The Searchers by Alan LeMay Page A

the paint patterns, because you never saw an Indian in war paint except
     when you couldn’t lay hands on him. No use remembering the medicine shields, either, for these, treated as sacred,
     were never out of their deerskin cases until the moment of battle. Besides paint the Comanches wore breech clouts and moccasins;
     a few had horn or bear-claw headdresses. But these were young warriors, without the great eagle-feather war bonnets that
     were the pride of old war chiefs, who had tallied scores of coups. The ponies had their tails tied up, and were ridden bareback,
     guided by a single jaw rein.
    Zack Harper said, “Ain’t that big one Buffalo Hump?”
    “No-that-ain’t-Buffler-Hump,” his father squelched him. “Don’t talk so damn much.”
    The Comanche leader turned again and circled in. He brought his warriors past the defenders within fifty yards, ponies loosely
     spaced, racing full out. Suddenly, from every Comanche throat burst the screaming war cry; and Mart was paralyzed by the impact
     of that sound, stunned and sickened as by a blow in the belly with a rock. The war cries rose in a high unearthly yammering,
     wailing and snarling, piercing to his backbone to cut off every nerve he had. It was not exactly the eery sound of his terror-dream,
     but it was the spirit of that sound, the essence of its meaning. The muscles of his shoulders clenched as if turned
     to stone, and his hands so vised upon his rifle that it rattled, useless, against the saddle upon which it rested. And at the
     same time every other muscle in his body went limp and helpless.
    Amos spoke into his ear, his low tone heavy with authority but unexcited. “Leave your shoulders go loose. Make your shoulders
     slack, and your hands will take care of theirselves. Now help me git a couple!”
    That worked. All the rifles were sounding now from behind the tied-down horses. Mart breathed again, picked a target, and
     took aim. One Comanche after another was dropping from sight behind his pony as he came opposite the waiting rifles; they went
     down in order, like ducks in a shooting gallery, shamming a slaughter that wasn’t happening. Each Comanche hung by one heel
     and a loop of mane on the far side of his pony and fired under the neck, offeringonly one arm and part of a painted face for target. A pony somersaulted, its rider springing clear unhurt, as Mart
     fired.
    The circling Comanches kept up a continuous firing, each warrior reloading as he swung away, then coming past to fire again.
     This was the famous Comanche wheel, moving closer with every turn, chewing into the defense like a racing grindstone, yet
     never committing its force beyond possibility of a quick withdrawal. Bullets buzzed over, whispering “Cousin,” or howled in
     ricochet from dust-spouts short of the defenders. A lot of whistling noises were arrows going over. Zack Harper’s horse
     screamed, then went into a heavy continuous groaning.
    Another Indian pony tumbled end over end; that was Amos’ shot. The rider took cover behind his dead pony before he could be
     killed. Here and there another pony jerked, faltered, then ran on. A single bullet has to be closely placed to bring a horse
     down clean.
    Amos said loud through his teeth, “The horses, you fools! Get them horses!” Another Comanche pony slid on its knees and
     stayed down, but its rider got behind it without hurt.
    Ed Newby was firing carefully and unhurriedly across his standing horse. The buzzbees made the horse switch its tail, but
     it stood. Ed said, “You got to get the shoulder. No good to gut-shot’ em. You fellers ain’t leading enough.” He fired
     again, and a Comanche dropped from behind his running horse with his brains blown out. It wasn’t the shot Ed was trying
     to make, but he said, “See how easy?”
    Fifty yards out in front of him Mart Pauley saw a rifle snake across the quarters of a fallen pony. A horn headdress rose
     cautiously, and the rifle swungto look Mart square