Stryker's Revenge

Chapter 27

Clem Trimble had eaten his fill of biscuits and bacon and now he sighed and rested his back against the trunk of a cottonwood.

He knuckled his forehead, looking through the firelight at Stryker. “Best grub I’ve et in days, Cap’n. ’Course, it’s the only grub I’ve et in days.”

Stryker paused, tobacco and cigarette paper in his fingers. “Where are the Apaches headed, Clem?”

“If Uncle George is after them like you say, then Geronimo is hightailing it south to the Madres. The Apaches already had a bellyful of Crook and they ain’t exactly hankering for more.”

“Why are Rake Pierce and Silas Dugan still here?”

“Nosin’ around, seeing what they can pick up. There are homesteads in these hills, to say nothing of wandering Apache women and young ’uns. If he tries, a man like Dugan can do well for hisself.”

“Have you any idea where they are?”

“Cap’n, I can take you to the place I last seen them and you can track ’em from there. But since you don’t want my help, that ain’t gonna work.”

“I’m rethinking that, Clem.”

The old man nodded. “Good idea, Cap’n. A man shouldn’t walk around with all kinds of notions set hard in his head like cow flops in the sun.”

“How many men does Pierce have with him, sir?” Birchwood asked.

“I can’t answer that, young feller, since I got no acquaintance with that gentleman. Now, if you was to ask how many men Silas Dugan has with him, I’d say an even dozen.” He smiled. “Beggin’ your pardon, but against you two pilgrims, I reckon that’s more’n enough.”

Birchwood stiffened. “Sir, both Lieutenant Stryker and myself have fought Apaches before.”

“You ever fit the likes of Silas Dugan and them hard cases he has around him afore?”

Birchwood nodded gleefully, like a man about to say check in a chess game. “Yes, we did. Rake Pierce attacked us in an attempt to free Dugan from our custody.”

“An’ did he?”

Reluctantly Birchwood said, “Yes. But we killed one of his men in that engagement, an Indian.”

“And how many men did you lose, young feller?” Before Birchwood could answer, Stryker said, “Clem, I want you with us. We’ll pull out at sunup and follow your back trail. Then you’ll find Pierce and Dugan.”

“I’ll do my best fer ye, Cap’n, but gettin’ to them two won’t be easy.”

“Let me worry about that.”

Trimble nodded. “When a man believes he’s in the right, it can make him stubborn, Cap’n. Just don’t let that stubbornness get you kilt. From where I was hid, I took the measure of them hard cases with Dugan. Now, most were the kind of border riffraff men like him attract, but a couple were gun-hands, read that plain enough.” He waited a moment to let that sink in, then said, “I ain’t sure, but I thought I seen Billy Lee in the bunch.”

That name did not register on Stryker’s face and Trimble said, “He’s a gunman and bank robber out of El Paso, Texas. He claims to be kin to old Robert E., but I don’t know about that. But I’ll tell you true, he’s killed a bunch and he’s hell on wheels with a hogleg.”

Stryker poured himself coffee, motioned with the pot and Trimble stuck out his cup. “As I told you before, Clem, let me worry about Lee and the rest.”

“Anything you say, Cap’n.” Trimble had burned his fingers on the cup and was shaking them. “Just don’t let worry share your blanket tonight. That can weaken a man.”

Stryker built a cigarette and lit it with a brand from the fire. Yellow flared on his shattered face giving him the look of a stage demon in limelight.

Seeing what had happened to Trimble, he held his cup by the rim and drank. The old man was right about worry weakening a man, wrong about not letting it share his blanket.

Later, stretched out near the fire, he racked his brain, trying to come up with a plan, a strategy, anything.

After an hour, he gave up. He had no plan. All he could do was throw his fate to the winds and hope they blew in his direction.

That thought brought him no comfort. No release.

Trimble told Stryker he was a couple of hours north of Black Mountain when he saw Dugan and his bunch. Now they rode in that direction, the old man, who was favoring his ankle, up behind Birchwood.

The mountain was a rocky, volcanic peak visible for miles, its steep slopes covered with mesquite and cactus.

“There’s old ruins up there on top, Cap’n,” Trimble said, “walls an’ sich. As to who built them, nobody knows. But it was way before the Apaches’ time.”

“Can I get a good view of the country from the peak?” Stryker asked.

“Sure you can, Cap’n. From there a farsighted man can see clear to Old Mexico.”

Stryker stored that away. If they didn’t pick up Pierce’s trail, he’d climb the mountain and scout the land around him with his field glasses. A wisp of smoke or the glint of sunlight on a horse bridle could reveal the man’s location.

The sun rose higher in the sky. It was not yet noon, an hour shy of it, yet the heat was building, promising the day would be an inferno.

Black Mountain right ahead of him, Stryker led the way across a ridge that gradually sloped downward and opened onto a small, grassy meadow, bright with wildflowers. A small stream, lined with cottonwood and willow, was just visible behind thick brush and here they stopped to water the horses and let them graze for a while.

Stryker found shade under a cottonwood and stretched out his legs. He ate a strip of cold bacon and biscuit, then smoked a cigarette before stepping to the stream for a drink.

He chose an area free of brush and lay on his belly, splashing cool water onto his face and neck. He bent his head to drink directly from the stream when the water suddenly erupted to meet him. At the same time he heard the slam of a rifle shot.

Rolling to his right, Stryker crashed into the brush and lay still, his Colt in his hand. There was no sign of Birchwood and Trimble, and he assumed they had already taken cover.

“Birchwood! Trimble! You all right?”

“We’re all right, Cap’n,” the old man yelled. “Who took a pot at us?”

“Damned if I know!”

Another bullet kicked up dirt close to Stryker, a second rattled through the brush just above his head. He was pinned down, nailed to the ground by someone who knew how to use a rifle.

Was it Pierce and his men?

He dismissed that. They would have all fired at once. This was one man. A lone bronco Apache? That was more likely.

“Hey, Maryann, eat this!”

Trimble’s voice was drowned out by the bellow of his Spencer. It was a probing shot that went nowhere.

And it was immediately answered by a flurry of rifle fire that crashed bullets all around the area where Birchwood and Trimble lay hidden.

Stryker heard the old prospector’s laugh, a high-pitched, “Hee-hee-hee!” that chased itself around the meadow. “Damn me, boy,” he yelled, “but that was good shootin’.”

A pause, then, “Are you white men?” A woman’s voice.

“Hell, do we sound like Apaches to you?” Stryker yelled.

“Identify yourself!”

Irritation flared in Stryker. He had no desire to bandy words with a bushwhacker, female or not.

An impatient bullet spurted aV of dirt in front of his face.

“Identify yourselves.”

Stryker shook his head. This was developing into a Mexican standoff. He justified his surrender by telling himself he was only being polite to a lady.

“First Lieutenant Steve Stryker, United States Cavalry. Those two in the bushes are Second Lieutenant Dale Birchwood and Clem Trimble, the crazy old coot with the Spencer.”

“An’ I’m right pleased to make your acquaintance, ma’am,” Trimble called out, apparently unfazed by Stryker’s comment.

“Step into the open where I can see you,” the woman said.

“That won’t work, lady,” Stryker said. “You show yourself first.”

“You’re a white man all right,” the woman yelled.

“Always wanting me to show myself.” There was a moment’s pause; then the woman stepped out into the meadow. “This enough show for you?”