Reign of Terror

By Paul Bedford

Buffalo hunter Woodrow Clayton experiences the full horror of the Comanche terror at the Battle of Adobe Walls, and then again in the bloody aftermath that spreads along the frontier. He vows to help the US Army put an end to it, once and for all. Homesteader Jared Tucker sees his wife and son slaughtered, and daughter, Lucy, carried off by Comanche raiders. From then on he is solely obsessed with rescuing her. Together, the two men travel to Fort Concho and persuade Colonel Mackenzie of the Fourth Cavalry to let them accompany his expedition against the infamous Comanche half-breed war chief, Quanah Parker. Unfortunately for them, Mackenzie has far greater priorities than the recovery of one thirteen-year-old girl. So it is left to Clayton, Tucker and a bloodthirsty Tonkawa Scout to take their private war onto the 'Staked Plains' of West Texas in search of the wretched captive.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robert Hale Fiction
• Release date: Jul 28, 2019
• ISBN: 9780719829963

Paul Bedford

Paul Bedford is married with three grown-up children, and lives in Bramhope, a village north of Leeds. With a strong interest in the history of the American frontier, he tries to make his Black Horse Westerns as factually accurate and realistic as possible.

Book preview

Author’s note

Setting aside the tricky ethics involved in the American Indian Wars of the nineteenth century, there can be no denying that the warfare waged by the Comanches against pretty much all comers was certainly the longest, and possibly the hardest fought, in North American history. It is also a fact that the man credited with finally ending the ghastly catalogue of death and misery was Ranald Slidell Mackenzie. Anybody curious about this extraordinary soldier would do well to investigate his career, because a mostly fictional novel like this can hardly hope to do it justice.

Chapter One

The screaming apparitions had apparently come out of nowhere, but every single buffalo hunter and merchant in the trading post of Adobe Walls had immediately recognized them for what they were. That first attack at dawn came close to overwhelming the twenty-eight desperate defenders, who had been forced to fight at close range with revolvers and repeating rifles. They would have fought quite literally with tooth and nail if necessary, because all realized the sheer horror that defeat would bring. And so, somehow, they had survived, with only three fatalities endured . . . so far.

The various buildings that made up the isolated commercial venture just north of the Canadian river, in the Texas panhandle, were not actually constructed of adobe. That was because the original settlement that had given the place its name was now nothing more than ruins. Most of the present structures were made from prairie sod, which was a very good thing, since such material was all but impervious to fire.

Now, on the third day after the initial assault, the siege continued its bloody course, which in itself was quite amazing. Hitherto, no Comanche war party had been known to besiege a fortified enemy. Yet everything about this ferocious engagement had been different. The number of warriors involved, for a start. Including Kiowas and Southern Cheyenne, there were many hundreds painted for war, which was greater than at any time since the 1840s . . . and they seemed prepared to accept casualties. Not even the wounding of the pre-eminent war chief, Quanah Parker, had brought it to an end.

But Woodrow Clayton had a fair idea why so many Indians were trying to kill him. He and his avaricious compadres were only the latest and worst of a long line of threats to confront the plains tribes. Cruel and combative by nature, the proud horse warriors were being brought to their knees by a combination of, to them, mysterious diseases, and the white man’s relentless slaughter of their food source, the buffalo. And so, after a period of fragile peace, the Comanches and their allies had responded in the only way they knew. They were out for blood, and more particularly scalps, prisoners and horses.

‘They’re on the move again!’ bellowed a young fellow going by the improbable name of Bat Masterson.

And they were, too. An awful lot of them. Nearly naked except for assorted breechclouts, their bronzed bodies daubed with ochre and vermilion, they swept in with terrifying speed. Nearly every one of them carried a heavy buffalo hide shield, though mercifully such things were no defence against a well-aimed Sharps rifle with virtually unlimited ammunition.

Clayton and a young shaver called William Olds were hunkered down together on the roof of Rath and Wright’s store, their powerful long guns cocked and ready.

Olds spat a black stream of tobacco juice over the edge prior to remarking, ‘You’d think those God-damned savages would’ve given up on this foolishness by now, wouldn’t you?’

Any reply was lost in the crash of gunfire, as both men fired almost simultaneously. Even as other shots rang out from nearby buildings, Olds let out a whoop of delight. One of their assailants had toppled from his pony just in front of their elevated position, blood pumping from a mortal wound. The Indian lay in the dust, helplessly twitching in his death throes.

As the familiar whiff of sulphur reached his nostrils, Clayton swiftly worked the under-lever of his weapon and slid another long, expensive cartridge into the breech. Although most people’s money would have been on him, he couldn’t have said for definite whose bullet had done the killing, and he didn’t really care. On that first desperate day, his hands had trembled with fear, but no such reaction occurred now. He and the others had come to realize that so long as they remained behind cover and kept up a hot fire, they would likely survive. And thankfully, the very nature of their employment meant that they had brought thousands of cartridges with them. If anyone was going to run out of ammunition, it sure as hell wouldn’t be any of the hide hunters!

The Comanches weaved between the low buildings at great speed, both controlling their ponies and shooting a mixture of firearms with breathtaking skill. It was not for nothing that they were considered by some to be the finest light cavalry in the world. But as was usually the case, they failed to utilize their far greater numbers and press home the attack.

‘Pile it into them,’ someone yelled from the roof of the nearby makeshift saloon.

‘I’ll do de telling,’ bellowed out the Irish proprietor, James Hanrahan, from the room below.

Many of the defenders at ground level were now using revolvers to maintain a high rate of fire, which resulted in clouds of powder smoke hanging in the still, dry air. Rapid shooting at fast-moving targets meant that no more attackers were brought down, but the sustained defence soon had the warriors high-tailing it back to the elevated ground in the north-east. The white men then returned to their ‘buffalo guns’ to encourage the withdrawal. It was then that Olds abruptly jumped up and headed for the wooden ladder leading down from the roof.

‘Where the hell are you going?’ Clayton queried.

‘It was my bullet felled that bastard, and I aim to get me his scalp!’ the eager young man retorted.

‘Don’t be a fool. They might not be finished,’ Clayton protested, but his cautious claim was ignored.

With one hand still clutching the cocked rifle by its forestock, Olds swivelled sideways, so as to get a foothold on the ladder. Cursing at such recklessness, his companion anxiously searched for any sign of a renewed attack. What happened next would have taken anyone by surprise.

Acutely nervous despite his apparent bravado, the youngster had only descended two rungs when the Sharps’ trigger snagged on the outer edge of the ladder’s rail top. With the muzzle barely inches from his skull, the powerful gun discharged with a terrible crash and burst it like a melon. As blood and brain tissue sprayed over the horrified Clayton, Olds lifeless body fell backwards on to the sun-baked ground like a rag doll.

Startled defenders in the adjacent saloon saw the corpse slam to earth in front on them. ‘Sweet Bejesus, who was dat?’ Hanrahan demanded twitchily. He genuinely thought that the Indians had fled out of range, but you never could tell with those devils.

Clayton sighed despondently. For Olds to have survived the siege, only to die by his own hand was just too cruel. ‘Kilt by his own gun,’ he yelled over. ‘Got careless, I guess.’

The saloonkeeper grunted something unintelligible, before adding, ‘An’ are dem Comanche gone, or what?’

Clayton, having mopped some of the gore from his face, took a good long look before answering. ‘They is an’ they ain’t. There’s a bunch of them sitting their ponies on that bluff off to the north-east. I reckon it must be close on a mile from here.’

Following that news, the beleaguered occupants of Adobe Walls cautiously came out into the open. It was as Clayton had said. There was no immediate threat, just a continued brooding presence.

‘Well, dat just tears it,’ Hanrahan exclaimed. As a businessman, he had more pressing matters on his mind than just fighting pesky Indians. ‘Dere’s been more than enough hunting and drinking days lost. It’s high time dem sons of bitches left for good, and dere might could be a way to encourage dem!’

‘What you thinking on, Jimmy?’ a certain Billy Dixon enquired. Like a lot of the hunters, he was young and cocky, with scant respect for his elders.

The other man scowled. ‘I’m after thinking on how you should be calling me Mister Hanrahan,’ he replied sharply. Then his manner softened slightly. ‘You reckon you could maybe knock one of dem heathens over from here? Show dem that they really should be moving on.’

Even as some of the others guffawed at such a ridiculous notion, a smile slowly spread across Dixon’s unshaven features. After all, killing critters at long range was his business.

‘That’s one heck of a tough shot,’ he cheerfully acknowledged. ‘But it sure would be something, wouldn’t it?’ So saying, he raised the ladder sight on his Sharps and began to contemplate the vast distance involved. As was always the case when adjusting it, he had to take into account windage and elevation. Scooping up some dust, he let it fall and observed how little it was affected by the elements. Thankfully, the sun would be behind him, and therefore highlighting his prospective victim. Glancing around, he spotted the remnants of an adobe wall that would provide support at the right height. Moving over to it, he selected a cartridge from the bandolier around his chest.

‘How many grains you using, Billy?’ queried one of his companions with professional interest.

‘One hundred and ten,’ the other responded. ‘That much powder would put a big shaggy down . . . even at such range.’

‘If you could hit it,’ another commented. ‘Aim for one of their ponies, why don’t you? That way you’d at least bring something down.’

As he carefully took up his position on the wall, Dixon favoured him with a wry smile. ‘I ain’t no horse killer, Sam.’ With that, he tucked the rifle butt into his shoulder and retracted the hammer. Peering intently down the barrel at the distant figures, he chose one who was directly facing the settlement, with the full width of his torso to aim at. It occurred to him that he’d taken on one hell of a task. The unsuspecting savages were mere flyspecks. Then again, his rifle was known as ‘the gun that shoots today and hits tomorrow’.

Such was the concentration involved that all emotion drained from his face. Even his breathing had to be strictly controlled. With so vast an expanse to cover, the slightest error as the heavy lead bullet left the barrel would result in a hopeless failure. Near misses counted for nothing on the unforgiving frontier.

Squeezing on the first of the double set triggers meant that the second required only the slightest touch, and as he suddenly held his breath, that was exactly what it got. The Sharps was a weapon of outstanding precision, and as it discharged with a tremendous roar, Billy Dixon instinctively knew that he’d done good. And yet, as he stared intently at the tiny figures, there was no movement of any