Rebel Yell Read Online Free

watercourse was Bison Creek. It was an ideal spot for those wishing to conduct their business far from prying eyes. It was well-watered. Sheer, unscalable cliffs shielded against attack from the west. Rockslides, boulders, and fans provided plenty of cover.
    The gunrunners were massed in a shallow basin at the foot of the cliffs south of Bison Creek.
    A cleft in the cliffs served as a makeshift corral, its open end roped off. Guards were posted to keep watch over it.
    Comanches were passionate horse thieves. If they could steal the gunrunners’ horses, they would, and damn the consequences!
    The unhorsed gun wagon stood in the center of the basin. Men were grouped around it in a half-circle facing east, the cliffs protecting its rear from the west. The gang was well-armed with repeating long guns and six-shooters.
    The Comanches appeared not in the east where the dust cloud had first been sighted but in the south near the cliffs.
    â€œLooky there!” Half-Shot cried, indicating a second dust cloud to the south. It showed near the cliffs several miles away, much closer than the dust to the east.
    The south cloud moved north toward them while the east cloud stayed where it was. Strong sunlight streamed down from overhead, gilding the southern dust plume. At its base rode a knot of mounted men, ten in number. They came on at a steady walk.
    â€œThat’s them all right,” Melbourne said. “Dirty stinking redskins!”
    â€œThey’re not so bad,” Hump Colway said.
    â€œThe hell you say!”
    â€œNot as bad as some white folks. At least they don’t try to rub my hump for luck.”
    â€œIs that lucky?” Chait asked, genuinely curious.
    â€œNot for them,” the hunchback said. “The last few who tried, I shot them to pieces. Lucky for me, though,” he added. “Must be.”
    â€œHow do you figure?”
    â€œI’m still here,” Hump said.
    â€œIs that so great?” Melbourne said, snickering.
    â€œTo me it is. Beats being dead,” the hunchback said.
    The Comanche riders narrowed the distance, closing on Bison Creek hollow.
    â€œHuh! They don’t look like much,” Sully said, disdainful.
    â€œReckon you don’t look like much to them,” Hump said. “You don’t look like much to me.”
    Sully knew better than to mess with Hump and kept his mouth shut. He was worried about the Comanches, not Hump’s slighting remark.
    The Comanche riders were short stocky men riding small scruffy horses. But they were killers, horseback warriors. The horses were Indian ponies born of a long line of wild mustangs with endurance far beyond their more domesticated cousins.
    The braves were Quesadas, most aloof of all Comanche tribes, making their home deep in the Llano. They generally shunned not only whites and their works but their fellow red men as well. Their standoffishness served them well, protecting them from catching the whites’ diseases such as smallpox.
    Somewhere in the Llano’s trackless wastes lay their homeland, its whereabouts unknown to whites. It was hidden somewhere in the expanse but where, no living white man could say.
    The brave at the point sported a lone feather rising vertically from the back of his head, held in place by a headband. He was Eagle Feather, leader of the band. He raised a hand, signaling a halt. The Comanches reined in, watchful and waiting.
    Honest Bob motioned for them to advance and they rode in.
    The braves showed wide faces, high cheekbones, dark watchful eyes. Thick, greasy, shoulder-length black hair was worn loose or in braids. Most of them wore white men’s shirts—plaid or patterned, open and unbuttoned—and knee-high moccasin boots. Some wore breeches, others loincloths.
    A few bows and arrows, war hatchets, and a lance or two were seen among them, but were far outnumbered by firearms. Firearms were the weapon of choice. Some were armed with long guns, rifles, and