The scout said nothing, but Hooper snapped off a salute and said, “We’re ready, sir.”
“Then let’s proceed with the attack,” Stryker said.
Quietly, Hogg again reminded the lieutenant about the woman.
“Ah, yes,” Stryker said. He looked at Hooper. “There’s a white woman back there. Try to avoid shooting her if you can.”
Hooper and the men followed Stryker into the clearing and shook into two lines on the officer’s left. “Front rank, kneel,” Stryker whispered. “Now pick your targets.” Then, “Front rank, fire!”
Bullets crashed into the sleeping Apaches. Indians rose, groggily fumbling for their weapons.
“Rear rank, fire!”
Apaches staggered under the impact of the powerful .45-70 rounds and went down hard. At Stryker’s side, Hogg was working his Henry.
“Front rank, fire!”
At least half the warriors were hit. The others tried to regroup and a couple were ineffectually firing their rifles.
“Rear rank, fire!”
The Springfields crashed and more Indians went down.
“Independent fire!” Stryker roared.
As a ragged volley swept the clearing, an Apache charged directly at Stryker through a hanging pall of gray gun smoke, a knife in his upraised hand. At a distance of eight feet, the lieutenant shot into the man’s stocky body, then fired his Colt again. The Indian screamed and went down.
“Advance five paces!” Stryker yelled. “Get the hell out of the smoke.”
All the troopers but one obeyed the command. Stryker didn’t wait to see who had fallen, but stepped forward into cleaner air.
The clearing looked like a charnel house. Apache bodies, stained scarlet, lay in heaps and a few wounded groaned and tried to crawl away from the terrible firepower of the Springfields. The indifferent moon braided silver light over the scene and smoke drifted everywhere, like spirits rising from the dead warriors.
“No prisoners,” Stryker yelled. “Sergeant Hooper, see that it’s done.”
Hooper was invisible somewhere in the crashing darkness, but his loud, “Yes, sir,” carried in the breeze moaning through the stillness.
Joe Hogg appeared from the gloom, a Winchester in his hands. “Brand-new, like I figgered, Lieutenant.”
“It’s got to be one of Rake Pierce’s guns,” Stryker said. He looked around him as though searching the arroyo walls for the man. “Where the hell is he?”
“My guess would be the Madres, Lieutenant,” Hogg said mildly.
Stryker swore. “Damn him, damn him to hell.” Shots echoed around the clearing, the sound hitting the hard rock walls like a hammer on an anvil.
“I took this rifle off’n a wounded buck,” Hogg said. He inclined his head. “Over there by the base of the wall. Maybe we should talk to him afore Hooper does for him.”
“Will he tell us anything?”
“No. But I’ll talk to him anyhow.”
The Apache was young, gut shot and dying tough. There was defiance in his black eyes and a bottomless well of hatred.
Stryker looked down at the man, no pity in him. “Ask him where he last saw Rake Pierce.”
The scout jabbered words that Stryker did not understand; then the Indian raised his eyes to Stryker. He spat in the lieutenant’s direction, a feeble effort, his spit full of black blood.
Hogg smiled. “He just told you to go to hell, Lieutenant.”
“I gathered that.”
But to Stryker’s surprise, the Apache began to talk and Hogg cocked his head and listened intently.
When the Indian stopped speaking, the scout turned to Stryker. “He says the white man will soon be driven from all the Apache lands. Old Nana broke out of the San Carlos four days ago and he’s joined up with Geronimo. Between them, they plan to raise hob by killing as many settlers, soldiers and Mexicans as they can find.”
“Do you think Colonel Devore knows this?”
Hogg again smiled his slight smile. “By now? Depend on it.”
Stryker glanced at the dying Apache. “Ask him again where I can find Rake Pierce.”
“He won’t tell us, Lieutenant.”
“Joe, ask him, damn it.”
Hogg spoke to the Indian. The dying man closed his eyes and a thin, wavering chant escaped his lips like a mist.
“That’s his death song, Lieutenant. He’s all done talking.”
“So am I.”
Stryker drew his revolver and shot the Apache in the head. He turned away immediately. “Sergeant Hooper!”
The man came at a trot. “Pile the dead against the wall over there. They won’t stink until tomorrow, so we’ll camp here tonight. And bring the horses inside.” He glanced over at the Indian ponies. “Any worth saving?”
Hooper nodded. “Five mules, three cavalry mounts and a good-looking Morgan mare.”
“We’ll take those back to Fort Merit. Shoot the other ponies before we pull out in the morning.” He looked at Hooper. “How many did we kill?”
“Twenty-one, sir. All of them prime young bucks.”
“And the butcher’s bill?”
“Trooper Murphy dead. Trooper Rogers slightly wounded.”
“Lay out Corporal Murphy well away from the other dead. I will not have a brave Christian man lying among savages. We’ll take him back to the fort for burial.”
“Yes, sir.” Hooper waited.
“The soldiers can cook their supper and boil their coffee when you are ready, Sergeant. Don’t let them eat mule meat, it’s poisonous to white men.”
“Yes, sir.”
Stryker nodded. “Very good. Dismissed.”
After Hooper left, Stryker turned to Hogg. “If Nana is out and raiding with Geronimo, I’d bet the farm that Rake Pierce is here. For a while at least, the Arizona Territory is where the gun business will be.”
“Like I told you afore, Lieutenant, if he’s around I’ll find him for you.”
Stryker’s fingertips strayed to his broken face, a gesture he was not aware of making. “I’ll cut him, Joe. I’ll rip his damned guts out and knot them to a pine tree while he’s still breathing.”
Aloud the scout said, “Yes, Lieutenant, I believe you will.”
To himself, he wondered who the real savage in this mad slaughterhouse was.
Chapter 6
“Lieutenant, you better come see this.”
Joe Hogg stepped into the circle of firelight where Stryker was sitting, drinking coffee. “What’s all the hooting and hollering about, Joe?”
“That’s what you better come see.”
Carefully, Stryker laid his cup beside him and wearily rose to his feet. The shouting was coming from the cottonwood beside the narrow creek that ran from somewhere inside one of the surrounding mountains.
As he walked closer, he heard Sergeant Hooper yell, “Hell, lads, once she’s washed herself out real well, she’ll be as good as new.”
“Sarge,” a trooper said, “I don’t think I want a white woman that’s been done by Apaches.”
“Hell, Henderson, you idiot,” Hooper snapped. “You’re going to screw her, not take her home to meet ma.”
The other men who were gawking at the naked redhead frantically washing herself in the creek laughed, and Hooper said, “Look at the tits an’ ass she’s got on her, an’ her not more than sixteen or seventeen I’d say. Damned little whore has been done by more than Apaches—lay to that, my lads.”
More laughter until it was instantly stifled by Stryker’s voice. “Sergeant Hooper, that will be enough.” He turned to Hogg at his side. “Joe, get her out of there and find a blanket to cover her. Her clothes must be around here somewhere.”