As the December dawn broke over the rim of Horse Rock Canyon, inside a cave a pair of hands reached into a crate that had been ripped open and pulled out a Yellow Boy Winchester.
Quemada threw the rifle to Secorro, reached in again, grabbed another Winchester, tossed it to an eager Apache, then motioned to the dozen other bucks to help themselves. As they did, Quemada leaned over a different box. He dipped in both hands, came up with scoops of cartridges and looked at them as if they were precious stones.
Another Apache entered carrying a clay pot. Quemada let the cartridges fall through fingers, dipped his palm into the pot and brought the hand across his face, smearing it with yellow paint.
“Gold! Gold! Gold!
Bright and yellow
Hard and cold.”
The load was not all yellow—not yet. It would have to be refined even more at the El Dorado Mill along the Hassayampa. But it was hard and cold and yellow in spots.
The wagon lettered SILVER & CO.—WE DELIVER THE GOODS was now covered with a secured tarp at the Rattlesnake Mine.
Ike, Jake and Ben, along with Dolan and his platoon of miners, who had been repairing and working for weeks, stood watching as the result of their toil was loaded and made ready to roll.
“That’s an awful heavy load,” Jake said.
“That’s an awful valuable load.” Sean Dolan tugged at the brim of his hat.
“Let’s get started.” Ike tamped the tobacco in the bowl of his pipe with his finger.
Ben climbed into the driver’s seat as Jake boarded and sat next to him.
Dolan wiped at his mouth with the palm of his hand. “Ike, are you sure that wagon’ll—”
“Sean, I told you six times, Ben’s gone over every nut, bolt and spoke—enforced and reinforced and that’s the best six-up in Arizona,” Ike said, pointing at the horses. “Quit worrying.”
“I’m not worrying, but—”
“But what?”
“But I’m coming along, and don’t try and stop me!”
“Nobody can stop you.” Ike smiled as he mounted the saddle of his horse. “Get on board.”
Dolan turned to a miner standing next to him. “Get me a scattergun.”
A wooley white mass of sheep bleated and moved together, following the sound of a lead goat’s bell along the grasslands of Spanish Flats.
Colonel George Crook and Colorados stood on a rise, Crook smoking a cigar, Colorados, his pipe. The colonel was flanked by a contingent of officers including Bourke and Gibbs—Colorados, by his sub-chiefs, all except Quemada.
Crook pointed west to east, then north to south. “From the Hassayampa to the Verde—from Horse Mountain to Cave Creek. It’s good land, Colorados.”
“That’s why I chose it. But we have been given back our land before.”
“I know, they’d give you an apple and take away your orchard. But it’ll be different this time. I’ve said it before to other tribes—I make damn few promises, but I keep ’em.”
“We know that Gray Wolf’s word has no shadows. But why do you bring us sheep instead of cattle?”
“You’ll do better to raise sheep. To get anything out of a steer you have to kill him. But you can use and sell the wool and still keep the sheep.”
The Indians who understood the language nodded their approval.
“And,” Crook continued, “while sheep’ll wander off, they can’t get as far as cattle will. If thieves come and run off with some cattle, it’s hard to get them back, but sheep travel slow. You can catch up to them . . . and the thieves.”
“My friend, Nan-Tan-Lupan, has done well.”
“Well, boss,” Gallagher said, as Rupert Lessur sat at his desk and lit his long, slim cigar, “anything else you need me to do?”
“No. You can go and wet your windpipe for now. But soon, very soon, there’ll be plenty for you to do.”
Lessur smiled, removed the cigar from his mouth and exhaled three perfect circles of smoke into the air.
The wagon had moved down from the high country into the open terrain.
Ben held the reins. Jake sat next to him. Dolan was atop the tarp with the scattergun laid across his knees. Ike was astride his horse alongside the wagon, puffing placidly on his pipe. He heard something from the wagon, looked closer at Dolan, and noticed that in Dolan’s hands, resting on the shotgun, there was a rosary—and his lips were moving.
A shrill yell rended the air.
Quemada and his followers, just far enough away to be seen and heard, rode screaming, shooting and charging toward the wagon.
“Ben!” Ike hollered. “Knock on ’em!”
“Yaahh!” Ben lashed the team. “Yaahh!”
Jake pulled a rifle up from the floorboard; Dolan shoved the rosary into his belt and took aim with the scattergun; Ike stuffed the pipe into his jacket pocket, drew his revolver and fired as the wagon picked up speed, leaving a wake of dust on the narrow road.
Quemada, Secorro, and the rest of the attackers kneed their ponies and fired shot after shot from their repeating Yellow Boy Winchesters.
Ben gave it all he had, urging the six-up team, but he knew he was losing ground as the bullets flew past, and some slammed into the wagon.
Ike rode hard, still firing back at the pursuers.
One dropped. Then another.
Ben looked across at Ike. “They’re catching up! We can’t outrun ’em!”
Ike nodded. He jammed the gun into his holster and reined his horse as close to the wagon as he could.
Jake and Dolan were still shooting.
Ike jumped from his horse onto the top of the wagon and landed close to Dolan, who was reloading the scattergun. Ike moved, making his way toward the front, ducking as shots ripped past.
“Where you going?” Jake hollered.
“Get back there!” Ike pointed. “And keep shooting.”
He moved up next to Ben as Jake climbed back. Ike pulled up the lid of the seat where Jake had been sitting. From atop the tarp, Jake fired and hit Secorro, who had been riding close to Quemada. Quemada didn’t look back as Secorro smashed hard onto the ground.
Ike stooped low next to Ben. He took the pipe from his pocket, put it into his mouth and puffed until he was satisfied that it was still lit.
Jake’s eyes widened in disbelief.
“Ike! What the hell are you doing?”
“Keep shooting!”
He reached down into the box inside the seat and pulled up a stick of dynamite. Still ducking low, he stuck the wick into the pipe bowl. Almost immediately, the wick sizzled.
Ike rose just enough to throw the lit stick at the cluster of pursuing Apaches, then reached for another stick.
The first cluster, led by Quemada, rode over the dynamite before it exploded. But the second group didn’t make it. Four of them rode directly into the explosion that rocked the ground and catapulted their flaying bodies off their mounts onto the black, hollowed-out ground.
Crook extended his hand and Colorados was about to accept it.
“Peace, Colorados.”
The sound of a dynamite explosion reverberated.
Then another.
Quemada and the remnants of his band rode on, trying to avoid the lighted dynamite stick that had landed directly in their path. But before they managed to turn away, the charge went off, blowing apart bodies of horses and Apaches.
Ike had just lit a third stick and was bringing it away from his pipe, as Jake, screaming in triumph, turned and accidentally hit Ike’s hand, knocking the sizzling stick into the bed of the racing wagon.
The tube of dynamite rolled far back under the seat, too far to reach in time.
“Jump!” Ike hollered to all aboard.
“The gold!” Dolan screamed.
“Get off!” Jake screamed back. “Jump!”
Jake flew off, followed by Dolan.
Ike reached down and released the king pin, freeing the horses from the wagon, as Ben bailed out on one side and Ike on the other, seconds before the blast decimated the wagon. Chunks of gold spiraled into the sky, then cascaded in all directions onto the earth below.
What few Apaches remained on horseback scattered for the hills. A couple of others rose from the ground, staggered and stumbled away.
Jake got to his knees, then rose to his feet, feeling at his elbows and head to make certain that he was still fastened together.
Ben managed to stand up, rubbing his shoulder.
Dolan crawled on all fours toward a chunk of gold. There were glittering gold clods and clumps all around.
Ike rose, looked and nodded toward Jake, Ben and Dolan.
In the distance, they saw riders. Soldiers and Indians led by Colonel Crook and Colorados.
Dolan walked up to Ike, looked around at the remnants from the Rattlesnake, smiled and shrugged.
“Well, it’ll take some doing. But I think we can gather it up again.”
Some of the soldiers retrieved the team of horses.
Colorados looked down on the broken, unmoving body of Quemada.
Crook rode up to Ike and the others and dismounted.
“You fellows all right?”
“Well,”—Jake pointed to the dead Apaches,—“we’re better off than they are.”
Crook took off his hat and wiped at the sweat band. “Ike, those were dynamite explosions, weren’t they?”
“They were.”
“Why were you carrying dynamite?”
“Always do. Clear away boulders that fall on the road.”
Crook smiled. “Well, today you cleared away more ’n that.”
Colorados rode up, then dismounted with a Winchester he had picked up.
“Quemada is dead.”
Captain Bourke stepped forward. “But how many other Quemadas are around?”
“I don’t know,” Colorados said, “but he got this from a white man.” He handed the Yellow Boy to Crook. “And where will we bury our dead, Gray Wolf?”
Sean Dolan looked at the chief. “Colorados, we haven’t disturbed that burial ground behind the mine. I promise you we won’t.”
“And so do I,” Crook said, then turned to Ike. “Dynamite, huh. Good strategy, soldier. You shoulda been in my outfit.”
“I was.”
“We were all in the same outfit, weren’t we, Colonel?”
“I guess we were.” Crook nodded.
“Still are.” Ike smiled.
He took the watch from his pocket, snapped open the lid and listened for a moment to the tune.