headed south, into the glowering heat of the dancing day.
The dead man lay where he’d fallen. He was on his back, his eyes burning out in the sun. He’d been struck by a volley of shots and was probably dead when he hit the ground.
“What do you make of him, Joe?” Stryker asked.
“Looks like a sodbuster to me, but he hasn’t done none o’ that lately. Look at his hands, they ain’t guided a plow in some time.” He glanced at Stryker. “It’s getting hard to tell now the sun’s got to him, Lieutenant, but when I first saw him, when he was fresher, he had the look of a drinker.”
Stryker looked around him. “Unshod ponies. How many would you say?”
“Six, maybe seven. They either broke off from Geronimo’s main bunch or they were riding to join him when they stumbled on this man.”
“What the hell was he doing out here by himself?”
“Like I said, he was goin’ someplace.”
“Someplace . . . in this damned, godforsaken wilderness?”
Hogg pointed. “The pony tracks head that way, toward the hogback yonder. My guess is the sodbuster’s farm is back there.” Stryker said nothing, and the scout prompted. “And maybe his woman and his kids.”
“We’ll wait for the company to come up,” the lieutenant said.
Suddenly the crash of a rifle shot echoed through the foothills, and then another.
“Might be too late by then,” Hogg said quietly.
Stryker shook his head. “Damn you, Joe. You do love to pick at a man’s conscience.” He turned and looked behind him. But Birchwood and his infantry were not yet in sight.
“Oh, hell.” He drew his revolver. “Let’s rescue the farmer’s wife, even if it kills us, which it surely might.”
A narrow game trail led between a series of low hills covered with mesquite and juniper. There was no relief from the pitiless sun that hammered at both men and their horses. Stryker smelled the rankness of his own sweat rise from the dark arcs under the arms of his faded blue shirt. The light was a hard glare that hurt the eyes and turned the sand into a lake of molten steel. The heat was a malevolent, living entity and in all the vast land only the slopes of the mountains, green with pines, looked cool.
“You’re doing the right thing, Lieutenant,” Hogg said, turning in the saddle.
“Joe, you can write that on my gravestone: He Done the Right Thing.”
More shots, coming from beyond the hogback. The scout read them. “Five, six Apaches firing, but only one answering shot. From a Sharps .50, I’d say.”
“The farmer’s wife is fighting back.”
“Seems like.”
Stryker studied the land ahead of him. Nothing moved but a lone buzzard quartering the sky. There was no breeze here in the foothills and the air hung still, as thick and hard to breathe as warm cotton.
The game trail petered out as the hills gave way to a wide meadow, cratered with hollows. The ground was thick with cactus, mostly cholla and prickly pear, here and there vivid swathes of desert bluebells and marigolds.
The riders crossed the meadow, then hit the slope of the hogback at a canter, dislodging loose gravel that clattered behind them. Before they reached the ridge they dismounted. Stryker retrieved his field glasses from his saddlebags, and with Hogg at a crouching run beside him, covered the rest of the distance on foot.
Lying on his belly, he scanned the basin below.
The slope of the hogback dropped gradually into an open area of grass and broken land that looked as though it had once been plowed. There was a small cabin overhung by a huge cottonwood, a pole corral and sizeable barn. Among the outbuildings were a smokehouse, an open-fronted shed for a blacksmith’s forge and a smaller cabin that seemed to serve no ascertainable purpose.
The place had once been a fine-looking farm, but now looked shabby and rundown, held together by baling wire and twine.
Hogg’s elbow dug into Stryker’s ribs. He held up two fingers, then pointed to a jumble of boulders about thirty yards from the cabin that looked like they’d been cleared from a field. Now the scout held up one finger and pointed to the pole corral.
Stryker scanned both areas with his glasses, but saw nothing.
Then an Apache moved. The warrior at the corral stepped from behind a fencepost and fired at the cabin. There was no answering shot.
Stryker indicated to Hogg that they should back away from the crest of the hill. Once he could stand on his feet again, he asked, “You saw three Apaches. Where are the others?”
Hogg shook his head. “Dunno. But I reckon there’s two or three more. When an Apache don’t want to be seen, you don’t see him.”
Stryker nodded. “Joe, position yourself at the top of the hill again and when the Apaches show, drop them with your Henry.”
“Where are you going to be, Lieutenant.”
“I’ll mount up and head directly for the cabin.
The savages are tightening the noose, and whoever is inside there could be hurt and needs help.”
“Sounds like a mighty good way to cut a promising army career short,” Hogg said, without a trace of humor.
The lieutenant smiled. “Then be sure to tell Colonel Devore about Stryker’s gallant ride.”
“I will, but he’ll be sorely disappointed in you, Lieutenant. He had his heart set on making you a captain.”
Stryker waited until Hogg was in position, then swung into the saddle. He wiped the fear sweat from his gun hand on his breeches, then fisted the Colt again.
He saw Hogg glance back at him, swallowed hard, and kicked the bay into motion. The big horse crested the hill at a gallop and plunged down the other side, the bit in its teeth, mane flying.
Now there was no turning back.
Chapter 11
Stryker saw a startled Apache rise up from the pile of boulders. He snapped off a shot. Missed. The Indian fired and Stryker felt the bullet burn across his canvas suspender where it crossed his shoulder. A rifle crashed from the rise and the Apache looked even more startled as a blood red rose appeared on the chest of his white shirt. He went down hard.
The cabin was closer now.
Bullets from all sides of the basin stung the air around Stryker. He thumbed off a fast shot at the Apache by the corral post. Another miss. Behind him Hogg was firing steadily but didn’t seem to be scoring hits either.
The Apache stepped away from the corral and threw his Winchester to his shoulder. He and Stryker fired at the same time. The Indian’s bullet crashed into the bay and Stryker cartwheeled from the saddle, landing hard on his back in a cloud of dust.
A man who is thrown by a galloping horse doesn’t get up in a hurry. Stryker lay stunned as bullets kicked up startled exclamation points of sand around him. Finally he raised himself into a sitting position. Feet pounded to his right, coming fast. The Apache, grimacing in rage, had grabbed his rifle and was readying himself to swing a killing blow at the white officer’s head.
A shot.
The Apache went down, screaming, half of his skull blown away. Stryker turned his reeling head and saw a woman standing at the cabin door, a smoking Sharps still to her shoulder. Gun in hand, he struggled to his feet and staggered toward the sanctuary of the open door. It seemed like it was an eternity away.
He almost made it.
Just as the woman stepped inside, pushing open the door for him, a bullet thudded into Stryker’s right side, just above his cartridge belt. He felt like he’d been hit by a sledgehammer and slammed hard against the door jamb.
