close their jaws with binding cloths so they’d look halfway decent for burying.
That was what the two firing from the cabin could expect, but I told myself it was no business of mine.
Bass Reeves had advised me to ride a hundred miles around Apaches and right now that seemed like mighty sound counsel. The sodbusters in the cabin meant nothing to me, and besides, I had to get back on the trail before Lafe Wingo slipped clean away.
But even as I did my best to justify it in my mind, I knew I couldn’t leave. Down there in the cabin were probably a woman and maybe her young ’uns and the way the Mescaleros were riled up, what they would do to them didn’t bear thinking about.
Cursing myself for a damned fool, I slid my rifle forward and sighted on the corral. Rain ran off the brim of my hat as the downpour grew heavier, scattering the slender plume of smoke that rose from the cabin chimney.
I waited. The
Despite the freshness of the rain-cooled air, my mouth was dry and my quickening heartbeats thudded loud in my ears. I took a deep breath, as Bass Reeves had taught me, willing my heart rate to slow, the better to shoot the Winchester accurately when the time came.
And the time was now.
Down by the corral an Apache in a blue army shirt and white headband rose to his feet, looked around, then slowly moved toward the cabin on cat’s feet. Another warrior, this one with a bright red band around his head, stepped after him.
I took a breath, held it and sighted on the broad chest of the first warrior. I took up the slack on the trigger and squeezed off a shot.
My bullet must have hit the man square because he threw up his arms, his rifle spiraling away from him, and crashed heavily onto his back. The racketing echo of my first shot had hardly died away when I fired at the other warrior. I didn’t see the effect of my second shot because the Apache quickly disappeared from view.
But down among the rocks at the bottom of the hill, I’d sure stirred up a hornet’s nest.
Three Apaches rose to their feet and turned in my direction, one of them pointing at the rocks where I lay hidden. I fired at this man, saw him fall, dusted another couple of quick shots down there and, crouching low, moved my position.
Rifles banged from the cabin and I saw another warrior go down, hit in the back.
The Apaches seemed confused, not liking the fact that they were caught in crossfire, and that moment of indecision cost them dear.
I fired again, nailing another squat, bandy-legged warrior, then quickly looked around for another target. There was none. The surviving Apaches had gone to ground, taking advantage of the cover of the long grass and rocks.
I reckoned four Apaches were down and maybe five, so there could only be a couple left. But even two Mescaleros were a handful to contend with.
Rifles banged again from the cabin, bullets whining off the rocks below, and I added my own fire, up on one knee, cranking and firing my Winchester from the shoulder as fast as I could. Roaring echoes crashed like tumbling boulders around the canyon and a cloud of gray gunsmoke shrouded the rocks around me.
The Apache is a practical, down-to-earth warrior. When he feels the deck is stacked against him, he has no qualms about running away and living to fight another day when the odds will be in his favor.
Three Mescaleros dashed from the break of the hill, crouched low across the necks of their ponies and hit the slope at a flat-out run.
One of the warriors was hit hard, blood staining the front of his shirt, and he seemed to be having difficulty staying on the back of his horse.
I rose to my feet, rifle to my shoulder, but let them pass. There had been enough killing already and I had no desire to further punish a beaten enemy.
The three warriors topped the rise about thirty feet from where I stood, one of them looking briefly in my direction with black eyes that burned with hate, then vanished down the slope and soon the thud of their ponies’ hooves was lost in the incessant hiss of the streaming rain.
Me, I gathered up my horse, shoved the Winchester back into the boot, swung into the saddle and headed down the rise toward the cabin.
When I got closer, the door swung open—and two beaded, buckskinned Indians, rifles in hand, stepped out.
Chapter 7
Startled, I reined in the black, my hand instinctively going for the Colt at my hip.
But then I realized that the taller of the two Indians wasn’t an Indian at all, but a white man with a red beard, hair of the same color spilling in tangles over his broad shoulders, and now he spoke to me.
“You came right in the nick of time, young feller,” he said. “For a spell there, I reckoned we was done for.”
Beside the man stood a pretty woman in a buckskin dress, her yellow hair in thick braids, a narrow beaded headband encircling her forehead.
“They attacked us just after sunup,” she said, smiling, showing beautiful white teeth. “Our ammunition was running low and it was only a matter of time.” Her dazzling smile widened. “Then you showed up.”
A little girl, maybe four years old, walked out of the cabin and shyly stood behind the woman, looking at me now and then from behind her skirt.
I touched the brim of my hat. “Glad I could be of service, ma’am,” I said. “I happened to be passing by and heard the shooting.”
The man took a step toward me and said: “Name’s Jacob Lawson and this here is my wife, Jen, and my daughter, Kate.”
I nodded. “Dusty Hannah.” And then, because I didn’t want to share my troubles with them, I added: “Just a puncher headin’ back to Texas.”
“Well, Mr. Hannah,” Lawson said, “ain’t no point standing out here in the rain. Light and step into the cabin.”
“Jacob,” Jen said, her face suddenly clouded with concern. “Shouldn’t we look at the fallen Apaches first? Some of them might only be wounded.”
Jacob looked at me, as though for direction, like he was figuring me for some kind of expert on Indians. “There’s one over there by the pigpen and maybe another,” I said. “And three or four among the rocks back there.”
“Then let’s take a look,” the man said.
I swung out of the saddle and led the black to the front of the cabin, where there was a hitching post. I looped the reins around the post and followed Jacob Lawson and his wife, her daughter in her arms, to the corral.
The Apache I’d hit lay dead on his back, blood splashed on the front of his shirt. There was no sign of the other man I’d shot at.
We walked over to the rocks and found two dead Indians and a third who had been hit hard but was still breathing. The Apache was conscious and his obsidian eyes revealed only burning hate and defiance. His Henry lay where he’d dropped it and I kicked the rifle farther away from him.
Jen made to kneel beside the warrior, but I stopped her. “I wouldn’t do that, ma’am,” I told her. “He’s still got a knife and for sure he’ll stick you with it if he can.”
“This man is hurt,” the woman said. “We can’t leave him out here in the rain.”
“Yes, we can,” I said. “If you take him inside, he won’t thank you for it, ma’am, and he’ll try to kill you first chance he gets.” I glanced up the slope behind me. “Come nightfall, the Apaches will be back to carry off their
