Novel 1966 - Kilrone (v5.0) Read online

  “Well,” Teale said grimly, “if they’re anywhere within sight they should see that!”

  “They aren’t.” Hopkins’ tone was bitter.

  All at once there was a thunder of hoofs, and through the billowing smoke that blew across the parade ground came the charging herd of horses from the corral. Taken some time before, they must have been held somewhere close by; but now they came rushing down upon the Headquarters building as if to charge right through it.

  “Watch it!” Kilrone shouted. “There’ll be Indians behind them!”

  And there were—at least forty of them.

  The herd split as it neared the building, breaking away to escape crashing into the wall, and as they broke away the Indians appeared, clinging low down on their horses and firing under their necks, as was the Indian way. They too split and rode to left and right, dropping from their horses close by the walls. Lahey, firing from a window, killed one Indian, wounded another.

  On the far side of Headquarters, Draper fired into the massed horses as they pressed between the buildings, killing one of the Indians. He was leaning out for a shot at another when a bullet caught him in the chest. He staggered back, coughing and spitting blood, then went to his knees. He died there, sagging slowly to the floor, and for minutes nobody could get to him because of the fire the attackers poured through the unguarded window.

  Kells suffered a minor wound; Hopkins had a gun shot from his hand, leaving the hand numb to the wrist. Kilrone opened up with his six-shooters and cleared the window. An Indian, running forward, suddenly leaped from below the window sill and grabbed his shirt. Kilrone, striking down with a gun barrel, smashed the Indian across the collarbone, missing his skull, and the infuriated savage clung to him, dragging him over the sill.

  Kells grabbed his ankles and hung on, while Kilrone, fighting wildly against the wounded Indian, who was now joined by another, jammed his gun muzzle against the Indian’s belly and pulled the trigger.

  The Indian jerked convulsively, but still clung, sagging to the ground, his fingers caught in a death grip on Kilrone’s shirt. Kilrone, struggling fiercely to get away, felt rather than saw the other Indian pull back his knife for a thrust, and then heard a gun blast and the Indian tottered back, his face shot away.

  He looked up and saw Betty Considine, her face white and strained, holding a shotgun. “Get in…quick!” she cried. And then the shotgun let go its second barrel over his head.

  Jerking himself free, he lunged for the window, and felt something smash against his boot heel just as he slid through the window and was pulled to safety. He hit the floor and rolled over, and started to get up as Betty Considine coolly thumbed shells into the twin barrels of the gun.

  “Thanks,” he said. “I thought they had me.”

  She flashed a quick smile, then went back to the room where the children were.

  There was no respite now. More Indians had come up, and they seemed to have no shortage of ammunition. Powder smoke filled the room. The men inside moved from window to window, firing, coughing, firing again. Women caught up the emptied rifles and thumbed cartridges into them.

  Kilrone reloaded his six-guns, caught up his rifle, and returned to a window. Darkness was falling now, weirdly lit by the blazing barracks. It would be no time at all until the flames reached the officers’ quarters.

  The idea of escape was remote. They were surrounded on all sides, and the fire was intense. Obviously, Medicine Dog had arrived and was driving for a quick victory.

  Stella Rybolt caught Kilrone’s arm and pointed out of the window. All the glass was gone from the windows, which here and there had been partly boarded up or covered by furniture piled in the open spaces. Over the top of this obstruction his eyes followed her finger.

  On the slope of the mountain stood a long row of Indians, where the sun’s reflected light picked them out sharply. In blankets and headdresses, they sat their horses and watched, like spectators at an arena.

  “You take it from me,” she shouted in his ear, to be heard above the din, “they’re waiting to see how Medicine Dog works. If they think there’s a chance, they’ll join; if not, they’ll pull out.”

  They had done the same thing a few years before at Adobe Walls, down in the Panhandle of Texas. Some fifteen hundred Indians were reported to have stood watching to see what Quanah Parker would do.

  How could they escape even if they wished? And how dare they leave the rifles and ammunition to the Indians? It would mean the death of hundreds of innocent people if those rifles fell into the hands of Medicine Dog and his Indian followers.

  The attack suddenly broke. There were a few scattered shots, then quiet.

  Kilrone thought of the little group of defenders. Mendel was badly wounded, Olson and Draper were dead. Kells had a scratch, Ryerson was ill. Their force had suffered badly, and there would be another attack at any time, he knew.

  How many such attacks could they stand? Above all, how many Indians had taken shelter close to the walls?

  The women came now with coffee and thick slabs of bread. Slowly the smoke began to drift from the rooms. In a way, they had been lucky so far, but they could not expect such luck to continue.

  Kilrone sank to the floor and checked his guns. All were loaded, all in working order. He accepted the coffee as it was brought to him, taking it from the hands of Denise, who dropped to her knees beside him.

  “Where do you think they are, Barnes?”

  “I don’t know—headed this way, I hope.”

  “Do you think they’ve had a fight?”

  He considered that. “Not much of a one, I’d guess. I think this is the main fight, right here. The hell of it is, a man can die just as easily in a minor fight.”

  Kells, his wound bandaged, was stretched out on the floor resting. Teale was slumped against the wall, half asleep. Battle took a dreadful toll of a man’s strength, and the wise ones learned to sleep when and where they could—those who could were the lucky ones.

  Nobody tried to do anything to repair damage done to their defenses, for everyone was exhausted.

  The door of Headquarters was sagging, shot into fragments. It had been partly replaced by the door from the outer office to the commandant’s office, which had been placed on its side, covering half of the space.

  The clouds that had covered the sky earlier were now gone and the stars were out. The fires were dying down, but here and there among the ruins of the barracks that had burned, tiny flickering flames still ate hungrily at what remained of timbers. Some of the barracks still stood—one half burned, was only a shell, gaping to the sky.

  Kilrone thought of Sproul. There had been no sign of conflict from Hog Town. No lights showed there, and all was still. No doubt the Indians had been told to leave Sproul’s place alone. Kilrone had no evidence, but he knew Sproul was in this somehow. Those explosions had been set by a white man—perhaps by a renegade, but it was equally possible that it was by one of Sproul’s men.

  They might try that again. He thought of it, and knew it was likely, but there was nothing to be done except to try and spot any man carrying a package and trying to get at the walls. Maybe he was already there, maybe he had arrived with the stampeding horses and the Indians that followed. But Kilrone thought not. The man who set those mines was no gambler; he believed in safety first. He would watch his chance, move in, then get away quickly.

  Kilrone stretched out his tired legs, and worked the fingers of his gun hand.

  “I wish Frank understood about us,” he said to Denise. “He’s a good man.”

  She nodded, twisting her hands in her lap. “Nothing I could do would ever make him believe it,” she said. “I tried.”

  His thoughts turned to Betty Considine. He remembered her face when she had shot that Indian. There had been an unexpected fierceness in her eyes. He smiled a little at the thought, remembering a line from an old story about a woman fit to bear a race of warriors…well, she was the kind.

  How much dam
age had they done, he wondered. Not so much as they hoped, he was sure, for it had always been so in battles between the Indian and the white man. The latter was inclined to exaggerate the number killed. The Indian had a way of vanishing when shot at, and many a white man who believed he had killed an Indian had not even scratched him.

  After a bit he got to his feet and prowled the building like a caged animal, checking each window and each of the people in turn. From the end window of the building, he called across to Ryerson in the hospital. It was Lahey who answered.

  “The Sarge is about done in,” he said. “He’s used up. He fell asleep as soon as he crawled to his bed, but he was right in there, throwin’ lead with the best of us.”

  “Can you stick it?”

  “Seems like. One more time, anyway.”

  “Lahey, you and Reinhardt get what medicines and bandages together you can handle. We may have to abandon that building.”

  Then from the window nearest the warehouse, he called across a distance of scarcely twelve feet. If any of the buildings had to be held, it was the warehouse, but getting the children and women across the intervening space would be a very dangerous thing to try.

  “McCracken,” he said, when the man had appeared, “how are you over there?”

  “We’re all right. Not that we couldn’t use another man. Mendel’s in bad shape, and no use to us.”

  Kilrone turned his head slightly. “Ryan, come here.” When the teamster was beside him at the window, he said, “They need help over there. Want to chance it?”

  Ryan studied the windows, and the space between. He touched his tongue to his dry lips. “Sure, I’ll try.”

  Kilrone turned again. “Teale, you and Rudio get to the front windows. Give Ryan some cover when he crosses. Don’t shoot unless you see somebody aiming this way. I’d like to get him across without drawing their attention.”

  He was thinking of the women and children. Once the Indians suspected they might attempt that passage across, they would be alert for it, and would make the venture almost impossible.

  Ryan climbed to the window sill, looked across, and dropped swiftly to the ground. Three fast steps and he had scrambled through, unseen.

  It had been a reckless thing to do, and Kilrone knew it. He mopped the sweat from his face and sat down. They could hold out here only a little longer; and the window on the side toward the hospital would be under heavy fire from the hospital as soon as the Bannocks took over that building. Moreover, there were Indians right under the walls, impossible to fire upon, and just waiting to leap through a window or to catch anybody who ventured outside. One person they might manage to get across, but any real stir of action would be sure to attract attention.

  Betty came to him. “Barney, have you thought of the roof? There’s a trap door.”

  “Is there one over there?”

  “There is in all the buildings, in case of fire on the roof.”

  He considered that. With planks or joists they might bridge the gap, then lay doors or something across them. But twelve feet…it was quite a distance. And it would have to be done at night.

  He went back to the window next to the hospital and called in a low voice. This time it was Reinhardt who came to the window. Could they make it across to the warehouse, Kilrone asked.

  Reinhardt hesitated, and when he replied it was in German. Kilrone, who knew enough of the language for a simple conversation, responded. There might be Indians between the buildings, but it would have to be chanced.

  Reinhardt vanished from the window, and Lahey appeared. When Reinhardt returned he said, “The Sarge says to leave him. He doesn’t think he can make it.”

  “He’ll make it. Get him over.”

  Again the distance was twelve feet. Reinhardt climbed to the sill, a bundle on his back, a white bundle that he had covered with an army blanket. He dropped to the ground and walked swiftly across and was helped through the window.

  Lahey followed, half carrying Ryerson. They had brought their rifles and most of the ammunition they still had left.

  Suddenly Betty was at Kilrone’s side. “Barney,” she said softly, “I didn’t want to alarm the others, but there’s somebody in the loft…above the ceiling.”

  He stood very still. He could feel the coldness inside him. The Indians were on the roof, then, and some had come through the trap door and were crouched in the loft, waiting.

  When the next attack started, they would drop through the trap door and be inside.

  Chapter 13

  *

  HOW MANY WERE up there? He listened, tuning his ears to sounds from above, trying not to hear those about him. At first he heard nothing, then he sensed a faint stirring, no more than a rat might make. But he doubted if any rats were left up there after all the shooting, for rats had a way of seeking safety in time.

  How many? Not more than four or five, probably—the Indians who had stayed against the walls after the last attack. He went over to where Ryerson lay, his face gray with weakness, his eyes hollow and shining with fever.

  “Tim,” Kilrone said quietly, “did you help build this place?”

  “I had charge of the detail. Lieutenant Rybolt was in command of the operation.”

  “What’s above us? Is there an attic?”

  “Nothing you’d call that. There’s about four feet of space up there. You see our ceiling…one-inch boards, nailed to two-by-fours. There’s no floor in the attic, if you want to call it that. There’s a slanting roof, with just enough pitch to drain it, and a parapet around the roof about two feet high.”

  “Keep your six-gun handy, Tim, there’s somebody up there.”

  Moving swiftly, he lined up all the men who could stand, and spaced them three feet apart. In their places, to watch from the windows, he placed Denise, Betty, Stella Rybolt, Alice Dunivant, and Martha Whitman.

  “At the word,” he said to the men in a low voice, “fire into the ceiling. Take a step forward and fire again; another step, and another volley. We’ll repeat in the other room. We may not get them all, but we’ll make them uncomfortable up there.”

  The men were ready. In another instant Kilrone spoke. “Fire!”

  The smashing roar of the rifles was deafening in the confined space. Each man took a step, fired; stepped, and fired again. Then swiftly they moved to the other room, and fired into the ceiling from there. Dust fell…there was a moment of silence, then a groan. From a crack in the ceiling drops of blood trickled and fell.

  There was a faint stir above them, and three rifles centered on the spot and fired. A violent movement like a kick followed, then a weakening struggle.

  “Are we going up there?” Lahey asked.

  “Not yet,” Kilrone said. “I don’t want to stick my head through that trap door, and I don’t think you do.”

  The powder smoke made their heads ache. They crouched near the floor, letting it slowly find its way out of the broken windows and door.

  Headquarters was a shambles now, the windows and door blocked with broken furniture, the floor littered with empty shells. Broken boxes of ammunition lay about, and in the corners stood the barrels of water, the supply already much lowered.

  Kilrone stretched out on the floor beside Ryerson and Lahey. Reinhardt, Teale, and Rudio were actually asleep, some distance away. Hopkins, Kells, and the women stood guard at the windows.

  He felt utter exhaustion. There was a dull, throbbing ache in his head, complete weariness in every muscle. He lay still, his eyes closed, trying to think.

  He believed it was unlikely the Indians would try again to enter through the roof. But somebody might still be alive up there. This was probably so, and a live Indian, especially a wounded one, was a dangerous Indian. Yet if they wished to escape, that was the way they had to go.

  He thought again of Gus Rybolt, headed this way and not far off now, riding forward unsuspectingly with his guard of six men. Iron Dave Sproul himself or some trusted envoy could meet the detail in a likely spot for a
n ambush. Kilrone felt quite sure that Sproul would send somebody else, some expendable man, and let him be killed along with the others. He would use Indians, for they would prefer the rifles he had to the money in the wagon.

  The chances were the man would be sent to warn Rybolt. Sent to a specific place where there would be an excuse for him to wait and not ride on. That would mean a cross-place that offered concealment for a good body of Indians; a chance for one quick, smashing volley, with several guns aimed at each man. The whole thing could be over in a matter of minutes, Rybolt and his guard massacred, Sproul’s messenger dead, or if he did get away, only able to say that he had been sent there to warn Rybolt.

  The more Kilrone thought of it, the more he believed this was what would happen. He hoped he was wrong, but he could not make himself believe it.

  And how long before help would arrive here at the post? There was no calculating on that. If they started back at once…if they took a leisurely or a hurried pace…if they were not attacked themselves…

  It would be one day more…two days…And when they arrived there would still be four or more Indians for every white soldier.

  But Paddock would be sober; and sober, he was a good soldier. And Mellett would be there, a fighting veteran who knew what to do and when to do it.

  He was dead-tired, weary in every part of his body. And Barnes Kilrone, ex-officer in the Army of the United States, thinking of these things, fell asleep at last.

  Betty came to him with a blanket and stretched it over him. Denise Paddock looked at her and smiled wanly. “He is a good man, Betty, one of the best. A good man and a gentleman.”

  Betty looked down at him soberly. “I think so,” she said, “but I don’t think he has even noticed me.”

  “Don’t be foolish! Barnes Kilrone never missed seeing a pretty woman in his life. Particularly,” Denise added, “if she had good legs, and yours are beautiful.”

  Betty flushed. “I don’t think he knows I’m alive,” she said.

  “He’s been rather busy,” Denise said dryly; “give him time.” She looked over at Kilrone. “This is his life, you know. I know of no man so trained and conditioned for fighting. I mean mentally conditioned. Frank himself has often said that. I think one of the reasons why he believes I still love Barnes is because he admires him so much. He said he never knew a man with such an immediate and instinctive grasp of a battle situation.”