But if the cave was still empty, as it had been when Smoke found it, they could fort up in there and hold off the Apaches. The situation would still be bad, mighty bad, but not hopeless. Not yet.
A warrior popped up and lunged at Preacher with a knife. Preacher batted the blade aside with the rifle barrel, then used the stock to stove in the varmint’s skull. From the corner of his eye, he saw Sally, Ballard, and the other three disappear into the cave.
Still triggering shots toward the Apaches, Sally reappeared, crying, “Come on, Preacher!”
He grabbed Scratchy’s arm. The jehu didn’t seem too steady on his feet. He’d lost a lot of blood from the arrow wound. Pounding toward the cave mouth, Preacher kept him moving, and a few seconds later they reached the cave and ducked through the entrance.
Sally backed away from the cave mouth, the Colt still level in her hand but no longer firing. The cave was wider on the inside than the mouth of it was, and in the dim light Preacher saw that the passengers had taken cover along one of the walls where shots from outside couldn’t reach them. He and Scratchy hugged the other wall, with Sally sliding along it, still covering them in case any of the Apaches tried to get into the cave.
For the moment, all the shooting seemed to have stopped. They were safe enough to at least catch their breath.
Safe . . . but still trapped.
CHAPTER 31
“Damn it,” Mike panted as he slogged through the sand beside Smoke. “How much farther is it?”
“Not far,” Smoke said, and then added as he slowed down, “Wait a minute.”
Mike came to an obviously reluctant halt beside him. “Why are we stopping? We have to find the others—”
“Listen.”
Nothing could be heard but the howling and droning of the wind.
“The shooting has stopped.” Mike’s voice sounded hollow.
“Yeah. I reckon the fight’s over.”
“But that means—”
“We don’t know what it means. They could have made it to the cave and driven the Apaches off.”
“Or the Apaches could have—”
“We both know damn well what the Apaches could’ve done,” Smoke interrupted again. “But there’s only one way to find out what actually happened.”
Mike nodded grimly. “You’re right. Come on.” He started off again with Smoke beside him.
Both men kept close watch for any sign of the Apaches. If the raiders had been driven off, they might flee in the opposite direction . . . right toward Smoke and Mike. With all the sand flying around, they could be almost on top of the two white men before either was aware of the threat.
They didn’t see anything, though, and after a quarter of an hour that seemed much longer, Smoke touched Mike’s shoulder and said, “There.”
“I see it.” Mike peered through squinted eyes at the dark shape up ahead. “That’s the stagecoach, isn’t it?”
“I’m pretty sure it is. We’ll check it out, but be careful. The Apaches could have left it there as bait.”
Mike held his Winchester ready and Smoke’s Colt was in his hand as they approached the motionless stagecoach. As Smoke swung out to the side a little, he understood why he didn’t see the horses.
All four animals were down, lying in their traces, dead as far as he could tell.
“They killed the rest of the team,” he said quietly to Mike.
“Did they . . . do you see any . . . bodies?”
“Nope. Just the coach and the horses.”
Caution made them crouch as they crept up closer to the apparently abandoned vehicle. The broken door was still flapping in the wind. Smoke caught hold of it and looked inside, not knowing what he was going to see.
The stagecoach was empty. Smoke searched for blood on the floorboards and seats but thankfully didn’t find any.
“Is that the cave?” Mike asked.
Smoke looked past the coach and saw the dark mouth of the cave some twenty yards away. “It is. They must’ve taken cover in there. With any luck, nobody’s wounded.” He knew that would be a lot to ask for, but it never hurt to hope.
Until they knew what was in there, Smoke didn’t want to just barge in. It might be a trap waiting for them. He motioned for Mike to keep the stagecoach between him and the cave. Smoke did likewise as he retrieved his Winchester from the boot, then he lifted his voice and called, “Hello, the cave! Anybody in there?”
“Smoke!”
The instant response in the voice of the woman he loved made Smoke’s heart jump. He leaned around the stagecoach and shouted, “Sally! Are you all right?”
“Yes! Come on in!”
Smoke knew he didn’t have to worry that the Apaches were forcing Sally to lure them into a trap. She would have died before she did that. He nodded to Mike, and they trotted quickly to the cave.
Sally met them at the entrance, throwing her arms around Smoke and holding him tightly. “I was afraid the Apaches might have gotten you,” she said in a half-whisper that was husky with emotion.
“I was worried about them getting you. Especially after all the shooting we heard.”
“They tried. Preacher and Scratchy were able to hold them off until we were close enough to make a run for this cave when the Indians started killing the horses.”
Mike was looking rather desperately around the cave. Smoke knew he was searching for Catherine Bradshaw.
She came out of the shadows, covered with grime and with her hair disheveled, but there was a smile on her face as she said, “There you are, Mike. Are you all right?”
“Fine.” He looked like he was having to hold himself back to keep from taking her in his arms. “How about you?”
“I wasn’t hurt. Just very, very scared.”
Preacher said, “Scratchy’s the only one who got elected.” He stood up from where he had been kneeling beside the old jehu, who sat with his back propped against the cave wall. The bloody rag tied around Scratchy’s upper arm as a makeshift bandage showed what Preacher had been doing.
Smoke went over and hunkered on his heels in front of Scratchy. “How bad is it?”
“I been hurt worse. Caught an arrow in the arm, but Preacher got it out and tied up the wound once we were in here.”
“Mighty lucky that Scratchy had a flash o’ rye whiskey in that duster o’ his,” Preacher added. “Used some of it to clean up them arrow holes.”
“Reckon I’ll live,” Scratchy went on. “Considerin’ everything that’s happened, to have just one of us wounded is pretty darned lucky, if you ask me.”
“It sure is,” Smoke agreed, wondering how long that luck was going to last.
He stood up and looked around the cave. The gloom was thick, but he was able to make out Mrs. Bates and George sitting beside the wall, and Tom Ballard standing not far away with a worried expression on his face. Smoke wondered if the newspaperman was thinking about that trunk in the stagecoach’s boot.
Whatever was in there, to Smoke’s way of thinking they had bigger problems to worry about.
He caught Preacher’s eye and inclined his head toward the cave mouth. They drifted in that direction as if to check on what was happening outside, if anything. In the close quarters, they couldn’t get completely out of earshot of the others.
Preacher kept his voice low enough that only Smoke was liable to understand him. “We still got a heap o’ trouble, don’t we?”
“All the horses are dead and we’re a long way from the closest way station.”
“Yep. Not to mention the storm and all them ’Paches out there.” Preacher sucked a tooth for a second, then added, “We keep killin’ ’em, but it seems like ever’ one we blow to hell, half a dozen more pop up to take his place.”
“You could be right about the war party growing. It could have been a small group that crossed the border from Mexico a few days ago, but more warriors could be leaving the agencies as they hear about what’s going on.”
“Yeah, it don’t take much to ge
t them bucks stirred up. Even the ones that pretend to be peaceful got killin’ in their blood.” Preacher grunted. “Sorta like me. Live wild for long enough, and it’s mighty hard to tame down and stay that way.”
“Well, in your case, I’m glad. We may have to be as savage as they are before this is over.” Smoke changed the subject a little by asking, “Is Scratchy really going to be all right?”
“I think so. His arm got skewered pretty good, but he can drive a coach and shoot one-handed if he has to. Come to think of it, he ain’t gonna be drivin’ that coach, is he?”
“Not unless a new team sprouts wings and flies down out of the sky.”
“Yeah, that’d be a plumb Christmas miracle, wouldn’t it?”
“Don’t discount miracles. We’ve made it this far and we’re still alive.”
“Maybe so, but I ain’t gonna rely on ’em, neither. We got to start thinkin’ about food and water.”
“There may be a few provisions on the coach. Some jerky and hardtack, anyway. Some drivers carry a little food for emergencies. Scratchy can tell us about that. Food’s not as pressing a need as water.”
“The water barrel attached to the stagecoach is full, I reckon. They filled it from the well at the last place we stopped, didn’t they?”
Smoke nodded. “They did. There are a couple canteens we can use, too. But the water barrel is out there, and we’re in here.”
“Then we’d best go fetch it while we got the chance.”
“Just what I was thinking,” Smoke said. “Mike and I can get it and carry it in here while you keep an eye out for trouble.”
“Sounds good.” Preacher patted the breech of the Winchester he held.
Smoke turned and went deeper into the cave, where Mike was reassuring Catherine and Mrs. Bates that everything was going to be all right. “Mike, you and I need to fetch the water barrel from the coach while we still can. There’s enough water in it to keep us going for a while, but will take both of us to lift it and carry it back to the cave.”
“I was just thinking the same thing,” the young man said.
“Be careful,” Catherine said.
“I intend to be,” Mike told her. “But we’ve got to have water.”
Sally intercepted them on the way to the cave mouth, the look on her face telling Smoke she wanted to know what he was up to. He explained quickly.
She nodded and held up the Colt. “I’ll help Preacher cover you.”
Smoke opened his mouth to say something, then closed it, realizing that he was doomed to lose the argument. Anyway, having another good shot watching their backs wasn’t a bad idea.
They paused just inside the cave and looked around as far as they could see in the blowing sand and fading light. Night wasn’t far off, and it would fall suddenly, as it always did on the desert.
Smoke didn’t spot any movement or suspicious shapes around the coach, so he nodded and told Mike, “Let’s go.”
They stepped out and started toward the stagecoach. Preacher and Sally moved into the cave mouth behind them and lifted their guns, ready to fire.
Nothing happened as Smoke and Mike walked quickly toward the stagecoach.
Halfway there, guns blasted, muzzle flame bloomed in the gathering dusk, and bullets began to kick up dirt around their feet and whine past their heads.
CHAPTER 32
Preacher and Sally opened fire from the cave while Smoke and Mike stopped short and returned the shots with their rifles. It took only a couple heartbeats for Smoke to realize that he and Mike were too exposed. They could make a run for the coach, but even if they reached it, they would be cut off from the others.
“Back to the cave!” he shouted as he levered the Winchester and slammed another round into the clouds of sand.
They turned and dashed for the cave mouth as Sally and Preacher kept up the covering fire. Retreating stuck in Smoke’s craw; he had always been the sort to go straight ahead into trouble.
But it wasn’t only his life at stake. And anyway, only an idiot would be in favor of charging blindly ahead into a situation that could only get him killed.
In fact, he and Mike would be doing good to get back to the cave alive.
Preacher and Sally kept the Apaches ducking enough for Smoke and Mike to cover the ground in long-legged bounds. They darted through the opening and veered to the side, out of the line of fire.
“Get out of there!” Smoke barked at his wife and his old friend.
They whirled away from the cave mouth and pressed themselves to the wall. Bullets screamed into the cave and smacked into the rear wall.
Smoke called, “Everybody stay down!”
Since the cave had been hollowed out of sandstone instead of granite or some other, harder rock, the slugs didn’t ricochet. They blasted craters in the cave wall and stayed there. After a moment, the shooting stopped. The raiders must have figured out they were just wasting ammunition.
Preacher said, “Looks like you and Mike got here just in time a while ago, Smoke. Them ’Paches must’ve been regroupin’ when the two o’ you came in the first time.”
“Yeah, but now they’re back,” Smoke said. “And they plan to keep us bottled up in here.”
Here was twenty yards away from the water they needed to survive. The water they could get only by running a gauntlet of hot lead . . . and back.
* * *
Not the sort to sit around and brood, Smoke paced. If he couldn’t do something about one problem, he often turned his attention to another and tried to solve it.
He knew they would need a fire for warmth before morning. Earlier, he had noted some branches and other bits of dried brush that must have been dragged inside by animals or maybe even by other people who had taken shelter there. He had a plentiful supply of matches, so he lit one and used it for light as he searched around the walls of the cave for fuel.
George saw what he was doing and offered, “I can help you with that, Mr. Jensen.”
“That’s a good idea, George. Watch where you grab, though. Could be lizards or spiders around.”
Mrs. Bates began, “Oh, George, I don’t think you should—”
“It’s all right, Grandma. I’ll be careful.”
Smoke tossed the sticks he had gathered into a pile then walked to Sally on the left side of the cave opening where she sat alone. Suggesting it was a good idea to have everybody on the same side of the cave, he pulled her up then asked, “Ready to make a run for it?”
“With you?” She smiled. “Any time.”
“Hold on, you two,” Preacher said. “Let me fling a few ounces o’ lead out there, just in case those varmints are watchin’.”
“Save your bullets,” Smoke said. “As dark as it’s getting, I don’t think they can see in here anymore. Just to be on the safe side, though, Sally and I won’t waste any time.”
They dashed across the opening. Sure enough, no shots sounded.
Smoke felt a little better now that they were all together again. George had put together a neat little pile of brush. Smoke picked out some of it and arranged it for a fire. It wouldn’t be a big blaze—they didn’t have enough fuel for that—but he thought they could keep it going through the night . . . perhaps two. The walls of the cave would hoard the heat the flames gave off and reflect it back. The air would be chilly by morning, but not downright cold.
And just having a fire would lift the spirits of the pilgrims trapped there, Smoke knew. Instinct led humans to huddle around a fire in the hope that it would ward off the darkness and all the terrors it contained.
It didn’t take him long to get some small flames leaping up. He would feed the fire carefully and make the brush last as long as possible.
Mrs. Bates surprised him a little by saying, “I . . . I have a bit of food in my bag . . . some jerky and a couple cookies I’ve been saving for George in case he got too cranky—”
“Grandma! I ain’t a baby, you know.”
“You’re not a baby,” Sally corrected
him. Her smile took any sting out of the words. “Sorry. I used to be a schoolteacher, so it’s just habit.”
“Aw, that’s all right, Miz Jensen. My ma was always tellin’ me to talk right, too, so I reckon I ought to try.”
“To talk correctly, you mean.”
“Yeah. That’s what I said, ain’t it? I mean, isn’t it?”
“We’ll talk about that later, George,” Sally said. “Mrs. Bates, that’s a very generous offer.”
“Well, like I said, it’s not much,” the older woman replied. “I could break the cookies up into smaller pieces. I don’t know about the jerky . . .”
Smoke said, “Jerky’s salty enough it’d be liable to make us thirstier, and since we don’t have any water right now, we’d better hold off on that. Reckon the other will be much appreciated, though.”
Scratchy said, “There are a few supplies on the coach . . . once we can get to it without gettin’ killed.”
“When is that going to be?” Catherine asked. “How long can those savages possibly wait out there for us?”
“They’ll get bored and wander off,” Preacher said confidently. “Injuns is plumb notional critters. Can’t keep their minds on one thing for too long at a time.”
Smoke knew better, and he knew Preacher did, too. The old mountain man was just trying to make the others feel better, to give them some hope.
The volume of the wind outside rose even higher as they ate their meager supper.
Tom Ballard commented, “I didn’t think it could blow any harder out there, but it sounds like it is.”
“Yep, the storm’s picking up,” Smoke said. “But there’s not a lot of sand blowing in here, and it might just make those Apaches decide to put this part of the country behind them. I’ll bet we have the only good shelter around here.”
Scratchy said, “It can’t keep on howlin’ like that forever. The storm’s bound to blow itself out. Might even do it by mornin’. If those savages are gone by then, we’ll get the water and provisions from the coach, and we’ll be sittin’ pretty.”
An Arizona Christmas Page 21