Chance reached the slab and threw himself down beside Ace again. Ace said, “MacDonald just offered to hold them off while we got away.”
“Really? If that doesn’t beat all! You think maybe he’s got a shred of decency left in him after all?”
“Don’t get carried away,” Ace said. The rifle cracked and bucked against his shoulder again. He saw one of the warriors fall back, clutching a bullet-torn arm. “We need to get out of here. Want to go together?”
“Wouldn’t have it any other way,” Chance replied with his usual reckless grin. They reloaded the Winchesters, then started shooting as fast as they could work the levers as they stood up and backed toward the top of the slope.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
One of the soldiers galloped up to the front of the little column and told Olsen, “Looks like riders coming up fast behind us, Lieutenant.”
Olsen reined in and signaled for the rest of the men to halt. He was riding with Marshal Hank Glennon while Chet Van Slyke and Navasota Jones were up ahead, scouting the trail. The gunmen would turn back when they realized the others had stopped, more than likely.
Olsen hipped around in the cavalry saddle and peered toward the rear. He saw the haze of dust rising there and knew the report was correct. Riders were approaching at a good clip. A fairly large number of them, in fact. At least a dozen, Olsen estimated.
“You think those blasted Apaches got behind us?” Glennon asked nervously.
“Anything is possible where Indians are concerned,” Olsen said. “But there’s another possibility, as well. Eugene said he would send more of his men from the mine to join the rescue party.”
Glennon rubbed his chin and nodded. “Yeah, he did, didn’t he? Let’s hope that’s who it is. But hadn’t we maybe better get ready for a fight, just in case it ain’t?”
“That would be wise,” Olsen agreed. “Cochran!”
The corporal moved his horse forward. “Sir?”
“I’m giving you a field promotion. You’re a sergeant now.”
Cochran stared at him. “Can you do that, sir?”
Olsen reined in the anger that welled up inside him at having one of his decisions questioned. “I can do whatever I deem necessary for the success of this mission.”
For all practical purposes, he was in complete command of the garrison at Fort Gila, and his grip on power would be even stronger once he brought Major Sughrue’s daughter back safely. That would also solidify his position with Howden-Smyth, since the Englishman wanted the girl for himself. He would string them all along, including Glennon and Judge Bannister, until he was ready to cut them out and seize everything for himself.
“Yes, sir,” now-Sergeant Cochran said. “What are your orders?”
“Prepare for a possible engagement with hostiles. Have the men dismount and form a skirmish line.”
“Yes, sir!”
Cochran snapped a salute, wheeled his horse, and hurried to carry out the orders.
The swift rataplan of hoofbeats made Olsen look the other way again. Van Slyke and Jones were on their way back, as he’d expected. The two gunmen reined in, and Van Slyke nodded toward the rear.
“Is that some more of our boys comin’ up?” he asked.
“Probably, but just in case it’s not, I’m preparing for trouble.”
Cochran spread the men out and detailed a couple of troopers to hold the horses well behind the skirmish line. The rest of the soldiers knelt on one knee and readied their Springfields. Olsen, Van Slyke, and Jones remained mounted. The two gun-wolves drew Winchesters from saddle sheaths and jacked cartridges into the firing chambers.
Olsen took the telescope from his saddlebags, extended it, and lifted it to his right eye. Squinting through the lens, he focused the glass on the dark shapes at the base of that dust cloud. As they grew larger and came into better view, he sighed in relief. He lowered the glass and called, “They’re white men, not Apaches!”
“Must be more of the boss’s crew,” Van Slyke said. “Come on, Navasota, let’s find out for sure.”
They rode around the skirmish line and went to meet the newcomers. A few minutes later they were back with a dozen more hard-featured men in range clothes. One of them actually was an Indian, not white, a hawk-faced man wearing a round-crowned black hat with an eagle feather stuck in its turquoise band. He was a Navajo, Olsen recalled, a tracker and gunhand known simply as Ash. Olsen figured that was short for some heathen gibberish of a name.
“Have the men mount up again, Sergeant,” Olsen told Cochran. “We’ll be pushing on momentarily.”
“Yes, sir,” the new sergeant responded.
Van Slyke and Jones rode up with the newcomers. “The boss sent these boys, just like he promised,” Van Slyke said. A grin stretched his face and made it look even more like a skull. “Reckon we’ve got enough guns now to take on the whole Apache nation if we need to.”
“I think you’re exaggerating,” Olsen said, “since the United States Army hasn’t yet been able to run all the savages to ground.”
“That’s because those fools back in Washington have some loco idea about pacifyin’ ’em,” Van Slyke said. “What they really need is killin’, and we’re mighty good at that.”
Olsen wasn’t going to debate military and political strategy with this hired gun, especially since he agreed with him. The only solution for the Indian problem that would work in the long run would be to wipe out all the savages. The world would be a better place if that were to be accomplished.
Instead he changed the subject by asking, “Are the tracks we’ve been following still leading in the same direction?”
“Yeah, up into the mountains. There are some high canyons there that have water and grass for horses—”
Van Slyke stopped short and lifted his head, cocking it slightly to the side in a listening attitude. Olsen knew why, too, because he heard the same thing himself.
Gunshots in the distance, a whole slew of them. Maybe not enough for a war, but definitely plenty for a battle.
“That’s them!” he said. “It has to be. MacDonald and the Jensen boys and the rest of them got their hands on some guns somehow, and they’re trying to break free from the Apaches.”
Cochran rode up hurriedly and asked, “What are your orders, Lieutenant?”
“We’ll follow those shots.” Olsen wheeled his horse and waved his arm. “Column . . . ho!”
* * *
A bullet tugged on the sleeve of Ace’s shirt as he and Chance retreated up the slope, but that was as close as any of the Apache slugs came to the Jensen brothers. When they reached the top, they dived into the cluster of boulders and pine trees that filled a slight depression about fifty yards in diameter. Around the other sides of that little bowl rose steep, rocky walls bare of vegetation.
Ace tipped his head back and saw more trees up on the rimrock seventy or eighty feet above them. As Chance had said, those walls looked like they could be climbed by strong, agile young men—but not by Evelyn or wounded men like MacDonald and Driscoll.
“We can make a good fight of it here,” he said. “They can’t come up that slope without being exposed to our fire.”
“Yeah, we’ve got the high ground, all right,” Chance agreed. Ace knew the enthusiastic tone in his brother’s voice was just to make it sound like their situation wasn’t as hopeless as it really was.
MacDonald wasn’t fooled for a second. “We’ve got two rifles and a limited amount of ammunition. No food or water. Doesn’t look to me like we’ve got a chance in Hades.” He glared at Ace. “You should’ve left me down there with both rifles and all the bullets. I could’ve held ’em off for a while.”
“What good would that do?” Driscoll asked. “We’d still be trapped here!”
“You and me and Crawford, maybe,” he said, referring to one of the wounded troopers. But these youngsters might be able to climb out of this hole.”
“No,” Evelyn said as she looked at the rock walls. “I . . . I co
uldn’t.” She shook her head vehemently. “I just couldn’t.”
“It might be the only way you’ll get out of here alive,” Chance told her. “If you want to give it a try, I’ll help you.”
“I’m terrified of heights,” Evelyn insisted. Her voice trembled. “I always have been. It was difficult enough just climbing up here.” She clutched Chance’s arm. “Please don’t make me!”
Ace and Chance looked at each other. Trying to make that climb was probably suicide, anyway. And Jensens always preferred fighting to running . . .
“All right,” Chance said. “We’ll stay here and see what happens.” He smiled. “I’ve always believed that somewhere, a miracle comes true every day.”
And that was exactly what they would need.
MacDonald sat down on one of the rocks and grimaced. Evelyn said, “Would . . . would you like for me to take a look at your wound, Sergeant?”
Before MacDonald could answer, Driscoll protested, “Nobody’s done anything about this blasted arrow in my shoulder for more than a day now!”
“That arrow needs more attention than we can give it, Lieutenant,” Ace said. “You’ll just have to hang on until we get out of this.”
Driscoll sat down, too, and passed a shaky hand over his face. “I already have a fever. It’s going to kill me. I know it is.”
Evelyn ignored him and went over to sit beside MacDonald. He shook his head, though, and said, “Forget it. There’s nothing you can do for me, and I’d just as soon not have anybody pokin’ around at that wound.”
“But I can at least look at it—”
“I said leave it alone!”
“Hey!” Chance objected. “Watch your mouth, MacDonald. The lady’s just trying to help you.”
MacDonald scowled. “Why in blazes would any of you try to help me? I’m the reason we’re here. Well, along with that snake Olsen and your crazy father, miss.”
“He’s not crazy,” Evelyn said. “Just . . . just overcome with grief . . .”
“And we’re all in this together, MacDonald,” Ace said. “No need to worry about settling grudges when it looks like the Apaches may do it for us.”
“If I could, I’d leave all of you here and get away,” MacDonald growled. “The savages could have the whole blamed lot of you.”
He didn’t really sound like he meant it, though. Desperate circumstances made for unexpected allies.
And these circumstances were about to get more desperate, because the other trooper—Crawford, MacDonald had called him—was kneeling behind one of the rocks watching the lower slope and the canyon, and he called out in alarm, “Here they come!”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Ace and Chance had been thumbing fresh rounds into the Winchesters while they talked. About half the loops on the bandolier Ace held were still filled. They could put up a good fight—for a while.
But it would be dark soon, and when night fell, they wouldn’t be able to see the Apaches sneaking up on them. That was when the main attack would come, Ace thought as he hurried over to where Crawford was kneeling behind the rocks. This thrust was probably just to feel them out.
Chance dropped to a knee beside his brother. “Where are they?” he asked as he brought the rifle to his shoulder.
“There in that clump of brush,” Crawford replied, pointing. “I just saw something movin’ around in there.”
Ace frowned. “So you’re not even sure what you saw was Apaches?”
Before Crawford could answer, muzzle flame spurted from the gloom down the slope, in the brush the trooper had indicated. A slug whined off a rock somewhere nearby, and the next instant more shots rang out.
“Get your heads down!” Ace called to the others. He and Chance hunkered low behind the rocks. Crawford threw himself belly down on the ground. Slugs whipped through the air and ricocheted wickedly.
The shooting went on for several long seconds, then died away and left an echoing silence behind. Chance started to raise up and return the fire, but Ace said, “Let them burn powder. We’ll need ours later.”
“Yeah, you’re right,” Chance said grudgingly. “But I don’t like it.”
“Neither do I.”
After a few minutes, the Apaches thundered another volley up the slope. Again, the fugitives stayed low and hoped that no stray bullets or ricochets would penetrate the little bowl. It was a harrowing experience. In a lull between shots, Ace heard Driscoll whimpering again, along with MacDonald cursing the wounded, terrified surgeon.
A rock rattled somewhere nearby, and Ace glanced up to see a figure looming out of the shadows. The Apache warrior let out a bloodcurdling cry as he launched himself at Ace and Chance. Ace tipped the Winchester up and fired one-handed.
The bullet flung the Apache backward, where he collided with another warrior who had crept up the slope unseen while the barrage of shots had everyone keeping their head down. Chance came up on his knees and shot that man, who was so close that the tongue of flame that licked out from the Winchester’s muzzle almost touched his chest. He flew backward down the slope as well.
So they weren’t going to wait for full dark after all, Ace thought as he levered the rifle. Movement caught his eye and he swung the barrel to the right to fire at another shape hurtling toward them. That warrior staggered but didn’t fall. In fact, he threw himself over the rock behind which Ace crouched and crashed into him, bashing him over backward.
The impact knocked the breath out of Ace and left him stunned, but only for a split second. As the Apache raised his arm over his head, Ace recovered his senses enough to see the knife gripped in the man’s hand. He jerked his head to the side as the warrior struck. The blade swept past his ear and threw sparks as it hit the rocky ground. The Winchester was trapped between Ace and his attacker, so he couldn’t bring the rifle to bear.
Then the crushing weight went away abruptly. An even larger shadow loomed above Ace. It took him a second to realize that was Vince MacDonald. The renegade sergeant had grabbed hold of the Apache and lifted him off of Ace. With a grunt of effort, MacDonald hoisted the kicking, flailing man above his head and threw him down the slope, where he slammed into two more warriors and knocked them off their feet.
Ace pushed himself back up. Chance was still firing, sweeping his rifle back and forth as he worked the lever and triggered. Ace joined in and sprayed the slope with lead.
It wasn’t enough to break the back of the charge. Warriors swarmed over the rocks into the bowl. Ace heard Ndolkah’s shouts urging them on. He emptied the Winchester and saw several more men fall before the deadly hail of bullets, but for every warrior that fell, two more took his place.
MacDonald waded into them with his bare hands, roaring his defiance. He grabbed men, flung them away, caught others by the head and broke their necks with a savage twist of his powerful arms. His hammer-like fists lashed out, broke jaws, and sent warriors flying.
Ace and Chance used their empty rifles as clubs, slashing back and forth around them. The Apaches could have stood off and riddled them with bullets, but their hate led them to want to kill the Jensen brothers up close, so they could see Ace and Chance suffer. Clearly, though, they hadn’t counted on the brothers being such deadly fighters.
Behind Ace, Chance, and MacDonald, deeper in the bowl, Crawford had scuttled backward to join Evelyn and Driscoll. He grabbed Evelyn, thrust her behind him, and said, “I’ll protect you, ma’am!”
He had nothing with which to protect her, though. One of the warriors got past the bottleneck in the rocks and charged at them, howling in rage. The man slashed at Crawford with a knife. Crawford jerked back, grabbed the warrior’s wrist, and struggled with him, trying to gain possession of the blade.
While that fight was going on, another Apache headed for Driscoll, who had backed against a tree and stood there sobbing with fear. The warrior leered, obviously anticipating an easy kill.
As he reached Driscoll, though, the lieutenant summoned up what courage he had left and did s
omething unexpected. He grabbed the shaft of the arrow in his shoulder and ripped it free, spraying blood from the wound that had just been torn open even larger. Driscoll turned the arrow and thrust it out in front of him with all the strength he had left.
The flint head caught the Apache in the throat and drove deep, the penetration aided by the warrior’s own momentum. The man stopped short, made a grotesque gagging sound, and then reeled backward as he pawed feebly at the arrow lodged fatally in his throat.
Driscoll fell to his knees, blood pouring from his wounded shoulder now. He raised a hand toward it, but before he could do any more, another warrior appeared in front of him and slammed a knife into his chest. The blade went in all the way up to the hilt. Driscoll opened his mouth in a soundless cry. The Apache ripped the knife free and stabbed Driscoll again and yet again. On his knees, Driscoll leaned back against the tree behind him. He died that way, still upright, with his head falling forward and hanging limply over his ruined chest.
Ace, Chance, and MacDonald were still battling fiercely, surrounded by warriors determined to kill them. Blood dripped from several cuts the brothers had received in the fighting, but they hadn’t been wounded seriously—yet. It was only a matter of time before they were overwhelmed, though.
Ace heard Evelyn scream. He twisted in that direction, saw one of the Apaches striking down Crawford, who appeared to have been trying to protect the girl. A knife ripped across the trooper’s throat, spilling a dark flood over his chest. The warrior reached for Evelyn next. He probably wouldn’t kill her, but in his blood lust, there was no telling what he might do.
Ace swung the Winchester and shattered the stock on the skull of an Apache, which also broke under the impact. Clutching the broken rifle, Ace ran toward Evelyn. He hit the warrior from behind, swinging the rifle and crushing the man’s skull with the breech. He would keep whaling away with it until nothing was left but the barrel if he had to, he thought as he grabbed Evelyn’s arm. She was sinking toward the ground in horror.
Rope Burn Page 20