Stryker nodded, then glanced at Hogg. The scout read the question in his eyes and said, “Maybe another thirty minutes. Let them bucks get good an’ drunk.”
“Sergeant Hooper, we’ll fight dismounted,” the lieutenant said. He disliked the thought of weakening his command, but there was no alternative. “Leave Trooper Kramer and one other man with the horses.”
Hooper saluted again. “Permission to picket the mounts, sir.”
After nodding his approval, Stryker again turned to Hogg. “Will they be guarding the arroyo, Joe?”
A white moth fluttered past the scout’s face. “Maybe, but I doubt it. The Apaches don’t know we’re here.”
“You sure about that?”
“Sure I’m sure. If they were around, they would have smelled your tobacco smoke, Lieutenant. You’d be dead by now.”
“Hell, Joe, you told me I could smoke.”
“I said, ‘If it pleases you.’ I didn’t say do it.”
Stryker glared hard at Hogg. But the scout only shrugged and turned away, his talking on the subject done.
After Stryker judged that the thirty minutes had passed, he swung out of the saddle and Hogg did the same.
“Sergeant Hooper, we’re moving out,” Stryker said. “Carbines, but leave the canteens behind and, like I did with Trooper Kramer, anything else that makes a damned racket.” He gave Hogg a sideways glance. “And no smoking.”
If the scout felt the slightest pang of guilt, he hid it well. He stepped to his horse, reached into the beaded possibles bag that always hung behind his saddle and took out a tally book. He tore out a page, folded it lengthwise and stuck it in the front of his hat.
He stepped closer to Hooper. “I’ll scout the arroyo again. When I come out o’ there, tell them alley rats of yours to look for the white paper in my hat. I don’t want them boys gettin’ scared, taking me fer an Apache, an’ cuttin’ loose.”
Hooper nodded and looked around him at the troopers. “You heard Mr. Hogg. Look for the white paper in his hat. Got that?”
There were a few scattered nods; then Stryker stepped forward as the scout mounted his pony and drifted into the gloom.
“Men,” he said, pitching his harsh voice low, “in a few minutes you will be fighting the tigers of the human species, an enemy cruel, crafty and quick to scent danger. The Apache is a treacherous animal, patient in defeat, merciless in victory. All you can do is kill him. And that’s what I expect of every one of you—kill . . . kill . . . kill again.”
Stryker’s voice stilled the troopers’ quiet cheers. “And here’s good news. Any man who falls in the engagement will be posthumously promoted to corporal.”
This time the only huzzah came from Hooper. He looked around at his men and said, “Now there’s generosity from the officer for you, lads. It’s not every day a dead man is promoted to full corporal.” He saluted Stryker. “You can depend on us to do our bit, sir.”
“Excellent,” Stryker said. God, he disliked Hooper intensely. “Move out the men, Sergeant, and from now on keep it quiet.”
The lieutenant in the lead, the detail moved into the gathering darkness. Above them, shedding a bladed light, the sickle moon silently reaped the stars. Stryker saw one fall to earth and he imagined that it thumped onto the desert sand and was now laying somewhere close, glowing red and smoking like a cinder.
He walked on across broken country, skirting the foothills. Behind him his troopers, cavalrymen who had an intense dislike of walking, stumbled and cursed softly, drawing muttered threats from Hooper.
Suddenly Hogg emerged from the gloom, leading his horse at a jog, the white paper in his hat bobbing.
“Hold your fire, it’s Hogg,” Stryker whispered, words repeated down the line.
The scout pulled up in front of his officer. “No guards at the arroyo. They’re drunk, Lieutenant, all of them.”
Stryker smiled. “Then we’ll go at once and kill every man jack of them.”
“The girl will be in the line of fire.”
“I’m afraid she must shift for herself, Mr. Hogg.” Stryker had no way of knowing, but right then the scout was wondering about him.
Had the shackle chain that destroyed his features also destroyed everything inside him that was once good and decent? Did his face now reflect the true nature of the man?
Joe Hogg was a traveled man, and Stryker’s face in the pallid moonlight stirred a memory. A mask, Chinese or Nipponese, he couldn’t recall. He’d seen it at a theater in Denver—or was it San Francisco?—a grotesque, twisted, furious thing worn by a dancer. Later, the dancer had removed the mask, revealing the face of a pretty, oriental girl. But if the lieutenant removed his mask, would the face underneath be the same . . . unchanged . . . a mask within a mask?
Hogg, who was afraid of no man or of anything that walked, crawled or flew, shuddered. A night breeze probed the skin of his face, reminding him that each one of us wears a mask.
But not like Stryker’s, he told himself. Never like that.
“Move out,” the lieutenant whispered. “The thoughtful Mr. Hogg will lead the way.”
Chapter 5
The entrance to the arroyo was a rectangle of blackness that stood out against the greater gloom of the night. The land was silent, except for the coyotes talking among the hills and the rustling rush of the breeze.
Rising almost perpendicular to a height of ten feet, the walls of the arroyo were crested by stunted juniper and mesquite, a perfect hiding place for an ambushing Apache. The defile itself was narrow, choked with brush and stands of prickly pear, allowing the passage of only one soldier at a time.
Stryker held up a hand, halting Hooper and his men where they were; then he and Hogg advanced deeper into the arroyo.
After thirty yards the walls spread farther apart, then opened up into a grassy area about two acres in extent. A small fire burned in the middle of the clearing, close to a single cottonwood and willow. Apaches were sprawled around the fire, one of them lying on his back, snoring loudly.
Stryker and the scout lost themselves in the shadows at the base of the twenty-foot wall of ridged, yellow rock that formed an amphitheater around the entire area. The moon was still visible, riding high, ringed by a halo of pale red and blue.
Beside Stryker, Hogg broke off a stem of bunch grass and stuck it between his teeth. The scout had his revolver in his right hand, thumb on the hammer.
An Apache, wearing a breechcloth, moccasins to his knees and a fancy Mexican vest, struggled to his feet and walked closer to the fire. He had a dark, cruel face, flat-lipped, his eyes deep in shadow.
The man staggered to a jug, picked it up, shook it, then threw it aside. He stepped to a woman, her red hair cascading over her shoulders in dusty waves. Naked, she sat with her legs drawn up, forehead resting on her knees.
The Apache dug his hand into the woman’s luxuriant hair, yanked back her head and stared into her face. He looked at the redhead for a few moments, grunted, then forced her head back on her knees.
Hogg’s black eyes were glittering in the firelight, aware of the woman, watching the Apache, teeth bared around the grass stem. He raised his gun, but Stryker tapped him on the shoulder and shook his head. He motioned to the arroyo and, crouching low, began to back away in that direction.
For a few seconds Hogg remained motionless.
The Apache walked away from the woman, staggered and fell flat on his face. He didn’t get up again.
Silently, the scout followed Stryker into the arroyo and rejoined the lieutenant who was talking with Hooper.
“They’re dead drunk and snoring,” Stryker was saying. “Sergeant Hooper, you will form two ranks on me and shoot into the savages at my command.” He turned. “Mr. Hogg, you will fire independently at targets of opportunity. Use your Henry to good effect.”