Ralph Compton - Doomsday Rider

“But I didn’t hit anybody,” Sieber said again. “Every time I fired the man was already going down under your guns. Hell, man, you did it all.” He nodded toward the Colts that Fletcher had just holstered. “You did it all with them. I ain’t never seen the like in all my born days. A couple of years back, in Abilene it was, I saw Wild Bill Hickok shoot Colts, and I tell you right now, he ain’t near a patch on you.”

Wanting it over with, killing as it always did saddening and draining him, Fletcher said, “We were lucky, was all.” He took off his hat and wiped sweat from the band with steady fingers. “Let’s go see if there’s anything left of Sergeant McDermott.”

There wasn’t much.

That the man had suffered a great deal was obvious, and before the Apaches left they’d cut his throat.

“I’ve seen that before,” Sieber said, pointing with his rifle to the dead man. “It’s always the young squaws who do that. Makes a man think about womenfolk in general and how they feel about things.”

McDermott’s entire scrotum, hacked and bloody, had been stuffed into his mouth, and it was this that had finally stifled his screams.

“I guess it all depends on the woman,” Fletcher said.

An eight-man cavalry patrol, attracted by the sound of gunfire, entered the arroyo an hour later. In time to bury the dead.

* * *

“You boys did well,” Lt. Frank Michler told Fletcher and Sieber. “We counted nine dead Apaches.” The officer pointed to an old man with thin, gray braids sitting with his back to a rock. “And my troopers rounded up another one.” Michler called out over his shoulder. “Sergeant Wilson!”

The noncom, a huge man with a shaved bullet head and thick neck, stepped to the lieutenant’s side and snapped to attention. “Bring that Indian over here. I want to talk to him,” Michler said.

Since the start of the wars against the whites, old men were a rarity among the Apache, most warriors dying long before their thirtieth birthday. But this man looked to be around seventy years old, his black eyes filmed white by cataracts.

“Where are your people?” Michler asked.

The old man was silent.

“Maybe he doesn’t speak English, Lieutenant,” Fletcher said.

“You are the one with the barking Colt’s guns,” the old Apache said suddenly, his hazy eyes trying to focus on Fletcher. “Your medicine is strong.” The Apache was silent for a few moments, then said, “But I see one whose medicine is also strong, and by and by you two will meet.” The old man stretched out a skinny hand and laid it on Fletcher’s arm. “Whose guns will bark loudest then? The answer to that is unknown to me.”

“Where are your people, old man?” Michler asked, impatience edging his voice. “Will you lead us to them so we can talk and make peace?”

The old man shook his head, his lined face crumpling.

“How can there be peace when General Crook has too many demasiadas cartuchos del cobre and wishes to shoot all of them?” he asked.

Michler looked quizzically at Sieber and the scout said, “He means cartridges of copper.”

The Apache nodded. “Too many cartridges of copper. My people were never afraid of fighting the Americans alone, but now our own people act as scouts and fight against us and we do not know what to do. We dare not go to sleep at night because we fear to be surrounded before daybreak. We dare not hunt because the noise of our guns brings the soldiers. We dare not cook mescal or anything else because flame and smoke will draw down soldiers. We dare not live in the valleys because of the soldiers, so we retreat to the mountaintops, thinking to hide in the snow until the soldiers go home. But the scouts find us and the soldiers follow. This is our land, but we have nowhere to go.”

The old man’s eyes sought Michler’s face. “The young warriors are here. They are all dead. I do not know where the rest of my people have gone.”

Lieutenant Michler waved away the Apache with an impatient hand. “Ah, he’s hopeless. The old coot knows nothing. He’s nuts.”

The soldier stalked away, calling out orders to his troopers, and Fletcher stood looking at the old man. He built a smoke and took the Apache’s hand, putting the cigarette between his fingers.

The old man, long exposed to Mexicans, knew what it was, and he put the cigarette between his lips and Fletcher thumbed a match into flame and lit it for him.

“You’re blind, old man,” Fletcher said, “but you see more than the rest of us, I think.”

“No hard feelings Flet-cher,” the old Apache said, in a strange, high, singsong voice. “You are a mighty warrior, Flet-cher. No hard feelings from me. You have your eyes open, Flet-cher, but you don’t see. That is because nothing is as it seems. Everything is topsy-turvy, Flet-cher. There is evil for you here. It stalks you as the cougar stalks the deer. You don’t know this thing because you can’t see. But the evil is already here and it rides a gray horse. It is here, Flet-cher.”

Sergeant Wilson stepped beside the old man and roughly grabbed his skinny arm. “Come on, you crazy old bastard,” he said. “You’re coming with us.”

The Apache winced as Wilson’s fingers dug deep, and Fletcher grabbed the soldier’s wrist, his own strong fingers tightening like steel bands.

“Let him go, Sergeant,” Fletcher said, voice soft as his eyes turned from blue to a cold gunmetal gray.

Sergeant Wilson grimaced in pain and quickly released his fingers from the old man’s thin biceps. But Fletcher still held the soldier’s wrist in a grip like a vise.

“It doesn’t cost anything to be sociable, Sergeant,” he whispered. “Now smile to the Indian and be downright sociable.”

“Go to hell,” Wilson gritted.

Fletcher’s fingers tightened and color drained from the sergeant’s face.

“All right, all right,” he said. “I’ll be sociable.”

“Smile to the nice Indian,” Fletcher said, a vague, undirected anger riding him.

The soldier’s lips twisted into a grotesque approximation of a smile and Fletcher let his wrist go.

Fletcher stepped closer to Wilson as the man stood, rubbing his wrist. “I’ve took a notion to like this old man,” he said. “If I hear that you’ve been abusing him I’ll come looking for you.”

Wilson glared at Fletcher, his eyes ugly. “You and me are going to meet again when there ain’t an officer around, Fletcher; depend on it,” he said. “And when we do I’ll kill you.”

“That’s been tried before,” Fletcher said. “Now take your prisoner and get the hell out of here.”

“You sure have a habit of making enemies, don’t you, Buck?”

Fletcher turned and found Al Sieber at his elbow.

“He didn’t have to hurt the old man. There was no cause to do that,” Fletcher said.

Sieber nodded. “Maybe so, but you watch that Andy Wilson. He fancies himself a pugilist and they say he once beat a man to death with his fists in a prizefight over to Dodge City way. He’s four inches taller and maybe fifty pounds heavier than you, Buck, and that’s something to bear in mind.”

Fletcher’s smile was thin. “I’m not hunting trouble. I’ll stay out of his way.”

“Unless you gun him, of course,” Sieber said, grinning. “Then you don’t have a damn thing to worry about.”

Lieutenant Michler stepped beside Sieber and with little ceremony told the scout that he’d been ordered to report to General Crook at Fort Apache.

“That’s why I was patrolling out this way,” the soldier said. “I was instructed to relieve you of the wagon escort and give you your orders.”

“Looks like we can ride up to the fort together, Buck,” Sieber said.

Fletcher nodded. “Glad to have you along—and that Henry of yours.”