Savage Journey Read online

  It was a mistake. He, too, had been tired, though he never made that an excuse later for what happened. He held himself responsible in every respect.

  He should have taken more precautions, been more alert to what could happen. But he had considered and made his decision. The Comanches, he decided, would be miles away by now, heading for the safety of their village. Kennick had been fully convinced of this. The Comanches only made a fight when the odds were in their favor. A heavily armed cavalry patrol was not a choice opponent, particularly when it meant a head-on clash in open country. The Comanches like to fight on their own terms. If the terms didn’t suit, they headed out fast until they found a situation more to their way of thinking.

  It was this knowledge of Comanche ways that brought Kennick to his decision to make camp. He gave the order for his patrol to dismount. His men gratefully did so and began to build cook fires. Kennick put one man on guard duty, but this was automatic. He was convinced there were no hostiles in the vicinity.

  He was sitting in the shade of a rock overhang, writing out his patrol report. It was his habit to write out the report as he went along, so he would have no trouble with the official one back at the fort, for he hated this and any kind of paperwork.

  The camp area was fairly quiet. The men had finished with eating and cleaning their weapons and were all trying to catch upon some lost sleep. Even O’Hara had allowed himself to relax for a while. Kennick was glad he’d called the halt. The men needed it badly.

  Over at the picket line a horse whinnied nervously. A second joined in, and Kennick glanced up. He looked toward the spot where the guard should have been. The trooper had vanished.

  Kennick came to his feet fast, clawing at his holstered revolver. ‘O’Hara!’ he yelled at the top of his voice.

  The frantic shout was drowned out by a burst of rifle fire. Slugs caromed off the rocks; others slammed into the bodies of prone men.

  There was no chance to fight back; the surprise had been complete, the men unprepared. It had been over in minutes. As the rattle of rifle fire died down, a taunting voice was heard above the fading echoes:

  ‘Listen to the words of Kicking Bear, white men. If any of you still live. Go back to your fort with this message for your leaders. Tell them that Kicking Bear has sworn to destroy them all, to rid the sacred Comanche lands of all whites. And tell them he will do it as easily as he has destroyed you today.’

  The words had bounced back and forth among the rocks, then whispered into silence. A silence that lasted for a long time.

  Somewhere a man moaned; a pain-filled sound. Kennick spun around. Numbly, he moved from man to man, checking each for signs of life. When he had checked every one, he rose and stood motionless, praying for it to be a nightmare vision brought on by the heat, something he would soon wake from. But he knew it was no fantasy.

  Trooper Carse: dead. Trooper Douglas: dead. Trooper Dooley: dead. Trooper Dench: dead. Trooper McBride: dead. Corporal Hanson: dead.

  Trooper Ellis: severely wounded. Corporal Bellman: superficially wounded in the left arm. Sergeant O’Hara: a bullet in the left leg.

  Kennick himself had been untouched. Physically, he had been unharmed. But inside the wound had been deep and severe.

  They had buried the dead and left the place and its stench of death. But it had stayed with Luke Kennick the whole way back. And for a long time after.

  Trooper Ellis died two hours before they arrived back at Fort Cameron. O’Hara’s leg wound put him in a hospital bed for two months.

  There had been a court of inquiry. Kennick told what had happened. He made no attempt to excuse himself, held himself entirely to blame. But to his surprise, the court found him without blame. Though he never knew what was said, he suspected that the testimonies of Corporal Bellman and Sergeant O’Hara had been a lot to do with the decision of the court.

  But it didn’t end there. Griff McBride, brother of Trooper McBride, stood up in the courtroom and screamed at Kennick. He accused him of negligence, called him a murderer, swore that one day he’d get even. And Luke Kennick had left the inquiry with doubts as to his innocence. He had felt bad enough before; Griff McBride’s accusations only deepened the feeling.

  The massacre had been due to his false sense of security. He had been convinced that the Comanches were far away. He had told his men they were safe. He had been wrong, and his men had died. Died because they had trusted him. He was a leader; he held the lives of others in his hands. Their fate depended on the decisions he made. Well, he had made a decision that day, and it had all but wiped out his patrol.

  Two months after the inquiry, Luke Kennick handed in his commission to Colonel Broughton. Nothing that anyone said could change his mind. He had cleared his quarters and ridden out of Fort Cameron.

  Only Colonel Broughton and Sergeant O’Hara had understood that Kennick was doing the only thing possible for him. He had been able to talk to them easily, to explain his thoughts and feelings and doubts. They had been disappointed—hurt even—that they could not persuade him to change his mind to stay and give himself another chance, but they had understood.

  So on a hot July afternoon the gates of Fort Cameron had closed with hollow finality behind Luke Kennick

  Up on the catwalk, Sergeant Brendan O’Hara had watched the figure of the lone rider until it faded into oblivion on the vast, heat-shimmering plain spreading away from Fort Cameron.

  Chapter Three

  Luke Kennick watched O’Hara’s broad figure barrel through the door of the sutler’s store, smiled to himself and followed the sergeant.

  It was cool inside, cool and restful after the sunlight’s glare outside. Kennick remembered the store vividly; and it hadn’t changed. There was the same orderly confusion, the same rich mixture of smells: spices, leather, tobacco, coffee beans. Down at the far end of the long room the highly polished bar shone with its rows of bottles and glasses.

  ‘C’mon, Luke, me boy!’ O’Hara’s booming voice woke Kennick from his reverie.

  He joined the sergeant at the bar and picked up the glass of beer that was placed in front of him.

  ‘Nice to see you back, Luke.’ George Fell, the sutler, held out his hand. He was a small, slim man, quiet-mannered and capable.

  ‘Thanks, George.’

  Fell moved away down the bar, leaving the two men alone.

  O’Hara watched Kennick across the top of his glass.

  ‘For the Lord’s sake, Luke, say something!’ he exploded suddenly.

  ‘You want another beer?’

  ‘No! Luke Kennick, don’t play games with me. Remember, I’m O’Hara. You don’t fool me none with your poker face and no talk.’

  Kennick emptied his beer glass and put it down on the bar. ‘Colonel Broughton wants me to escort Kicking Bear to the rendezvous on the Brazos. He wants me to take him alone.’

  ‘What! He must be crazy! One man takin’ a murderin’ Indian across Texas with the whole Comanche nation on the loose. It’s bloody suicide!’ O’Hara’s red face went redder than ever. He stared hard at Kennick. ‘What did you tell him?’

  ‘Said I’d think it over. Though I guess there’s only one answer. Yes.’

  There was a strangled sound from O’Hara. ‘Mother of God! Do you want to end up over a Comanche fire? Luke, boy, do you know what you’ll be lettin’ yourself in for?’

  ‘I know, Bren. I know.’

  ‘You still carry those dead men around with you, don’t you, Luke?’

  ‘That’s what Broughton was counting on when he sent for me.’

  ‘And I’m mighty obliged to the Colonel.’

  The speaker was right in back of Kennick. There was no mistaking Griff McBride’s taunting voice.

  Kennick squared around and faced his tormentor.

  ‘Luke, don’t let him ride you. He only wants trouble,’ O’Hara said.

  ‘Stay out, O’Hara,’ Griff warned.

  ‘Be obliged if you would, Bren,’ Kennick said, his eyes still on G
riff. He noted Joe Beecher and Bo McBride hovering in the background.

  ‘All right, Luke,’ O’Hara said heavily.

  Kennick felt the old anger rising again as he faced Griff McBride. The man would never stop dogging him—his hate wouldn’t let him. Nothing Kennick could say or do would change the way McBride felt. He was an embittered, vicious, unforgiving man. His grief for his dead brother had turned him into a revenge-seeking animal. The only way to stop him, Kennick realized, reluctantly, was to play it his way.

  ‘McBride, you push a man awful hard,’ he said. ‘And I’ve just about had enough of it. You haven’t been off my back since I rode in.’

  Griff shoved his hat to the back of his head. ‘That so? Mister, let me tell you, I ain’t hardly begun yet. I got two years to make up for. Two years when you dropped out of sight. I aim to make your life a private hell, you murderin’ bas—’

  All of Kennick’s anger and misery over the affair was channeled into the punch he launched at Griff. It landed with a loud crack and spun Griff around on his heels.

  The moment he let fly, Kennick regretted it. Yet, at the same time he realized he had to show Griff McBride just what he was going to have to take, if he continued riding him.

  Movement on Kennick’s right told him that Beecher was throwing in his hand to help Griff. The half-breed’s stocky build hid a surprising agility. He launched himself at Kennick with the fluidity of a leaping cougar. Big hands clamped viselike around Kennick’s throat, as Beecher’s body slammed into him, bending him back across the bar top.

  Kennick felt his breath being shut off, his lungs straining. He knew that there was going to be no fair play in this fight. It was going to be rough—decidedly so with Beecher involved. So without hesitation, he brought his right knee up hard, between Beecher’s legs. An animal scream of pain escaped from Beecher at the white-hot pain that exploded inside him. His hands dropped and Kennick shoved him aside, as Bo McBride came at him.

  Kennick spun to face Bo, and felt a fist knuckle across his face. Griff was back in the action, his lower lip torn and bloody. He followed up that grazing punch with a slamming drive at Kennick’s stomach. Then Bo landed one on Kennick’s jaw that sent him spinning across the floor. Kennick’s legs tangled with a chair and he fell sprawling.

  Dazed, Kennick recovered his senses as Bo reached down and hauled him to his feet. Out of the corner of his eye, Kennick saw Griff swinging a big fist at his head and ducked, then lunged forward against Bo. He kept shoving until Bo was rammed hard against the edge of the bar. Bo gave a sharp grunt as the wind was slammed out of him. Kennick jerked free, stepped back, then sank a fist down into Bo’s gut. Bo gagged, buckled forward, Kennick brought his knee up, and Bo’s head snapped upright, his face streaming blood.

  A hand grabbed Kennick’s shoulder, spun him round. Griff landed two quick punches on Kennick’s jaw, drawing blood. Kennick blocked the third blow, and ducked under Griff’s arm, coming up behind him. Before Griff could turn, Kennick cupped both hands together and swung them sledge wise into Griff’s side, just under the ribs. Griff roared in pain and fell to his knees, clutching at his side. Kennick moved around to face him again, grabbed him by the front of his shirt and hauled him to his feet. Griff made a weak attempt to hit back, but Kennick blocked it easily. Then he hit Griffin the face, hard. Griff went over backwards, his arms flailing wildly. He hit a table and went over it, landed hard on the other side.

  Kennick eased off. He was breathing hard and he hurt almost every place. He could taste blood, and the left side of his face felt raw and tender. He suddenly felt very tired. Raising his eyes, he saw O’Hara leaning against the bar, watching him.

  ‘You might have at least invited me to join you,’ O’Hara said, aggrieved.

  ‘Not this one, Bren,’ Kennick said. He picked up his hat. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Ah well,’ O’Hara sighed. ‘But it does me heart good to see you in action again, Luke.’

  ‘This was one action I could have done without,’ Kennick said, heading for the door.

  O’Hara joined him on the porch outside. ‘If I know Griff, this will only make him more set on revenge.’

  Kennick wiped a smear of blood from his cheek. Then he drew his gun and checked it.

  ‘You think it’ll come to that, Luke?’ O’Hara asked.

  Kennick put the gun away. ‘I don’t know, Bren,’ he said. ‘Come on. Let’s go see the prisoner.’

  O’Hara sighed and shrugged his big shoulders. He followed Kennick across the parade ground to the stockade.

  Chapter Four

  The stockade was built of twenty-foot high stakes set deep in the hard ground in a large rectangle. There was only one way in: a wooden gate which was heavily barred and constantly guarded. A crude wooden pen, roofed with warped planks, was the prisoners’ living quarters.

  The stockade stood on the north side of the parade ground in full view of the whole fort. It was a degrading place for a man to go, and a canker in the minds of the soldiers of Fort Cameron. But it was a necessary evil. A trooper who passed it every day, saw it every time he looked across the parade ground, saw the effect it had on prisoners thought twice before doing anything that might land him there. The stockade was like a Sword of Damocles hanging over the men of Fort Cameron, an inescapable reminder of what it meant to step out of line.

  On this day the stockade was empty except for two near-naked Indians.

  They squatted on their heels in the center of the stockade enclosure and watched Kennick and O’Hara coming across the parade ground. Whatever they were thinking, nothing showed in their faces. Stone could not have been more devoid of expression than the mask-like faces of Kicking Bear and the other Comanche, Mantas. Only the eyes of Kicking Bear moved, following the line of Kennick’s walk up to the stockade.

  ‘There he is,’ O’Hara said. He put a hand on Kennick’s shoulder and leaned forward confidentially. ‘And a word, bucko. That one is the meanest, craftiest bastard that ever crawled out from under a snake’s belly.’

  ‘Next to you, that is,’ Kennick said dryly.

  O’Hara feigned indignation. ‘’Tis a lie,’ he protested in his richest brogue. ‘’Tis as pure as a maiden’s heart I am.’

  Kennick moved up to the stockade and looked at Kicking Bear. The Indian gazed back at Kennick for a moment, then raised an arm and hand in an obscene gesture. So this was the man responsible for the slaughter of his patrol, Kennick thought. This filthy, naked animal squatting in the dirt of a white man’s prison. Here was the great Comanche warlord, the killer of the whites, Kicking Bear of the Comanche. Here was the man he was supposed to escort across Texas. This murdering savage. Kennick felt himself tightening up. His fingers curled around the butt of his holstered Colt.

  ‘Easy now, boy,’ O’Hara said softly. ‘I know how you feel. Sure, I was ready to put a slug in him myself when I saw him sitting there, like he was something too grand for us. But he ain’t worth the bother, Luke. He’s just a dirty heathen.’

  Kennick rubbed a trembling hand across his jaw, feeling the thick stubble. He forced his anger down, under control now.

  ‘Reckon I’ll get a shave and a bath. It’ll make me a shade more tolerable than him I guess.’

  He turned away from the stockade. He knew why he was backing off; he didn’t know how long he could keep his control in front of Kicking Bear. Best, he thought, to leave it for now . . . before you do something you’ll regret.

  The bath and change of clothing managed to satisfy the outer man. But inside Kennick was still troubled. Though he’d only been back at Cameron a short time, enough had already happened to bring back the gnawing doubts that he had almost rid himself of. Long months of hard work on his ranch had left him little time to dwell on the past. From sunrise to sunset he had kept himself hard at it. Night was a time for sleeping; he was always too tired to do anything else but sleep. That was the way he’d wanted it, and it had worked. He had made himself a new life in a new part of the country, away
from things best forgotten.

  Then the urgent summons from Colonel Broughton. He could have ignored it. Why hadn’t he? He had asked himself that question over and over all the way down from Wyoming. What was it? Loyalty? Pride? He hadn’t been able to answer.

  Whatever the reason, he knew that, despite a lingering reluctance to get involved, he would take on the assignment of delivering Kicking Bear. It was going to be one hell of a job, but he would do his best to get the Indian through. He had no way of knowing whether or not he’d make it, but he did know he had to try. Somewhere there was a reason why he had to. Was it to pay off the debt he felt he owed to the men who had died on his patrol? Maybe he would die trying to keep Kicking Bear alive. Maybe not. But either way, he had to be rid of—whatever it was—once and for all.

  But it wouldn’t end with Kicking Bear, he realized angrily. There was still Griff McBride. Griff, hating, wanting revenge. Obsessed with only one thought: to get Luke Kennick. To corner him, taunt him, goad him, then eventually kill him. Kennick had no doubts on that score. Well, if that was the way Griff wanted it, all right. A man could hold himself in for just so long, then he had to fight back. If Griff McBride intended to keep on pushing, Luke Kennick would have to push back.

  Kennick stretched out on his narrow cot and stared up at the ceiling. He shut his eyes and tried to picture the ranch. It was nothing grand, not yet anyhow. Just a small cabin and a good-sized barn. But it gave him a good feeling just thinking about it. To know it was his. Built by him with his hands. And then he thought about his land. Good range. Well protected from severe weather. Acres of deep sweet grass and plenty of water. His cattle grazed contentedly and grew fat on it. If he planned carefully, he could add to his herd next year. Maybe take on a couple more hands.

  While he was away the spread was being looked after by his foreman Hank Sears, a white haired old-timer who knew all there was to know about ranching. Luck had been with Kennick the day he’d met Sears, in Laramie. And it had been Sears who’d introduced Kennick to Toby Kincaid, the young, eager boy who had worked beside Kennick and Sears from the start. Two good men, Luke thought.