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shoulder into the horse and grabbed his off foreleg, hoping to throw him, but
Montana horse seemed to know just what I wanted and he went down and rolled
on
his side like he had been trained for it ... which he probably had, the Nez
Perce using appaloosas for war horses.
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Dropping to one knee, the other leg stretched out ahead of me, I drew a
careful
bead on the chest of the nearest Ute and squeezed off my shot. There was a
minute when I believed I'd missed, and him coming right into my sights, then
his
horse swung wide and dumped a dead Ute into the grass. There was a bright
stain
of blood on the horse's side as he swung away.
It was warm and still. Patting Montana horse I told him, "You rest yourself,
boy, we'll make out."
He rolled his eyes at me like he understood every word.
You would never have believed that a moment ago there was shooting and
killing
going on, because suddenly everything was still. The hillside was empty,
those
Indians had gone into the ground faster than you would believe. Lying there,
knowing any moment might be my last, I liked the feel of the warm sun on my
back, the smell of parched brown grass and of dust.
Three of the Utes were down in the grass and there were six left. Six to one
might seem long odds but if a man has nerve enough and if he thinks in terms
of
combat, the advantage is often against sheer numbers. Sheer numbers rob a man
of
something and he begins to depend ... and in a fighting matter no man should
depend. He should do what has to be done himself.
My canteen was full and I'd some jerked meat in my saddlebag, lots of fresh
meat, and plenty of ammunition.
They would try to come over the rise behind me. That crest, only a couple of
feet away, masked my view of the far slope. So I had out my bowie knife and
began cutting a trench. That was a nine-inch blade, sharp enough to shave
with,
and I worked faster than ever in my born days.
It took me only minutes to have a trench that gave me a view of the back
slope,
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and I looked around just in time. Four of them were coming up the slope
toward
me on foot and running bent over. My shot was a miss ... too quick. But they
hit
dirt. Where there had been running Indians there was only grass stirring in
the
wind.
They would be creeping on their bellies now, getting closer. Taking a chance,
I
leaped up. Instantly, I spotted a crawling Indian and fired, then dropped
into
my hole with bullets spearing the air where I'd been. That was something I
couldn't try again, for now they'd be expecting.
Overhead there were high streamers of white clouds. Turning around I crawled
into my trench, and just in time. An Indian was coming up that back slope,
bent
over and coming fast and I let him come. It was high time I shortened the
odds
against me, so I put my rifle in position, reached down to ease my Colt for
fast
work in case the others closed in at the same time. That Ute was going to
reach
me with his next rush. Some were down, but I doubted if more than one was
actually dead. I wasn't counting any scalps until I had them.
Minutes loitered. Sweat trickled down my cheeks and my neck. I could smell
the
sweat of my own body and the hot dust. Somewhere an eagle cried. Sweat and
dust
made my skin itch, and when a big horsefly lit on Montana, my slap sounded
loud
in the hot stillness.
Eastern folks might call this adventure, but it is one thing to read of
adventure sitting in an easy chair with a cool drink at hand, and quite
another
thing to be belly down in the hot dust with four, five Indians coming up the
slope at you with killing on their minds.
A grasshopper flew into the grass maybe fifteen yards down slope, then took
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off
at once, quick and sharp. That was warning enough. Lifting the rifle I
steadied
it on that spot for a quick shot, then chanced a glance over my shoulder.
Just
as I looked back that Ute charged out of the grass like he was bee-stung.
My guess had been right, and he came up where that grasshopper had lit. My
sights were on the middle of his chest when I squeezed off my shot and he
fell
in plain sight.
Behind me their feet made a whisper in the dry grass and rolling over I
palmed
my Colt and had two shots off before I felt the slam of the bullet. The Utes
vanished and then I was alone but for a creeping numbness in my left shoulder
and the slow welling of blood.
Sliding back from the trench I felt sickish faint and plugged the hole with a
handkerchief. The bullet had gone through and I was already soaked with blood
on
my left side. With bits of handkerchief I plugged the bullet hole on both
sides
and knew I was in real trouble.
Blinking against the heat and sudden dizziness I fed shells into my guns.
Then I
took the plug from my canteen and rinsed my mouth. It was lukewarm and
brackish.
My head started to throb heavily and it was an effort to move my eyebrows.
The
smell of sweat and dried grass grew stronger and overhead the sky was yellow
and
hot as brass. From out of an immeasurable distance a buzzard came.
Suddenly I hated the smells, hated the heat, hated the buzzard circling and
patient as it could be patient knowing that most things die.
Crawling to the rim of the buffalo wallow my eyes searched the terrain before
me, dancing with heat waves. I tried to swallow and could not, and Tennessee
and
its cool hills seemed very far away.
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Through something like delirium I saw my mother rocking in her old chair, and [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]