LATE IN THE afternoon they saw a cloud of dust drifting up from the trail ahead. It was unlikely that the Kiowa would turn back to attack them, the sensible thing being to lay up in ambush and let the two riders come onto the guns, but innate caution prompted them to turn off the trail and seek shelter in a patch of big saguaro until they were sure of the approaching men.
Azul hauled the Winchester clear of the scabbard, levering a shell into the breech before canting the gun across his hips. Beside him, John Havee primed a battered Henry.
The dust got closer, and they saw that it came from a bunch of around ten white men. They rode in close formation, carbines and pistols out in sight, with three men slumped uncomfortably in the center of the group.
Azul heeled his mount onto the trail. Four Winchesters swung round to cover him.
‘Friends!’ he shouted. ‘We come down from Dragonsville.’
The riders eased to a walking pace. As they got closer, Azul could see that the three men in the center were wounded. One had a dirty bandage around his chest, blood drying on the grubby cloth. Another had his right arm in a sling. The third was sitting with his left leg stuck out from the saddle, rough splints lashed to his thigh and knee. A bandage covered one eye. The others were dusty and stubbled with unshaven beards. Their clothes were dirty, stained by sweat and blood, their eyes red from lack of sleep and their fingers nervous on the triggers.
‘Hey!’ A big man at the front of the posse waved the others to a halt. ‘It’s Horn’s injun. He’s alright, boys.’
Azul recognized the cowboy called Moore.
‘You went after the Kiowa.’ It was a statement, not a question. So was the last part: ‘You found them.’
‘Goddam right we did,’ said Moore. ‘Bastards had made camp south o’ town before they attacked. I guess they wanted their wimmen outa the way afore they hit. We come out after the raid an’ found the camp. Followed the trail south as far as the Salt Springs, an’ then got hit. Lost two men afore they took off, an’ Mort an’ Jimmy an’ Zeke got wounded. Goddam bastards lit out too fast to foller, so we turned back.’
‘They still headed south?’ said Azul.
Nick Moore nodded. ‘Looks that way. Runnin’ fer Mexico like a goddam owlhooter with the Rangers on his tail.’
‘I’d best be moving then,’ grunted Azul. ‘How far ahead are they?’
Moore stared at him. ‘You’re goin’ after them? You an’ the old man? You’re crazy.’
Azul nodded. ‘Horn hired us to find them.’
‘An’ cut down on the old man bit, sonny,’ added Havee. ‘I ain’t so old I couldn’t step down an’ take you apart.’
‘No need,’ grunted Moore. ‘Them goddam Kiowa’ll do that if you catch up to the fuckers. We left ’em a day ago. Reckon they’ll be a day farther south by now.’
‘Thanks,’ said Azul. ‘I’ll see you around.’
‘Not if you figger to chase them hostiles on yore own,’ said Moore. ‘You won’t be seein’ much else than the pearly gates.’
Azul grinned and heeled the grey horse to a fast canter.
When night fell they made camp out on the prairie. The Kiowa group looked to be headed due south, moving fast without bothering overmuch about hiding its tracks. Azul guessed that Mahka was running for the border in an attempt to avoid the punitive expeditions the Army must send out after the hostiles. He doubted there was any reason for the attack on Dragonsville other than a need to secure more guns— and, more importantly, supplies of ammunition— and the town had just happened to be in the Kiowas5 path. From their point of view, the raid would be a double-edged maneuver, for it had given them the guns they wanted, but must now double the attempts to find them. Once word got through to the Army, riders would be sent out to alert the scattering of forts covering the south of Texas. Most likely, messengers would already be moving down from Fort Brigg to Fort Stockton. From there, it would pass on to Fort Davis and west to Fort Quitman. Patrols would be out hunting, looking for Mahka, sending word on to the south Texas towns where Ranger stations would send their own men into the field.
Mahka5s best hope would be a fast run south. Straight across the Pecos River to the Rio Grande and the safety of Mexico.
Azul thought about it as he tried to remember the lay of the land and the geography lessons his father had given him.
South of the Colorado there was an area of high country that sloped down to the empty wastes flanking the Pecos. Fort Stockton was close on a day’s ride from there, more for a family group. Fort Davis lay south, and slightly westwards. Quitman was farther north and west on the Rio Grande.
He traced lines in the sand, mapping the rivers and marking the location of the forts with twigs. Rattle Snake Springs and Eagle Springs lay between forts Davis and Quitman. South of Davis was Presidio del Norte, where the Rio Conchos fed into the Grande. He wondered which route he would take. With a war band, it would cut hard to the east, skirting round the forts to hit the border river where the Pecos and the Grande joined. Or maybe head west and then cut down past the southern end of the Guadalupes to run between the forts.
But Mahka was carrying women and children with him, and must know that Army patrols from the north would be dogging his tracks. Therefore he might well pick the most direct route, avoiding detours and mountains alike.
Azul stared hard at his rough map.
The most likely course would be for the tribe to cross the Pecos east of Fort Stockton and move fast to the Rio Grande, crossing over eastwards of Presidio. The country down there got wilder around the river, but the rugged nature of the terrain would deter pursuit, affording the tribe natural cover.
He wondered if his musings were right, or if Mahka would pick some other route and disappear into the flat wastes of southern Texas.
‘You tryin’ to figger out where he’s goin’?’ Havee’s voice interrupted his thoughts. ‘There ain’t no way to tell.’
‘He’s got women and children with him,’ murmured Azul. ‘He has to allow for them.’
‘Don’t count on it,’ grunted Havee. ‘The Kiowa is used to runnin’, so are his wimmen. It’s a goddam small tribe, stuck in betwixt the Comanche an’ the Cheyenne an’ the Sioux. Only way they stayed around as long as they have is because they can fight like crazy an’ run like mad when the need comes. If Mahka figgers it’s the best way, he’ll take his people right under the walls o’ them forts an’ thumb his nose at the sojer boys.’
‘Where’d you go, then?’ Azul asked. ‘Tell me.’
Havee shrugged. ‘Me? I’d sit tight fer a while. Ride around a bit to confuse things, then head off where the cover was weakest. I got to admit that I’d aim to avoid the forts, though. They’re close enough together to keep permanent patrols out, an’ if Davis an’ Quitman link up, then the whole o’ the west side’s gonna be pretty tight.’
‘So eastwards of Fort Stockton still looks like our best bet,’ said Azul.
‘I guess,’ nodded Havee. ‘We can work it out better when we reach the Salt Springs.’
They found the two dead cowboys at the springs. The bodies were punched through with bullet holes and bristling with arrows, and both were mutilated. The scalps had been taken, which was indignity enough, but after that the hands had been cut off at the wrists and the eyes of both men gouged out. Their feet were hacked from the legs, and they were both emasculated, the genitals cut away and shoved into their mouths.
Buzzards flapped heavily from the corpses as Azul and Havee approached, squawking raucous protestation at the interruption of their feeding.
Azul stared at the butchered men and wondered what kind of killer he was hunting. An Apache would take scalps—the white men and the Mexicans had brought that profanity into being with their bounties—but he burned the hair after, taking it only as a token of victory. He would torture an enemy, deeming the man deserving of pain for opposing the Apache nation, but to dismember the bodies in such a way was alien to his Chiricahua thinking.
‘Pretty, ain’t they?’ said Havee. ‘Mahka must be feelin’ special mean to hack ‘em up like that.’
He stared at the bodies, itemizing the injuries like a storekeeper ticking off the goods in his cellar.
‘Took the hands to stop ’em using weapons in the hereafter. Feet, to stop ’em from runnin’ or ridin’. Blinded their eyes so they won’t find their way along the Star Road, an’ took their hair fer trophies.’
‘You left something out,’ grunted Azul.
‘Huh? Oh, yeah.’ Havee nodded. ‘Cuttin’ off their balls is just an insult. Like that head we found: he’s sayin’ it’s time to stop followin’ him.’
‘I guess he’s got something to learn, then,’ rasped Azul.
‘What’s that?’ Havee looked curious.
‘There’s such a thing as just keeps going on,’ said Azul slowly. ‘It don’t matter how hard it gets, he just keeps following until he catches up and does what he promised.’
‘Yeah,’ murmured Havee. ‘I guess so.’
But he sounded dubious.
South of the Salt Springs the Kiowas’ trail broke up. The main party still headed due south, striking hard and fast for the Rio Grande, but a separate set of tracks led off to the west, There were about seven riders, and they looked to have been moving fast.
‘Used to be a tradin’ post near here,’ said Havee. ‘They could’ve gone off to raid it.’
‘We’ll take the main trail,’ grunted Azul. ‘If Mahka split his men up, he’ll pull them back once he’s done. He’s not about to leave his women now.’
‘You’re the boss,’ sighed Havee. ‘I just hope you know what we’re doin’.’
They met the raiding party close on noon the next day. South of the Salt Springs the land broke up into a jumble of dry washes that spread east and west of their path. The Kiowas’ tracks headed straight into the badlands, cutting through like rail tracks in the direction of Mexico. Azul and Havee followed on, drifting down one dried-out riverbank into the next, skirting clumps of mesquite and saguaro and cholla as they read the near-invisible signs of the hostiles’ passing.
Then an arrow whistled past Havee’s shoulder and a whooping scream split the warm stillness of the desert air.
Azul acted instinctively, yanking his reins over so that the grey horse stumbled sideways and then fell down.
It was still falling as Azul lifted clear of the saddle, sliding the Winchester clear of the boot before the animal pinned the carbine to the ground. Two more arrows went past his face, and a rifle cracked as he hit dirt.
Havee shouted and turned his mustang in a sweeping curve, smashing his heels against the animal’s flanks as he urged it to a gallop, heading for the cover of the saguaros leftwards of their path.
He almost made it, but then two arrows hit the paint pony in the rump and the little horse bucked and squealed arid dropped its hindquarters. The rifle cracked again and the left side of the pony’s skull exploded outwards in a welter of blood. Its forelimbs jerked and straightened, sliding deep through the sand. Havee yelled something Azul couldn’t hear and spilled out of the saddle with his old Henry clutched tight in his right hand.
Three more arrows hit the mustang as the old man wriggled into cover.
Azul stayed where he was, bellied down behind his own horse with the Winchester poking out over the saddle.
The whooping cry echoed again and three mustangs exploded into view. Each one carried a Kiowa settled low over his pony, hair streaming in the wind of the charge and painted lances held tight and low against the riders’ ribs as they thundered headlong at Azul’s position.
The half-breed had time to see that their faces were banded with stripes of black and yellow, that the lead rider wore three feathers in his hair, and carried a belt of scalps around his waist.
Then he shot the man clear of his pony.
His bullet was snap fired, placed with the casual skill of long practice and urgent usage. It took the Kiowa in the belly, exploding out through his back in a crimson gout of heart’s blood that splattered over the mustang’s flanks and splashed the second two riders.
The man was still pitching head-over-heels through the air as Azul levered and fired, levered and fired, raking his sights across the second pair.
One warrior went down with half his face shot away. His jaw flapped at an unnatural angle as he hit the sand, rolled and came back on his feet with a hatchet swinging in his right hand. He was still running forwards when a small hole appeared in his side and tossed him onto his face. When he pushed up, there was blood spilling from his mouth and his dark eyes were filled with as much pain as there was hate. A second hole showed abruptly on his left temple, his head seeming to crumble inwards so that his eye disappeared and his skull jerked sideways. He screamed once more, then dropped the hatchet and fell down.
Azul swung the Winchester round as the third warrior charged in.
His bullet had torn a ragged gash in the Kiowa’s right arm, but the wound was minor and did nothing to stop the man’s charge. He held his lance tight against his body, tip angled down to strike Azul’s chest as he came over the fallen horse.
Adrenalin flooded through Azul’s body, produced by that biological mechanism that works to slow time when danger threatens, seeming to slow time so that action seems to happen in slow-motion. The half-breed watched the mustang thunder closer. Saw the lance dip for the killing thrust. Knew that he had no time left to lever the Winchester and fire.
He dropped the carbine and powered back from the grey horse. Released from his weight, the stallion lurched to its knees directly in front of the Kiowa’s mustang.
The Indian pony, trained to avoid obstacles, did its best to spin clear of the stallion’s bulk. It turned to the side and fought to clear the stallion’s body. The Kiowa’s lance thudded into the saddle, the shock of the impact combining with the twisting of his pony to tear the pole from his hand.
Azul was on his back, rolled leftwards so that his Colt was pinned beneath his body. He saw the mustang lift up in a running jump and dropped his right hand to the top of his moccasin. He grabbed the hilt of the throwing knife and brought the slender blade up and over his shoulder. The mustang landed awkwardly, hind legs drumming on the grey’s back.
Azul’s arm snapped over and out.
The knife flew clear of his fingers, glittering briefly in the bright sunshine.
Then the silver of the blade hid itself in dark flesh.
The Kiowa lifted both his hands to his throat, his mouth gaping open as his eyes widened in shock. The mustang stumbled, thrown off balance by the grey. The Kiowa choked on his own blood and tumbled from the pad saddle. He hit the sand and rolled onto his back, hands scrabbling at the hilt of the throwing knife as blood filled his throat and made his fingers slippery.
Azul powered forwards, reaching out to drag the knife clear in a vicious, side-slicing motion that cut the blade deep through the warrior’s neck, severing his windpipe and cutting through the jugular vein as the razor-edged weapon came loose.
A great spurt of bright scarlet erupted from the butchered neck, and the Kiowa pressed both hands to the wound as his life flooded out onto the hot sand.
Azul slid the knife back into the moccasin and grabbed his carbine. The grey stallion was up on its feet now, and he swung one arm over the horse’s neck, jumping up to hook a foot across the saddle. The horse trotted forwards, anxious to get clear of the smell of blood and the arrows buzzing over its head. Azul used it for cover as far as the saguaros where Havee lay, then dragged the big horse down again and pegged its forelimbs with the tail ends of the reins.
‘Two fer you an’ one fer me,’ grunted the old man. ‘Let’s hope three’s our lucky number.’
‘There were seven of them,’ said Azul. ‘We still got four to go.’
‘Seven,’ snorted Havee. ‘Lucky fer some.’
‘Not us,’ Azul replied. ‘But I always did reckon luck was what you made it. Keep them pinned down.’
‘What the hell you talkin’ about?’ Havee turned, mouth opening in surprise. ‘I ain’t got but four shots left.’
But Azul was gone, bellying clear of the cactus like a great lithe snake easing its way through the sand with scarce enough movement to stir even the smallest puffs of dust from the dry, hot ground.
He wriggled northwards, then got up on his feet and ran back in a wide circle. As he ran, he thumbed fresh cartridges into the Winchester, so that the carbine was full loaded by the time he circled round to where he thought the Kiowas should be. He could hear Havee firing and shouting, keeping up a running conversation with himself as he alternated fire from the Henry rifle and the .44 Remington revolver in an attempt to keep up the pretense of a two-man defense.
South of the trail Azul found a path stamped through the cholla. It led in to an open space where a boy was tending the five remaining ponies. Azul paced catfooted over the sand until he was right behind the boy, then hooked the Winchester over his head and lifted a knee into the small of the youth’s back. The carbine rested against the youngster’s throat and his hands jumped to grasp at the sudden pressure. Azul pushed his knee forwards, dragging back with both hands on the carbine. There was a hoarse, choking sound. Then the faint, soggy click of snapping bones. The boy’s head pulled back farther than was natural and his hands fell clear of the Winchester.
Azul let the corpse drop to the ground and moved past the mustangs to come up behind the full-grown warriors.
There were four of them, as he had guessed. He was annoyed with himself for failing to spot the lighter marks of the youth’s pony, but that was something to worry about later. For now he had sufficient to concern him.
Three of the braves carried bows, the fourth the Winchester he had heard. The one with the rifle was bellied down behind a big cactus with a bowman four paces to the left. The other warriors were shifting out to circle Havee’s position and set up a crossfire.
Azul paused for a moment, thinking about the situation.
Then he lifted the Winchester to his shoulder and shot the Kiowa rifleman in the back of the head.
The Indian’s gun flew forwards as his hands jerked under the impact of the .44/40 bullet. The back of his skull disintegrated, the entire rear of his cranium falling in as the slug tore out through the front of his face and spread a sticky mess of blood and fragmented bone over the sand. While splashes of blood were still plopping redly against the yellow of the ground, Azul turned his aim and fired again.
His second shot tore into the ribs of the archer. A dark hole appeared in the man’s side, abruptly ringed by droplets of blood. His arms jerked upwards, loosing a useless arrow high against the pale blue sky. He fell back on the sand, screaming as the pain of his torn stomach and broken ribs hit him. Azul levered and fired. The next bullet hit the Kiowa in the mouth. A spray of broken teeth scattered out in front of a plume of blood. The warrior’s hair tugged back, fluttering as the deflected slug exited from his neck. Pulpy splatters of grey brain matter accompanied the scarlet, and the Indian’s head flopped over as his eyes went blank and dead.
Azul ducked down, running through the cactus to come up alongside the nearest Kiowa.
At the same time John Havee jumped up and came running forwards with the big old Remington bucking in his hand.
He put two bullets through the warrior on his side, the holes in the man’s stomach no more than two inches apart. The Kiowa grunted and sat down a clear yard away from his dropped bow. Havee chuckled and fired again, sighting his pistol on the Indian’s face. Red blossomed where the Kiowa’s nose had been and he tumbled over into a pool of spreading redness.
Azul stepped out from the saguaros with the Winchester cocked and leveled from his hip. He was close enough to the remaining Kiowa that the muzzle of the carbine touched the Indian’s side as he squeezed the trigger.
Burn marks flared blackly against the darkness of the Kiowa’s ribs. Then the body jumped sideways, leaving a thin trail of crimson droplets as it lifted up and flew through the air under the devastating impact of the close-fired carbine. The lead slug tore in through a rib and punctured the sac of the Indian’s belly. It ripped away the lower part of the heart and tore out between the ribs on the far side. A hole appeared in a cactus five yards away from the falling body. The Kiowa hit the sand and rolled over. On the left side of his hide shirt a fist-sized hole showed, the ragged tatters of rawhide colored dark with spouting blood. He snarled, reflex action working the body, and reached for the knife sheathed on his belt.
Azul fired the Winchester again, aiming from the hip. The second bullet hit the Kiowa in the chest. It smashed through his sternum, deflecting off the sheath of bone to rip upwards through his right shoulder. His arm jerked loose of the knife and his eyes stared up at the sky. A thin trickle of blood emptied out of the hole in his shirt and he slumped back onto the sand with wide eyes looking up at nothing.
Azul levered a fresh bullet into the Winchester’s breech and then reloaded.
Havee stared at the dead Kiowa with wondering eyes.
‘He was dead on the first shot,’ he said. ‘Why’d you fire again?’
Azul filled the Winchester and shrugged.
‘One’s dead, but two’s safer.’
‘Hard bastard, ain’t you?’ Havee grunted. ‘They were my kind o’ people, you know.’
‘Hard’s alive,’ said Azul. ‘They were trying to kill us. Would’ve if we hadn’t stopped them.’
‘Yeah,’ said Havee slowly, ‘I guess that’s true.’
‘Damn’ right it is,’ said Azul. ‘We’re not out on a picnic.’
‘No,’ said the old man. ‘The only jam I can see is what Horn give us. An’ right now we could be in a sandwich.’
‘How’s that?’ said Azul.
‘Christ!’ grunted Havee. ‘We’re stuck between these dead fellers an’ Mahka. That’s as tight a squeeze as I can think of.’
Azul grinned. ‘Don’t worry about it,’ he said. ‘If Mahka presses hard we’ll just ooze out. Like jam.’