Lord Apache

understanding people for a change!'

Safely out of the canyon, the train crawled forward while the cavalry escort galloped toward Drumm's camp. Moments later Lieutenant George Dunaway reined up his mount and dismounted, hat in hand as he spied Miss Phoebe Larkin.

'Well, Drumm!' He looked at the wreckage of the camp. 'What in hell—pardon, ladies—what happened here?'

'Apaches!' Drumm said sourly. 'After we left you, Agustin and his bullies attacked us and ran off all our animals, except that one mule over there. Then, early this morning, a flood came down the mountain and overran the camp.' He stared at Dunaway. 'What's so damned funny?'

The lieutenant preened his mustache. 'Didn't you see the storm over the mountain last night? No one but a greenhorn would camp in the middle of the Agua Fria this time of year!' He bowed to the ladies. 'Introduce me, will you?'

Jack Drumm was annoyed with Dunaway's flippancy but muttered an introduction. 'The ladies,' he explained, 'were going to Prescott on the stage. But when it was forced to turn back because of Apaches, they chose to stay here and wait for other transportation.'

'I know,' Dunaway said. At his gesture the men dismounted and lay wearily on the ground, munching hardtack and cold bacon. 'Passed old Coogan and the California and Arizona Stage Line coach yesterday, hightailing it back to Phoenix. Sam Valentine said to take care of the ladies.' Hat in hand, he approached Miss Phoebe Larkin. 'Ma'am, the accommodations are kind of rough, but there's room for you and your friend in one of the freight wagons yonder if you want to travel to Prescott.'

Phoebe Larkin seemed to bat her blue eyes at Dunaway, which annoyed Jack Drumm further.

'What about us?' he demanded. 'And our equipment?'

Dunaway fondled his mustache and grinned. 'If there's room. Ladies first, you know!'

'Have you got the Apaches put down, Lieutenant?' Phoebe Larkin asked. 'I shouldn't like to be scalped before I see Uncle Buell in Prescott!' She laughed, looking charmingly at Dunaway.

'Not exactly, ma'am. Eighth Infantry sent a company out from Camp McDowell, and other forces will be here in a few days. But my B Company has hazed Agustin pretty well into the mountains already. Things have eased enough for wagons and stages to come through the valley. Oh, the Apaches may swoop down in a few raids like at Weaver's Ranch, but we've got Agustin pretty well trapped up on the mountain.' He gestured toward the Mazatzals and grinned. 'See that smoke? Probably old Agustin barbecuing one of your mules, Drumm! Nothing an Apache likes better than a mule steak!'

'I should think,' Drumm muttered, 'that with their need of transportation they would be very foolish indeed to eat their animals!'

The brigandish-looking corporal whom Drumm remembered from the encounter with Dunaway in the canyon hooted with laughter. A trooper slapped his thigh and grinned a gap-tooth grin. Dunaway was also amused. He swigged water from a canteen and put the cap back on, savoring the moment. 'An Englishman couldn't be expected to know, I guess, but Apaches don't ride horses—they eat them!'

'Eat them?'

'That's right.'

Drumm was bewildered. He gestured at the infinite space of the playa. 'But how do they get around, then?'

'They walk!' Seeing Drumm's astonished stare, Dunaway chuckled. 'You know Port Isabel, down on the Gulf?'

'Of course. We landed there, on the Sierra Nevada, from San Francisco.'

'Then you know it's a hundred miles from Port Isabel up to Yuma?'

'About that. Yes, I should guess a hundred miles.'

'Colorado Steam Navigation Company had some tame Apaches hired a while back to run mail from Port Isabel to Yuma. The red sons of—' He coughed, delicately. 'An Apache runner delivered the mail on regular schedule; a hundred miles in twenty-four hours.' He glanced toward the train of freight wagons, now drawing up at the river to water their teams of oxen. 'Well—'

'If the rascals are walking,' Jack Drumm said in a tight voice, 'then it seems to me your mounted command should have captured them by now, and have them safely back on the Verde River reservation, where they cannot plague innocent travelers!'

Dunaway scowled. 'We've been in the saddle for six days running! An Apache on foot is harder to catch than a flea in a sandstorm! I've seen 'em travel all day and all night with no food but a handful of mesquite beans, and gain on us! A man on a horse shows up a long way off, but an Indian on foot looks like another damned bush till he raises up and shoots your ass off!'

Drumm had found a sensitive spot, and probed deeper.

'Nevertheless, I should think a few men from our Middlesex Regiment could handle this situation rather better. They have fought Indians—real Indians, from India—for a long time. They probably know better how to handle the aborigines than you people from the Colonies!'

George Dunaway turned red. The scorching afternoon was suddenly quiet. The teamsters, scenting trouble, gathered around. Someone laughed, a jeering laugh probably intended for Jack Drumm.

'Miss Larkin,' Drumm said coolly, 'perhaps you and Mrs. Glore had better get your things together now. Lieutenant Dunaway will see you safely to Prescott and your uncle—that is, if Indians on foot do not overwhelm him on the way!'

He was being deliberately insufferable; he knew it, and he enjoyed it. Dunaway's insolence and contempt, added to the other indignities he had experienced since coming to the Territory, drove him to it. Besides, Miss Larkin was watching the exchange with interest. Jack Drumm was not used to being put down at all, even less before an attractive female. Satisfied, he turned on his heel in curt dismissal of the U. S. Army and its fumbling attempts to deal with the rebellious Agustin. But Dunaway cleared his throat and said, 'Just a minute!'

Surprised, Drumm turned.

'Corporal Bagley,' Dunaway said to the brigand, 'I ask you to witness that George Dunaway, Sixth Cavalry, U. S. Army, Fort Whipple, near Prescott, is now going off duty. Whatever happens next has got nothing to do with the Army.' Carefully he unpinned the silver bars from his shoulders and removed the collar insignia from his sweat- stained shirt. 'I've got plenty of leave coming. There's nothing in Army regulations says I can't take some right here and now, is there?'

'No, sir!' Bagley said joyously, accepting the insignia in a horny palm. 'Being company clerk, I can swear to that, if there's any fuss about it later!'

The grinning men ringed Drumm and Dunaway. From the corner of his eye Drumm saw Miss Phoebe Larkin put a slender hand over her mouth; the blue eyes widened.

'Leave?' Drumm asked, puzzled. 'Whatever for?'

Dunaway rolled up his sleeves. 'I guess,' he said, 'old Agustin tried to rearrange that fancy waxed mustache of yours, Drumm, but he didn't do a proper job. Maybe I can finish it for him.' One booted foot planted solidly forward, he raised clenched fists. 'Put up your hands! I'm going to give you the thrashing you've been spoiling for!'

Drumm was startled. The lieutenant was a roughneck, an uncouth and uncurried frontier character; no credit at all to the finer traditions of the Army. But though he did not believe in brawling, Drumm would have to give the braggart a boxing lesson. He himself had once gone five rounds in Birmingham with the great Jem Mace, the fighter who had won the middleweight title in '61. Mace was old then, and slow, but had praised Jack Drumm's agility and quick hands.

'You don't mean it!' he said incredulously.

'Put up your hands,' Dunaway insisted, 'or I'll wear you out with a willow switch!'

Drumm struck the classic pose Jem Mace had taught him.

'All right, then—come at me!'

Cautiously they circled each other. Dunaway feinted with his left hand and Drumm stepped easily inside the wide-swinging right cross that followed. At the same time he jolted Dunaway's chin with a short uppercut. He could have hit harder, but did not want to hurt the lieutenant.

Stunned, Dunaway crouched and came forward like a turtle, chin tucked below his shoulder; he stabbed