Lost Gold by Todhunter Ballard

Author:Todhunter Ballard
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781428503076
Publisher: Dorchester Publishing

CHAPTER TEN

The crew reacted at once, like the trained fighters they were. There was none of the panic that the Indians had apparently hoped for. They wheeled for cover and Bill Drake’s voice cut along the line. “Watch the horses! Watch the horses!” Bill Drake knew his Indians. He had been fighting them for years and he felt that this was no war party in strength. An Indian seldom fights at night, fearing that, if he dies, his spirit will fail to find its way to the hunting ground.

This was more likely a mere horse-stealing sortie, a few broncos out to cause enough confusion so that they could steal the spare horses of the crew.

He drove directly into the brush in an attempt to flank the attackers, followed closely by Andy and Monte Gordon. The rest of the crew was attempting to protect the chuck wagon and the horse herd.

Apparently the Indians had few guns, for only scattering shots dropped among the defenders. As he crashed through the shoulder-high brush, Andy caught movement, not much clearer than a shadow, and saw a brave rise directly in the path of his horse. He fired at the Apache’s face and watched the man go down as he drove past.

The night behind him was full of sound—men’s cries, the sharp, piercing whinny of a horse in pain. Off to his right, he heard his brother swear. He spurred toward Bill, only to be ordered back.

The attack had failed. There were no more shots from the brush and Bill ordered him to rejoin the train, reining in his own horse as he shouted across the night. Bill knew the dangers of riding through the brush.

Andy retraced his route, expecting to find the body of the dead Indian. But there was no sign of it. Apparently the man had not been so seriously injured that he could not drag himself away.

At the first sign of the attack, the cook had shouted to Mary Thorne, ordering her to get down under the wagon. Then he had hauled his heavy rifle from its place beside the seat and watched the bordering brush, searching out something at which to shoot. But nothing had moved in the deceptive shadows. Apparently the attack had shifted toward the horse herd, for the cook heard sharp firing from the rear.

The girl had disobeyed him. She had swung out of her saddle, but, instead of seeking shelter under the wagon, she had walked boldly to where Burns lay, unmoving, beside the trail. Reaching him, she knelt quickly, only to learn that he was dead.

The cook left the wagon to join her and grunted softly when he looked down at Burns. He had seen death in many forms, and he was so close to it that it no longer held much terror for him.

“Get back to the wagon,” he had told her. “I think they’ve faded, but you can’t be sure. You make a pretty target, standing there.”

She had gone without protest, feeling a little sick.

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