IV
Doom stopped his blowing horse and the dull light glistened on the sweat-drenched coat. Orange tongues of flame were erupting against the black tapestry of the night. He saw that the mêlée had absorbed the Apaches and for the moment he was safe. Slowly he turned back. The night was a jumble of pandemonium and babble. A brave came trotting toward him, stiff-legged. Caleb raised his pistol, waited until the unsuspecting hostile was close, and fired. The Indian yanked up his horse, unbelieving. Doom fired again and the man jerked upright, tottered, and went over sideways. Caleb caught the warrior’s horse, stripped his own, and herded it beyond the village, resaddled and mounted the Apache animal, and rode cautiously back into the night.
With nothing more than force of numbers, the attackers were flying through the darkness, assailing anything that promised a victim or loot. Many had found whiskey, and their hot blood—heated further by the raw spirits—turned them into demons. Caleb tied his new horse in a clump of brush at the edge of the creek and stalked among the attackers like a ghost. He came upon two young bucks looting a freighter’s hastily deserted hovel. One of the bucks went down across the body of a small boy, and the other whirled to meet the unexpected attack. Doom squeezed off another shot and the gun clicked dully on an empty casing. Hurling the gun in desperation, he rushed the warrior, knocked him down, and aimed a desperate kick at the gun hand that was swinging to bear on him. The brave howled in pain and dropped the gun. Caleb was astraddle the powerful form before the other could roll away, his knife rising and falling with quick, sure thrusts. The Apache struggled wildly and blood gushed from a hole in his stomach, and another in his chest. Doom reversed the knife and swung it like an axe; the warrior relaxed, and Caleb leaped away. Picking up the gun the warrior had had, he disappeared in the half light.
Painted warriors slipped past in the night, their eyes glued to the stubbornly defended general store. Caleb went among them with the crouched, secretive grace of a puma. He saw Red Sleeves with a group of warriors around him. He waited, flat on the earth, for an opportunity to shoot or knife the leader, but had to give up since the braves continued to come in for instructions. Antonio was leaving the certain destruction of the embattled settlers to his fellows; he was searching for the captive who had antagonized him. The scalp of the Silent Outcast was worth more to Antonio than a hundred others.
Caleb was sneaking through the brush along the creekbed, toward his tethered Indian horse, when he heard someone skulking after him. He flattened in the moonlight and waited. It was a long wait, but eventually a ghostly form slithered into sight for a second, hesitated, listening, then came forward bent almost double, a pistol in one hand and a stained, slippery knife in the other. Doom held his breath; Antonio had found him and was coming to settle with the frontiersman. Pushing gently against the cool earth, Doom shoved himself erect and waited. Antonio came on without a sound. Caleb took a big breath and stepped out of the eerie night and con-fronted the startled Apache.
Antonio blinked rapidly, tensed a little, and his thin lips parted over the strong teeth. Doom tossed caution to the wind and spoke musically in Spanish: “I should have shot you, killer of children and old women.”
“Why didn’t you, Silent Outcast?” Antonio straightened out of his crouch and looked triumphantly at the lighter, taller man with abiding scorn in his eyes.
“Because I want to kill you with my hands.”
Antonio laughed softly. He had noticed that Doom’s gun was stuck into his waistband, while the knife was held loosely at his side. “I am here.”
Doom’s first rush was a mistake and he knew it as the warrior side-stepped him. Antonio was grin-ning like a death’s head now. He contemptuously dropped his pistol and began to circle. Doom’s face showed no fear or anger; he was impassive. The furious gunfire from the besieged village came down the cool night air to them and mingled with the gentler sound of the little creek behind them. Some ragged, unchecked tongues of flame leaped luridly into the night and cast wild, quivering light over the battleground. Doom was conscious of the macabre scene around him as he watched the other working his way closer, knife extended and lying sideways in his corded fist.
Antonio leaped in and slashed cannily, aiming low. Caleb jumped back. He had not expected the leap, and felt the breath of the knife a fraction of an inch from his stomach. Again Antonio came in, carrying the fight to Doom. Caleb affected to leap backward again, and the warrior, anticipating the maneuver, rushed him. It was a bad mistake and Antonio knew it when Doom braced and dropped low, but his momentum wouldn’t let him stop. He tried a half turn, but it was clumsy. Caleb’s knife streaked in, straight as an arrow with the watery light reflecting sullenly off the blade. Antonio felt the slight burning sensation as the knife bit into the flesh over his hip. He jumped frantically away and turned. Caleb was following up his advantage and caught the Apache with his shoulder and upper left arm before Antonio could regain his balance. They crashed to the spongy earth together, Doom on top.
Doom used his knee liberally and heard the half choked-off, half agonized moan as Antonio’s grip on his midriff slackened. Holding tightly, desperately to the slippery, lithe knife arm of the warrior, Caleb’s knife rose high and descended twice. Antonio locked his jaw against the flood of gall and blood that swelled in his throat. His eyes were fanatically filming over in implacable hatred and Caleb slashed ragingly once more, and the quivering, sweaty body went limp.
Caleb, unheeding, heard the crescendo of the battle surging around the general store as he dragged Antonio’s corpse into the brush. Unconsciously he knew that the few unfortunates, who had been unable to get to the store, had barricaded themselves in their hovels and had been killed.
Clarion clear in the cold predawn came the distant tones of a bugle. Caleb cocked his head incredulously. The closest soldiers were twenty-five miles away at Fort Lauder. He heard far-off gunfire, like the pop-ping of many small corks, and the fury on his sweaty, grimed, and weary face softened a little. It was unbelievable that the troops were coming, but that bugle call was unmistakable. A rumbling roar came from up by the general store. The warriors were being ordered back by Red Sleeves, and their angry growls were interspersed with the cries of the remaining de-fenders.
Caleb found his Indian horse and swung aboard. The air was cold now, and faint, weak light was out-lining the wreckage and smoking ruins that cluttered the orderly landscape of what had been Clearwater Springs. He rode slowly through the tall brush and willows that lined the little creek. A band of retreating warriors splashed across the creek and thundered away toward the ranchería. Some carried bundles of loot for trade with Sam Ginn, who had stayed well out of rifle range during the fight, explaining that some of the defenders might recognize him. The braves were leaving before the troops could be seen. The bugle call and the rapid sound of pre-mature firing had run them off. Doom sat quietly in the saddle and watched them stream back over the rolling prairie. Some of the warriors were reeling in their saddles, others were swathed in crude bandages, some led riderless and stolen horses, while others rode exultantly, streams of scalps flying loosely from bridles, belts, and rifle barrels as they rode.
Caleb sat perfectly still and relaxed, as an unearthly silence settled over the settlement that only a few moments before had been washed over by savage screams and deafening gunfire. He looked up at the store; there was no sign of movement or life. He knew the defenders were standing, red-eyed and fearful, awaiting the next act in the drama. His eyes came slowly around to where the attackers were, a disorderly mob of small figures riding out of sight in the near distance.