Brady turned his head from side to side, putting his cool, almost indifferent glance deliberately on the surrounding trees. No one else was in sight. Ahead of him, the Apache's gun roared and the Apache flipped open the trapdoor breechlock to shove a new cartridge into the Springfield. Brady unlimbered his knife and began his stalk, moving from tree to tree. The Apache, keeping his back to Brady, had his attention held intently on the ranch house across the intei-vening open ground. Brady let his body down flat and crawled slowly, keeping the thickness of a pine trunk between him and the -Indian. The Apache fired another shot, again re- t loaded his .45-70 and took aim, waiting apparently for a target. Brady took his eyes deliberately off the ' Apache's back and again swept the surrounding : thickets, still seeing nothing; he lifted the knife and ' dug in his toes. From a distance of only ten feet, he made his run.
The Apache heard him, but not in time. Brady locked his arm about the man's tlnoat and without hesitation plunged the knife cleanly between the ribs.
The Apache sighed. Breath bubbled in his chest; his back arched with incredible power, all but breaking Brady's hold; then the body went slack, and Brady let it to earth slowly, pulling the knife out and wiping it clean on the ground. The Apache's torso jerked, but a moment's close inspection satisfied Brady that he was dead.
Brady coolly picked up the Indian's loaded rifle, cocked the big hammer, and took aim on a ringlet of rising gunsmoke that was a quarter-way around the circle of trees. When that Indian gun fired again, he had his target, and fired. The big .45-70 recoiled against his shoulder-and he saw a half-naked figure fall plunging out of the trees.
Brady rammed the carbine muzzle-first into the ground, thus blocking the barrel with mud and making the gun a death-trap for any passing Indian who might pick it up and try to shoot it. Then he laid the gun down beside the dead Apache and moved off silently through the shadowed timber.
His face was turned harsh and raw by the violence he was embroiled in. Threading the trees, he caught sight of another kneeling figure firing upon the ranch house; he again dropped flat and again wormed forward.
But this Indian was not so easily to be caught from behind. At irregular intervals the Apache's head turned while he watched the roundabout trees with care. Brady froze, flat against the earth. When the Indian took aim on the house again, he moved quickly forward, halting again when the Apache had fired and reloaded and turned to inspect the trees.
Brady placed himself behind a tree and gauged the distance between him and the Indian, and reversed the knife in his hand, balancing it, holding it by the tip. The Indian bent over his rifle, taking aim on the house; and Brady's arm went back, grew taut, and flung the knife with full power.
It sank hilt-deep in the back of the Indian's neck. Brady's flesh broke out in sudden cold sweat; his arm was msty and it was, he knew now, through luck only that he had struck the Indian. He had aimed for the back, not the neck. Breath oozed through his nostrils.
He scuttled forward and knelt, regarding the Apache. The man's loose, blind expression was plain enough evidence that he was dead. When Brady removed his knife, he put his back to the dead man and surveyed the circle of timber, the long meadow, the defiant fortress that was Yeager's house.
And it suddenly occurred to him that there was a difference in the hard-clattering sound of the day. The volume of fire from the Indian positions had decreased sharply.
It took little wondering to figure out the reason for it. He himself had accounted for three of the Apaches. If Harris and Tucker had done half as well, the Indian's force would have been reduced by a fourth or a third. Brady's lip corners turned down in a passionate display of bitterness. He was sick-physically sick-of killing, of death. He stared bleakly through the trees, and it came to him that the rate of fire from he timber-circle was continuing to decrease. It was impossible to befieve that Harris and Tucker were accounting for it. Then, suddenly, the woods were quiet.
The riflemen within the house realized it, too; losing their targets, they quit firing. A sti'ange, eerie silence blanketed the valley. Brady nodded grimly. The Apaches, aware that something had gone wrong, had fallen back to reassemble and hold council.
Acrid fumes of sulphur instated his nostrils. The smell of gunsmoke was thick. A commotion broke out of the trees across the valley, and a moment's consideration told Brady that it was Harris, mounted and leading the other horses at breakneck speed into Yeager's corrals.
When Hanis's run drew no fire, Brady left the woods and dogtrotted across the meadow, waving his hat in signal to those within the house.
Coming out onto the porch, standing aside from the door, Yeager ran his hand down his back length of beard and said, "I guess you gents must be the reason why those bucks lit out."
Brady followed Harris up to the house. "They haven't gone far," Brady said, "They'll be back pretty soon."
Yeager shmgged his big shoulders. "Let 'em. I can hold them off all summer if they want to tiy me. There's a well inside the house and I've got plenty of grub stored up. Plenty of gunpowder, too."
"All it will take," Brady said mildly, "is a couple of kerosene-soaked fire-arrows landing on your roof." "I thought of that," Yeager repHed. "They can't get close enough to the house to shoot fire arrows. It's all open land-and I can cut them down before they get within bow-and-arrow range." "At night?"
"Most likely," Yeager said complacently. His supreme self-confidence was irritating.
Throughout this exchange, Harris had been surveying the hills with a troubled glance. "I wonder where Tucker is? Do you suppose anything happened to him?
"Give him a little time," Brady said. "If he doesn't show up, I'll go looking for him."
"All right," Harris said, still troubled. He turned toward Yeager. "Who's inside the house, Yeager?"
"Couple of your soldier boys, and my family."
"Is Captain Sutherland in there?"
"I am." Sutherland came through the door, limping very slightly. A rifle hung in his hand. His round face was streaked with dirt and sweat; his uniform was torn and filthy. He favored Harris with a mocking salute and came to a stand wearily, feet braced wide apart, his lip curled a little.
Harris looked at him with a bit of awe. "Where are the rest of your men, Sutherland?"
That was when Pete Rubio came out onto the porch. Rubio had a little difficulty moving; his arm was bandaged tightly, hung in a sling across his chest. He too grasped a rifle.
"I'm the rest of his men, Captain," Rubio said.
Sutherland spoke with tight stiffness: "We were ambushed by a superior force and cut to pieces."
"Where?" Harris demanded.
"Rifle Gap."
Without hesitation, Harris turned his glance on Pete Rubio. "Is he telling the truth, Rubio?"
"Pait of it," Rubio drawled. When he looked at Sutherland there was ill-concealed hatred in his eyes. "It wasn't in Rifle Gap, it was beyond Rifle Gap. And we wouldn't have been ambushed if the captain here hadn't decided he knew more about Indian fighting than Indians do." Rubio spat a dark bitter stream upon the porch.
Sutherland glared at him, not speaking.
"So you made a break for it," Brady said, 'and the Apaches chased you this far."
Rubio nodded, spitting again. "We couldn t shake them loose. They kept picking us off-we traveled all night, taking the wounded with us. What you see standing here is all that's left." Dry malice filled his eyes when he looked at Sutherland.
"I see," Harris said quietly. He was plainly shocked. Brady felt the bitter sting in his belly of unwilling belief. "This washes you up, Sutherland," he said, turning away. "I'm going up to look for Emmett Tucker."
"Good luck," Harris breathed. Walking away, Brady heard Harris say, "You can consider yourself under arrest. Captain."
Brady mounted his horse and swung away from the yard. In his mind lifted a dismal anger against the sour irony that had allowed Sutherland, who had killed his command as surely as if he'd taken a gun to them, make good his esc
ape.
Tracks of pain streaked Tucker's eyes. He lay sprawled on the ground with the shaft of an arrow rising from his side. His lips were pale.
Brady got down and went to him, carrying a canteen, whipping out his kerchief. He soaked the cloth and put it to Tucker's mouth. Tucker looked up with silent gratitude.
Brady considered the wound. "The arrowhead's caught between a couple of ribs," he said. "That makes you lucky-the ribs kept it from going in deeper." After a further moment's self-deb ate, he said, "Listen to me, Emmett."
Tucker didn't blink. Brady swept the roundabout timber witli a quick sui-vey and said, "I can t move you until we get that arrow out. Otherwise it might work its way into your lung. You understand me?"
Tucker grinned tightly. "Go ahead," he said in a hoarse croak. "Pull it. Will."
"It will be rough."
Tucker's head moved in a slight nod. "Got a spare bullet?"
Brady punched a cartridge out of his belt-loop and put it gently into Tucker's mouth. Tucker worked it around with his tongue until it sat crosswise between his teeth.
Brady said, "All right?"
Tucker repeated his nod.
Bracing his knee against Tucker's ribs, Brady took firm hold with both hands on the arrow shaft. Tucker's eyes remained open, staring with combined interest and pain at the operation.
His voice, muffled around the bullet, croaked impatiently: "Come on—come on."
"Yeah," Brady grunted, and yanked.
Tucker made no sound at all. Brady regained his balance, holding the bloody arrow, and had the impression that Tucker hadn't even bhnked. But sweat stood out on Tucker's forehead. Blood welled from the wound; Brady took the soaked kerchief and pressed it against the flesh.
"Hold this in place—tight as you can."
Tucker's hand came up and pressed the kerchief down. Slowly it turned dark. Tucker's mouth opened a Uttle and the bullet fell out'. When Brady picked it up, he saw that Tucker had almost bitten it in two. He grinned at Tucker and tossed the bullet away. "A piece of luck," he said. "I was afraid for a minute that the arrowhead might stay in. We'd have sure been in trouble if that happened." "What now?"
"You're going for a little ride. Down to Yeager's. No telling how soon those Apaches will be back." "I'm game," Tucker said. "Take it easy, that's all." "Easy as we can," Brady replied. "Keep that compress held tight. When we get down the mountain, we'll bandage you up properly."
"Sounds good," Tucker muttered, grunting and grimacing while Brady helped him to his feet. "I hope to hell Yeager's got some whisky." "All set?" "Let's go."
Half-supported by Brady's arm, Tucker hobbled across the few feet to the horse. "You'll have to give me a boost up, I guess."
"Sure." Tucker gritted his teeth, and Brady pushed him up into the saddle. He noticed that the red-haired man was sweating again. Tucker's look troubled him; he knew Tucker was sujffering far more pain than he let on. The wound might be a good deal more serious than Brady had at first suspected.
He said nothing of all this, however. He swung up behind Tucker and gigged the horse gently forward.
It was a slow ride. By the time they reached the yard, Tucker's head was bobbing down against his chest and Brady was holding him upright in the saddle. Brady felt the quick need to get Tucker inside and lay him down. Harris and one of Yeager's brawny sons came out and helped him carry Tucker inside where they stretched him out on a pallet near the fireplace. In one dark corner George Sutherland bulked, his frame held rigid by a massive resentment. Harris was bending over and knelt there, too. Brady looked across the room at Pete Rubio, who stood with his hand protruding from the sling and his rifle stubbornly gripped in his free hand. Brady said, "How's that arm, Pete?''
"I'll make out all right," Rubio said. "How about him?"
"No telling, yet." Brady looked down at Tucker, and then at Sutherland. "You've sure caused a lot of grief for one man," he said. Sutherland pointedly ignored him. The woman went out of the room and presently returned with a coffeepot full of steaming water and a bedsheet, which she proceeded to tear into strips. Then, gently nudging Harris aside, she knelt beside Tucker and went to work with calm and silent competence. Tucker s eyes were closed and his breathing was a hoarse rasp.
When the woman stood up and turned, Brady spoke to her in Apache dialect: "What do you think?'
The woman shrugged and went away. Brady frowned down at the redheaded sergeant. "He didn't seem in such bad shape when I picked him up. I took an arrow out of him. He was pretty cheerful."
"Probably pierced an artery," Harris said. "He's still bleeding through the bandage."
Tucker's eyelids fluttered and he squinted up seeming to have trouble focusing his eyes. "You're a cheerful cuss," he said crankly to Harris, "Has anybody got some whisky, damn it?"
Harris turned. "Yeager? Get some whisky for this man."
"Sure," Yeager said, and in a moment came into the room with a bottle which he handed to Harris. HaiTis tipped it to Tucker's hps. The sergeant drank greedily, then laid his head back with a long sigh. "That's good," he murmured. "That's good." "Want some more?" "No, thanks. Captain." "Hurtmuchr
"Not too much. Listen, Captain--you people have got to get out of here. Those Apaches will burn this place down around your ears."
"You're in no condition to travel, Tucker." "Then leave me be. I ain't going to last long anyway. I can feel it. Get the hell out of here, will you?" Harris smiled vaguely. "Is that an order, Sergeant?" "Yes, sir. It's a goddamn order." Harris patted his shoulder. "You're a good man, Emmett," he murmured, and got to his feet. "Will, how long do you think it will be before they jump us again?"
"Nobody knows but the Lord." Brady raked a match along his pants to ignite it, and ht his cigarette. "I'm a mite surprised they haven't started shooting aheady. I didn't see any sign of them up on the hill."
"Maybe they lost more men than we figured on. I killed two of them and I think I put a slug in another. He kept running but he was limping badly. How about you?"
"Three."
"Tucker?"
Tucker's eyes were half closed. "Four, I think. Give me the bottle, will you?"
Harris stooped to put the bottle in Tucker's hand.
Brady's moody eyes watched the sergeant. "That's nine down, maybe ten." Harris said. "Better luck than we could have hoped for."
"They got overconfident," Brady said. "If they'd put proper watch on their backtrail, they'd have spotted us."
"How many do you think are left?"
"Out of that bunch," Brady said, "maybe ten or twelve. There's a good chance that more will be joining up with them, a few at a time. Word goes through these mountains pretty fast when there's something important."
"Maybe they're waiting for reinforcements, then."
"And maybe they're waiting for nightfall," Brady said, "so they can set fire to this place and then pick us off like sitting ducks when we make a run for it."
Sutherland's hard, precise voice cut across the room resentfully: "There may not be as many of them to reckon with as you suspect. We gave a pretty good accounting of ourselves."
It brought Pete Rubio's head around contemptuously. "We didn't even make a dent. Captain. There's hundreds of them in these mountains."
Sutherland subsided into continuing silent anger Brady gave him one brief, flat glance and tumec back to Harris. "I can only think of one way out—an< it's a damned poor risk."
"Spill it out," Hanis said.
Brady looked around the room. Posted at the windows, Yeager's sons kept careful watch, their rifles ready. The tiny openings plunged the room into deep gloom which was relieved only by the red flickering flames in the fireplace and two lanterns on the far wall.
Brady said, "The minute it gets dark-and not a second later-we could make a try. They probably won t be expecting it quite so fast. We get on our horses and run like hell. We take the short-cut, down tlirough Apache Canyon. It's a rugged trail, but they'd trap us on the long route. If we could beat t
hem LQto the canyon, we could hold them off long enough to reach the floor of the vaUey-theoretically. Once we get onto the desert, I doubt they'll push us farther. Too much chance of it backfiring, like it did the other night when they tried to break Tonio out."
Harris was considering the proposal soberly. 'Where does that leave him?" he said, pointing to Tucker.
Tucker's eyes slid open. "Right here. Captain. Don't fret about it" Tucker assumed a lazy grin. "I'm a mite too tired for a long trip."
Harris shook his head. He looked around at the others. "All right. Will. We'll try your plan. Tucker goes w4th us. Any objections?"
Sutherland was the only man to move. He stepped a pace forward from the corner; but suddenly he was the target of a fixed gaze from every pair of eyes in the room; and Harris said, "You've got no say in this. Keep still."
"You're a fool," Tucker said to Harris. "Ill slow you down, that's all. I'm no good for anything. What's the point of hauling a deadweight corpse with you?"
"You're not as close to dying as you think you are," Harris said, pointing toward Tucker's bandaged side. "The blood's started clotting now. It's not coming through the cloth any more."
Tucker looked down, grinning. "Hallelujah," he breathed. "Think of that." His head tipped back and, still smiling, he lifted the bottle to his lips. "Will, maybe I'll make you a good wrangler yet." He saluted witli the bottle and di-ank again.
The afternoon wore on with no sign of Indians until at four o'clock Rubio spoke from his post at the window: "They're keeping an eye on us from up there. Out of rifle range."
"Then they're waiting for nightfall," Brady said. He sat with his back to the side of the fireplace. Red light, reflected from the flames, rippled along the side of his trousers. He ran a cleaning rag tlirough the bore of his rifle and inspected it, and began reloading the magazine while he watched the steady rise and fall of Tucker's chest.
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