Stryker's Revenge (19 page)

“Sir, I don’t think they came back.”

“Then death would have taken Carter in its own good time, and it can be crueler than any Apache.”

“Sir, was I right?”

Stryker nodded. “You did what had to be done, Mr. Birchwood. I regard your action at Fort Merit justified and even commendable.”

The young man was silent for a moment, and then said, “I’m sorry, sir. I mean about the drinking and—”

Weary, aware that Birchwood was anxious to worry his guilt like a hound dog that had just caught a jackrabbit, Stryker said, “Let it go, Lieutenant. Just . . . let it go.”

The young officer heard the finality in Stryker’s voice and wisely didn’t push it. “One more question, sir: Why the hell are we here?”

Stryker’s eyes ranged over the canyon, resting on the spot among the trees where he had heard the man’s voice—if that’s what it had been.

He turned his attention to Birchwood again. “Captain Forrest ordered us to scout the mountains to the south. He wishes to ascertain if Geronimo poses any threat to Fort Bowie.”

Birchwood was trying to think in a whiskey fog and it took him a while. “Sir, I don’t see any logic in that order. We can’t scout the whole Chiricahua mountain range.”

“Then try this logic, Lieutenant: The captain wanted us the hell off the post.”

Birchwood smiled. “Bad apples.”

“Correct. The baddest in the barrel.”

 

To the east, the canyon rose gradually, passing through thick groves of hackberry and yucca, then into stands of mesquite and juniper. Here the rock walls directed heat into the bottom of the canyon like molten bronze pouring into a mold. The sunlight broke apart as it filtered through the trees and splashed like white paint on the underbrush. There was no wind.

Stryker sweated as he made his way through the trees, his Colt in his hand. Beside him Birchwood was laboring, his breath coming in groaning gasps, a hangover punishing him.

Lifting his hand, Stryker signaled a halt. He listened. Higher, above the canyon where the tall pines grew, a breeze rustled, but there was no other sound. The heavy air smelled of decaying vegetation, pine resin and the heady scent of wildflowers that grew in profusion everywhere. A dragonfly, as iridescent blue as a gas flame, hovered in front of Stryker for a few moments, then darted away into the trees.

He motioned Birchwood forward. Then he stopped as a shower of gravel rattled from the canyon wall.

Birchwood’s gun came up and he fired twice, the echoes of the shots racketing around the canyon like a granite ball rolling down a marble corridor.

“Goddamn you, boy! You tryin’ to kill me?”

A man’s voice, creaky with age and orneriness.

“You up there, come down here, real slow!” Stryker yelled.

“Cain’t do that, soldier boy. Got me leg stuck in a damn hole.”

“We’ll come up there.”

“Yeah, you do that. Seen you comin’ for a ways, crashing through the trees like a herd o’ damn buffalo. If’n I’d been an Apache, I’d have both your scalps by now.”

Stryker holstered his gun and after a search found a place where he could climb the canyon wall. Birchwood following behind him, he scrambled onto a scrub-covered mesa.

The old man was sitting on a rock, his left leg buried to the knee in a hole, part of a narrow fissure that cracked across the limestone rock. A canteen and a seven-shot, .52 caliber Spencer carbine lay beside him.

“Didn’t see the damn thing,” he said, his eyes lifting to Stryker. “Stepped right into it an’ got caught somehow. I don’t know if my leg is broke or not.”

Stryker kneeled beside the rift. “What the hell were you doing here?”

“What I always do. Followin’ my nose.” He shook his head. “Been prospecting these hills for nigh on twenty year and the Apaches always left me alone. Then, ’bout a week back, five young bucks holed me up in a cave down to Black Mountain way. Finally they got bored an’ left, but they kilt my burro.” The old man turned quizzical eyes on Stryker. “Why for would them Apaches kill my burro? He was blind in one eye, mean as a Tennessee wildcat and wasn’t worth spit. But me an’ him had prospected for a long time and I set store by him.”

Stryker shook his head. “I don’t know. Apaches are notional.”

“There’s a lot o’ truth in that.” He stuck out a brown, gnarled hand. “Name’s Clem Trimble, by the way.”

Stryker shook the old man’s hand and introduced himself and Birchwood.

“You the young feller that took pots at me?” Trimble asked.

“Sorry, sir.”

“You take me fer an Injun?”

“I didn’t see you. I heard gravel fall and shot.”

“You heard gravel fall because I thowed it, young feller. I heard you tromping through the brush and knowed fer damned sure you was white men, but I didn’t want to holler and wake up every Apache in the territory. ’Course, now you gone an’ done that very thing fer your ownself.”

“Have you seen other Apaches since those five bushwhacked you, Clem?” Stryker asked.

“Nary hide nor hair. Seen some white men though.”

Stryker’s interest quickened. “What manner of white men?”

“The kind you don’t meet at a church social, Cap’n. The one them I recognized right off was Silas Dugan. He’s a scalp hunter and afore that the Mess-kins paid him to take poxed blankets into Navajo an’ Comanche villages. He’s bad ’un, all right, and he’s killed more’n his share o’ white men.”

Stryker leaned forward, his eyes revealing his excitement. “Clem, listen to me real well, where—”

“Damn it, Cap’n, git my leg out of this hole an’ then we can talk,” Trimble said. “Unless you was plannin’ to ride off an’ leave me here.”

“Oh, yes. Of course.”

The old prospector’s ankle was jammed into a ragged break in the rock shelf and was bent over at an odd angle. It took the combined efforts of Stryker and Birchwood thirty minutes to free him and both were sweating heavily from the merciless sun that blasted the mesa.

Trimble gingerly tried moving his ankle. He winced a little, but said, “Well, she ain’t broke. Punishing me some, though.”

“Think you can make it down into the canyon?” Stryker asked. “I don’t like being out in the open like this.”

The old man rose to his feet and tried his weight on the injured leg. “I can make it.” He looked at Stryker. “You got coffee at your camp? I could sure use some—haven’t had a cup in days. When the Apaches kilt my burro, he fell into a ravine an’ took everything I own with him.”

“We’ve got coffee.”

“Grub?”

“Got that too.”

“Then what are we waitin’ fer?” Trimble hesitated, then said, “Cap’n, I got to ask. Did Apaches do that to your face?”

Stryker shook his head. “Rake Pierce, one of the men you saw with Dugan, rearranged it with a shackle chain.”

“So that’s why you was so all-fired interested in them white men.” The old prospector shook his head. “I’m a plainspoken man, Cap’n, and I’ll say my piece: The man who done that to you hit you so damned hard and so damned often, that you don’t even look human no more. Man like that deserves to die. And if’n you want me along, I’ll help you hunt him down.”

Stryker smiled. “Thank you, Clem, but this is my concern.”

Trimble nodded. “Suit yourself, Cap’n, but judgin’ by the way you an’ the young feller there crash around in the woods, you’ll never find him without me.”

Clem Trimble had eaten his fill of biscuits and bacon and now he sighed and rested his back against the trunk of a cottonwood.

He knuckled his forehead, looking through the firelight at Stryker. “Best grub I’ve et in days, Cap’n. ’Course, it’s the only grub I’ve et in days.”

Stryker paused, tobacco and cigarette paper in his fingers. “Where are the Apaches headed, Clem?”

“If Uncle George is after them like you say, then Geronimo is hightailing it south to the Madres. The Apaches already had a bellyful of Crook and they ain’t exactly hankering for more.”

“Why are Rake Pierce and Silas Dugan still here?”

“Nosin’ around, seeing what they can pick up. There are homesteads in these hills, to say nothing of wandering Apache women and young ’uns. If he tries, a man like Dugan can do well for hisself.”

“Have you any idea where they are?”

“Cap’n, I can take you to the place I last seen them and you can track ’em from there. But since you don’t want my help, that ain’t gonna work.”

“I’m rethinking that, Clem.”

The old man nodded. “Good idea, Cap’n. A man shouldn’t walk around with all kinds of notions set hard in his head like cow flops in the sun.”

“How many men does Pierce have with him, sir?” Birchwood asked.

“I can’t answer that, young feller, since I got no acquaintance with that gentleman. Now, if you was to ask how many men Silas Dugan has with him, I’d say an even dozen.” He smiled. “Beggin’ your pardon, but against you two pilgrims, I reckon that’s more’n enough.”

Birchwood stiffened. “Sir, both Lieutenant Stryker and myself have fought Apaches before.”

“You ever fit the likes of Silas Dugan and them hard cases he has around him afore?”

Birchwood nodded gleefully, like a man about to say check in a chess game. “Yes, we did. Rake Pierce attacked us in an attempt to free Dugan from our custody.”

“An’ did he?”

Reluctantly Birchwood said, “Yes. But we killed one of his men in that engagement, an Indian.”

“And how many men did you lose, young feller?” Before Birchwood could answer, Stryker said, “Clem, I want you with us. We’ll pull out at sunup and follow your back trail. Then you’ll find Pierce and Dugan.”

“I’ll do my best fer ye, Cap’n, but gettin’ to them two won’t be easy.”

“Let me worry about that.”

Trimble nodded. “When a man believes he’s in the right, it can make him stubborn, Cap’n. Just don’t let that stubbornness get you kilt. From where I was hid, I took the measure of them hard cases with Dugan. Now, most were the kind of border riffraff men like him attract, but a couple were gun-hands, read that plain enough.” He waited a moment to let that sink in, then said, “I ain’t sure, but I thought I seen Billy Lee in the bunch.”

That name did not register on Stryker’s face and Trimble said, “He’s a gunman and bank robber out of El Paso, Texas. He claims to be kin to old Robert E., but I don’t know about that. But I’ll tell you true, he’s killed a bunch and he’s hell on wheels with a hogleg.”

Stryker poured himself coffee, motioned with the pot and Trimble stuck out his cup. “As I told you before, Clem, let me worry about Lee and the rest.”

“Anything you say, Cap’n.” Trimble had burned his fingers on the cup and was shaking them. “Just don’t let worry share your blanket tonight. That can weaken a man.”

Stryker built a cigarette and lit it with a brand from the fire. Yellow flared on his shattered face giving him the look of a stage demon in limelight.

Seeing what had happened to Trimble, he held his cup by the rim and drank. The old man was right about worry weakening a man, wrong about not letting it share his blanket.

Later, stretched out near the fire, he racked his brain, trying to come up with a plan, a strategy, anything.

After an hour, he gave up. He had no plan. All he could do was throw his fate to the winds and hope they blew in his direction.

That thought brought him no comfort. No release.

 

Trimble told Stryker he was a couple of hours north of Black Mountain when he saw Dugan and his bunch. Now they rode in that direction, the old man, who was favoring his ankle, up behind Birchwood.

The mountain was a rocky, volcanic peak visible for miles, its steep slopes covered with mesquite and cactus.

“There’s old ruins up there on top, Cap’n,” Trimble said, “walls an’ sich. As to who built them, nobody knows. But it was way before the Apaches’ time.”

“Can I get a good view of the country from the peak?” Stryker asked.

“Sure you can, Cap’n. From there a farsighted man can see clear to Old Mexico.”

Stryker stored that away. If they didn’t pick up Pierce’s trail, he’d climb the mountain and scout the land around him with his field glasses. A wisp of smoke or the glint of sunlight on a horse bridle could reveal the man’s location.

The sun rose higher in the sky. It was not yet noon, an hour shy of it, yet the heat was building, promising the day would be an inferno.

Black Mountain right ahead of him, Stryker led the way across a ridge that gradually sloped downward and opened onto a small, grassy meadow, bright with wildflowers. A small stream, lined with cottonwood and willow, was just visible behind thick brush and here they stopped to water the horses and let them graze for a while.

Stryker found shade under a cottonwood and stretched out his legs. He ate a strip of cold bacon and biscuit, then smoked a cigarette before stepping to the stream for a drink.

He chose an area free of brush and lay on his belly, splashing cool water onto his face and neck. He bent his head to drink directly from the stream when the water suddenly erupted to meet him. At the same time he heard the slam of a rifle shot.

Rolling to his right, Stryker crashed into the brush and lay still, his Colt in his hand. There was no sign of Birchwood and Trimble, and he assumed they had already taken cover.

“Birchwood! Trimble! You all right?”

“We’re all right, Cap’n,” the old man yelled. “Who took a pot at us?”

“Damned if I know!”

Another bullet kicked up dirt close to Stryker, a second rattled through the brush just above his head. He was pinned down, nailed to the ground by someone who knew how to use a rifle.

Was it Pierce and his men?

He dismissed that. They would have all fired at once. This was one man. A lone bronco Apache? That was more likely.

“Hey, Maryann, eat this!”

Trimble’s voice was drowned out by the bellow of his Spencer. It was a probing shot that went nowhere.