Cry For Vengeance by James A. Muir

Author:James A. Muir [Muir, James A.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Western, action, heroes, Angus, Wells, Cowboy, fiction, Piccadilly, cowboys, publishing, Pulp, writing, revenge, series, Westerns
Publisher: Piccadilly
Published: 2022-09-30T23:00:00+00:00

The Comanches came out of a clear afternoon. It was the hottest day the Staked Plains had suffered in all that long, hot summer, and Dalton was congratulating himself on busting a gut digging reliable wells when the look-out posted atop the windmill started to holler. At first Dalton thought the cowboy must have sighted a mirage. Then he saw the dust cloud and ran for the smithy. He grabbed the hammer strung beside the warning bell and sounded the alarm.

He had seven men around the main building, with Nolan, Christie and the Mexican cook inside the ranch house. Counting Eleanor as one gun, that gave him twelve people in all. The look-out, who was up there because his eye-sight was better than most, calculated around one hundred Comanches coming their way.

Dalton got his men inside the ranch building and set to forting up. The hands still out on the range would have to look after themselves. If they were still alive.

Inside the fortress-like building the window shutters were going down. They were made of two-inch thick imported oak, dense enough to stop a bullet and hung on steel hinges. The main door was oak, reinforced with metal bands, and held in place with a massive cross-bar. The walls of the ranch house were foot-thick stone that would take a cannon to breach. The defenders had a supply of fresh water from the spring, and the cook’s storehouse held enough meat and canned goods to feed them for a month. It was a pity to lose the horses and the pigs that were penned behind the bam, but that couldn’t be helped.

What counted now was staying alive.

He opened the bureau drawer in the main living-room and grabbed the key to the armory. Since building the place, he had always kept a supply of carbines and handguns, together with plenty of ammunition, in a locked room. Eleanor had sometimes laughed at his precautions, telling him he was overly cautious. She wasn’t laughing now.

Dalton saw that the two new men were already set up by the windows to either side of the main door, their Winchesters poked through the firing ports and opened cartons of shells in easy reach by their feet. He left them, detailing his cowhands to the remaining three walls. He assigned two men, and the cook, to filling buckets against the chance of fire and set Eleanor to preparing bandages.

Then the Flying D settled down to the hardest part: the waiting.

The dust cloud came closer and shapes began to emerge. Dalton sucked in his breath when he saw the war band. Even with the stockpiled supplies it was going to be a long, hard fight.

The Indians halted just out of range, watching the ranch like buzzards waiting for a sick cow to go down. Inside, the rooms were cool and dim, and very quiet. No-one was talking as the defenders waited for the Comanches to make their move. For what seemed like a long time, they sat their ponies in silence, painted faces studying the building.

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