Roger Morgan rode far out on the flank, and he was a worried man. Three times that morning he had cut the sign of unshod ponies … one band fairly large. They had been stalked for the past week by Indians, but now there were several bands, which meant a gathering … and Indians did not gather by accident. He glanced back toward the wagons. They were strung out far too much. He must get them bunched up, not one long line today, but two lines driving parallel. He cantered back to the train and as he cut through between the wagons he heard a voice say, “I call …”
Another voice said, “All right … I’ll stay.”
Then Cleve van Valen spoke. “Gentlemen, are we pikers? I’ll raise it this fine pepper-box pistol—five barrels it has, London-made and loaded for bear.” Anger exploded within Morgan. Swinging his horse alongside the tail-gate, he reached through and grabbed van Valen by the shoulder. Slamming the spurs into his mount, he jumped away from the wagon, jerking Cleve out of it and to the ground, where he hit with a thud.
“I told you I wouldn’t stand for you fleecin’ the people on this train, van Valen, and by the Lord Harry—!”
Cleve rolled over and came up fast from the dust as Morgan dropped from his horse. Fury had been building in Roger Morgan for days. In his own mind he was sure it was Cleve van Valen who stood between him and his projected marriage to Lilith.
It was true they were rarely together, or in any way seemed to manifest any interest in each other, but he could find no other reason for Lilith’s refusal. Besides, he had disliked van Valen on sight.
Wheeling from his horse, he threw a hard right-hand punch, and more by accident than intent Cleve ducked the blow. He let go with his own right; it was a wild punch but a lucky one. The blow caught Morgan coming in, and the wagonmaster dropped as if shot.
From behind Cleve there came a wild shout, and a horseman charged by, his eyes distended, one arm outstretched toward the bills. “Indians!” he screamed. “Cheyennes!”
The wild-eyed rider raced off down the line of wagons, shouting, “Indians! Run!” Somebody cracked a whip and a wagon started with a lunge. Grabbing Morgan from the ground, Cleve heaved him over the tailgate of the wagon, then wheeled for his own horse.
It was gone … stampeded by the screaming rider. Wagons went lumbering by. He shouted at the drivers, but caught in a wave of panic, they ignored him.
Cleve drew his pistol and turned to face the charging Indians. As he turned, he fired … an Indian lost his grip on his lance and fell forward, sprawling on the ground, dead before he reached it.
Lilith, of whom he caught a fleeting glimpse, was firing a shotgun from her wagon seat. A few of the wagons raced by, but most of them were far too heavily loaded for any speed. The wagon train was in chaos. One of the horses, hit by an arrow, went to his knees. The wagon tongue jabbed into the ground as the horse fell, and the wagon jackknifed and turned over. Thrown clear, the driver grabbed his rifle and, using the turned-over wagon for a breastwork, opened fire on the Indians.
Cleve, his feet firmly anchored, stood as if on a parade ground, taking his time with each shot. Within him there was bitter anguish … this was his fault. The wagon train had stampeded and this opened them wide to the more mobile Indians, who could cut them to pieces wagon by wagon. To run was to invite disaster, for there was no place to run to … nor could the heavily loaded wagons be raised to even a trot unless going downhill. In any event, there was absolutely no chance of escaping the swift, lightly mounted Indians. There is only one defense against mounted Indians for such a train—the wagon circle. It had proved itself time and again against any number of attacking Indians. No wagonmaster in his senses would allow a train to stampede as this one had, and had Morgan been conscious, he would have stopped the train. Had it not been for the gambling, he might have formed the wagon circle in time. Cleve fired, then fired again. A horse stumbled and went down, throwing its rider; the second shot smashed through the chest of a charging Indian and he toppled from his horse.
Leaping for the racing horse, Cleve mounted it as it swept by him, grasping wildly for a hold and swinging astride. Yelling like a Comanche, he bore down on the head of the train. “Circle!” he shouted. “Make a circle!” It was Gabe French who caught the sound of his voice and swung his wagon, forcing the one behind to turn also.
Conditioned from their many nights of making the protective circle, the others began to follow suit. Racing like a wild man, using only his grip on the horse’s mane, Cleve rode from wagon to wagon, forcing the stragglers back toward the circle with shouts and yells.
One panic-stricken driver refused to turn until Cleve fired into the ground ahead of his team, causing it to swing off and turn. At least a dozen were too far out to circle. Two had overturned, another had two dying horses struggling in their harness.
Firing at an Indian with an arrow drawn to his bow, Cleve glimpsed his own horse, stopped where it had finally stepped on the bridle reins and come to a halt. He dropped from the Indian pony and caught up the reins. For an instant he stood there, fighting for calm, taking in the surroundings. He took the moment to exchange cylinders, dropping the empty one into his coat pocket and snapping the loaded cylinder into place. Where the two horses were struggling in their harness a man was down on the ground, his wife on her knees beside him, firing his rifle. An Indian swept down on her from behind and, long shot though it was, Cleve chanced it. He saw the Indian jerk with the impact, and instantly the warrior swung his mount and started for Cleve. He was far down on his pony’s side, and Cleve lifted his pistol to fire, but the Indian swung his horse so that only a leg was visible. In so doing, he forgot the woman he had been about to kill, and for her it was point-blank range. She fired … and the warrior charged on past Cleve, then let go and fell to the ground.
Mounting, Cleve rode past the woman, lifting his hand as he did so. She was momentarily free from attack, and farther out two men were making a desperate fight for their lives against half a dozen warriors. Crouched low in the saddle, Cleve went in on a dead run, and as he closed in he chopped down with his pistol, shooting into an Indian’s chest as a buffalo hunter shoots into a buffalo. His horse swept by, and turning, he brought his gun down and fired … missed, and fired again. Then he was in the midst of the fight, his horse riding down one warrior who stepped back unaware; and Cleve chopped his barrel down on the head of another. He felt something tear his clothing, felt the bite of a lance, and then he was thrown from his horse, losing his grip on his pistol. He lunged up from the ground as the Indian ran in for the kill, turning the lance with an out-flung arm. They grappled, rolling over and over in the dust, struggling and gouging. Jerking a hand free, he smashed the Indian in the face, pulping his nose.
Cleve was down on his back, and the Indian leaped astride him and reached for his knife. Cleve threw his legs up and clamped a head-scissors on the warrior, bending him far back, both of Cleve’s ankles locked under his chin. Sitting up part way, bracing himself with his left hand, Cleve swung his fist against the Indian’s exposed solar plexus. He struck, and struck again, then threw the warrior from him and struggled to his feet. The Indian, all his wind knocked out, was too slow getting up and Cleve kicked him under the chin. A teamster had caught up Cleve’s pistol and now he tossed it to him. He fired … then, having no recollection of the number of times he had fired already, he switched to his third loaded cylinder.
As suddenly as it had begun, the fight was over. The Indians were disappearing over the hill, the prairie was still. Half a mile away the wagon circle puffed with smoke as a few tried shots at the retreating Indians. The entire attack, beginning to end, had lasted not more than a few minutes. The woman who had helped Cleve was now supporting her husband with an arm around his shoulders—he was up and walking. One of the men in the final fight was down and badly hurt, and Cleve knelt above him, trying to stop the blood. Another driver was at work cutting a dead horse free of his harness and straightening out his team. Together, Cleve and the driver put the wounded man in the back of the wagon, and started toward the circle. Another wagon, some distance off, was also coming in.