Blood and Gold

Down by the corral an Apache in a blue army shirt and white headband rose to his feet, looked around, then slowly moved toward the cabin on cat’s feet. Another warrior, this one with a bright red band around his head, stepped after him.

I took a breath, held it and sighted on the broad chest of the first warrior. I took up the slack on the trigger and squeezed off a shot.

My bullet must have hit the man square because he threw up his arms, his rifle spiraling away from him, and crashed heavily onto his back. The racketing echo of my first shot had hardly died away when I fired at the other warrior. I didn’t see the effect of my second shot because the Apache quickly disappeared from view.

But down among the rocks at the bottom of the hill, I’d sure stirred up a hornet’s nest.

Three Apaches rose to their feet and turned in my direction, one of them pointing at the rocks where I lay hidden. I fired at this man, saw him fall, dusted another couple of quick shots down there and, crouching low, moved my position.

Rifles banged from the cabin and I saw another warrior go down, hit in the back.

The Apaches seemed confused, not liking the fact that they were caught in crossfire, and that moment of indecision cost them dear.

I fired again, nailing another squat, bandy-legged warrior, then quickly looked around for another target. There was none. The surviving Apaches had gone to ground, taking advantage of the cover of the long grass and rocks.

I reckoned four Apaches were down and maybe five, so there could only be a couple left. But even two Mescaleros were a handful to contend with.

Rifles banged again from the cabin, bullets whining off the rocks below, and I added my own fire, up on one knee, cranking and firing my Winchester from the shoulder as fast as I could. Roaring echoes crashed like tumbling boulders around the canyon and a cloud of gray gunsmoke shrouded the rocks around me.

The Apache is a practical, down-to-earth warrior. When he feels the deck is stacked against him, he has no qualms about running away and living to fight another day when the odds will be in his favor.

Three Mescaleros dashed from the break of the hill, crouched low across the necks of their ponies and hit the slope at a flat-out run.

One of the warriors was hit hard, blood staining the front of his shirt, and he seemed to be having difficulty staying on the back of his horse.

I rose to my feet, rifle to my shoulder, but let them pass. There had been enough killing already and I had no desire to further punish a beaten enemy.

The three warriors topped the rise about thirty feet from where I stood, one of them looking briefly in my direction with black eyes that burned with hate, then vanished down the slope and soon the thud of their ponies’ hooves was lost in the incessant hiss of the streaming rain.

Me, I gathered up my horse, shoved the Winchester back into the boot, swung into the saddle and headed down the rise toward the cabin.

When I got closer, the door swung open—and two beaded, buckskinned Indians, rifles in hand, stepped out.

Chapter 7

Startled, I reined in the black, my hand instinctively going for the Colt at my hip.

But then I realized that the taller of the two Indians wasn’t an Indian at all, but a white man with a red beard, hair of the same color spilling in tangles over his broad shoulders, and now he spoke to me.

“You came right in the nick of time, young feller,” he said. “For a spell there, I reckoned we was done for.”

Beside the man stood a pretty woman in a buckskin dress, her yellow hair in thick braids, a narrow beaded headband encircling her forehead.

“They attacked us just after sunup,” she said, smiling, showing beautiful white teeth. “Our ammunition was running low and it was only a matter of time.” Her dazzling smile widened. “Then you showed up.”

A little girl, maybe four years old, walked out of the cabin and shyly stood behind the woman, looking at me now and then from behind her skirt.

I touched the brim of my hat. “Glad I could be of service, ma’am,” I said. “I happened to be passing by and heard the shooting.”

The man took a step toward me and said: “Name’s Jacob Lawson and this here is my wife, Jen, and my daughter, Kate.”

I nodded. “Dusty Hannah.” And then, because I didn’t want to share my troubles with them, I added: “Just a puncher headin’ back to Texas.”

“Well, Mr. Hannah,” Lawson said, “ain’t no point standing out here in the rain. Light and step into the cabin.”

“Jacob,” Jen said, her face suddenly clouded with concern. “Shouldn’t we look at the fallen Apaches first? Some of them might only be wounded.”

Jacob looked at me, as though for direction, like he was figuring me for some kind of expert on Indians. “There’s one over there by the pigpen and maybe another,” I said. “And three or four among the rocks back there.”

“Then let’s take a look,” the man said.