Read Online Texas Rifles by Elmer Kelton - Free Book Online Page A

far end of the village. The Comanche warriors who pursued the horses afoot turned and faced the terror that came galloping at them, twenty shouting Tejanos with guns ablaze, sharp hoofs cutting deep into the foot-packed sod. Barcroft was in the lead, pistol spitting fire. Warrior after warrior fell beneath the savage hail of bullets.
    On either side of the creek, women and children ran for the brush, screaming, crying for help. Some warriors followed suit, only to be cut down by a relentless wave of angry Texans.
    Cloud saw Barcroft signal the men to swing about and circle the outside of the camp. Cloud then spurred out around the horse herd and began slowing it down. With Guffey’s help he soon had the horses milling. Slowly the pair of them started the horses back toward the village.
    Gunfire had stopped. The surprise had been complete. So had the victory.

    As the horses came up even with the fallen kid, Cloud signaled Guffey to hold them up. Then he rode out to the boy and dismounted. Tommy Sides sat on the ground, face twisted in pain. He held the wounded arm, blood flowing out around the wooden shaft.
    Cloud examined the stone arrowhead. “Went clean through.” He realized the boy knew it well enough without his saying it. With a sharp bowie knife Cloud whittled the shaft off well above the head.
    â€œNow,” he said, “I’m goin’ to pull it out. Yell, cuss, do anything, but just see that you hold still. It ain’t goin’ to be fun.”
    He yanked, and the bloody shaft drew out. The kid gave a sharp cry of pain, then sobbed quietly. In a moment he managed to stop. “I’m sorry,” he choked. “I’m actin’ like a baby.”
    Cloud shook his head and gripped the boy’s knee with a touch of pride. “When a man hurts, he’s just naturally got to make a little noise. That takes the edge off of it. Grown men cry too, so you don’t need to worry over that. Now the bleedin’ ought to’ve washed that hole clean. We got to stop it before it drains the life out of you.”
    He had nothing to wrap with except the handkerchief in his pocket. It was dirty, but he had to use it. He bound the wound tightly.
    â€œCome on,” he said, “I’ll take you in and see if somebody’s got somethin’ better to do the job with.” He turned back to Guffey. “Think you can hold them horses by yourself?”
    Guffey nodded. “I’ve got ’em. You take care of the kid.”
    Tommy paused, despite his pain, to pick up the arrowhead and the whittled-off shaft. Something to show his grandchildren someday, if he lived to have any.
    In the village, Texans were rounding up the women and
children, moving them into the center of camp. From the far side of the creek, from out of the brush, they came herding the crying squaws and squalling children like so many cattle. One Indian boy five or six years old hit a trooper in the face with a rock. The trooper swung down and grabbed up the boy. He bent him over his uplifted knee and thrashed him as he would his own.
    Passing the bodies of their fallen men, the squaws would drop to their knees and begin to cry out a painful chant. The Rifles would let them carry on a moment or two, then would make them get up and go on with the others.
    Cloud rode up to the captain. “We got a hurt boy. Anybody here better than average at fixin’ ’em up?”
    Barcroft motioned with his chin. “Back yonder somewhere. Walt Johnson’s a doctor of sorts. He’s taking care of the wounded.”
    Young Walt Johnson had his hands full. A Texan shot low in the chest lay dying on an Indian buffalo robe Johnson had spread out beneath a brush arbor. Other men with lesser wounds sat patiently waiting while Johnson gave his attention to the dying man.
    Tommy Sides, pale from shock, said, “I’ll make it, Mister Cloud. You don’t have to worry about me no more.”
    Cloud