The Colonel's Daughter - Kit Carson Series (The Kit Carson Series Book 1) by Douglas Hirt

Author:Douglas Hirt [Hirt, Douglas]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Wolfpack Publishing
Published: 2014-04-04T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter Ten

From the warrior’s throat there arose all at once the most hideous war cry he had ever heard, at least to Colonel Holmes’ ears it sounded hideous. At that same instant the dog sprang, taking Hampstead by the jugular and wrenching the burly man as if he were a doll. So sudden was the attack that Hampstead never knew what had happened.

Caleb fired one of his pistols and the nearest guard reeled backwards, swallowed up by the shadows. The element of surprise had been lost and Holmes and Cross, dashed for the perimeter of the camp. It sickened the Colonel to leave his longtime friend, but it was plain by the blood and the savage delight the dog was taking in rending his victim’s throat, that Hampstead was beyond help.

Almost at once the avenues between the lodges were filled with men pouring out the darken doors. Holmes darted aside, plunging off in one direction, and the last he saw of Caleb, the tall, wiry man was sprinting off the opposite way. Suddenly a knot of men blocked Holmes’ escape. He swung the muzzle of his rifle around and its sudden boom and blinding flash was like a lightening bolt within the village. Holmes charged off in another direction, dodging and weaving, trying to make the stream and the open country beyond, but failing at every attempt. At each turn his way was blocked as he was being forced back into the Ute camp.

Some distance away Cross’s rifle fired, then came the distinctive report of his pistol. Then all Holmes heard was the pounding of blood in his ears and the clamber of men swarming around him. He felt a tug at his sleeve and wheeled about, swinging his rifle like a mace. His attacker went down beneath the solid thunk, but in his place leaped a half dozen more.

Holmes blindly windmilled the rifle, momentarily keeping them at bay. Then something punched him in the thigh. It stung like a red-hot poker from a smithy’s furnace. Involuntarily, Holmes collapsed to his knees, pain exploding all along his leg.

Something struck him in the head, and the last he remembered he was being overwhelmed beneath a ponderous weight that crushed the breath from his lungs.

Holmes had no idea how long he had been unconscious. When distant sounds began to filter into his brain sometime later, he rolled his head upon his shoulders and winced at the sharp stab of pain that shot into his skull. He was sitting, he decided, and his hands somehow encumbered, but that was only a vague sensation, one swiftly being overwhelmed by the searing ache coming from his right leg.

His eyelids parted to an indistinct world of gray light and air heavy with wood smoke. There was a dreamlike quality to the uncertain shapes of Indian lodges scattered about him, still half-hidden in the gloom of a morning not yet upon them. Was it a dream, he wondered, trying to sort out the events, which had led up to this moment! The smothering pain in his leg was real.

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