The horses were becoming uneasy. Their nervousness was getting to Travis. They were approaching the box canyon that held a water hole, and there was something about it that bothered the horses. Normally, horses could smell the water and Travis would be hard pressed to hold them back. Now he was having trouble getting them to move forward.
Crockett picked it up, too. “What’s the problem here?”
“I don’t know,” said Travis. He stopped the wagon and set the brake. The entrance to the canyon was a couple of hundred feet in front of them. There were wagon tracks, footprints, and a well-beaten path that lead into it. The rocky walls rose on either side of it and through the entrance, Travis could see the copse of green trees.
He handed the reins to Crockett and said, “I’m going to check this out. You wait here.”
“And if you don’t come back?” she asked.
“Then all the gold is yours, if you can find it.” He jumped from the seat and then pulled his lever-action Winchester out. He walked forward and stopped near the horses. He reached up and patted one of them on the neck and then resumed walking into the canyon.
He kept his eyes moving, searching the rocks around the entrance, fearing an ambush. The Apaches sometimes did that, but so did the white man. Everyone knew that travelers would stop off at the watering hole. It was a good place for robbers, both white and red.
He thumbed back the hammer of the rifle. Behind him he could hear the horses snorting and pawing at the ground. There was a light breeze blowing and as he approached the canyon, he realized that it wasn’t a fresh breeze. There was an odor on it. An odor that he recognized from his service in the army. It was an odor that hung over battlefields in the days after the fighting was over. He recognized it from the times that he had dug graves for the dead.
He stopped and turned back, looking at Crockett and the wagon. She was sitting there holding the reins and had one foot up on the brake. The horses were making her nervous.
He started forward again, slipping to the right so that he was in the shadow of the rocks. He reached the entrance, stopped, and crouched. Now the stench coming from the box canyon was almost overpowering. The last thing he wanted to do was move forward into it.
Finally he stood, his back to a boulder. He slipped around it until he was in the canyon. To the right, near the foot of the slope, were two big turkey buzzards. One had its head down and was tugging at something buried in the sand. The other was flapping around, trying to get in closer. He glanced up overhead and saw twenty or thirty vultures circling.
Opposite the one grave, he saw there were a couple more. There were buzzards clustered around another. They had it covered so that he could tell nothing about the body. He walked to the center of the canyon, but none of the vultures or buzzards took off. They sat quietly watching him.
Travis raised the rifle and fired a single shot. The sound echoed around as the birds leaped into the air; calling noisly. They joined the others circling overhead, waiting to see what would happen next.
Travis took in the scene. There were four dead men partially exposed. All seemed to be Apaches killed recently. The desert heat and the scavengers were already working on the bodies, turning them into bloated corpses that stunk.
For a moment Travis stood there, trying to figure out what it meant. He took a step forward and then stopped. He glanced at one body and then the other. Finally he walked to the closest one and then, holding a hand over his nose and mouth, knelt.
The dead man had a bullet hole in the side of his head and another in his chest. There were rusty stains near each hole, which was the dried blood. The skin was ripped in other places. That was where the birds had been picking at it. There were no fingers on the right hand.
There had been a fight in the last day or two. The dead Apaches, partially buried, meant that the winners had been the white men. It meant that other Apaches were going to be on the warpath. They would not allow several of their fellows to be killed without trying to get even.
“What is going on?” said Crockett suddenly.
Travis spun and saw her standing in the entrance to the canyon. Her eyes were on the dead man.
“I heard a shot,” she said. “Did you kill him?”
“No,” said Travis. “I fired to frighten the vultures. He was dead when I got here.”
Now she saw the others. “What happened?”
“Looks like they got into it with some of our people . . . ”
“Our people?”
“White men. Some kind of fight and they lost. Means there’s going to be some hostiles out here.”
“How’s that going to affect us?” she asked. She was staring down at the dead man as if she had never seen anything so fascinating.
Travis shook his head. “I don’t know. These guys were buried for a reason. I think that was to hide the bodies from the Apaches, for the little good it would do. I think the Indians are going to be out looking for who did this.”
“Which couldn’t have been us,” said Crockett.
“Which won’t mean a thing,” said Travis. “If they decide to hit the warpath, then anyone with a white skin is going to be a target.”
“You saying that we should give it up?”
Travis was silent for a moment. Then he shook his head. “Right now I think we can press on. We’ve seen no sign of any hostiles and until we do, I’m not going to worry about it. We might have to pack it in later.”
“But the gold,” she said.
“Will still be there next year after the excitement dies down. The gold will do us no good if we’re dead.”
“We’re not turning back now?” she asked.
Travis looked at the dead men again and knew what the answer should be. Good sense dictated what it should be. But instead he said, “Not yet. I still want to see the gold.”
* * *
“They’re out there,” Bailey said again. “I know they’re out there.”
“You see them?” asked Davis again.
“This time I’ve seen them,” said Bailey. “Maybe a dozen of them. Maybe more. But I’ll bet you my share of the gold that there are others I haven’t seen. Apaches are like that.”
Davis felt his stomach grow cold. It had been one thing to kill the Apaches at the watering hole. That had been an ambush where the Indians had been caught cold. Now it looked like the tables were about to be reversed.
Culhaine had seen a couple of the braves as they topped a ridgeline. He rode closer and said, ‘They’re about three, four hundred yards to the west.” He didn’t want to point, afraid that would draw attention to himself.
Davis turned and looked in the opposite direction. He now understood why they had been allowed to see the Apaches. There was nothing but flat, open ground as far as they could see. No hills covered with rocks to provide protection. No rivers to cross so that the Apaches would have to attack across the water while they hid, picking them off. Nothing for them to defend except open ground.
Now there was a group of riders paralleling them. Davis watched them for a moment. Then, suddenly, ahead was another group.
“I think this about tears it,” said Davis.
“What are we going to do?” asked Culhaine.
“They’re forcing us to the east,” said Davis. “No cover there yet. But if we can get a good run, maybe we can find something.”
“When?” asked Bailey.
“We turn to the east,” said Davis, “and continue to move in that direction. If they make a turn toward us, we get the hell out of here.”
“Okay.”
Davis turned in his saddle slowly and looked at the band of Apaches. They seemed to have something in sight, in front of them. They didn’t seem to be interested in the group of white men who happened to be riding in the same direction.
“Slowly,” said Davis. “Slowly, we turn to the east. Ramsey, you slide off to the right as a flanker. George, you and Jason drop back for a rear guard.”
“They’ll roll right over us.”
“If they get close to us, stop, fire a few rounds and then turn and run. Buys us a minute of two,” said Davis.
“Okay,” said Bailey.
“Here we go.” said Davis. He pulled on the reins and his horse’s head turned to the right. He kept the pace slow, as if it was just a natural turn. Nothing important. He wanted to look back at the Apaches, but didn’t want them to know it. He forced himself to keep his eyes to the front.
“They’re turning with us,” said Ramsey.
Now Davis glanced to the north where the second group had appeared. They, too, were headed toward the white men. No one was moving very fast, but it was now obvious that the Apaches were going to keep them in sight.
“I think it’s time to make a run for it,” said Ramsey.
“So do I,” said Davis. He stood up in the stirrups and twisted around. He put on hand on his horse’s rump and then watched the Apaches. They were following slowly.
“Men,” said Davis raising his voice slightly, “I think it’s time for us to scram.” He dropped back into the saddle, touched a hand to the Colt revolver strapped to his waist and then, suddenly, kicked his horse in the flanks.
“Yeah!” he screamed and hunched forward as the horse jumped. It began to gallop across the desert.
The men with him did the same. Bailey and Culhaine hesitated, just for an instant so that they were at the rear of the formation. As they began to gallop, the Apaches to the north let out a whoop. They began to cut toward the white men, hugging the necks of their ponies.
“They’re coming,” yelled Bailey.
“Let ’em,” said Davis. He was now watching the ground just in front of his horse, searching for a hole the animal might step in. The last thing he wanted was to be spilled to the desert floor while the Apaches rode down on him.
He lifted his eyes and swept the horizon. There was a single tree in the far distance, but that offered no hope of sanctuary. A single tree would do nothing except provide shade for them during the fight.
“Getting close on the right,” yelled Bradford.
Davis glanced, but the Apaches were still three hundred yards away. They didn’t seem to be gaining on them at all. Kicking up clouds of dust and screaming, but not catching them.
There were three shots from the rear. Davis shot a glance over his shoulder. Bailey and Culhaine were sitting there, aiming at the Apaches coming at them from the west. Those Indians slowed, and when they did, both men whirled and kicked their horses, joining the fleeing group.
“Where?” yelled Webster.
Davis knew that he wanted to know where they were going. Davis didn’t have an answer. He hoped that reaching the slight rise in front of them would open things up. That over that rise would be a defensible position.
There was a distant shot. One of the Indians shooting at them. No one was hurt. The round disappeared harmlessly. There was a second and third, but Davis knew that a galloping horse made it impossible to aim.
They reached the top of the rise, and Davis reined in his horse. It stopped running, digging in its rear feet, sliding to a halt. The desert stretched in front of him like a lumpy blanket spread for a picnic. Nowhere to hide.
He turned and looked at the Apaches. They were now two hundred yards away and coming fast. The horses were breathing hard from the run. It would be an hour, maybe less, before the horses were run into the ground, unable to move. A horse would run until it collapsed, but once it was down, there was nothing to be done for it and no way to make it get back up. It would die where it fell.
Davis rubbed his lips with the back of his hand. His options were suddenly limited. Twenty, maybe thirty Apaches coming at him. He had ten, eleven, a dozen men, all with rifles and pistols. With nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, there was nothing he could do but stop and fight.
“Dismount,” he ordered like he was still an officer in the Rebel cavalry. He jerked his carbine from the scabbard on the side of his saddle. He held the reins in his left hand as he worked the lever, putting a round under the hammer.
Around him the others did the same. Bradford, Bailey, and Culhaine handed their reins to Webster and then ran forward, kneeling or throwing themselves down on the ground, aiming at the Apaches.
“Take them,” said Davis, snapping out the words like an order on a battlefield.
There was a single shot and then a volley. One Apache tumbled from the back of his horse, but the others came on, screaming and waving their arms.
Davis fired once, worked the lever ejecting the spent round, and pulled the trigger again. There was a rattling of the weapons around him and he thought suddenly of fire discipline. They should space the shots so they all didn’t empty their weapons at the same time. Work it so there was a continuous fire pouring out. That would stop the Apaches.
But it was too late for that. He didn’t have the time to instruct them in fire discipline. Not with them blazing away as fast as they could. Instead, he aimed at the closest of the Apaches and tried to kill him.
Two more of them toppled from their horses. One pony reared suddenly, unseating the rider. As the animal fell, the Indian was on his feet, but now he was aiming at the white men. Firing his rifle at them.
“Closest first,” yelled Davis. “Kill the closest first. Aim for the horses.”
“I got that one,” yelled Bailey. “I got that one.”
The Apaches suddenly veered to the right and then turned, riding toward the north. Davis followed them with the barrel of his rifle. He aimed, fired, but hit nothing. The Apaches kept riding away.
Now there was only the single Indian, standing on the desert about three hundred yards away. He had slipped to one knee and was using a short cactus for cover. He was firing at them slowly.
“Get that bastard,” yelled Culhaine.
“Let’s get out of here,” said Davis. He started to jam his rifle into the scabbard and then stopped. He began pushing shells into it, reloading it just in case the Apaches decided to attack again.
Finished, he climbed into the saddle. Culhaine was standing, aiming at the Apache. He fired and a piece of the cactus exploded. There was no return fire now.
“Let’s get out of here now!” shouted Davis. “Come on.” He reined his horse around and started off toward the east again, this time at a trot.
The men mounted up and fell in behind him. As they crossed the rise and started down the gentle slope, Davis said, “We’ve got to practice fire discipline. If they come back we have to make sure that we don’t all run out of ammo at the same time.”
“They’ll be back,” said Bailey.
“Yeah,” agreed Davis. “I know, and that’s what I’m afraid of now.”