Blood Sky at Morning

But who was watching?

The army?

He didn’t think so. Troopers could be stealthy, but they’d had time to look him over and should have announced their presence long before he lit up a cigarette.

Apaches?

Likely. They probably had army signal mirrors, but they could use almost anything to reflect sunlight, send messages. A chunk of quartz, a piece of tin, broken glass from a bottle.

He looked at the ground, which had suddenly produced a maze of tracks. Besides the wagon ruts and horse tracks, the horses and ponies he had chased out of the mesquite pole corral had crossed his path. The tracks headed toward a point between the places where he had seen the flashing mirrors.

He had a decision to make.

He could follow his present course, toward Tucson, or shift to the new tracks.

Curiosity killed the cat, he thought.

He stayed to his tracking but could feel the watchers tracking him. It was an uncomfortable feeling, as if someone’s eyes were boring into him, right between his shoulder blades. He saw no more flashes, but didn’t expect any. The watchers knew where he was, and probably had a pretty good idea where he was going.

The land was gently rolling, swells of earth that rose up and fell away like an ocean frozen in motion. As long as the rises were shallow, he could still see ahead of him when he rode into a dip, but it was at the bottom of one of the depressions that he was brought up short.

They came in from two sides and made a line on the ridge above him. A dozen braves, Chiricahuas, he figured, all carrying rifles and wearing pistols. None were painted for war, but he knew that meant nothing. Apaches could go to war with or without decorating their bodies.

Zak’s knowledge of Apache was limited. He had a smattering of Athabascan, knew a few words that amounted to very little if his life depended on much conversation. He could speak Spanish, though, and most of the Apaches had some familiarity with that language. Right now, he wondered if he would even have a chance to talk. The Indians surrounding him all had bandoleros slung over their shoulders, and the gun belts shone with brass cartridges.

He reined up, folded his hands atop one another on the saddle horn.

The Apaches looked at him for several moments.

If there was one trait that stood out among the Apaches, it was their patience. Zak figured he could match them on that score.

As he sat there, he heard the rumble of hoofbeats. More Apaches rode up, and they were driving the horses and ponies he had released from Felipe’s corral. He turned and looked back at the smoke still rising in the sky.

One of the Apaches from the first bunch moved his pinto a few yards closer to where Zak sat his horse. His face was impassive, a bronze mask under straight black hair. He wore a red bandanna around his forehead, a faded blue chambray shirt, beaded white man’s trousers, moccasins. He carried an old Sharps carbine that had lost most of its bluing. The stock was worn, devoid of its original finish. The pistol tucked into his sash was a cap and ball, a Remington, Zak figured, one of the New Model Army kind with a top strap.

The Apache spoke.

“Quien eres?” he said in Spanish.

“Yo soy Cody.”

“Soldado?”

“No, I’m not a soldier,” Cody said, also in Spanish. Then he said, “Nodeeh,” an Apache word, and touched his chest with his hand.

“Nodeh ligai,” the Apache said. White man.

“Yes. Who are you?”

“Anillo,” he said, and held up his left hand. Zak saw the ring on his finger, turquoise and silver. It sparkled in the sun.

“Ring,” Zak said in English.

“Yes. I am called Ring. What do you do here?”

“I follow the tracks of bad white men. They made themselves to look like Apaches. They killed two soldiers.”

“You gave us these horses?” Anillo said.

“Yes. I let them run from the corral.”

“You burned the jacal and the adobe.”

It was a statement, not a question. Zak nodded without speaking.

“Cody.”

“Yes.”

“The black horse is like a shadow.”

“Yes. I call him Noche.” He didn’t figure Anillo would understand the Latin word for night.