KNIGHT OF THE RIBBONS, Cont.... CH. 4 and 5

† Four †

For a second, all Clay could see was the dust, boiling around them like the smoke of a greasy fire. Then he saw many yards below him a body of water, and that was all he had time to discern. They struck with a great splash and submerged. Coming up, both the horse and Clay were in shock. Clay had come free of the horse, and he had to orient himself to find the animal. As the horse started swimming, he reached out and grabbed its tail, letting himself be hauled along toward the far shore.

He heard a cry behind him, then another. They sounded like they came from opposite banks of the gully down which he had been riding. An arrow plunked into the water beside him. Another followed, and another. Soon there were at least four voices whooping on the bank behind him. A few more arrows plummeted down like the devil’s hail, and then he felt a blow to the middle of his back.

He had been hit!

Panicky, he reached behind him to feel for the shaft, but there was none. The range must be too far, and it had bounced off, just from the thickness of his cotton undershirt, wool shirt and canvas vest. Clay heard himself laughing before his mouth dipped under the water, and he came up sputtering. He turned and looked back toward the bank, and there sat the four warriors, yelling and throwing their hands in the air. All around them rose the huge bank of dirty brown cloud, and off to their right Clay could see the surge of buffalo through the gloom. They were walking now, doggedly determined to be moving. It had been a short-lived stampede.

The water carried them slowly, and Clay looked around him. They were in a large, muddy river whose far bank was lined with cottonwoods. Even as he realized this they came up into shallower water, and soon his feet touched bottom. Weary, he let them drag for a moment before catching his step and hurrying around to reach out and grasp the sorrel’s rein. He eased the frightened animal to a halt, and they both stood blowing on the muddy bank, looking back toward the Indian braves. The four of them had now ridden farther downstream so as to stay directly across from him as the water carried him and the sorrel.

It wasn’t until then that Clay had time to think of Rodney Anderson. He had no doubt the man was dead. If the arrow hadn’t killed him he knew the braves had finished him off in short order. They had Anderson’s life, and they had a donkey, two mules, two good Cleveland bays, and enough supplies to have seen Clay and Anderson through at least to Fort Laramie, where they could have re-supplied. They also had two rifles, if they were able to find Clay’s wherever he had dropped it in the stampede.

Clay was angry, and he felt himself growing furious. He hadn’t done anything to these Indians to be attacked for. Why did they have this lust to kill? He started hoping fervently that they would try to swim over to this shore in pursuit of him. He would shoot every one of them dead as they got within range of his pistols.

But they didn’t come. They threw a few last insults at him, then turned their horses back in the direction they had come. They were going after their morning’s booty.

Clay looked around him at the vast loneliness of the prairie. Here and there he could see bunches of bison that had stopped to graze, and along the shore of the river he spied a herd of ten or fifteen animals that looked like large deer and must be elk. They were tan in color with dirty cream rump patches and darker brown necks, all scruffy with their winter hair coming off in ugly clumps.

Holding on to the one rein, Clay walked up the bank of the river to the cottonwood trees. Between two of them was a lush patch of new grass, and here he slumped down and lay on his back, staring up at the soft blue sky and wisps of cloud.

After a moment, he realized there was a burning pain in his forearm, and he remembered being wounded. He raised it up above him and saw that it was no longer bleeding. Peeling back his cuff, past the point of a tear in his sleeve, he saw that it was only a surface cut where an Indian’s arrow had sliced across his flesh after glancing off his saddle horn. With a little fresh air and some time, it would heal. He lowered the arm and looked back at the sky. There were far bigger things to think about than a flesh wound on his arm.

Rodney Anderson, dead . . . How fast a friend could come and then be gone. It was starting to look as if anyone fool enough to mix up with Clay Logan didn’t last long. And if Clay had just let him come down that hill with him, maybe both of them would be alive now. That thought struck him hard. First his parents, then his wife and baby, and now Anderson. And there had been others before them—childhood friends, associates, many of them already killed in the War-Between-the-States. Most of them weren’t his fault, but all were just as dead. It was beginning to be difficult to believe that anyone in his company stood a chance at a very long life.

Clay slammed his fist hard into the ground and sat up abruptly. The sorrel was looking over at him in consternation, deciding if his master was mad enough that he should move away.

"I’m not even going to name you," Clay heard himself say out loud. "I get to like you and you’re dead."

The horse nickered back at him, then after seconds went back to cropping grass. Clay decided to throw caution to the wind and let go of the rein. The horse wouldn’t go far. And if any other Indians lurked hereabouts and wanted to kill him, then let them come on. He would take some of them with him.

No sooner had he thought this than he heard a rustling in last year’s grass, and he looked over toward the river bank to see a big bird that looked much like a chicken standing in the grass and staring at him. Carefully, he eased the Colt Dragoon from its holster, cocked it and took aim.


Click.
Clay swore and tried again. Nothing. Suddenly, he felt his skin pale. His powder was wet! Or more likely, his caps, for the powder charges were sealed tight behind a soft lead bullet that would have made a water-tight seal in each chamber of his pistols. None of the pistols was going to work! He thought back to his wish that the Indians would cross the river after him, and the recollection made him want to void his stomach.

Lunging up from the ground, his eyes swept the country around him in a panic. He was in grave danger here, far worse than he had believed. If he wasn’t killed by wild Indians or animals, he was going to starve to death. He had to get re-supplied with the little money he had left. But where would he buy supplies?

He laughed madly. He was hundreds of miles from anywhere—from nowhere—out on the Nebraska prairie where the lonely wolves howl and the buffalo graze. Without a pistol, or some other kind of weapon, he was nothing. Clay Logan was a man without a hope.

Only God could save him now . . .

He sank back down to his rump and settled his face into his hands. He had gotten himself into it good now. All he had wanted was to make it to California, to work in the gold fields, to try to make something of his life, a new life, alone. Now here he was defenseless, prayer-less, a man just waiting to die. From here on he would have no friends. Everyone was a potential enemy, since he no longer had any protection.

Could gunpowder dry out? That he didn’t know, as he had never had to experiment. Maybe he could be saved yet. But how long would that process take if it worked at all? It was only a prayer, but at least it was a prayer. With that thought in mind, he carefully removed all the percussion caps from the nipples of his pistols and set them in the sun to dry.

Now to plan for the worst. If the caps didn’t dry and reach a useful state, his only chance was to catch some passing wagon train and travel with them, or at least see if they would sell him some gunpowder. Even though travel on the trail had slowed down now that many were traveling the water route, still, the heaviest season for wagon trains to leave Missouri was upon him, and he was certain that eventually he would come upon one, if he could get his bearings and get back on the main path. In the meantime, he might be a target for any ravenous beast, or any passing Indian, who didn’t have to worry about their arrows getting wet and not working.

He was thinking about these horrors when his mind turned darkly to the Indians who had chased him, who had killed his partner and friend. What of them? Tonight they would feast on fat young buffalo cow around a cheery fire. They would pass around Rodney Anderson’s pistols and rifle, and the bottles of whisky that both of them had kept in their packs. They would drink and laugh and make jokes about the man they had killed and the man who had run from them like a scared jackrabbit, diving into the river to save his skin. It didn’t matter that Clay had only fallen in the water on accident, had not in fact even known it was there. To them it would look like he had dived in. But the truth was, if he had known it was there he still would have dived in.

But the main question was, why should he let those four murderous savages laugh and carry on at his expense? Why should he let them enjoy the use of those firearms and feast on his flour, his coffee, his sugar? Why, most of all, when he was a man whom death did not frighten, who even welcomed its coming?

He stood up slowly this time, full of resolve. He scanned the landscape across the river, wondering where the braves had gone, and how to get back there. He was going. He was going now. To kill four young Indian braves who believed they could murder and steal with immunity. Tomorrow, or the day after, or the day after that, those redmen would die. It was only a matter of time. And for the first time in his life Clay Logan would have lifeblood on his hands.

† † † † †

Living in a populated area, driving coaches for a living, Clay had never found cause to read sign. But following the trail left by the four Indians through the tall prairie grass was straightforward. Caution—or fear—gave him the sense to stop now and then, for long periods of time, to survey the prairie before and around him. He did not believe the Indians would expect pursuit. They had seen his cowardly act of retreat, and such they would expect of him. Yet because Clay had seen so many of his own premonitions come true, he trusted the power that lies deep in the unknown facets of a man’s brain. And if he could sense these things, why couldn’t others as well? Surely one or more of those savages were eventually going to feel something, and once they got nervous they would be scanning their backtrail, and the horizon to all sides. So Clay could not afford to relax, not for one moment.

Several times he stopped and pulled his pistols, blowing into the cylinders in case there was moisture in them. He carried the caps in his vest pocket, and when they seemed to be dry, he replaced them on the nipples. He ached to try a shot, simply to see if the caps could indeed dry and be useful again—as well as the powder, if it too had gotten wet. But he didn’t dare. Those Indians could be anywhere, five miles away or just over the next ridge. And even if one round of his pistols worked that did not mean any others would.

Even while knowing it was futile, he stopped to go through his saddlebags for the third time since leaving the river. He already knew he had left his tins of black powder and his powder flasks and tin of caps in his packs. But he couldn’t stop himself from looking again, on sheer hope. There was nothing but a cotton sack full of flour that was starting to harden up and another sack full of jerky, along with two extra pairs of socks, a coil of rope, another of wire, and an extra skinning knife. The pistols would be useless until he could regain his supplies. Perhaps not useless, but he could not take the chance of relying on them until he knew for a fact he was in a safe place for experimentation.

The sky overhead was a brilliant blue, and the clouds but bits of fluff and long, windblown tendrils that resembled the patterns on a beach. Here and there he spied the stragglers of the huge bison herd, and once, off to the far west, he saw a mass of them that was easily two or three hundred bodies. Elk appeared here and there, and one time a herd of pronghorn antelope.

Clay was lucky enough to have a quart canteen of water that had been tied to the saddlestrings on the front of his saddle, and now and then he sipped at it, but it wasn’t enough. He had to ration it until he could get out of his dilemma, and then he could get back to the river. He would try to follow it as far as he could, as long as it didn’t take him too far out of his way.

He saw the smoke toward mid-afternoon. The wind was blowing briskly into his face, yet the smoke was far enough way that he couldn’t yet smell it. At first, he assumed it to be a large campfire. But the cloud kept growing and widening, and soon a large plume was bulking into the sky, blackish gray and ugly. The line of smoke was widening, and with the breezes coming straight at him like they were it was traveling at a good clip. He began to look nervously about. Everywhere around him, for miles and miles, it was nothing but a sea of tall big bluestem grass. It was spring, but it had been a dry one here, and this prairie would light up like a candle. Where did a man run? The only thing he could think of was the river. Did he ride for it now? Did he wait? Maybe the wind would change. Maybe the fire would blow back into itself.

One thing he knew for sure: As fast as that cloud was growing, if the wind kept blowing his way he was going to have to decide, and soon. Did he gamble and keep on, hoping that in this direction there might be a body of water large enough to shelter him? Or did he turn and run for the river?

Even if he had a thinly veiled death wish, Clay didn’t cherish the thought of meeting it by smoke or fire. But he was not happy to think of letting the Indians go after what they had done, either. With a nervous blink, he scanned the country around him one last time, then nudged the horse, and together they moved forward.

What had started the fire? he wondered as he rode. There had been no lightning. It had to be man-caused. So who? The Indians? Why would they burn their own buffalo hunting range? Was it an accident? Did they sense his approach and mean to drive him back? It all baffled him, but contemplating it brought no answers. There was only to ride, to pray, and to hope.

Soon, the smoke smell arrived, and it wasn’t long before it bit into his nostrils acridly. He started to see little bits of ash, tiny black bits of grass that had burned and broken free of the wall of flame, carried on the air currents created by the now tremendous fire. They seemed like a black rain, filtering down all around, dropping on his clothes, his skin, sometimes disintegrating, other times remaining intact. None, of course, was hot by this point. They only served as signs of what was coming.

Ahead, the smoke billowed in gigantic, smutty clouds. The front had to be a mile wide, or at least it seemed to be. The prairie could fool a man, and Clay had been fooled before. Distance here was unfathomable. He licked his lips and turned his head to look back toward the river. It was too far now. He was closer to the fire than he was to the water. And the wind was getting stronger in his face.

At one point along the fire front a fat little tornado made of smoke appeared, twirling high into the sky. It grew and grew, twisting around like a top, bending this way and that. Then it was just as quickly gone.

Clay took off his hat and ran the back of his forearm across his forehead, drying it. This pushed some of the sweat before it, making it run into his eyes. He blinked against the sting of the salt and stared toward the smoke. If forced to make a guess he would say the fire was only a mile or two away at the most. He was beginning to feel that the Indians had built this fire just for him. It was a drastic defensive measure. Who would have believed he was such a threat to them? And how had they known he was following them?

He licked his lips, and his tongue almost stuck to them. He swallowed one mouthful of water and held onto it for several minutes, letting it trickle very slowly down his throat. He could drink a gallon right now. He cursed the savages for what they had done to him and his friend, for putting him in the position he was in when he had done nothing to wrong them. But here he was, and he had no choice about that. The only choice was to let them go or not. And that was no longer a choice.

Taking his bandanna from around his neck, he tied it snugly over his nose, and with the smoke burning his eyes, he rode forward.

Within minutes, even through the heavy smoke, he began to see the flickering orange fingers of the flame. The wind was moving fifteen or twenty miles an hour, and it caused the flames to lay low. But even so some of them appeared to be ten feet high or more. He gulped and wiped the sweat out of his eyes. Could a man survive a wall of fire like that? Did he dare even try?

He looked left and right, gauging his chances of outrunning the fire now. There were no chances. He had waited too long.

Now that he had seen the flames, they seemed to come at him with incredible swiftness. They were raging, licking at the grass, seeming to jump ahead of themselves, five, ten, twenty feet at a time. He fancied he could almost hear them. Clay figured he had one chance, and that was to run into the fire. After all, this was almost one hundred percent grass, so it could only burn so long. If he could brave the wall of flame, and tough out the choking smoke, all he had to survive was ten or twenty seconds, maybe less. Then he would surely come out into a place where the grass had already burned, where the insistent wind had pushed all the smoke on before it, clearing the air for man or beast to breathe again. That was his chance. That or . . . he thought of a way to end his own life, if it seemed too bad. He could try one of the revolvers, to see if perhaps the powder had dried. If it hadn’t, what about his knife? A jugular vein, perhaps? A wrist? It wasn’t a pleasant thought, but it wasn’t as unpleasant as the idea of death by fire.

The fire was only a quarter mile away. It was raging toward him, and he had been moving toward it, closing ground fast. He felt bad for the sorrel. He had no filter over his nose as Clay did. He was the weak link in the chain. Even if Clay could survive this gauntlet, could his horse? The animal, for the past ten or fifteen minutes, had been flashing his eyes and balking, making as if to turn and run. But Clay held him steadily in check, urging him on. Now the animal was in a near panic, and that scared Clay. He was choking on the smoke himself, his eyes burning so badly that he could hardly see. How was the horse still going without the benefit of a bandanna? He took a deep breath to calm his nerves, but it only brought him into a fit of coughing.

And then there was that one miraculous moment when the wind died. He saw the flames rear straight up, and the smoke followed it. Like a man about to jump ship in the middle of a stormy ocean, he filled his lungs and hit the sorrel with his spurs.

　

　

　

† Five †

Clay was not a man to use spurs in such a way. The sharp points on the rowels had a place, and it was to roll across the horse’s ribs, not jab into them. But Clay did not mean for this signal to be gentle. He wanted this Morgan on the run for all he was worth. There was no other way they were going to survive.

The sorrel leaped forward. Even though he knew better, he followed his master’s guidance, and Clay leaned low over the saddle. The lull in the wind was holding. Three hundred yards . . . two hundred . . . one . . .

Without warning, the wind came up again, and now it was stronger than ever. Clay could hardly see what was ahead anymore. The smoke was too thick. The horse faltered, almost falling. Clay fought the tears in his eyes, trying to see. He could hear the roar of the flames now, somewhat like a freight train. He could see the wicked orange wall that danced and snarled and leaped at the grasses ahead of it.

"Come on, boy!" he yelled at the horse. "You get me through this and you’ll have a well deserved name." He ended the sentence with a cough, and he had to cram his eyes shut to clear them of the tears. They weren’t going to make it. They were almost upon the flames now, and the heat was tremendous. It was going to light them on fire. God, help me, he thought. Please don’t let us die this way. This horse didn’t ask to be here.

He sank the spurs again, not wanting to, but needing that extra impetus. And then the flames were all about them, a wild, grasping, super-heated, howling wall of banshees bent on his destruction, intent on dragging him down into their fiery hell.

It seemed like forever, but it was only seconds. The horse was galloping at high speed, no less than thirty miles an hour, and two or three seconds after they hit the flames they were through. Panicked, Clay whirled the horse around, searching himself and the animal for flames. He could smell singed hair, and he knew much of it was his own. But more of it was coming from behind him. He tumbled over the side of the horse, searching him, and was in time to grab the tail with his gloved hands and snuff a place that was glowing.

All around them was a black sea of smoking soot and ashes. Clay grabbed the horse’s reins and ran with him, not stopping until they were another fifty yards from the wall of fire. Then, gasping and choking, and with the sudden dark realization of how close he had come to death, he fell on his knees and felt a huge sob wrack his body.

As the crackling, sucking sounds of the fire began to fade, he forced himself to shove to his feet, and he turned and stared after the retreating orange beast. He had not beaten that enemy, but he had met it head on, and it had not beaten him, either. They had emerged almost as equals, and Clay had only the singed ends of his hair and his eyebrows to show for the adventure. A few loose threads on his jacket had been burned off, but the jacket itself, as well as his other clothing, had suffered no more than a few scuffs of soot.

Clay Logan had triumphed against the odds. And now he was going to kill the savages who had tried to murder him. Nothing could stop him, and if they took his life in the bargain, then so be it. He would not be afraid. He would never be afraid again.

Clay led the horse. He slogged on through the mass of burned prairie, black like corn smut. Where before it had been emerald in waving grasses, come to herald the approach of summer, now, as far as the eye could see, was a tar-colored wasteland, tendrils of white smoke still waving here and there in the roots of shrubs or in the hundreds of old buffalo droppings. It gave the prairie a smell every bit as acrid and overpowering as the musky stench of the buffalo herd.

Clay trod on, and after twenty minutes or more the sorrel began to settle down. His eyes stopped rolling, and his ears quit twitching rearward. Both of them stank of singed hair, of sweat, and of fear. But it was a vanquished fear.

As they traveled, Clay continued to scan the skyline. He had no intentions of stopping anywhere until he found where the Indians had camped, and thus, while they trod the mighty grassland until long after they had left the borders of blackened ground, a magnificent, fiery red, orange and lemon sunset plunged like gold and vermilion and marigolds over the entire western sky. It was like a promise for a better day tomorrow, a sign that in spite of the raging fire that still put up its clouds of smoke in the distance the world moved on, and life could be good again.

The problem was, Clay wasn’t sure he could believe that promise.

He was nearly on top of them before he saw the tiny flicker of flame. It was pitch black now, and under the shelter of night he was once again atop the sorrel. He had not dared ride much for the last two hours before sundown as his guts had warned him that he was getting close, and it is much too hard for a mounted man to hide out on the open prairie.

Now, at what seemed a great distance, he saw that flicker of flame, and then a shadow passed before it. It appeared once again, now steady. Only if he peered closely could he detect that it was not as steady as one of the planets. It was like a tiny orange star, lost in that otherwise black void of night.

The point where Clay now rode was a gentle knoll, it seemed, for even in the darkness he had felt the prairie rise below him. He turned the horse back, and once the firelight had disappeared he picketed the animal, hoping this would keep him from whinnying. The sorrel, ready for a rest and for the chance to graze, dropped his head and began feeding. Clay moved on. He had the Dragoon in its crossdraw holster, and in his left hand he carried his gun belt, with the twin Colts in their pommel holsters. But he had no way of knowing if they would serve him. The knife at his belt would perhaps be of more service, but the main thing was to try to find Anderson’s pistols. They were the surest thing between him and quick death.

It turned out to be God’s mercy that made Clay see the fire when he did, for he had only gone perhaps four hundred yards when he saw a shadow loom in front of the fire and realized he was now less than a hundred yards away. The fire was so small that it had only looked farther away than it was. Sitting down in the high grass, Clay pulled off his boots. He carried them under his left arm as he crept on.

He drew on all his senses. His eyes only served so well on this deep night, but he could smell the fire and the horses, and now and then the strong, rancid scent of grease. And he could hear the savages laughing and talking loudly, talking as if proudly recounting the heroic acts they had done today.

Clay’s blood began to heat, and he had to calm himself by breathing deeply. He could not let his emotions get the better of him now, as he too often had in the past. He had to move carefully, no matter how badly hate was burning in his heart, coursing through his veins. To be careless now was only to go the way of his friend Rodney Anderson, and then what purpose would be served? The Indians would win again, the very ones who had started this fight.

Carrying both boots and pommel holsters, he crouched and moved in, seeking for the horse herd. In short time he could see all four of the dim-lit braves, for although their fire was very small they were no more than thirty yards away. He sank to his knees. Their camp was situated on a high place, and even over the tall grass he could see all their movements. Their gesticulations matched the triumphant sounds of their voices, and they pranced around proudly, one of them waving what Clay assumed with a growing sickness in his chest must be Anderson’s scalp, what little there had been of it.

Clay kept himself breathing deep of the cool night air. He had to have fresh air in his body, had to have the best of his wits about him. What was he going to do now? Where did he go from here? He had pistols that he must assume, for his own safety, still did not work, and he had his knife. He couldn’t take a chance on the pistols, for even if he tested a pistol and it worked, hitting one of the braves, surely the others would scatter into the night. And this was their turf. Once they knew he was here, and all of them were on equal ground, in the darkness, Clay was doomed. Besides, the other chambers might not fire anyway.

So what of the knife? He could use it, but it would have to be after they had bedded down. And did he have the fortitude to creep in and stab a man that close to him? It would be one thing, he imagined, to shoot a man from ten or fifteen yards distant. But how did you put your hand over a man’s mouth and sink a knife into his breastbone? Even in his deep anger and his hatred he didn’t believe he was able to accomplish more than one such killing.

Where did that leave him? As he knelt there and let his mind pick through options, his eyes kept seeking out the horses, and finally he found them. They were scattered out on the prairie to the left, grazing peacefully. None of them had detected him yet, as far as he could tell. The thought of moving in on them, cutting their lines and taking them away with him struck him. This would leave the Indians on foot. But he had read too many accounts of Indians’ infamous ability to track, and their desire for revenge, which was surely every bit as strong as his. He didn’t need to be dogged for the next hundred miles by Indians. And besides, if they had a village nearby they would soon be remounted and be just as alive as ever, and his self-appointed task would be left undone forever. What was more, they would probably ride him down and kill him, and their own purposes would be all that was served.

No, the only thing to do was to kill them here, tonight. But how? Surely the alcohol they were consuming, which he knew came from his and Anderson’s packs, would be on his side. Everyone knew how well Indians handled liquor, since they were unaccustomed to it, and they were surely going to down at least two quarts between them. This ought to make them sleep soundly, and then all Clay had to rely on was his own grit to do the rest.

He sank back, sitting on his lower legs. He breathed deep and fondled the butts of his guns. He would wait. All he had was time, and one thing he had learned was patience. The liquor was making the Indians foolish, for they had set no guard. All four of them were drinking and laughing at the fire. He would wait until they all passed out. Then he would move in . . .

It felt like an hour, perhaps two, but as Clay had predicted the Indians began eventually to slow down. They were stumbling more and slurring their speech, and after a while one, then two of them sat down. One of those fell over and was snoring in minutes. Before another twenty minutes passed, the third man was seated, and the other soon followed. One of them kept pointing at one of the others and laughing hysterically. The object of his laughter just spat some slurred words back and pounded against his chest with one arm, raising his whisky bottle trophy high.

A half hour later, the fire was dying low, and all four of the Indians were lying in various positions about the glowing coals. All Clay could hear was the horses cropping grass. He got to his hands and knees and crawled, then went to his belly. He stopped at fifteen feet. He could hear some of them breathing now, and smell the rank grease that he assumed was on the warriors’ bodies. The white canvas of his and Anderson’s packs appeared, almost glowing orange in the firelight. They were not far from the braves, mostly lying open with items strewn around.

Watching the sleeping Indians, Clay crawled around to the packs and quietly began sifting through the wreckage. His heart seemed to be strangling him. He could hardly breathe. He could find no trace of the weapons, and he began to fear that the Indians had them on their persons. But finally he located a big tin can that he kept the powder in for his weapons. His heart leaped. Here was the answer! He stared over at the bodies for a moment, and all was as he had last seen it. With his heart thudding dully, he calmed himself and tried to figure out how he was going to accomplish the thing he had planned. First off, he slipped a jackknife from his pocket and very carefully punched a number of small holes into the sides of the powder can and one in the bottom. He tried to keep them small enough so the powder wouldn’t drain, although a few grains inevitably escaped here and there.

He had started creeping toward the fire on his belly with the powder can when a thought struck him, and he stopped. Crawling backwards, he got back to the opened packs and searched a little farther until he found a leather draw bag containing lead bullets for his .44’s. With a grim smile he opened the bag and poured out the majority of the bullets, leaving only fifteen in the bag, which he stuffed down inside his shirt.

Taking a deep, calming breath, he started again toward the fire, intently watching the sleeping braves the entire time.

Clay had to crawl between two men to reach the fire, and it took all his courage. As he was passing one, he spotted one of Anderson’s pistols in his waistband. With his senses racing, he reached out and carefully withdrew the piece, and the man didn’t even stir. That might be a problem in the fruition of his plan, but it was something he would deal with in time. He made it to the fire and threw several handfuls of dried grass bundles from beside the fire into it, then placed the tin into the hot coals. Now to get away fast.

He couldn’t wait to move, so he got to his feet and at a crouch started out of camp. There was a whisky bottle hidden in the grass. His foot struck it, and it in turn hit one of the Indians in the foot, making him sit up.

The Indian let out a yell of alarm.

The yell was loud enough, and the Indians’ hard-earned alertness so ingrained, that all four of them started coming out of sleep at the same time and getting to their feet. Clay went to his belly in the darkness at the edge of their camp, not knowing how long to expect before the explosion. It wasn’t five seconds.

The excitedly talking braves, who hadn’t come to their senses in time to even know Clay had been there, were all moving about in the light of the flickering grass flames when the powder can blew. It went off with a sickeningly loud explosion that destroyed any peace of the night, and Clay heard one or two of them scream in pain. He rolled over and saw two of them down, and one was clutching his ribs, where blood ran between his fingers.

The other man was staring at his fallen comrades, unsure how to react, when Clay raised Anderson’s pistol and fired into his chest. But he didn’t have time to see him go down.

As if from nowhere, something heavy struck Clay in the side of the neck. It was with such force that he thought he was done for, and he went to his face in the tall grass. Even in his agony, his powerful instincts made him roll over, and he was just in time to miss being skewered by a lance aimed at his back.

Clay had to fight. Somehow there was a fifth man he hadn’t seen, and he had to struggle against him, struggle until he regained his temporarily vanished faculties and strength. The blow to the side of his neck had stunned him, and when he rolled and grabbed the lance shaft in both hands it was all he could do to hang on when the warrior started trying to pull it away.

Gasping, Clay rolled enough to fling the backs of his heels against the Indian’s right thigh, and he heaved with all of his strength and threw him sideways. The spear stayed stuck in the black prairie earth as Clay rolled and sat up, trying to find the dropped pistol in the darkness.

He felt a mighty kick to his stomach that rolled him over, and a knife blade flashed in the night. Clay reached instinctively and got hold of the man’s forearm, bearing down. He had been at the art of stagecoach driving since the age of four, first with a practice station his father had built for him, and then on farm wagons before going to the real thing. To this long practice he owed his grip that was like a vise, and he felt like his own teeth were going to break with gritting them when the Indian cried out and dropped his knife.

They began fighting, one kicking the other, the other returning the coup, and moved closer and closer to the fire and the wounded warriors. When Clay saw his chance, he lunged and grabbed his opponent by the throat with his right hand, and he squeezed with all his strength. He felt the Indian’s throat being crushed in his fingers, and there was no escape now for the man. He grasped the man’s right hand in his left to hold it at bay, and the man’s left hand clutched futilely at his death grip. Even in all Clay’s fury he still saw the arrow wing past and land with a swoosh in the tall grass. But somehow it didn’t deter him except to make him whirl and fling his foe around in the other direction.

There near the fire one of the wounded braves was struggling valiantly with a bow. Clay squeezed harder and at the same time pushed forward and down on the brave’s throat, driving the dying man to the ground. As they came down he drove his knee into the man’s groin several times.

Clay was terrific in the force of his violence, but he knew if he stayed here the wounded warrior would find the strength to put an arrow through him. It didn’t matter, for the damage had been done to the man whose throat he held, and he was suffocating on his own blood.

Before he could let go, however, the wounded brave at the fire managed to nock his arrow to his bow as he fell to his knees. He aimed straight at Clay’s chest.