The rifle in Cuchillo’s steady hands had remained silent.

  “You have not yet killed,” White Dog said into the stillness, his words echoing between the ravine’s walls. The tone was critical.

  “Time is plentiful,” Cuchillo replied, breaking from the group to lead the way inside the cave.

  All except one brave followed him. This was Ugly Indian, who drew his knife as he approached Hagen’s blood-soaked body. He knocked off the dead man’s forage cap, slit open the skin at the top of the forehead and wrenched off the scalp with a vicious tug. The sound was like that of tearing paper. Then he went to Lyall and performed the same mutilating operation. He hung both prizes on his stolen belt.

  Cuchillo eyed the blood-soaked locks with repugnance as he led the braves and their ponies out of the caves. White Dog saw this show of emotion.

  “Cuchillo need reminding the taking of scalps is Apache custom?” the brave taunted. “He forget because he learns too much of white-eyes’ ways?”

  Cuchillo felt his temper rising, but he quelled it. His reply was spoken softly as he gathered up the reins of the troopers’ horses and heeled his pony into a gallop along the ravine. “Learning is finished. Time for me to teach lesson.”

  The war party streamed after its leader.

  Chapter Nine

  CUCHILLO HALTED THE braves on high ground overlooking the fort and trading post from the cover of a gully that cut into the valley northwest of the cluster of buildings. He had angled away from the trail short of where it crested the final rise and ran down the slope in full view of the posted sentries.

  He dismounted and crept forward to a point where he could study every part of the windswept settlement. No lights showed anywhere, either within the defensive circle of the ditch or over the plank bridge among the buildings of the trading post. But enough phosphorescence permeated the night through the straggled clouds to show Cuchillo what he wanted to see.

  The dispatching of scouts to the rancheria had indicated that Crane suspected the Apaches might give trouble. The fact that the fort was ringed by eighteen instead of the usual six sentries confirmed this. Further evidence was provided by the stacks of shells beside the howitzers. But the artillery pieces were unmanned and there was no sign of forward observers outside the perimeter or defensive activity within the guarded circle. Davidson was on a precautionary alert, the commanding officer probably awaiting a report from his scouts before committing himself to a greater or lesser degree of readiness.

  Cuchillo withdrew to where the braves were waiting. He spoke softly to Ugly Indian. White Dog hurried forward to listen to the orders, and sought to assert his position of authority in the eyes of all the lesser braves with a series of nods, confirming his agreement with Cuchillo’s plan. The leader of the war party ignored his second-in-command until after Ugly Indian had taken the reins of the army horses and led them back down the gully on foot.

  Then: “You will join me, White Dog. And Red Tail. Man Without Horse. Soft Tongue. Spotted Face. Rest stay here. Only come if called.”

  He looked around at the braves. Those he had not named grimaced their resentment, but nodded that they understood what was necessary. Cuchillo grunted his satisfaction, then turned and led the way back to his vantage point.

  The ground sloping down into the valley was mostly formed of rock, with just the occasional patch of soil from which sprang tough sagebrush. But it was not smooth rock. Several million years of fiercely hot days and freezing cold nights had contorted the surface, cracking it, rearing it up, and shattering it. Thus, while a man could not walk upright without risk of being seen from the fort, he could snake from one secret place to another on his belly and be in small danger.

  This was the way Cuchillo led the braves, using elbows, knees and the toes of his moccasined feet to propel himself from one area of cover to another. No brave made a sound, as watchful for loose rocks as for signs of alarm below. They reached the valley floor at a point which placed the buildings of the trading post between themselves and the fort. But there was an area of completely open ground to cover, two hundred feet across. It was a dangerous gulf and Cuchillo held the braves back, watching the sky as a particularly dark patch of cloud was scudded toward the moon. When one obscured the other, he raised into a crouch and skittered across the area of no cover, pulling up short against the wall of the saloon. The braves clustered around him and there was no cry of alarm.

  Like all other buildings of the post and in the fort, the saloon was just one story high. It had no window or door in the side and Cuchillo elected to go to the back rather than the front, where a parked wagon offered a scant token of cover. He ordered the raiders down on to their bellies with a hand sign, and peered under the wagon, between the rear of the Ford Store and a stable toward where those sentries in sight stamped their feet, flapped their arms, or blew on their hands as they attempted to combat the bitter cold. The Apaches were cold, too, beneath the scant covering of buckskin shirts and leggings. But excitement and tension created an impression of warmth that did a great deal to extend mind over matter.

  Cuchillo bellied his way to the saloon’s rear door. It looked solid and he guessed it was probably both locked and bolted. He turned his attention to the window and saw it was the kind that did not open. The pane was held in place by beading.

  “Knife?” he whispered to White Dog, and took the offered weapon.

  The blade had a keen edge and a needle-sharp tip. The wood strips were rotten in some parts, and well-preserved in others. The knife made short work of all four sections, sinking into the cracks and prizing loose the pins. As Cuchillo eased out the pane and rested it against the wall, he heard a man snoring, and another sleeper muttering. He swung a leg over the sill and slid silently into the room. The braves followed him, White Dog taking back his knife. Six pairs of eyes quickly dilated to the almost pitch darkness in the room. Cold air streamed in through the gaping window, swallowing up the last vestiges of warmth from the dying embers in the stove.

  Edward O’Regan and Annie Colbert slept on in the big double bed, drawing heat from each other’s bodies. Their drunken stupors deadened senses which might otherwise have warned them of danger. Cuchillo rested the side of his good hand against his throat and nodded to White Dog and Soft Tongue. The two braves seemed to float to the sides of the bed. Each held a knife, which he lowered against the throat of the sleeper closest to him.

  “Quiet!” Cuchillo hissed, leaning around White Dog’s taut body.

  Cold steel had roused the saloon-owner and the whore. Bleary-eyed, they stared up at the faces of the Apaches, mouths pulled wide to scream. It was the pressure of the knives rather than Cuchillo’s warning which caused them to clamp their lips together.

  “Say softly,” Cuchillo whispered. “Where Grainger and squaw with baby?”

  O’Regan was petrified, unable to reply. The whore swallowed hard and managed to gasp a few words.

  “Grainger’s gone home …” She was going to continue; to tell him Chipeta and his son were at the fort. But she paused to gulp more air into her lungs.

  Cuchillo straightened and said in Apache: “Quickly.”

  White Dog and Soft Tongue bore down hard on their knives and drew the blades across the punctured flesh. Great gouts of jugular blood flowed on to the filthy blankets. More poured down the victims’ throats, turning the death rattle into gurgles.

  “You still without blood on hands!” White Dog rebuked in a whisper.

  Cuchillo watched as he and Soft Tongue ripped off the scalps from the corpses. Then, tensely: “Grainger live in house across street. Only safe for one man to cross. I go.”

  White Dog nodded grimly as he attached the whore’s blonde hair to his belt. Then he led the braves in following Cuchillo out into the saloon. The tall Apache shot the bolts silently and cracked open the big door. His narrowed eyes raked over the facade of John Hedges’ adobe house, and settled on that of the Indian Bureau agent next to it. He opened the crack wider, went down on his hands and knees and snaked out under the bat-wings. He peered along the street and saw the sentries at each side of the bridge into the fort. They were moving back and forth in a shuffling gait, flapping their arms against the cold. Their faces were white, featureless blobs against the dark background of upturned coat collars and pulled down forage caps. He waited until they had turned, the whiteness obscured, before launching himself forward. His back was arched and his moccasined feet made only the faintest sound as he ran. His form merged against the black bulk of the tiny house. There were no cries of alarm.

  The door was closed, but unlocked. As he cracked it and slid inside, he realized he had no knife-just the rifle and his bare hands. He looked around. The layout was precisely the same as the house of the schoolteacher. But the house was dirtier. Grainger’s regular breathing sounded from the bedroom. No woman or baby could be heard. Cuchillo flitted across the living room like a shadow. The agent’s long, lean frame was outlined by a blanket covering the bed. Cuchillo towered over the sleeping man. He aimed the Spencer and struck Grainger a sharp blow with the muzzle against his jaw. The agent was shocked out of sleep and into the harsh grip of waking fear.

  “Where squaw and son?” the Apache rasped.

  “Fort!” Grainger croaked. “Crane and Pinner took them. Christ, what’re you doin’?”

  “Looking for what is mine,” the Apache replied, swinging the rifle away from the agent’s head. Then he launched it back again, on a lower trajectory. The end of the barrel smashed into Grainger’s temple and the white man plunged into unconsciousness with a low moan.

  Cuchillo sensed the presence of an intruder and whirled around, leveling the Spencer. But he stayed his finger on the trigger as he recognized White Dog framed in the doorway.

  “You have no stomach for killing,” the newcomer rasped, reaching the bedside in three strides, knocking aside the rifle barrel and drawing his knife, still wet with the blood of the whore. Cuchillo was held in a frozen stance as his fellow Apache plunged the knife into the closed right eye of the unconscious man. It made a squelching sound as he withdrew the blade. Cuchillo moved into the living room as White Dog claimed another scalp for his belt.

  The power of White Dog’s contemptuous stare drew Cuchillo’s attention. “You are not fit to lead warrior band,” the other accused. “A brave who cannot kill! Such a brave did our people think would one day be chief! You are not a brave, Cuchillo. You are a squaw!”

  There was no stirring of Cuchillo’s temper as he faced the soft-spoken insults. Just self-disgust that the words of his accuser were true. A harder blow at Grainger would have smashed the man’s skull and killed him. But the swing had been pulled. He had purposely used less than his full strength.

  “But your plan is good,” White Dog went on. “I will lead, but I will use your plan.”

  Cuchillo nodded his consent. But his shame-faced expression was suddenly wiped out by a look of grim determination. “My instructions about John Hedges will still be observed,” he said tersely.

  White Dog seemed on the point of dismissing the comment.

  Cuchillo hardened his expression and the words he spoke seemed like chips of granite hurled at the other Apache. “I will kill the man who harms him. For such an act, I have the stomach, White Dog.”

  White Dog gave a curt nod. “So be it. Your squaw and child are at the fort?”

  Cuchillo nodded.

  “Then I will give the signal.”

  Cuchillo responded by turning toward the tiny kitchen of the house. In here was a window of the kind that opened. He pushed it wide and slid through, pressing himself full-length to the ground. Above him, White Dog leaned out and struck a store-bought match, cupping it in his hands to conceal all but the fringes of the glow from the fort. Cuchillo bellied away, suddenly realizing why he had not been able to yet claim his first death.

  Chapter Ten

  UGLY INDIAN SAW the short-lived flare of the match before the north wind blew it out. The scar from which he had derived his name made his face more grotesque than ever as its shape was altered by a grin. He was standing between the two army horses and as he saw the signal he released the reins and stepped back. His arms rose and fell, the palms of his hands striking a stinging blow at the rump of each horse. The animals snorted, kicked and lunged into a gallop.

  Their nostrils were flared, picking up the familiar scents of the fort. Their hooves beat frantically against the trail. Ugly Indian made no sound as he ran back to join the waiting group in the gully.

  The ring of sentries heard the urgent approach of the horses and swung their rifles to readiness, peering across the roofs of the trading post buildings at the dark shapes rushing down the trail.

  “Get Cook!” the sergeant yelled at the enlisted man standing closest to him. “Two riderless horses. Shod and saddled. They gotta be Hagen’s and Lyall’s.”

  Brevet Lieutenant Joseph Cook was the duty officer. He was supposed to remain alert. But he was dozing in Crane’s chair in the office of the commanding officer. He had reasoned that if his superior officers were not worried by the non-appearance of the scouts – or at least gave the impression they were not – there was no need for him to lose sleep over it. So, reassured by the strength of the guard, Cook had undertaken his duty in the usual relaxed manner.

  It was a harsh return to waking when the trooper pounded on the door, burst in, and blurted out the message. The man’s loud, frightened tones carried far beyond the confines of the office. The voice, combined with the clatter of hooves on the bridge and the shouts of the sentries as they tried to catch the panicked horses, was more than adequate to wake all but the soundest sleepers in the bunkhouses and officers’ quarters. Lamps sprang into brightness and doors jerked open. Partially dressed officers and men spilled out into the compound. Stabled horses sensed human fear and snorted, kicking against their stalls.

  Cuchillo gave a low grunt of satisfaction and snaked quickly from the cover of one small house to the other. He reached the one closest to the bridge– in which Nathan Ford lived – and waited. A stack of trash gave him a concealed vantage point from which he could see the furor of noisy activity in the compound.

  “There’s blood on this horse!”

  “It’s Hagen’s nag!”

  “Hagen’s dead. So’s Lyall!”

  “Jesus, the Apaches!”

  “Murderin’ skunks.”

  “Let’s go get ’em.”

  Mostly, the voices were a high volume babble. But occasionally a comprehensible snatch could be heard. And screamed commands from officers and non-coms trying to restore order—which for a long time were ignored. Cuchillo knew he must make his move soon, and he raised himself into a crouch to lunge forward.

  Above and behind him, a window was thrown open: “You ain’t goin’ nowhere except to Hell, Injun!” Nathan Ford rasped, thrusting the Remington toward Cuchillo.

  The din from the fort had roused the storekeeper from his drunken, grief-stricken sleep and as he jerked up in bed, a movement outside the window had caught his attention. He had run into the living room, snatched the gun from the holster on the table, and peered out through the window overlooking the rear of the house. The tall figure of Cuchillo was unmistakable.

  The Apache stared into the face of death, represented by the awesome black hole which was the gun’s muzzle. Ford grinned and squeezed the trigger. The hammer jerked and jammed. Fear contorted Ford’s features as he stared down at the gun and saw he had picked up the wrong weapon. This was the revolver which had been broken by the rifle shot in the box canyon.

  The uproar from the fort was not loud enough to mask a rifle shot. Something sparkled faintly on the periphery of the Apache’s vision and as he threw himself toward the man at the window, he released his grip on the rifle and reached into the heap of rubbish with his left hand. His fist folded around the smooth neck of a broken bottle. He swung his arm, the jagged, needle-pointed shards of glass directed for a silent kill.

  Ford was an instant too late in shaking himself free of the immobilizing surprise and fear. As he brought up his head, the awful blow struck home. A dozen keen edges of glass pierced through the scrawny flesh of his jaw and throat. Blood spurted, outwards and internally. Such was the power behind the stab that the victim was lifted bodily from the floor. The top of his head was smashed against the window frame lintel. His skull caved in as shards of broken glass were washed into his lungs by a rush of blood.

  Cuchillo lowered the body to the floor and released his grip on the bottleneck. He crouched behind the trash pile and picked up the Spencer, his mind easy. Now he had claimed the first death and there was literally blood on his hands. His reasoning had been proved correct. He did have the stomach for killing, but the need had to be strong. The need to kill Ford had double-strength: to satisfy a thirst for personal vengeance; Ford’s lies were responsible for Chipeta’s capture. And for self-preservation; Ford died or Cuchillo died.

  Some semblance of order was being brought to the melee in the compound of Fort Davidson. The biting wind had driven many men back into their quarters to don protective clothing. Crane and Pinner were examining the loose horses while other officers ordered men into ranks. Many frightened eyes raked over the high ridges as nervous hands caressed rifles. Cuchillo angled away from the rear of the houses, snaking along on his belly. Only one pair of eyes followed his progress but the mind behind them decided to take no action. John Hedges got back under his bed covers. He did not own a gun. He stared up at the dark ceiling and tried to still his trembling body. He did not succeed.

  Captain Crane’s head was pounding with a persistent ache from the effects of the liquor he had swallowed earlier. He listened fearfully as Pinner, more composed and clear-headed, outlined the alternative courses of action open to the fort commander. Crane would have liked to believe Hagen and Lyall had been slaughtered by a small group of renegades, perhaps from Borderline or maybe intruders into the territory. He would have liked to believe that the Apaches at the rancheria slept blissfully unaware of what had happened. But he knew he was long overdue a piece of the dirty end of life. It was a strong possibility Black Horse had ordered all his warriors on to the warpath. But would they attack Davidson, or were they waiting to ambush troopers sent to investigate the reason for the loose horses?

 

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