Текст книги "Apache Canyon"

Автор книги: Brian Garfield

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It mattered little. The house was ringed, on the fringe of timber, by at least twenty Apache guns.

"They're pretty busy," Brady observed.

"I wonder what they decided was all of a sudden so important at Yeager's?"

"No telling," Brady said "Yeager's got some help inside."

"I noticed." Harris was watching the timber-edge around the ranch. "What do you think, Will?"

"I think Yeager's got his hands full."

"It wouldn't do us any good to go charging through the Apache lines and fort up with Yeager. A few more gims wouldn't do him that much good. We can give him more help from back here, if we do it right."

"Silently," Brady said. "If we can pick a few o them off, one at a time—with knives maybe—it ma) give them something to think about. Long enougl for us to make a break and get Yeager out of then with his crowd."

"It's worth a tiy," Harris said. He was starting t( worm back when Brady stopped him. Brady wa< pointing downhill. "Look in the corral. What do yoi: see?"

"Horses. What of it?"

"Look at that big bay. The one with a white stocking on its left forefoot."

"You've got good eyes," Harris murmured. "I can't tell one horse from another at this distance. What's all the mystery?"

"I could swear that's Sutherland's horse," Brady said quietly.

And Harris's eyes came around slowly to his, widening. "My God!" Harris whispered.

Brady nodded soberly. "He had fifteen men with him when he left the fort." He dug his hand in and started pushing himself back oS the exposed rim of the hill. "Come on."

There were yellow glinting pinpoints in Brady's eyes. "All right?" he asked; and Harris nodded, moving away softly through the trees. Brady turned and looked at Tucker. On Tucker's face was a touch of restlessness, a touch of isolation. His bleak eyes reflected a faint bitter light. Tucker looked at Brady, nodded briefly, and swung away. Ripples of light glinted along the blade of the knife in Tucker's hand. Presently he disappeared into the woods to the right. Brady turned to the left and moved ahead.

Over the hill, the talk of guns kept up in unceasing savagery. Now and then came the boom of Yeager's heavier buffalo gun; the long intervals between Yeager's shots proved that Yeager was choosing his targets with care. Brady walked ahead with long paces, circumnavigating the back of the hill slopes until he estimated that he was almost opposite the point from which he and Harris had overlooked the besieged ranch. Here he turned an abrupt right-angle and went straight up the hill, dropping lower as he approached the summit until, going over the top, he was on his belly once more. He stopped at a point of vantage to consider the trees below. When he rubbed his chin, heavy whiskers stung his hand. Temper pushed at his self control–the rattle of guns continued, battering his ears–but he lay flat and carefully regarded the timber immediately ahead before he moved, and when he did, it was with great care.

The wind carried with it the smell of rain and the sharp, raw scent of the wild comitiy. He crept through the forest, bent low enough for his fingers to touch the ground, and presently, like a dog bristling against a faint unfamiliar scent, he halted. A bright shift crossed his features—a surface sign of excitement—and wrinkles converged around his eyes. Ahead, through the trees, his attention had narrowed upon a squatting brown figure, rifle to shoulder.

Brady turned his head from side to side, putting his cool, almost indifferent glance deliberately on the surrounding trees. No one else was in sight. Ahead of him, the Apache's gun roared and the Apache flipped open the trapdoor breechlock to shove a new cartridge into the Springfield. Brady unlimbered his knife and began his stalk, moving from tree to tree. The Apache, keeping his back to Brady, had his attention held intently on the ranch house across the intei-vening open ground. Brady let his body down flat and crawled slowly, keeping the thickness of a pine trunk between him and the -Indian. The Apache fired another shot, again re– t loaded his .45-70 and took aim, waiting apparently for a target. Brady took his eyes deliberately off the ' Apache's back and again swept the surrounding : thickets, still seeing nothing; he lifted the knife and ' dug in his toes. From a distance of only ten feet, he made his run.

The Apache heard him, but not in time. Brady locked his arm about the man's tlnoat and without hesitation plunged the knife cleanly between the ribs.

The Apache sighed. Breath bubbled in his chest; his back arched with incredible power, all but breaking Brady's hold; then the body went slack, and Brady let it to earth slowly, pulling the knife out and wiping it clean on the ground. The Apache's torso jerked, but a moment's close inspection satisfied Brady that he was dead.

Brady coolly picked up the Indian's loaded rifle, cocked the big hammer, and took aim on a ringlet of rising gunsmoke that was a quarter-way around the circle of trees. When that Indian gun fired again, he had his target, and fired. The big .45-70 recoiled against his shoulder-and he saw a half-naked figure fall plunging out of the trees.

Brady rammed the carbine muzzle-first into the ground, thus blocking the barrel with mud and making the gun a death-trap for any passing Indian who might pick it up and try to shoot it. Then he laid the gun down beside the dead Apache and moved off silently through the shadowed timber.

His face was turned harsh and raw by the violence he was embroiled in. Threading the trees, he caught sight of another kneeling figure firing upon the ranch house; he again dropped flat and again wormed forward.

But this Indian was not so easily to be caught from behind. At irregular intervals the Apache's head turned while he watched the roundabout trees with care. Brady froze, flat against the earth. When the Indian took aim on the house again, he moved quickly forward, halting again when the Apache had fired and reloaded and turned to inspect the trees.

Brady placed himself behind a tree and gauged the distance between him and the Indian, and reversed the knife in his hand, balancing it, holding it by the tip. The Indian bent over his rifle, taking aim on the house; and Brady's arm went back, grew taut, and flung the knife with full power.

It sank hilt-deep in the back of the Indian's neck. Brady's flesh broke out in sudden cold sweat; his arm was msty and it was, he knew now, through luck only that he had struck the Indian. He had aimed for the back, not the neck. Breath oozed through his nostrils.

He scuttled forward and knelt, regarding the Apache. The man's loose, blind expression was plain enough evidence that he was dead. When Brady removed his knife, he put his back to the dead man and surveyed the circle of timber, the long meadow, the defiant fortress that was Yeager's house.

And it suddenly occurred to him that there was a difference in the hard-clattering sound of the day. The volume of fire from the Indian positions had decreased sharply.

It took little wondering to figure out the reason for it. He himself had accounted for three of the Apaches. If Harris and Tucker had done half as well, the Indian's force would have been reduced by a fourth or a third. Brady's lip corners turned down in a passionate display of bitterness. He was sick-physically sick-of killing, of death. He stared bleakly through the trees, and it came to him that the rate of fire from he timber-circle was continuing to decrease. It was impossible to befieve that Harris and Tucker were accounting for it. Then, suddenly, the woods were quiet.

The riflemen within the house realized it, too; losing their targets, they quit firing. A sti'ange, eerie silence blanketed the valley. Brady nodded grimly. The Apaches, aware that something had gone wrong, had fallen back to reassemble and hold council.

Acrid fumes of sulphur instated his nostrils. The smell of gunsmoke was thick. A commotion broke out of the trees across the valley, and a moment's consideration told Brady that it was Harris, mounted and leading the other horses at breakneck speed into Yeager's corrals.

When Hanis's run drew no fire, Brady left the woods and dogtrotted across the meadow, waving his hat in signal to those within the house.

Coming out onto the porch, standing aside from the door, Yeager ran his hand down his back length of beard and said, "I guess you gents must be the reason why those bucks lit out."

Brady followed Harris up to the house. "They haven't gone far," Brady said, "They'll be back pretty soon."

Yeager shmgged his big shoulders. "Let 'em. I can hold them off all summer if they want to tiy me. There's a well inside the house and I've got plenty of grub stored up. Plenty of gunpowder, too."

"All it will take," Brady said mildly, "is a couple of kerosene-soaked fire-arrows landing on your roof." "I thought of that," Yeager repHed. "They can't get close enough to the house to shoot fire arrows. It's all open land-and I can cut them down before they get within bow-and-arrow range." "At night?"

"Most likely," Yeager said complacently. His supreme self-confidence was irritating.

Throughout this exchange, Harris had been surveying the hills with a troubled glance. "I wonder where Tucker is? Do you suppose anything happened to him?

"Give him a little time," Brady said. "If he doesn't show up, I'll go looking for him."

"All right," Harris said, still troubled. He turned toward Yeager. "Who's inside the house, Yeager?"

"Couple of your soldier boys, and my family."

"Is Captain Sutherland in there?"

"I am." Sutherland came through the door, limping very slightly. A rifle hung in his hand. His round face was streaked with dirt and sweat; his uniform was torn and filthy. He favored Harris with a mocking salute and came to a stand wearily, feet braced wide apart, his lip curled a little.

Harris looked at him with a bit of awe. "Where are the rest of your men, Sutherland?"

That was when Pete Rubio came out onto the porch. Rubio had a little difficulty moving; his arm was bandaged tightly, hung in a sling across his chest. He too grasped a rifle.

"I'm the rest of his men, Captain," Rubio said.

Sutherland spoke with tight stiffness: "We were ambushed by a superior force and cut to pieces."

"Where?" Harris demanded.

"Rifle Gap."

Without hesitation, Harris turned his glance on Pete Rubio. "Is he telling the truth, Rubio?"

"Pait of it," Rubio drawled. When he looked at Sutherland there was ill-concealed hatred in his eyes. "It wasn't in Rifle Gap, it was beyond Rifle Gap. And we wouldn't have been ambushed if the captain here hadn't decided he knew more about Indian fighting than Indians do." Rubio spat a dark bitter stream upon the porch.

Sutherland glared at him, not speaking.

"So you made a break for it," Brady said, 'and the Apaches chased you this far."

Rubio nodded, spitting again. "We couldn t shake them loose. They kept picking us off-we traveled all night, taking the wounded with us. What you see standing here is all that's left." Dry malice filled his eyes when he looked at Sutherland.

"I see," Harris said quietly. He was plainly shocked. Brady felt the bitter sting in his belly of unwilling belief. "This washes you up, Sutherland," he said, turning away. "I'm going up to look for Emmett Tucker."

"Good luck," Harris breathed. Walking away, Brady heard Harris say, "You can consider yourself under arrest. Captain."

Brady mounted his horse and swung away from the yard. In his mind lifted a dismal anger against the sour irony that had allowed Sutherland, who had killed his command as surely as if he'd taken a gun to them, make good his escape.

Tracks of pain streaked Tucker's eyes. He lay sprawled on the ground with the shaft of an arrow rising from his side. His lips were pale.

Brady got down and went to him, carrying a canteen, whipping out his kerchief. He soaked the cloth and put it to Tucker's mouth. Tucker looked up with silent gratitude.

Brady considered the wound. "The arrowhead's caught between a couple of ribs," he said. "That makes you lucky-the ribs kept it from going in deeper." After a further moment's self-deb ate, he said, "Listen to me, Emmett."

Tucker didn't blink. Brady swept the roundabout timber witli a quick sui-vey and said, "I can t move you until we get that arrow out. Otherwise it might work its way into your lung. You understand me?"

Tucker grinned tightly. "Go ahead," he said in a hoarse croak. "Pull it. Will."

"It will be rough."

Tucker's head moved in a slight nod. "Got a spare bullet?"

Brady punched a cartridge out of his belt-loop and put it gently into Tucker's mouth. Tucker worked it around with his tongue until it sat crosswise between his teeth.

Brady said, "All right?"

Tucker repeated his nod.

Bracing his knee against Tucker's ribs, Brady took firm hold with both hands on the arrow shaft. Tucker's eyes remained open, staring with combined interest and pain at the operation.

His voice, muffled around the bullet, croaked impatiently: "Come on—come on."

"Yeah," Brady grunted, and yanked.

Tucker made no sound at all. Brady regained his balance, holding the bloody arrow, and had the impression that Tucker hadn't even bhnked. But sweat stood out on Tucker's forehead. Blood welled from the wound; Brady took the soaked kerchief and pressed it against the flesh.

"Hold this in place—tight as you can."

Tucker's hand came up and pressed the kerchief down. Slowly it turned dark. Tucker's mouth opened a Uttle and the bullet fell out'. When Brady picked it up, he saw that Tucker had almost bitten it in two. He grinned at Tucker and tossed the bullet away. "A piece of luck," he said. "I was afraid for a minute that the arrowhead might stay in. We'd have sure been in trouble if that happened." "What now?"

"You're going for a little ride. Down to Yeager's. No telling how soon those Apaches will be back." "I'm game," Tucker said. "Take it easy, that's all." "Easy as we can," Brady replied. "Keep that compress held tight. When we get down the mountain, we'll bandage you up properly."

"Sounds good," Tucker muttered, grunting and grimacing while Brady helped him to his feet. "I hope to hell Yeager's got some whisky." "All set?" "Let's go."

Half-supported by Brady's arm, Tucker hobbled across the few feet to the horse. "You'll have to give me a boost up, I guess."

"Sure." Tucker gritted his teeth, and Brady pushed him up into the saddle. He noticed that the red-haired man was sweating again. Tucker's look troubled him; he knew Tucker was sujffering far more pain than he let on. The wound might be a good deal more serious than Brady had at first suspected.

He said nothing of all this, however. He swung up behind Tucker and gigged the horse gently forward.

It was a slow ride. By the time they reached the yard, Tucker's head was bobbing down against his chest and Brady was holding him upright in the saddle. Brady felt the quick need to get Tucker inside and lay him down. Harris and one of Yeager's brawny sons came out and helped him carry Tucker inside where they stretched him out on a pallet near the fireplace. In one dark corner George Sutherland bulked, his frame held rigid by a massive resentment. Harris was bending over and knelt there, too. Brady looked across the room at Pete Rubio, who stood with his hand protruding from the sling and his rifle stubbornly gripped in his free hand. Brady said, "How's that arm, Pete?''

"I'll make out all right," Rubio said. "How about him?"

"No telling, yet." Brady looked down at Tucker, and then at Sutherland. "You've sure caused a lot of grief for one man," he said. Sutherland pointedly ignored him. The woman went out of the room and presently returned with a coffeepot full of steaming water and a bedsheet, which she proceeded to tear into strips. Then, gently nudging Harris aside, she knelt beside Tucker and went to work with calm and silent competence. Tucker s eyes were closed and his breathing was a hoarse rasp.

When the woman stood up and turned, Brady spoke to her in Apache dialect: "What do you think?'

The woman shrugged and went away. Brady frowned down at the redheaded sergeant. "He didn't seem in such bad shape when I picked him up. I took an arrow out of him. He was pretty cheerful."

"Probably pierced an artery," Harris said. "He's still bleeding through the bandage."

Tucker's eyelids fluttered and he squinted up seeming to have trouble focusing his eyes. "You're a cheerful cuss," he said crankly to Harris, "Has anybody got some whisky, damn it?"

Harris turned. "Yeager? Get some whisky for this man."

"Sure," Yeager said, and in a moment came into the room with a bottle which he handed to Harris. HaiTis tipped it to Tucker's hps. The sergeant drank greedily, then laid his head back with a long sigh. "That's good," he murmured. "That's good." "Want some more?" "No, thanks. Captain." "Hurtmuchr

"Not too much. Listen, Captain–you people have got to get out of here. Those Apaches will burn this place down around your ears."

"You're in no condition to travel, Tucker." "Then leave me be. I ain't going to last long anyway. I can feel it. Get the hell out of here, will you?" Harris smiled vaguely. "Is that an order, Sergeant?" "Yes, sir. It's a goddamn order." Harris patted his shoulder. "You're a good man, Emmett," he murmured, and got to his feet. "Will, how long do you think it will be before they jump us again?"

"Nobody knows but the Lord." Brady raked a match along his pants to ignite it, and ht his cigarette. "I'm a mite surprised they haven't started shooting aheady. I didn't see any sign of them up on the hill."

"Maybe they lost more men than we figured on. I killed two of them and I think I put a slug in another. He kept running but he was limping badly. How about you?"

"Three."

"Tucker?"

Tucker's eyes were half closed. "Four, I think. Give me the bottle, will you?"

Harris stooped to put the bottle in Tucker's hand.

Brady's moody eyes watched the sergeant. "That's nine down, maybe ten." Harris said. "Better luck than we could have hoped for."

"They got overconfident," Brady said. "If they'd put proper watch on their backtrail, they'd have spotted us."

"How many do you think are left?"

"Out of that bunch," Brady said, "maybe ten or twelve. There's a good chance that more will be joining up with them, a few at a time. Word goes through these mountains pretty fast when there's something important."

"Maybe they're waiting for reinforcements, then."

"And maybe they're waiting for nightfall," Brady said, "so they can set fire to this place and then pick us off like sitting ducks when we make a run for it."

Sutherland's hard, precise voice cut across the room resentfully: "There may not be as many of them to reckon with as you suspect. We gave a pretty good accounting of ourselves."

It brought Pete Rubio's head around contemptuously. "We didn't even make a dent. Captain. There's hundreds of them in these mountains."

Sutherland subsided into continuing silent anger Brady gave him one brief, flat glance and tumec back to Harris. "I can only think of one way out—an< it's a damned poor risk."

"Spill it out," Hanis said.

Brady looked around the room. Posted at the windows, Yeager's sons kept careful watch, their rifles ready. The tiny openings plunged the room into deep gloom which was relieved only by the red flickering flames in the fireplace and two lanterns on the far wall.

Brady said, "The minute it gets dark-and not a second later-we could make a try. They probably won t be expecting it quite so fast. We get on our horses and run like hell. We take the short-cut, down tlirough Apache Canyon. It's a rugged trail, but they'd trap us on the long route. If we could beat them LQto the canyon, we could hold them off long enough to reach the floor of the vaUey-theoretically. Once we get onto the desert, I doubt they'll push us farther. Too much chance of it backfiring, like it did the other night when they tried to break Tonio out."

Harris was considering the proposal soberly. 'Where does that leave him?" he said, pointing to Tucker.

Tucker's eyes slid open. "Right here. Captain. Don't fret about it" Tucker assumed a lazy grin. "I'm a mite too tired for a long trip."

Harris shook his head. He looked around at the others. "All right. Will. We'll try your plan. Tucker goes w4th us. Any objections?"

Sutherland was the only man to move. He stepped a pace forward from the corner; but suddenly he was the target of a fixed gaze from every pair of eyes in the room; and Harris said, "You've got no say in this. Keep still."

"You're a fool," Tucker said to Harris. "Ill slow you down, that's all. I'm no good for anything. What's the point of hauling a deadweight corpse with you?"

"You're not as close to dying as you think you are," Harris said, pointing toward Tucker's bandaged side. "The blood's started clotting now. It's not coming through the cloth any more."

Tucker looked down, grinning. "Hallelujah," he breathed. "Think of that." His head tipped back and, still smiling, he lifted the bottle to his lips. "Will, maybe I'll make you a good wrangler yet." He saluted witli the bottle and di-ank again.

The afternoon wore on with no sign of Indians until at four o'clock Rubio spoke from his post at the window: "They're keeping an eye on us from up there. Out of rifle range."

"Then they're waiting for nightfall," Brady said. He sat with his back to the side of the fireplace. Red light, reflected from the flames, rippled along the side of his trousers. He ran a cleaning rag tlirough the bore of his rifle and inspected it, and began reloading the magazine while he watched the steady rise and fall of Tucker's chest.

In the dim corner beyond, Sutherland stood with his back straight and his arms folded recalcitrantly over his chest. His eyes avoided meeting anyone's glance. Harris was leaning in a dejected pose against one wall, head propped on his hand and elbow to the wall; Rubio and Yeager and two of the younger boys were on guard and the two other boys were in the kitchen with their mother. It was, Brady thought idly, an odd conglomeration of people, to say the least. His belly was heavy, satisfied; laconic as she was, Yeager's wife was a fine cook.

With no particular apparent interest, Harris said, "What does the weather look like, Rubio?"

"Clearing up. Won't be as, dark a night as we'd like."

Harris nodded with a certain reservation. Brady was working on his tenth cigarette of the afternoon. Waiting made him edgy. He poked a twig into the fireplace and used its burning tip to Hght his smoke, and tossed the twig into the fire.

Suddenly George Sutherland pushed himself out from the corner. Brady looked at him. Sutherland had been working himself up to something all afternoon; that much had been easy to see. Now it was coming. Sutherland walked across the room with de-hberate strides toward Harris, and came to a halt within arm's length of him. "I want to talk to you."

"We've got nothing to talk about," Harris told him levelly.

"You've wrong," Sutherland said flatly. "None of this changes anything."

"Are you talking about your wife?" lam. "IVe told you before. I had nothing to do with her." "He's telling the truth," Brady said. "Go back to your comer and shut up."

Sutherland wheeled. "How do you know so much about this? For a two-bit buckskin scout, you seem pretty well informed."

Brady stood up, uncoiling his length without hurry. "Sure," he said. "Eleanor's not interested in Captain Harris." He watched the recoil of Sutherland's face against his use of the woman's first name; he showed Sutherland his savage grin and used his words like a whip to punish Sutherland: "I'm the man you've been looking for, Sutherland. I'm the one who almost talked your wife into running away with me. And maybe I still will, after this. Life's too good for you– Captain. You don't deserve it."

"Of course," Sutherland breathed. "I should have known. If she was to turn to anyone, it would have been somebody like you—an irresponsible, footloose tough. I should have knovm," he growled-and Brady saw his hand clawing at the holster flap.

Brady's gun was half-drawn when Harris's hand swept forward, batting the lifting revolver away from Sutherland's fist. The gun clattered to the floor out of reach. Sutherland whirled; HaiTis said mildly, "That's the kmd of thing we might expect from you. I think you're sick, George. I don't think there's any room in the army for you."

Sutherland glared at him in helpless rage; he wheeled again, facing Brady across the distance between them. His voice sounded half-choked: "You– you!"

Brady let his gun fall back into leather; he unbuckled his gunbelt and let it drop. "Come ahead, if you've a mind to." His own voice sounded weary.

Sutherland chewed on his rage a moment longer, then broke into a clattering nm, charging. As he came past blindly, his heavy boot almost rammed into Tucker's head. That uncaring action broke the last of Brady's self-control, so that he stood finally as fully angry as Sutherland. His Ups peeled back from his teeth and instead of dodging Sutherland's charging rush, he stood his ground and measured the distance. Choosing the moment carefully, he rammed his fist straight-aim into Sutherland's face.

It was a cruel blow; it flattened Sutherland's nose, making blood spurt from it; Brady felt the cartilege – crush under his fist.

Sutherland wheeled back. Looking down at Tucker, Brady knew this would not do. In spite of his hot raging temper, he backed away from Sutherland, thus leading the man across the length of the ; room until they were both safely away from Tucker. Then set his feet and lifted his guard and stood awaiting Sutherland's attack.

The savagery of Sutherland's contorted face was heightened by the blood that matted his nose and hps and dripped from his chin. He roared incoherently and plowed ahead until Brady once more struck him a blow that set him back on his heels, jarring his entire body. The shock of it must have warned Sutherland, for he grew abruptly calm and lifted his fists cautiously, and began to circle around Brady, moving on the balls of his feet, slightly bent forward. Brady waited for him, heat glaring in his eyes.

He had fleetiag glimpses of the others—Harris, Yeager, Rubio, and the two boys, even Tucker–watching them and holding their distance; he kept his attention on Sutherland, and as Sutherland gradually circled closer, he began a duel of jabbing blows with Sutherland. The officer outweighed him by a few pounds, but they were both big-boned men and evenly matched.

This, though, was the first fist fight Brady had ever entered when he felt a driving desire to maim and kill his opponent.

His anger had settled, into a cool and calculating shrewdness by now; he aimed each blow with care and made effective use of his guard and felt for a while that he was gradually getting the better of Sutherland, until Sutherland suddenly changed his method of attack and rushed in, ignoilng Brady's blows, locking him in a viselike hug and dancing him around. Brady shifted his hips to avoid Sutherland's lifting knee; he felt the powerful arms restricting his breath, and he stamped his foot down against Sutherland's instep.

It broke the man's hold, bent him over, and made of him a target that no one could miss. Brady's fist came up from hip-level and pounded like a hammer into Sutherland's lowered face. Punishing an aheady crushed area, it rocked Sutherland back and made him howl. Brady pressed him relentlessly, pounding a quick rataplan of hard-knuckled fists against Sutherland's midriff. Sutherland's guard was ineffective; with fierce anger Brady kept bringing the fight to him, so that Sutherland could not escape him. His fists became twin pistons, battering Sutherland with wicked regularity; with each blow he made a little restitution for McQuade, for Brophy, for Barnett.

A red haze swirled before his eyes; he reaUzed in a foggy way that they had him in a grip, that Harris and Rubio were holding his arms, and tliat Harris was shouting in his ear: "For God's sake, that's enough, Will! Let him alone!"

His body sagged. "All right," he said in a broken voice. The haze drifted away from his vision and he saw Sutherland against the wall, his mouth open and his eyes closed, a broken tootli and blood oozing out of a mass of cuts and bruises; Sutherland shd slowly down the wall and rolled onto his side and brought his knees up against the pain. Little mmmuring cries came steadily from the man's chest.

"Did I do that?" Brady asked weakly. His knuckles burned and throbbed.

"I think it's enough, for a while," Rubio said dryly. "Funny—I had the same thing in mind myself. Then they put a hole in my wing. But that's all right. I guess you did him enough damage for the two of us."

"Are you all right now?" Harris said in a worried tone.

"Yeah," he said bitingly. "I'm fine." And when Harris turned to kneel by Sutherland, he wheeled angrily and went back across the room to pick up his gunbelt.

Tucker grinned up at him. "Nice job. Will." "Sure," he said, and felt self-disgust rise in him.

"Sure it was."

Dusk. Harris was speaking to Yeager; Brady listened while he sat by Tucker. Harris said, "You can t be serious, Yeager."

"Ah, but I am. Captain. Nobody budges me until I'm ready to be budged."

"Don't be a fool. You know what they plan to do to this place after dark."

"They won t do it," Yeager said cahnly. "Not after they see you and your crowd ride away. They don't have any fight with me, nor me with them."

Exasperated, Harris turned away. "Will, talk to him."

Brady looked up. Yeager shook his head; and Brady said to Hams, "You can't force him, Justin."

"All right," Harris said disgustedly. "Maybe you're right at that, Yeager. But you can do one thing for us. Take care of Tucker until he's able to ride."

Yeager considered Tucker. His glance revealed nothing of his feelings; his expression was eflPectively concealed behind the thickness of his beard. Presently he shook his head. "Them Apaches ain't fools, Captain. You can bet they've counted noses. They know exactly who's in here. If all of you don't leave, I'm done. He'll have to go with you."