INSTINCT TOOK THE riderless pony back to Comstock, where it waited patiently in its usual stable for someone to remove the saddle.
By then the locked office had been discovered and opened. The deputy in the back room was unable to offer any more information than that someone had knocked him out in his sleep and left him tied to the bed. Where Mengers had gone was anyone’s guess, so a search was organized. It turned up a whore and a housewife who had seen the sheriff leaving town while they waited—in their own ways—for their men to come home. All they could say was that the peace officer had his horse with him and was planning to make a circuit of the town. The search was extended to the boundaries, taking in the stockyards and outlying buildings. It produced no sign of the sheriff.
Then Mengers’s horse was noticed.
It was late afternoon and the pony had been in its stall, quietly munching the hay left there, for close on three hours. Any sweat it had worked up coming back was dried out, so there was no way of telling how far it had run, or where it had been.
Mengers’s disappearance was a complete mystery.
And Daniel Fogarty hated mysteries. He liked things straightforward, neatly cut and tidily dried; preferably in his favor. He settled down in the Golden Knife with a bottle of Sid Lorens’ best whiskey and thought about it. His thinking jumped to the obvious conclusion, and he began to list names in his head.
First there was the Dancer: shot to death up in the Mogollons, near the corpse of Jody Taggart’s new horse.
Then Tully Bulmer and Jonas Hook: killed at the Taggart ranch and delivered back to town like a challenge.
After them: Cyrus Rack. Shot down in the street.
Now Johnny Mengers: disappeared.
He added a sixth name: Breed. Or Matthew Gunn. Or Azul. Whatever the hell he called himself.
And then he made a decision he had been putting off for too long: it was time to settle the final debts with Taggart and Breed. It wouldn’t be legal, not without Mengers to give his sanction as Comstock’s sheriff, but it would settle things. He filled another glass, idly noticing that the bottle was almost empty. Then, automatically, he began to think up justifications for the action he knew he was going to take.
He would gather up a few of his hands and ride out to the Taggart place. Kill Jody and Breed, then buy Mary out. She wouldn’t want the spread after her husband died, so he should be able to get it cheap. If any questions were asked he would say he was looking for the missing lawman—a personal friend—and had reason to believe that the man called Gunn had kidnapped Mengers. When asked about the disappearance, Breed had opened fire, starting a fight. The man was known as a killer, so the Flying F hands shot him down like the mad dog he was. Unfortunately, Jody Taggart got caught in the cross-fire, and was killed.
Fogarty liked the plan. He even decided to offer the widow a slightly higher price in sympathy.
He emptied his glass and stood up, blinking against the light of the kerosene lanterns and the sudden dizziness, swaying slightly.
For some reason he found it difficult to locate his stirrup, twice stamping his foot painfully on the sidewalk. It made him angrier still, but after a few more tries he got his boot inside the curved wood and managed to drag himself astride the saddle. By the time he reached the Flying F it was full night, and the cold had sobered him enough to think his plan through logically.
He decided to hit the Taggart spread early the next morning.
Azul was checking over the two horses stabled close to the cabin when the brightness struck across his eyes. It was soon after dawn, and the smell of frying eggs drifted from the soddy. The sun was too weak as yet to reflect so strongly off anything other than a polished surface, and he realized it was a message from the Chiricahua posted on the west ridge.
He stepped out to the center of the corral, lifting his arm to acknowledge the message-sender.
The light began to blink again from a stand of cottonwoods.
Riders coming …
White men …
Five. Armed …
Enemy …
I will fetch Churro …
Azul waved a reply, wishing the sun was risen high enough that he could flash an answer and clarify the situation. The light, however, was behind him, not yet bright enough in the valley to allow a return.
He went back to the cabin.
‘Someone’s coming.’ He picked up his Winchester and checked the load. ‘Best get dressed.’
‘How do you know?’ Mary Taggart ladled eggs from the pan on to two plates. ‘You can’t be sure.’
Azul grinned and ate his breakfast in a hurry.
‘There’s a way,’ he grunted between mouthfuls. ‘Believe me.’
The Apache had been using mirror signals a long time before the white men invented the heliograph. Their system was simpler, relying on either plain glass or polished metal, but it was equally effective, and over short distances even more efficient than the complicated apparatus used by the Army. A warrior with a clean blade could send a message, and see it answered by anything from a hand-mirror to a polished belt buckle.
‘It might be Fogarty,’ he said, putting down his plate. Would best stay inside with the shotgun. We’ll fort up, and I’ll meet them on the porch. Cover me from the window, but don’t fire unless I give the word.’
The woman nodded and hurried to dress. Azul swung the heavy shutters closed over the windows and dropped the metal latches in place. He left the Winchester propped against the wall just inside the door and went out on the porch, sliding a sixth shell into the empty chamber of his Colt.
The holster was on his right hip now, tied down against his thigh, greased for a fast draw. He stood, waiting.
‘I’m ready.’ Mary peered through the crack between door and frame. ‘I’ll take the window to your left.’
‘Good,’ he answered. ‘Let them see the shotgun. But wait on my word.’
She nodded and a moment later he heard the grating of metal on wood as the twin barrels poked out through the firing slit.
Then the riders showed, coming in from the western end of the corral. Five of them, just like the Chiricahua scout had said. Five armed cowhands, led by Daniel Fogarty.
Azul stood impassively, his hands at his sides, watching as they rode in closer. He stayed silent as they halted their ponies and stared down at him. Fogarty was at the center, the hard-faced cowhand called Billy to his left, the other three on his right. They all had rifles or carbines slung on their saddles, and handguns belted to their waists. So far none had touched a weapon.
‘Where’s Johnny Mengers?’ Fogarty asked, his voice harsh. ‘What you done with him?’
Azul shrugged. ‘Why ask me?’
‘He’s gone,’ snarled Fogarty. ‘Disappeared. I reckon you had somethin’ to do with it.’
‘Best send for a federal marshal, then,’ Azul grunted. ‘Or don’t you want real law in Comstock?’
Fogarty’s lips thinned out under his mustache, and his face got red with anger.
‘I figger you kidnapped Johnny. I aim to search this place. If he ain’t here, then you killed him. That bein’ the case, I’ll shoot you down like a goddam dog.’
Azul laughed out loud, letting his eyes flicker sideways over the cowhands flanking the rancher. The one called Billy glared back, but the other two looked suddenly nervous.
‘You remember Cyrus Rack?’ asked the half-breed. His voice was flat and ugly. ‘He didn’t do so good. Nor the other two you sent. You think these are better?’
The two cowboys fidgeted, glancing at their boss for directions.
‘You can’t beat five of us,’ Fogarty grated. ‘Not even you.’
‘No need.’ Azul stared straight at the rancher. ‘I can draw fast enough to kill you. That’s for certain. Most like, I can down at least one more.’
‘And this shotgun can take the others!’ Mary Taggart’s voice was angry, trembling on the brink of hysteria. ‘I’ll use it, Dan. Don’t think I won’t.’
Fogarty saw the ugly muzzles of the scattergun for the first time. Inside the cabin, the woman must have caught his glance, for the gun angled round to sight directly on his face.
‘I’ll blow you to hell, Dan. And I’ll laugh when you go.’
Fogarty licked his lips, confused by the threat of ten-gauge destruction. ‘Don’t be stupid, Mary. You can’t win this.’
‘I can try. I can make damn’ sure you don’t get our land.’
‘Let me talk to Jody.’
‘Jody’s dead. Your men shot him. Me and Azul are looking after the ranch.’
‘An’ I bet that ain’t all.’ Billy snickered, staring at the half-breed. ‘Sounds like old Cyrus was right.’
‘He had a dirty mouth, too,’ Azul grunted. ‘And now it’s closed for good.’
Billy’s hand moved towards his gun, but Fogarty reached out to grab his wrist, halting the draw. The cowhand looked angry, but allowed the rancher to stop him from dying.
‘No.’ Fogarty’s voice was choked up with fury. ‘Not yet.’
He kept his right hand in the air as he backed his horse away. The others followed suit, the two men on his right looking pleased that the moment of danger was over; Billy just looked mad.
‘We’ll be back,’ snarled Fogarty. ‘That’s a promise.’
He snatched the reins over, heeling his pony to a fast gallop away from the cabin. Azul watched until all five men were just specks in the distance of the heat-hazed ridge, then went inside the house.
Mary Taggart was lowering the hammers of the scattergun, her hands trembling dangerously. She let the ugly weapon drop to the floor and turned to face the half-breed. There were tears in her eyes, but it was impossible to tell whether they came from grief or rage or fear.
She stared at him for a moment, then ran into his arms, folding herself against him so that he could feel the contours of her body tight against his. It was the: first time they had touched since Jody Taggart died, and it was a curiously impersonal embrace. A kind of tacit understanding had sprung up since the death of her husband: she blamed herself, and Azul, for killing Jody at least as much as she held Fogarty responsible. So she had gone back to sleeping in the bedroom, bolting the door each night and maintaining a curious, friendly aloofness. Azul had accepted it, waiting for her to work out her grief; more concerned with settling scores than enjoying the pleasures of her body.
Now he held her and comforted her, feeling no lust; again, more concerned with survival.
‘What will he do?’ She pushed away, looking up at his face. ‘Will he come back?’
‘Sure.’ Azul nodded. ‘He wants your land too badly to give up now. We made him look small, too, He won’t forgive that. He’ll come back.’
‘What can we do?’ Even though they no longer slept together she looked to him for protection. ‘He’s got too many hands for us to fight.’
‘Churro’s coming,’ Azul reminded her. ‘He’ll bring the Chiricahua to help us.’
He grinned, remembering his past.
‘And I never knew an Apache who couldn’t handle at least four cowboys. And win.’
There was more confidence in his words than he really felt, and he pushed the woman away to check the cabin before she had a chance to voice any doubts.
The place was solid, protected from rearward attack by the ridge against which it was built. The walls were of heavy timber, the two windows either side of the door matched by two more, one opening into the main room and the other into the bedroom. All of them were covered by the shutters. The door was thick, a series of split timbers banded by pine planks bolted into the uprights. It was closed by a metal latch and a massive plank of raw pine that dropped into metal sockets set into the door and flanking walls. The porch jutted out at least five feet from the roof, covered with sods so it couldn’t take fire. The main room had a pump built in that must have cost Jody Taggart a lot of money, but it drew water directly from the spring that fed the bunkhouse and the corral.
Behind the main room was the bedroom. Beyond that, the storage cave where the woman kept her winter stores. It was reached from the main room, down an extension that went past the solid, supporting wall of the bedroom. There was a heavy door, lined on the inside with sheets of metal to keep the cold in and the air still. The door was fastened with a toggle catch that could be lifted from the outside, or pulled back with a cord from the inside.
It was a good, solid place to defend, though he didn’t like the proximity of the bunkhouse.
He told the woman to start filling buckets and pans with water, and fetched the boxes of cartridges he had bought from Garrett out of his saddlebags. He spread them over the table, then found two cases of shotgun shells and added those to the collection.
After that, he went outside with a borrowed mirror and flashed a signal at the ridge. It was answered immediately, though the message was worrying.
Bavispe has gone south. Most of the tribe with him …
Azul grunted and flashed a replying question.
Who remains? Can I count on them?
Up on the ridge, the answer blinked out in tiny darts of light.
Yes. Churro and Matanza are here. Five others.
The half-breed turned the mirror again, darting his hand across the shiny surface to make his reply.
Stay back. Wait until it is absolutely necessary. Then hit them from behind.
The other glass flashed its answer.
We shall do that. Trust us.
Azul began to work his own mirror again.
I do. Brothers.
He went back inside the cabin and told the woman that the seven Chiricahua would be waiting on the ridge, waiting to come in and help. She shrugged, seemingly resigned to whatever the outcome might be.
‘You’ll be rich,’ he said, ‘if you keep the land.’
‘I can’t run a horse ranch on my own,’ she answered. ‘And you’ll not be staying.’
‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘I’ll see you through this, but after, I’ll be moving on.’
‘I knew it.’ She smiled at him. ‘Nothing ever lasts.’
Azul was torn between keeping the land clean and helping the woman. He stayed silent for a long time, wondering whether he should tell her about the silver deposits. He decided not: horses were cleaner than silver. They gave less trouble and helped the land, instead of ripping it up.
He said nothing.
‘Why so quiet?’ she smiled at him. ‘You frightened?’
‘No, not really,’ he said. ‘Everyone has to die sometime. I’d just like Fogarty to do it first.’