happened to the relief column. For some reason Corporal Yates and twelve men made a stand on the bluff. They’re all dead and stripped of their arms. I don’t know what happened to the six others.”
Stryker turned to Hogg. “Joe, I hate to ask you this with the Apaches so close—”
“I’ll check it out, Lieutenant.”
The scout left as he always did, silently, like a puff of smoke.
“How many effectives do we have, Lieutenant?” Stryker asked.
“Fourteen, sir. The wounded man, Private Stearns, you already know about.”
“Where is he?”
“In the hospital.”
“We’ll have to move him. We can’t defend the entire post.”
“Sir, his . . . Private Stearns’ left leg is black and it smells like rotten meat. I fear gangrene. It will have to be cut off if we are to save his life. I thought perhaps Mr. Hogg . . .”
“Perhaps. I’ll have a word with him. In the meantime I want to look at the saloons and the hog ranch. One of them may be more defensible than any of the post buildings.”
“What about the cannons, sir?”
Stryker smiled. “I don’t think those relics have been fired since the war. Besides, Lieutenant, only white men stand in line and make themselves a target for grapeshot. The Apache fights a war of movement and he never stays long enough in one place for that.”
Birchwood nodded. “You know a lot about the savages, don’t you, sir?”
Stryker shook his head. “I don’t know anything about Apaches, Lieutenant. But I do know, with a few men, we’re being called upon to defend a military post against the best guerilla fighters in the world. Does that thought fill you with confidence?”
“No, sir.”
“Me neither.”
The Bull’s Head saloon, where Stryker had first encountered Jake Allen, was a sod and canvas building and would offer no protection from bullets. The other saloon was a small, windowless adobe and was even less promising.
The hog ranch was farther out, a squat, adobe with an attached corral and to the right of that, a small barn, a chicken coop and an outhouse. There was also a well, usually dry.
Stryker and Birchwood walked in the direction of the ranch, their heads on swivels, constantly watching the smoke rising from the foothills on three sides of them. The Cabezas Mountains did not possess the same pillared majesty of the Chiricahuas, but they were raw and rugged, and the Apaches knew them well.
Stryker had the feeling he was being watched, that somewhere Geronimo was standing on a rocky plinth studying him with cruel, raven eyes that glittered with black fire.
It was not a reassuring sensation and it brought prickly beads of sweat to the lieutenant’s scarred forehead.
The adobe had been built well, with thick walls and a sod roof that would resist fire. It had two windows to the front, one at the side facing away from the corral, and two at the back. There was a door leading to the outhouse and another at the front. Both were made of stout timbers to keep out the summer wind and the winter cold.
Inside, the single, dirt-floored room was partitioned into a half dozen tiny cells, each with a blanket for a door. A small bar stood at one end, the shelf behind holding a dozen or so bottles, and there was a rough pine table and benches.
Birchwood looked around him, his voice almost reverent. “So this is what a brothel looks like,” he said.
“It’s what a hog ranch looks like,” Stryker said. “There are brothels and brothels, Lieutenant.” He looked at the young man. “You’ve never been in one before?”
“Oh no, sir. I promised my betrothed on the day I graduated from West Point that I would not consort with fancy women and that my lips would ne’er touch whiskey. I stand by those promises.”
“Well, I guess what you’ve never had you won’t miss, Lieutenant.” Stryker looked around him. “This place has excellent fields of fire and the walls are thick. We will make our stand here.”
“A bit cramped, though, sir.”
“With you, Mr. Hogg and me, we’ll have seventeen defenders. Trust me, when the Apaches come at us in force and the bullets start flying, it won’t seem so cramped.”
“No, sir. I mean of course not, sir.”
Stryker smiled. “Brothel fumes getting to you, Lieutenant?”
“I find the place a bit . . . unnerving, sir.”
“Well, if you don’t tell your betrothed that you’re frequenting a bawdy house, then neither will I. Now get your men moved in here and bring as much ammunition as you can find.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And, Lieutenant, stay away from the bar. Suddenly you’re inclining toward some mighty bad habits.”
“Them boys up on the bluff were killed by Apaches, Lieutenant,” Hogg said. “They were all scalped and cut up bad, and a few have arrows in them.”
Stryker was irritated. “Why the hell did that corporal, whatever his name was, decide to fight up there?”
“Probably a sodbuster who didn’t have the sense to know the Apaches could get around behind him an’ attack every which way.”
“Why didn’t the Indians fire the buildings, Joe? Huh? Why didn’t they fire the damned buildings?”
“My guess is they was scared off, or went after something else in a big hurry.”
“But they’re back, damn them.”
“To finish what they started, maybe.”
Stryker bowed his head in thought for a few moments, then lifted bleak eyes to Hogg. “It was Pierce. They went after Rake Pierce.”
Hogg smiled. “You’re stretching your mind out across some mighty big territory, Lieutenant.”
“I know, but I’ve got a bond with that man, Joe. It was forged in the deepest fires of hell and nothing will ever break it. He’s alive. Damn him, I can feel him, feel him—” Stryker made a grabbing motion with his right hand —“this close.”
Hogg inclined his head. “Whatever you say. But one thing fer sure, Geronimo is back. As to the why of the thing, I don’t know. It’s hard to figure an Apache. He’ll bamboozle you every time.”
The first probing attack caught Stryker’s men out in the open.
The lieutenant was watching Birchwood’s infantry file toward the hog ranch when the Apaches struck, two dozen mounted warriors charging out of a narrow arroyo.
Hogg was bringing up the rear, carrying Kelly, his other arm around Mary McCabe’s waist. Yet he fired first. In one fast, graceful motion he shoved the girl into Mary’s arms, turned and drew his Colt.
In anyone else but Hogg, fanning the big revolver would have been a grandstand play, a fancy move full of sound and fury that signified nothing. But in the time it takes a man to blink, he hammered off five shots into the Apaches, killed a pony and sent the rider sprawling. The horse fell in a tangle of kicking legs and for a moment plunged the oncoming riders into confusion. Too close, another Apache mount got caught up in the dying pony’s legs and went down, throwing its rider. The remaining Apaches swung wide, away from the wreck, and were firing their Winchesters from the shoulder. But those precious few seconds Hogg had gained gave the scattered soldiers time to deploy and unlimber their Springfields.
A short, sharp gunfight between Birchwood’s men and the Indians followed, with no hits scored on either side. Then the Apaches were gone, leaving only a drifting cloud of dust to mark their passing.
The Apache who had been thrown by his dying horse had broken his neck and was as dead as he was ever going to be. The warrior who had collided with him had lost his rifle, but sprang to his feet, a knife in his hand, yelling his defiance. Stryker raised his revolver and cut him down.
Joe Hogg had been dead when he hit the ground, a bullet in the middle of his forehead. Mary McCabe, shot several times, lasted a few moments longer, gasping, her frightened eyes clouding in death even as Stryker kneeled
