Texas Rifles Read Online Free PDF

it.
    â€œCrowding them,” Barcroft said matter-of-factly to
those near enough to hear him. “They’re getting desperate when they leave their dead.”
    He raised his hand and gave the signal for a speedup. Then he spurred into an easy lope and overtook the Mexican scout before the scout knew of the order.
    To the west, the sun was rapidly sinking into a latticework of dry summer clouds, pretty to look at but devoid of rain. The pursuit had broken out of the brushy country and onto the open grassland that rolled for mile upon unbroken mile, toward the faraway escarpment of the Llano Estacado—the Staked Plains. Here and there a scattering of mesquites stood in low areas where the rainwater tended to run together, and the shadows of these trees were lengthening, reaching across the grass prairie like grasping fingers.
    Ahead lay a creek, lined with brush. Barcroft raised his hand for a slowdown while the scout moved out to look it over. He was almost to the scrubby oaks when a rifle exploded. The ball missed the scout and sang by the men behind him. The Mexican spurred his horse sharply to the left, hitting the brush a hundred yards upstream from the source of the shot. Cloud could hear pistol fire.
    Barcroft veered the command sharply to one side, upstream from the scout. When he hit the brush, he reined downstream and spurred out. Thus the Texans outflanked the Indian rear guard. Ahead of him Cloud saw the Mexican scout on one knee, aiming a six-shooter. He fired once, then the Rifles swept by him, yelping, and the scout almost lost his horse in the excitement.
    Four warriors had been left in the creekbed to slow the pursuit. Two of them fired rifles, then threw the rifles down and began to run. Two others stood their ground, loosing arrows as quickly as they could pull them from deer-hide quivers and draw the bows. Cloud heard a horse
go down, the rider cursing as he slid on his belly through the grass.
    The Indian stand was hopeless. The troops swept over the warriors like a storm wave breaking over a lakeshore. Within the span of thirty seconds, all four Comanches lay dead. A couple of young recruits were gathering up bows and arrows as souvenirs. More practical, a pair of older men recovered the Indians’ two rifles and relieved the bodies of shot and powder.
    Barcroft turned in the saddle and looked back upstream. Here came the Mexican scout. He was flanked by two other riders who had held back from the battle and now rode in white-faced and shaken.
    Barcroft gave his first attention to the Mexican. “Are you all right, Miguel?” The Mexican nodded. Then Barcroft faced the other two. They seemed to shrink, even before the captain spoke to them.
    â€œWhat were you doing back there? Why didn’t you stay up with me?”
    One of the men stammered. “W-w-we thought we’d better help Miguel.”
    â€œHe didn’t need any help. You were trying to stay back out of the fight!” Face cloudy, Barcroft shook his fist at the two. “There’s one thing in this world I hate worse than a Comanche, and that’s a coward. Next time we’re engaged, I’m going to see to it that you two are right up in front, or I’ll shoot you myself! Is that clear?”
    The two only nodded and looked at the ground.
    Barcroft turned away from them. “Anybody hit?” he queried. One man had a flesh wound; nothing serious. A couple of men were out catching an Indian mount for the man whose horse had gone down. The Mexican scout was on the ground with a Bowie knife, grimly scalping the dead warriors. He held up a bloody scalp and shook it. It jingled.

    â€œLooky there, Captain,” one of the other men said, “got little bells tied in it. Ain’t that the funniest thing you ever seen?”
    Cloud didn’t see much funny in it and turned away.
    â€œCome on,” Barcroft said impatiently, “we’ve lost time enough.”
    As scout, Miguel Soto