Double Mountain Crossing Read Online Free Page B

clatter among the high branches before it began to fall, bouncing from limb to limb before it landed fruitlessly on the earth
    As the ten gauge scattergun roared out time and time again to spatter buckshot in the timber all round him, Short-Lance crawled away. His right thigh was aflame with agony, and the zigzag trail he left on the forest floor was liberally smeared with his blood. Swift-Foot found him twenty feet from the tethered ponies, lying exhausted and bloody after dragging his crippled legs through the grass.
    â€œYou ran quick,” Short-Lance accused, teeth clenched against the pain.
    Swift-Foot pointed to a huge black bruise that discolored his scrawny chest in the moonlight, “That bay horse, he packs a big kick. I got him into the timber but then he knocked me flat on my back and I thought he was going to stomp me but he turned and ran back to where the fight was. He was wild, that crazy horse.”
    Short-Lance spat into the grass in disgust. “I think someone killed a skunk. Our medicine is bad. That white man fights like a grizzly.”
    â€œYes,” Swift-Foot agreed sadly, thinking of the fine bay with the black ears that would have won him renown among the tribe, “I think we got very bad medicine. Polecat medicine.”

    ***

    The sparks jumped across onto the fresh wood and burst into flickering light as Morgan raked through the embers of the fire. He set the coffee-pot on to simmer again, aware he would need all the help he could get to stay awake through the night. There was every chance the Kiowas would make another run to finish what they had begun. It looked like they needed fresh horses to take them wherever they were headed, so he had renewed the picket ropes to keep his two horses near, as much for his protection as theirs.
    It had been a quick fight and he could not understand why they had quit and pulled out just when it seemed they had got the drop on him. He shrugged and poked at the coals. Those redskin hombres sure were funny creatures. Sometimes the slightest thing could spook them; an owl hooting or a freak flash of lightning. Any damn thing. Maybe they figured their medicine had turned bad on them, who knows? One thing he did know, and that was he was grateful they had given up when they did. He didn’t fancy some cocky brave hanging his hair on the lodge pole of a Kiowa tipi.
    He’d been lucky. The arrow he thought had gone clear through his arm had actually pinned him to the tree not by his skin but by the thick material of his shirt. The tip had ripped across the side of his upper arm, accounting for the pain, but it was only a flesh wound. It would heal easy and wouldn’t prevent him working at his find. Hell, only an arrow through his heart would keep him away from that gold now. He’d fight mountain lions, grizzly bears and all the Indians the Nations could send against him, but the only way any of them would keep him from working on that gold vein would be to kill him stone dead.
    The coffee was hot and he poured a cupful. It was thick and dark, bitter too but it tasted good. He drank and watched the shadows in the timber. If they were still out there he was ready to meet them head on.
    The ten gauge shotgun, cool now, lay across his knees, loaded and ready.

    ***

    â€œWhat do we do now?” asked Swift-Foot, looking down at his friend. Short Lance winced from the pain in his flayed thigh as he wiped away the blood. In the light from the tiny campfire he could see the black marks under the skin betraying the embedded buckshot. Hands clasped tightly round the burning pain, tears ran freely down his face.
    â€œFirst you will have to get these bullets out of my leg with your knife. When that is done we will have to go back to the white man’s camp and bring back the body of our leader.”
    Swift-Foot noticed how Short-Lance had avoided using Comes-Walking’s name. Now he was dead none of the Indians would ever refer to him