Corn shoots were greening a plowed-up piece of land to the front of the cabin and nearby ran a shallow creek, coming off one of the surrounding hills.
All this I saw in an instant, but what made my blood run cold were the Apaches hidden among rocks that must have tumbled down the rise in ancient times when the ground around here trembled.
From where I crouched I saw the backs of three of the Indians, but with Apaches, if you saw three there could be twice that number hidden.
And there were more of them. When I changed position to get a better angle on the cabin, I counted seven ponies tethered in a break in the hill to the right of the Apache position and there may have been others hidden from view.
Wooden shutters with narrow firing slits were drawn across the two small windows to the front of the cabin and from one I saw a puff of smoke followed by the bang of a rifle. A moment later a shot was fired from the other window and I heard the bullet whine off a rock near where an Apache crouched.
A warrior I hadn’t noticed before suddenly rose and fired his Winchester at the cabin. Soon three more stood and began firing, their bullets thudding into the cabin’s sod walls, a couple of shots splintering through the wood shutters.
The reason for all this firing became obvious when I noticed three Apaches run past the pigpen, then disappear from sight near the corral.
It wasn’t hard to figure out what they were planning. They could reach the cabin from its blind side and then get up on the flimsy pole and sod roof, smash it apart and fire at the defenders inside.
I figured the sodbusters in the cabin had chosen to live in this canyon because it was well sheltered from the heat of summer and the snows of winter. But they had chosen unwisely, because now they were trapped like rats and it was only a matter of time before the Apaches wore them down.
On my first trip up the trail I’d seen what Coman ches did to an Irish army scout and his Ute wife they’d captured. There was very little of the two left by the time we came across them, but it was obvious they’d taken a long, terrible time a-dying. Their last screams were still frozen on their gaping mouths and Simon Prather had to close their jaws with binding cloths so they’d look halfway decent for burying.
That was what the two firing from the cabin could expect, but I told myself it was no business of mine.
Bass Reeves had advised me to ride a hundred miles around Apaches and right now that seemed like mighty sound counsel. The sodbusters in the cabin meant nothing to me, and besides, I had to get back on the trail before Lafe Wingo slipped clean away.
But even as I did my best to justify it in my mind, I knew I couldn’t leave. Down there in the cabin were probably a woman and maybe her young ’uns and the way the Mescaleros were riled up, what they would do to them didn’t bear thinking about.
Cursing myself for a damned fool, I slid my rifle forward and sighted on the corral. Rain ran off the brim of my hat as the downpour grew heavier, scattering the slender plume of smoke that rose from the cabin chimney.
I waited. The tap-tap of rain hammered on my hat and I heard the drops hiss as they fell on the grass and bounced off the wet sandstone of the rocks around me. I drew my Colt and set it next to me, where it would be handy if subsequent events called for close work, though I fully planned to keep the Apaches at rifle range. Once I opened the ball, I didn’t want those warriors swarming around me because the outcome of that would be a mighty uncertain thing.
Despite the freshness of the rain-cooled air, my mouth was dry and my quickening heartbeats thudded loud in my ears. I took a deep breath, as Bass Reeves had taught me, willing my heart rate to slow, the better to shoot the Winchester accurately when the time came.
And the time was now.
Down by the corral an Apache in a blue army shirt and white headband rose to his feet, looked around, then slowly moved toward the cabin on cat’s feet. Another warrior, this one with a bright red band around his head, stepped after him.
I took a breath, held it and sighted on the broad chest of the first warrior. I took up the slack on the trigger and squeezed off a shot.
My bullet must have hit the man square because he threw up his arms, his rifle spiraling away from him, and crashed heavily onto his back. The racketing echo of my first shot had hardly died away when I fired at the other warrior. I didn’t see the effect of my second shot because the Apache quickly disappeared from view.
But down among the rocks at the bottom of the hill, I’d sure stirred up a hornet’s nest.
Three Apaches rose to their feet and turned in my direction, one of them pointing at the rocks where I lay hidden. I fired at this man, saw him fall, dusted another couple of quick shots down there and, crouching low, moved my position.
Rifles banged from the cabin and I saw another warrior go down, hit in the back.
The Apaches seemed confused, not liking the fact that they were caught in crossfire, and that moment of indecision cost them dear.
I fired again, nailing another squat, bandy-legged warrior, then quickly looked around for another target. There was none. The surviving Apaches had gone to ground, taking advantage of the cover of the long grass and rocks.
I reckoned four Apaches were down and maybe five, so there could only be a couple left. But even two Mescaleros were a handful to contend with.
Rifles banged again from the cabin, bullets whining off the rocks below, and I added my own fire, up on one knee, cranking and firing my Winchester from the shoulder as fast as I could. Roaring echoes crashed like tumbling boulders around the canyon and a cloud of gray gunsmoke shrouded the rocks around me.
The Apache is a practical, down-to-earth warrior. When he feels the deck is stacked against him, he has no qualms about running away and living to fight another day when the odds will be in his favor.
Three Mescaleros dashed from the break of the hill, crouched low across the necks of their ponies and hit the slope at a flat-out run.
One of the warriors was hit hard, blood staining the front of his shirt, and he seemed to be having difficulty staying on the back of his horse.
I rose to my feet, rifle to my shoulder, but let them pass. There had been enough killing already and I had no desire to further punish a beaten enemy.
The three warriors topped the rise about thirty feet from where I stood, one of them looking briefly in my direction with black eyes that burned with hate, then vanished down the slope and soon the thud of their ponies’ hooves was lost in the incessant hiss of the streaming rain.
Me, I gathered up my horse, shoved the Winchester back into the boot, swung into the saddle and headed down the rise toward the cabin.
When I got closer, the door swung open—and two beaded, buckskinned Indians, rifles in hand, stepped out.
Chapter 7
Startled, I reined in the black, my hand instinctively going for the Colt at my hip.
But then I realized that the taller of the two Indians wasn’t an Indian at all, but a white man with a red beard, hair of the same color spilling in tangles over his broad shoulders, and now he spoke to me.
“You came right in the nick of time, young feller,” he said. “For a spell there, I reckoned we was done for.”
Beside the man stood a pretty woman in a buckskin dress, her yellow hair in thick braids, a narrow beaded headband encircling her forehead.
“They attacked us just after sunup,” she said, smiling, showing beautiful white teeth. “Our ammunition was running low and it was only a matter of time.” Her dazzling smile widened. “Then you showed up.”
A little girl, maybe four years old, walked out of the cabin and shyly stood behind the woman, looking at me now and then from behind her skirt.