The young man waited until a wild, agonized shriek ended in bubbling sobs, then said, “I don’t feel much like it.”
Stryker passed Birchwood the water bladder. “Take a drink, Mister,” he said. “Your throat sounds dry.”
Geronimo stepped out of the trees and walked to where Stryker and the others were sitting. The lieutenant rose to his feet.
“I am Goyathlay, the one the white men call Geronimo,” the Apache said. “Where I walk, I leave no tracks. I can make rivers run backward and I can still the rising sun in the sky. I am able to do these things because my medicine is strong.”
Stryker waited. He felt his heart thud in his chest.
“I have thought long and hard about what I must do, and then the Great Spirit made it clear to me. Crook presses us close and my people must hide in the Madres. Two of you will go after Pierce and Dugan and you will kill them for us. The one who remains must die. You will choose who this man is to be, and tell me.”
“Hell, Cap’n, I’m the oldest and it should be me,” Trimble said. “I’ve lived my life and—”
“Clem, shut your fucking mouth,” Stryker snapped, angry beyond all measure. He stared into Geronimo’s black eyes, his own blazing. “All three of us go, or none of us. We will not choose and we will not leave one of our own behind to be tortured.”
“Well,” Trimble sighed, “that sure enough thow’d the hog fat on the fire.”
Geronimo was silent for a long time, his face still, revealing nothing. Then he said, “If you had chosen otherwise I would have killed all of you. You have spoken like a man and in so doing purchased your lives. You will leave now and kill our enemies.”
“How will you know that the thing is done?” Stryker asked.
“I am Goyathlay. It will be written in the wind and I will know.” He turned to the warriors around him and said something in his own tongue. The Apaches brought Stryker and the others their guns and then their saddled horses.
Geronimo waited until the three white men had mounted; then he said, “Pierce and Dugan will ride south into Mexico. They have many Apache scalps to sell for gold.”
Stryker nodded. He looked across the camp where bloody, broken things were still screaming, but more weakly now. He swung his horse away and the others followed.
He felt Geronimo’s eyes on his back until he was swallowed by the shadows of the hills.
They had crossed Big Bend Creek and were heading due south in the direction of the Perilla Mountains before anyone said a word. Predictably it was Trimble, who would speak even when he’d nothing to say.
“That was close, Cap’n,” he said. “In all my born days I never come nearer to losin’ my hair. ’Course, if a man’s gonna get scalped, better it’s by ol’ Geronimo. It’d give a man the feelin’ that the cuttin’ had more class, like.”
“Clem, I don’t want to be scalped by anybody,” Birchwood said.
“Just so, Lieutenant. Just so.”
They camped that night in Saddle Gap, then crossed into Mexico early next morning, riding into rolling country just south of where the peaks of the oak- and pine-covered mountains of the Sierra Madres brushed against the sky.
For an hour they followed a military road that cut through shaggy oak forests, and then stopped at a wicker and adobe village that had spread itself along both banks of a creek.
It was just short of noon, but the heat was intense and the village seemed deserted as its inhabitants sought shelter from the raking sun.
A cantina, consisting of a single adobe building with an adjoining outhouse, stood at the end of the main street, the name
Stryker and the others looped their reins around the hitching rail and stepped inside. Away from the pitiless sun, the interior of the cantina felt shady and cool. A bar stood in a corner, an array of bottles on its shelves. There were a few tables and chairs, and a doorway, covered by a blanket, led into another room.
Stryker stepped to the bar and ordered tequila for himself and Trimble. He nodded in Birchwood’s direction. “He’ll have milk if you have it, water if you don’t.”
“I have no tequila, Senor,” the bartender said. He was small and very dark, with quick brown eyes. He shrugged. “Only mescal.”
“Then that will have to do.”
The bartender smiled at Birchwood. “There is cold water over there in the
Birchwood poured water from the earthenware jug into a cup and returned to the bar where Stryker was sealing shut a cigarette.
The bartender waited until the officer lit his cigarette, then said, “What brings
Stryker drank some of the fiery mescal, then shook his head. “No, we’re not at war. I want information. I’m looking for two men. Deserters.”
“
“Ahh . . .” the Mexican said, “but many gringos pass through San Pedro. The question is, how to tell one from another?”
“You’d know these men. They’re tall, big, mean as hell and one has red hair and a beard the same color.”
A shocked surprise registered on the Mexican’s face. “Yes, two men. One with red hair. They were here last night and drank mescal. Alta entertained them.” The man spread his hands. “I think they hurt her bad, very bad.”
The little man stepped to the doorway, pushed back the blanket and yelled something in Spanish.
He returned to the bar and said, “Alta is lying down. But she will be here.”
A small, slight girl stepped into the room. She hobbled when she walked and made little grimaces of pain.
“She can talk American, Senor,” the Mexican said. “It is her business, you understand.”
“Alta, you met two men here last night,” Stryker said.
The girl spat. “Pigs! They used me like I was . . . filth.” She held her head high, her hands on her slim hips. “I’m a whore, but I’m also a human being.” Alta turned on the bartender. “Felipe, you heard me call out and you did nothing.”
The man shrugged. “Alta, big gringos with guns; what could I do?”
“You pig, Felipe! You have no cojones.”
“Alta, did the men say where they were headed?” Stryker asked. “They have Apache scalps to sell.”
Trimble smiled. “Seems to me they wasn’t doin’ much talkin’, Cap’n.”
The girl looked at him. “That is correct, old man. They spoke little and told me nothing.”
But Felipe said, “Maybe Chihuahua, Senor. Many soldiers of Presidente Diaz are there.”
The girl turned and limped back into the adjoining room. Felipe watched her go and shook his head.
“It will be a long time before Alta can entertain gentlemen again. Now my whore is all tore up and those dirty gringos are costing me money.”
Stryker paid for the drinks, made to turn away, but stopped. He beckoned to Felipe by crooking his finger.
“Yes, Senor?”
“Come here, Felipe.”
When the man stepped closer, Stryker drew back his right fist and punched him hard in the mouth. Blood dribbled from the corner of Felipe’s mouth as he lurched against the bar, rattling bottles.
He put fingers to his bleeding lips and wailed, “Why did you do that?”
Stryker smiled. “Because you have no cojones.”
He walked out into the bright sunlight, Birchwood and Trimble grinning beside him. They swung into the saddle and rode south.
