Blood and Gold

I caught up with the Indian as he was riding through a narrow canyon, its floor covered in yucca and aga rito. On the top of the surrounding hills grew yellow pine and a few black cherry trees. Higher up, the mountain slopes were covered in juniper and pinon and here and there stood stands of slender and stately ponderosa pine, their dark green branches moving restlessly in the wind.

The Kiowa didn’t seem surprised to see me. He merely pointed with his bladed hand along the canyon. “They came this way.” He nodded toward the soaring mountains. “They intend to cross the peaks and head for Wild Horse Draw.”

I looked around me, but saw nothing. “Where are they?” I asked.

The Kiowa gave me a rare, grudging smile and nodded. “Up there.”

I looked up, squinting against the harsh sunlight, at the mountain towering above us. It was a steep climb to the crest where granite rocks jutted from the slope like the prows of great iron warships.

As my eyes became accustomed to the glare, I made out a single file of about twenty horsemen winding their way toward the top, an Apache on a gray horse leading them, the rest strung out behind him.

“Hell, they’re getting away,” I said.

The Kiowa shook his head. “No, because now we stop them.”

He slid his Henry from the boot, threw it to his shoulder and levered off three fast shots, the booming echoes bounding among the canyon walls like gigantic boulders being bowled along a stone cavern.

Immediately, the Apaches scattered, men and horses merging so completely into the landscape of the mountain that the slope seemed deserted.

Coleman and his riders charged into the canyon a few moments later.

“Damn it all, did we lose them?” the rancher yelled, glaring at the Kiowa, his frustration evident. “Did we lose them?”

The Indian answered without taking his eyes from the slope. “No, they are up there.”

“Will they fight?” Coleman demanded. His gaze turned to me. “Dusty, will they fight?”

“They will fight,” the Kiowa replied for me. “They will fight up there, higher up the mountain. The Apache will let us come to them, even though we are few and they are many.”

“Hell,” the big rancher snorted, “there are thirteen of us.”

The Kiowa smiled again, a humorless grimace that didn’t reach his eyes. “With Apaches, that may not be enough.”

“If you’re too yellow to face them, then stay here, damn you!” Coleman flared. “The rest of us will get the job done.”

If the Kiowa took offense, he didn’t let it show. He turned to Coleman and carefully unbuttoned his shirt, revealing a rawhide string; hanging from it were what looked to me to be a row of withered brown claws. “These are the trigger fingers of the seventeen men I have killed in battle,” he told Coleman, his hard-boned face stiff and proud. “I will fight the Apaches.”

Coleman looked at the Indian’s grisly trophies for long moments, then nodded. “So be it.”

He turned in the saddle, addressing his men. “My offer still stands, boys. Fifty dollars in gold for every filthy Apache scalp you lay at my feet.” Amid wild cheering, Coleman doffed his hat and waved it above his head. “Now let’s go get it done.”

Led by the Kiowa, we rode further into the silent canyon.

I slid my Winchester from the scabbard and from far above me I heard a scrub jay call, answered a few moments later by another. And another.

The Kiowa’s back stiffened, his eyes constantly scanning the ridges of the canyon. He laid the butt of the Henry on his right thigh, holding the rifle upright and ready as his pony picked its way along the canyon floor.

He had been right. The Apaches weren’t about to run. They planned to stay and fight.

Chapter 25

After a couple hundred yards, the canyon widened, giving way to a wide clearing carpeted with grass and wildflowers, a few scrub oak growing around the perimeter. There was evidence that wild cattle had used this place to graze and they’d cut a narrow trail that wound up the slope of the mountain, disappearing into some tumbled boulders a few hundred feet above the level.

We were enclosed on all sides by high, brush-topped ridges, and it was very hot in the clearing. I stood my horse near the shade of an oak and wiped sweat from my hatband and brow.

The Kiowa had swung out of the saddle and was examining the trail up the mountain. He studied the piled-up boulders above us for long moments, nodded to himself, then walked over to Coleman, leading his pony.

“Where are they?” the rancher asked, irritation harsh in his voice. “Damn it, man, where are they?”

The Kiowa pointed beyond the boulders. “Higher.”

“Can we get the horses up there?”

“Yes,” the Kiowa answered, “but best we go on foot. Men on horseback make large targets.”