They were deep into the gap, the wagons rolling at a snail’s pace when the roar of a rifle shot echoed through the stone walls above them. Rudy’s Sharps. Jack wheeled his mount and looked back toward the chuckwagon, which was nearly twenty-five yards behind. Rudy was standing in front of the wagon seat, pointing toward the boulder-strewn north slope. Jack’s eyes ranged the slope, and he spotted Rudy’s near-naked target, sprawled with head downslope.
Suddenly, other heads emerged from the rocks and brush, and the Apaches, most bearing rifles, but several with bows and quivers full of arrows, raised up and began to fire. A mule screamed, and one of the critters in the front team stumbled forward and went down, dragging its teammate to its knees. The wagon, which had been slowing, jerked to a full stop, and the mules brayed and struggled in panic. “Take cover,” Jack yelled, getting off a few wild shots with his Peacemaker.
He was relieved to see Sierra had dismounted and was dodging under the wagon with her rifle. Her strawberry roan mare had raced away, but that was the least of their worries. He dismounted, slipped his Henry rifle from its scabbard and slapped Pokey on the rump and joined Sierra. Soon Eagle Eyes slipped in beside him. “Jordy’s buckskin went down, and Jordy slipped off. He’s okay but rolled to the other side of the trail and took cover behind a pile of rocks. Told me to git. Horse got back on his feet and limped off.”
He heard the Sharps roar again, so he knew that Rudy was okay. He probably took an Apache down, too. He was a crack shot, and Jack only reluctantly accepted Rudy’s periodic challenge to a shooting match, knowing that even if his former keen sight suddenly bounced back, he would be destined for defeat and a month of ribbing. A crack of a rifle from the next wagon back told him that Possum was unharmed.
They were receiving a rain of gunfire and arrows now. Sierra, stretched out on the ground, was firing steadily, and Jack thought it was her slug that dropped another Apache charging down the slope.
Eagle Eyes said, “All their warriors are along the north wall. There were seventeen or eighteen, but not now.”
“We can’t get a decent angle from under the wagons until they get in closer,” Jack said, “and then we chance the devils overrunning us.”
Eagle Eyes said, “I can slip out the other side and see what I can do from behind the wagon, maybe get back to Possum and back him up.”
Another mule scream told Jack a second animal had gone down. It sounded like the cry came from one of the wagons behind them. “No. You stay here. I can see Swede’s feet. He’s positioned near the driver’s seat. You stay with Sierra. I’m worried about Irish and the string. I’m going to work my way back. I’m counting on Tige to show up with his buffalo soldiers sooner than later.”
He wriggled his way out from under the wagon’s south side and clambered to his feet. Swede was looking at him with sad eyes.
“What is it, Swede?”
“Number two mule, Boss. I think I shoot her. Okay? Mate dead from Apache shot. Her leg break when mate pull her down.”
Jack looked at the front of the teams and saw the struggling mule. “Yes, take her out of her misery, Swede. Then, stay put and see if you can make the Apaches pay for it.”
“Ja, Boss. Will do that.”
He could see that Jordy was pinned down off the trail but had fair cover with the rocks. Jack wheeled when he heard Thor barking furiously from the direction of the chuckwagon. Recklessly, he headed for the chuckwagon, running past the second Studebaker where he saw another downed mule holding the others and the Studebaker in place. A wound in the animal’s head suggested Possum had been forced to put the critter down. He noted Possum was ensconced under the wagon, and giving token gunfire, since the Apaches had all but disappeared behind boulders for the moment, likely readying for a rush.
Thor’s barking had turned to fierce growling now, and angry screaming signaled he was in a struggle with a human adversary. Jack found himself huffing and struggling to catch his breath as he approached the chuckwagon. The racket was coming from inside the wagon. A wave of nausea swept through his gut when he saw Rudy crumpled on the ground near a front wagon wheel, hatless and blood streaming not far from his old scalping mutilation.
Bram’s feet were sticking out the front wagon opening and kicking wildly as the commotion continued from within. Thor yelped, but his growling turned fiercer. Jack set his Henry down, reached for the Peacemaker and climbed upon the wagon seat. When he peered into the dusky wagon, he found Bram on the wagon floor, struggling to get upright and Thor at the other end engaged in combat with an Apache who was frantically trying to drive his knife into an enemy that had its jaws locked on the wrist of his weapon hand. Thor was blood smeared, but Jack was uncertain of the source.
Jack climbed over the wagon seat and into the bed, trying to get a bead on the Apache but his aim was thwarted by Thor’s wrestling with the warrior. A quick glance at Bram told him that his need for assistance was not urgent, and he stumbled to the back of the wagon to enter the melee. As he crawled next to Thor and the Apache, the Indian noticed him and raised his head. The barrel of the Peacemaker came down like an axe and hammered the warrior’s head. He still clutched the knife, so Jack launched the butt of
