil bit, boy,’ the Kid replied. ‘And, seeing’s how all the cards’re stacked his way, we don’t have a heap of choice but play ’em how he wants it.’

  ‘We could show him that we mean business,’ O’Day suggested.

  ‘He’d right soon show us that he means it even bigger,’ drawled the Kid.

  ‘The odds wouldn’t be much greater than against that bunch which attacked me,’ O’Day pointed out. ‘And they didn’t impress me as being smart, or dangerous warriors.’

  ‘You’d’ve likely learned different if we hadn’t happened along,’ the Kid warned quietly. ‘See, they wasn’t but tuivitsis; which-same’s young hot-heads who don’t know better’n charge in head down and horns a-hooking blind. Those fellers up there though, they’re most of ’em tehnaps. Old, seasoned-on-red-meat brave-hearts, with hair hanging on their belts. Mister, even with us having happened along, you’d find them both smart and dangerous.’

  ‘So you conclude to do like Wolf Runner wants, Comanch’?’ Dusty asked.

  ‘He done the concluding for me,’ the Kid corrected. ‘Only, just so long’s you get Giselle back to Hell right-side-up and with all her buttons fastened, everything’ll be fine. No ten-coup war leader’s going to let hurt come to Long Walker’s grandson, unless he can offer a real good reason for doing it.’

  ‘You ride careful, mind, you blasted Comanche,’ Dusty ordered, with more concern than command in his tone. ‘Is there anything you’ll be needing?’

  ‘Nary a thing,’ grinned the Kid. ‘Fact being, I’ll likely be living better’n you white folks. Us Comanches know how to travel well-fed and comfortable.’

  Although Dusty and Waco had serious misgivings, they raised no further objections to their amigo being held as a hostage. They had faith in his superior knowledge concerning the risks he was taking. All they could do would be to ensure that they carried out their side of the agreement.

  ‘I don’t want to go to Hell!’ Giselle whined as the Kid rode back to join the waiting Kweharehnuh.

  ‘Nobody does, but they go on sinning just the same,’ Waco replied. ‘And, even without Comanch’ being held hostage, you’d get there, one or other of ’em, whichever way you headed.’

  ‘We’ve no other choice but go on, Giselle,’ Emma went on firmly. ‘Don’t fret yourself. Ed’ll see that nothing bad happens to you.’

  Although Giselle looked anything but convinced, she kept quiet and accompanied the rest of her party in the direction of the stream. If O’Day’s behavior was anything to go by, he shared with the brunette in feeling ill at ease. He constantly twisted in his saddle, searching the surrounding terrain with wary and worried glances. After a short time, however, he relaxed. All of the Indians had disappeared, taking the Kid with them, and the man could detect no sign of them. Neither could Dusty nor Waco. Their examination of the locality was less obvious, but possibly more thorough than O’Day’s. The apparent dearth of watchers did not fool them. They both knew that keen-eyed wolf-scouts were keeping them under observation all the time.

  In passing, Dusty nodded towards the buffalo wallow the Kid had mentioned as a place in which they might have been able to fort up and fight. It was about a hundred yards from the stream; a large depression worn by countless bison rolling on, pawing at and generally churning up the ground.

  ‘That’s where we’ll bed down for the night. In the bottom. It won’t be comfortable, but no raider can sneak in on us down there.’

  ‘How about wood for a fire?’ O’Day asked, looking around. ‘We’ll have to carry it from the trees by the stream.’

  ‘You can go fetch some, if you’re so minded,’ Waco drawled. ‘But me, I sure don’t aim to chance it.’

  ‘I thought that th
e Indians had given us a safe passage to Hell,’ O’Day pointed out.

  ‘They have,’ Dusty agreed. ‘Only they don’t trust us a whole heap and’re having us watched.’

  ‘Where?’ O’Day gasped, swiveling around and glaring about him. ‘I don’t see anybody!’

  ‘They’re wolf-scouts, trained to follow, watch and not be seen,’ Dusty explained. ‘It’s work for tuivitsis, not tehnaps. Happen one of them should see you all alone in the woods, he might not be able to resist the temptation to count himself an easy coup.’

  ‘They stop resisting real easy, friend,’ Waco added. ‘There’s never enough coups to go ’round for all the young bucks who want ’em.’

  By that time, the party had reached the edge of the stream. Dismounting, they removed the horses’ bits and allowed them to drink. Giselle kept darting glances from O’Day to the range across which they had been travelling. She took her mount—one of the dead soldier’s horses, borrowed by Dusty from Lieutenant Kitson—a short way down-stream of the others. Tired from the exertions of the day, Emma felt little desire to make conversation and paid no attention to the brunette. O’Day resumed his investigations into the habits of the Comanche, so Dusty and Waco did not notice Giselle’s furtive actions.

  ‘What is this “counting coup”?’ the man inquired. ‘Is it another name for taking a scalp?’

  ‘Nope,’ Dusty replied. ‘It rates as more important than that, to the Comanches, anyways. They say that anybody can scalp a dead man, it proves nothing. But to count coup shows that the feller doing it has courage.’

  ‘But how—?’

  ‘The brave has to touch his enemy, either while killing him, or soon after, and say, “A:he,” which means “I claim it.” Once that’s been done and said, he’s counted coup.’

  ‘Way ole Comanch’ tells it,’ Waco went on, ‘there ain’t nothing sets up a lusty young buck with those pretty lil Injun gals like having brought back plenty of loot and to’ve said “A: he” good and often. And the Comanches don’t go for no taking seconds, thirds nor fourths.’