“You found Indian scalps on Dugan?”
“Eighteen, on his saddle and the saddles of the other two we kilt. A couple of the scalps could have been Mexican, but the rest were the genuine article.”
“Do you think Dugan can lead us to Pierce?”
“Maybe. Ol’ Silas will do anything to save his own skin, and he knows he’s lookin’ at twenty years in Yuma or worse.”
“Joe, I’m not inclined to make a deal with the devil.”
“Suit yourself, Lieutenant. But I’m just tellin’ you how ol’ Silas thinks.” He smiled. “And you’re right, he is the devil and he brings ten different kinds of hell with him.”
Kelly was chasing a butterfly, wandering away too far, and her mother called her back. Hogg had been watching the child, and now he turned to Stryker again.
His voice was even, but gently chiding. “We have Fort Merit to consider, Lieutenant.”
There was a time, very recently, when Stryker would have snapped that he did not need to be reminded of his duty by a scout. But the people around him, the Apaches and the hard beauty and fierce dangers of the land itself were working small changes in him.
“You’re right, I don’t have time to chase after Pierce,” he said. His fingers unconsciously strayed to the network of scars on his face. “Damn the man, damn him to hell.”
“There might be a way, Lieutenant,” Hogg said. “We can use Silas for bait, draw Rake Pierce in like a fly to shit.”
Stryker’s eyes held a question, and Hogg answered it.
“They got a partnership forged in hell and signed in blood and they need each other. Pierce is as mean and deadly as a rattlesnake, but he’s not a patch on Silas. You take ol’ Silas now—he says he’ll cut any man, woman or child in half with a shotgun for forty dollars, and he’s proved that plenty of times in the past. Killers like him are hard to find and Pierce won’t let him go without a fight. That’s just good business.” Hogg shrugged. “Anyhoo, that’s what I think.”
“Joe, I know what Pierce thinks of his friends. He threw Hooper to the Apaches to play with.” He shook his head. “Pierce won’t risk his life to save Dugan.”
“Lieutenant, Hooper didn’t mean a thing to Rake. Back at Fort Merit they were drinkin’ and whorin’ buddies, but that don’t go far once a man walks off the post. Pierce couldn’t have cared less about the Englishman, but I reckon he worries a heap about Silas.”
“How do we play it, Joe?”
“As much as I’d like Silas to hoof it, have him ride with you and Lieutenant Birchwood at the head of the column. That red beard of his is easy to spot, even at a distance.”
“How many men do you reckon Pierce has with him?”
Hogg shrugged. “Scalp hunting is a dirty business and it can be dangerous, especially if the scalps you’re hunting are Apache. He’ll have gathered a bunch of renegades around him, all of them just as bad as he is.”
“How many?”
“Enough to make a fight, Lieutenant, depend on it.” Hogg got to his feet. “I’m going to see if the coffee’s on the bile yet.” His eyes shifted to where the criollo was grazing. “You found the Apache pony, huh?”
“Mrs. McCabe did.” Stryker looked at the scout. “She’s a fine woman, Joe.”
“I know it.” Hogg smiled. “Hell, for a spell there, I thought you was sweet on her your ownself. I was gettin’ mighty jealous.”
Stryker shook his head. “I had a woman. I don’t want any other.”
“You may change your mind one day, Lieutenant.”
“Yes, the day my face goes back to the way it was. Maybe then.”
Chapter 17
The column used up the rest of the daylight to cover eighteen miles, the men slogging through intense heat and clouds of biting black flies.
Already the sycamores, cottonwoods and flat-topped mesas of Turkey Creek were in sight. Mary McCabe rode behind Joe Hogg and Kelly was up on Stryker’s saddle. The lieutenant had half-dozed for the past hour, exhaustion and the pain of his wounds sapping him.
Dugan, sullen and silent, rode between Stryker and Birchwood, his hands roped to the saddle horn, a noose around his neck. There was no one taking the point, adding honey to the trap Stryker hoped would lure Pierce.
Thirty minutes later, just as the light began to wane and the lengthening desert shadows crawled across the sand, the sky to the north turned a deep purple, a narrow band of burnished gold showing just above the horizon.
Thunder rumbled and ahead of the column lightning spiked. Searing bands of brilliant white bladed into the desert, throwing off forked tendrils that flashed across the looming cloud mass. Soon the whole sky, from horizon to horizon, seemed as though it were covered by the scrawled signatures of a demented god.
The wind rose, driving sand before it that ripped into the marching men like grapeshot fired from colossal cannons.
Then the rains came.
A few scattered drops at first were followed by a deluge, hammering from a sky as black as doom. The roars of thunder joined the clattering clamor of the downpour and the shriek of wind, dragging the day down into a cartwheeling pit of madness.
Soldiers, bent almost double, scattered into the foothills, seeking shelter wherever they could, the lightning, wind and rain eagerly stalking after them.
“Joe!” Stryker yelled. He was fighting his horse, and Kelly had buried her face in his chest. Beside him, Dugan tried to make his break, kicking his mount in the ribs. Stryker reacted instantly. He backhanded the man hard across the face and when Dugan reeled, he grabbed the end of the rope around his neck and yanked him from the saddle.
Suddenly Joe Hogg was beside Stryker, taking Kelly from him.
“Find shelter, Joe!” he shouted. “Get into cover!”
Hogg yelled something Stryker did not hear; then he vanished into the screaming maelstrom. Lightning struck close by, among the hills, the reverberating crash like the fall of giants. Terrified, the criollo reared and Stryker was thrown heavily to the ground.
For a moment the lieutenant lay still, gathering his wits and fighting pain. Then he climbed slowly and stiffly to his feet. He looked around him, his eyes scanning the reeling chaos of lightning and rain, but there was no sign of another living creature.
Stryker didn’t see the rider until he was almost on top of him. The horse hit him a glancing blow and he staggered and crashed onto his back. Somewhere above the roar of the storm a rifle made a flat, emphatic statement, and then another.
Rising to one elbow, Stryker saw gun flashes among the foothills. He climbed erect, staggered on numb legs, then pulled his Colt. Rain pounded into his face and beat like a kettledrum on his hat.
A sudden lightning flash lit up the foothills and the rolling desert flatlands. It seemed to Stryker that the world was full of hurtling horsemen, shooting at unseen enemies among the hills.
Hooves pounded behind Stryker. He swung around and caught a fleeting glimpse of a half-naked Indian on a paint pony coming right at him, his feathered lance lowered for the kill.
Stryker moved to his right, but his ankle rolled on a rock and he fell, thumbing his Colt as he went down. The Indian pounded past, then slowly toppled off his horse.
Ignoring his pain, the lieutenant scrambled quickly to his feet. He fired between lightning flashes, marking his target’s position. He had shot an Indian, but the enemies he was trying to kill were white men, and he was certain that Rake Pierce was leading them.
“Fire!” Birchwood’s voice, coming from behind him.
Springfields crashed and a bullet split the air close to Stryker’s head. He hit the ground as another volley venomously sang over him.