Yet I believe it was the shock of the gunfire more than its effect that stopped them.
My first shot killed a man. It could scarcely have been otherwise, for he was within ten feet of me and my pistol had a long barrel. He fell from his horse and it clattered over the stone-flagged yard. Then it wheeled and dashed out again.
The sudden shot ended the attack. Waiting, my heart pounding, I shoved the gate back into position and dropped the bar.
They were brave men out there but they had not expected gunfire, and they had lost two men—
Two?
Three had been coming over the wall. One I had impaled on my spear, the second with the knife. Yet the third, he who had run to open the gate?
Where was he?
My pistol went back into its scabbard. I had had to let go my knife when I had drawn the pistol. Now I squatted, groping for it.
Ah, I had it! Now?
There was a man inside, I was sure. A man who waited to kill me. An Indian, I thought, one of the Indians serving with the soldiers of Gomez.
He was here, somewhere in the darkness.
Yet three men were down, including the rider of the horse whom I had shot. He lay without moving. Had my shot been good, then? But where was the other? Somewhere in the shadows there was an enemy. If they attacked again he would attack when I faced them, attack from behind me.
What were they thinking outside? They could not know that they had a man alive inside the fort, yet they must know by now they had lost three or four men. It was expensive, but Gomez was ruthless. He had a contempt for all human life but his own.
Fire?
That would be in his mind, yet he could not know that Itchakomi was not inside the fort. He dared not risk burning his prize.
Crouching, I studied the shadows. Nothing moved, and the shadows were dark and deep. My spear was nearby, in the body of the fallen Indian. I might need it.
Where would my enemy be hiding? Each shadow was in my mind and one by one I checked them over for hiding places trying to remember each detail, each corner.
Where was he? Did he plan to open the gate when I was distracted?
The minutes plodded by on gentle feet, and my eyes searched the shadows. Had he gone around the side of the fort? Or inside? Suppose he started a fire?
There was a moment of wild panic. We would never be able to rebuild before snow fell, not if we were burned out. In the moment of anxiety I almost moved, yet somewhere my enemy was watching for me, even as I watched for him. Again it was the old story that he who moved first would die first.
How fared Itchakomi? Had their cave been discovered? Perhaps even now they were riding away with her. Listening, I heard no sound.
If we escaped this time I would begin a tunnel from the fort to that cave. In fact, a branch of that cave which we had not explored might come this way. A secret tunnel, such as my father had told me all castles had once had, a means of escape as well as a supply route if beseiged.
Outside there was a stirring, a movement. What could be happening?
An attack from more than one side? Crawling up ropes thrown over the wall? Explosives under the gate? One man boosting another? Ladders?
Slowly passed the minutes. Where was Keokotah? Had he been trapped somehow? My good sense doubted it. He was a ghost in the woods, a shadow in the night. I knew no one better at moving in silence, and I also knew he would be somewhere about.
Gomez would be thinking, deciding what to do. He wanted Komi, if not for himself, then as an offering for favors, and he had undoubtedly made promises to be given command of these soldiers. He had successfully returned home through the thick of winter, no mean feat in itself, and he had undermined the standing of Diego, superseded him in command, and now was back. He would not be driven off, and he would not give up easily.
By now he would be piecing together what had been witnessed through the gate during the brief moments it was open. He would be studying what had taken place, the shots fired and the fighting.
He would guess that I was alone or almost alone.
His next thought would be about the women. He would know there were at least three. For all I knew his Indians might have been lurking about, observing us, but in any event he himself had been in our caves in the other valley. He had seen Keokotah’s woman and the Ponca.
He was a shrewd, tough man, one not easily fooled.
Somebody was riding near the palisade. The rider drew up and in a quiet, conversational tone Gomez said, “I know you can hear me, Sackett, and I suggest you send the Indian girl out. If you do we will ride off and you’ll be free to do as you wish.
“I might,” he added, “intercede for you and try to get you a trading permit. All we want is one Indian girl.” He paused and when I made no answer he said angrily, “Don’t be a fool! What’s one paltry Indian girl? There are dozens about, just for the taking! Surely you aren’t fool enough to die for her?”
To have answered him, and I was not thinking of it, would have been to give away my position to the hidden Indian, wherever he was.
He waited. Then he shouted, “Don’t be a fool! Waste more of my time and you’ll pay for it! I’ll have you staked to an anthill!”
He would not try another direct attack. He had been sure of an easy victory, not knowing of the presence of the Pawnees. Now he had lost men, losses he could not afford, and his situation was perilous. To return to Santa Fe empty-handed would be a crushing defeat. His temper and his impatience had cost him lives, but victory he must have. If he was defeated here his enemies would destroy him in Santa Fe.
Again, I wished myself outside with Keokotah where I could observe what was happening and be free to move. In the darkness I could see but shadowy stirrings, but nothing at all now, for I dared not move.
How was my concealed enemy armed? Bow and arrow? A spear? A knife? If only a knife I could chance it but if he had either a bow or a spear he could strike from the darkness, and at the short range could scarcely miss.
Gomez must have a camp now. He would have built fires and his men would wish to eat, if they had not. He must have carried supplies, and those supplies would be vulnerable. Without them he could not persist in the attack or the search for Itchakomi.
Would Keokotah think of that? Indians, who depended less upon supplies in time of war, were less inclined to think of an enemy as vulnerable in that respect. The Indian at war lived off the country as he traveled, rarely having more than enough for a day or two. The Indian thought in terms of battles. He fought a battle and he went home. There was no thought of a continuing series of battles, for the obvious reason that he had no way of supplying an army in the field.
He rarely fought for hatred or revenge. He fought for glory. He fought to take scalps and to win victories of which he could boast. In the east the tribes associated with the Seneca who were calling themselves the Iroquois were fighting wars of extermination. We had begun to hear rumors of that before I left Shooting Creek.
Yet Keokotah was beginning to think much as a white man would. He had sat too long at the knee of his Englishman, and I prayed now that he might think of their camp and their supplies.
Our women had food for but three days, scarcely more even if they ate lightly. They could endure hunger, and there were few Indians who did not know it each season before the snow began to melt, when their hoarded supplies had been eaten and hunting was difficult and gathering impossible.
My eyes grew heavy, yet I forced myself to stay awake. Somewhere an enemy waited, and to sleep was to die.
Outside more enemies waited. Always before, wherever I might be I had known there would be a Sackett looking for me. No Sackett ever needed to feel alone, for others of the family would always come. That lesson our father had taught well, until it was second nature. But there were no Sacketts here. There was only Keokotah and the Pawnees.