over head, spilling the man backward out of the saddle onto the hot, dusty road. Weapons were popping around him. Gunsmoke and dust turned yellow, hazing the slanted afternoon light.
Another soldier clutched a red blossom on his chest, slowly keeling to the side of the road into some brush. A third cried out and sagged forward across his horse’s withers, arms akimbo.
That was enough for the last Mexican. He yanked the reins aside and brutally jabbed his big rowels into the animal’s ribs. Turning tail and running.
“Who’s got a loaded gun?” Kersey shouted.
“I’ll take ’im!” Adair vowed and hammered his moccasins into the horse’s flanks, bursting away from the others.
As the fourth guard dashed past Frederico’s mount, the Indian’s horse shied backward, twisting in fear, its eyes as big as bean platters.
Swaying clumsily, unable to maintain his balance any longer, Frederico spilled to the side, the end of the long, smooth tent pole striking the ground, his legs yanked upward, twisted by the other pillory lashing them together. The prisoner’s horse needed no more reason to bolt than that. As the frightened animal brought its hind hooves up to attempt to gallop away, the legs and hooves clattered against Frederico and the pole where his bare arms were slashed. He was about to be dragged down the rutted mission road—
Bass closed the distance in two heartbeats. Gathering his reins into his left hand with his rifle, he attempted to lean out of the saddle and seize the halter knotted around the horse’s head. But the terrified animal wouldn’t allow Titus close enough to grab the halter as Frederico grunted with every bump, cried out in agony, the horse skidding to a sudden halt, prancing round and round in a tight circle to stay away from the trapper.
In angry frustration, Scratch jerked up straight in the saddle, pulled out his pistol, and fired a ball into the animal’s head.
As the air gushed from its lungs, the horse wheezed in death, settling immediately onto its forelegs, the rear half of its body slowly twisting to the side as the dying animal came to rest in the short grass at the side of the road—pinning Frederico’s leg and hip beneath its ribs.
The Indian was shrieking in pain, terror too, as Scratch pitched himself out of the saddle. The instant his feet hit the ground he was stuffing the pistol into his belt and throwing a shoulder into his own horse. As it sidestepped out of his way, Titus dropped his empty rifle to the road and bolted over the dead animal, pulling a knife from its scabbard at the back of his belt.
Slashing at the ropes binding Frederico’s ankles, he first freed the leg that lay twisted atop the dead horse’s ribs. Once he slid back over the animal, Bass sawed through the ropes binding one wrist, then the other as the Indian slowly quieted. The moment his arms were freed from the pillory staff, Frederico attempted to sit up, only to cry in pain.
“This here’s gonna hurt,” Titus growled at him in English as he stopped at the Indian’s back, stuffed his hands under Frederico’s armpits. Then he clamped his eyes closed—and pulled. Leaning back with all his might, he tried to shut the Indian’s screams out of his ears as he dragged the youth from beneath the dead horse.
The air went out of Frederico in a whimper. Opening his eyes, Scratch found he had freed the leg. Letting go of the Indian, he crouched beside the leg and gently palpated along the bones.
“Don’t feel nothing broke,” he said to the guide, then looked up at Kersey, who sat atop his horse just behind Frederico.
Elias asked, “That Injun ride?”
Bass asked Frederico, then looked up at Elias. “Yeah. Says he can ride.”
“We better get back to that fort if’n we’re gonna free them women,” Corn said.
Adair came to a halt by Elias. “The longer we take, the behinder we’re gonna be from the rest of the fellas and that herd.”
Titus helped Frederico stand, then said, “Rube—get one of the soldier horses for the Injun.”
“Let’s get going,” Corn prodded.
“Wait,” Scratch suddenly declared.
“Wait?” Purcell whined as he yanked a soldier horse over.
“Get the clothes off these here soldiers,” Titus ordered.
Adair repeated, “Their clothes?”
Scratch started to explain, “Four of us gonna be soldiers when we go riding in there proud as prairie cocks —”
“What about the other two of us?” Corn asked. “How we gonna get all of us in there?”
“A couple of gringos got caught by the
Elias Kersey’s face lit up like a full winter moon illuminating a fresh snow in the northern Rockies. “Four soldiers guardin’ their two prisoners! Yee-awww! If that won’t be a yank on the devil’s short-hairs!”
Scratch was the first to spot the lone sentry posted atop the adobe wall as the seven horsemen approached the soldier post.
“They’re watching us now,” he warned the others in a low voice.
“Hope them Mex buy this,” Kersey growled.
Dressed in the stolen uniforms, Elias and Coltrane were riding just in front of Frederico, who was flanked by Jake Corn and Reuben Purcell, both of whom still wore their buckskin leggings and poor cloth shirts. All three had short sections of rope looped, but unknotted, around their wrists, making it appear they were bound prisoners. Behind these three rode the last pair of impostors: Titus Bass and Silas Adair.
Back at the scene of the fight, the trappers discovered that neither the round-bellied Corn or the gangly- limbed Purcell could fit into any of the bloodied uniforms. As it was, the four who did strip out of their buckskins to pull on pantaloons and soldier jackets found the Mexicans’ clothing a trifle snug. But, Scratch reminded them, they would be undertaking their ruse for no more than a short ride: only until the gate was open and they were inside the compound.
It wasn’t until they were within the shadow of the front wall when Corn suddenly asked, “What if they got ’em a password?”
Shit—why hadn’t he thought of that? Why hadn’t Jake asked about it before. Bass was angry with himself.
But that lone sentry stationed atop the wall’s interior banquette did not call out. All he did was slowly walk along the top of the wall, staying right above the horsemen, moving toward the gate, holding that musket and bayonet across his chest. When he stopped directly over the gate, he called out to those inside.
“What’d he say?” Adair demanded in a harsh whisper.
“Told ’em open up,” Bass growled, the hair at the back of his neck prickling with warning.
Wood scraped against wood as the huge bolt was withdrawn, then massive iron hinges creaked as one side of the gate in the wall swung open.
“This is it, boys,” Titus whispered to them.
Kersey and Coltrane started their horses forward together, but that sentry on the ground shouldered back the gate only far enough to admit one horse at a time. Titus felt himself sweating. This precaution wasn’t a good sign of an open-armed welcome. Next through was Frederico, followed by the two white prisoners.
A voice called out in Spanish. Another voice hollered in reply. He damn well knew it wasn’t any of the trappers. Hurry, hurry, his mind raced—wanting to get inside to hear what was being asked of the first impostors.
Scratch was the last to slip through the narrow opening, finding the others strung out in the compound. He turned quickly in the saddle—a guard behind him at the gate. The only other guard in sight on the low, narrow banquette above them. As the gate swung closed with a thunk and the guard leaned his rifle against the wall so he could manhandle the log bolt into place, Scratch told himself his wariness was getting far too old. It had played him for a fool this time. From the looks of things, this was going to be prime pickin’s.
At the exact moment the guard at the gate picked up his rifle again, the sentry atop the banquette leveled his weapon on the horsemen and cried out in a shrill voice.
Eight soldiers suddenly appeared in doorways on three sides of them. In that blink of an eye, ten old Spanish muskets were pointed at them.
