“I take it this is his doing?”
One of the Navajo guards spoke sharply in his native tongue. He gestured with the rifle, and Matt knew he was telling them to be quiet.
Matt ignored the guard and said, “That’s right. He plans to lead the clan in an uprising and try to get the other clans to join in. But they won’t stand a chance.”
“They might with nearly five hundred new Springfields to lure the other clans into joining them,” Sam said.
Matt’s eyes widened.
“Five hundred Springfields?” he repeated. “What are you talkin’ about, Sam?”
“If Juan Pablo is the leader of this would-be rebellion, then he has some white allies. The gang that bushwhacked us in the first place stole a shipment of rifles bound for Fort Defiance. They were about to deliver them to the Navajo when you and I came along and fouled up the works.”
Matt struggled to wrap his mind around what Sam was telling him.
“You know this for a fact?” he asked.
“At the moment, I don’t have any proof, but I’m reasonably sure the theory is correct.”
“That’s good enough for me,” Matt said. “Who are those two rannihans with you?”
Before Sam could answer, the guard who had tried to get them to stop talking earlier stepped closer and aimed a kick at Sam’s head. Sam rolled out of the way and pulled his legs around in a sudden move, sweeping the Navajo’s legs out from under him. The man let out a startled yell and then hit the ground.
“Maybe not the smartest thing you’ve ever done,” Matt said as the guard scrambled back to his feet with murder in his dark eyes.
At that moment, Juan Pablo stepped out of the hogan. He barked an order at the guard, who stopped in his tracks and then moved back with obvious reluctance.
Juan Pablo stood over Sam and said, “When the time comes for you to die, half-breed, I will kill you. You betray your blood by siding with the white men. You no longer deserve to live.”
“What about you?” Sam demanded. “You’re liable to get a bunch of your people killed if you go through with your plans.”
“And those who are left will mourn their deaths. But the people who live will be free. The white men will be gone.”
Matt said, “It’ll never happen, Juan Pablo. The government won’t let it. They’ll send in the army to wipe you out.”
“This is our land. We know how to fight here better than the white man’s army.”
Much as Matt hated to admit it, Juan Pablo had a point there. The Navajo knew this country, knew how to survive here, knew how to strike hard against the enemy and then hide. Normally a peaceful people, content to farm and hunt, to weave blankets and make jewelry, when aroused they could be fierce, implacable foes. Kit Carson had learned that, back in the old days.
Rooting them out of this wasteland and rounding them up wouldn’t be easy ... but the army had almost limitless resources to do so.
That wasn’t the case with the Navajo. They could fight a war and deal out plenty of damage ... but in the end they would lose.
Juan Pablo didn’t want to hear that. So Matt asked him, “What are you going to do with us?”
“You will all die, of course. When the sun comes up tomorrow morning, you will be killed.” Juan Pablo’s lips curved in a cruel smile. “You will be the first to die from the weapons that will save our people.”
“What do you—” Matt began, but before he could finish the question, Juan Pablo turned and strode away, taking the guards with him and ignoring the prisoners now as if they were no longer worthy of his notice.
It didn’t really matter. Matt had a hunch he knew what Juan Pablo meant by that threat.
Sam did, too. He said, “The Springfields. Juan Pablo’s going to get those army rifles tonight.”
Matt nodded.
“Yeah, that’s the way it sounded to me, too. We’ve got to get loose and find a way to stop him. He’s gonna get a lot of people killed for no good reason.”
As if to punctuate Matt’s statement, a swift rataplan of hoofbeats sounded in the night, fading as the riders moved away.
“That’s Juan Pablo and some of his men going to take delivery on those rifles,” Sam said.
“Yeah,” Matt agreed. “And they’ll bring ’em right back here so Juan Pablo can have his little firing squad in the morning.”
One of the men who had been brought in with Sam began to stir. He lifted his shaggy head and shook it. After a moment his bleary-eyed gaze landed on Sam.
“Thought you said these Navajo were friends of yours, Sam.”
“I said they didn’t kill us and they let Matt stay here to recover from those bullet holes. That’s a big difference from being our friends.”
“Yeah, I reckon.” The man looked at Matt with his deep-set eyes. “You’d be Matt Bodine?”
“That’s right,” Matt said. “Who are you?”
“A fella who wishes we’d gotten a mite more hospitable reception. Name’s Stovepipe Stewart.”
