Jonah knew he had hit him.
Behind the roar of those three shots came the frightened cries of the nearby horses and the rustle and grunt of men clearing their blankets and canvas bedrolls, hollering out questions and orders, chambering cartridges in their weapons, one of them kicking dirt onto the red embers.
When a gunshot rang out, the muzzle flash caught the corner of Jonah’s eye. The fire tender pitched headlong across the remnants of the uncovered embers. He wasn’t moving.
“Out there!” one of them shouted, pointing into the darkness.
Three of them fired a succession of shots.
“Careful! Hines—go see if we got ’im.”
“Me? In the dark?”
“There’s five of us—”
“Four, Cap’n.”
“Four then, by God! And there’s likely less of them out there or they’d rushed us. Goddamn Injuns!”
Another shot rang out on the far side of the camp, causing the horses to cry out, hammering the ground in their hobbles, tearing against their pickets. Jonah knew Two Sleep had moved like mercury spilled on a table after his first shot had killed the fire tender.
“They’re after the horses!”
A pair of shots rang out as the gunmen whirled in a crouch to the west—all but one of them. The one that Jonah had failed to see. Hook rose from the blackness of the sage again, intending to take them in the back. And to his left as he did, Jonah heard the
The bullet stung his left wrist, snarling past his belly.
Like something hot he lost the pistol in that hand, felt it spinning to the ground, still intent that he would not lose the one in his right despite the pain that came to his belly as the wind whined past, kicking dust into his eyes. Another shot collided with the flaky sand at his side, the flash bright and searing in the deep of desert blackness. The gunman moved slowly toward him. Then a third shot as Jonah rolled, hearing the whispering hiss before it too screamed into the ground where his head had been a heartbeat before.
Behind him arose the rattle of more shots shattering the twenty-five feet to the fire, dying as the cries of men and protests of their horses split the dark. Finishing his roll, Jonah raised his gun hand—hearing the unearthly war cry of the warrior.
“It’s Injuns, Slade!”
“Kill ’em, Charlie! Kill ’em all!” the man coming for Hook cried out.
Hook fired as the steps loomed closer. He heard the bullet hit, that unmistakable sound of a wet hand slapping putty. Then the grunt of the gunman.
Still, the Mormon came on after only a moment’s hesitation.
“Sonofabitch—I’ll have your balls!” the man grumbled, and fired into the blackness, then fired again.
A third time the hammer fell on an empty cylinder as Jonah steadied his pistol and aimed it at the black hole punched out of the starshine in the high desert night sky.
He fired. Heard the bullet smack soddenly into its target—the wind socked out of the man. Jonah heard him take one more step, then another, grumbling liquidly as he came.
“Slade?” a voice called from the far side of the fire. “Slade?”
Then the voice was cut off, gone garbled and wet—choking. Like a man drowning in his own juices.
He heard the one called Slade pull a second pistol, cocking it in the growing silence of that blackest of time when night was prepared to give itself to the first seduction of day.
“Get you … you red sonofabitch!”
Where had he hit the man? Jonah wondered. The way the bastard cursed, that thickness to his words spoke of fighting down the pain. But—that he was still moving.
Hook fired his last shot into the darkness, then rolled back in the direction he had come, struggling to drag a second, loaded cylinder for the pistol from his coat pocket.
Without time to move the man was atop of him, collapsing to his knees soddenly, snatching Hook by the collar of his coat and yanking his face up close. He weaved a bit, putting the muzzle of his pistol into Hook’s face, wobbly.
“You … you ain’t no Injun,” Slade spat, his tongue thick with blood. “Who the hell are—”
With the plunge of the wide blade, Hook watched the Mormon’s night eyes grow big as Sunday saucers.
Jonah grunted as he fought to drag the big skinning knife the full width of the gunman’s belly, feeling at last the warm, syrupy blood gushing over his hands as he disemboweled the Danite crouched over him.
Dark fluid gushed from the man’s mouth as he struggled to find the words, sputtering. Until finally …
“The … the goddamned farmer.”
14
THE PALE-EYED WAR chief had made sure the two boys had homes and families when first they were brought to live with the Kwahadi. They were not only cared for and fed, but taught the way of the Antelope Comanche as well. They learned about weapons and riding, how to hunt the dwindling herds of buffalo, to stalk deer and antelope and turkey. They grew better with every season in the rough-and-tumble wrestling that was nothing less than preparation for the killing arts of making war on the white man.
