His plan had been so simple. Ride into Bighorn Point, declare his intention to kill a man, and let the man’s own guilt drive him from hiding. The guilty party would call him out, and Clayton would shoot him.
Instead . . .
Clayton groaned. It hurt his head to even think about it.
The dreary day dragged past with dreadful sluggishness. Then slowly the light seen through the tree canopy changed. Gone was the sullen sky of afternoon, replaced by a million diamonds scattered on lilac velvet.
Clayton sat up. The Apaches hadn’t moved, sitting in a circle, thinking . . . about what only God knew. They’d had neither food nor drink, nor had he, but Clayton was irritable and the wound in his thigh throbbed. If he had a woman close, he’d whine and moan and let her comfort him.
The Apaches needed no such comfort. They were like their mountains—still, silent, unchanging, enduring. With that strange sense many Indians possess, the old Apache said something to the youngest one. The youth rose to his feet, stepped to his horse, and returned with a canteen and a chunk of antelope meat.
These he offered to Clayton.
None of the other Apaches were eating or asking for water, a fact Clayton noticed. A man’s pride is a personal thing. But in the long run, it’s what separates the exceptional from the mediocre. Clayton refused the food.
“I will eat and drink when the Apache eat and drink,” he said.
The old man beside him nodded. Then he smiled.
Why he did the last, Clayton did not know.
Two hours later, he heard the rumble of wagon wheels, and after a few more minutes, the distant wail of an approaching locomotive.
Chapter 27
Marshal Nook Kelly stood outside his office, smoking his last cigar of the day. The town was quiet and the street was deserted. A few lights burned in the windows of the houses beyond the church, and over at John Whipple’s gun and rod store, his little calico cat explored the night.
Despite the quiet, Kelly was uneasy. Where the hell was Clayton? He should have returned from the spur by now.
The marshal admitted to himself that he liked the man from Abilene. Clayton was a cattleman, not a gunfighter, and he’d found himself out of his depth as a bounty hunter.
When this whole thing with Park Southwell’s wife blew over, and it looked as if it had because Kelly had not seen the old man or Shad Vestal either, then he’d send Clayton on home. The man he was looking for was not in Bighorn Point or he’d have revealed himself by now.
Park Southwell didn’t shape up as much of a human being, and probably had started his ranch with stolen cattle, but he’d been a colonel in the war, not a guerilla fighter like Lissome Terry.
As far as Kelly was concerned, Southwell was in the clear.
But that didn’t answer the question—where was Cage Clayton?
There were outlaws aplenty up here in the Nations, and a few bronco Apaches who hadn’t gotten the word about Geronimo. It was a dangerous place for a pilgrim, especially one wearing a lawman’s star on his shirt.
Kelly drew deeply on his cigar. Clayton was handy enough with a gun, but a bullet in the back has a way of canceling out that advantage. The marshal shook his head. Hell, he’d sent Clayton out to the spur, and he was responsible for his safety. But then, Cage was a grown man and could take care of himself. And he knew what . . .
“Damn it!” Kelly swore aloud.
The bottom line was he’d sent the man out to the spur and it was his duty as a peace officer to make sure he wasn’t in danger.
The marshal pitched his cigar into the street. He stepped into his office, grabbed his rifle from the rack, and blew out the oil lamp.
On his way to the livery stable, Kelly suddenly realized what was at the root of his decision to find Clayton.
“Nook Kelly,” he told himself, “you’re just too damned softhearted for your own good.”
Chapter 28
The Apaches moved through the darkness like silent ghosts.
Clayton joined them on the ridge and looked down at the spur. A single wagon was drawn up close to the tracks, two cowboys riding herd on its Mexican drivers. The train was off somewhere in the distance, but close enough that Clayton heard the chuff-chuff-chuff of the locomotive.
Beside him the Apaches were tense, ready. Now he could only act as a bystander and wait for them to make their move.
A couple of minutes ticked past. The Apaches lay still in the grass, watching. Waiting.
But for what?
Then it dawned on Clayton. They wouldn’t make a move until the engine arrived. If there were Apache bodies in the wagon, then God help the train crew.
After what seemed an endless wait, the train arrived. It was a locomotive with a single boxcar—a refrigerator car. The engine vented steam, for a moment obscuring the wagon and the two riders.
The Apaches moved. They crouched low and ran down the slope, Clayton with them. As the steam cleared, the cowboys saw the Indians. And made the last mistake they’d ever make.
Both men went for their holstered guns, and the Apaches fired.
One man was hit in the head and his hat flew off, revealing his complete baldness. He toppled out of the saddle as his companion, hit hard, swung his horse around and tried to make a dash for the trees.
The young Apache drew a bead and shot him, shot him again, and the man fell.
The two Mexicans were wide-eyed with terror. One of them screamed, “Por favor, no mas mate!”
The Apaches ignored his plea for mercy and yelled at the engineer and fireman to climb down from the cab.
Their hands in the air, the railroaders stood by the engine. Clayton saw that their fear was just as great as that of the Mexicans. Angry Apaches were not to be taken lightly. And they were about to get angrier.
There were two boxes in the wagon. The Apaches opened them and Clayton heard their roars of outrage and sorrow. Knowing what he was about to see, he stepped to the wagon.
A young woman’s body occupied each box. Neither showed signs of violence, and Clayton wondered at that until he caught the smell of rotgut whiskey. Then he knew how the women had been killed. Their abductors had gotten the girls drunk and smothered both of them.
“Lipan,” the old Apache said, “coming up from the south.”
“Where are their men?” Clayton asked. “Why didn’t they protect them?”
“Many Apache no longer fight. The Lipan know their days in the sun are over. White men get father, maybe brother, drunk, then take girls.”
Suddenly angry, Clayton limped to the bodies of the dead men. Behind him he heard shots. He turned and saw the Mexicans sprawled facedown in the dirt.
Grabbing hold of the back of the bald man’s collar, he dragged him to the engineer and his fireman. “Who is he?” he said. “Who does he work for?”
The engineer, a burly man with iron gray hair and a bristling mustache, shook his head. He looked terrified.
“Honest, mister, I don’t know. We were told to bring the refrigerator car here and pick up a couple of boxes.” His eyes pleaded with Clayton. “That’s how it come up, and it’s all I know.”
If the engineer did know more, he never got a chance to reveal it. The Apaches jumped on him and the fireman and began to kill them more slowly than the others, with knives, not guns.