Текст книги "Apache Canyon"

Автор книги: Brian Garfield

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At eight they fell across the scalped body of a trapper and Sutherland left a detail with it; at nine the detail caught up at a ford and they had not yet sighted the Apache raiders, though Rubio estimated them to be not more than a half hour ahead.

"They're holding back for us, Captain. They'll make a play pretty soon. We better turn back."

"There are six dead whites behind us." Sutherland rephed. "I intend to exact payment, Rubio. Keep on." His clothes were a soggy misery. Rain funneled down the trough of his hatbrim and poured in a steady stream before his eyes. Under the slicker his hand folded back the flap of his holster.

Eleven brought them to an opening of a flat-sided canyon that cut into a high northern slope. The rain was slackening; the gray-red walls of the canyon rose to dizzy altitudes before them. Sutherland pulled up; Rubio came back to meet him and Brophy gigged his horse forward to his flank.

Brophy said, "Rifle Gap, Captain. This is as far as we can go. The major's orders . . ."

"Shut up, Sergeant." Sutherland was quite aware of the orders. They expressly forbade him from advancing beyond Rifle Gap. "Rubio."

"Captain?"

"How much of a lead do those Indians have on us?"

"Not much," Rubio said, grunting. "Not much at all, Captain. I reckon if you went in there you'd find 'em quick enough—or maybe they'd find you."

"I want facts, not sermons, Rubio."

Rubio shrugged. "They went in there, all right. But was I you I wouldn't follow them."

Sutherland's fist softly pounded the saddle pommel. "It would take a half-day's ride to go around that mountain."

Rubio shrugged and waited quietly. Sutherland stared into the maw of the canyon for a long interval. Rubio said, "With a lot of luck, a cavalry outfit like this one can cover maybe forty-five miles in twenty-four hours. In the same period of time, an Apache can cover a hundied miles. He can go as fast on foot as you can go on a horse. It's something to think about, Captain. I wasn't fooHn when I said they could lose us in ten minutes flat if they wanted to."

"I know that as well as you do, Rubio."

Rubio's answering glance was skeptical. The drizzle continued, turning the air gray, turning the men's faces to a bleak pale shade. Sutherland said, "Damned few times you can get a band of Indians to stand and fight. When you can do it, you've got to figure that you've got a good break. I don't intend to give this one up. Next time, they may not be willing to fight it out."

"Give them an advantage like this one," Rubio argued, "and they'll fight every time. Captain, we've got no way of knowing how many are in there. They might have joined up with a hundred more bucks for all we know."

"I've seen no evidence of a larger party," Sutherland said stiffly. "Brophy, tell the men to bring out their rifles."

"But, Captain—"

"That's an order, Sergeant," Sutherland said tightly. "Carry it out."

"Yes, sir." Brophy wheeled his horse and trotted back to the head of the column.

"You see," Sutherland said, "I command loyalty."

"Any good soldier will give you that. Captain." Rubio's eyes were bitterly bright. "But what are you givin' them in return?"

Sutherland looked at the scout with what was almost a sneer. "You don't have to come with us if you don't want to, Rubio. I can do without you now."

Rubio considered him across the dismal silence.

"Why," he muttered, "at this point Tin better oflF with you than without you, I reckon. Alone in these hills, my scalp ain't worth a hill of dried beans. I'll go along. Captain—if nothing's going to change your stubborn damned mind. I'd like to have it on the record that I'm callin' you a fool, though."

A vast contempt rose in Sutherland's eyes. "That J will be all, Rubio." He turned his face straight ahead, and brought down his arm flatly. "Column of twos, forward at the trot!"

And so they rode into the canyon, sixteen long-legged men on horseback, rifles balanced across their pommels and muscles set on fine triggers. Rivulets of rainwater flowed in miniature cascades down the cliff-walls and formed a stream that wandered back and forth down the floor of the gap. Boulders, fallen from the far high rims, lined the floor. Rubio rode beside Sutherland at the head of the column, the bugler and Brophy behind them. Sutherland's eyes searched the fallen boulders. Their horses splashed and clip-clopped, steadily trotting.

Rubio spat on the rocks and said, "Don't lift your eyes. Captain. They're up there, on the rims."

Sutherland kept his face expressionless, maintaining the trot. There was no sound other than the noise of their own progress. "What are they waiting for, then?"

"They ain't scared," Rubio said dryly. "I can tell you that much."

"How far to the other end of this notch?"

"Maybe a mile," Rubio said. "Maybe there ain't enough of them and they're waiting for more to show up. Or maybe they want us to ride out of the other end of the canyon right into the main party."

Rubio spat again with his sharply sweeping eyes covering the turns ahead. "Play it easy, Captain–you may get out of this yet, with enough fool's luck."

"Shut up, Rubio."

The first warning arrow—a part of the ageless Apache game-the first arrow fell, clattering along the rocks, dropping among them. Sutherland shouted back, "Gallop!" and thundered through the canyon.

Echos lifted around them, pounding hoofs and flat gunshots through the sky, rebounding as if in a great empty tunnel; bullets screamed off the rocks. Sutherland's horse, tight on Rubio's tail, wheeled in and out of rocks while Sutherland lifted his pistol and thumbed off shots toward the high rims. The drum of hoofbeats and the steady rattle of gimfire deafened him; the plunging run of the horse almost unseated him, coming around a stiff turning, and then they were racing out onto a downslope with the bugler reeling on his saddle behind Sutherland. Sutherland's lips were clamped together, turned white by pressure; he led the column at reckless speed down that hill into the brush at its bottom. And just as he and Rubio splashed into the creek there the Apaches rose up from the bushes beyond, thrusting volleys of arrows and bullets forward.

The horse went out from under Sutherland and he felt himself flung from the saddle into the icy water. He ducked under, pistol still locked in his grip, and wheeled back to the bank, plunging ahead into the brush, with Apache gunfire whipping overhead from front and back in a wicked, relentless crossfire.

Savagely he turned about, crouching on one knee, squinting through the tangled brush to seek out targets. With calm precision he squeezed off the three remaining shells in his pistol, and knelt to reload. The sudden realization came over him like a delayed reaction in that it was his duty to look after his men. He wheeled back into the brush of this narrow no-man s land and found Rubio, belly to the ground, rifle at his cheek, picking his targets with calm care. "Rubio, find Brophy and tell him to report to me on the double."

Rubio looked up bleakly. "Tell him yourself."

"Damn it, Rubio—"

"I don't take orders from murderers," Rubio said mildly, and dropped his eyes to the sights. Cursing, Sutherland crashed on, heedless of the metal that sizzled through the air taking little bites out of bnish and wind and rain. A drop of water whipped into his eye and he blinked desperately; a protruding branch cut a deep red scratch in the back of his hand; his running feet got tangled in the undergrowth and he fell flat, the pistol flying from his grasp. He lost precious moments retrieving the gun; and ran on through the shoulder-high brush.

When he found the sergeant, Brophy already had the troopers behind rocks and mesquite. Off in a shallow gully he glimpsed the horses with their horse holders.

An arrow came in from behind and fell quivering into the trunk of a mesquite beside him; he swimming and saw a dozen howling Apaches coming downhill at the troop's rear. When he lifted his pistol to fire on them he heard Brophy's practiced even tones: "Barnett, Holly—cover the flanks. Corporal Frank, take a man up those rocks and hold the rear." The gun was empty in Sutherland's fist; he let his arm drop. Brophy's voice cut forward sharply: "Captain —get down. You re a target, standin up that way."

Sutherland wheeled and dropped to a crouch beside Brophy, thumbing shells with aggravating slowness into the gate of his revolver. On the slope behind, the running Indians had dropped to earth, immediately fading from sight. With his gun reloaded and his breath subsiding in his chest, Sutherland said, "Head count, Brophy."

"Near as I can tell, sir," Brophy said, and paused to fire a shot forward through the brush "we've got six dead and two wounded. There's seven of us left in a piece—and maybe Rubio, if he's around here."

"He's in front of the line," Sutherland said. The Apaches in the brush followed with a ragged volley, and then a sudden quiet descended on the area. Drizzling rain continued to dampen everything. Brush rattled to his left and he wheeled, lifting his pistol. Pete Rubio snaked through the brush on his belly and rolled over, getting to his haunches, peering forward.

Sutherland said, "Are they coming toward us, Rubio?"

"Not yet."

"Then what's keeping them?" Rubio looked around and spat.

"You tell me, Captain. You're the Indian-fighting expert."

A blaze of red filmed Sutherland's eyes. In that quick moment he had an almost uncontrollable urge to shoot Rubio down; the pistol came up and his thumb eared the big hammer back to full cock, and with the muzzle trained point-blank on Rubio he said, "Answer my question."

Rubio shrugged contemptuously. "You ain't going to shoot me—you got few enough guns as it is. But I'll tell you what you want to know. They've fallen back to regroup and most likely wait for reinforcements. They figure they've got plenty of time—we ain't going anywhere, not now."

Sutherland cursed and turned around. His face was livid. One buck, more ambitious than the rest, splashed into the creek forty yards downstream and came plunging halfway across the water before Sutherland's slug took him in the ribs, spun him completely around and dropped him into the mud. Scattered shots sounded at irregular intervals. Sutherland punched the empty shell-case out of his gun and plugged a fresh cartridge into its place.

"Brophy."

"Sir?"

"We'll have to consoHdate. Draw the men back slowly to the rocks on either side of that gully where the the horses are. I believe we can hold them from there."

"Yes, sir," Brophy said. His voice was as blank as the gray sky. He turned away through the bushes. Sutherland grunted and began to walk crouched toward the gully. "Come on, Rubio," he said disgustedly.

He didn't bother to see if Rubio was with him; he threaded a path through the brush and rocks and after a half-hour he found himself on the rim of the gully overlooking the horses. Some of his men were already here. He saw one man with his arm hanging useless, another limping badly, a third crooked strangely on one side; men straggled in, all of them trying to watch all four compass points at once; and when Brophy came, last to arrive, Sutherland said, "You counted wrong, Brophy. There are nine of us, counting the horse holders."

"Yes sir," Brophy said.

"Post your men around the perimeter. Sergeant. Get ready for another attack—and pay special attention to the horses. We need them."

Brophy turned away. Sutherland put his back to a high rock and allowed himself to slump slightly. A bleak hght came up and stained his eyes. Nearby, Rubio was squatting motionless in the shadow of a great boulder.

Rubio pulled a straw from the ground and stuck it into his mouth, letting it hang from his lip corner. He said, "Might be three or four of us could make it. We could stampede some of the horses, come dark, and go out the other way, while the Apaches go chasing after the horses. I reckon," he added drily, "we've got enough spare horses now to turn the trick."

"Perhaps," Sutherland said coldly. "I dislike the notion of retreating."

"You figure it's better to get your scalp lifted, hey? I made a mistake, then-I always figured you for a few brains, at least."

Sutherland cursed under his breath and called out: "Brophy."

Brophy did not answer. He lay flat on the ground, fifteen yards away, with a crimson shaft rising from his throat and blood pulsing thickly out to stain the rocks. Sutherland swore fervently and lifted his pistol; but no targets presented themselves to his gun. Then he saw Rubio dart past him, scoot across the intervening open ground, and coolly strip the sergeant's pistol and shells from the body, after which Rubio moved on into the rocks, disappearing, taking up a position.

Alone on this face of the hill, Sutherland allowed his body to go more slack, while he made his mind work. Presently he pushed away from the rock, crawled uphill through the brush, and by a roundabout concealed course finally came up beside Rubio. "All right," he said. "We'll pull back."

Rubio grunted. "A fine time to show some sense, ain t it?"

"Be quiet. I want you to pass the word along—unsaddle all the horses but those we'll need to ride out."

"What about the wounded?"

"We'll have to take them with us."

The drizzle spattered the backs of their hands. "That's mighty kind of you," Rubio said huskily, and moved off.

The apaches had walked into Brady's camp at dawn and roused him and his companions. All of them carried arms, but none of them had brandished their weapons or even pointed them. Now, three hours later, Brady sat beside Harris while their horses moved along the floor of a long canyon under a drizzling gray sky; Tucker brought up the rear with his pack horse; and all around them rode the silent Indians. Once in a while one of the Apaches would make a joke, and the others would laugh; but by and large, it was a quiet journey. The Indians had not taken the guns from the soldiers. Harris's wry glance came around and struck Brady. "I didn't know I was buying into this kind of thing when I accepted my commission. Maybe I'd have thought twice."

"What are you complaining for?" Brady said. "I'm not even getting paid for it. My contract ran out, remember?"

Harris chuckled softly in his throat. "Well, if we don't get back, maybe somebody will write it all up for the newspapers, and we'll be the heroes. I hope Inyo's in a good mood."

"Yeah," Brady breathed by way of answer. They broke out of the canyon, trotting at an easy pace and soon, on the side of a mountain that commanded a good-sized district, their Apache guides brought them into the rancheria.

This was a big, pattemless scatter of Indian wickiups, spread out over the humps and hollows of the hillside without apparent plan. Water ran by at the foot of the slope, the volume of the stream increased by the night-long rain and the continuing drizzle.

As they rode through the community, old women came out and stared at them with heads thrown back against the rain, eyes blazing defiantly; one woman picked up a handful of dirt and flung it at, them. It hit Brady's saddle; he ignored it. Harris said, "I know how much these people like to beat around the bush, but with Inyo I want to get right down to brass tacks."

"So does he, I reckon. He's pretty direct. This ain't a horse trade. Just say a few pohte words, then tell him what you want."

Harris nodded. Brady said, "Don't make any judgments from the size of this camp. It's not the only camp they've got up here." "I guessed as much."

"You'll do," Brady said, with a quiet grin. "Here we are. Don't step down until we're invited."

A woman with long gray hair turned stringy by the rain came out of the big wickiup, and thereupon one of the bucks escorting the party wheeled his horse and drummed away.

Harris looked at Brady. "What was that for?" "Most likely the old woman's his mother-in-law. They ain't supposed to look at their mothers-in-law or talk to them."

Harris smiled faintly. Tucker gigged himself up alongside; -and thus, thi'ee abreast, they faced the chief's lodge.

Stooping to clear the low doorway, Inyo came through into the rain. He was a tall man, very tall for an Apache, and lean like his son Tonio; his face was a seamed map of creases and shelves. He raised a hand in greeting to Brady and said softly, "Enju."

"Enju" Brady replied and said to Harris, "We can get down now."

A brave came forward with obvious intent, whereupon Harris said, "Tucker, take care of the horses," and the brave apparently understanding him, changed course and went away. Tucker grunted without pleasure and gathered up the reins of the four horses. The pack horse kicked a fly away with a rear hoof, startling Tucker. Brady had to smile; they were all jumpy today, and no wonder. On the ground, facing Inyo across a four-yard distance, he heard Harris's quiet question; "Does he speak Eng-Hsh?"

"Some. He'd rather speak his own language-it's a matter of saving face. I'll interpret."

"All right," Harris said, and stepped forward, giving the Indian sign for friendship. "Enju," he said. Brady stayed right beside him.

The tall chief nodded carefully and indicated the doorway of the lodge, afterward pushing the blanket-door aside and entering. "After him," Brady said dryly, and followed Harris into the damp dimness of the wickiup.

A small fire burned in the center of the place; its smoke made exit through a hole in the roof. Now and then a drop of drizzling rain sizzled on the fire. Inyo sat down cross-legged on a blanket, indicating to Brady that he and Harris should take seats on the far side of the fire. Inyo's eyes were level, lighted by an immense pride; he waited patiently.

''May the god of the sun be kind to the great war chief," Brady said in Apache dialect.

The chief dipped his head in reply. Brady spoke a few more pleasantries, obeying the Apache code of etiquette, and turned to Harris. "You can speak your peace.''

"You can do it better than I can," Harris said. "Tell him about the telegram from Sherman."

"All of it?"

"The whole thing."

"All right," Brady said, and turned to the chief. He spoke for some time, telling Inyo in carefully chosen words the offer to move the Apaches to the San Carlos, and the condition appended to the offer: that Inyo lead his renegades to the reservation.

Afterward, Inyo made answer in tones that were not so much guttural as low and soft-throated.

Harris said, "What did he say?"

"About what we expected. He says it sounds good to him, but he doesn't speak for all his people. He's only a war chief. There's a difference between a chief of the people and a war chief."

"Who's the chief of the people?"

"They haven't got one," Brady said dryly. "In wartime they don't need one."

"Then who gives the orders?"

"In battle, the war chiefs. Other times, nobody. Everybody makes up his own mind. They run a pretty free society. For all practical purposes, everybody's free to come and go as he pleases."

"That's just fine," Harris said, with a dour turn of his lips. He locked his hands together and leaned back a little. "Tell him the alternative—tell him we're prepared to mount a big expedition against him. Tell him we respect his fighting abihty and the pride of his people but we've got a whole lot more soldiers than he does, and sooner or later we'll kill all of them if they keep on resisting. Tell him his children will all be orphans and his women will all be widows."

Brady told it to Inyo, though he was fairly certain the chief had understood Harris's English. Inyo considered the two of them over a stretching interval, after which he spoke again, and Brady translated: "He says he knows all'that now. He didnt know it when he jumped the reservation, but he's figured out the odds. He knows we've got him hcked in the long run. But he still says he can't speak for anybody but himself."

Harris scratched his head and tugged at his ear-lobe. "Ask him to talk frankly–ask him what he thinks the chances are of him talking his people into giving up and coming back to the reservation."

Brady asked, and waited with half-held breath for Inyo's answer.

When it came, the answer was carefully thought-out and spoken. Brady said, "He says it wouldn't work. The braves have suffered too long and taken too many empty promises from the Government. They prefer to stay in the mountains and fight as long as they can-at least it's an honorable way to Uve and to die, if they must."

"But Inyo has a lot of prestige with them. He's a respected man. Why shouldn't they listen to him?''

"It's not in their way of doing things. They'd listen to him. They'd give him all the respect he's due. Then they'd go off and do as they please."

Harris turned to look away for a moment; he said, "Frankly, I can't say I blame him. If I was in the shoes of one of these Apache braves I'd probably make the same choice myself."

Brady said, "That kind of attitude wont get us anywhere right now."

Harris grunted. "All right. Will, can you think of anything else we can say?"

"No."

"That's what I thought. We've said our piece. Inyo has our offer. You might tell him it's a good offer, and we'll stand by it. It's no empty promise."

Brady translated the words into Apache and relayed them. Inyo said nothing. Harris turned his palms up, raising his shoulders in a sign of resignation. "That's it, then. Ask him if we'll have safe passage out of the mountains."

Brady asked the question, and interpreted Inyo's reply drily: "He says he can't guarantee it. He says his own men will respect our flag of truce, but he can't speak for the others in the mountains. He says maybe we ought to keep our eyes open."

"Thank him for the advice," Hanis said. "Make your goodbye speech. Will, and let's get going."

Brady did so, and afterward followed Harris outside. Tucker was standing patiently by the horses, trying to ignore a squad of small brown children who were keeping busy by taunting the horses and throwing pebbles. Brady grinned at them and shook his fist; the children became quiet and stopped throwing stones, but did not run away. Instead, they stood fast and glared with steady hatred.

"Let's get out of here," Harris murmured uncomfortably, and Brady turned to his horse.

Brady carried the white flag, high and conspicuous on a pole. He wondered skeptically how much good it would do if they happened to encounter a crowd of Indians who were not directly within Inyo's sphere of influence.

They rode back through the country of high cliffs and wide mesas, under the continuing discomfort of the steady drizzle. There seemed no end in sight to the sky's weeping. Tucker, alongside with the pack horse, was decidedly nervous. It was not the kind of nervousness brought on by fear; rather it was an angry wariness, the impatience of a man growing anxious for action. It was product and culmination of the gradual gathering bitterness that marked Tucker's progress through life-Brady remembered Tucker's diy comment, that he had seen too many doors close in his face.

Noon came and went-time gauged by Harris' pocket watch, not by the sun; there was no sun. Time traveled on in gray and leaking lethargy; the ground, once dusty, was turned soggy, muffling the sound of hoofbeats. The cold on these windswept, dripping heights was biting. Dim, gray light washed all warmth out of the various color-tones of the land, giving everything in sight the appearance of a uniform hostility.

They traveled with deliberate haste, now galloping, now trotting, now walking; alternating the pace in that manner to save the horses, they covered ground at a good rate. The trail Brady chose was one that kept them in open country much of the time, thus minimizing the chance of ambush. Now and then they had to cut through a tangle of badlands or a narrow-sided canyon, and in these places Brady's hand stayed near his gun and his. eyes swept the nearby places of concealment with heightened alertness. And then, walking the horse across a long flat plateau of rock and scrub growth, his head lifted sharply and his hand raised in restraining signal.

They reined in on that barren flat; Harris said, 'Whaf s the matter?"

"I think I heard something—gunshots."

Harris frowned and turned to Ksten against the wind. There was the steady light patter of rain against their oilskin ponchos; there was the sound of Tucker's led horse shifting its feet. "I don t hear anything," Harris said.

Brady shook his head. His eyes were narrowed. "I didn't imagine it. Keep your eyes open. Let's keep going."

They moved forward again, each man frowning with new, taut awareness toward the surrounding jagged peaks. "Timber country coming up soon," Brady said. "Watch the shadows."

Harris squinted upward toward the clouds. "Not a break anywhere in that sky. It's going to be a long | summer-a tough campaign. The only way we'll get ' these Apaches out of the mountains will be to pick them off one by one."

"That sounds like fun," Tucker said morosely. He, too, considered the sky; presently he said, "Will?"

"What?"

''Does that offer still stand?"

"Sure."

"I think I'll take you up on it," Tucker said. His face looked sour. "I've had enough campaigning to last me quite a spell."

Harris turned his glance toward the sergeant. His voice carried a rough good-humor. "This is a hell of a time to desert me."

'The army's full of sergeants. Captain. I'm tired."

Harris's eyes were level, holding Tucker's. "I can't say I blame you," he said.

"Thanks," Tucker said dryly. "We're not out of this yet, though. I'll keep my gun greased till we hit the desert. Which is still two days away."

"So it is," Brady murmured, scanning the juniper slopes ahead. The path he chose dropped them through a long field of altitude-stunted greenery, lifted them over a rocky saddle of ground between two somber bald-topped peaks, and took them by easy stages downward, and finally, at midafternoon, entering a stand of timber with startling abruptness. Rain dripped unsteadily from the laden tree-tops, adding to their discomfort. Along the way they scared up an antelope, a solitary animal prowling the forest for graze; startled, it wheeled and fled, the humping signal spots on its rump showing white in alarm. When Brady looked at Tucker he saw that Tucker had his sixgun halfway out of its holster. Tucker rammed the gun back with a grunt of disgust and folded his slicker back over the holster. "A trip like this would make a wooden Indian jumpy."

"A fact," Brady murmured in agreement. He, too, felt the nerve-tightening pressure of their constant danger.

Single file, they threaded the forest, steadily descending. Late in the afternoon the rain quit, although the cloud cover continued to blanket the sky from horizon to horizon. Nightfall came early; it caught them still in the depths of the tall timber country. Brady said, "We may as well rig a lean-to and make camp. There's no hurry-if the Indians want us, they'll get at us whenever they please."

And so they built a quick shelter beneath the dripping pines, staked the horses out, and spent the night in relatively dry discomfort, taking turns standing guard. No incidents marred the night. At dawn long red splashes of light streaked the eastern sky. "Clouds are breaking up," Tucker observed thankfully. They broke camp and were once again on the move by six o'clock after a quick cold meal. Harris said, "How far is it to Yeager's?" 'Three hours," Brady said positively. "If the place is still standing."

"Now," Tucker observed in his customary dour tones, "there's an encouraging thought. I rise to remark that you're about the most contrary skunk I know, Brady. Maybe I'll reconsider that horse-wrangling job."

Brady's chuckle relieved a good deal of pent-up strain; he was grateful even for Tucker's bit of sour humor. They traveled forward at a steady gait across the damp-matted carpet of soaked pine needles, now and then cutting tlirough a rocky clearing and once passing the edge of a long bum, wth nothing remaining but the fire-blackened stumps and charred, lifeless trees, the only aftermath of a forest fire.

The sun advanced, going in and out of sight past the moving breakup of clouds. Fhckering shadows shortened along the ground and then, chmbing a slope through a thick stand of pines, Brady reined in abruptly so that Tucker almost ran into the tail of his horse.

"What's up. Will?"

"Shooting. Hear it?"

The three listened with keen ears. "I hear it," Harris said, and Tucker echoed the statement.

"About a mile and a half ahead," Brady guessed. ''That would put it just about at Yeager's place."

"Fine," Tucker said. "Fine."

Brady looked at Harris. "You're in command."

Harris grunted. "Thanks for reminding me." He turned silent and for a moment they listened to the steady distant talk of rifles, echoing across the mountains. "Let's take a look," Harris said, and led the way forward at a cautious pace. Brady looked back and saw the grin across Tucker's mouth that did not spread to the man's eyes; Brady's jaws tightened and he gigged his horse forward.

As they advanced across the undulating slopes, the sound of gunfire grew louder, and their caution increased. Presently Brady said softly, "Easy, Justin. It's just over the hill now."

Harris nodded and went on, finally halting within pistol shot of the top of the hill. He dismounted and said in a sibilant whisper, "Hold the horses. Tucker. We'll go up for a look."

Brady dismounted and went up the hill on foot with Harris beside him. Behind him, Tucker sat his saddle, keening the roundabout woods.

Approaching the rim, they dropped to hands and knees. The shooting had slackened a bit, but still the volume of fire indicated to Brady that at least a dozen rifles, perhaps more, were busy peppering Yeager's ranch. The heavier roar of a buffalo gun would be Yeager himself, fighting back through the little gunports of his fortified house.

And so it proved to be. They belly-crawled the last fifteen feet and lay flat and hatles5 on the soaked ground, peering down through the thinning timber to the wide cleared area that marked Yeager's outfit. Yeager's house bloomed with gunfire; Brady counted eight guns firing from various positions within the house, and that made him frown: Yeager had himself, his wife and four boys. That made six. Who were the other two riflemen?