He laughed ruefully. There wasn’t any way he could be shot out of the saddle. He rode bareback. Already his thighs knotted and ached from gripping the pony’s flanks. If he kept going through nights like this, there wouldn’t be a muscle in his body that wasn’t aching or painful or tied up like a hangman’s knot.
Ike sat bolt upright when gunfire echoed back from ahead. A quick look at the soldier confirmed his guess. Those were army rifles firing. Whatever weapons the Indians carried might have been stolen from army posts or soldiers slain in battle, but the volley came again. The reports were distinctive.
“What do we do?” Ike wanted to turn tail and run. This wasn’t his fight. The storm would hide his tracks.
“I was told to watch you.” The corporal licked his lips. “My mama always told me not to stick my nose where it wasn’t wanted. We go chargin’ into that fight, and we might get shot by a bluecoat as easy as an Apache.”
“Sound thinking,” Ike said, but in spite of wanting to retreat, he felt guilty not going to the soldiers’ aid. One more pistol hardly mattered, but they had let him keep his six-shooter. Or had they let him keep the six-shooter rather than being distracted and simply forgetting to pluck it from his holster? There was no way around him being more prisoner than guest.
The gunfire died down and then picked up again. Ike looked anxiously at the corporal.
“From the sound, the fight’s coming our way. What do we do?”
The soldier looked over his shoulder in the direction they had ridden. The railroad tracks were a goodly two miles that way, but salvation wasn’t riding the rails. Ike had no idea when the next train would steam past. In the dark, with the rain and storm all around, an engineer could miss them signaling. And if the train stopped, what could they do? Some of the passengers would be armed, but enough to scare off the Apaches? Ike doubted a few Colts aimed in the direction of a war party would deter them much.
“I got to get up there. It’s my duty,” the soldier said. “You stay here.”
“Not on your life,” Ike blurted. He spoke to the man’s broad back. The corporal hunkered down over his horse’s neck and rocked his weight forward. The horse responded with a gallop across land that was treacherous in the daylight.
Ike followed more slowly. His pony stepped lightly, as if unsure that it wouldn’t sink into the sand. He didn’t rush it. The fight grew louder. The distinctive snap of the soldiers’ rifles became louder—and the reports fewer. He reached for his six-shooter when shapes loomed ahead in the night. Only a distant lightning fork kept him from drawing. The soldiers retreated in disarray, the corporal leading them.
The patrol galloped past. Ike looked for the sergeant but didn’t see him. And the officer? The lieutenant was absent, too. Ike wanted to join the confused retreat, but something warned him to stand his ground.
Seconds after he made the decision, three Indians swept past between him and the fleeing soldiers. Another pair of Apaches galloped in from the other direction in a pincer movement that would have trapped him. As it was, five Indians cut him off from the patrol. They paid him no attention. He looked down at the pony and wondered if the paint on its flanks acted as a recognition symbol. If so, the darkness hid him only so long. If any of the warriors caught sight of him, they’d know instantly he didn’t belong with their band. Worse, they’d know there was only one way for a white man to be astride an Indian pony.
Whooping and hollering their war cries, the Indians quickly vanished into the darkness, hot on the soldiers’ heels.
A new danger loomed in the night. A man on foot stumbled forward. Ike drew and took aim. Then he released the pressure on the trigger. The bogeyman charging through the night wasn’t a danger to him—it was the army lieutenant. On foot, lurching about, the man had obviously pushed open the gates of Hell. His uniform hung in tatters, and blood oozed like black syrup from a dozen cuts.
Ike jerked up when he saw the reason. A brave rode down on the officer, a lance probing to find yet another patch of skin to slice open. The warrior wasn’t as inclined to kill his victim as to torment.
The lieutenant had lost his pistol. He waved his sword wildly, or what was left of it. The blade had broken a few inches from the hilt. Unless the Indian dismounted and engaged in hand-to-hand battle, the remnant of the lieutenant’s saber was useless as a weapon.
The officer gasped, threw his hands in the air and fell to his knees as the brave drove his lance into his back.
Fear clogged Ike’s nose and mouth. His body existed off in a world away from the stark terror that paralyzed him. But his body moved independently of his panic. Disembodied, Ike watched himself draw his gun, cock, aim and fire. The Indian bedeviling the officer let out a shriek and tumbled from horseback.
Ike rode closer, ready to fire a second time. His hand shook now as the fear gripping his brain seeped into his body. With a quick kick, he got his leg over the pony’s hindquarters and hit the ground. His knees skinned a mite from the rough desert when he dropped beside the lieutenant. The man shivered and shuddered and recoiled when Ike tried to touch him.
“Don’t kill me. Don’t!” The officer tried to get to his feet. Something went wrong. Like a tree chopped down by an expert lumberjack, he stood at attention and fell that way. The thud as he hit made Ike jerk away. The lieutenant was alive but in terrible shape. His back leaked blood from a dozen shallow cuts. One gash in his side proved more dangerous. It didn’t ooze; it gushed.
Ike did his best to tear away the man’s shirt. He tied it tightly over the serious cut. The blood clotted as the crude bandage stanched the wound. Ike crouched and wondered what he was going to do. The sky now spat fitful drops of rain at him, and the distant thunder faded. Desert storms moved fast.
As the lightning retreated with the clouds, the desert smelled sweet and pungent and turned darker than the inside of a grave. The stars remained hidden, and without the lightning bolts, no light filtered down.
“How am I supposed to get you to safety?” Ike stared at the fallen officer. His patrol had turned tail and run. The way they had galloped past told of a rout and not a retreat. The sergeant hadn’t been with them, and the corporal might be the highest rank remaining. If so, chances were good he’d never order the men back to hunt for their commanders.
From what Ike saw, chances were even better that the Apaches had massacred the lot of them.
He stretched his cramped legs and stood. No matter where they went, it was a long way on foot. He jumped when something cold and wet pushed him from the back. Ike spun. The pony stood patiently.
“Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?” Ike reached out and gently took the halter to keep the pony from changing its mind and racing off.
He had his way back to the railroad. All he had to do was get the lieutenant slung over the horse and lead it. A loud neighing caused him to whirl around, sure that the war party had returned. He broke out laughing in relief. The horse the Apache had ridden in his pursuit of the lieutenant pawed the ground a few yards away.
Ike led his pony to convince the other horse he was on the side of the angels. In a few minutes he led both horses around, speaking softly to them and gaining their confidence. It didn’t seem to matter he spoke English and not Apache.
“You musta been a horse wrangler.”
Ike almost dropped the reins to reach for his gun at the words. He relaxed and guided the horses to where the lieutenant sat up, clutching his side. The man’s face was ghostlike in the dark. Whether shock or blood loss caused it was a moot point if he could ride.