Stryker's Revenge

Chapter 33

Pierce’s camp seemed unchanged, until Stryker scanned the horse lines. Two ponies and a mule were missing. He felt concern ball up inside him. Had Pierce and Dugan ridden away for some reason?

No, it could be any two of the renegades. Maybe a couple of men who had left to hunt or were off scouting somewhere.

But Stryker felt uneasy. Pierce and Dugan had the instincts and inclinations of wolves. Had they sensed danger of some kind and fled?

Edging close to Trimble, Stryker told him what he’d seen. The old man nodded, then turned. “See them two teeth I got there on the bottom, Cap’n?” He opened his mouth.

“I see them,” Stryker whispered. “They’re the only two you have.”

“Uh-huh, an’ they’re what I call ‘Indian teeth.’ They start to punish me when Apaches are close.”

“They punishing you now?”

“You bet, Cap’n. An’ hear that? All the birds have gone quiet.”

Stryker listened into the afternoon. There was no sound, not even the scratching of insects in the brush. The men in camp seemed not to have noticed. Ten of them had gathered around the fire to eat and a few had lit pipes. No one had bothered to cover the body of the Apache girl and she still lay where she’d fallen. The sunlight gleamed on the polished dark skin of her arms and legs, as if she were still alive and full of health.

Another whisper from Trimble. “I don’t see ol’ Silas, nor that feller Pierce either.”

Stryker bit his lip, his mind working. Finally he said, “Shoot up the tent, Clem. Force them out. Mr. Birchwood and I will concentrate our fire on the men by the fire.”

The old man nodded and Stryker turned to Birchwood. “Ready?” The young man raised his hand, his rifle against his shoulder.

“Let’s get it done,” Stryker said.

He pushed out his Colt and opened up on the men around the campfire, Birchwood’s rifle blasting next to him. The renegades jumped up and scattered, all but one who lay stretched out on the ground.

The tent canvas ticked as Trimble’s bullets thudded into it. But there was no sign of Pierce or Dugan.

Men were milling in confusion around the camp. Someone, Stryker thought Birchwood, had scored another hit. He saw the lanky man running for cover in the trees, fired at him and missed.

Now the renegades were getting more organized and bullets were kicking up dirt around Stryker and the others. A man firing at an uphill target tends to shoot high, but Pierce’s men were finding the range.

Firing as they came, a half dozen charged for the ridge. Trimble dropped one, and the rest took cover.

Birchwood yelped as a shot kicked gravel hard into his face. He laid down his rifle, knuckled his stinging eyes . . . and missed the start of the Apache attack.

Two dozen riders swept into the camp like hawks attacking doves. With incredible speed and violence, the Apaches gunned down men as they scrambled for cover or ran for their horses. A few of them, unlucky enough not to die, were clubbed to the ground, including the lanky man in buckskins.

It was over as suddenly as it had begun. Six dead men lay sprawled around the camp and the remaining four were herded against a wagon, their hands in the air. Stryker read the fear in their faces, each of them well aware what was in store for him.

Some of the Apaches gathered around the body of the dead girl. One of them stepped away, clubbed his rifle and drove it into the skull of the lanky man. The man’s head exploded in a scarlet halo of blood and brain, but the Apache kept clubbing him, even when he lay dead on the ground.

One of the others dropped to his knees. Raised his hands as though in prayer and loudly pleaded for his life. This amused the Apaches highly, until one of them kicked the man into silence.

There was no sign of Pierce and Dugan. As wary as barn rats, they’d pulled out and left their men to face the Apaches.

Trimble wriggled closer to Stryker. “Cap’n, we’d better skedaddle. The Apaches—”

He never completed what he had to say. The rifle muzzle pressing into the back of his head stilled the words in his mouth.

Stryker turned, looked up and found himself looking into cruel black eyes, glittering in a lined, weather-beaten face, an iron lance blade at his throat.

Trimble found his voice again, looking at the Indian with the lance. “Hail, great chief Geronimo,” he said. “I’m right pleased to make your acquaintance.”

The Apache, his face emotionless, motioned with his lance, and Stryker and the others got to their feet. Their guns were taken from them and they were pushed down the slope of the ridge.

“Cap’n,” Trimble whispered, “I don’t have a real good feelin’ about this.”

Stryker nodded. “I don’t need your teeth to tell me that.”

Stryker knew that to be taken prisoner by Apaches was to admit to yourself that you were already dead. He recalled that the sign above the gates of hell read, Abandon hope all ye who enter here, and he could read words to that effect in the merciless eyes of the warriors around him. They were writ plain enough.

Yet he felt one small glimmer of hope.

They were not herded together with Pierce’s men, but ordered to sit near the campfire. Trimble noted that as well, because he was smiling and nodding at the Apaches, though they studiously ignored him.

Birchwood seemed scared, and that was no fault in him. But he held his head high, preparing to die like an officer and a gentleman and bring no disgrace to his regiment or family.

An hour passed. The Apaches reverently wrapped the body of the dead girl in a blanket and carried her into the trees. The three remaining captives were stripped naked and spread-eagled on their backs, their ankles and wrists bound with rawhide to stakes. The man who had begged for mercy was whimpering, and one of the others, who could have been the breed Billy Lee had mentioned, told him to shut the hell up.

The Apache that Trimble had identified as Geronimo stepped in front of Stryker. There was nothing about him to suggest he was a great war chief. He wore a white Mexican shirt, breech cloth and buckskin moccasins to his knees. His head was bound in a black headband and he carried a new Winchester ’73 in his hands.

“Who speaks for you?” he demanded.

Stryker rose to his feet. “I do.”

Geronimo looked at him closely, with the wide-eyed curiosity of a child. “Broken Face. I have heard your name spoken many times.”

“And I have heard the name of Geronimo many times. And always men say you are a great chief, a brave warrior and mighty hunter.”

If Stryker thought flattery would get him everywhere, he was quickly disillusioned. The Apache looked at him with disdain. “You have the same easy way with lies as all white men.” His eyes hardened. “You are a soldier. Why do you come to take our land?”

“That is not my reason for being here,” Stryker said. “I hunt a man called Rake Pierce and another called Silas Dugan.”

“Why?”

Stryker touched his face. “This, and other reasons.”

Geronimo was silent for a few moments, reading Stryker’s eyes.

The Apache had a keen intelligence and would not be easily fooled. Stryker knew only truth would satisfy this man. He would detect a lie as easily as a diner spots a fly in his soup.

“I too hunt Pierce and Dugan,” Geronimo said.

“They’ve killed and scalped many of my people.” He waved a hand. “But they are gone from here.”

“Yes, but they were here, and then they rode away.”

“They scented the Apache, as the antelope does the wolf.”

“That is so.”

“What will you do when you find these men?”

“Kill them.”

Again Geronimo was silent. Then he said, “It is said that the enemy of my enemy is my friend. I will think on this.” His eyes swept the three men. “You may live or you may die. I will decide.”

He turned on his heel and walked away.

Birchwood looked at Stryker. “Well, sir, I think that went rather well.”

Trimble stated what was in Stryker’s mind. “Sonny,” he said, “if you think that, you’re a damned eejit.”