Doomsday Rider

Fifteen

Before first light the two dozen surviving disciples buried their dead at a distance from the pueblo in a patch of open ground. The earth was winter-hard and difficult to dig, and of necessity the corpses were buried shallow, but hopefully, the people told each other, deep enough to deter scavengers.

Fletcher and Charlie stood guard with their rifles as men, women, and children lingered at the gravesides and did their best to pray, the light from a dozen lanterns casting pools of yellow and orange around their feet as falling snow, driven by an awakening wind, frosted their bent heads.

When the prayers were done and the burying over, one of the men turned to the others and said, “We must leave this place as soon as we can, because there is only death here and the honeyed words of the false prophet.”

A ripple of agreement went through the mourners, and another heavily bearded man said, “Listen, all of you: Gather up what food you can and be ready to move out at daybreak.”

“Where will we go?” a woman asked, a couple of youngsters clinging to her skirt, wide-eyed and scared since they had been unable to sleep away their fears.

“North,” the bearded man said. “We will walk toward the soldiers.”

Charlie took a step toward the crowd, his rifle in the crook of his buckskinned arm. “You won’t make it,” he said. “If a big snow doesn’t get you, the Apaches will.”

“The Apaches will get us if we stay here,” the bearded man said, and again the rest of them voiced their agreement.

“Well, I can’t argue with that,” Charlie said. “But even if’n it’s a slim one, which it is, you’ve got a better chance of getting out of this alive if you stay right here.”

“You brought this misfortune down on us,” a woman with a thick blond braid hanging to her hips said. “Why should we listen to you?”

“Because,” said Fletcher, “we’re the only men here with rifles.”

The bearded man stepped belligerently toward Fletcher. “Maybe we’ll just take those guns from you,” he said, his fists clenching.

“Mister, try that and I swear to God you’ll be digging more holes for dead men,” Fletcher said, his voice flat and cold.

Estelle walked in front of Fletcher. She was wearing a pale blue dress embroidered with small white flowers, and she’d thrown a shawl around her shoulders. Her thick hair was pulled back in a bun, and in the lantern light a bruise showed black on her chin.

The girl threw up her arms for quiet as the disciples crowded around her, angry and spoiling for a fight. “Listen, as I’ve told you before, the Chosen One is alive. He cannot die until doomsday comes to pass. Stay right here. He’ll come back to us, perhaps today, maybe tomorrow. But he’ll come back. He would not leave his people stranded in this wilderness with no one to guide them.”

“He screamed all night,” somebody said. “He can die just like the rest of us.”

“Yes, he can die,” Estelle said, “like any mortal man. But, since he is the Chosen One, he will be resurrected to glory and return to us.”

Fletcher saw hesitation and doubt in the faces of many of the disciples, including that of the bearded man, and it was he who spoke next.

“Do you tell us the truth, Estelle? Will the Chosen One live again?”

“Oh, yes, oh, yes, he will. This I believe with all my heart and soul.” The girl’s eyes swept the crowd, her face shining. “He came to me in the night, after my grief for him was spent. He bent low and whispered in my ear, ‘Grieve no longer. I shall return, for I have been granted the power over death itself.’”

The disciples were silent for a few moments, then began to talk among themselves. Finally the bearded man said, “We’ll wait until this time tomorrow. If the Chosen One returns, he can lead us out of the wilderness.”

Charlie leaned toward Fletcher and said in a hoarse stage whisper, “Ain’t none of us gonna be here this time tomorrow.”

Estelle rounded on Charlie angrily. “Oh, ye of little faith. The Chosen One will return and he will save us. You’ll see.”

“Lady, for your sake as well as mine, I hope you’re right,” was all Charlie said.

* * *

The Apaches attacked again an hour after dawn.

This time they walked their ponies toward the pueblo in a long skirmish line, firing as they came.

Dozens of bullets thudded into the wall near Fletcher and Charlie, and a flying chip of stone nicked Fletcher’s cheekbone and drew blood.

Fletcher fired until his rifle ran dry, then went to his Colts. He stood at the window, his guns hammering, then ducked down again as bullets split the air around him.

Two Indians lay sprawled on the snow, but the rest kept on coming, a slow, inexorable walk toward the pueblo, firing as they rode.

“Buck,” Charlie said, setting aside his empty rifle and drawing his bowie knife from his belt, “I think this is it. You got a bullet for me?”

Fletcher glanced out the window. The warriors were very close and he had only a few rounds left in his Colts.

“I’ll save one, Charlie,” he said, meaning every word of it.

Charlie brandished the bowie. “Just let me stand at the door and cut a few first.”

Scattered firing broke out somewhere behind the advancing Apaches, in the direction of the valley. This was followed by a smashing volley as most of the warriors in front of the pueblo turned their ponies and began shooting.

“Now what the hell?” Charlie yelled.

More and more Indians were streaming away from the pueblo toward the valley, yipping their war cries.

The reason became apparent a few moments later when a small wagon drawn by a pair of mules galloped into the flat.

The mules were being driven hard, and Fletcher caught a fleeting glimpse of two men up on the box and the painted U.S. Army sign above crossed sabers on the side of the wagon.

One of the mules went down, but the impetus of the wagon dragged the dead animal with it to the front of the pueblo.

The two men, one in cavalry blue, jumped from the box, leveled their rifles, and blasted shot after shot at the Apaches, their firing accurate and deadly.

From the window Fletcher emptied his Colts at the galloping, whooping warriors, and the Indians, confused by this firestorm of lead and losing men, broke and streamed back to the valley.

They left six dead on the snow, their blood splashing red around them.

Fletcher and Charlie stepped out of the pueblo and walked toward the new arrivals, and beside him Fletcher heard Charlie’s startled yelp of surprise.

One of the men was Sgt. Andy Wilson, the other Scarlet Hays.

And with that recognition the cold realization came to Fletcher that both had vowed to kill him.

“Well, well, well, fancy meeting you here,” Hays said. “If it ain’t the great Buck Fletcher.” The gunman’s fingers moved to his split lips. “Last time I seen you was at Fort Apache.”

The threat was implied, and Fletcher took it as such.

“What are you doing here, Hays?” he asked as his eyes shaded to a cold gunmetal gray. Had this man come to murder Estelle?

The hatchet-faced gunman smiled, his teeth showing crooked and stained from chewing black plug tobacco. “Hell, we was driving south, heading down Nogales way, when we was jumped by Apaches. We came tearing in here and . . . well, here we are and there you are.”

Acutely conscious of his empty guns, Fletcher said, “We’re not out of the woods yet, Scar. Those young bucks will be back.”

“Maybe so.” Hays looked out at the Apache dead. “We hit ’em pretty hard, me and ol’ Andy here.”

Hays turned his head to the sergeant. “Oh, my sincere apologies; you two haven’t been introduced. This is—”

“I know who he is,” Fletcher said, cutting him off.

Wilson was a big man, huge in the shoulders and thick in the arms, his hands big-knuckled and scarred, the fighting mitts of a pugilist. His hair was cropped close to his head and a full cavalry mustache hung limp and untrimmed under a nose that had been broken many times. There was an air of casual, heedless brutality about the man, and this was reflected in his black, soulless eyes and the arrogant, aggressive way he held himself.

“We’ve met,” Wilson said to Hays. He nodded at Fletcher. “Me and him have a score to settle, only this time he won’t have a damn officer to hide behind.”

Hays’s smile was insolent as his fingers strayed to his lips again. “Yeah, well, we all got scores to settle, Andy.”

Fletcher’s eyes slid past Hays as though he was a thing of no importance and rested on the wagon.

“Pay wagon,” Hays said, grinning. “Me and Andy here, we found it an’ we’re saving it for General Crook.”

“Sure you are,” Charlie said. “An’ pigs fly.”

If Hays was offended he didn’t let it show. “Had three other boys with me, but they never showed,” he said. “Told them to catch up, but they didn’t.”

“They’re dead,” Fletcher said. “Apaches got Clevinger and Gittings, and the Kid drew down on me.”

“The Kid was greased-lightning fast,” Hays said.

“I was faster,” Fletcher said.

The disciples had poured out of the pueblo and, curious, surrounded the pay wagon, Estelle among them.

Hays saw the girl and a thin smile tightened his mouth.

“That’s how I like them,” he said to Wilson out of the corner of his mouth. “Once they swell they’re available all the time, and they’re all big butt and bobbers.”

As Wilson guffawed, Hays set his derby hat at a jaunty angle and stepped beside Estelle. “How do, pretty lady?”

The girl looked at Hays and didn’t like what she was seeing, and her eyes grew wide with something akin to fear.

“Hey, Scar,” Charlie said, “that woman just lost her husband.”

“Well, ain’t it just too bad.” Hays grinned. “Now she needs a real man to look after her.”

Estelle tried to walk back to the pueblo, but Hays blocked her path. “Please step aside,” she said. “I’m tired and I must rest.”

Hays’s face was ugly. “Don’t you come the high-and-mighty fine Eastern lady with me,” he said. “I got a feeling you and me is going to be heading down Nogales way together, an’ that’s a lot better than me leaving you to the Apaches. Well, some better, at least.”

The girl’s eyes held both fear and loathing, and Fletcher decided he could not let it go any further. “Let her be, Scar,” he said.

The gunman whirled, his hands above his Colts, his eyes blazing with hate and fury.

Fletcher stood easy and relaxed, even as he knew he was running a desperate, dangerous bluff with empty guns. “Don’t try it, Scar. You won’t even clear the leather.”

Hays thought about it—and for a single heart-pounding moment Fletcher believed he would say the hell with it and make the play.

But slowly the gunman relaxed, his fingers unclawing. “Damn you, Fletcher,” he snarled, “once this is over and the Apaches have cleared out, me and you will go at it.”

He turned to Estelle. “And you,” he said, “pack a bag.”

* * *

As the long day stretched into evening, there were no further attacks, though Charlie and Fletcher stood at the window of their room, empty rifles cradled in their arms.

Hays had vanished into one of the other rooms in the pueblo, but Wilson stood outside near the wagon, alert and watching the night.

Charlie nodded in the man’s direction. “You figure the sergeant there tipped off ol’ Scar about the pay wagon?”

“I’m willing to bet that’s what happened,” Fletcher said. “I would say he was one of the escort and it was him who killed the major and the young trooper.”

“How much do you reckon is in there?” Charlie asked.

Fletcher shrugged. “There’s the best part of three cavalry regiments in the basin, not counting scouts. I’d say thirty thousand dollars, maybe more.”

Charlie whistled. “Ol’ Scar could have a time with that down in Nogales.”

“He sure could.” Fletcher nodded, saying one thing, thinking another.

“What’s on your mind, Buck?” Charlie asked.

“Charlie, we’ve got to get some ammunition,” Fletcher said. “We’re powerless against Hays and Wilson with empty guns. When it comes right down to it, I don’t want to go up against Scar’s Colts when all I can do is throw rocks at him.”

“Both them boys are carrying .44.40 Winchesters like yours, and Scar’s revolvers are .45s,” Charlie said. “That’s where the cartridges be, if’n you can get to them.”

“Getting to them, that’s the problem,” Fletcher said. “We can’t tell Hays our guns are empty. He’d kill us both without even giving it a thought.”

Charlie was silent for a few moments, then slapped the side of his head. “Buck, what are we thinking about! There are all kinds of dead Apaches out there and they’ve got cartridge belts. Got to be our caliber among them.”

Fletcher looked at Charlie, thinking it through. “Don’t the Apaches always carry off their dead?” he asked finally.

“Mostly they do, but I’m betting those young bucks are still lying out there. I don’t think the rest of them warriors will want to be slowed down by dead men until they take the pueblo, not with Georgie Crook’s flying columns out after every Apache in the basin.”

Fletcher nodded. “It’s worth a try.”

“Damn right it is.” Charlie grinned.

The two men stepped out of the pueblo into the darkness. Behind them the windows glowed yellow from the light of oil lamps and candles, and Fletcher thought he heard Hays drunkenly yell something and then fall silent.

“Mescal,” Charlie whispered.

“You heard him too, huh?”

“Ol’ Scar, he’s a terror when he’s drinking,” Charlie said. “You don’t want to be around him, and you don’t want your womenfolk around him either.”

Off to their left, Wilson stood guard at the wagon, his Winchester in his arms. He was turned toward the sound of Hays and didn’t look in the direction of Charlie and Fletcher as, crouching low, they made their way across the snow-covered flat.

The dead warriors were still there. Or at least one was, the prostrate form Charlie tripped over in the darkness.

The Apache was young, no more than sixteen by the look of his smooth face, but he had apparently not yet participated in enough raids to acquire a rifle. A quiver of arrows slanted across his back and his bow, the Osage wood shattered by a bullet, lay a few feet away.

Charlie motioned silently and he crept in the direction he’d pointed, Fletcher following. Another warrior lay flat in his back, the top of his head blown away. But this man wore a cartridge belt across his chest and another circled his hips.

“Hell, Buck,” Charlie whispered, “we’re in business.”

Both belts held .44.40 shells, and Charlie and Fletcher quickly loaded their rifles and stuffed the remaining rounds into their pockets.

A search of the other bodies turned up just one belt of .45s, but it was enough for Fletcher to load both his Colts and fill half the loops in his gun belt.

Above them the clouds had parted and the moon rode high in the sky. The snow had been replaced by a hard frost and the breath of both men smoked misty white in the cold air.

“It’s sure quiet out here,” Charlie whispered. “You reckon maybe them Apaches decided enough was enough and pulled out?”

Fletcher shrugged. “I guess there’s one way to find out.” He nodded to the hill looming above them. “From up there.”

He walked to the hill and began to climb, Charlie close behind him.

They reached the pines and moved through the restless trees to the western slope overlooking the valley. Fletcher dropped to his belly and studied the valley below.

Charlie dropped beside him. “See anything?”

“It’s what I don’t see that cheers me some,” Fletcher answered. “I don’t see any horses down there or men either. I think they’ve skedaddled.”

“When?” Charlie asked. “Más temprano?”

“Yeah, much earlier. I think maybe right after Hays and Wilson arrived and they lost those six warriors.”

Fletcher rose to his feet. “Let’s go down there, Charlie. But step nice and easy.”

The two men made their way down the slopes, rifles at the ready. But there was no need. The Apaches were gone.

Only the Chosen One remained.