Left alone, the drifters fed themselves ahair of the dog, shaved and bathed, then donned their regularattire. Their Fort Gale spree had been expensive, absorbing a fullquarter of their four thousand dollar bankroll, but they weren’tabout to complain. For many months, they had yearned to celebraterecent victories, pitched battles with the forces of lawlessnessfrom which they had emerged bloody but alive. Some of thesevictories had been a financial success, because some of theirvictims had been wanted men, the kind whose unprepossessingfeatures had adorned official bulletins, under the familiarheading—“Reward, Dead or Alive.”
It was over now. They’d had their fun—atleast enough to satisfy them for the time being.
By the time they were descending to thelobby, Colonel Lansing was back at the Telliger house, resuming hisvisit with his favorite officer. Had he been able to see them now,the colonel might have taken fresh heart. Fully clad and heftingpack-rolls and Winchesters, they looked what they were—twohard-boiled, dauntless Texans who would stop at nothing. They woretheir range garb and batwings chaps with the swaggering ease ofveteran range-riders, and the gunbelts that girded their loins werenever a mere decoration, but tools of trade.
Wyvern and Sneddon greeted them withapprehensive frowns. Nonchalantly, Larry dropped two hundred dollarbills on the desk, and drawled, “I reckon that’ll cover any extradamage.”
“You’re …” Wyvern swallowed a lump in histhroat, “… checking out?”
“It’d be too much to hope for!” pantedSneddon.
“Checkin’ out,” Larry assured them, on hisway to the revolving door.
“Hasta lavista,” grunted Stretch.
Within fifteen minutes of their quitting thehotel, the Texans had retrieved their horses from a local liverystable and were on their way west. The storm had come and gone, andFort Gale would never forget. Maybe the hell-raisers would passthis way again. Many a disreputable local hoped they would.
In Bosworth County, on the morning of theTexans crossing the territory’s eastern boundary, Webb Colliermanaged to travel to the dense brush below Sun Dog Mesa withoutbeing spotted by an army patrol. A lone rider, moving cautiously,could make it to the reservation nowadays. For a group of horsemenor any kind of vehicles, it would have been well nighimpossible.
It was exactly nine-fifty a.m. when theboss hijacker finished his ascent to the wind-swept mesa, a flat,thickly vegetated area dotted with the many teepees of the Apaches.He was immediately surrounded by a jabbering score of squaws andpapooses, who hastily dispersed with the arrival of a lynx-eyed,sullen-faced brave. The respect accorded him caused Collier tosuppose that he might be Mochita, only son of the wily old chief.He raised his hand in the peace sign and introduced himself. Thebrave replied in broken but intelligible English, and Collier’ssupposition was proved correct.
“You speak the white man’s tongue,Mochita,” he cheerfully remarked, as he dismounted.
“But not with pride,” retorted thebrave.
“Your father—the mighty chief,” drawledCollier, “does he too speak English?”
“Gayatero has learned much of your tongue,”muttered Mochita, “from the white chiefs who called him tocouncil.”
He added, bitterly, “Those who forced him tosign the treaty.”
“Well …” Collier shrugged nonchalantly, “…I’m not here to argue about that.”
“Why do you come?” Mochita demanded.
“To parley with the chief,” grinnedCollier. “A business proposition, Mochita. You savvy what thatmeans? No. I guess you wouldn’t. So let me put it this way. YouApaches have something I want—and I have something you want. I’mhere to offer a trade.”
So inscrutable was Mochita’s dusky visagethat Collier couldn’t decide if he were interested or indifferent.Abruptly, the brave turned and strode toward the lodge in the heartof the reservation. Collier fell in behind him, only mildlydisquieted by the fixed stares of the other braves.
Face to face with Mochita’s sire in thedimly-lit lodge, the schemer skillfully concealed his revulsion. Sothis was the mighty Gayatero, who had ranked with Cochise andGeronimo and, in his heyday, had promised to become the U.S. Army’snumber one problem? He found himself exchanging mumbled greetingswith a fat, slovenly, evil smelling redman of advanced years cladin filthy buckskins and a patched and tattered poncho. Thedeeply-furrowed, flabby-jowled face was devoid of expression—untilone studied the dark, slitted eyes which reflected all the cunningof a predatory wolf.
Mochita squatted cross-legged beside hisfather. In response to the chief’s languid gesture, Colliercrouched on his haunches and lit a cigar. Gayatero eyed the stogiefixedly, so Collier dug out another and lit it for him.
“I come in peace ...” he began.
The old man blew smoke into his face,bared yellowed teeth in a derisive grin and retorted, “Allwhite-eyes say this, when first they greet Gayatero.”
“I mean it, Chief,” Collier ferventlyassured him. “I could help you.”
“Tell Gayatero how,”the chiefinvited.
He bent to catch the words of his son,mumbled in the Apache dialect. Collier waited patiently. Then,eyeing him intently, Mochita explained.
“I have told my father why you come.”
“What does Gayatero have,” demanded thechief, “that the white-eyes would take from him?”
“I reckon you’ve guessed that already,Chief,” said Collier. “A year ago, Apaches crossed the big riverinto California and raided the mining camps of Collado Bernadino.Much gold was stolen. Raw gold, Chief. Of no use to the Apaches,but they stole it anyway. The thieves were never traced, but Ialways had my own ideas about that raid. It’s my belief they wereSun Dog Mesa braves. Maybe you sent them. Maybe they just got wearyof doing nothing and hankered to lift a few scalps. One thing I’msure of. That gold was brought back here to the reservation. It’shidden here—somewhere—and it’s no damn use to you.”
“You lie.” Gayatero’s retort was as promptand as automatic as Collier had expected. “Gayatero knows nothingof this.”
“No?” Collier grinned blandly. “That’s toobad. If you don’t have the gold, I can’t trade with you.”
“White-eyes has nothing,” grunted Gayatero,“that Apache needs.”
“Nothing?” challenged Collier. “Not evenrifles, the new long guns—repeaters? You savvy repeaters, Chief? Itmeans they fire many times. Regular bullets. Not loads you have tofill yourself. You don’t have to reload after every shot. Hell, no.Many bullets in each gun.”
“White man’s guns,” breathed Mochita.“With these, my father, we could ...”
He broke off in obedience to Gayatero’surgent gesture. “You have,” the old man challenged Collier, “howmany of these long guns?”
“With bullets,” nodded Collier, “enoughrepeaters to arm all your braves.”
“How you
