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"Damn."
"Not too bad," the girl said.
He looked at his rifle, trapped under the saddle on his dead horse about fifty yards away. As far away as next year's
wages.
"Dammit."
"Better," she said. "That has more feeling to it."
"Son of a . . ."
"Whoa. Whoa, now. Let's not get carried away."
Becker glanced at the girl's dirty faced grin, framed by the blackest hair he'd seen this side of Mexico, and quickly
revised his opinion. This brown-eyed beauty was no young girl. She was a lot of woman in a tiny package.
He edged up to the lip of the buffalo wallow. Dirt splattered into his face before he heard the shot, and the whine
of the retreating ricochet.
"Why don't you shoot back?"
"Lady, if I had a gun, which I don't, you'd be seein' the fanciest shootin' this side of anywhere."
"You don't have a gun?"
He could see a barely concealed smile behind her hand, and heard the laughter in her voice.
"No," he said. "I don't have a gun. My Winchester is under the horse, and I lost my pistol when those
Comanche braves shot my horse out from under us. That was a damned good horse, too."
"You dropped it?" She laughed outright. "What kind of hero are you? Dropped your gun?"
"Look, lady, if you . . . what's your name, anyway?"
"Mandy Jakes. Please to make your acquaintance, Mr. . . . ?"
"John Becker, ma'am. Look, you may think this is funny, but we're kind of in a situation here."
"I assure you, Mr. Becker, I don't find this situation funny." She paused a moment. "I find you funny."
"Well, I'm happy to be so entertaining. If you can keep from laughing yourself silly, you might look around for
a club, or something, to defend yourself. I don't know what got those boys out there so riled up, but they seem a bit unhappy.
Seems to me they shouldn't be trying so hard to get you back. Skinny thing like you, small I mean, wouldn't make a good squaw.
They like their women strong; to haul wood, do the skinning and such."
"I'm not skinny! And, what kind of rescue was that, anyway? Didn't you have a plan?"
"Oh yes, ma'am." Becker started edging up to the rim again. "I had a plan. I had a great plan. My
plan was to ride on up to Kansas, and maybe ride the rails. A man told me that a train could go forty miles in an hour.
I didn't believe him, him being drunk and all, but I thought I'd take a look."
"Sure hope we get the chance to see."
He caught a tremor in her voice, and looked at her cautiously. "We?"
"When that stage full of Indian fighters I was ridin' with took off, I figured my time was up. I sure couldn't
see much of a future, 'cept being beat with a stick every day and kept as a squaw. That didn't happen, thanks to you. The
way I see it, anything good that happens from now on, is just gravy on the taters." She gave him the benefit of a full
smile. "I'm thinkin' you're the gravy."
Before he could answer, a searching shot hit the far bank of the wallow, and then a scattering of shots bracketed the
wallow. Becker knew the Indians were trying to keep him from looking around and there was only one reason to do that. He
pulled his Bowie, wiped his sweaty hands on his shirt, and gripped it firmly. He had two things working for them. The buffalo
wallow was a lot deeper than most, and from the short glance he got, all the braves looked very young.
A startled bird flew up a few feet away, with a thrumming beat of wings, and the first Comanche came over the rim of
the wallow, followed closely by two more. They must have expected to see Becker at the bottom with the girl, because they
missed seeing him crouched at the rim.
The first man over the top screamed, then staggered on by, trying to hold in his belly where the knife sliced through
buckskin like butter. Writhing in pain, the man fell to his knees in front of the wide-eyed girl. The second Indian was
already dropping over the side as he tried to bring his rifle around to fire, but Becker grabbed it with both hands and smashed
it back into his teeth. The Comanche brave kept his grip in the rifle and came after him with a vengeance. While both men
scrambled for possession of the rifle, he saw the last Indian go after the girl.
Becker knew he had to end this quickly. If he lost, not only would he die, but also the girl behind him would die.
Knowing Indians generally knew little of fist fighting, he let go his grip on the rifle and slugged the man in the belly.
The brave's jaw dropped open just in time to meet a looping overhand roundhouse that broke his nose. Following closely against
the back-pedaling man, Becker kneed him in the groin, and then jerked the rifle from nerveless fingers and fired into the
man's body. Levering a new shell into the rifle, he whirled at a shot behind him, and saw the last man slumped over the girl.
He came up out of the wallow just as the remaining Comanche braves decided to rush. Snap shooting the Winchester, he
peeled one off his horse then peppered dust around the last rider as he wheeled his pony and fled.
In the silence following the short battle, a gust of prairie wind rustled the sand and brush, and he could hear the girl
sobbing behind him. Becker leaned the rifle against his leg, took off his hat and wiped his brow with a blue checked handkerchief.
At best, they should be dead. At the worst, they could be captive. He offered a short, 'thank you Lord', that the braves
had been young men out to prove themselves.
He turned back to the wallow and saw the girl had all but disappeared under the bulk of the dead Indian, and as he watched,
her heels quit digging into the dirt and lay still.
Becker dropped to the bottom of the wallow, grabbed the Indian by the hair and pulled him off the girl. Seeing the blood
covering the front of her dress, he unbuttoned the front and looked for a wound. The bloody undergarment ripped apart in
his hands, but he still could not find a wound. Her breasts contrasted white, against the red blood on her chest. Still
looking for a wound, he started to turn her over.
"Well, that was a short engagement."
He lifted his gaze from her chest to her eyes. "You're not hurt?"
She rose up on her elbows, looked at him warily, but made no move to cover herself. "Not yet."
"You're sure?" he asked, using that as an excuse to drop his gaze to her body again.
"Yep. Havin' a great day, too." She looked down at her dress, and then looked at him with the first hint
of tears. "I just bought this dress. It's the first I ever owned."
He fumbled at trying to pull her dress together. "I guess I'd better . . ."
She interrupted, "I guess you'd better."
Swiftly, he turned and searched the body of the Indian, but not without another glance at her. No, not skinny. He found
a knife, and then stripped the other bodies of their weapons. Sweating in the heat, he picked the bodies up and heaved them
out of the wallow.
"What'd you do that for?" Semi-dressed, she stood on wobbly legs.
He reached out to steady her. "When it rains-," he paused to look around at the parched earth, "-if it
ever rains, this wallow will collect water. No need in ruining it."
She was looking out over the top of the wallow. "Don't the Comanche always come back for their dead?"
"Usually," he said. "But, I got some lead in the one that got away. Maybe we'll get lucky and he'll
bleed to death."
Armed with a rifle and a couple of Sam Colt's cumbersome old horse pistols, he felt a little better. A nagging thought
picked at his mind, and finally came into full bloom.
"Wait just a minute. You had a gun?"
The girl held a little pepperbox derringer up for his inspection. "I only have one shot left."
"Where did you hide that?"
"Well, they hadn't got around to pullin' off my unmentionables and nevershows," She looked at him with a scowl,
"they weren't near as quick about it as you. I was just waiting for the proper time, when it would do me the most good.
Of course, they were workin' up to that notion, when you came a foggin' it out of the brush. That was right opportune, I
don't mind sayin'."
"It may have been your lucky day," he said. "But, I'm not too sure it's mine."
He paused, thinking about earlier in the day . . .
Read the rest of this story in Whiskey Shots at www.whiskeycreekpress.com, due out in 2008
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