That thought brought him no comfort. No release.
Trimble told Stryker he was a couple of hours north of Black Mountain when he saw Dugan and his bunch. Now they rode in that direction, the old man, who was favoring his ankle, up behind Birchwood.
The mountain was a rocky, volcanic peak visible for miles, its steep slopes covered with mesquite and cactus.
“There’s old ruins up there on top, Cap’n,” Trimble said, “walls an’ sich. As to who built them, nobody knows. But it was way before the Apaches’ time.”
“Can I get a good view of the country from the peak?” Stryker asked.
“Sure you can, Cap’n. From there a farsighted man can see clear to Old Mexico.”
Stryker stored that away. If they didn’t pick up Pierce’s trail, he’d climb the mountain and scout the land around him with his field glasses. A wisp of smoke or the glint of sunlight on a horse bridle could reveal the man’s location.
The sun rose higher in the sky. It was not yet noon, an hour shy of it, yet the heat was building, promising the day would be an inferno.
Black Mountain right ahead of him, Stryker led the way across a ridge that gradually sloped downward and opened onto a small, grassy meadow, bright with wildflowers. A small stream, lined with cottonwood and willow, was just visible behind thick brush and here they stopped to water the horses and let them graze for a while.
Stryker found shade under a cottonwood and stretched out his legs. He ate a strip of cold bacon and biscuit, then smoked a cigarette before stepping to the stream for a drink.
He chose an area free of brush and lay on his belly, splashing cool water onto his face and neck. He bent his head to drink directly from the stream when the water suddenly erupted to meet him. At the same time he heard the slam of a rifle shot.
Rolling to his right, Stryker crashed into the brush and lay still, his Colt in his hand. There was no sign of Birchwood and Trimble, and he assumed they had already taken cover.
“Birchwood! Trimble! You all right?”
“We’re all right, Cap’n,” the old man yelled. “Who took a pot at us?”
“Damned if I know!”
Another bullet kicked up dirt close to Stryker, a second rattled through the brush just above his head. He was pinned down, nailed to the ground by someone who knew how to use a rifle.
Was it Pierce and his men?
He dismissed that. They would have all fired at once. This was one man. A lone bronco Apache? That was more likely.
“Hey, Maryann, eat this!”
Trimble’s voice was drowned out by the bellow of his Spencer. It was a probing shot that went nowhere.
And it was immediately answered by a flurry of rifle fire that crashed bullets all around the area where Birchwood and Trimble lay hidden.
Stryker heard the old prospector’s laugh, a high-pitched, “Hee-hee-hee!” that chased itself around the meadow. “Damn me, boy,” he yelled, “but that was good shootin’.”
A pause, then, “Are you white men?” A woman’s voice.
“Hell, do we sound like Apaches to you?” Stryker yelled.
“Identify yourself!”
Irritation flared in Stryker. He had no desire to bandy words with a bushwhacker, female or not.
An impatient bullet spurted aV of dirt in front of his face.
“Identify yourselves.”
Stryker shook his head. This was developing into a Mexican standoff. He justified his surrender by telling himself he was only being polite to a lady.
“First Lieutenant Steve Stryker, United States Cavalry. Those two in the bushes are Second Lieutenant Dale Birchwood and Clem Trimble, the crazy old coot with the Spencer.”
“An’ I’m right pleased to make your acquaintance, ma’am,” Trimble called out, apparently unfazed by Stryker’s comment.
“Step into the open where I can see you,” the woman said.
“That won’t work, lady,” Stryker said. “You show yourself first.”
“You’re a white man all right,” the woman yelled.
“Always wanting me to show myself.” There was a moment’s pause; then the woman stepped out into the meadow. “This enough show for you?”
Chapter 28
Stryker rose to his feet and the others did the same.
The woman, dressed in canvas pants and a man’s collarless shirt that hung loose on her thin frame, carried a Winchester in her hands. She was young, with a thick mane of beautiful blond hair, but her face was overlaid with a veneer of hard years that had browned and wrinkled her skin and put flint into her eyes. She had a rash all over her face and neck that looked angry and red as though she’d been stung by hornets.
Stryker made to step toward her, but the rifle came up fast, the muzzle unwavering on his belly.
“Stay right there, soldier boy,” she warned.
“I can offer you food,” Stryker said, stopping right where he was.
“Coffee,” Trimble said, smiling. “I can bile you up some, ma’am.” His smile grew wider. “You’re a right pretty gal, an’ that’s a natural fact.”
“Horseshit, pops. Save it for somebody who cares.” The woman motioned to Stryker with the rifle. “You, soldier boy, what the hell did you do? Walk face first into a band saw?”
Stryker smiled. “Something like that.”
“You in charge?”
“Yes.” He waved a hand in the direction of his companions. “This is my command.”
“Well, we’re camping here and I want you and your men to move out.”
“We?” Stryker asked.
By way of reply, the woman looked over her shoulder and yelled, “It’s all right, Maxine. Bring the wagon.”
Two mules hauled a small wagon with a canvas top into the meadow. A woman was handling the reins and two others walked beside front wheels. They all seemed young, but unlike the first were wearing dresses, stained, ragged and dirty, but store bought and once expensive.
Trimble’s eyes twinkled and he smiled and smoothed his ragged beard. “Welcome, ladies,” he said, stepping toward the wagon. “A thousand warm welcomes.”
“Clem, stay back!” Stryker yelled, panic edging his voice.
The old prospector halted in midstride and turned to Stryker. “What the hell, Cap’n?”
“Look at their faces!”
Trimble did, and the aborning haze of desire fled quickly from his eyes.
The woman with the rifle spoke to him. “The soldier boy is right, old timer. We’re poxed.”
Looking aghast, Trimble took a step back, his hand on his chest. “What kind of pox?”
“Smallpox, you idiot. Now just stay away from us. I have one dying in the back of the wagon if she isn’t dead of fever already and time’s running short for the rest of us.” She looked around the meadow, at the trees and then to the creek that ran clear over lilac-colored pebbles. “I figure this is as good a place as any to die, and better than most.”
As though to put an exclamation mark on the woman’s statement, Maxine suddenly groaned and slumped over the reins. The two other women helped her down from the seat and laid her on the grass.
Stryker shook his head in disbelief and spoke to the woman with the rifle. “What in God’s name are you women doing here in the middle of an Apache uprising?”
