“Then you shot him and ran away into the hills?”
“Yes. The Apaches left me alone.”
“Fedelia, the bad man’s name was Jake Allen. I don’t know why he came back here.”
“He said he was going to kill a cavalry scout. He was looking for him.”
Gently, Stryker took the woman’s arm, but she cringed away from him. “Sorry,” he said. “Let’s go get your horse.”
He turned and saw Birchwood standing at the door to the cell, his Colt in his hand.
“I’ll saddle your bay, Mr. Birchwood.”
The young lieutenant said nothing, his eyes empty. Stryker was halfway to the stables when he heard the shot.
Two different ecological systems collide in Apache Pass. The high, hot Chihuahuan Desert of New Mexico to the east weds with the lower, and much hotter, Sonoran Desert to the west, and barbarous bouquets of prickly pear, agave, yucca, sotol and cholla mark the union. Mountain mahogany, piñon, wild oak and juniper grow higher in the canyon, completely covering its raw, rocky slopes.
Stryker had been riding for an hour and the herd was a mile behind him. He was learning from bitter experience that the Apaches were a formidable, merciless enemy, desert fighters who had no superior. He feared them greatly and he knew he was right to do so.
He rode the criollo at a walk, Joe Hogg’s Henry across his saddle. Here in the pass it was very hot and there was not a single cloud in a sky the color of bleached-out denim. His eyes constantly scanned the ridges, but he saw no movement, and there was no sound but the steady hoof falls of his horse and the creak of saddle leather.
He had seen no cavalry patrols.
Smelling water, for Apache Springs was not far ahead, the criollo tossed its head, the bridle ringing, and was eager to go. Stryker held it back, his uneasy eyes studying the land around him.
He found partial shade under a rock overhang and drew rein. He built a cigarette and lit it, liking the harsh, dry taste of the tobacco. He was still weak from his wounds and very thirsty, tormented by memories of the foaming steins of Anheuser-Busch beer that were always on hand for the enlisted men when Fort Merit celebrated holidays.
Stryker finished his smoke and stubbed out the butt against the heel of his boot. He kneed his horse into motion and headed for the springs.
As he’d expected, the only water source for miles around was guarded by a reinforced infantry company, and the officer in charge kept him in his field glasses until he rode closer and could be identified.
Stryker sat his horse and saluted the infantry captain. “Sir, I’m bringing in twelve infantry from Fort Merit under Second Lieutenant Dale Birchwood. Those, and three hundred head of cattle and six drovers.”
The captain looked beyond Stryker back to the pass.
“They’re about half an hour behind me, sir, depending on how fast those beeves walk.”
The captain was small and slender with a trimmed, spade-shaped beard. Stryker thought he looked prissy, a spit-and-polish soldier. He felt shabby and dirty by comparison. “Lieutenant, we were under the impression that you were bringing in old Yanisin’s people, to be returned to the San Carlos,” the captain said.
“Skedaddled,” Stryker said, purposely using one of Joe Hogg’s words. “Every last one of them had gone to join Nana and Geronimo.”
“Did you pursue?”
Stryker looked around him. The spring, crystal clear, bubbled out of the earth and fell into a rock basin shaded by juniper and wild oaks. Emerald green moss clung to the rocks around the basin’s rim and among the exposed roots of the oaks. The air smelled clean, of wet fern and of the water that splashed with diamond brightness into the tank.
Finally he said, “No, Captain. All the signs showed the Apaches heading north and I suspected they planned an attack on Fort Merit. I sent half of my infantry company ahead, and later we reached the post by a forced march. Unfortunately, we were in turn besieged by the Indians.”
“And you decided to march here.”
“Yes, sir, that’s what I decided.”
The captain was silent for a while; then his flitting eyes moved to Stryker’s face, quickly sliding away as though they’d been burned. “All things considered, Lieutenant, you could have done better. But you can explain your actions to General Crook.”
“You weren’t there, Captain. Neither was he.”
Anger flushed in the officer’s sallow face. “Don’t be impertinent, sir!” Before Stryker had a chance to answer, he said, “Dismount. Have yourself a drink, then come look at this.”
Stryker swung out of the saddle, accepted a canteen from a soldier and drank deep. He then followed the captain to a low rise just east of the spring. The officer pointed. “Your Apaches passed that way not an hour ago, headed into the Chiricahuas. I sent a message to the fort to report the movement and I have no doubt General Crook will pursue the hostiles immediately.”
“Did you engage them, Captain?”
“My orders are to guard the spring, not to engage the enemy.”
“Still, you could have slowed the Apaches and given the general some time to mount an attack.”
“I repeat, those were not my orders.”
Stryker nodded. “Maybe, but all things considered, Captain, you could have done better. But you can explain your actions to General Crook.”
The officer looked like he’d been slapped, his cheekbones rouged with rage. “Damn you, sir, you are impertinent. Report immediately to the general and know that I plan to inform him of your insubordination. I will direct the others when they get here.”
Stryker saluted smartly, turned on his heel and swung into the saddle. As he rode toward the fort he felt the captain’s eyes burn into his back. He had just made an enemy.
Chapter 25
“Lieutenant Stryker?”
General Crook’s startled question hovered in the air like a wounded moth.
“Yes, sir.”
“Jesus Christ, man, I hardly knew ye. What happened to your face?”
“A shackle iron, sir.”
“Explain.”
Stryker did and Crook fell silent afterward. Crook did not look like a soldier, in his shabby canvas jacket and battered pith helmet. His beard split at the chin into two forks that hung on his chest; he could have been a slightly deranged poet, not a famous Indian fighter.
“And the girl you were to marry, that Colonel What’s-his-name’s daughter?”
Stryker touched his face, but said nothing.
“I see. Better off without her in that case.”
He waved a hand. “Sit down, Lieutenant, and make your report. Be brief; I don’t have much time.”
Going into a little more detail than he had with the captain, but using as few words as possible, Stryker told of his failed mission to bring in Yanisin’s tribe and his fights with the Apaches.
He then mentioned the former sergeant and murderer Rake Pierce and his gun-running and scalp-hunting businesses.
“I believe by now he’s back in the Chiricahuas somewhere,” Stryker said.
Crook nodded. “Interesting. And a pity about Yanisin. He’s about as tame as an Apache can get.” He sat back in his wicker chair and stroked his beard, thinking. Finally he said, “Lieutenant, I feel there is little to criticize in your actions. You did as well as can be expected with the limited force at your disposal. You will give me your report in writing, of course.”
“Yes, sir.”