Hudson kept his face impassive when the women arrived. Both were in their mid to late twenties and might have been pretty were it not for their bruised faces and the downtrodden looks they wore. Their long, dark hair was matted and dirty, their clothes tattered and filthy. Both looked at the ground, refusing to lift their eyes. They had been humiliated beyond all belief and did not want to look at anyone—or to have anyone look into their eyes and see the debasement there.
“Don’t you two think of what’s gone on,” Hudson said quietly as he walked between the two to get the last of the trade goods. On the way back, he said, “You’ll be all right now.” He didn’t think he had convinced them of that. Hell, he wasn’t even sure they understood much English. He hoped the words or at least his voice, reassured them a little.
He approached them again and said in a soft, but urgent voice, “Git on the mules, senoras. Pronto!” When they seemed reluctant—or maybe just unable—to move, Hudson grabbed each one by a shoulder, gently turned them and nudged them toward the mules. “Best move it some, senoras,” he said, “lest these boys change their minds.” He was having serious doubts that they understood him or could function.
But his last words seemed to galvanize the two women. Still, with heads down, they moved to mules and pulled themselves on.
With a sigh of relief, Hudson mounted his horse. “Adios,” he said with a wave at Yellow Horse. “Go on, senoras,” he said, wanting them to be ahead of him when they left the village. Then, towing his two remaining mules behind him, he rode out of the village.
Hudson kept a watch behind him as they went. Less than three hundred yards past the last of the lodges, he spotted four Comanches racing toward him and the women. “Ride hard!” he shouted.
The two women looked back, faces showing no fear, only the dullness of defeat. But they kicked their mules into hurrying. It was as if they didn’t really expect to be free but suddenly realized that they might have a chance—if they could get away from the charging warriors.
Hudson galloped after them, the extra mules behind. He kept looking back and cursed when he saw how swiftly the Comanches were closing the distance. Finally, Hudson pulled to a stop, letting the two extra mules continue running, following the two women mounted on other mules.
He pulled his rifle from the rawhide loop on the front of his saddle. He dismounted, knelt, aimed, and fired, all within seconds. One of the Comanches toppled off his horse.
The other warriors howled and pressed even harder. Hudson swept into the saddle, slid the rifle back into the rawhide loop, and pulled his Colt Patersons. An arrow carried off his felt hat, causing him more annoyance than anything else. He was not surprised, though, that they were shooting high. He figured they wanted to kill him and take his horse and so would not risk hitting the animal. Unless, of course, things started going bad for them.
Other arrows arced his way as the Comanches closed in. With a shrug, Hudson rode toward the warriors, ignoring the raining arrows. He was little surprised that none of the shafts hit him, since he had his own medicine and it was as powerful, he felt, as any the Comanches could come up with.
When he was less than fifty yards from one warrior, who was slightly ahead of his fellows, Hudson opened fire with one pistol, firing twice. The first Comanche went down, as if he had been jerked off his pony.
Then a second warrior was on him and Hudson fired the last two shots in his pistol. They seemed to have no effect on the warrior, who clubbed him down off his horse with his lance.
Hudson landed on his side, getting the breath knocked out of him for a moment. As he began getting up, he hoped nothing had been broken or damaged inside. He got to his feet, eyes swiftly sweeping the ground as he looked for his pistols. A bow cracked him across the top of the back, and he went down again, landing on his face.
As he got up again, pain clutched at his back and side. He took a hasty glance around and noted that the two Comanches had stopped a few yards away, one to his left, one to his right. They were taunting him. Hudson couldn’t understand their words, but the meaning was clear enough.
“Suck wind, you [profanity] shit sticks,” he roared back. Facing one Comanche, he grabbed his crotch and thrust his groin at him. Then he bent and wiggled his buttocks at the other. “Chew on that, goddamn you,” he said.
He smiled when he saw irritation flicker across one warrior’s face. Using hand signs, he called the Comanche in front of him a coward and impugned the Indian’s ancestry.
The Comanche let loose a bloodcurdling war cry and charged, still on horseback.
As he began pulling out his tomahawk, Hudson suddenly spotted his two pistols. One was almost at his feet, the other several feet away. He hoped the nearest one was the loaded one. He knelt and scooped the pistol up and realized that the Comanche who had been behind him had just tried to whack him with his bow again. The weapon passed a few inches over Hudson’s head.
“[Strong profanity] bastard,” Hudson shouted as he shoved to his feet. He thumbed back the revolver’s hammer and fired. Nothing happened. He tried twice more, each time with the same result. “[Very strong profanity],” he mumbled. He threw the useless pistol aside and dove for the other revolver. As he grabbed it and started to rise, cocking the gun, he heard a shout. He spun and saw Mad Buffalo just braining one of the Comanches, splitting the warrior’s skull with his tomahawk.
Hudson spun back toward the other Comanche, who was now racing toward the village. Hudson emptied his revolver at the fleeing warrior but did not hit him. A moment later, though, Mad Buffalo was charging after the Comanche, rapidly catching up.
Mad Buffalo put two arrows in the enemy’s back. The Comanche fell, but his pony continued running. Mad Buffalo stopped and slid off his horse. Within a moment, he had peeled the Comanche’s scalp and then jumped on his pony.
“Saved your ass again, white eye,” Mad Buffalo said as he stopped near Hudson.
The former mountain man was reloading one of his Colts. “Jist saved me the trouble of havin’ to kill more Comanches,” Hudson grumbled. He wasn’t really angry. He had saved Mad Buffalo’s life enough times and vice versa. He was just irritated at the situation as a whole.
“Next time I’ll jist set and watch,” Mad Buffalo said. He hopped off his pony and pulled his knife. “You want any of their hair?” he asked.
“Got no use for such,” he said, sticking the one Colt in his belt and bending to pick up the other one. “But if you’re too goddamn squeamish to raise hair on these boys, I’ll do it jist so they don’t git to the Happy Huntin’ Ground.”
Mad Buffalo ignored the latter statement. “We might have a use for ’em,” he said.
“What’s that?”
“When we find the Comanches holdin’ the blue coats, we might use these scalps to break the medicine of those Comanches.”
“Can’t hurt to try,” Hudson said thoughtfully. “All right, we’ll bring ’em.”
While Mad Buffalo hurried to take the three other scalps, Hudson finished reloading his second revolver. Then he mounted his horse and hurriedly gathered up the two Comanche ponies that had remained behind. The fourth had drifted back toward the village.
Hudson and his Cheyenne friend rode hard for the ridge where the soldiers and the others were. Once there, they did not even dismount. “We best git the hell out of here,” he announced. “Pronto.”
“Comanches comin?” Lowell asked. He seemed unfazed by the possibility.
“Nope. But there’s no tellin’ how those shit sticks’re gonna react once they find out me and Mad Buffalo rubbed out four of their warriors.”
“Enough said,” Lowell responded with a tight nod. “Let’s go, men. Private O’Murray, you and Private Hochner help the Mexican women onto horses. Not mules. Move it!”
The last warning was not needed. Everyone was moving already and doing so swiftly. Stolen Back Woman had mounted her pony and had ridden to Hudson’s side.
He smiled at her, leaned over and touched her cheek. “Miss me, woman?” he asked softly.
“Always,” Stolen Back Woman responded without shame or embarrassment.
“I reckon you’re sorry you come chasin’ after me, though,” he said with a grin.
The Cheyenne shook her head. She lived with danger every day of her life. This wasn’t much different, other than there was more traveling, and the danger might be compressed into a smaller time period. As long as she was with her man, she thought she was doing fine.
They pulled out, Mad Buffalo leading the way eastward. They moved at a pretty good pace, wanting to put some distance between themselves and the Comanche village. As they rode, Lowell moved up alongside Hudson. “You have any trouble gettin’ the women out?” he asked. “Other than that fight at the end there.”
“Nope. Hell, I was thinkin’ to myself jist after I pulled out of there that things were goin’ a mite too smooth. It jist seemed so easy. I figured somethin’ was gonna go wrong, which it finally did. I think that shit stick Yellow Rock planned to send those boys out after me and the women all along.”
“Who’s Yellow Rock?”
“The [profanity] chief I dealt with back there. I think he figured he’d lull me into thinkin’ everything was cozy ‘tween me’n his people. That part worked well enough, dammit,” Hudson said, anger at himself rising. “Son of a bitch, if that don’t piss me off.” He took a moment to let the anger settle down some. “Anyway, he probably figured he could have it all, the son of a bitch. He could git my hair, the mules, the women back, have his men count coup, plus still git Bill to give him a passel of goods the next time that disease drippin’ old fart went to Bent’s.”
“Sounds logical,” Lowell said thoughtfully. “Except for the last. What would make him think he could get a load of goods at Bent’s?”
“I told him he could. I didn’t have enough trade goods to ransom those women, so I told him that Bill’d be glad to pay him a heap. If Yellow Rock had kept his word, I would’ve, too. Trouble is, I think that old bastard planned that in there, too. I’d told him that Bill really wanted the women back. I suppose dripping dick there figured that once he killed me and got the women back, he could mosey up to Bent’s place himself and ransom the women there. Connivin’ sack of shit.”
“He sure sounds like one,” Lowell agreed. “Do you think he’ll send his men after us?”
“Doubt it. First off, like most Injins out here, he cain’t send any warriors anywhere. He might call for a war party, though I don’t think that’s likely either. Once me’n Mad Buffalo killed four warriors from his village and raised their hair so they can’t get into the afterworld, there’s every chance that goddamn Yellow Rock’ll figure not only his but the whole damned village’s medicine’s gone plumb bad. He’ll want to make more medicine before he’d want to risk another battle with a white man.”
“Then why push so hard?” Lowell was still sore of rump from all the riding they had done.
“Considerin’ how sneaky that shit stick is,” Hudson growled, “I cain’t be absolute positive jist what he will or won’t do. He jist might be crazy enough to think his medicine’s strong enough to allow him and some chosen men—also with strong medicine—take us. So, goddammit, we ride hard.”