On either side of him, feathered lances poked up from the earth, their tips shrouded in flames.
Navarro dropped his gaze to the main fire. His insides shrunk, tightening. On either side of the fire, two women had been staked out, spread-eagle, like hides for stretching. They were naked, sweat-soaked skin glistening in the fire’s hot glow.
The one on the left side of the fire was Karla. Navarro didn’t recognize the captive on the right—probably taken, like Karla, on the dash from the reservation. Both young women cried and struggled against the leather thongs holding their hands and ankles fast to the stakes.
Navarro lunged forward with his rifle. Tixier grabbed his arm and smiled. “There’s twenty-six of them. Only four of us.”
Navarro stayed where he was, every muscle drawn taut. To his right were Musselwhite and Ward, the firelight sliding shadows across their faces.
Navarro dropped his gaze to Karla struggling futilely against the leather ties, bending her knees as she tried to work her ankles free. His heart hammered. He resisted the urge to leap into the hollow, shooting.
At the head of the chanting, dancing warriors, old Nan-dash gained his feet. He turned to one of the braves before him on his right, and nodded. He turned to one on his left and nodded again. Both braves whooped with joy, dropped their loincloths, and pushed through the group to the girls.
The young lady whom Navarro didn’t know gave a scream as one of the braves fell between her spread legs. As the other brave threw himself atop Karla, she turned her face away, gritting her teeth with anger and revulsion.
Navarro snapped his rifle to his shoulder, quickly sighted, and fired. The bullet drilled the brave atop Karla through both ears. As the brave slumped onto Karla’s shoulder, Navarro gained his feet, levered another shell, and fired into the Apaches, who were now jerking their heads around, dumbfounded. One clutched his belly and stumbled backward, knees bending.
“Idioto!” Tixier yelled as Navarro leapt down the ridge, levering the Winchester.
Two more Apaches dropped before the others figured out what was happening. While three-quarters of the group turned and ran, several threw knives or tomahawks. Most sailed wide. Navarro deflected a tomahawk with his Winchester, then shot the brave who’d thrown it as the man turned to run with the others for the wickiups and probably to fetch a rifle or a bow and arrow.
Navarro fired another shot and ran toward Karla. Tixier, Musselwhite, and Ward were laying down good cover fire behind him, the gunfire echoing around the canyon, wounded Indians screaming as they dropped. Navarro kicked the dead brave off Karla’s shoulder and knelt down.
“Tommy!” she cried.
Navarro set the rifle aside and shucked his bowie. A bullet sizzled between them, and he lifted his head to see that several Indians had fetched their rifles. One knelt twenty yards away, levering another shell into his smoking Henry. Navarro dropped his knife, grabbed his rifle, and was about to shoot the brave when a bullet from behind him took the man through the brisket.
Grabbing the bowie, Tom cut the thongs binding Karla’s wrists to the stakes, then those binding her ankles. He snatched a horse blanket from beside the fire, and threw it over her.
“Can you stand?”
Clutching the blanket to her breasts, she nodded. He helped her up and shoved her toward Tixier, who was shooting and running toward them, flanked by Musselwhite and Ward. As Dallas, extending his Winchester in his left hand, grabbed Karla with his right, Musselwhite dashed around the fire to the other girl.
She stared up at him, unseeing, her chest still, mouth drawn, face frozen in terror. She’d literally been scared to death.
A bullet burned a furrow atop Navarro’s right shoulder. A brave dashed from the other side of the fire, leaping toward him with a long knife in his hand. Navarro kicked the brave in the groin and smashed his rifle butt against his lowered head, cracking his skull with an audible crunch.
Rifles snapped a staccato din as Navarro ran back toward the rocky scarp, at the base of which Ward and Musselwhite shot from kneeling positions, Ward triggering his revolver, Charlie levering his Yellowboy, spraying the entire hollow and causing sparks to fly up from the fire. The Indians whooped and returned fire, their slugs chipping shards from the rocks around Charlie and the captain.
Navarro was nearly to the scarp’s base when he felt the beelike sting of a bullet slicing into his calf. It tripped him up momentarily, and he turned to squeeze off a shot. The Winchester clicked empty.
He swung a glance up the scarp. Tixier was helping Karla over the broken boulders. They were moving slowly, as the girl was barefoot and weak. His rifle apparently empty, Dallas paused frequently to trigger his pistol into the hollow. His right arm was bloody, and blood trickled from a bullet burn on the left side of his neck.
Throwing down his rifle and turning to Musselwhite and Ward, Navarro yelled, “Pull out!”
Charlie squeezed off another round and straightened. He was turning to follow Ward up the scarp when a bullet punched into his side. He fell back against a boulder with a grunt. Navarro fired at two braves running around the fire, dropping one and halting the other, then turned back to Charlie.
The carrot-topped tracker gained his feet, holding a gloved hand to his bloody side. “I’ll make it!”
Navarro was on one knee, shooting into the Indians dashing at him, sometimes four at a time. He held them off for a few more seconds. When his pistol was empty, he turned and climbed the rocks behind him, noting the blood Charlie had left on the boulders.
Bullets spanged off the rocks around him. His calf burned. He felt the wetness atop his shoulder, the blood dribbling down his collarbone.
He zigzagged through the boulders and, pausing behind a jagged monolith to reload his Colt, turned his gaze down the slope. Old Nan-dash himself was leading a handful of whooping braves up the scarp, leaping from rock to rock, pausing only to loose arrows or trigger their Henrys and Civil War- model Springfields.
Thumbing the last slug through the Colt’s loading gate by feel, Navarro cast another glance up the slope. Tixier and Karla were out of sight. Ward had just made the ridge and turned now, peering back down and yelling something at Musselwhite several yards behind him. Charlie had paused, quartering toward Navarro. In the flickering firelight, Tom saw his drawn features, the sharp rise and fall of his chest.
“Keep going!” Navarro shouted, then swung toward the charging Indians and cut loose with his Colt. They were moving too quickly, spread out across the rocks, and he only killed one, clipping another’s thigh.
Old Nan-dash’s deep voice rose with savage glee. “Nav-ar-oooo!”
Tom turned and lunged over the rocks, making the ridge a minute later, finding Charlie stumbling along the crest, heading back the way they’d come.
Navarro caught up to him, pulled the scout’s pistol from his cross-draw holster, turned, and fired two shots back along the ridge, hitting little but rocks and air but holding the Apaches at bay. Shots rose farther back along the hollow, and several Apaches seemed to be turning back. Navarro grabbed Musselwhite’s arm and led him after the others, whose shadows moved along the black eastern ridge, their shadows dancing ahead.
He found Tixier, Ward, and the girl crouched by a low, steep wall of boulders, breathing hard. Karla was on her knees.
“It’s a steep drop over the lip,” Dallas said, his right arm bloody, his revolver in his right hand. “Can’t see much.”
“Don’t see as we have much choice!” Navarro said, swatting the scout’s good arm.
When Tixier and Ward had both negotiated the rocks rimming the mountaintop and disappeared over the lip, Navarro helped Musselwhite. “Ah, Christ, Tommy,” the scout grumbled. “Apacheria . . .”