Inside the house, as Fred Olsen struggled into his pants and his elderly wife hid beneath the bedclothes, the sergeant ordered each of his men to a window on both floors and then went down with an arrow through his throat as he cracked open the back door. A fountain of blood sprayed into the eyes of a corporal at the window and the man was still trying to wipe it clear when an Indian rode in through the open doorway, daubed face a mask of hatred. The brave released his tomahawk in a spinning throw and the soldier screamed as the blade buried itself in his chest. The brave howled with triumph and leaped from his horse, drawing his knife to claim two scalps. But in the next moment his head was no more than a crimson pulp clinging to gleaming bone as the half-dressed Fred Olson fired both loads in a double-barreled shotgun, aiming from the top of the stairs.
Outside, the dead soldier came free of the killing lance and his best friend, firing from an upstairs window leaned out for a better shot at Little Cochise. His aim was wide and an arrow thudded into his back. He fell headfirst from the window and was struck by six more arrows before his dead body smashed to the ground. The braves continued to circle the house, closing the gaps as injured and dead riders fell from their horses; gripping their ponies with their legs so that they had both hands free to prime and fire their bows. They rode outside their ponies, offering less of a target, sometimes leaning forward and down to fire from below the animals' necks. Then, at a howled command from Little Cochise, the braves wheeled in toward the house in a rushed attack from all directions. Four Apaches fell as they attempted to dismount, but the remainder got through, three swinging up on to the porch to enter the upper floors. Two soldiers positioned in the sitting room at the front killed three painted braves as they dived in through already shattered windows but were themselves killed by other braves, one taking a tomahawk in his skull, the other having his throat cut by a slashing knife blade. At the rear of the house Fred Olsen obliterated the faces of two Apaches and, then swung the empty shotgun around his head, cracking the skulls of three more before six overpowered him and scalped him alive before plunging a knife into his mouth opened in a scream.
The house became suddenly quiet, a nerve-rending haven of false peace against the distant gunfire and howls as the main fight moved to the center of town. Upstairs in the main bedroom the woman whimpered beneath the bedclothes as one soldier guarded the window, another the door. They were all that remained of the patrol and they sensed, in the silence, their impending doom.
"Where the hell they gone?" the man at the window said, a tremor in his voice.
"Not home for breakfast, that's for sure," his companion answered, sweating freely from fear but not revealing the terror in his tone as he stood squarely in front of the closed door, aiming his rifle.
The man at the window poked his head outside, trying to spot a sign of stealthy attack and as the woman under the bedclothes began to sob, the soldier died. A brown hand reached down from the roof, grasped the soldier's hair and jerked on it as another hand swung a tomahawk, sheering cleanly through the neck. The head fell into the street and the body back into the room as the brave on the roof emitted a tremendous roar of victory. At the same instant the flimsy panel door was split lengthwise as a lance penetrated it and had enough momentum to strike deep into the chest of the last soldier. Then the door crashed off its hinges and Little Cochise led a dozen braves into the room. They dragged the bed away from the wall and began to dance around it, whooping into the terrified ears of their whimpering victim, priming their bows as they did so. At a signal from the chief twelve arrows were fired at point-blank range and the whimpering ended as a dozen broadening red stains spread across the coverlet.
Similar orgies of barbaric killing were taking place in houses throughout the town as wave after wave of Apache braves circled their objectives, then dismounted at the run for the final assault.
At the Pot of Gold ten braves poured whisky down their throats before smashing the bottles and setting light to the contents. One man tried to run through the flames and emerged with his clothes blazing. The braves ignored him as he rolled in agony burning to death. They were content to surround the building and pour arrows at anyone who tried to escape through upper story windows. The aging madam thought she had got clear down the outside stairway, but came face to face with a young brave. She fought back her terror and raised the hem of her nightgown, exhibiting the entire length of her naked body, wrinkled and flaccid. The brave leered through his warpaint, and reached out to grasp one of the sagging breasts. The woman cried out at the tightness of the grip then shrieked in agony as a knife slashed down to sever the breast. On the roof a naked whore knelt in prayer a moment before a blazing beam collapsed and she fell screaming into the searing heat of the fire.
The empty stage depot and the sheriff's office were fired and sparks showered the nearby livery stable, setting light to the hay loft above. As terrified horses lashed out their hoofs, Wyatt Drucker climbed on to the seat of the wagon and whipped the hindquarters of the two lead grays which thundered away from the flames. Three braves met a pounding death beneath the galloping hoofs of the horses as Drucker emerged from the alley in a screaming turn and he made no attempt to swerve as Nelson Mortimer crawled into his path, the undertaker holding up the bloody stumps of his wrists in a plea for help. The hoofs trampled him and the wheels almost cut him in half. Drucker got clear of the town with the wagon bristling with arrows, but without a scratch on himself.
But the Apache rampage through the town was merely a diversionary tactic, designed to draw the soldiers from the fort. It failed. The big gate stayed closed and the uniformed figures remained at their posts high on the walls, rifles aimed and ready for when the braves came within range. Many of the acts of butchery and destruction were committed in full view of the men and, a ripple of angry conversation spread along the line.
"Save your energy!" Colonel Murray barked, his face wan behind the weathered exterior, his expression forced into a scowl of anger to mask the horror he felt.
He was standing on the platform above the gates, flanked by Lieutenant Sawyer and Sergeant Home. The lieutenant fumed away and retched dryly as a barman ran out of one of the saloons with blood gushing from gaping wounds where his ears had been.
"Don't you think, sir, that …" Home began.
"I’ve done my thinking, sergeant," Murray snapped coldly. "We didn't 'ask those people to build their town out there. My God!"
This last was hissed as a mounted brave turned into the street dragging a naked girl by the hair. A soldier at the fort loosed off a shot that kicked up dust yards short of the Indian.
"Put that man on report!" Murray barked as he saw the girl released, only to die under a hail of falling arrows, some of them carrying burning rags.
Then, as the sweet, nauseating stench of her burning flesh rose to the nostrils of the soldiers, the town became quiet and the street was suddenly devoid of movement. The silence was matched by that from within the fort
"What's happening, sir?" the lieutenant asked at length, his voice a hushed whisper as if afraid the words might carry to the Apaches.