Pony Soldiers Page 12

  "What did he say, Cuchillo?" Ryan asked.

  "Nothing. Long Knife lets his words run faster than his brain."

  "I say that I will fight the pony soldiers, and you stay and be safe and cook and sew beads with the other women," the warrior retorted, hand gripping the hilt of his saber so hard that his knuckles showed white through the bronze skin.

  "Man once said that talk was cheap…but the price of action is colossal," Ryan replied, deliberately in­sulting Long Knife by calmly turning his back on him, knowing that J.B. was in a position to chill the Apache if he tried to coldcock him from behind.

  "They are closer," another of the Mescalero inter­rupted, crouching out of sight, peering between two of the boulders.

  J.B. joined him, again easing the focusing screw on the glasses. "Yeah. Got 'em now. There's around a dozen, with another out front. Don't seem too wor­ried about any attack. They're cantering along like they were going to a friendly barn raising."

  Ryan glanced across at his old comrade. "Barn raising, J.B.? Fireblast! What do you know about raising a damned barn?"

  The Armorer looked sheepish. "Heard them say that on westie vids, Ryan. Don't know for sure what it means, but it sounded right."

  Long Knife wouldn't let the argument go. He stood so close to Ryan that the white man could smell his sweat. He turned his face to stare into Ryan's single eye.

  "You believe I fear you?"

  "No, Long Knife. I don't think you're frightened of me at all."

  "You think I fear the pony soldiers."

  "Oh, by the long winter! We're all here for the same reason, you stupe bastard!"

  It was the response that the Apache wanted. He took two shuffling steps away, drawing the dull steel blade from the makeshift sheath. He waved it in the air, threatening Ryan with it. "You will accept this in your stinking flesh and you will die, white-eye devil."

  Ryan watched him, calm and controlled. "If I draw this handgun, you'll be on your back looking up at the sun, Long Knife. And the sec men'll hear it and all of this is for nothing."

  Cuchillo didn't interfere, watching as the two men faced each other. For several long heartbeats neither moved. Finally the chief spoke.

  "If you wish to fight the Anglo, Long Knife, then do so. Then we can return to the rancheria, for the hunt will be over."

  The warrior's eyes flicked to his chief. "You take the side of the Anglo against your own brother! How can this be?"

  The hand fell to the hilt of the golden knife. "I am leader here. It is you and it is me, my brother. We must not fight each other."

  "They're stopping by the stream," J.B. said, seem­ingly ignoring the conflict. "Unsaddling, so they're resting up for an hour or so."

  "Now what do we do?" Stones in Face asked.

  Ryan stared down at the tiny, antlike figures. The horses had been tied in the shade of the trees, while the men relaxed, some of them filling canteens at the edge of the stream. The leader was clearly not the yellowhaired General but a tall, burly man with gingerish hair that was thinning around the top. As Ryan watched him, the man took the bright golden ker­chief from his neck and wiped sweat from his fore­head.

  Two sentries were posted, one walking slowly to­ward them, the other trailing his Springfield carbine as he picked his way back toward the narrow notch at the mouth of Many Deer Canyon.

  The discipline was evident, and Ryan whistled softly. It wasn't going to be easy to take such an or­ganized force of sec men. He glanced around, look­ing at the weapons that the Mescalero had brought with them.

  There was an 1841 muzzle-loading Mississippi rifle in the hands of a tall warrior whose name Ryan didn't know. A Winchester carbine at the side of Stones in Face. Another warrior hefted a sawed-off 12-gauge percussion scattergun that J.B. had spotted as a twen­tieth-century replica of a much older English blaster.

  Cuchillo himself had a long Sharps buffalo gun. The .50-caliber weapon was one that Ryan had used a couple of times in his life, and he admired the accu­racy of the gun. It was bound around with silver wire, holding a split stock together, and a pattern of tiny brass nails had been hammered into the butt.

  As well as his saber, Long Knife was carrying a—

  "Fireblast!" Ryan exclaimed, jumping to his feet as he saw the Mescalero warrior vault lightly onto the back of his pony. He kicked it in the slats to force it into an instant gallop, down the winding trail that eventually led to the floor of the wide canyon. To­ward the sec men.

  Cuchillo Oro called out to the disappearing figure, but the sound of the pony's hooves on the rocky path drowned out any hope of Long Knife hearing him. The chief turned grimly to Ryan.

  "I am sorry for my brother," he said. "But he must do what he must."

  "I heard that before," Ryan said.

  "Best get out of here," J.B. called. "Soon as the sec men see him the crap'll hit the windshield for us all."

  There wasn't time.

  Long Knife came out of the mouth of the trail onto the bottom of Many Deer Canyon like a gren out of a launcher, whooping and firing his old Remington pistol in the morning air. He held the reins of the pony in his mouth, the saber whirling in a circle of singing death in his left hand.

  It was like seeing a nest of insects disturbed by heavy feet. The two guards came running back to rejoin the rest of the sec men. Orders were yelled out, voices thin and reedy to the listeners on the top of the plateau far above.

  One of the warriors spun around, darting toward the tethered ponies, ignoring a shout from Cuchillo Oro. He leaped on the animal's back, whipping it away down the same trail.

  "It is Corn Planter," Cuchillo said sadly. "He shares a father with Long Knife. His duty is to save him if he can."

  There were snowy puffs of powder smoke from the grove of trees, and they could hear the flat cracks of the Springfields. None of the troopers had noticed that the lone Indian galloping toward them had compan­ions on the bluff above.

  The trees were nearly a half mile away from where Ryan watched. J.B. shook his head in answer to the glance. "Too far. Can't reach with anything I got. You could hit 'em with the G-12. Mebbe put a couple down. Once they see us up here they could circle around, and we'd be in big trouble."

  Ryan agreed with the Armorer. Outnumbered, they could easily be trapped up there. The sec men only had to send a galloper back to their fort and bring an­other twenty or so reinforcements. And that would mean all of them getting to buy the farm.

  Now they could also see Corn Planter, better mounted, closing the gap fast on his half brother. But the sec men were getting the range, recovering from the shock of being charged by a single horseman. Puffs of dust, torn apart by the breeze, speckled the earth near the pony.

  It was only a matter of time.

  Cuchillo Oro watched the tragic scenario as it un­folded below them, standing at Ryan's shoulder, fin­gering the hilt of the golden cinqueda. "He is with his fathers," he said quietly.

  One of the warriors took his rifle and prepared to fire down at the hidden sec men, but the war chief checked him. "No, brother. There is no reason for adding more deaths."

  Stones in Face called out in despair as they all saw Long Knife's pony stumble and fall, throwing the warrior clean over its neck. He landed clumsily, stag­gering to his feet, now holding only the saber.

  "Move," Ryan urged under his breath, knowing it was too late. They saw the first bullet hit home, somewhere near the shoulder, spinning the Mescalero around, the sword pitching from his fist to land point first in the earth. A second shot hit him in the guts, doubling him over like a man poisoned. A third shot killed him clean. Ryan had taken the glasses from J.B. and focused them in time to see the bullet drive up­wards through the lower cheek, past the rear of the right eye, exiting through the top of the skull. It punched out a chunk of bone, releasing a spray of blood and brains, gray-pink in the sunlight. The body slumped in the dirt.

  On top of the mesa the watchers could hear the ragged cheer of exultation from the sec
men.

  Nobody would ever know what went through the raging mind of Corn Planter, seeing his half brother butchered in front of his eyes. He was still a couple of hundred yards away, with a reasonable chance of reining in his pony and galloping for the cover of the rocks behind him.

  Instead he shrilled a piercing war cry, flattening himself on his animal's neck, urging it on faster to­ward the stunted trees by the water's side.

  The carbines rang out once more.

  "They're not great shots," J.B. commented. "Should have had him over by now."

  A ball from one of the carbines struck the pony be­tween the eyes, felling it like a thunderbolt, the legs splayed as it slid down on its belly, throwing Corn Planter to the left. He fell onto a heap of jagged rocks, rolling twice, before lying still. Ryan could see that the warrior's right arm protruded at an obscene angle, and one leg seemed doubled beneath him.

  "Done," Ryan said.

  What had started out as a simple recce patrol had gone woefully awry. One dead, one as good as dead and the rest of them perched up high like stranded eagles with the vultures below likely to spot them and come after them at any moment.

  "He is not dead," Stones in Face said, his voice harsh, as though torn from him.

  "As good as," Ryan said.

  "We must try to save him," the warrior said. "Honor calls to us."

  "Honor's a fucking empty word. If anyone else moves I'll blow them away. Two gone… for nothing. Or, if you like, for your bastard honor."

  Ryan gripped the G-12 as if it was the flaming sword of an avenging angel. He was furiously angry, the brilliant red rage possessing him. Part of him almost wanted the Apaches to call his bluff so he could spread them all over the mesa's top. The long scar across his cheek pulsed, and his eye raked the Mescalero like a rabid laser.

  Nobody moved. Cuchillo shook his head. "There are times when all that is left is honor, brother. But you are right. More killing is pointless. We must get down from here, back to the trail. Once we are there we can break for safety. The pony soldiers will never catch us."

  The insensate rage faded away as quickly as it had flared up. Ryan breathed slowly, calming himself, surprised at the anger. When he'd been a younger man it had been much worse, barely controllable. His memory still retained the image of the nineteen-year-old Ryan Cawdor in a gaudy house near where Albu­querque had once been. A pimp had made the mis­take of trying to roll him, cutting the whore with a straight razor when Ryan dodged. Ryan had ripped half the face clear off the streaked bone of the skull.

  A torn eyeball had flown across the stuffy little room, barely missing the screaming mouth of the bloodied girl.

  "Sure," Ryan said to the Apache. "Let's go."

  He risked a last quick glance over the lip of the cliff, seeing that the sec men were flocking like vermin to the unconscious figure of Corn Planter.

  Ryan turned away and followed the others to where the ponies were tied.

  When they reached the bottom of the snaking pathway, Cuchillo reined in his pony. "I must stay to see this thing to its ending. I am his chief. I must share the time of his passing from the earth. The rest of you go back to the rancheria and I will follow."

  The remaining Mescalero began to move off, but Ryan and J.B. stayed where they were. The Apache chieftain looked at them.

  "Why do you stay, brothers? This is no business of yours."

  "Came out to find what we could about these blue-coat bastards," Ryan said quietly. "Might as well stick around."

  "It is good. Let us head away from the river, there." He pointed to a draw that ran at right angles across Many Deer Canyon.

  The doomed day's final horrific scenes were about to begin.

  Chapter Seventeen

  THE TWO DEAD HORSES LAY where they'd fallen. A buzzard was circling curiously, deterred from coming closer by the presence of the noisy group of sec men near the trees. The body of Long Knife had been moved, and the three watchers couldn't see any sign of Corn Planter.

  It had taken a great deal of time to reach their hid­ing place, and the day was wearing on. The sun was already dipping below the brink of the canyon walls, the shadows making it difficult to see what the cav­alry was doing by the narrow river. Ryan and the oth­ers could hear shouting and laughter.

  Once there was a scream, quickly silenced.

  "They into torture?" J.B. asked.

  "My father's spirit would answer that," Cuchillo Oro replied. He stared at the Armorer, but J.B. met the look.

  "I guess that means they do."

  The Apache nodded. "They use fire and knives. When I saw what remained of my father I fell to my knees and wept like a foolish woman. So little was left of what had been a tall, strong and proud man."

  "I've seen bad, Cuchillo Oro."

  "I believe you, Weapons Strike Fear. But to see your father… like a hacked, twisted log, burned and blackened…"

  The words faded away into the stillness.

  "They're moving," Ryan said, breaking the si­lence.

  The sec men had saddled up, and now the burly figure with ginger hair led them out of the clump of trees, cantering toward the neck of the canyon.

  "Look," J.B. said, pointing at something that dangled from the lower branches of one of the trees.

  "Long Knife," Cuchillo said. "His pain is done."

  "And that looks like Corn Planter," Ryan said.

  It was a grim sight. Hauled along behind the last horse by a rope bound around his wrists, the naked body of Corn Planter bounced and tossed over the rough ground. Even from where they watched, the dark smears of blood along the trail were clearly visi­ble. The Apache was gagged but from the way the body jerked, it was obvious that the wretched warrior still lived.

  The dust from the horses concealed the man's suf­fering for a moment, the patrol nearing the opening to the main trail.

  As they filed through the notch, the last of the sec men paused a moment, taking off his slouch hat and waving it in a triumphant gesture of bravado.

  "No," Cuchillo Oro grated. He hefted the Sharps rifle and shot a bullet clear through the sec man's head, kicking him off the back of his horse.

  Ryan would have been a whole lot happier if the chief hadn't pulled the trigger. At least they were fairly safe where they were, halfway along the canyon, with a clear line of withdrawal to the other end of the val­ley. The cavalry was on the wrong side of the neck to come at them in any strength. In some ways, Ryan al­most hoped they'd try for it. With J.B.'s Uzi and his own G-12, the sec men would have a hard time of it.

  "One is paid," the Mescalero said, calmly reload­ing the long gun.

  "Nice shot, Chief," J.B. said. "Good clean kill."

  A figure appeared, silhouetted in the pinched opening, a carbine in its hands. Ryan nearly risked a shot, but held his fire.

  "Better go," he said. "No point in sitting here and waiting. Can they get around behind us?"

  "No. The canyon runs many miles, and there are no side trails. A man on foot could get above us, but the pony soldiers do not do these things. It would take many hours, until past night, for them to circle us. We have time."

  Whoever was in charge of the patrol made his de­cision quickly. There was a burst of shooting from the notch, making Ryan and the other two men duck down. By the time they glanced out again, the body of the sec man had been dragged into safety.

  "Might as well go, Cuchillo," Ryan said. "Noth­ing now to hang around for."

  But it still wasn't done.

  JERKING ACROSS A FEW INCHES at a time, the crude wooden framework almost filled the gap. With the glasses Ryan could easily make out that it was built from broken branches, probably washed out on the trail by a flash flood in Many Deer Canyon. It was about eight feet high and nearly the same width.

  The naked body of Corn Planter was spread-eagled across it, stretched into a human letter X, head sunk on its breast.

  "Dead?" Cuchillo asked.

  "No," Ryan replied, slowly lowering the glass
es. "No, he's still alive."

  The high-power binoculars showed more than he wanted to see.

  The Apache's whole body was a mass of oozing cuts and grazes from being dragged behind the horses, and much of the skin had been stripped away. The glasses revealed the jagged stump of white bone, protruding through the flesh of the broken arm. The face was puffed and swollen, teeth missing from the sagging jaw. It looked from the unnatural angles that many of the fingers had been bent back and snapped.

  Corn Planter seemed locked deep into uncon­sciousness, mercifully unaware of the cruel and shameful indignities offered him.

  Cuchillo reached out for the binoculars, but Ryan shook his head. "Better not. You know what's out there. No reason to see it close."

  "Smoke," J.B. said. "They've gotten a fire going."

  "It is not for cooking food," Cuchillo muttered, laying the Sharps down at his side.

  He was right.

  Even without the binoculars they could make out that piles of kindling were being pushed around the bottom of the bondage frame. The smoke was thin and almost white, showing how dry the wood was. The heat finally brought Corn Planter back to conscious­ness. They saw the head suddenly toss upward, the mouth opening in a scream of shock and agony. It was a tearing, jagged cry that scraped at the nerves.

  "His eyes are gone," J.B. observed.

  An arm came from the left, holding a long torch, an orange flame dancing merrily at its end. Ryan consid­ered a shot, but the billowing smoke made it an im­possible target.

  "Is he…?"Cuchillobegan.

  The Armorer had lifted the binoculars once more. "No," he said. "Still alive."

  The Apache chief had his head buried in his hands, rocking from side to side, chanting to himself. Ryan had seen and taken enough. He reached across Cuchillo Oro and took the heavy buffalo rifle. He checked the double action of the trigger and glanced down at the sights, testing the light wind from left to right.

  The range was well below a quarter mile.

  The torch was moving slowly up the Apache's scarred body, toward his face. Ryan leveled the gun, holding his breath, bringing the sights onto the tar­get. His finger was light on the trigger, the wire-bound stock pressed snugly into his shoulder.