Stryker, but now he asked her again. This time the girl eagerly agreed, and he lifted her in front of him.
They had been walking for three hours and a look at Mrs. McCabe’s face told Stryker that she too was growing exhausted. He drew rein, freed a stirrup and said, “Get up behind me, Mrs. McCabe.”
The woman shook her head. “That’s too much for the horse.”
“He’s a tough little bronc,” Stryker smiled. “He can carry all three of us.”
The woman had no argument left in her. She climbed up behind Stryker who kneed the criollo into motion. The horse’s gait did not change and it seemed to handle the additional weight with ease.
Kelly leaned her head on Stryker’s chest, lightly and tentatively at first, but then it grew heavier as the child slept.
The sky islands of the Chiricahuas soared above the three people on the little horse, dwarfing them into insignificance. Here and there eroded stone spires and columns rose out of thick tree canopies like the pillars of a ruined cathedral, ancient incense that smelled of pine still fragrant in the air. The sun had impaled itself on a peak and was motionless in the sky, unable to shake itself free. The entire vast land shimmered in the heat, distorting the way ahead, hard on the eyes, harder still on Stryker’s stretched-taut nerves.
This was Apache country and no man who entered it, unless he was a fool, ever rode at ease.
And that was proved just thirty minutes later when three mounted Indians emerged from the shimmering landscape as though they were riding through a curtain of lace.
Over Stryker’s shoulder Mary McCabe saw what he was seeing. She immediately slid off the criollo and lifted Kelly from the saddle. The girl was still asleep and her head rested on her mother’s shoulder.
There was nowhere to hide, no time to run, but Stryker was a horse soldier and the woman knew that if it came to a fight she and Kelly would be an encumbrance.
Stryker racked the Henry and sat his saddle, waiting, his eyes fixed on the oncoming Apaches. He was still very weak, in no shape for a battle, but, as they had been for Mary, his options were limited.
All three of the Indians carried new Winchesters and they came on at a walk, unhurried, their flat, black eyes weighing Stryker, evaluating him as a fighting man.
Stryker quickly glanced around him. He saw nothing in the terrain that would give him an advantage. Now that he’d looked at his hole card and didn’t like what he’d seen, he gripped his rifle tighter and waited for the inevitable. No matter what, he would take his hits and survive long enough to fire two shots. Remembering what had befallen Hooper, he wouldn’t abandon Mrs. McCabe and her daughter to the same fate.
The Apaches stopped ten yards away, and then one of them rode forward. He was young, stocky, bands of red and yellow paint across his nose and cheeks. At one time or another in his wild life, this warrior had been an Army scout.
Reining his pony alongside the criollo, the Apache stared hard into Stryker’s face. Astonishment gave way to puzzlement and then to a wide grin. The warrior turned and enthusiastically beckoned the other two closer.
Stryker lifted the muzzle of the Henry an inch until it was pointed at the belly of the Indian closest to him. The man, still intent on studying the soldier’s shattered features, didn’t seem to notice. His head was inclined at an angle as he tried to imagine how the big officer had gotten that way.
As their leader had done, the other Apaches crowded around Stryker, staring at him in wonderment, excitedly discussing him in a language he did not understand.
One of the Apaches swung away and rode to where Mary and the child were standing. He studied the woman’s face, then let out a wild yip of delight.
Stryker stiffened in the saddle. The reckoning had come, and he was ready.
The Apache slid off his horse, grabbed Mary’s chin and turned her head so the others could see the terrible scar on her cheek. That immediately touched off a storm of laughter among the Indians that surprised Stryker. For some reason, Mary McCabe’s scar was “a real thigh-slapper,” as Joe Hogg would have said.
So far the Apaches had shown no hostile intent, and for now Stryker was content to let it remain that way.
The Apache let Mary go and mounted again. The warrior wearing the traditional war paint of the Army scout pointed to Stryker’s face. “Ugly,” he said. He pointed to the woman. “Ugh, same ugly.” As his companions laughed, he said, “A good joke.”
And with that, the three warriors rode away, heading north, their heads thrown back, still laughing.
Stryker felt the tension drain out of him. Hogg had once told him that Apaches were notional and that the white man did not share their sense of humor. Now, for some reason known only to themselves, a disfigured Army lieutenant accompanied by a scarred woman in the middle of the wilderness had struck them as funny.
Stryker didn’t appreciate the joke, but he appreciated that it had saved their lives.
That night they camped two miles south of Rucker Canyon and its abandoned Army post. Sheltered by a narrow box canyon, Stryker built a small fire and they ate a hasty supper of broiled bacon and a few stale biscuits.
At first light, they were on the trail south again. And at noon they met up with Joe Hogg and Lieutenant Birchwood’s depleted infantry company.
Chapter 16
Hogg was riding next to a huge man wearing a greasy buckskin shirt, his red hair falling in a tangled mass over his shoulders. A full beard covered his chest and when he looked at Stryker, then looked again, his black eyes were small and mean and full of malice.
Stryker smiled at Hogg. “Good to see you again, Joe.”
“See you brung the whole family,” the scout said.
Birchwood was a hundred yards behind Hogg. He cantered to Stryker and saluted. “Lieutenant Birchwood reporting, sir.”
Stryker looked beyond the man and past the column of weary infantrymen. “Where are the Apaches, Lieutenant?”
The young officer shook his head. “We didn’t find them, sir. The rancheria was abandoned, everyone gone.”
“Did you encounter any Apaches?”
“No, sir.”
“We did find this skunk, and a couple of others with him who are now deceased,” Hogg said. He leaned over in the saddle, shot out his booted foot and knocked the red-haired man off his horse.
The redhead hit the ground hard, raising a cloud of dust. He stayed where he was and cursed viciously at Hogg.
“His name is Silas Dugan,” the scout said, smiling. “He’s a scalp hunter by trade and a real good friend of Sergeant Pierce. In fact, Lieutenant, you might say they’re partners.”
Dugan got to his feet, spitting fury and hate. “I’m gonna kill you one day, Joe,” he said. “You might be in bed with a whore or kneeling to say your prayers or singin’ in the church choir, but I’m gonna walk right up to you an’ scatter your brains, you son of a bitch.”
Hogg shook his head and looked at the man. “Silas, all the time I’ve knowed you, you’ve talked big about what you was a-goin’ to do to some white man or another. But all you’ve ever done is kill women and children and lift their scalps.”
The scout laid both hands on the saddle horn and leaned into Dugan. “Now you shut your trap or I’ll leave you to the first Apache warriors I come acrost. Know what they do to a scalp hunter, Silas?”
“That will do, Mr. Hogg,” Birchwood said. “The prisoner will be delivered to Fort Merit”—he paused—“in one piece.”
“You tell him, soldier boy,” Dugan grinned.
Birchwood’s head snapped around until he was looking at the man. “Dugan,” he said, “shut your goddamned trap.”
The scalp hunter shrugged, made a placating gesture with his hands and kept silent.
“This is a good time to rest your men, Lieutenant Birchwood,” Stryker said. “We’ll have a conference and Mr. Hogg, I want you to attend.”
