The Rushers Read Free

began.
    ‘Here they come!’ whooped the Kid, jerking a box of bullets from his saddle-pouch and sprinting after Dusty.
    Faced by the awe-inspiring charge, the recruits showed signs of panic. Even the Ysabel Kid, who usually claimed that only Comanche and Apache were real bad Indians, conceded that the attacking Hunkpapa Sioux looked tolerable mean hombres and right likely to make things lively in a fight.
    Leaping from his saddle, Dusty glared at a young corporal who seemed as panic-stricken as the rest of the men.
    ‘Corporal!’ Dusty roared, just as the young non-com prepared to bolt for safety. ‘What the hell are you doing?’
    His voice stiffened the men. It might hold a Texas drawl but through it ran the cold hardness of a tough officer who spoke and expected immediate obedience, the sort of man who was obeyed instantly—or else, somebody wished he had been. The corporal threw a scared look over his shoulder, took in Dusty’s uniform and did not doubt for a minute that their new commanding officer, Captain Marcus van Druten, stood behind him.
    ‘We was try—’
    ‘Then don’t!’ barked Dusty. ‘Are your men loaded?’
    The corporal clearly did not know but Dusty knew he would have no time to check. He could only hope that the sergeant-major gave the order to reload before taking lead.
    ‘Take aim!’ he ordered and the rifles lined. ‘Line carefully and make every shot count. Fire!’
    The resulting volley was ragged and Dusty roared out an order which sent hands to working the trap-door breeches of the Springfield carbines, then shoving home another round as the empty cases flew out. Three Sioux had gone down before the volley but from either end of the line came the whip-like cracking of Mark and the Kid’s rifles. Neither of them needed any telling what they must do and acted fast. The rapid fire cut among the Indians, emptying the backs of racing ponies or tumbling the animals.
    A scared young recruit twisted around towards Dusty and the small Texan hurled forward. This was no time for gentle words or actions. One hint of weakness would allow the men time to let their fear over-ride the discipline drove into them since joining the army. Dusty sent the sabre point into the ground, then his right hand came around, the back of it driving into the soldier’s face and spinning him around into the wagon.
    ‘The next man who looks away from the Sioux will be shot!’ Dusty warned. ‘Fire at random. Keep firing!’
    Under the hail of fire the Sioux attack broke, splitting and carrying on around the oblong of wagons. Dusty watched. The flanks, not being faced with the solid awe-inspiring rush, handled themselves well, keeping up a fire which held the Sioux back. Now and then a brave or small group, would try a rush at the wagons. They came fast and were the worst danger of all. Let them get inside the circle and the rest would take heart, pressing home their attack so superior weight of numbers must crush down the soldiers.
    Dusty seemed to be everywhere at once, racing from point to point, always when needed, stiffening and directing the defence. He bore a charmed life for he had become the prime target of the Sioux. Their medicine had been made on the assumption that the solider-coats were leaderless. Now a new leader had come in and led the defence.
    In the hectic moments following the charge, Dusty made a complete circle of the wagon area. He did not have time to speak with the sergeant-major in passing, for the man lay by a wagon, his tunic ripped open and his shoulder bandaged. The medical orderly looked up at Dusty, opened his mouth to speak, thought better of it and darted to where a soldier lay on the ground with an arrow buried flight deep in his chest.
    On reaching the side where the first rush came Dusty saw it could safely be left to Mark and the Kid. They knew how to control men and their repeating rifles gave the eight soldiers heart to fight.
    Then it was over. The Sioux pulled back in