Ralph Compton - Doomsday Rider

The Apaches demanded an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, and while there was still breath in their lean, sinewy bodies they’d fight on, defiant even as they saw their way of life and all that they held sacred being relentlessly and systematically destroyed.

And they were out there now, among the rocks, knowing they had three white men trapped. The Apaches were eager to finish this thing, but, patient and knowing as the stalking wolf, they were biding their time.

How many of them?

Fletcher studied the rocks behind the wagon. Had he seen one of them move? Just a moment ago he’d caught a sudden flash of red in the narrow vee between two gray boulders. And now he saw it again.

Fletcher sighted his rifle on the notch between the rocks and waited.

Above him the sun had climbed to its highest point and a vulture glided across the hazy green sky, slanting toward the towering, rugged bulk of Mazatzal Peak to the west.

There was little heat in the winter sun and it was cool here among the rocks. A stunted juniper spread twisted limbs over the small clearing amid the boulders where Fletcher, Sieber, and the dying trooper had taken refuge, casting crooked shadows on the sand.

Slowly, taking his time, Fletcher rested his rifle on the rock in front of him and built a smoke. He gestured with the tobacco sack toward Sieber, but the scout produced a chewing plug from his vest pocket, signaling his preference.

Fletcher lit his cigarette and studied the notch between the boulders again.

There it was!

The flash of red slowly grew into a headband around the brow of an Apache. The Indian raised his head higher, scanning Fletcher’s position, his rifle coming up to his shoulder.

Fletcher fired, and the Apache disappeared. But a fan of bright blood spattered the rock close to where the man’s head had been.

“Get him?” Sieber asked, crawling beside Fletcher.

“Burned him, I think,” Fletcher said.

Sieber nodded. “That will make them more careful. I guess by now they figure we ain’t a bunch of pilgrims up here.”

Another Apache, killed by Sieber, lay beside the wagon, and Fletcher had shot a second during the Indians’ first wild charge at the wagon. But that warrior had been pulled out of sight and Fletcher did not know if he was alive or dead.

Fletcher had been in the Tonto Basin country for a week now, chasing vague leads on Estelle Stark and the Chosen One that had come to nothing. Mostly he’d heard confused rumors of a white woman seen with Apaches, and in every case the trail left by the girl had petered out.

Earlier that morning Fletcher had ridden south from the Mogollon Rim, a long wind at his back, and had met up with Sieber on the upper reaches of Cherry Creek.

Sieber was leading a supply wagon packed with hardtack and bacon to a detachment of the First Cavalry and their Paiute scouts camped near the base of Mazatzal Peak. Sieber, with only Sergeant McDermott driving the wagon and the young trooper riding escort, had asked Fletcher to ride with them. Like many Western men of that time, Sieber had heard of Fletcher, and he was grateful for his gun skills and extra rifle.

Since he’d been following cold trails that led nowhere, Fletcher, at a loose end, had agreed.

An hour later the Apaches struck.

A dozen warriors had come scattering out of the rocks as the wagon neared Shake Ridge, and McDermott had gone down, wounded in their first volley. The young trooper—his name was McKinnon—had taken an arrow in the belly.

Fletcher and Sieber had each downed an Apache. Fletcher had grabbed the reins of the trooper’s horse and galloped into an arroyo, then swung down when he reached a jumbled pile of boulders that marked the end of the canyon. He’d helped the trooper into the shade of the juniper, then, while Sieber fired at the oncoming Apaches, Fletcher had led the horses into the shelter of a rock overhang.

A few minutes later they’d heard the first agonized screams erupt from the sergeant’s mouth.

“How long can they keep that up?” Fletcher asked Sieber.

The scout ran the back of his gun hand across his mustache, wiping away sweat. “If he’s lucky, the rest of the day and maybe into the night. If he’s unlucky, until tomorrow. And if he’s real unlucky, the day after that. Like I said, I saw women with them, and they’ll drag it out as long as they can.”

Al Sieber was a handsome, wide-shouldered man of thirty. The hard life of an army scout had burned every ounce of fat from his lean frame, and his blue eyes were cool and unafraid. He was a fighting man to the core, and during the War Between the States had served valiantly at Antietam, Fredericksburg, and Gettysburg, and had been wounded in action three times.

Now he spat a stream of tobacco juice, neatly nailing a basking lizard, and studied the arroyo before him.

“What you doing in the Arizona Territory, Buck?” Sieber asked without taking his eyes off the rocks where the Apaches lurked. “I seem to recall hearing you was up Wyoming way, selling your gun to a rancher in one of them grass and water wars everybody talks about.”

“You heard right,” Fletcher said. “But now I’m here.”

He offered nothing more, and Sieber was quite willing to let it go, but then Fletcher said, “I’m searching for somebody. A girl. Her name’s Estelle Stark.” He turned and looked at the scout. “Ever hear of her?”

Sieber shook his head. “Name means nothing to me.” He spat tobacco juice again. “Best you go talk to General Crook. He knows everything that’s going on in this country.”

“Where can I find him?” Fletcher asked.

“Last I heard he was at Fort Apache. That’s about fifty miles due east of here, close to the big bend of the Salt River. It ain’t much as forts go, just a collection of ramshackle log huts and tents, but then ol’ George was never much of a one for fuss and feathers.”

Sieber was silent for a few moments, then said, “Course, all that depends on us getting out of here alive, and right now I’d say that ain’t looking too likely.”

Down by the wagon, where one mule lay dead in its traces, the other stood patiently, waiting for whatever was to come. The Apache valued mule meat above all others, and, hungry as they were, would hope to fill their empty bellies after this fight was over.

Sergeant McDermott screamed, screamed a second time, and then fell silent, but his cries still echoed for long moments within the narrow canyon walls.

When McDermott shrieked again, Sieber, stone-faced, sang a ballad under his breath that was then highly popular in the barracks of the enlisted men.

I’d like to be a packer,

And pack with George F. Crook,

And dressed up in my canvas suit,

To be for him mistook.

I’d braid my beard in two forked tails,

And idle all the day

In whittling sticks and wondering

What the New York papers say.

Behind him, Fletcher heard the young trooper stifle a groan. Crouching, he stepped to the soldier’s side. “Is it bad?” he asked.

The boy nodded, and said through clenched teeth, “It’s real bad. I don’t think I can bear it much longer. I want to go now.” Trooper McKinnon, small and wiry like most of Crook’s cavalrymen, looked down at the arrow, bright with colored turkey feathers, sticking out of his belly.

“Can you pull it free?” he asked. “I don’t want to die with this inside me.”

Fletcher shook his head. “All I’d do is cause you more pain. Best you lie real still and make your peace with God.”

“I done that already,” McKinnon said. “I figure I’m right with my creator.” A slight smile touched the boy’s white lips. “Know something? I ain’t never sparked a girl. Not even once. Now that it’s all up with me, I guess I never will.”