Wolf Creek by Ford Fargo

ached a
little from the riding, but he was confident the injury would not
cause him any real trouble. He’d slept badly last night but that
wasn’t anything new, his sleep had been restless ever since that
bullet had put a hole in his arm when those Andrew Rogers hands had
bushwhacked him at the marshal’s office. Quint was more worried now
about what lay ahead. Worried but dogged in his determination to
get on back to Wolf Creek and do what needed done. He reflected on
the words of Marshal Sam Gardner, “Always be ready for anything.”
That was fine for disturbances occurring in Wolf Creek where there
were plenty of willing hands to assist. Out here on the prairie was
a different story. He knew he was poorly equipped to do much in the
way of defense and there was no one around to call on.
    Quint looked back south toward the massacre
site but the distance now was too great for him to see anything. He
swept his eyes around to the other directions. There was a faint
breeze stirring the cottonwood leaves. That breeze did little to
disguise a rise of dust in the distance to the northeast. His heart
jumped a beat. He cupped his good hand over his eyes to shield them
from the sun. He muttered a curse for not having a field glass;
there was no sence in him thinking that the dust was rising under a
wind. The soldiers had ridden off south, so it most likely was not
them. That left the possibility that Indians were riding on a
course that would intersect with his intended route. He was not
going to wait around to say hello. Quint was grateful that it had
not rained recently. Even a brief shower would have kept the dust
down and the Indians would have been on him before he spotted
them.
    He hurriedly unbuckled his saddlebag flap
and took out a second six-gun and holster then strung it over his
saddle horn. He stuck another six-gun from the other saddlebag into
his waistband. Eighteen shots was his total arsenal. He doubted
that, once the shooting started, he would have time to reload even
if he could manage it. He had not brought along a long gun. He had
figured that attempting to jack a fresh round into the rifle’s
breech, one handed, would be time consuming and awkward when he
could be firing a six-gun.
    Quint snatched the dangling reins and swung
up on the sorrel. He needed to put distance between him and the
bunch headed toward him. He pulled the reins to guide the horse
away. He held the horse back for now; saving for a hard run later,
if need be. He did not want to create a dust cloud himself. If he
could see their dust cloud then it was reasonable that they could
darn well see the one he made as well.
    Quint had little personal experience with
Indians prior to coming to Wolf Creek. A couple years ago, when
trailing a herd to Abilene, was the first time he had occasion to
be up close to an Indian. He and others in the crew stood by while
the trail boss, Jack Wells, negotiated with three braves. When done
with the talking, Wells ordered a couple trail riders to drive two
footsore steers to a nearby group of twenty Indians. It was a
peaceful meeting.
    Some of the older men in camp talked of past
skirmishes with both the Southern Kiowa and Comanche, who had
joined forces when prodded off their ancestral homelands to the
Indian Territory in the north. One man noted that the Kiowa were
notorious for long distance raiding.
    Quint figured the group of Indians coming
his way was most likely a mix of Northern Kiowa and recently allied
Cheyenne, led by Stone Knife, and he didn’t believe the gathering
was intent on peace. The Northern Kiowa’s homeland was just south
of Wolf Creek near the Arkansas River and close to the border of
Kansas.
    When he looked back, he could see the dust
cloud had changed direction a little and now headed straight toward
him. Figuring he had been spotted he kicked the sorrel into a run.
If only this horse would last, not fold up and send him flying to
the ground then gouged by a spear point or at least