Stryker's Revenge

Chapter 30

Stryker unbuttoned his holster flap as he rose to his feet. Two men sat their horses in the shadows, black outlines against the moon-raked night. Some primitive instinct warned him of danger and he felt a malevolence gather around him, as though the air had suddenly grown colder.

“Hello the camp!” one of the riders yelled.

Stryker stepped out of the firelight. “Come on ahead.” Somewhere to his left he heard Trimble cycle his Spencer. Birchwood had faded to his right, half in shadow.

He watched the riders come, aware that he’d not been alone—Clem and Birchwood had sensed the brooding danger as he had.

The two men stayed beyond the rim of the firelight. “Smelled your coffee,” the man to the right of Stryker said. “We could sure use a cup.”

Before Stryker could answer, the rider looked beyond him into the gloom. “Clem Trimble, is that you I see skulking back there? I know I heard your Spencer.”

The old prospector stepped out of the gloom. He let his rifle hang loose in one hand and knuckled his forehead with the other. “Yeah, it’s me, Billy. Ol’ Clem Trimble as ever was.”

The man called Billy smiled. “You loco old coot, I thought your hair would be hanging in some Apache buck’s wickiup by now.”

“Apaches never troubled me none, Billy. Until lately, that is.” He grinned. “It’s real nice to make your acquaintance again, Billy. I don’t recollect meeting your compadre there.”

“This here is Tom Diamond from up Denver way,” Billy said. He was talking to Trimble but his eyes were trying to pin Stryker to the darkness.

“Right pleased to meet you, Tom,” Trimble said.

“Last I heard o’ you was when you gunned ol’ Shep Shannon down Abilene way.”

Diamond’s head turned slowly, like a lizard. “Shut your trap, old man,” he said. “I’m tired of hearing you talk.”

Trimble nodded, smiling, saying nothing.

The old prospector looked afraid, and Stryker reckoned he had every right to be. There was an air of malice and threat about the two riders and an aura of danger that seemed to wrap them both to the eyes in a sinister black shroud.

“Still want that coffee?” Stryker asked.

The man called Diamond answered. “Sure we do, but we’ll get it ourselves . . . afterward.”

“Cap’n, this here is Billy Lee, the man I was telling you about if you recollect, him being kin to ol’ Bobby Lee an’ all.”

Trimble was warning him, Stryker knew. He was stretched tight, his mouth dry, a cold sweat on him.

Lee nodded. “The old coot’s right. Cousin kin to the great man himself. And that’s why I don’t cotton to Blue bellies, especially ugly ones like you.” The man grinned and turned to his companion. “You ever in all your born days see an uglier Yankee than that ’un?”

Diamond shook his head. “Can’t say as I have.” “Know your enemy” was a saying at the Point, and Stryker took time to study the two riders. Both were dressed like Texas drovers, but they wore guns, belts, boots and spurs that no cowhand could afford. That’s where their similarities ended.

Lee was short, thin, with the eyes of a snake. Like any westerner who laid even a tenuous claim to manhood, his top lip was covered in a downy fuzz that did nothing to conceal a small, cruel mouth. He was poised, eager and ready to kill.

By contrast Diamond was a tall, handsome man with a thick dragoon mustache, black hair falling to his shoulders in glossy ringlets. He wore two Remingtons strapped to his chest in shoulder holsters, a gun rig Stryker had never seen before. At first glance he looked like a thinking man, but that was an illusion. Diamond was a mindless killer, and now he wore that brand on his face like a mark of Cain.

Lee was talking. “What are you soldier boys doing here?”

Stryker began, “My name is—”

“I know your damned name. I asked you what you’re doing here.”

Anger flared in Stryker. “If you know my name, then you know what I’m doing here.”

“You tell me, soldier boy.”

“We’re scouting for Apaches.” This from Birchwood, who looked like a towheaded farm boy in the ruddy firelight.

“You’re a damned liar,” Lee snarled. “You already know Geronimo is being chased into the Madres by Crook. You two are looking for a man. A man by the name of Rake Pierce, a real good friend of ours.”

“As the lieutenant told you, we’re scouting for Apaches,” Stryker said.

“What is this, a goddamned liars’ meetin’?” Lee asked. “Stryker, we got us a Mescalero breed who’s been trailing you. He seen you talk to them poxed whores, then followed you here.” The gunman smiled. “The only reason you’re at the Packsaddle is because the whores told you Mr. Pierce had a camp close by.” He grinned like a death’s head. “Well, them whores won’t be talkin’ to anybody else.”

“Her name was Stella Parker,” Stryker said.

“What the hell are you yapping about?”

“One of the women you killed. Her name was Stella Parker.”

“Like I give a shit.”

“Here’s my offer,” Stryker said, a terrible anger in him. “You tell Pierce and Dugan to surrender themselves up to me by noon tomorrow and we’ll head back to Fort Bowie where they will receive a fair trial and benefit of clergy.”

Lee laughed. He turned to Diamond. “Did you hear that? He’s making us an offer.”

Diamond did the lizard turn of his head. “Billy, you talk too much. Let’s get it done.”

Then his hands streaked for his guns.

Stryker was drawing.

During a gunfight, thoughts don’t proceed through a man’s mind in an orderly fashion. They flash into his head instantly, fully formed, like images at a magic lantern show. As they now did for Stryker.

I’m slow. Way too slow.

My body is already weakened. I can’t take another hit.

Dive! Hit the ground!

Both Lee and Diamond were firing.

Stryker hit the dirt hard, rolled and came up on one knee.

The two gunmen were fighting their skittish horses, Lee turning backward in the saddle to get off a shot.

A bullet cracked past Stryker’s head. He fired. Missed.

Trimble’s Spencer boomed. Diamond’s saddle horn disintegrated and the man jerked backward.

Birchwood was on his belly, his Colt straight out in front of him, grasped in both hands. He was firing steadily, methodically, running out his five-shot string.

Stryker fired at Lee. A hit. The gunman’s thin chest seemed to cave as he bent over, blood on his lips, his shoulders pushing forward.

The Spencer blasted another shot. Diamond was hit hard. He was firing both his Remingtons, the big revolvers rolling with the recoils.

Trimble yelped in pain and his rifle thudded to the ground. He was out of the fight. Birchwood was trying to reload, his fumbling fingers dropping shiny brass rounds onto the grass.

Stryker rose to his feet. He raised his Colt and fired at Diamond. A clean miss. He fired again. But the gunman was already sliding from the saddle. He hit the ground with a thud.

Like Trimble, Billy Lee was out of the fight. Slumped over and still, Lee let his horse carry him toward the surrounding trees at a walk. Birchwood was on his feet. He assumed a target shooter’s pose he’d been taught at the Point, his revolver held high at arm’s length, left foot tucked behind his right heel. He fired, thumbed the hammer, then fired again. Lee rolled slowly from the saddle.

Thick gray gunsmoke twined through the clearing, silvered by moonlight.

Stryker turned. “Clem, are you hit?”

The old man cackled. “Ol’ Tom clipped a finger off’n me, Cap’n. Cut her as clean as a whistle.”

“Mr. Birchwood?”

“Unhurt, sir.” The young officer stepped to Stryker and looked him over. “You seem to be all of a piece, sir.”

Stryker nodded, amazed that all three of them were still alive.

Trimble, holding a bloody left hand, offered the reason. “We was lucky, Cap’n. Green horses and men who had killed too often and too easily. That breeds carelessness and they was only half trying. Then they suddenly knowed they wasn’t dealin’ with pilgrims, but by then it was too late for them.” He shook his head. “It’s a real shame, because Billy Lee was one of the best around, an’ him bein’ close kin to ol’ Bobby an all.”

“Let me see your hand,” Stryker said.

The ring finger of the old man’s left hand was gone, blown off clean at the knuckle. “The trigger was shot off’n my Spencer,” Trimble said. “Gonna need a gunsmith afore she’s right again.”

“We have to do something with your hand,” Stryker said. But just what, he did not know.

“Cap’n, I’ll find me some willow bark for pain, bile me up some sage to keep the stump clean, an’ I’ll be good.” He cackled. “Did you see ol’ Tom jump when I blowed off his saddle horn, huh? Sceered the shit out of him, like he’d just seen a boogerman. I reckon he didn’t know that I’m too old a cat to be played with by a kittlin’.”

“Can you ride, Clem?” Stryker asked.

“Of course I can ride, Cap’n. Learned how when you were still in knee britches.” Trimble’s face took on a crafty look. “You want me to go after Dugan and Pierce with you.”

Stryker nodded. “I need your skill with a rifle, Clem. Even if you fire one-handed, you’ll be better than me.”

“Don’t you worry none about that, Cap’n,” Trimble said. “I can still shoot.” He looked at Stryker, anticipating his unasked question. “Cap’n, when them boys don’t come back, ol’ Dugan will do one of two things: He’ll scamper for the border or he’ll come lookin’ fer us. Either way, I’ll ride with you, Cap’n.”

“What will he do, Clem? Run or fight?”

The old man thought for a while, then said, “Silas Dugan don’t scare worth a damn.”

“So he and Pierce will come hunting us?”

“Damn right they will.”