Blood and Gold

Coleman didn’t argue. He ordered his hands to dismount and leave their horses in the clearing. I swung out of the saddle, eased the girth on the dun, then walked to the bottom of the trail, studying the boulders above me. It seemed a likely ambush spot, but I figured the Kiowa knew what he was doing, and when he took to the slope I stepped after him, Coleman and his men falling in behind us.

Halfway to the boulders, a rabbit bounded out from under my feet and I jumped about three feet in the air in surprise. Behind me I heard a man snigger and even Coleman smiled and said: “Bunny spooked you some, Dusty, huh?”

I turned my head, gave the man a sheepish grin and kept on climbing.

The Apaches had us outnumbered, but when I’d looked around at Coleman’s hard-bitten, gun-handy riders, most of whom had fought Indians before, I figured the odds might just about be even.

But all that changed in an instant.

A rifle crashed and the Kiowa, two steps ahead of me, cried out and fell back into my arms. I couldn’t catch him, but I broke his fall as he collapsed in a heap at my feet. The Kiowa had taken a bullet square in the chest and he was already dead when he hit the ground.

A volley of rifle fire erupted from the boulders and behind me I heard men curse and yell as they were hit, the rest stampeding back down the trail to the clearing. A bullet kicked up dirt at my feet and another gouged across the stock of my rifle, splintering the walnut.

The Kiowa had been right about the Apaches’ willingness to fight, but he had been fatally wrong about where they’d make their stand. The warriors weren’t higher up the mountain—they were right here, bringing the battle to us.

I dove into a patch of thick brush and mesquite to my left, a little ways off the cattle trail, shifted the Winchester to my left hand and drew my Colt. The Apaches, scattered among the boulders, were only a dozen yards away and the six-gun would be better for close work.

But after the initial firing died down, nothing moved among the rocks. I glanced down the trail. Three of the Coleman riders were on the ground, one of the men groaning, dark red blood stringing from his mouth as he coughed and tried to crawl back to the safety of the clearing. Finally the man’s arms gave way and he fell on his face and lay still.

“Dusty!” Coleman yelled from somewhere below me. “Can you hear me?”

“Yeah!”

“Are you hit?”

“No. But the Kiowa is dead, and three others.”

Coleman swore bitterly, then hollered: “We’re trapped like rats down here. I’m going to find another way up the mountain before it gets too dark to see.” I didn’t reply and the rancher hollered again. “Dusty, keep ’em busy for a spell.”

Easier said than done, Mr. Coleman!

“I’ll do my best,” I yelled, suddenly feeling mighty vulnerable and lonely.

The dying sunlight caught the higher ridges of the mountains and the shadows of the ponderosa pines were lengthening. The lost and lonely ravines and canyons were shading into dark blue and the sky above was pale lemon, smeared with wide bands of deep scarlet.

I figured it would be full dark in no more than an hour and I could make my way back down the trail to the clearing—unless Coleman and his surviving men worked their way up the slope and got behind the Apaches.

A few tense minutes ticked by; then a shot from the boulders rattled through the branches of the mesquite bush, inches from my head. I caught a glimpse of something white move among the rocks and thumbed off a fast shot from the Colt. I saw the bullet strike rock and then whine harmlessly away. Another rifle fired from among the boulders, splitting the air above me, then another. I rose up on one knee and hammered four fast shots from the Colt, holstered the six-gun and grabbed the rifle.

I was trapped like a calf in a pen, neither able to climb higher nor make my way down. It was not a situation to reassure a man—a worrisome thing.

Something moved at the top of one of the largest boulders, just a quick blur that came and went. I waited. Gradually a head appeared, then a rifle. The Apache sighted in my direction, triggered a shot that rattled the mesquite bush for a second time, then quickly disappeared.

I raised the Winchester to my shoulder, gambling that the warrior would try another shot from that same position.

Sweat stinging my eyes, I held still, the sights of the rifle steady on the spot where I’d last seen the Apache. Somewhere higher up the mountain an early-waking owl hooted his question over and over, and farther away among the canyons the coyotes were beginning to yap.

Dark hair appeared at the top of the boulder, and with agonizing slowness, the Apache’s head and shoulders finally came into view. I watched as the warrior laid his rifle across the rock and I took a deep breath, held it and set my sights on the man’s forehead.

Just as the Apache leveled his rifle, I squeezed the trigger. Over the blast of the shot I heard a wild scream, and the head disappeared, splashes of blood suddenly staining the top of the boulder.