McBride, worried about his slow progress, stepped out of the aspens and walked along the tree line. He was exposed, but away from the underbrush he could make better time.
He followed the bend of the aspens for several minutes, gradually heading lower on the slope, until he saw the cabin directly below him. There was no firing for the moment, unless the roar of the guns had been silenced by the greater roar of the thunder.
Lighting streaking across the black sky above him, McBride made his way down the mountainside. He reached the pines again and slid most of the way through them on his rump. Below him loomed a narrow ledge of bare rock, and he slowed his descent by grabbing onto trees and brush. He hit the ledge feetfirst and hard, then stayed where he was, his back against the slope, every inch of his aching body complaining.
Now he heard a rifle fire, followed by a high-pitched whine as the bullet caromed off a rock. The ricochet sounded like it came from somewhere beyond the ledge and McBride got stiffly to his feet.
The ledge was only about thirty-six inches wide. He stepped gingerly to the edge, glanced over quickly and ducked back. In that instant he learned much.
The rifleman was holed up among a pile of boulders about twenty feet below. Beyond the ledge a talus slope of sand and gravel dropped at a fairly steep angle to the man’s position. Huddled next to him was Julieta, her face bruised, the top of her dress torn from her shoulders. The rifleman wore a canvas slicker, soaked with rain, and a low-crowned, flat-brimmed hat decorated with a wide band of Indian beadwork. The man’s black hair spilled over his shoulders and McBride had no doubt he was the Apache—and that he’d be hard to handle.
But in that brief glimpse, what caught McBride’s attention more than anything else was Tashin’s horse. The paint pony stood on three legs beside a scrub oak, its front right foreleg from the knee down dangling loose, white with splintered bone. It was a bad break and the horse must be in considerable pain.
McBride stepped back from the edge and considered what to do next.
Remorse was pinned down in the cabin and, shooting uphill, his chances of hitting the Apache were slim. All Tashin had to do was wait until dark and make his escape with Julieta.
Suddenly McBride realized he had only one option. He had to kill the Indian. It was as straightforward as that.
He had to study the angle of the talus slope again. Used up as he was, it looked too steep for him to climb down. Leading with his left foot, he shuffled cautiously to the rim of the rock shelf—and plunged headlong into disaster.
Chapter 30
For a single split second of horror, McBride felt it happen. Soaked with rain, the soft sandstone of the rim crumbled away from under his foot and suddenly he was off balance and falling.
He tumbled down the talus slope feetfirst in a rattling shower of rock and gravel. Fast, vivid impressions sped past him . . . Julieta’s wide, horrified eyes . . . the Apache turning, snarling, his rifle coming up . . . a bullet thudding into the slope near him as Remorse fired at Tashin and missed . . . the legs of the Indian’s horse . . .
Then he was crashing into timber, cartwheeling head-over-heels through thick brush, cactus and stinging nettles.
McBride came to a jarring halt as his back fetched up solidly against a tree, raindrops showering over him. The wind knocked out of him, he looked groggily around. He was on a steep incline somewhere below the Apache’s position. His hand reached under his slicker for his gun. It was gone. He must have lost it in his wild plummet down the slope. Slowly McBride struggled to his feet and tested his battered body. He had added more cuts and bruises but thankfully no bones were broken.
Then he saw his Colt.
When his two-hundred-and-fifty-pound body had tumbled down the slope, he’d gouged out a hollow in a patch of sandy ground that had quickly filled with running rainwater. His gun lay in the middle of the stream.
The distance between McBride and the Colt was only about ten yards . . . but it was a long enough distance to kill him.
The Apache, the Volcanic rifle across his chest, was stepping down the slope toward him. They saw each other at the same moment at a distance of fifty paces. Tashin threw the rifle to his shoulder and fired. But McBride was already moving and the bullet smashed into the trees behind him. He took a couple of running steps and dove for the gun. Grabbing the Colt by the barrel, he rolled to his right into brush. The Indian fired again. This time he was closer and the .38-caliber slug kicked up an exclamation point of stinging mud into McBride’s open mouth and eyes.
Panting with fear and exhaustion, McBride righted the Colt, sat up and fired at the Apache. A miss. But the shot drove Tashin to duck into cover behind the thick trunk of a tree.
McBride rose, planted his feet and took up the NYPD shooting position, his eyes on the Douglas fir where the Apache had sheltered. For a few seconds the only sounds were his own labored breathing, the hiss of the rain and thunder echoing around the mountain.
Suddenly the lower branches of the fir heaved and tossed, as though a bear were climbing through them. The Apache staggered out into the open, Julieta clinging to his back, her arms wrapped around his neck. Her white teeth were bared, trying to reach his throat. Tashin twisted his body and threw the woman off him. Julieta landed on her back, then sat up, her face filled with angry defiance.
McBride saw his chance and fired. He hit the Apache in the left shoulder, rainwater and blood erupting from the wound. Tashin screamed and fired from the hip. The bullet split the air beside McBride’s head and the Indian levered another round into the chamber. McBride shot again. The round smashed into the Volcanic’s brass receiver, ranged upward and hit Tashin under the chin. The man staggered backward on rubber legs, his eyes wild. McBride took careful aim and shot the Apache in the middle of the forehead. Tashin fell on his back without a sound, rolled on his belly and died.
‘‘That,’’ McBride said, ‘‘was for not shooting your horse.’’
He climbed up the slope, walked to the paint and with one shot put the suffering animal out of its misery. Only then did he turn his attention to Julieta.
The lamps were lit in Julieta’s cabin as she and McBride sat at her table drinking coffee. Outside, rain was still falling, but the thunder was now a ghost whisper in the distance. Coyotes were yipping among the foothills of the mountains, lifting dripping heads to a darkening sky, and a driving wind thumped against the door and windows.
‘‘We missed them by how much?’’ McBride asked.
‘‘Not long,’’ Julieta answered. ‘‘Maybe thirty minutes before you arrived.’’
‘‘This will sting,’’ Remorse said. He was standing behind the girl, dabbing stuff from a brown bottle on the scratches that raked across her shoulders and the top of her breasts.
‘‘It feels good,’’ Julieta said. ‘‘The Apache’s fingernails were not clean, I think.’’
‘‘And Harlan stayed outside with the wagon?’’ McBride prompted.
‘‘John,’’ Remorse said, ‘‘the girl is exhausted. She’s already told you all this.’’