Flashman and the Redskins. George Fraser MacDonald

Grattan as he rode by the carriage, the tarts had their wagon-covers up and were chattering like magpies in the sunshine, and even the invalids had perked up and were telling each other that this was more bracing than Maine, by George; I caught Cleonie’s demure glance as I rode by her wagon, and reflected that Bent’s must be big enough to find a more comfortable private nook than a prairie tent. And then I saw the smoke.

      It was a single puff, above the gentle crest to our right, floating up into the clear sky, and while I was still gaping in consternation, there they were – four mounted Indians on the skyline, trotting down the slope towards us. Grattan swore softly and shaded his eyes, and then swung to the coach driver.

      ‘Keep going – brisk, but not too fast! Easy, now, captain – that smoke means there’ll be others coming lickety-split; you’ll note we’re only worth a single puff, bad cess to ’em!²⁵ So we must keep ’em at a distance till we get within cry of Bent’s; it can’t be above a couple of miles now!’

      My instinct was to turn and ride for it, but he was right. The four Indians were coming on at a brisk canter now, so with Grattan leading we rode out to head them away, me with my sweat flowing freely – the sight of those oily copper forms, the painted faces, the feathers, and the practised ease with which they managed ponies and lances, would have turned your stomach. They rode along easily, edging only gradually closer.

      ‘They won’t show fight till the regiment arrives,’ says Grattan. ‘Watch in case they try to side-slip us and scare the wagon-beasts – ah, you bastard, that’s the trick! See, captain!’

      Sure enough, they had their blankets ready in their hands; their leader, riding parallel with us about twenty yards off, raised his and shouted ‘Tread!’, which I took to mean ‘trade’ – a likely story.

      ‘Give ’em a hail,’ says Grattan, so I shouted ‘Bugger off!’ and made gestures of dismissal. The brave shouted something back, in apparent disappointment, turned his pony slightly aside – and then without warning wheeled sharply and, with his mates following suit as smart as guardsmen, made a dart across our rear towards the wagon-train.

      ‘Donnybrook!’ yells Grattan, and I heard his Colt bang at my elbow. An Indian twisted and fell shrieking, and as the leader’s horse sped past me I gave it a barrel in the neck – in a mêlée you shoot at what you’re sure to hit – and then my heels went in and my head down as I thundered for the wagons.

      The two remaining braves were making for the rear wagon, swooping in, flapping their blankets at the beasts. I roared to the teamsters to whip up; they shouted and swung their snakes, and the wagons lurched and bounced in the ruts as the beasts surged forward. Grattan fired and missed one of the Indians; a teamster, reins in his teeth, let fly a shot that went nowhere, and then the two had wheeled past us and were racing out and away.

      I galloped up the train, all eyes to see where the next danger was coming from. By God, I didn’t have to look far – on the crest to our right there was a round score of the brutes, swerving down towards us. They were perhaps two furlongs off, for the crest had swung away from the river, which was inclining in a big loop to the left, so that as the wagons veered to follow its course, they were also turning away from our pursuers. But in less than three minutes they would close the gap with the lumbering train.

      Ahead of me, Grattan was swinging himself from his saddle over the tailboard of a wagon, and farther ahead the savaneros of the mule-train were doing likewise, their mules running free. In among them came the two braves with blankets, screeching and trying to drive the leaderless brutes in among the wagons; Grattan’s rifle boomed and one of the braves went down; the other tried to throw himself at one of the wagon-teams, but must have missed his hold, for as I galloped by he was losing an argument with a wagon-wheel, and being deuced noisy about it.

      The savaneros were firing now; Grattan yelled to me, pointing forward, and I was in solid agreement, for up yonder somewhere was Bent’s, and I didn’t mind a bit if I was first past the post. Half a dozen revolving rifles were letting go as I thundered up the train, which is just the kind of broadside you need when twenty painted devils are closing in; they weren’t more than two hundred paces off our rear flank now, whooping like be-damned and firing as they came. I was abreast the leading wagon, with only the two invalid carriages and Susie’s coach leaping along ahead; at my elbow the sluts were squealing and cowering behind the wagon-side; I saw a shaft quivering in the timber, and another hissed over my head; it’s time to get off this pony and under cover, thinks I – and in that moment the brute stumbled, and I had only a split second to kick my feet clear and roll before she went headlong.