This post was inspired by an invitational writing prompt in the Scholar and Scribe community - @grocko/s-and-s-invitational-cowboy - the theme is Western, and the genre is Action. Enjoy !
Image created by AI in NightCafe Studio
A couple of bullets pinged off the dusty ground of the trail. More smacked into tree stumps and stayed there, lead souvenirs that would get sucked in as the tree grew, just leaving small scars.
McCullough's wagon clattered at breakneck speed along the track through the woods, with half a dozen riders clustered around it. They were the escort, and occasionally one would loose off a wild pistol shot behind them.
In the distance, hollering and whooping could be heard. Cries like buzzards spotting a fresh kill. As well as the thundering of hooves. Both sides weren't really in shooting range of each other, and even rifles weren't accurate at this speed, but it didn't stop them taking pot shots anyway.
"We're coming up fast on the creek, Major !"
McCullough's shout was a mixed blessing. Once over it, they'd be in the territory patrolled by Van Dorn's cavalry operating out of Bentonville. But the creek itself was known to be hazardous.
They found this out soon enough.
The woods gave way to a grassy, scrubby patch of terrain, a long downslope towards a glitter in the distance that could only be the water of the creek.
"C'mon McCullough !" the Major cried, "Get a lick on ! With this slope we can outrun those Cherokees for good !"
They picked up speed, the covered wagon and it's knot of grey-clad outriders moving at a full gallop down toward the creek. Dust and pebbles kicked up all around them, the Indians left far behind and nowhere to be seen.
A grin spread across McCullough's face, revealing a huge number of gaps where teeth had been lost to bar fights and accidents.
Then disaster struck !
The wagon his a rock, and the rear left wheel shattered. Spokes flew everywhere, and the steel rim bounced off into a patch of scrub. It took with it one of the outriders, caught on the side of the head and spinning down off his lathered horse with a scream.
It just made the driver's grin bigger. McCullough threw himself to the far right hand end of the bench, and he shouted back inside the wagon at it's sole passenger. "Slide to the right, girl ! As far as you can !"
Calling to the Major, he laughed, "I'm the best waggoneer this side of the river. Never mind I've only got three wheels, I'm still rolling, we can get over the creek before those pesky Indians !"
The creek was in sight now; a gravel and sand crossing studded with boulders over the wide, shallow river.
That was when the other rear wheel of the wagon finally gave up the struggle. The back of the wagon crashed to the ground, McCullough cracking his whip despite this to try to keep the horses moving.
Reaching back again, he grabbed the girl from behind him, pulling her onto the bench and leaning down to pull the pin beneath his feet.
The whole back of the wagon came loose. It crashed down, flipped and rolled, scattering crates and barrels and shredding it's canvas cover against the sharp rocks.
"Down to two wheels Major !" the grinning man called. "We can still make it. Gotta get the girl safely to Bentonville, like you said !"
They almost made it.
As they hit the creek, the horses shied; the wagon's front wheels bounced off a boulder and the whole assemblage came apart like matchwood.
The whoops and shouts of the Indians were getting closer.
"Get behind those boulders, men !" shouted the Major.
The troopers wheeled around, dismounting rapidly and taking cover behind a broken semi-circle of rocks with their back to the creek. As the Indians charged into range, they opened up with their Spencer carbines, a crackle of rapid fire that dropped two of the Cherokees and made the others scatter back to take cover of their own.
One of the men, the youngest of the troopers, turned to ask, "What's going to happen, Major Travers ? That's a lot of redskins out there."
The major grinned grimly. "We stay low, watch our ammunition, and keep popping them off. They'll have to charge us sooner or later. Never fear, Williams, our Spencers are more than a match for their trade muskets."
But they didn't. Indians could be spotted dashing from rock to rock, scrub patch to scrub patch. The troopers fired, and occasionally got one, but the return fire was taking it's toll on the Confederates.
The Cherokees were careful with their fire. They could have just blazed away, but they didn't. When an Indian moved and a cavalryman popped up to take a shot, hidden marksmen took out the slow or stupid. Williams was the first to die; he took his time lining up a shot, and a bullet between the eyes was the price he paid.
By late afternoon, Travers, McCullough and the girl were all that was left. The creek was red as water washed away the blood that trickled into it from half a dozen corpses.
"Down to six rounds, Major." The smile was long gone from McCullough's face.
"Give 'em to me. You've earned your pay. Now go, get into the creek and let it carry you to the other side. Don't splash around, the sun will silhouette you like a drifting log. Go, damn it !"
With a shake of his head, the wagon driver handed the bullets over, slid into the water and was gone.
"Well girl, it's just you and me. Maybe we'll get you safe back to Bentonville, but I'm not promising it."
The girl just sat in silence, back to a rock, trying to stay out of the path of any bullets coming their way.
An accented voice came from a nearby rock. One of the Cherokees. "Give it up, greycoat ! You're on your own. You white men call this Drowned Chief Creek. You know why ? It's because of what they did when they found my grandfather alone here. Now it is time for another chief to die. One wearing a grey coat."
Letting off a wild shot, Major Travers called out, "I know you, Yellow Snow ! Maybe it'll be your body floating in the creek. A family affair, you might say."
The Indian responded mockingly, "How many bullets you got left ? Not enough for all of us, I reckon ! Give up and die like a man !"
Travers laughed bitterly. "I've got enough for you, and me, and one for the girl too. I know what you savages do to prisoners, you're not taking us alive !"
For the first time, the girl spoke, her voice coming softly from behind him. "You're right, Major Travers."
Then she pulled the trigger of the pistol she'd taken and hidden.
At this close range, it only took one bullet. The major went down like a sack of wet horse feed, rolled over and lay still, half in the creek and half out of it.
Yellow Snow walked up to the body and looked down at it, then up at the girl. "Come, sister. It's time to go home."
