The wind rose, driving sand before it that ripped into the marching men like grapeshot fired from colossal cannons.
Then the rains came.
A few scattered drops at first were followed by a deluge, hammering from a sky as black as doom. The roars of thunder joined the clattering clamor of the downpour and the shriek of wind, dragging the day down into a cartwheeling pit of madness.
Soldiers, bent almost double, scattered into the foothills, seeking shelter wherever they could, the lightning, wind and rain eagerly stalking after them.
“Joe!” Stryker yelled. He was fighting his horse, and Kelly had buried her face in his chest. Beside him, Dugan tried to make his break, kicking his mount in the ribs. Stryker reacted instantly. He backhanded the man hard across the face and when Dugan reeled, he grabbed the end of the rope around his neck and yanked him from the saddle.
Suddenly Joe Hogg was beside Stryker, taking Kelly from him.
“Find shelter, Joe!” he shouted. “Get into cover!”
Hogg yelled something Stryker did not hear; then he vanished into the screaming maelstrom. Lightning struck close by, among the hills, the reverberating crash like the fall of giants. Terrified, the criollo reared and Stryker was thrown heavily to the ground.
For a moment the lieutenant lay still, gathering his wits and fighting pain. Then he climbed slowly and stiffly to his feet. He looked around him, his eyes scanning the reeling chaos of lightning and rain, but there was no sign of another living creature.
Stryker didn’t see the rider until he was almost on top of him. The horse hit him a glancing blow and he staggered and crashed onto his back. Somewhere above the roar of the storm a rifle made a flat, emphatic statement, and then another.
Rising to one elbow, Stryker saw gun flashes among the foothills. He climbed erect, staggered on numb legs, then pulled his Colt. Rain pounded into his face and beat like a kettledrum on his hat.
A sudden lightning flash lit up the foothills and the rolling desert flatlands. It seemed to Stryker that the world was full of hurtling horsemen, shooting at unseen enemies among the hills.
Hooves pounded behind Stryker. He swung around and caught a fleeting glimpse of a half-naked Indian on a paint pony coming right at him, his feathered lance lowered for the kill.
Stryker moved to his right, but his ankle rolled on a rock and he fell, thumbing his Colt as he went down. The Indian pounded past, then slowly toppled off his horse.
Ignoring his pain, the lieutenant scrambled quickly to his feet. He fired between lightning flashes, marking his target’s position. He had shot an Indian, but the enemies he was trying to kill were white men, and he was certain that Rake Pierce was leading them.
“Fire!” Birchwood’s voice, coming from behind him.
Springfields crashed and a bullet split the air close to Stryker’s head. He hit the ground as another volley venomously sang over him.
“Damn your eyes, Birchwood!” he roared. “Are you trying to murder me?”
“Advance!” the lieutenant yelled. “Fire at will.”
A half dozen soldiers pounded past Stryker, and then Birchwood was kneeling beside him. “Sorry, sir,” he said. “I took you for the enemy.”
Now the fire from the foothills was steadier and Stryker was sure he could hear the staccato bark of Hogg’s Henry.
Then, as quickly as it had started, the fight was over.
Hoofbeats receded in the distance and soldiers were firing a few last forlorn shots at shadows.
Birchwood rose to his feet. “Cease fire!”
The shooting staggered to a halt and soon the only sound was the racket of the rain and the grumble of thunder as the storm moved to the south.
Birchwood helped Stryker to his feet as Hogg emerged from the gloom. “It was Rake, all right, Lieutenant,” he said. “I seen him clear and took a pot at him. Missed him clean.”
Stryker nodded. “Over there, I downed an Apache.” Hogg shook his head. “He’s Kiowa, Lieutenant. That’s how come ol’ Rake found us in the storm. A Kiowa can track damn near as good as an Apache and there are some who say even better.”
“Where’s Dugan?”
“Gone. An’ three dead soldiers over there who tried to stop him.”
“And Pierce’s men?”
“The Kiowa dead and maybe a couple more of Rake’s men winged, or maybe not.” The scout hesitated a moment, then said, “They surprised us, Lieutenant, attacking out of the storm like that.”
His failure to protect his men was a bitter pill to swallow.
Stryker turned on Birchwood. “Any other casualties?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
“Then goddamn you, Lieutenant, find out!”
His young face stricken, Birchwood saluted and strode away.
“How are Mrs. McCabe and Kelly?”
“They’re fine.” Hogg tried to find Stryker’s eyes in the rain-lashed darkness. “A bit hard on the boy, wasn’t you, Lieutenant? He did well, rallied his men under fire and mounted a counterattack.”
Stryker smiled. “It doesn’t do second lieutenants any harm to be reprimanded now and again. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure his actions are brought to the attention of Major Hanson.”
Birchwood reported back a few minutes later. The news was bad. Three dead and one seriously wounded, a seventeen-year-old named Stearns who was shot through both legs.
Stryker was worried. This meant another delay, but there was no way around it. “We’ll spend the night here, Lieutenant,” he said. “At first light, rig up a travois for the wounded man. Use the Kiowa’s pony.”
Birchwood saluted and turned to go, but Stryker’s sense of fair play would not let him remain silent.
“By the way, Lieutenant, your behavior during the engagement was exemplary, and I will inform Major Hanson of this when we reach Fort Merit.”
The young man smiled and saluted again. “Thank you, sir.”
Watching Birchwood leave, Stryker wondered if he’d ever been that young. Then he realized he had once, when Millie had been in love with him. A thousand years ago.
Chapter 18
There was something wrong. . . . Seriously wrong . . .
Stryker again scanned Fort Merit with his field glasses. The adobes and jacals were deserted, but, given the threat of an Apache attack, that was to be expected. But there was no sign of life at the saloons or the hog ranch and the army buildings also seemed empty, a couple of barracks doors hanging open, moving back and forth in the wind.
No flag flew above the parade ground and one of the brass cannons was tipped over on its side.
“Damn it,” Stryker whispered to himself, “where is everybody?”
He handed the glasses to Hogg. “Joe, what do you make of this?”
As Stryker had done, the scout studied the post for a couple of minutes, the glasses ranging all over the terrain and the mountains beyond.
Finally he lowered the glasses, his face troubled.
“Looks like they left in an almighty hurry, Lieutenant.”
“I don’t see any sign of an Apache attack.”
“Or Apaches either,” Birchwood said, his own field glasses hanging on his chest.
“Mr. Hogg, let’s ride ahead and take a look,” Stryker said. “Lieutenant, if the coast is clear I’ll wave you on, and you may bring in the company and Mrs. McCabe. If I don’t show after thirty minutes, hightail it for Fort Bowie.”
