In the winding single street of the town were gathered perhaps thirty or forty men. All were carrying weapons of some description, mainly rifles and scatterguns. There were also four, maybe five women. These also had guns and looked to me as though they knew how to handle them as well. I wondered if this was the first time that this little place had been menaced by an attack of this kind.
Clinton came up to me and young Tom Rawlings and I saw that he was carrying a rifle under his arm and, in the other hand held a sawn-off scattergun. He said to Tom,
‘This is good for close-up work, but don’t fire until your target is only twenty feet or so away.’ He handed over the weapon and then turned to me, saying, ‘You ever handle anything other than that pistol at your hip?’
‘Shotgun a few times, but I never got the hang of it.’
‘Best you stick to the pistol then. You want to stay here and help guard the little ’uns?’
‘There’s children here?’ I asked in surprise.
‘One or two. You want to go down the way and set with them and another woman, or will you come and lend your gun? We can do with every bit of help.’
My heart was pounding away like a steam hammer because this was the first time that I had really been given any choice in what I had been mixed up in since leaving home. In all the other incidents I hadn’t really had time to weigh up the advantages and disadvantages. Now, if I took part in something, I would only have my own self to blame if things went wrong. I said,
‘I’m game to come along of you and the others.’
‘That’s right,’ said Clinton. ‘I thought you would.’ I wondered how old he thought I was or whether things were in such a desperate case that he wasn’t really fussed about such a minor detail.
The riders had been spotted approaching from roughly the south, which suggested that these might be the same boys who had burned Fort Richmond to the ground. The way that the town of Eldorado was arranged was that it lay along the flank of a large hill with a craggy, almost cliff-like side. It was here that the mine workings had been established.
The town curved around the side of the hill and since the riders were heading straight towards us, this meant that any defenders attempting to prevent enemies getting close to the town would have to set up on the open land stretching away from the hill.
I said to Clinton, ‘You don’t think these might be the cavalry who left Fort Richmond last night, like I told you?’
‘Thought on that. If so, then it’ll do no harm to meet ’em halfway. I wouldn’t have thought it, though. We’ll see.’
I hadn’t been looking forward to standing in the open grassland facing an oncoming rush of ruthless Comanche warriors, but it wasn’t as bad as I had feared. At different times masses of rock had broken away from the hill: everything from great boulders to loose scree. I hadn’t seen this, because we had come to the town from a different angle.
What it came to, then, was that we each selected a handy boulder or chunk of rock to shelter behind, so that we had the town at our back and the plain in front of us. When we started setting up there, I said to Clinton,
‘I don’t see any riders. You think they might have passed us by?’
‘No, they were a right smart distance off when Lonny saw them. He could only make out the dust they was kicking up. No reason to think they’re galloping. If they are coming on at a trot, they might not be here for another quarter-hour yet.’
Tom Rawlings went off to join a bunch of men some distance away, which was not an altogether displeasing circumstance. I had had about enough of his company to last me for a good long while and had no inclination to fight alongside him. I found myself crouching behind a large rock in the lee of which was a grim-faced woman of about forty. She said,
‘What brings you here, honey?’
‘It’s a long story, ma’am …’ I began.
‘I’ll be bound,’ she said. ‘So happen it will keep until after we drive off those varmints.’
I saw that the woman had, resting on the rock behind which we were sheltering, an old-looking but no doubt serviceable musket. At her side was a flask of powder, a pile of balls and scraps of lint. The sight of these provisions reminded me that my own flask was in the saddlebag on the pony and that I had neglected to consider the fact that two of the chambers in my pistol were empty and I had not the wherewithal to do anything about it. I said shyly,
‘I don’t suppose you could let me have a pinch of powder for my piece, could you, ma’am?’
At this, the stern visage of the woman split into a grin and she gave a wheezing chuckle.
‘Lordy,’ she said, all but overcome with mirth, ‘If that don’t beat all! You sit there and ask me for a pinch of powder, like you might be begging a little snuff. You’re something else again, you know that, child? Here, help yourself to the makings.’
I thanked her and then proceeded to load the two chambers of my pistol which I had emptied at the bandits, what seemed like an age ago. The woman watched me without speaking until I had finished and then remarked,
‘You surely handle that gun easily. I’m guessing that you’ve had much experience.’
‘Only in firing at targets, in general,’ I replied. Then, because this was the first conversation I had really had with a woman since it all happened, I added, ‘Apart from two road agents I shot, that is.’
‘You shot ’em? They die of it?’
‘Yes ma’m, the both of them.’
The woman shook her head and repeated what she had said earlier: ‘If that don’t beat all!’
Our chatting was interrupted at this point by a man who was positioned as lookout on a nearby slope calling,
‘They’s a-comin’!’
I caught my breath and peeped nervously over the top of the boulder, to see that a group of riders, still the better part of a mile away from what I was able to judge, were now bearing down on our position. It was hard to gauge accurately in that brief glimpse, but I thought that there must have been upwards of fifty horses.
‘You goin’ to cock your piece or just sit there pantin’ like a hog in a heat wave?’ enquired the woman at my side. ‘You want to have the hysterics, now ain’t the best o’ times.’
These sharp words worked to their purpose and caused me to collect myself. I cocked the pistol and then looked once more over the rock. As I did so, those with rifles and muskets began to open up on the oncoming riders. I knew that there was little to be gained from firing until the men were practically on top of us. Firing a pistol at a moving target at that distance would have been a waste of powder and lead. All I could do was wait until the enemy were closer.
Not so the woman next to me, who was firing and reloading every twenty seconds or so. So proficient was she with her musket that I was ashamed to recollect how long it had taken me to reload on the rare occasions when I had fired a rifle or scattergun. From the moment that we heard the first shot she maintained a steady rate of fire of perhaps three shots a minute, which I found astoundingly fast.
I looked one more time over the top of the rock and was relieved to see that the riders were swerving away on both sides and that some had even turned tail to run. It was hard to be sure, but I didn’t think that any of the shooting had been coming from them. If I didn’t act fast, I would end up being the only one who had not discharged her weapon, and so I fired three times at the confused mass of riders who were now a hundred yards or so from us.
Then the one-sided battle was over and the remainder of their force had retreated, leaving twenty or thirty men and horses lying out on the plain. It felt like something of an anticlimax: hardly a fight at all. At the very least I had supposed that I might be able to shoot at close hand one of the warriors bearing down upon us. Instead, they had gone without a real fight.
I guess that I ought to explain what had happened, based on what was later known of the Comanche invasion that spring, otherwise readers will most likely be scratching their heads and asking why those boys just cut and run when the going got hot.
What had happened was this. Some medicine man had begun a crazy dance which, when undertaken, made the dancers invulnerable against the white men’s bullets in battle. There were only two catches. First off was where those who had joined in this spook dance mustn’t use any of the white man’s ways themselves which, for starters, meant abjuring guns. This naturally put the Indians at a disadvantage when fighting in open battle.
The other thing was that the braves were only safe as long as they had perfect faith in the god or ghosts or whatever it was. If they wavered in their belief, then the bullets could slay them. When their friends were cut down in battle they could say to themselves: ‘Oh, so and so didn’t have as much faith as me. No wonder he’s been killed!’ Mind, I have seen this same line adopted by white Christians at river-crossing camp revival meetings, so it’s not limited to the Indians!
After the Comanches had fled some of the men went out to tally up their losses. They counted twenty-seven dead men. Our side didn’t lose a single person, sustained not even so much as a scratch. There was general cheerfulness and good-natured feeling all round after the Indians had left or been defeated or whatever you cared to call it.
Some of the men, and also one or two of the women, came over to make my acquaintance, word having spread that there was a young girl in britches who was a sight to see. Once again, young Rawlings was left in the shade and I could see him lurking in the background, looking sulky and discontented.
Now if I had been feeling better disposed towards Tom Rawlings, then I might have agreed either to stay in Eldorado a while longer or perhaps even to carry on down the trail with the soldier I somehow seemed to have hitched up with. As it was, I couldn’t face the prospect of spending any more time in his company. He was cowardly, bad-tempered and as sulky as a bear. I was damned if I knew why I should not ditch him now that the opportunity had presented itself. After all, he was safe here and maybe some of the citizens of Eldorado would be able to lend him a hand.
For my own part, I had endured about as much of him as I felt able to do and since I owed him nothing, I resolved to start off south- east again, which was, as you will recall, my original plan before meeting up with Tom Rawlings.
That evening though, a couple of the town’s folk insisted that we stay at least for the night. The woman I had been next to during the attack was called Martha Hammond and she would not hear of me going until she had had a chance to hear my tale. As was a regular feature now, she appeared to have considerably less time for Rawlings, asking bluntly, when he wasn’t present,
‘How come you pick up with a deserter?’
I ate with Martha and her family that evening, while Rawlings stayed in the company of Clinton, who appeared to be a bachelor. This suited me well enough, as I had had enough of Rawlings’s company to last me a good long while. As we ate, Martha and her husband Chris plied me with questions and showed a flattering interest in all my adventures.
Martha had told him about my confessing to shooting dead the men who had set out to rob me. He asked me about this in some detail, listening quietly to my account, without evincing any sign of unfavourable judgement. When he had heard the whole story, he nodded and said briefly,
‘Good work!’
This made me swell with pride, which is a strange thing to say about what some would say amounted to a case of murder.
Martha and Chris gave me a shakedown on the floor and I slept like a babe, not awakening until the sun had risen. My hosts would by no means hear of my leaving before they had furnished me with a good breakfast. As we ate, Martha asked what my plans were and when I told her I was leaving, she got to her feet and went off abruptly without saying why. I was anxious that I had somehow offended her, but she returned with a jute sack containing a loaf of bread, some cheese and one or two other things. I tried to decline, but her face grew so fierce that I came to the conclusion that it would be more polite to accept the gift graciously. I took affectionate leave of the Hammonds and then went over to collect my pony. There remained only the unattractive task of letting Tom Rawlings know that I would not be taking him with me on my travels.
‘You can’t just jettison me like a bit o’ baggage you got no more use for!’ exclaimed Rawlings, when once I had apprised him of my intentions, ‘It ain’t right.’
‘Right don’t enter into it,’ I told him, ‘I got business elsewhere and you’d only slow me down.’
‘You think you’re better than me, ain’t that the truth of it? I see the way you been sucking up to everybody, makin’ ‘em all think you something special.’
‘Never thought on it at all, you want the truth. It’s nothing to me what folk think of you.’
When he could see that this tack wouldn’t answer with me, he tried another tactic, saying,
‘Ah come on, Beth. We get on fine. Don’t leave me stranded here.’ Since I had known him less than forty-eight hours in total, I hardly knew how to respond to this, so I didn’t try.
Clinton had stashed my tack in a shed. I took it out and set about preparing the pony for travel. I knew that Rawlings was a little vexed with me, but I didn’t realize quite to what extent until I took the saddle and bridle out to the pony and began tacking up. The young soldier trailed out after me, and as I was fastening the saddle girth he unexpectedly lashed out at me with his foot; catching me painfully in my ribs. I was momentarily winded, but by no means incapacitated, and instantly whirled round, ready to get to grips with him. I didn’t get the chance, though.
By the time I had stood up and was ready to grapple with the young man who had taken me by surprise in this way, I glimpsed a flash of movement in the corner of my eye and the man called Clinton came charging out of nowhere to crash into young Tom Rawlings and send him sprawling in the dirt. Before Rawlings had a chance to get to his feet, Clinton said,
‘You young scoundrel! Kick a girl, would you? Stand up and take a kick at me now, if it’s a fight your after. By God, I never saw such a thing!’
‘It’s all right, sir,’ I said, ‘I can take care of my own self.’
‘I don’t doubt it for a moment, child. But I’ll be da… I mean to say as I’ll be blowed if I watch anybody kick a girl like that and not show ’em where they’re goin’ wrong.’
By this time I had the pony all ready to go and Clinton said to me,
‘You’re really off, are you? Well, you got more courage than any person your age I ever knew or heard of. Good luck.’ As an afterthought, he added, ‘This fellow not going with you?’
I shook my head and said, ‘Not hardly.’ Then I mounted up.
Clinton said, ‘God bless you, girl. You take good care o’ yourself, you hear what I tell you?’
‘Goodbye sir, and thank you.’
Having completed all the goodbyes that I felt the occasion demanded I was away, trotting down the slope which led out on to the plain.
Now that I was free of the encumbrance of a companion on foot, I was free to fly along at my own speed. It felt good to be free of the town and the people in it. All I wanted now was to get back to a Pony Express station and hand over the mochila to somebody working for the company. It had become something of a point of honour now, that I was going to make sure that no harm befell those letters with which I had been entrusted. This might perhaps sound strange, but I had really begun to think of myself as being an employee of the company. While they were in my care, those letters would not be tampered with or harmed.
The land stretching south was open grassland. To my right, which is to say the east, were hills and, rising behind them, some rocky-looking little cliffs: higher than hills but not quite mountains. I figured that if I kept riding south and then, when the opportunity presented itself, veered somewhat right, then I would be on the right trail. Unless my calculations were greatly out this should then bring me across the trail that I had taken when heading towards Smoky Mountain.
When you’re young all life is an adventure, and when you are as young as I was then, then those adventures are more like something from a story book than from real life. Despite my life having been cast into hazard on more than one occasion in the days since leaving St Joseph, I was having a whale of a time and was still greatly excited at the prospect of telling my family all about the time I had had.
I was making good progress throughout the morning, trotting mainly, but breaking into a canter from time to time. The idea that there could be any more adventures, let alone danger, in store for me simply did not cross my mind. As far as I was concerned I was all but home and dry.
It was while I was in this felicitous frame of mind that my attention wandered from the task in hand and I failed utterly to notice the greatly increasing number of prairie-dog burrows, which dotted the grassy plain across which I was travelling.
I had been thrown by a horse before in my life, sustaining a broken collarbone on one occasion, when I was much younger, but things had been going so free and easy that morning that it never for a moment occurred to me that such a misfortune might be about to strike me that day.
This turned out to be a mercy, for when the pony came to a dramatic and total halt I went sailing over his head as limp as a rag doll, having had no prior warning of anything untoward. The fact that I flew through the air and landed like that, so floppy, was what saved me from injury. When you’re anticipating a tumble there is a natural tendency to stick out a hand to break the fall. this all too often results in a broken wrist or even worse.
As it was, I landed heavily on my side, winded but unhurt. It was only when I clambered to my feet and went to see what had happened that I realized that I was in some not inconsiderable trouble. The pony was lying, struck all of a heap and making pitiful whinnying noises suggestive of great pain and distress.
You didn’t need to be a veterinarian to see at once that something was seriously amiss with the beast, for his right foreleg was twisted forward at an impossible angle. I could see at a glance that the leg was badly broken.
Now, much as I felt sorry for the horse, I was all too keenly aware of my own peril: stranded in the middle of nowhere with a large party of angry Comanches on the warpath somewhere not too far away. There was nothing to be gained from lingering there on that barren plain, where I was plainly visible for miles in any direction.
I was sorry that I had let the pony come to grief and it was also a matter of some regret that I should be compelled to abandon the mail which had been entrusted to me. The idea, though, of burdening myself with the mochila and trying to carry that along with me on foot was not to be thought of.
It remained only for me to perform a last service for the suffering animal, which was making feeble attempts to rise and then shrieking in agony when it moved its leg. I took out my pistol and cocked it. Then I went over to the horse and stroked his head.
I had seen a pony being destroyed like this before, but on that occasion I little thought that I would be called upon one day to perform this melancholy office myself. It took some time to grit my teeth and put the barrel of the gun into the creature’s ear. There was another long pause before I could bring myself to squeeze the trigger.
I always look forward to the new installment. Your writing flows easily. Thanks.
This is the best Western I have read in a long time!