Stryker's Revenge

Chapter 29

Stryker and the others rode due south, in the direction of Packsaddle Mountain. Riding through rugged, difficult terrain, they crossed Box Canyon and were within two miles of High Lonesome, yet another forbidding chasm, when thunderheads began to build above the Swisshelm Mountains to the west.

Within minutes the clouds had turned black and the air smelled of ozone and of the pines that were already tossing their heads, worried by a rising wind.

“Big blow comin’ up, Cap’n,” Trimble told Stryker. He winked. “We don’t want to be caught in no canyon when the rains come; a man can drown quicker’n scat that way.”

Stryker was irritated, not at the old man but at the volatile temperament of the desert summer. He was praying that Pierce was still camped close to the Saddleback and had not already slipped south into Mexico.

“Look for a likely place to hole up,” he said. He looked around himself, but saw nothing that promised shelter. Trimble was right; there was always a danger of flash floods in the canyons and arroyos. They would have to reach higher ground.

Now the scowling clouds above them were black. Thunder banged and lightning flashed skeletal fingers that clawed the face of the sky. Rain hammered down, falling like a cascade of stinging steel needles.

Stryker turned in the saddle. “Up ahead!” He had to yell over the noise of the storm. He waved the others forward.

He pushed the little criollo up a steep, pine-covered rise and headed toward a limestone overhang, jutting out from the lower slope of a shallow peak. The overhang was low, no more than six feet, holding up a detritus of fallen rocks, whitened tree limbs and rubble. But it covered a deep gash in the slope that went back fifteen feet, gradually sinking lower until it petered out at a rock face. It would shelter both men and horses until the storm passed.

The wind ravaged through the trees like a shark, shredding pine needles, cartwheeling them into the air. Lightning blazed and thunder roared in the voice of an angry god.

“Hell,” Trimble said, throwing himself off the back of Birchwood’s horse, “it’s like the end of the world.”

Stryker and Birchwood led their mounts into the shelter of the overhang. The horses were frightened, their eyes showing arcs of white, but they stood where they were, preferring even that meager shelter to what lay outside.

Stryker stepped deeper into the cleft, found a place to sit and built a cigarette. He wondered how the women were faring back at their camp. Huddled in the wagon probably, waiting for death to take them.

“Stella Parker,” he said aloud.

Birchwood looked at him strangely, but said nothing.

“The woman with the rifle,” Stryker said. “Her name was Stella Parker.”

“Oh,” Birchwood said.

Stryker glanced up at him. “Yes, that was her name all right.”

After the storm passed, they mounted again and rode south and that night camped in the looming shadow of the Packsaddle.

As though ashamed of its temper tantrum, the desert compensated by putting on a show. The violet sky was clear, glittering with far-flung stars, and a bright moon rose, braiding the pines with mother-of-pearl light. A soft breeze rustled, heavy with the scent of damp moss, and out in the darkness the waking coyotes shook themselves and sprayed from their coats water that haloed around them like beads of silver.

Stryker sat by the fire, drinking coffee and smoking. Opposite him, Birchwood was deep in thought, his young face crimsoned by the flames.

“Something troubling you, Mr. Birchwood?” Stryker asked. “You still tearing yourself apart over your whiskey bender?”

The young man shook his head. “No, sir. My betrothed can’t hear me, I know, but I’ve made another vow that I will not enter houses of ill repute and that my lips will ne’er again touch whiskey.”

“Very commendable, Mr. Birchwood. I’m sure your lady would be pleased to know that her cavalier has sworn off whores and strong drink.”

Birchwood looked sharply at Stryker, but the lieutenant’s face was empty.

After the time it took him to light another cigarette and sample his coffee, Stryker said, “So what’s sticking in your craw?”

Birchwood poked a stick deeper into the fire, throwing up a shower of sparks. “I think we should head back to Fort Bowie, sir. We’ve followed our orders and ascertained that there are no Apaches within miles of the post. Now it’s time to go back.”

“We will, just as soon as I settle with Rake Pierce.”

“We have no orders to that effect, sir.”

“Mr. Birchwood, the man is a deserter, a murderer, a gunrunner and a scalp-hunter. He needs killing. I don’t require orders to that effect.”

“Sir, have you noticed that there are only two of us?”

“Trimble doesn’t count, huh?”

“He’s out of it. This isn’t his fight.”

“Or yours, Mr. Birchwood?”

The young officer hesitated, then said, “You asked me what was troubling me. Well, sir, it’s the right or wrong of going after Pierce that troubles me. I don’t know where my duty lies. But I doubt that giving my life for my senior officer’s personal vendetta should be a part of it.”

Birchwood’s comment had stung, and Stryker felt molten steel scald his insides. “Your duty, Lieutenant, is to follow orders and I’m giving you one now. You will join me in the pursuit of the deserter and renegade Sergeant Rake Pierce. Have I made myself perfectly clear?”

The young officer’s face was stiff, the iron discipline and respect for authority of the frontier army presenting him with an impassible barrier. “Yes, sir. Perfectly, sir.”

“I’m very glad to hear that, Mr. Birchwood,” Stryker said.

Suddenly Trimble was beside him. “Don’t look now, Cap’n, but we got comp’ny,” he said.