Stryker's Revenge (12 page)

Stryker’s eyes flew open. Mrs. McCabe was calling into the darkness for him. He struggled to his feet just as the woman emerged from the gloom—leading a horse.

“When it got dark I grew worried,” she said. “I thought . . . I thought maybe you were—”

“Dead?”

“Yes.”

“Where is Kelly?”

“Asleep.”

Stryker felt like he was a hundred years old. He stepped wearily toward Mary McCabe and studied the horse. “He’s a criollo,” he said. “I once saw a regiment of Mexican lancers mounted on them. How did you come by him?”

“One of the dead Apaches was riding him. I found him wandering under the cottonwood beside the cabin. I bridled him,” the woman said. “He’s not a tall horse. Can you get on his back?”

Stryker managed a smile. “Seems like I’ll have to. I can’t make it back to the cabin on foot.”

It took him several attempts, but finally he managed to climb onto the little horse’s back. The criollo was well-trained and had stood quietly while Stryker mounted him. Now Mary gathered up the reins and led the horse back toward the game trail.

On the way, Stryker told her about finding Sergeant Hooper. He did not tell her the man had still been alive and that he’d fired a mercy shot into his brain.

“The Apaches are heading north to join Geronimo,” he said. “So is Rake Pierce, the man who beat me with a shackle chain.”

When she turned, Mary’s face was a pale blur in the gathering darkness. “You want to kill him, this man?”

“Yes, I do, Mrs. McCabe. I want to kill him real bad.”

“I understand.”

“You do?”

“I wanted to kill the man who abused me and cut me with a knife. I’m a coward who just never found the courage.”

“You have courage, Mrs. McCabe. It’s a quiet, womanly sort of courage that doesn’t shout its name, but it’s courage nevertheless. If you’re a coward, I haven’t seen it in you yet.”

“No one has ever said anything like that to me, Lieutenant.”

“A woman needs a man to say things to her, Mrs. McCabe. He should tell her about the way her hair catches the sunlight, the blue sky that lives in her eyes. True things.”

“West Point taught you well, Lieutenant Stryker.”

“No, life taught me well, or it’s trying to.”

“Hold on tight,” Mary said. “We’ve reached the hogback.”

The McClellan saddle was designed to favor the horse, not the rider, and Stryker felt stiff and uncomfortable as he headed the criollo south across an endless brush desert cut through by dry creeks and wide, dusty washes.

He felt uncomfortable for another reason.

Mrs. McCabe and Kelly walked beside the horse, their only protection from the blazing sun a tiny white parasol that the woman had preserved from the time before her marriage. Stryker knew they were suffering, but neither uttered a word of complaint, a fact that did nothing to ease his conscience.

Mary knew that the lieutenant wasn’t fit to walk a long distance and she’d accepted it. But again, that didn’t make it any easier.

They’d left the cabin at first light that morning, planning to meet up with Birchwood and his infantry on the trail south. Stryker would then abandon Yanisin and his people to their own devices and use a series of forced marches to reach Fort Merit, hopefully before the Apaches attacked.

It wasn’t a perfect plan, not even a good one, but it was all Stryker had, and at least he felt he was taking the initiative again.

He looked down at the woman. “How are you holding up, Mrs. McCabe?”

“It’s hot.”

Kelly’s head was bent and her feet were dragging. She had earlier refused to sit on the horse in front of Stryker, but now he asked her again. This time the girl eagerly agreed, and he lifted her in front of him.

They had been walking for three hours and a look at Mrs. McCabe’s face told Stryker that she too was growing exhausted. He drew rein, freed a stirrup and said, “Get up behind me, Mrs. McCabe.”

The woman shook her head. “That’s too much for the horse.”

“He’s a tough little bronc,” Stryker smiled. “He can carry all three of us.”

The woman had no argument left in her. She climbed up behind Stryker who kneed the criollo into motion. The horse’s gait did not change and it seemed to handle the additional weight with ease.

Kelly leaned her head on Stryker’s chest, lightly and tentatively at first, but then it grew heavier as the child slept.

The sky islands of the Chiricahuas soared above the three people on the little horse, dwarfing them into insignificance. Here and there eroded stone spires and columns rose out of thick tree canopies like the pillars of a ruined cathedral, ancient incense that smelled of pine still fragrant in the air. The sun had impaled itself on a peak and was motionless in the sky, unable to shake itself free. The entire vast land shimmered in the heat, distorting the way ahead, hard on the eyes, harder still on Stryker’s stretched-taut nerves.

This was Apache country and no man who entered it, unless he was a fool, ever rode at ease.

And that was proved just thirty minutes later when three mounted Indians emerged from the shimmering landscape as though they were riding through a curtain of lace.

Over Stryker’s shoulder Mary McCabe saw what he was seeing. She immediately slid off the criollo and lifted Kelly from the saddle. The girl was still asleep and her head rested on her mother’s shoulder.

There was nowhere to hide, no time to run, but Stryker was a horse soldier and the woman knew that if it came to a fight she and Kelly would be an encumbrance.

Stryker racked the Henry and sat his saddle, waiting, his eyes fixed on the oncoming Apaches. He was still very weak, in no shape for a battle, but, as they had been for Mary, his options were limited.

All three of the Indians carried new Winchesters and they came on at a walk, unhurried, their flat, black eyes weighing Stryker, evaluating him as a fighting man.

Stryker quickly glanced around him. He saw nothing in the terrain that would give him an advantage. Now that he’d looked at his hole card and didn’t like what he’d seen, he gripped his rifle tighter and waited for the inevitable. No matter what, he would take his hits and survive long enough to fire two shots. Remembering what had befallen Hooper, he wouldn’t abandon Mrs. McCabe and her daughter to the same fate.

The Apaches stopped ten yards away, and then one of them rode forward. He was young, stocky, bands of red and yellow paint across his nose and cheeks. At one time or another in his wild life, this warrior had been an Army scout.

Reining his pony alongside the criollo, the Apache stared hard into Stryker’s face. Astonishment gave way to puzzlement and then to a wide grin. The warrior turned and enthusiastically beckoned the other two closer.

Stryker lifted the muzzle of the Henry an inch until it was pointed at the belly of the Indian closest to him. The man, still intent on studying the soldier’s shattered features, didn’t seem to notice. His head was inclined at an angle as he tried to imagine how the big officer had gotten that way.

As their leader had done, the other Apaches crowded around Stryker, staring at him in wonderment, excitedly discussing him in a language he did not understand.

One of the Apaches swung away and rode to where Mary and the child were standing. He studied the woman’s face, then let out a wild yip of delight.

Stryker stiffened in the saddle. The reckoning had come, and he was ready.

The Apache slid off his horse, grabbed Mary’s chin and turned her head so the others could see the terrible scar on her cheek. That immediately touched off a storm of laughter among the Indians that surprised Stryker. For some reason, Mary McCabe’s scar was “a real thigh-slapper,” as Joe Hogg would have said.

So far the Apaches had shown no hostile intent, and for now Stryker was content to let it remain that way.

The Apache let Mary go and mounted again. The warrior wearing the traditional war paint of the Army scout pointed to Stryker’s face. “Ugly,” he said. He pointed to the woman. “Ugh, same ugly.” As his companions laughed, he said, “A good joke.”

And with that, the three warriors rode away, heading north, their heads thrown back, still laughing.

Stryker felt the tension drain out of him. Hogg had once told him that Apaches were notional and that the white man did not share their sense of humor. Now, for some reason known only to themselves, a disfigured Army lieutenant accompanied by a scarred woman in the middle of the wilderness had struck them as funny.

Stryker didn’t appreciate the joke, but he appreciated that it had saved their lives.

That night they camped two miles south of Rucker Canyon and its abandoned Army post. Sheltered by a narrow box canyon, Stryker built a small fire and they ate a hasty supper of broiled bacon and a few stale biscuits.

At first light, they were on the trail south again. And at noon they met up with Joe Hogg and Lieutenant Birchwood’s depleted infantry company.

Hogg was riding next to a huge man wearing a greasy buckskin shirt, his red hair falling in a tangled mass over his shoulders. A full beard covered his chest and when he looked at Stryker, then looked again, his black eyes were small and mean and full of malice.

Stryker smiled at Hogg. “Good to see you again, Joe.”

“See you brung the whole family,” the scout said.

Birchwood was a hundred yards behind Hogg. He cantered to Stryker and saluted. “Lieutenant Birchwood reporting, sir.”

Stryker looked beyond the man and past the column of weary infantrymen. “Where are the Apaches, Lieutenant?”

The young officer shook his head. “We didn’t find them, sir. The rancheria was abandoned, everyone gone.”

“Did you encounter any Apaches?”

“No, sir.”

“We did find this skunk, and a couple of others with him who are now deceased,” Hogg said. He leaned over in the saddle, shot out his booted foot and knocked the red-haired man off his horse.

The redhead hit the ground hard, raising a cloud of dust. He stayed where he was and cursed viciously at Hogg.

“His name is Silas Dugan,” the scout said, smiling. “He’s a scalp hunter by trade and a real good friend of Sergeant Pierce. In fact, Lieutenant, you might say they’re partners.”

Dugan got to his feet, spitting fury and hate. “I’m gonna kill you one day, Joe,” he said. “You might be in bed with a whore or kneeling to say your prayers or singin’ in the church choir, but I’m gonna walk right up to you an’ scatter your brains, you son of a bitch.”

Hogg shook his head and looked at the man. “Silas, all the time I’ve knowed you, you’ve talked big about what you was a-goin’ to do to some white man or another. But all you’ve ever done is kill women and children and lift their scalps.”

The scout laid both hands on the saddle horn and leaned into Dugan. “Now you shut your trap or I’ll leave you to the first Apache warriors I come acrost. Know what they do to a scalp hunter, Silas?”

“That will do, Mr. Hogg,” Birchwood said. “The prisoner will be delivered to Fort Merit”—he paused—“in one piece.”

“You tell him, soldier boy,” Dugan grinned.

Birchwood’s head snapped around until he was looking at the man. “Dugan,” he said, “shut your goddamned trap.”

The scalp hunter shrugged, made a placating gesture with his hands and kept silent.

“This is a good time to rest your men, Lieutenant Birchwood,” Stryker said. “We’ll have a conference and Mr. Hogg, I want you to attend.”

The scout swung out of the saddle as the infantrymen sought whatever shade they could find and lit their pipes. Hogg stepped to the criollo and helped Kelly down from the saddle, then Mrs. McCabe.

To Stryker’s surprise, Hogg and the woman kissed tenderly, then clung to each other for a long while before parting. Finally the scout picked up Kelly in his arms and he and Mary held hands as he led them into the shade of some scattered junipers.

Stryker shook his head. He had always prided himself on being a perceptive man, but he had totally missed the budding relationship between Hogg and the woman. He smiled to himself. Joe Hogg was a good man, and Mary was a fine woman. They would be an excellent match for each other.

He swung stiffly out of the saddle and walked into the junipers, where Birchwood joined them. Hogg glanced back at the resting soldiers, and the young lieutenant smiled. “Don’t worry, Mr. Hogg. Dugan is well guarded.”

The scout nodded. “He’s as slippery as a snake, Lieutenant. Don’t trust him.”

Stryker built a cigarette from his dwindling supply of tobacco and inhaled the smoke gratefully. Both Birchwood and Hogg were watching him, waiting for what he had to say.

What he really wanted to do was to interrogate Dugan and force him to tell where he could find Rake Pierce, but more urgent Army business had to come first.

“Lieutenant Birchwood,” he said behind a cloud of blue smoke, “the reason Yanisin’s rancheria was abandoned is because the Apaches are moving north. That is why you didn’t encounter any hostiles.”

“Sir, you still expect an attack on Fort Merit?”

“Yes, if it hasn’t already happened. Let the men have their rest now, because we are going to reach the post by a forced march. Your infantry will have to march day and night, rest little and live on water, cold bacon and biscuit. I want to be at the post within forty-eight hours, Lieutenant.”

“My men can do it, sir.”

“By God, sir, they’ll have to do it.”

Stryker looked at the soldiers who were sprawled in whatever shade they could find, talking quietly among themselves. Like all frontier Indian fighters, they were a ragtag bunch, but they looked bronzed and fit and their weapons were clean.

“Tell the men they have an hour to cook whatever salt pork they have left and soak their biscuit in the grease,” he said. “It will serve as iron rations on the march.”