Apache Rampage (13 page)

CHAPTER TWELVE

Dusty looked down at the head of his messenger, then lifted his eyes to Mark Counter’s face. ‘Who started all the shooting?’

‘I did,’ Millet said and turned pompously from his place, looking as if he expected praise for a good piece of work.

Dusty’s scorn was plain. ‘I might have known!’

‘We shot one!’ Haslett went on delightedly.

‘Sure. You got one,’ drawled Mark, but there was no pleasure in his voice. It was hopeless trying to explain to -such men that they’d used up a large portion of their ammunition supply to kill one brave who was not even menacing the church. Mark turned back to Dusty, ‘It’s all my fault. I should have kept them hawg-tied. I put them in my party and left them there so I could keep an eye on them.’

There was no time for worrying over spent ammunition. Dusty did not blame his friend for what happened. He knew it was to be expected when dealing with men like Millet and Haslett.

‘Dusty!’ called Bronson. ‘Lobo Colorado’s talking with those two who just came down. Looks all excited about something. He’s calling the braves away from the houses, all except for a few to hold us down.’

‘It’ll be coming soon, Dusty,’ the Kid warned. ‘He’s gone to make his medicine and when that’s done we’ll have us some shooting to do.’

‘We might hold off one attack,’ Dusty remarked. ‘But that’ll use about every bullet we’ve got.’

‘What’s this wagon carrying, do you reckon, Dusty?’ Mark asked and indicated Big Em’s wagon, standing at the gate. ‘Wouldn’t be healthy if it’s carrying explosives. Not when the shooting starts.’

Dusty and Mark went to examine the wagon, while the Kid climbed on the stand to look over the wall. The two Texans looked the big Conestoga wagon over but could see nothing to help them guess what the cargo was.

‘It’s not down on the springs much,’ Dusty drawled. ‘Load’s not heavy.’

‘Could be a payroll,’ Mark guessed.

‘Not likely, is it. The Army sends payrolls in fast coaches with a major in command and a fair-sized escort.’

Mark took out his clasp-knife and opened the blade. ‘What say we have a little accident, Dusty?’

Dusty nodded. His friend cut the ropes which held the tarpaulin cover down. He raised the tarp slightly, and Dusty looked in underneath it. There was some light but not enough to allow Dusty to see much of what the wagon carried. He forced the tarp up and swung underneath it to stand in the wagon. Striking a match he looked at the cargo. Near to him were two long, rectangular boxes, one larger than the other. Behind these were two large, square boxes and other smaller square boxes which looked familiar in shape and form.

One thing Dusty did know was that the Army were not eager for the contents of the boxes to be known. All identifiable lettering on the boxes had been obliterated. Not just painted over but planed out of the wood. Dusty went to the larger of the rectangular boxes and bent over it. The match burned his fingers and he blew it out, then lit another. There was no mark of any kind on the box, or on the next he looked at. He was about to call on Mark for a crowbar and find out what was inside when he decided to look at the bigger square boxes.

The wood was planed down as on the others, but Dusty saw the work was not so well done as on the others. There was a faint outline left on one box and Dusty bent forward to examine it closer. He lit another match and felt the excitement hit him at the faint outline of what seemed to be a horse standing on its rear legs, forelegs pawing the air and what appeared to be a stick between the legs and a second in its mouth.

Dusty knew what that sign meant. He’d seen it often enough. It was the mark of the Colt Patent Firearms Manufacturing Company, the sign of the rampant colt. For all that Dusty held down his excitement. Colt was interested in other things besides firearms and there was no point in raising hopes to have them dashed again if this proved to be some other item, not weapons.

‘Pass me that bar from the side of the wagon, Mark,’ said Dusty, trying to act and sound nonchalant.

‘What is it?’ asked Mark, bringing the bar and climbing under the canopy. He knew Dusty too well to be fooled by any amount of nonchalant acting.

Dusty did not reply. He worked the prongs of the bar under the lid of the big box and pressed down. The lid held for a moment, and Mark threw his weight to the bar. There was a squeal of protesting nails and the lid lifted back. Dusty reached forward to pull aside the oiled cloth covering and looked down at what the box held. Two faces looked up, eyes gleaming. They’d not expected the thing which lay exposed to their gaze.

Mark licked his lips. ‘It’s a Gatling gun.’

‘Sure. About the smallest I ever saw,’ agreed Dusty.

The round, fat, gleaming body of the gun looked up at them, far smaller than the Gatling guns they’d become used to seeing. The models they knew were heavier pieces, mounted on artillery carriages. This was smaller and wouldn’t weigh more than ninety or a hundred pounds. Reaching forward, Mark lifted the gun out of the box and Dusty saw the five-barrel muzzle staring at him. Then he dipped his hand into the box and took out a small, oilskin package. This contained a booklet giving instructions for the cleaning, maintenance, loading and firing of the new version gun. The first thing he saw, from the illustrations, was that the gun was mounted on a light tripod instead of the cumbersome carriage. Mark looked over Dusty’s shoulder, then lowered the barrel and opened the second long box. The tripod was inside and Mark set it on to its leg, then mounted the gun barrel.

‘Bust open the other boxes, Mark!’ Dusty said, and he was not hiding his excitement now. Here was the means, much as he hated the thought of it, to break the Apache uprising.

Mark opened one of the larger, square boxes and looked at the round, drum-shaped thing inside. He lifted the metal drum out and saw a second underneath. It took him a moment to realise what they were. The old model Gatling used a straight magazine, but later types were fitted with the round drum, Accles Positive Feed magazine. Mark recalled having read something about this new magazine in a book. He lay the magazine back and opened another box to find, as he expected, bullets for the gun, long .45-70 cartridges of the Army pattern.

‘We’ve got all we need,’ said Mark grimly. ‘If I can get it going in time.’

‘I reckon you’ll have to,’ Dusty answered. ‘There’s a book here that should tell you how to do it and you handled the Gatlings for the French at Saltillo. This one shouldn’t be much different.’

‘Dusty!’ Bronson’s voice sounded faintly to them. ‘You’d best come up here and take a look, there’s something happening.’

Dusty paused. He wanted to help Mark, but his duty as leader in the fight came first. ‘I’ll send Waco to help you, Mark. Pull the sheet back this side a mite but don’t let the folks see what’s inside.’

Dusty left the wagon and called Waco over. The youngster did not know what to expect when he climbed into the wagon. What he saw made him whistle but he got no chance to ask questions. Mark pointed to the box which had held the tripod. ‘There’s a cleaning rod inside and box of tools, boy. Get them out and let’s make with the work.’

Mark stripped off his shirt, for the wagon was hot with the canopy over it. He started to work on the gun. Mark knew something of Gatling guns for the French had two in Saltillo while Mark was serving General Sheldon, helping the Maximillian regime in their fight against Mexico. Mark was the officer who took care and maintained the guns, for the French did not. This new model was not different mechanically, the chief differences being the magazines and the firing handles. On the old model this was at the side while it was on the rear of the lighter type.

Dusty left Mark and Waco working to strip down, clean and prepare the gun for firing, working desperately against time and trying to get it ready for when the Apache attack began.

With the Ysabel Kid at his side Dusty hurried to the church and went through. He found Thornett keeping the women and children entertained with a display of card and sleight-of-hand tricks. The good doctor appeared to have been making the most of his time for several of the women, including Mrs. Millet, were holding bottles of the Superior Elixir.

There was no time to stop and see how Thornett was going on, and Dusty went up the stairs fast. They came through the trapdoor and on to the platform of the bell tower. Bronson’s squad of sharpshooters were at their places, and the young soldier came to Dusty.

‘Lobo Colorado’s brought all his men in, from the slopes and the town. They’re burning the houses at the back of town, working forward,’ he said.

‘He’s got them bringing blankets and things like that into the houses along the edge of the square,’ Molly went on.

The Kid and Dusty joined the girl, looking down at the scene of activity on the other side of the square. That the Apaches were burning the town did not surprise them, they expected it. They could not understand why the Indians were bringing a lot of burnable gear into the houses edging the square. The houses would burn well enough without any added help.

Then Dusty got it.

‘Let’s get down to the grounds, Lon,’ he snapped. ‘There’s going to be the big attack real soon. Watch things, Chet, and let me know if anything’s happening.’

Even as Dusty spoke there showed a flicker of flame from one of the houses, smoke began to roll up, and the wind carried it towards the church wall. The Kid was next to see what was happening and followed Dusty down the stairs to the church. They went to the rear and found Ellwood sitting up, looking refreshed from his short sleep.

Quickly Dusty explained what was happening and Ellwood listened without a word. At last he spoke, ‘It looks bad. What do you think’s our best chance?’

‘I want you and two men you can trust in Big Em’s wagon. Get it ready to shed that tarp faster’n I just said it.’

‘Have you something in mind, Captain?’

‘Sure, Major. The lousiest, dirtiest trick I ever played in my life,’ said Dusty, and he was very sincere.

Dusty hated the thought of using that Gatling gun against the Apaches, even if it would save their own lives. The Gatling gun was bringing a new and deadly touch to war, wholesale slaughter. No longer could war be regarded as a chivalrous and gentlemanly business. Not when using mechanised weapons which could hurl out death as fast as a man could crank a handle.

Across the plaza house after house began to burn, the smoke rolling on the breeze, towards the walls of the church. This was Lobo Colorado’s big medicine for defeating his white-eye enemies. His men would attack through the smoke which would blind the white men to them. They could take the church and kill the hated white-eye defenders with small loss to themselves. Loud would be the singing around the fires that night. Men lifting their voices and telling how the great war-chief Lobo Colorado brought victory to his people.

Dusty watched the smoke thickening and tried to guess how long he had before the attack came. He went to the wagon and found Ellwood standing with four men at the end, ropes ran up, over the top and were fastened to the tarp, ready to drag it from the supports of the wagon.

‘All set, Major?’ asked Dusty.

‘Ready, willing and able,’ Ellwood replied and smiled, it was strange to hear the words coming from his lips. ‘That youngster of yours has cut the ropes on the other side. It was safer that way.’

Dusty nodded soberly. It was safer for Waco to slit the ropes from the inside than for a man to try and go around to the exposed plaza side and do it. Looking under the tarp Dusty asked. ‘How’s it going, Mark?’

Mark turned, his magnificent torso bared, giant muscles writhing under the sweat-soaked skin. ‘We’re not ready yet. Ask him to hold off for a spell.’

‘I’ll do just that,’ Dusty promised and pulled out again.

The plaza was thickly covered in whirling clouds of smoke now, hiding the houses from Dusty’s view. However Bronson’s party could see over the smoke, and they gave a grim warning. Lobo Colorado’s medicine was made. Even now the war-chief was going to the horse he used since the Kid shot down his first mount. Vaulting on to the horse Lobo Colorado waved his rifle and let out a wild scalp yell. Every other brave took up the cry.

‘They’ll be coming soon, Dusty!’ Bronson yelled down. ‘Tell all your bunch to try and get Lobo Colorado!’ shouted the Kid. ‘Get him and the rest’ll stop.’

Mark and Waco worked fast but without flurry or fluster. They’d cleaned the gun and mounted it on the tripod and now were loading the magazines. Dusty entered the wagon to lend a hand, leaving the defence of the walls to the Kid. By now the defenders were beginning to realise what the smoke meant but there was no panic as yet. Every man held his weapon fully loaded and ready for use, the pitifully small supply of ammunition to hand for easy re-loading.

Mark swung the first loaded magazine in to place on the gun and worked the cocking piece. It was not a moment too soon. From behind the smoke sounded a louder cry, then the thunder of hooves as the Apaches poured forward to the attack.

‘The cover, Major. The cover!’ Dusty roared.

Ellwood and his men threw themselves on the ropes, heaving with all their strength, coughing as the smoke filled their lungs. For a moment the tarp stuck, then it slid backwards off the supports and fell to the ground, revealing for the first time Big Em’s load.

Lobo Colorado’s attack was well planned, the mass of braves pouring forward, each man eager to get at the white-eyes in the church. They rode in a bunch, the cream of the bad-hat Apaches and they rode to their deaths.

Behind the squat, shining, yet somehow evil-looking gun Mark Counter waited. He ignored the spirit level and the elevating sights. They would be of no use to him at such close range. He glanced at Dusty and Waco, seeing they held spare magazines, then he roughly aligned the gun on the whirling smoke cloud and the vague shapes which were forming in it. Mark’s face was grim as he began to whirl the handle, rotating the barrels and firing the Gatling gun.

The hideous chatter of the Gatling gun sounded loud, a harsh chattering rattle which wrote the finish to Lobo Colorado’s dreams. Mark Counter whirled the handle and sent the lead pouring out, ripping into the oncoming Apaches. He used what was known as the swinging traverse, turning the gun on the pivot mounting instead of using the adjusting screws, pouring the 45-70 bullets in an arc of destruction. The charging Apaches never knew what hit them. The Gatling gun showed no discrimination as it cut down men and horses in its bloody swath.