Warriors of the Night Read Free Page B

force it to retreat.
    “Don’t move,” Anabel whispered. “Maybe it will go away.”
    “Good Christ, señorita,” Ben hoarsely replied. The rattler looked like it had no intention whatsoever of going away. Ben eased his hand toward the hilt of his saber. A gunshot would alert the war party below, but Ben figured if he could just free his sword, silent steel might save the day. He gripped the scabbard in his left hand and, with his right hand curled around the hilt, began to slowly slide the blade out to where it would do some good. Sweat beaded on Ben’s forehead and rolled down into his eyes, with stinging effect. The buzzing of the rattles seemed deafening in the confines between the jumble of rocks and underbrush and the base of the limestone cliff. Anabel started to caution the lieutenant, then reconsidered; she did not want to run the risk of distracting him. The rattler’s head wavered between the man and woman as if uncertain which to kill first. Then it struck.
    Even expecting the attack, the savage swiftness with which it came so startled Ben that he leaped to his feet. He parried those gaping fangs with the length of his scabbard and struck with the saber, slashing again and again at the writhing creature. The tip of the sword shattered against stone. Ben didn’t care. He continued to hack at the rattler until it lay dead upon the blood-smeared rocks. Then, with the adrenaline still pumping through his veins, he slowly turned. The hairs rose on the back of his neck. He was standing completely in the open! He looked downslope and found himself staring into the upturned faces of the Comanches, who had seen the flash of his saber as sunlight glinted off the blade.
    Spotted Calf raised his war lance and loosed a savage cry. “See, my brothers? The All-Father has shown us our enemies!” Then he charged the hiding place along with the war party, who sensed an easy kill. Ben kicked the rattler’s carcass downhill in disgust and tossed his saber on the ground. He took up his carbine, cocked it, and looked at Anabel.
    “Work your way around to the top. Find another place to hole up. I’ll hold them as long as I can,” Ben said.
    “No,” Anabel flatly replied, cradling the shotgun in the crook of her arm. “The daughter of Don…” She caught herself in mid-sentence, shrugged, and lamely said, “I will not run.”
    Ben stared down at the Comanches as they swept across the broken terrain at a dead run. He had never seen finer horsemen; however, two of the braves were having trouble keeping up and appeared to be wounded. Ben took stock of his own weapons, the two single-shot pistols in his belt and a muzzle-loading carbine. He and the señorita would have to make every shot count. He caught Anabel staring at him.
    “You are from Philadelphia?” she asked.
    “Well, yes—sort of.” There wasn’t time to give an account of his past.
    Anabel sighed. Philadelphia? She did not expect much help from the easterner.
    Ben stiffened as the war cries filled the air. The braves were almost in range, coming full on in a ragged frontal attack. Ben shouldered the carbine and sighted on the brave in the lead, the one holding the feathered lance. Ben swallowed. His mouth was dry. He did not think of dying. The words of his father, Kit McQueen, sounded in his mind: “Pick your target. Let your air out. Squeeze gentle.” Ben concentrated on the Comanche in his sights, exhaled slowly as the brave started up the slope. Ben curled his finger around the trigger.
    A gun boomed, and Spotted Calf clutched at his shoulder and tumbled from horseback. Ben McQueen blinked and stared in disbelief at the carbine in his hands. The barrel was still cold, its load unfired. Gunshots filled the air, fired methodically and with deadly accuracy. Ben whirled and looked up to see a buckskin-clad Texas Ranger. Black smoke curled from the twelve-inch gun barrels of his Patterson Colt revolvers. He raised and fired with his left hand, then his