Read Pinto Lowery for Free Online

The eldest was a snip of a girl. Alongside her was a boy who might have been Muley Bryant’s shaggy-haired younger brother.
    â€œYer safe,” Pinto announced. “But I’d head west and down to de river soon’s dem scouts clear you. Be a raidin’ party close, I’d guess, and dem trees won’t save yer hides if dey attack.”
    There was a hint of thanks in the eyes of the youngsters, but Pinto paid them little mind. The only move left him was to ride like wildfire for Jarrell ’s Ford and get across the Brazos. The higher southern bank was a natural rampart from which a man with a good rifle stood half a chance. The horses would be safe there, too.
    The scouts seemed to sense Pinto’s notion, for one of them suddenly broke away and headed north.
    â€œGone to get de menfolk,” Pinto muttered. He then drew out a Henry rifle from its saddle scabbard and let fly a round toward the two remaining scouts. The shot unsettled the black, but it scattered the young Indians like seed corn at planting. “You nervous, are you?” Pinto yelled to the stallion. “Well, show ’em yer heels, boy! Let’s go!”
    He dropped the line holding the other horses as the black raced for the river. It wasn’t needed. The horses were a herd again, and they followed the big black as before. The scouts, still shaken by the Henry’s accurate fire, responded slowly. Pinto reached the river first, located the ford, and splashed onward to the far bank. He even managed to secure the precious horses before climbing onto the bank and waiting for the Indians.
    â€œComin’?” Pinto yelled. “Where’d you boys get do?”
    The two scouts howled like wild men and plunged into the river. They weren’t familiar with the swirls and bogs, though, and in short order both were unhorsed. They thrashed about for a moment before dragging themselves almost naked and weaponless to the near bank. Pinto waited in hopes they might turn away. They couldn’t have been more than twelve—just children, really. But they recovered their bows quickly and sent arrows flying up the bank. Pinto ducked the first exchange and fired back. His first shot struck the left-handed scout in the shoulder and spun him around before depositing him in the shallows. Pinto fired a second time when the surviving scout charged. Only thirty feet separated them, and the Henry couldn’t miss at that range. The bullet shattered the boy’s elbow, but still he raced on. Another shot shattered the youngster’s jaw and dropped him into the sand, writhing in pain.
    â€œFool!” Pinto said as he worked the Henry’s lever and advanced a fresh shell into the firing chamber. “Jus’ like Gettysburg. You cain’t rush cannons, Jamie!”
    A storm of riders then appeared at the river, led by a tall chief with all sorts of feathers tied in his hair. Pinto counted fifteen men, and he opened up on them immediately. The Comanches raised a shout and charged into the river. These newcomers weren’t children, though, and the river didn’t bother them anymore than a fly bothers a mountain. Pinto knocked one rider from a horse and fired on another. Then, as he tried to shift the lever, the rifle jammed.
    â€œNow thad’s a Henry fer you!” Pinto shouted as he pulled the old Navy Colt from his holster and prepared to make the Indians pay a price for his horses. The Comanches wailed and waved wicked-looking lances to unsettle his aim, but George Lowery had been in battles before. If the Army of the Potomac couldn’t shake him loose from his hold on Petersburg, no batch of half-starved Comanches would move him now.
    The first two Comanches started for Pinto, but neither got there. The Colt barked three times, and the two men stumbled back bleeding. Only two shots left , Pinto thought. Well, there’s the bowie knife . It never came to that, however. The Comanches were