As their leader had done, the other Apaches crowded around Stryker, staring at him in wonderment, excitedly discussing him in a language he did not understand.
One of the Apaches swung away and rode to where Mary and the child were standing. He studied the woman’s face, then let out a wild yip of delight.
Stryker stiffened in the saddle. The reckoning had come, and he was ready.
The Apache slid off his horse, grabbed Mary’s chin and turned her head so the others could see the terrible scar on her cheek. That immediately touched off a storm of laughter among the Indians that surprised Stryker. For some reason, Mary McCabe’s scar was “a real thigh-slapper,” as Joe Hogg would have said.
So far the Apaches had shown no hostile intent, and for now Stryker was content to let it remain that way.
The Apache let Mary go and mounted again. The warrior wearing the traditional war paint of the Army scout pointed to Stryker’s face. “Ugly,” he said. He pointed to the woman. “Ugh, same ugly.” As his companions laughed, he said, “A good joke.”
And with that, the three warriors rode away, heading north, their heads thrown back, still laughing.
Stryker felt the tension drain out of him. Hogg had once told him that Apaches were notional and that the white man did not share their sense of humor. Now, for some reason known only to themselves, a disfigured Army lieutenant accompanied by a scarred woman in the middle of the wilderness had struck them as funny.
Stryker didn’t appreciate the joke, but he appreciated that it had saved their lives.
That night they camped two miles south of Rucker Canyon and its abandoned Army post. Sheltered by a narrow box canyon, Stryker built a small fire and they ate a hasty supper of broiled bacon and a few stale biscuits.
At first light, they were on the trail south again. And at noon they met up with Joe Hogg and Lieutenant Birchwood’s depleted infantry company.
Chapter 16
Hogg was riding next to a huge man wearing a greasy buckskin shirt, his red hair falling in a tangled mass over his shoulders. A full beard covered his chest and when he looked at Stryker, then looked again, his black eyes were small and mean and full of malice.
Stryker smiled at Hogg. “Good to see you again, Joe.”
“See you brung the whole family,” the scout said.
Birchwood was a hundred yards behind Hogg. He cantered to Stryker and saluted. “Lieutenant Birchwood reporting, sir.”
Stryker looked beyond the man and past the column of weary infantrymen. “Where are the Apaches, Lieutenant?”
The young officer shook his head. “We didn’t find them, sir. The rancheria was abandoned, everyone gone.”
“Did you encounter any Apaches?”
“No, sir.”
“We did find this skunk, and a couple of others with him who are now deceased,” Hogg said. He leaned over in the saddle, shot out his booted foot and knocked the red-haired man off his horse.
The redhead hit the ground hard, raising a cloud of dust. He stayed where he was and cursed viciously at Hogg.
“His name is Silas Dugan,” the scout said, smiling. “He’s a scalp hunter by trade and a real good friend of Sergeant Pierce. In fact, Lieutenant, you might say they’re partners.”
Dugan got to his feet, spitting fury and hate. “I’m gonna kill you one day, Joe,” he said. “You might be in bed with a whore or kneeling to say your prayers or singin’ in the church choir, but I’m gonna walk right up to you an’ scatter your brains, you son of a bitch.”
Hogg shook his head and looked at the man. “Silas, all the time I’ve knowed you, you’ve talked big about what you was a-goin’ to do to some white man or another. But all you’ve ever done is kill women and children and lift their scalps.”
The scout laid both hands on the saddle horn and leaned into Dugan. “Now you shut your trap or I’ll leave you to the first Apache warriors I come acrost. Know what they do to a scalp hunter, Silas?”
“That will do, Mr. Hogg,” Birchwood said. “The prisoner will be delivered to Fort Merit”—he paused—“in one piece.”
“You tell him, soldier boy,” Dugan grinned.
Birchwood’s head snapped around until he was looking at the man. “Dugan,” he said, “shut your goddamned trap.”
The scalp hunter shrugged, made a placating gesture with his hands and kept silent.
“This is a good time to rest your men, Lieutenant Birchwood,” Stryker said. “We’ll have a conference and Mr. Hogg, I want you to attend.”
The scout swung out of the saddle as the infantrymen sought whatever shade they could find and lit their pipes. Hogg stepped to the criollo and helped Kelly down from the saddle, then Mrs. McCabe.
To Stryker’s surprise, Hogg and the woman kissed tenderly, then clung to each other for a long while before parting. Finally the scout picked up Kelly in his arms and he and Mary held hands as he led them into the shade of some scattered junipers.
Stryker shook his head. He had always prided himself on being a perceptive man, but he had totally missed the budding relationship between Hogg and the woman. He smiled to himself. Joe Hogg was a good man, and Mary was a fine woman. They would be an excellent match for each other.
He swung stiffly out of the saddle and walked into the junipers, where Birchwood joined them. Hogg glanced back at the resting soldiers, and the young lieutenant smiled. “Don’t worry, Mr. Hogg. Dugan is well guarded.”
The scout nodded. “He’s as slippery as a snake, Lieutenant. Don’t trust him.”
Stryker built a cigarette from his dwindling supply of tobacco and inhaled the smoke gratefully. Both Birchwood and Hogg were watching him, waiting for what he had to say.
What he really wanted to do was to interrogate Dugan and force him to tell where he could find Rake Pierce, but more urgent Army business had to come first.
“Lieutenant Birchwood,” he said behind a cloud of blue smoke, “the reason Yanisin’s rancheria was abandoned is because the Apaches are moving north. That is why you didn’t encounter any hostiles.”
“Sir, you still expect an attack on Fort Merit?”
“Yes, if it hasn’t already happened. Let the men have their rest now, because we are going to reach the post by a forced march. Your infantry will have to march day and night, rest little and live on water, cold bacon and biscuit. I want to be at the post within forty-eight hours, Lieutenant.”
“My men can do it, sir.”
“By God, sir, they’ll have to do it.”
Stryker looked at the soldiers who were sprawled in whatever shade they could find, talking quietly among themselves. Like all frontier Indian fighters, they were a ragtag bunch, but they looked bronzed and fit and their weapons were clean.
“Tell the men they have an hour to cook whatever salt pork they have left and soak their biscuit in the grease,” he said. “It will serve as iron rations on the march.”
Birchwood sprang to his feet and hurried away to carry out his orders, but Stryker’s voice stopped him. “Oh, and Lieutenant, now would be a good time to boil up coffee. We won’t have another opportunity to drink any for a while.”
After Birchwood left, Stryker turned to Hogg. “Joe, bring Dugan over here. I want to talk to him.”
The scout nodded, then said, “Here’s what he won’t tell you, but it’s what I think, Lieutenant. I reckon Rake Pierce has no more guns to sell, but now he’s trying to pick up the crumbs left on the plate. He and Silas are following the Apaches, preying on the women and children the warriors have stashed in canyons all over the Chiricahuas. An Apache scalp brings a hundred dollars in gold in Mexico and they ain’t too picky about who once wore it, man, woman or child.”