The only sound was the stomp of Birchwood’s bay as it shook off flies and a distant shout from one of Abe Warden’s drovers.
Stryker walked into the bright sunlight and his eyes moved to the hills where the Apaches waited. . . .
Waiting for what?
Chapter 24
“I figure to drive the herd right through Apache Pass, taking the old military road, then swing south to Fort Bowie,” Abe Warden said. “We should arrive there by nightfall if the pass ain’t grazed out, we don’t get a prairie fire and the Apaches don’t stampede the cattle.”
“How about water on that route?” Stryker asked.
“There’s water at Apache Springs, Lieutenant, and grass. We can rest the herd there for a spell.”
“Then we should move out immediately. Where do you want my men?”
“My drovers will stay close to the herd. Maybe a couple of sod’jers out on the point and the rest can bring up the drag.”
“I’ll ride point, Mr. Warden.”
“Suit yourself, Lieutenant. Just give me plenty of warning if you bump into hostiles.”
“There will be cavalry patrols in the pass. I believe the Apaches will stay clear.”
Warden nodded. “Well, sir, I don’t put that much stock in the Army or the Apaches. Both will do as they please. And, in the case of the Apaches, the last damn thing a man expects.”
The rancher’s eyes lifted over Stryker’s shoulder. “Charlie!” he yelled. “Start moving ’em out. We’re heading for the pass.” He glanced at Stryker. “If you’ll excuse me, Lieutenant . . .”
“Of course.”
As Warden bustled away, Stryker walked to the adobe and stepped into its stench. The wounded soldier lay on a cot in one of the rooms, Birchwood standing over him.
“How is he?” Stryker asked.
It was an unnecessary question. Private Carter’s chest bubbled blood and fluid with every labored breath and lilac death shadows were gathering under his eyes and in the hollows of his unshaven cheeks.
“He’s dying, sir. But not fast enough.”
“We’re moving out, Mr. Birchwood. Your men will follow the herd and flank it where the terrain allows.”
“Yes, sir.” Birchwood was only half listening.
Stryker stepped into the cabin and looked down at the red-haired woman, who seemed much younger than he’d first thought. Kelly was still in her arms, her eyes frightened. “What is your name?” he said, trying to pitch his rough voice in a softer tone.
To his surprise, the woman answered him, her green eyes on his. “My name is Fedelia Lacy. I am twenty- three years old.”
“Can you ride a horse, Fedelia?”
“Yes.”
“Good. We’re headed for Fort Bowie. I’ll give you a horse and you will ride with Kelly. Do you understand?”
“Kelly is nice, but she’s so sad. Her mother was killed by the Apaches.”
“Yes, I know. Now you must come with me and I’ll saddle your horse.”
The woman rose to her feet and held Kelly close to her. “Will you hang me?”
Stryker was taken aback. “No, of course not. Why would I do such a thing?”
“I killed a man. Over there in the hospital. He wanted to touch me and I’ve been touched by too many men. His gun was in his holster and I grabbed it and I shot him.”
“Fedelia, he was a bad man. You were only defending”—Stryker almost lapsed into a false, gentlemanly language and said, “your honor,” but instead he said—“yourself.”
“He killed the soldier who had stayed behind to look for me. The soldier was asleep on a cot and the bad man broke his legs with an ax. He dragged the soldier away and later he shot him while offering him water. Then he said he’d killed a Mexican who’d begged him for his life. He said he’d killed the Mexican just for fun. He said the same thing would happen to me if I wasn’t nice to him and be his whore.”
“Then you shot him and ran away into the hills?”
“Yes. The Apaches left me alone.”
“Fedelia, the bad man’s name was Jake Allen. I don’t know why he came back here.”
“He said he was going to kill a cavalry scout. He was looking for him.”
Gently, Stryker took the woman’s arm, but she cringed away from him. “Sorry,” he said. “Let’s go get your horse.”
He turned and saw Birchwood standing at the door to the cell, his Colt in his hand.
“I’ll saddle your bay, Mr. Birchwood.”
The young lieutenant said nothing, his eyes empty. Stryker was halfway to the stables when he heard the shot.
Two different ecological systems collide in Apache Pass. The high, hot Chihuahuan Desert of New Mexico to the east weds with the lower, and much hotter, Sonoran Desert to the west, and barbarous bouquets of prickly pear, agave, yucca, sotol and cholla mark the union. Mountain mahogany, pinon, wild oak and juniper grow higher in the canyon, completely covering its raw, rocky slopes.
Stryker had been riding for an hour and the herd was a mile behind him. He was learning from bitter experience that the Apaches were a formidable, merciless enemy, desert fighters who had no superior. He feared them greatly and he knew he was right to do so.
He rode the criollo at a walk, Joe Hogg’s Henry across his saddle. Here in the pass it was very hot and there was not a single cloud in a sky the color of bleached-out denim. His eyes constantly scanned the ridges, but he saw no movement, and there was no sound but the steady hoof falls of his horse and the creak of saddle leather.
He had seen no cavalry patrols.
Smelling water, for Apache Springs was not far ahead, the criollo tossed its head, the bridle ringing, and was eager to go. Stryker held it back, his uneasy eyes studying the land around him.
He found partial shade under a rock overhang and drew rein. He built a cigarette and lit it, liking the harsh, dry taste of the tobacco. He was still weak from his wounds and very thirsty, tormented by memories of the foaming steins of Anheuser-Busch beer that were always on hand for the enlisted men when Fort Merit celebrated holidays.
Stryker finished his smoke and stubbed out the butt against the heel of his boot. He kneed his horse into motion and headed for the springs.
As he’d expected, the only water source for miles around was guarded by a reinforced infantry company, and the officer in charge kept him in his field glasses until he rode closer and could be identified.
Stryker sat his horse and saluted the infantry captain. “Sir, I’m bringing in twelve infantry from Fort Merit under Second Lieutenant Dale Birchwood. Those, and three hundred head of cattle and six drovers.”
The captain looked beyond Stryker back to the pass.
“They’re about half an hour behind me, sir, depending on how fast those beeves walk.”
The captain was small and slender with a trimmed, spade-shaped beard. Stryker thought he looked prissy, a spit-and-polish soldier. He felt shabby and dirty by comparison. “Lieutenant, we were under the impression that you were bringing in old Yanisin’s people, to be returned to the San Carlos,” the captain said.
“Skedaddled,” Stryker said, purposely using one of Joe Hogg’s words. “Every last one of them had gone to join Nana and Geronimo.”
“Did you pursue?”
Stryker looked around him. The spring, crystal clear, bubbled out of the earth and fell into a rock basin shaded by juniper and wild oaks. Emerald green moss clung to the rocks around the basin’s rim and among the exposed roots of the oaks. The air smelled clean, of wet fern and of the water that splashed with diamond brightness into the tank.
