Death Mask by Cotton Smith Page B

scalps. Silver conchos, tied feathers and strings of cloth decorated their long black hair. One wore a white woman’s dress and a white man’s fedora, obviously the spoils of a recent raid.
    “Stay, Chance. Stay,” Carlow said as he grabbed his hand carbine, levered it into readiness and said to Kileen, “I’m going to motion for them to water their horses. Keep your rifle down. Maybe we can keep this from being a shooting affair.”
    “Aye. ‘Tis a good idea. But if ‘tis a fight the lads be wantin’, ye take the striped lad first. I’ll be takin’ the fine lad with the black face. Julian, you take the boy with the fine Springfield there. After that, I’ll go to the boys on the left. You two take the right. An’ we’ll meet in the middle.” Kileen chuckled, in spite of the situation.
    Carlow took a deep breath to ease the tension. He lowered his gun and waved toward the water.
    “ Paa. ”
    It was the Comanche word for “water.” It was also the only Comanche word he knew that would help. He couldn’t think of “friend” so he made the sign for it, then gave the sign for “drinking water.”
    The war leader eased his horse forward two steps, halted and raised his rifle in one hand. He shouted something Carlow didn’t understand, but he repeated his words and the sign.
    “What’s that boy a’jabberin’?” Kileen asked, not taking his eyes off the warriors.
    “Don’t know. Hope it was ‘good morning.’” Carlow looked down at Chance, who was hunched, his teeth bared. “Steady, boy. Maybe they’ll water and go.”
    Mirabile frowned. “That’s a big risk.”
    The war leader spoke again to the other warriors and they began to descend one at a time to the pond to water their horses. He remained where he was, watching Carlow.
    “They might try something after they water. Think they’ve come a long way. Our horses must look mighty good,” Carlow said.
    “Sweet Jaysus. So do our guns, me son.”
    “You call it, Time,” Mirabile squinted down the barrel of his gun.
    After the seven horsemen had watered their horses and returned to the ridge, the leader nudged his pony toward the pond. He looked up at Carlow and smiled.
    Smiled! Carlow didn’t know at first how to react. He nodded and forced a smile. Was it a trick to make him think they wouldn’t attack? His fingers tightened around the hand carbine.
    Suddenly, the warrior in the dress screamed a throaty cry and charged his horse toward Carlow. The others held their mounts, watching; the war leader looked up from watering his horse. His face was unreadable.
    From his position by their tied horses, Kileen yelled, “Switch. I’ll take the lead bastard hisself. Ye dispatch the lady a’comin’.”
    “Wait.”
    Carlow didn’t move as the warrior galloped down the ridge toward him, waving his lance and screaming.
    “Not long, me son.” Kileen aimed his rifle at the headman. “Not long.”
    Holding the cocked hand carbine at his side, the young Ranger’s eyes locked onto the rapidly advancing Comanche.
    Chance growled.
    “No, Chance.”
    From the pond, the war leader yelled and the warrior reined his horse to a skidding stop. The pony’s hooves slammed into the hard earth; the warrior shoved his legs forward to maintain his balance and waved his lance over his head. Grinning, he came to a complete stop five feet from Carlow. Raising his gun, Carlow touched the brim of his hat with the weapon, in a salute, and returned it to his side.
    The other warriors grunted their approval. The warrior nudged his horse closer and slowly raised his lance. Carlow knew what was coming. Counting of a coup. The bravest act a warrior could do: touch an armed enemy and return.
    “Naugh,” Carlow barked, shaking his head and pointing his gun at the warrior.
    The move might be a mistake on his part, but he didn’t like the idea of the warrior forcing some kind of ritual submission on him. The warrior glanced over at his leader, who motioned with his head