Stryker's Revenge

Chapter 5

The entrance to the arroyo was a rectangle of blackness that stood out against the greater gloom of the night. The land was silent, except for the coyotes talking among the hills and the rustling rush of the breeze.

Rising almost perpendicular to a height of ten feet, the walls of the arroyo were crested by stunted juniper and mesquite, a perfect hiding place for an ambushing Apache. The defile itself was narrow, choked with brush and stands of prickly pear, allowing the passage of only one soldier at a time.

Stryker held up a hand, halting Hooper and his men where they were; then he and Hogg advanced deeper into the arroyo.

After thirty yards the walls spread farther apart, then opened up into a grassy area about two acres in extent. A small fire burned in the middle of the clearing, close to a single cottonwood and willow. Apaches were sprawled around the fire, one of them lying on his back, snoring loudly.

Stryker and the scout lost themselves in the shadows at the base of the twenty-foot wall of ridged, yellow rock that formed an amphitheater around the entire area. The moon was still visible, riding high, ringed by a halo of pale red and blue.

Beside Stryker, Hogg broke off a stem of bunch grass and stuck it between his teeth. The scout had his revolver in his right hand, thumb on the hammer.

An Apache, wearing a breechcloth, moccasins to his knees and a fancy Mexican vest, struggled to his feet and walked closer to the fire. He had a dark, cruel face, flat-lipped, his eyes deep in shadow.

The man staggered to a jug, picked it up, shook it, then threw it aside. He stepped to a woman, her red hair cascading over her shoulders in dusty waves. Naked, she sat with her legs drawn up, forehead resting on her knees.

The Apache dug his hand into the woman’s luxuriant hair, yanked back her head and stared into her face. He looked at the redhead for a few moments, grunted, then forced her head back on her knees.

Hogg’s black eyes were glittering in the firelight, aware of the woman, watching the Apache, teeth bared around the grass stem. He raised his gun, but Stryker tapped him on the shoulder and shook his head. He motioned to the arroyo and, crouching low, began to back away in that direction.

For a few seconds Hogg remained motionless.

The Apache walked away from the woman, staggered and fell flat on his face. He didn’t get up again.

Silently, the scout followed Stryker into the arroyo and rejoined the lieutenant who was talking with Hooper.

“They’re dead drunk and snoring,” Stryker was saying. “Sergeant Hooper, you will form two ranks on me and shoot into the savages at my command.” He turned. “Mr. Hogg, you will fire independently at targets of opportunity. Use your Henry to good effect.”

The scout said nothing, but Hooper snapped off a salute and said, “We’re ready, sir.”

“Then let’s proceed with the attack,” Stryker said.

Quietly, Hogg again reminded the lieutenant about the woman.

“Ah, yes,” Stryker said. He looked at Hooper. “There’s a white woman back there. Try to avoid shooting her if you can.”

Hooper and the men followed Stryker into the clearing and shook into two lines on the officer’s left. “Front rank, kneel,” Stryker whispered. “Now pick your targets.” Then, “Front rank, fire!”

Bullets crashed into the sleeping Apaches. Indians rose, groggily fumbling for their weapons.

“Rear rank, fire!”

Apaches staggered under the impact of the powerful .45-70 rounds and went down hard. At Stryker’s side, Hogg was working his Henry.

“Front rank, fire!”

At least half the warriors were hit. The others tried to regroup and a couple were ineffectually firing their rifles.

“Rear rank, fire!”

The Springfields crashed and more Indians went down.

“Independent fire!” Stryker roared.

As a ragged volley swept the clearing, an Apache charged directly at Stryker through a hanging pall of gray gun smoke, a knife in his upraised hand. At a distance of eight feet, the lieutenant shot into the man’s stocky body, then fired his Colt again. The Indian screamed and went down.

“Advance five paces!” Stryker yelled. “Get the hell out of the smoke.”

All the troopers but one obeyed the command. Stryker didn’t wait to see who had fallen, but stepped forward into cleaner air.

The clearing looked like a charnel house. Apache bodies, stained scarlet, lay in heaps and a few wounded groaned and tried to crawl away from the terrible firepower of the Springfields. The indifferent moon braided silver light over the scene and smoke drifted everywhere, like spirits rising from the dead warriors.

“No prisoners,” Stryker yelled. “Sergeant Hooper, see that it’s done.”

Hooper was invisible somewhere in the crashing darkness, but his loud, “Yes, sir,” carried in the breeze moaning through the stillness.

Joe Hogg appeared from the gloom, a Winchester in his hands. “Brand-new, like I figgered, Lieutenant.”

“It’s got to be one of Rake Pierce’s guns,” Stryker said. He looked around him as though searching the arroyo walls for the man. “Where the hell is he?”

“My guess would be the Madres, Lieutenant,” Hogg said mildly.

Stryker swore. “Damn him, damn him to hell.” Shots echoed around the clearing, the sound hitting the hard rock walls like a hammer on an anvil.

“I took this rifle off’n a wounded buck,” Hogg said. He inclined his head. “Over there by the base of the wall. Maybe we should talk to him afore Hooper does for him.”

“Will he tell us anything?”

“No. But I’ll talk to him anyhow.”

The Apache was young, gut shot and dying tough. There was defiance in his black eyes and a bottomless well of hatred.

Stryker looked down at the man, no pity in him. “Ask him where he last saw Rake Pierce.”

The scout jabbered words that Stryker did not understand; then the Indian raised his eyes to Stryker. He spat in the lieutenant’s direction, a feeble effort, his spit full of black blood.

Hogg smiled. “He just told you to go to hell, Lieutenant.”

“I gathered that.”

But to Stryker’s surprise, the Apache began to talk and Hogg cocked his head and listened intently.

When the Indian stopped speaking, the scout turned to Stryker. “He says the white man will soon be driven from all the Apache lands. Old Nana broke out of the San Carlos four days ago and he’s joined up with Geronimo. Between them, they plan to raise hob by killing as many settlers, soldiers and Mexicans as they can find.”

“Do you think Colonel Devore knows this?”

Hogg again smiled his slight smile. “By now? Depend on it.”

Stryker glanced at the dying Apache. “Ask him again where I can find Rake Pierce.”

“He won’t tell us, Lieutenant.”

“Joe, ask him, damn it.”

Hogg spoke to the Indian. The dying man closed his eyes and a thin, wavering chant escaped his lips like a mist.

“That’s his death song, Lieutenant. He’s all done talking.”

“So am I.”

Stryker drew his revolver and shot the Apache in the head. He turned away immediately. “Sergeant Hooper!”

The man came at a trot. “Pile the dead against the wall over there. They won’t stink until tomorrow, so we’ll camp here tonight. And bring the horses inside.” He glanced over at the Indian ponies. “Any worth saving?”

Hooper nodded. “Five mules, three cavalry mounts and a good-looking Morgan mare.”

“We’ll take those back to Fort Merit. Shoot the other ponies before we pull out in the morning.” He looked at Hooper. “How many did we kill?”

“Twenty-one, sir. All of them prime young bucks.”

“And the butcher’s bill?”

“Trooper Murphy dead. Trooper Rogers slightly wounded.”

“Lay out Corporal Murphy well away from the other dead. I will not have a brave Christian man lying among savages. We’ll take him back to the fort for burial.”

“Yes, sir.” Hooper waited.

“The soldiers can cook their supper and boil their coffee when you are ready, Sergeant. Don’t let them eat mule meat, it’s poisonous to white men.”

“Yes, sir.”

Stryker nodded. “Very good. Dismissed.”

After Hooper left, Stryker turned to Hogg. “If Nana is out and raiding with Geronimo, I’d bet the farm that Rake Pierce is here. For a while at least, the Arizona Territory is where the gun business will be.”

“Like I told you afore, Lieutenant, if he’s around I’ll find him for you.”

Stryker’s fingertips strayed to his broken face, a gesture he was not aware of making. “I’ll cut him, Joe. I’ll rip his damned guts out and knot them to a pine tree while he’s still breathing.”

Aloud the scout said, “Yes, Lieutenant, I believe you will.”

To himself, he wondered who the real savage in this mad slaughterhouse was.