Death Rides Alone by William W. Johnstone

Author:William W. Johnstone [Johnstone, William W.; Johnstone, J.A.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Kensington
Published: 2016-05-06T04:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 22

Somewhere off to Luke’s right, a woman screamed in sheer terror. He wheeled in that direction and saw the same thing Tyler had.

Indians on horseback had burst out of the trees on the opposite side of the camp from the river. They charged toward the wagons, riding flat out.

At the same time, the warriors on the two flanks stepped up their attack even more, pouring arrows and rifle fire at the wagons in a deadly barrage designed to keep the defenders occupied and take a toll on them as well, so they wouldn’t be able to stop the mounted attackers from overrunning the camp.

Howard turned and dashed toward the area where the charging Indians were headed. Luke was right behind him, but as Tyler started to abandon his post, Luke called to him, “Stay there! This could be a feint!”

Tyler seemed to understand. He jerked his head in a nod, swung around, and resumed peppering the woods with slugs from the Winchester.

Other men were converging on the spot where the Indians were going to try to breach the circle. Gunshots roared in a thunderous barrage, but the mounted warriors were moving fast and had almost reached the wagons by the time Luke and Howard reached one of the gaps between vehicles. A couple of ponies were riderless, showing that the defenders’ fire had done a little good, but not enough.

The first of the attackers leaped his pony over a wagon tongue and soared into the circle. He yipped shrilly as he fired the rifle he held and one of the immigrants went down, drilled through the head.

An instant later, both of Luke’s Remingtons roared. The impact of two slugs crashing into the warrior’s buckskin-clad body lifted him off his pony. He hit the ground in a limp sprawl.

One Indian was down, but three more were already inside the camp. A man shrieked in agony as one of the mounted warriors ran him through with a lance. A second later, Jonathan Howard brought that Indian down with a rifle shot, but not in time to save the man who had been mortally wounded with the lance.

It was a whirlwind of action inside the circle of wagons, and if Luke Jensen had not been there, the immigrants might well have been overwhelmed and slaughtered, just as Jonathan Howard had said.

But Luke seemed to be everywhere at once, spinning, darting, and most of all shooting. Flame lanced from each of the revolvers in turn, and every time one of the Remingtons blasted, an Indian fell, shot through the head or the body.

Luke knew the situation was desperate. He called on every bit of fighting skill he had amassed over the long and perilous years, first in the war, and then during his career as a bounty hunter.

When his revolvers ran dry, he jammed them back in their holsters and snatched up a fallen Winchester from the ground to continue battling. He emptied the rifle as well, and just as the hammer fell

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