Warriors of the Night Read Free

Ben kicked free and slid from the saddle as the mare went down. The soldier looked over his shoulder and saw that the señorita had once more halted the carriage. Ben turned toward the howling Comanches. Well, he could stay and die or run like hell. A whirling arrow missed him by inches. Another buried itself in the road at his feet. Ben was armed with an army-issue carbine, a saber, and a pair of .36-caliber single-shot percussion pistols. He ought to be able to make a heroic stand lasting all of thirty seconds. The hell with it! Ben turned and dodged another volley of flint-tipped arrows all the way to the carriage.
    Anabel used her whip on the gelding as Ben crowded onto the seat. The gelding responded, sprang into action, and climbed the rise ahead, while back along the road Spotted Calf led his braves across the dry wash and started up after his quarry. Once again the carriage momentarily disappeared from view. Spotted Calf raised his war lance over his head and called to his braves to double their efforts. His surefooted stallion climbed the last few yards. The carriage was just ahead. He had closed the gap. He didn’t know who the white man was or where he had come from, but it had been plain to see the man was alone. And that made him fair game for a Comanche lance.
    The carriage churned a thick cloud of dust in its wake. Spotted Calf and his warriors ignored the grit, which stung their eyes and burned their lungs. It was time for the kill, before the carriage cleared the foothills and reached the grazing lands along the San Antonio River. This was the moment; now was the time. Thirty yards became twenty, then ten, as the Quahadi war party closed in for the kill. Muskets were loaded by braves who rode at a gallop. Arrows were notched and loosed with such velocity they pierced the carriage’s folding cover. Muskets blasted holes in the back and sides. Spotted Calf rode up alongside the carriage and jabbed his spear in a killing thrust that sawed at the empty air above the riderless seat. The rest of the war party swarmed over the carriage and brought the gelding to a halt.
    Little Coyote had his arrow ready to make a kill. He eased the sinew string and stared at the carriage. Sees the Turtle spat a rifle ball down the barrel of his musket and tamped it in place by striking the gun butt against his thigh. Spotted Calf raged and shoved his war lance into the leather walls, hacking through the sides and back in a series of savage attacks until the folding cover lay broken and shredded in the road.
    “What trickery is this?” asked Little Coyote. “What spirit has carried them off?”
    “This is a bad thing,” one of the wounded braves said. Spotted Calf studied the winding road as a sudden gust of wind swept away the settling dust revealing the hill behind them, fringed with post oaks and cedar. The war chief ignored the superstitious complaints of the braves around him. His attention remained riveted on the wooded slope. The war party fell silent. Even Sees the Turtle ceased his complaining. He waited like the others and watched the hills.
    “I think we’ve lost them,” Ben said, peering over the jumble of limestone rocks and cacti that formed a natural barricade among the deep green scattering of cedars halfway up the slope.
    “You don’t know Comanches,” the young woman beside him coldly remarked.
    “No, I don’t,” he admitted. “Lieutenant Ben McQueen, at your service.” He touched the leather brim of his cap and smiled, hoping to thaw her chilled reserve.
    “I don’t want you at my service.”
    “So I noticed. You just about took my ear off with that buggy whip.”
    Anabel sighed, unable to cling to anger. She did not trust these Anglos. Yet this man had placed himself in harm’s way for her sake. And his idea of abandoning the carriage once out of sight of the Comanches had bought them a little extra time. She softened, and with guarded emotions introduced herself.
    “I am Anabel…