RINCON MOUNTAINS,
Dust-chalked hooves stirred tiny whirlpools of gypsum and alkali as the three horses made their way across the desert for the next range of low-lying hills. The lead animal was an enormous black, which carried a tall and lithe rider, a man who was lean of frame and square of jaw. The rider wore a flat-crowned hat of brown felt, and his eyes were volcanic blue as they stared out from his lantern face. Though he had a corduroy work shirt and the jeans of a cowboy, the rider wore no chaps, spurs, or gunbelt. The only visible weapon was the butt of a Winchester that rode in the scabbard along the right flank of his horse.
The second horse was a smaller dun, and its rider was a diminutive boy of eleven. He was dressed almost identically to the man in front of him, except that the elbows of his shirt were covered with leather patches, which had been laced on to keep it serviceable throughout a boy's wear and tear activities. The boy held the reins to a third animal, a magnificent buckskin, which trailed behind them obediently.
Sweat patches circled the armpits of both riders, and there was dust on their clothing and faces. It was well past noon on a summer's day, and it was a very hot time to be crossing the Sonoran desert.
A sudden movement in the brush brought the lead rider up short, his ice blue eyes snapping toward the motion as they scanned for danger. Those eyes had hardened like granite in an instant, but now relaxed as they recognized the source of the movement was not a threat. A small, horned lizard froze on the side of a huge saguaro cactus and regarded him with quizzical eyes. The man took a breath and relaxed.
He was a tall man, even by western standards, standing six feet five inches in his bare feet. He weighed two hundred and twenty pounds, but all of it was lean muscle, whipcord taut, and used to hard work. He had been born to danger and hardship, to sweat and strife, and he came from a long line of wanderers and settlers of Scot-Irish descent.
The rider nudged his mount into the sparse shade cast by the nearby saguaro and removed his hat with a buckskinned glove. Pushing back his sandy hair with one hand, he rubbed at the single silver conch on his hatband with the other, wondering again if he should have removed the conch before they had left Tombstone. Arizona was a land of hostility for all of its residents, and only the strongest survived its harsh lessons, yet despite its many dangers, there was only one animal which worried the rider; only one creature in the desert that would care about sunlight reflected from a silver conch. That animal had neither fang nor claw, and yet it was deadlier than any other, for it walked upright on two feet and plotted with a sentient mind.
The horned lizard cocked its head at the man's movement and then scampered away, seeking concealment along the opposite side of the saguaro's thick folded skin. The man repressed a grim smile as he watched it go, then looked up and down at the huge cactus itself.
This part of Arizona was a dry wasteland of grit, sand, crumbling rock, and hardy plants. It was an ancient land whose flora included thorny survivors like the stubby barrel cactus, the broad-leafed prickly pear, and the porcupine-quilled cholla. The king of all Sonoran plants, however, was the majestic saguaro, whose tall forms stood silent sentinel in this lonely land. Tough and man-shaped, cereus giganteus could reach heights of up to fifty feet and weigh over nine tons. Many were over two feet thick at the base of their trunks, and could drink as much as two hundred gallons of water from a single rainfall. Most impressive, perhaps, was the age of the plants. Many were over two hundred years old. At thirty feet in height, the one beside the rider would have been a quarter of a century old when America had signed its Declaration of Independence from Britain.
The saguaro made the rider feel uneasy, however. Unique to this rolling land of crumbling hills, the tall cactus sported arm-like appendages which grew aloft like a man whose hands were held high. To some, this pose seemed to make the saguaro the perpetual victim of some phantom holdup man, but to the rider the poses struck another chord altogether.
Stop, the huge cacti seemed to say, and go home. This is not your land. You are not wanted here.
The rider replaced his hat and pulled his canteen from the saddle horn. Opening its cap, he took a long pull of lukewarm water from the canteen before passing it to the boy behind him. Saddle leather creaked loudly in the late afternoon silence as the boy leaned forward to grasp the canteen.
"Sure is hot, Pa," the boy said.
"It sure is," the father agreed. "It'll cool off fast enough after sunset, though. We'd best find us a place to camp before sundown."
The boy wiped his mouth with the back of a corduroy sleeve and regarded his father with big brown cow eyes that were full of faith.
"Why are we going so slow, Pa?"
"This is Apache country, son," the older man explained patiently. "Relations between the Apache and everyone else have always been kind of shaky. You never know just how they might react to strangers, and they've lived their lives by raiding their neighbors for centuries."
"Well, that don't seem too friendly," the boy replied.
"Maybe not, but that's the way it is. You can't judge Indians by white standards, son. Their ways are different from ours, and this is a pretty harsh land to try to live in. You only survive out here by being tough. And, to tell the truth, other folks haven't always treated the Apache very fairly either. They've got good enough reasons to be mistrustful of other folks."
"I heard one of the traveling preachers say they ain't nothing but a bunch of murderers and heathens," the boy said.
"Sometimes that's true, son, but the same could be said of our kind. Truth of it is that Apaches are just like any other folks. Some are good, and some are bad. It takes all kinds of people to make a race. Just because their ways are different, though, doesn't make them evil. They're supposed to be peaceful and on the reservation now."
"But it sure looks like you're worried about something."
"Well, Apaches are dangerous. They are supposed to be at peace right now, but you can never tell. Not all Apaches agree with their leaders, and different bands take up different notions. Even among the most peaceful bands there may be a young warrior who might be tempted to take a scalp or two just to prove he's a man."
The boy's big brown eyes widened as he considered that. He handed the canteen back to his father and blinked. His expression reminded his father again of how much the boy still resembled his mother.
"You think the Apaches will try to hurt us, Pa?"
"It's hard to say, son. Old Cochise claims he's made peace with the whites, and rumor is he's retired to the San Carlos reservation, but rumors have been wrong before. Then again, even if they're true, not all of the Apaches agree with Cochise. Some have sworn to never make peace, so it's best we travel slow-like, and keep our eyes and ears open all the time."
"Well, shouldn't we travel at night, then?" the boy asked, wiping a trickle of sweat from his eyes. "We'd be a lot harder to see. Besides, it would be a whole lot cooler."
"It sure would," the father agreed, suppressing a grin. "Then again, there's no moon tonight. We might be harder to see, but so would everything else. In these rocks and canyons we could easily have a horse come up lame, or maybe even ride right off into a hole. In the daylight we can see what's ahead of us as we ride, as well as what's behind."
"Why would we want to see what's behind us, Pa?"
"A man should always watch his backtrail, son. Anyone who is following you in the desert will raise up dust, and you can spot that dust plume if you're looking for it. Dust behind you is a sure sign you're being followed."
"But but, Pa," the boy stammered with sudden concern, "we're raising dust up ourselves. Won't that make us easier to spot, too?"
The father grinned as he regarded his boy. The lad was learning fast, and he could reckon, too. There was certainly nothing wrong with his son's reasoning powers.
"Yes, it will," he replied honestly. "That's why we're going so slow, to raise as little dust as possible. And if trouble does come our way, I want it to come in the daylight where I can see it, not in the dark where I can't."
"Gee, I guess we'd better be extra careful then," the boy concluded.
"Guess we had, son."
Extra careful indeed, the man told himself. Apaches under Mangas Colorado and Cochise had been terrorizing this stretch of Arizona for decades. After the end of the Civil War, when there had finally been enough Federal troops available to pressure him, Cochise had grown tired of the years of fighting and had made peace with General Oliver Howard. Howard had let Cochise retire peacefully to the San Carlos reservation, but the fact that peace had been declared did not necessarily make Arizona a safe place to be. There was still trouble aplenty brewing throughout the southwestern territories.
The government of Mexico had been raising a ruckus for some time over the fact that Apaches from reservations in Arizona were sneaking into Mexico to kill and plunder. The Mexican state of Sonora, in particular, was inflamed that the United States Army seemed to have turned a blind eye to such international raids from U.S. territory, taking almost no action to keep the Apache on their reservations.
Rumors now abounded that the pressure had finally gotten to the government in Washington, and that under the resulting pressure from the Army, Cochise himself had seven months earlier ordered the Chiricahua Apaches to cease such raids into Mexico. The order had not set well with many of the Apaches, however, and several of the bands had wanted to continue. One leader in particular, a warrior named Natiza, had argued vehemently with Cochise to the point that bad blood had come between them. In the end, Cochise had ordered Natiza off the reservation, and the angry warrior had reportedly traveled to Mexico to join the rebellious Janeros Apaches in raiding the Mexican outposts. Several of the more militant Chiricahua had gone with Natiza as a sign of their displeasure with the famous Apache chief.
To make matters even worse, Levi Edwin Dudley, New Mexico's superintendent of Indian affairs, had recently suggested trying to relocate the complying Chiricahua off of their San Carlos reservation, forcing them to move into New Mexico where they could be placed on the Mimbreno Apache reservation. This plan had created tensions along the entire border, and had pleased no one. Certainly not the Chiricahua living at San Carlos, who had no desire to move, nor the Mimbreno in New Mexico, who did not want the Chiricahua living with them. In addition, American and Mexican settlers along the border hated the idea, knowing full well the type of retaliatory raids such an attempt would surely bring down upon them.
Finally, only a month ago, the Mexican Army had chased a band of raiding Apaches out of Mexico and right into Arizona, confirming Mexican suspicions that, while the U.S. Army might not be actually instigating such raids, they were certainly doing little to stop them. During the running battle, the Mexican soldiers had managed to capture a warrior after a short battle. The Mexican commander had then executed the warrior as a punitive example, to teach the Apache a lesson about raiding Mexican towns. The rumor in Tombstone, however, had been that, rather than scare the Apache, it had instead infuriated them, and relations were expected to deteriorate rapidly.
All of which meant it was probably not the best of times to be making a trip from New Mexico to Sonora right through the middle of Apacheria. He and his son were alone out here, the nearest help a day's ride behind them in Tombstone. While they had seen no sign of Indians since leaving Tombstone, the man knew that meant little as far as Apaches were concerned, for they could be hidden all about in the rocks without leaving any sign. The time to fear Apaches was when you couldn't see any sign of them.
Then again, he scolded himself for the thousandth time, when is a good time to cross Apache territory? They were notoriously unpredictable, always upset about something, and he had a debt to pay in Sonora. Besides, they were already well past halfway to their destination, so there was no sense in turning back now that they had come this far. It was a risk they had to take or never pay the debt. No, it was best to press on, moving slowly and keeping their wits about them.
To the northwest Apache Peak rose over seven thousand feet above sea level, already turning purple as the sun began its descent from the copper sky to its nest in the western horizon. Hopefully, there among the peak's boulders and rocks, they could find a decent place to camp for the night.
Yes, that's probably the best thing to do, he told himself. Get up there among the rocks and find a place where there was water, and wood of some kind, then get settled in for the night as soon as possible. He had been a fool for bringing the boy out like this into Apache country, for the boy was all he had in the world, but there was no going back now. They had to go on to Sonora.
"Let's go, Mark," he said suddenly, his voice loud in the late afternoon heat, and he eased his horse forward out of the shadow of the saguaro, moving them along toward the far peak. The boy followed silently, as he had been taught, and as they rode Lucas McCain let his mind drift back in time, remembering the sequence of events that had brought them to this part of Arizona.
McCAIN RANCH, NEW MEXICO TERRITORY, OCTOBER 1873
Lucas had been standing on his front porch pouring milk from a metal pail into a butter churn in Mark's hands when the trouble had first come rumbling upon his ranch. A fancy eastern carriage had crossed the creek behind his barn, flanked by six tough-looking riders, and had clattered to a stop in front of his house.
The man riding in the carriage was huge, probably three hundred pounds, and dressed in a fancy suit, complete with ruffled shirtfront and cuffs. He wore a vest and coat, a bright gold watch and fob, white pants, and string tie. Huge jowls of fat hung from the rider's cheeks, and he sported a small but neat mustache. The fat man's pale blue eyes had regarded Lucas much as a king would have looked at a peasant.
"Bon jour, monsieur," the fat man had said, "I am Caesar Taffauges from New Orleans. You have, perhaps, heard of me?"
Lucas had picked up his rifle and walked out to greet the visitors.
"No, we've never been that far east."
"No? Well, this is at least more comfortable than to be known too much," the man had replied casually with a grin. "Eh, Suede?"
One of the riders on horseback, a dapper man in the same fine dress, nodded immediately, but it was the Mexican out front, riding the ramrod position, who seemed to take command of the answer. The Mexican rider leaned backwards, his dark eyes merry under his wide sombrero, and stretched his long legs in their stirrups. Lucas noted his short Spanish-style jacket and the well-oiled guns that adorned both hips. The man smiled with brilliant teeth beneath his dark mustache.
"Yes, better anyway than Texas," the Mexican rider said with a laugh. "Those Rangers, ha! All they can tell us is, 'move along, move along, shake along!'"
"You have not introduced yourself," Tiffauges had said to Lucas suddenly.
"Name's Lucas McCain. This is my boy, Mark. You really crossed the whole state of Texas in this rig?"
"And why not?"
Lucas had grinned.
"You must've got stuck in fifty sand pockets."
Tiffauges had responded by leaning on his silver-tipped cane and laughing.
"Monsieur, I got stuck in one hundred and fifty sand pockets! Was no problem, however. These fellows of mine, they have ropes on their saddles, so I make them harness themselves."
The fat man had stood and grabbed his buggy whip from its stand, brandishing it dramatically overhead.
"I stand here, and I take a whip," he said in his heavy accent, "and I call on them! Along! Along! Get along!"
Tiffauges had began popping the whip over the heads of his men, who had lowered their eyes at the ground. The Mexican had scowled a bit, his long mustache turning down in a frown.
"Animal," the Mexican had muttered under his breath, almost undetectable, but his master had heard the oath.
"What did you say, Xavier?"
"It was nothing," the Mexican had replied.
"Nothing?"
The fat man had snapped the coach whip forward to strike the Mexican rider, but Lucas had quickly blocked the strike with his rifle barrel, then quickly pulled the whip from the fat man's hands.
"Don't interfere, monsieur," Tiffauges had warned.
"Just keep the whip in its place while you're on my property," Lucas had replied.
There had been a few tense moments then, but Tiffauges had seemed to have calmed down and returned to his jolly self.
"With your kindness," Tiffauges had said, "we will look for a city called North Fork."
Lucas had already decided the man was an egotist by his manner. It was best to be shuck of him and let him be on his way.
"Go on churning the butter, Mark, before it gets too thick," he told his son, then turned back to face Tiffauges. "I'm afraid North Fork isn't too much of a town."
"Yes, we know. No matter. Perhaps you would be so kind as to show us the way?"
"You go over that rise, turn right, and you'll come to a road. A sign there'll show you the way."
Tiffauges had not appeared to have listened, his eyes instead taking in Lucas's small wooden cabin, the corral, and the huge barn. He and Mark had built all of it since buying the place, since the original Dunlap homestead that had once occupied it had been burned by rough-riding cowboys from the ranch of cattle baron Oat Jackford. That had happened the day they moved onto the place, and Lucas had gone and settled things with Jackford, who had sent his cowboys back to help the McCains rebuild their house. It was a simple frontier homestead, but Lucas was proud of it.
"Very nice place you have here, McCain."
"We like it. All forty-one hundred acres."
"So much?" Tiffauges had laughed and turned to his men. "McCain here is a big land owner! Most convenient here. Maybe I take this place off your hands, eh? I wish to retire to the quiet life of this part of the country."
"It's not for sale," Lucas had said firmly, and the fat man had laughed again.
"You hear that, you fellows?" he had bellowed jovially. "The McCain estate is not on the market!"
Tiffauges had laughed uproariously, as had most of his men, but the dapper rider, the one Tiffauges had called Suede, leaned forward menacingly and stared at Lucas.
"Monsieur McCain," Suede said seriously, "the boss owns over twenty-five blocks of New Orleans waterfront. That was not for sale, either, at least, not at the time."
Lucas had read the threat in that tone immediately, and had stepped back a little as his own eyes hardened, locking onto the fat man in the carriage. Lucas' reply had not been friendly.
"I've been meanin' to ask you, just what was it the Texas Rangers had on you?"
"Monsieur, please to observe these carriage lamps," Tiffauges had snapped back impatiently, tapping the shining lamps at the front of his conveyance with his cane. "Sterling silver! Do I have to answer questions to some petty rancher with manure on his boots?"
Lucas' face had hardened at that, but the man called Suede had leaned forward quickly, his own eyes hard.
"No, no, Monsieur, we will talk to him."
Lucas had turned to face Suede, and held his rifle calmly, taking measure of the dapper man. Tiffauges had noticed Lucas' careful posturing and had quickly intervened.
"No, Suede, he and I will discuss it again," Tiffauges had assured his young strong-arm man easily. "You'll be in town tomorrow, monsieur?"
It came out more like an order than a question.
"I'll be there," Lucas assured him. "To pick up supplies."
"Good! Then we'll have an appointment. Don't forget."
"I'm gonna be real busy, so don't count on it."
Tiffauges had stared at him a moment and snorted, a lord regarding a peasant, and then motioned for his driver to go. As the carriage and most of the men rode out of the yard, the tall Mexican gunman, Xavier Escobar, had ridden up and paused in front of Lucas. Escobar might have been Tiffauges' hired gun, but he was also a reasonable man.
"Amigo, try not to be too busy, eh?" the tall Mexican had said with a shrug. "It is nice to be congenial to the patron. You will learn this pretty soon, I think."
Lucas had looked him straight in the eyes.
"You like being horsewhipped?"
"Yankee, I tell you something for your own good!" Escobar had snapped back at him, anger flashing in his dark eyes. "To be horsewhipped by Senor Tiffauges is a privilege! Is an honor!"
With that he had spurred his horse forward and ridden after the departing group of riders.
"Xavier!"
Lucas' call had brought the rider up short, and Xavier had turned in the saddle to look back. Lucas had met his stare evenly.
"You're too much of a man to mean that," Lucas had told him.
Escobar had hesitated, as if considering a reply, then had turned away and spurred his horse after Tiffauges and his men. Lucas had watched him go in silence.
"Pa," Mark had asked, interrupting his thoughts, "how come you let them talk to you like that?"
"Now look, son, I am a small rancher, I have got manure on my boots, and south of the border I am a Yankee. You want me to start gun trouble with an army like that?"
"Gosh, no, Pa."
"It's time you were getting cleaned up for dinner. We'll leave off early so you can get a good rest. We'll be having a full day tomorrow."
* * *
The next day had indeed been eventful. Lucas and Mark had arrived early that morning in a buckboard. Lucas had parked the wagon in front of North Fork's general store, and proceeded quickly over to the marshal's office for a cup of coffee. Mark had used the time to wishfully examine the various candy jars in the general store.
Micah Torrance, North Fork's marshal, was a short man with a friendly face. At one time he had been a famous lawman in Texas, before a gunfight had ended in tragedy, with Micah wounded and his deputy dead, accidentally shot by Micah in the exchange of gunfire. The incident had sent Micah on a long and horrible journey into the bottle, until he had arrived in North Fork and replaced sheriff Fred Thomlinson, who had been murdered by a wandering cowpoke. Micah was easy-going now, and though his right hand had never healed correctly, thanks to his wound, his experience as a peace officer and his sawed off shotgun had allowed him to keep the peace for the most part. When he needed help, he relied a lot on citizens like Lucas. Lucas had been instrumental in helping Micah to survive his addiction to the bottle, and he and Lucas had gone on to become good friends.
After a warm cup of coffee and a few shared jokes with Micah, Lucas had gone to the general store and bought the things necessary to keep his ranch running. Loading the supplies in his buckboard, he had noticed a crowd gathering. Several people were standing in the street, and as Lucas had looked up he had seen the spectacle they were staring at.
Tiffauges and his men had set up a huge table in the street and were having lunch outdoors, complete with a tablecloth and fine china. Apparently, Tiffauges spared no expense on his food, for the meal had included bowls of fruit and even a decanter of wine, a real rarity in North Fork, which was a beer and whiskey frontier town. Sensing there was no point in delaying the confrontation any longer, Lucas had taken up his rifle and walked over to the table. After a good night's sleep and a fine meal, Lucas had hoped the New Orleans businessman would be in a more reasonable mood.
"McCain, I understand you are famous for your skill with that weapon," Tiffauges had said in the way of greeting, pointing to Lucas' Winchester with his silver-tipped cane.
"I can shoot," Lucas had replied honestly.
"My Xavier here shoots also," Tiffauges replied. "It shall be interesting to see how you make out against each other. It is simply friendly concouer. Let me see, now. There! On the stable roof. Which of you first can spin the weather cock?"
"Well, I'm not much for shooting matches," Lucas had told him. "I'll concede to Xavier there."
"Aw, come now, Monsieur McCain, you shouldn't be so modest!" Tiffauges had laughed, picking up an orange from the bowl of fruit on the table. "Why, Xavier here was just bragging for you, saying how quick you were. Here, both of you--shoot!"
Tiffauges had tossed the orange into the air. Xavier Escobar had drawn his gun with lightning speed, splattering the orange in the air before it could even begin to fall. Lucas had winced at the loud explosion of the pistol, looking at the fat Tiffauges as raindrops of orange juice fell upon the men seated at the table. It had seemed ashamed to waste such a rare fruit as an orange in a public display of shooting, but Tiffauges had not been appeased, and had cared little about preserving oranges.
"Perhaps that rifle of yours is just for show, eh? Or perhaps my friend, Xavier here, lies to me about your abilities. I do not like liars!"
Escobar had not replied to his boss's insult, instead continuing to eat in silence as Tiffauges had grabbed another orange.
"We will try again," Tiffagues had said.
Lucas had not wanted to shoot his rifle in town, but there had seemed little point in letting the Escobar be made out a liar, particularly since the gunman had been admiring Lucas. Tiffauges had thrown the second orange and Escobar had drawn again, but Lucas had snapped the Winchester up first and levered a single .44 caliber round into the fruit before Escobar had cleared leather. Escobar had stared at Lucas in surprise, and Tiffauges had seemed ecstatic.
"Bravo! Bravo!" he yelled with glee. "Beautiful! Bravo, Monsieur McCain! But now it is time to get down to business. I know what you paid for your ranch. I offer you the same money exactly, less, of course, fifty percent for wear and tear."
Lucas' first instinct had been to laugh, and then to stare incredulously as he realized that the Creole patron had been serious.
"I'm sorry, it's not for sale," Lucas had told him. "I saved a long time to buy that place and I intend to bring up my boy there."
"Xavier, knife," Tiffauges had commanded, and Escobar had immediately
handed his patron a long switchblade, which Tiffauges had opened as he reached for an apple in the fruit bowl.
"Have you ever seen a woman die, my friend?" Tiffauges has asked casually.
Lucas had scowled, remembering how his wife Margaret had died with the fever. It had not been something he had thought about in a long time, but he had nodded silently.
"Well, then, you are aware that there is something, shall I say, very special, about the death of any woman, mmm?" Tiffauges had continued, slowly paring the skin off the apple.
"Something very special, Mr. Tiffauges," Lucas had answered, forcing remembered pain back into the depths where it was best kept.
"Why do you think I am here, McCain?" Tiffauges had asked suddenly. "By the persecutions of my enemies! Informers and hypocrites! Why, already three times their political grand juries have indicted me. Why, last time they even bribed an old woman and two of the girls, you know, that worked in her establishment. You know what happened?"
Lucas had narrowed his eyes and shook his head slowly.
"Early one morning, some unknown man with a pass key entered the room where the three were hiding, and when he leaves, there is no more evidence."
Lucas had felt his jaw tighten in disgust.
"He shot three women, huh?"
Tiffauges had burst out in laughter, spluttering a moment before he could regain his self-control. He took a careful bite of apple from the knife blade in his hand.
"Who speaks of shooting? Too loud," Tiffauges had said, waving the knife for emphasis. "Would you believe it, Monsieur McCain, that some said that this violent man was Caesar Tiffauges? Me, personal!"
Lucas had no doubt who the killer had been.
"And?"
"But, of course, I do not recount these horrors to distress you," Tiffauges had answered jovially. "No, not at all. Right now you reject my fair, and mind you, friendly offer. For that, I'm of course, very sorry for both of us, monsieur. Who can predict what losses might occur to your livestock? That your crops do not catch fire? That your home itself be burned to its foundation? And do not forget, you have a son. A son, my poor friend, and from now on whenever he is not at your side you will be asking yourself, 'what comes to him? Where is he?' I tell you, you will get up twenty times at night to look if he's in his bed! You will light a lamp, McCain, to see if there is blood, for such death can often come in the night one is sleeping. Who can say that this will not happen to your fine young boy?"
Lucas had wanted to turn the table over and jam the Winchester's muzzle into the fat man's face. Lucas wasn't the sort of man who took threats easily, especially not to his son's life, but Tiffauges had not actually threatened the boy, only implied a threat, and he would hardly have been justified by assaulting the man at his own dinner table. In frustration, he had pushed his hat back and sighed, as Tiffauges wiped his face with a large handkerchief before continuing.
"McCain, what do you say now to my proposition?"
Lucas had known at that point there was no way to end the issue peacefully, for Tiffagues was from back east, in a land where he was rich and used to riding over other men. He had been used to getting his way, legally where he could, and by force where he couldn't. There was only one kind of negative answer Tiffauges would understand, and that answer would require Micah and several of his deputies.
"You're a tough trader, Mr. Tiffauges," Lucas said. "But wear and tear on my property? Why, I've put in two wells out there, built a house, a barn, and stables. There's a mile and a quarter of grade-A fencing. I've sweated out there!"
Tiffauges' eyes had turned ugly at that instant, and he had leaned forward, gesturing with his knife in the way he was used to ordering most people around.
"Listen carefully to me," he had said in a dark commanding tone. "I shall be out there tomorrow morning by ten o'clock precise! By that hour, you will have ready for my signatures all the necessary deeds signed by yourself. Understand?"
In the end, for all his money, Tiffauges had proved himself to be just another petty thug. No one in town would have allowed such a thing to happen to any of their neighbors, and if Lucas raised a ruckus, Micah would have ran the bunch out of town. That would likely have developed into a street gun battle, however, and there had been too many women and children on the street to risk that. Such misunderstandings could have resulted in a lynch mob trying to hang the Creole crimelord, but Lucas wanted none of that, and knew Micah didn't either. He had decided to try one more attempt to get Tiffauges to withdraw peacefully. He looked over at the Creole's men, who were watching the exchange closely.
"When your men left New Orleans, did they know they were going to settle in a small town like this? Maybe they'd prefer San Francisco. I hear it's a great city; a place they could have a lot of fun."
Tiffauges had slammed the knife into the table in sudden anger.
"My men do not ask questions!" he had roared. "They do not ask anything! They think as I tell them to think, and they feel as I tell them to feel! But that you would not understand, anyway."
Tiffauges' men had looked down at his castigating tone, and Escobar was in the foremost of the lot, humiliated by his patron's words. Lucas sensed their unrest and humiliation, as he had sensed it especially in Escobar the day before. Still, Tiffauges' response had left no room for discussion. Lucas took the Winchester in his left hand and stood up to leave.
"Tomorrow morning, Mr. Tiffauges."
As he turned his back and walked away from Tiffauges, he heard the fat man suddenly laughing again and joking with his men. Lucas approached Micah, who had been watching from a distance with a worried eye. Micah did not like shooting in his town. Still, if Lucas had seen the need to shoot, there must have been a valid reason.
"That's a tough bunch," he said as Lucas approached.
"Micah, you mentioned about deputizing some of the boys," Lucas said as he leaned against an awning post.
"I did."
"Well, do it and bring 'em out to my place tomorrow at ten-fifteen sharp. I hope by the time you get there you can turn around and go home."
"All right, Lucas boy. Good luck."
Lucas and Mark had returned home by sunset, and Lucas had spent a worried night. He had, indeed, arisen several times and lighted a lamp, just to make sure the boy was okay. Each time he had found Mark sleeping peacefully, and Lucas had felt profound relief. Apparently, however, Mark had not slept as well as he appeared to have, for he left his school books on the table as he saddled his horse the next morning. Lucas had picked up the books and walked out just as Mark had ridden his dun out of the barn.
"Mark!"
"Yeah, Pa?"
"You forgot your school books. You're a little bit absent-minded this morning."
Mark had taken the books and tied them to his saddle horn.
"I'd sure like to be here when they come," Mark said, and Lucas had grinned.
"Anything to get out of..."
His voice had trailed off as he had noticed the very distinct Tiffauges carriage and its escort of riders crossing the far hill and heading toward the ranch. Mark's gaze followed his father's glance, and the boy's brown eyes had widened in concern.
"I thought you said ten o'clock?" he stammered. "It's only eight."
Mark might have wished to be there, but Lucas knew he didn't want him around anywhere near what might happen. He kept his eyes on the approaching men as he spoke.
"Mark, you go into town the back way and tell Micah to get back out here as soon as he can with the boys."
"Sure, Pa."
"Then you go on to school. You heard me. Only don't get kept after. I want you back here to help me with the stock. Go on, boy."
Mark had nodded and ridden off, crossing the creek to avoid Tiffauges' men. Lucas had watched them come and considered his problem. He was alone and outgunned, and stood little chance if they all drew on him at once. His best bet was to act calm and stall until Micah and his deputies could arrive. He turned and went into his house.
Lucas went in his cabin and picked up his rifle from where it rested beside the front door. He knew it was loaded with eleven rounds since he had loaded it just after dawn. Crossing to a chair, he sat down and poured a cup of coffee from the pot on the kitchen table. He placed the rifle down and leaned on his elbows on the table as he took the cup in both hands, sipping slowly as he considered his options in silence.
More likely than not Tiffagues' men had seen him enter the house, so they knew he was awake and on the property. They had also likely seen the boy ride away, so they knew he was alone. He could still sneak out of the house and perhaps seek cover, but that wasn't the way Lucas did things. They might burn the place or simply take occupation of it. Yet, he was within his rights in remaining here, and while backing off might have been the intelligent thing to do in such a situation, there was no backoff in Lucas McCain.
"Monsieur McCain," Tiffauges' voice had suddenly cut through his reverie. "McCain! I am waiting!"
There had been no putting it off. Lucas had put the coffee cup on the table and taken up his rifle, gripping it tightly in his left hand. He let the arm hang straight down, muzzle toward the ground, as he opened the door and stepped out onto the porch.
Tiffauges' carriage had stopped right in front of his house, and the fat man was leaning on his cane as his men had fanned out around the porch in shooting positions. It was clear they knew their business as gunmen, and had likely done such things for their Creole patron before, but it was also clear that most of them did not look too happy about doing it this time.
"You're early," Lucas had told him. "I've got work to do. We'll talk at ten o'clock."
"No. We'll talk now."
"Mr. Tiffauges, you're a guest on my property, and while you're here..."
"I dispossess you from this property, McCain," Tiffauges had interrupted impatiently. "Because I am who I am and I am what I am! Among my ancestors was one from whom I inherit my name and my destiny, who was answerable for his actions not even unto the king of France. What am I saying? He was not answerable to heaven itself! Even today, he is remembered in the famous story called Barbluer. Or, as you say it in English, Bluebeard. You, of course, heard about it."
"Sure," Lucas replied. "He still frightens children."
That riposte had not set well with the Creole.
"You are wasting my time, McCain. Bring forth the papers."
Lucas hadn't moved, and that had angered Tiffauges.
" I order you, for your own sake, to get the papers!"
Lucas had stepped off the porch and faced the Creole patron up close.
"That's the thing about this part of the country," Lucas had told him firmly. "Men come out here so they don't have to take orders. They think the way they want, and they feel the way they want."
Lucas noticed several of Tiffauges' men raise their heads at that, and a fiery light had burned in the eyes of Xavier Escobar. Lucas noted the response, and continued talking firmly, facing Tiffagues down.
"Not the way some so-called ruler wants! As a matter of fact, Tiffauges, your kind just don't make any sense out here. You belong back in the Dark Ages with that ancestor of yours! And I'm tellin' you, most of your men agree with me."
"Get the papers," Tiffauges had said, flustered.
"I just gave you my answer!"
"I offer you one more time," Tiffauges had warned, his blue eyes hardening in his fat face. "Get the papers, McCain, or I will give the order to have you shot."
Lucas had stepped away, out into the open, and had cocked the rifle by flipping it around the large looped lever in his left hand. The rifle had snapped into firing position in less than a half second, cocked and pointed at Tiffauges' men.
"If I thought that order would be carried out I wouldn't have been here waiting for you," Lucas had snapped with iron.
That audacity had been too much for Tiffauges' caste-system sensibilities to accept. He had stood upright in the carriage, shaking as he pointed his cane at Lucas.
"Shoot him!" he yelled. "Shoot him like the pig that he is!"
Escobar had carefully kept his gun hands clear of his holsters, and the other men had followed suit. It was clear that Escobar had no intention of drawing on Lucas, and most of the other men were in agreement with him. Those few who were not were mollified by the big bore of the .44-40 Winchester pointed their way. They had all seen Lucas shoot the day before, and none of them wanted to try to buck him in a stand up fight. After all, the rancher's rifle was already cocked and pointed at them. They had yet to draw a gun.
"Shoot him, you fools! Shoot him!" Tiffauges had yelled, and Suede had finally given in. Always seeking to be Tiffauges' favored right-hand man, he had lost time and again that special favor to Escobar. In the heat of the moment, he had decided his chance had come to be Tiffauges' most trusted servant. His right hand had slapped at his pistol butt, and he had yanked the .44 Remington from its holster.
Lucas' Winchester had barked at that moment, his bullet slammed into Suede's right shoulder with a wet smack. Suede's gun had spun away in the air as the bullet shattered his shoulder, even as Lucas flip-cocked the rifle again with a savage rotary motion. The Winchester's muzzle followed Suede down as he tumbled from the saddle and hit the dirt below. It had been at that instant that Escobar had drawn.
The Mexican gunman had been very fast.
Escobar's gun had cleared leather in an instant, even as Lucas brought the rifle back to line up with his belly. But Escobar's pistol had not been tracking Lucas, and Lucas had let off pulling trigger the instant he heard Escobar yell.
"Patron!"
Lucas had twisted to see Tiffauges pulling a derringer from his vest pocket, intending to shoot Lucas in the back while his attention was on Suede. Escobar's pistol bucked twice in his hand as the twin explosions sounded, so fast they were almost one. Tiffauges had curled into a ball as the bullets struck him, and he had slowly tumbled into the dirt beside the carriage.
Lucas had kept his muzzle on Escobar only long enough to see the Mexican gunman jam his pistol back in its holster. None of the other men had made a move, so Lucas had eased the hammer down on the rifle with his left thumb before lowering its muzzle toward the ground.
"Much obliged," he had told Escobar.
Escobar had responded by dismounting and rushing up to shake Lucas' free right hand.
"It makes us, how do you say, even on the border!" Escobar had said. "Ah, you were right, amigo, freedom is a precious thing! You made me realize what I gave it up for."
Several other men had dismounted and were seeing to Suede, but Lucas had noticed that no one had tried to help Tiffauges. Then again, there would have been no point; Escobar had known his business, and the Creole gangster was beyond all help.
"Thanks, anyway, Xavier."
"Now we see him for what he really is," Escobar had said. "A big fat nothing lying in the dirt. You know, he said we would find you here this morning when we came, like a big bowl of jelly, quivering on a platter. He was wrong in what he said, and I have been right in what I said. You are muy macho! Much man!"
That had been the beginning of a wonderful friendship. Lucas' stand against his patron had convinced Xavier Escobar to be a free man again, and Escobar had repaid that debt by saving Lucas' life that day. They had corresponded by mail and telegraph since, and Lucas had been pleased to find that Escobar had returned to Sonora where he had taken work as a top hand on a huge Mexican ranch. His new patron was from a rich Castillean heritage, but was, from all accounts, very fair with his men, and Escobar had written that he soon hoped to have a stake large enough to open his own horse ranch.
Lucas had come into the possession of a beautiful buckskin about that time, and while the horse was quite healthy, it had not been trained to work cattle. Still, he knew such an animal would have make a fine gift with which to help the ex-Sonoran gunman start his ranch, and in a small way repay the Mexican gunman for his help against Tiffauges. In early spring Lucas had decided he and Mark would take the horse to him in mid-summer, when the weather would be good for travel.
Lucas and Mark had set out from North Fork in mid-June, heading for the rancho of Don Sebastian Montoya, owner of the Sonoran ranch where Escobar now worked. The trip had looked to be uneventful, and Lucas had even enjoyed the ride as they crossed New Mexico and headed down into the barren hardpan oven of southeastern Arizona.
NEAR APACHE PEAK, ARIZONA TERRITORY, JULY 1874
Lucas led the way as he and Mark climbed the crumbling trail to higher ground, his eyes searching for a likely spot to camp for the night. They needed a place that provided wood for a fire and concealment from possible unfriendly eyes. As they climbed, the arid saguaro-studded desert had given way to scrub trees of stunted cedar and pinion.
Care was required by campers in such country, especially when choosing a place to sleep for the night. Rattlesnakes abounded in such terrain, and their venomous bites were certain death this far from civilization. Though most rattlers could be driven out of a potential campsite with enough noise and movement, there was nothing to keep them from returning after the campers had gone to sleep. Often the creatures actually seemed drawn to the warmth of sleeping bodies. Even when rattlesnakes were not a problem, other nocturnal beasts could be. The desert abounded in night life, and centipedes, scorpions, tarantulas and ants could torment a person trying to sleep on the ground. When one traveled in the desert one had to take care to check boots before putting them on, and bedrolls before lying down to rest.
Mark trailed behind Lucas as he had been instructed long before they had left North Fork, riding behind and in single file. Lucas had explained to the boy that only white men rode side by side, and that by riding in single file they could make their tracks appear to be an Indian trail. Lucas knew that such a tactic would never fool even a cursory examination by a decent frontiersman, however. Unlike Apache ponies, all of the McCain horses were shod. Yet, there had been no reason to needlessly alarm the boy, and Mark had ridden silently and obediently, doing far better than Lucas could have expected of an eleven year-old boy.
The desert was eerily quiet in the late afternoon sun, and Lucas blinked away sweat as he rode, reflecting on the sudden quiet. In fact, it was almost too quiet, a weird silence that was uncannily strange.
Lucas rode his big black around a large boulder, carefully directing Razor with his boot heels as he canted toward a narrow cleft in the cliff ahead. He had a sudden desire to use the concealment of the towering rock walls to hide himself and his son from any prying eyes.
Other eyes had already detected them.
As Lucas rode out of the cleft, he found himself on the edge of a ledge that ran along a deep arroyo. A shrill scream suddenly pierced the silence, raising the hair on the back of Lucas' neck, even as a sudden violent blow smashed into him from behind and knocked him tumbling from the saddle. He heard Mark yell out as he fell, felt the heavy weight on his back, even as chestnut brown fingers tried to dig in and gouge out one of his eyes.
Lucas twisted in mid-fall, bringing his assailant beneath him, letting him take his full weight as they smashed into the hardpan of the desert floor. He heard the attacker grunt as they landed, and immediately rolled away, out of his attacker's grasp, as his boots struggled to find a foothold. In an instant Lucas was on his feet, whirling even as the dark-haired Apache warrior rose in a crouch and whipped out a short but deadly-looking knife.
The Indian's black cherry eyes were venomous with hatred above the single white slash of war paint that split his face horizontally across the nose. Lucas had only a moment to take in the Apache's looks, noting the wide blue bandanna, which held back the warrior's hair, the loose-sleeved cotton shirt, leather vest, the buckskin leggings, the long breechcloth, and the knee-high Apache moccasins. Then the Chiricahua was lunging forward, slashing with the knife, intent upon disemboweling his victim.
The Apache expected Lucas to jump away from the slash, which would provide him the opportunity to go for a lethal stab, but Lucas had been in too many tooth-and-knuckle fights to allow the warrior to dominate the fight. Instead of leaping back as the Apache expected, he instead rushed forward into the slashing knife. His twin-gloved fists hammered into the Chiricahua's forearm a split second before he plowed his full weight into the Indian's midsection with his shoulder. The double impact of his fists knocked the knife from the warrior's hand, and the Apache stumbled as Lucas bowled into him. As the warrior staggered back, Lucas ran, staying with him, getting in close for the second shot, and the opportunity came in an instant. Getting close, Lucas pivoted hard to the right and hooked with his left fist, driving it full force into the point of the Apache's chin. The warrior's head snapped back with a crack, and he went down hard, but Lucas was already turning away and running, leaping for the side of his horse, his gloved hands outstretched as they reached for the butt of the Winchester in its scabbard.
Even as his fingers raked across the oiled grain of the rifle's butt, Lucas felt other hands on him, pulling him away, dragging him down toward the sand. The weight of bodies slammed into him, and he was knocked off balance and fell, losing his grip on the Winchester. Four sets of hands pushed him roughly down and rolled him on his back.
Fearing the coming knives, Lucas struggled violently until one Apache pressed the cold hard muzzle of a Sharps breechloader firmly against his forehead.
"Pa!"
Lucas tried to turn his head, his eyes searching frantically for his son, and he saw a tall Apache holding the boy around the waist. The warrior was making no immediately threatening moves, but Mark was struggling in his grasp, but it would be only moments before the Apache had enough of that and possibly decided to tomahawk the boy.
"You let him go, you murdering..." Lucas stammered through clenched teeth.
"Well, well well," said a soft friendly voice in English. "Lookee what we have here."
Those simple eight words froze Lucas in mid-sentence. He twisted his head under the muzzle of the Sharps and looked for the speaker, only to see several white men with rifles approaching from the nearby rocks. The apparent leader of this group was a well-dressed young man who wore a red calico shirt, a leather vest, and a blue bandanna around his neck. His face was friendly beneath his shock of blonde hair, and he had his hat pushed back in a casual manner, but there was nothing friendly about the Walker Colt he had pointed at Lucas' belly.
"Now, stranger, why don't you just calm down and tell me who you might be," the man said softly.
"Lucas McCain. That's my boy, Mark."
The man looked over at Mark and nodded.
"Howdy, boy. What're you two doing way out here?"
"Just passin' through," Lucas told him. "We have no truck with you. We're just traveling to Mexico, mister. We're not looking for any trouble."
The man looked away a moment, staring at the Apache that Lucas had punched. The warrior lay where he had fallen, and the man suddenly laughed.
"Why, you sure couldn't tell it from the way you decked old Pionsenay, there," the man said. "I'd say you were riding primed for trouble, mister. You reacted right fast. And I'd also say that regardless of what you weren't looking for, you done went and found yourself a whole passle of trouble, friend."
"Who are you?" Lucas snapped out at him.
"Who? Me? Oh, I'm just sort of a local businessman, Mr. McCain, a kind of trader of sorts. Just a wanderin' tinker selling my wares. Name's Sod Chambers, recently of Tennessee, by way of Kansas. Where are you and the boy from?"
"North Fork, in New Mexico."
"New Mexico?" the man said, incredulous. "Well, you're a long way from home, stranger. You ain't a lawman, are you?"
"No, I'm a rancher."
Chambers eased the hammer down on the Colt and placed it in his holster.
"That's a relief," he said after a moment. "Sorry. I couldn't tell. You sit a saddle like a lawman. A rancher, eh? How big's your spread?"
"Why should I tell you?"
"Small time outfit, huh?" Chambers replied with an easy smile.
Lucas' eyes narrowed dangerously.
"Just me and my boy, if it's any of your business."
"Now, you don't look like a man who's in a position to get uppity with me, Mr. McCain. Just you and the boy, huh? No hands? No drovers? A wife waiting for you back in town?"
"No wife," Lucas replied. "We can't afford any hands."
"That's a downright shame. So, there's nobody with you?"
"No. What do you want with us?"
Chambers laughed easily and placed a foot upon a rock as he leaned forward on one knee.
"Who, me? Oh, I don't want anything to do with you."
"Then what?"
"Well, I'm a lover of good horseflesh, Mr. McCain. That buckskin you're trailing is a real beauty, and that black you're riding ain't nothing to be ashamed of, either. I think I'll just have to keep 'em."
"You're a horse thief? That buckskin is a gift for a friend!"
Lucas struggled to rise, but the Apaches held him fast. The best he could do was to look at Chambers with rattlesnake eyes.
Chambers just laughed again.
"Whew! I'm sure glad that looks can't kill, or they'd be burying me about now, Mr. McCain. I do believe you could stare down a she-cat. Now, you just sit there all peaceful-like while we see what you and the boy are carryin' in those saddlebags of yours."
Chambers signaled and three of the other white men began rummaging through the bags on the horses, tossing various odds and ends out into the sand. After a few minutes a dark bearded man approached Chambers and shook his head.
"Nothin' much, boss. Some coffee, jerky, flour and beans. Ten dollars in gold and a couple of boxes of cartridges. Camp gear and trail doin's, mostly."
Chambers nodded in thought and hooked his thumbs into his gunbelt, and turned to stare at Lucas.
"Poor man, eh?" he said at last. "Well, you sure picked a bad time to go riding off in the desert all by your lonesome, stranger. Especially with the 'Patches bein' on the warpath and all. And you bringin' a boy along in this country! You ain't got the brains God gave geese, mister. It plumb ain't safe out here."
Chambers walked over and taped Mark playfully on the shoulder, but the boy just glared at him in silence, and Chambers shook his head.
"So, you're going to steal our horses?" Lucas asked.
"Yeah, I reckon so," Chambers replied, as casually as if making a decision between beans or bacon for supper.
"Hey, boss! Look at this!" one of the men yelled out. He had pulled Lucas' rifle from the saddle scabbard. "It's one of them fancy new repeaters, but I ain't never seen a lever like this on one of 'em before."
He tossed the rifle to Chambers, who caught it easily and inspected the rifle closely in the fading sunlight. His fingers caressed the circular looped lever on the Winchester.
"Lordy, she sure is a purty thing," he said at last. "You're right, Clay, I ain't never seen a lever like this, neither. Not a big ol' ring like this 'un. Looks kind of silly."
Chambers levered a round into the chamber, intent on seeing how smoothly the action worked on the Winchester. The sudden blast of a gunshot erupted into the silence, causing the white men to flinch and the Apaches to fall to the ground as a .44 caliber slug spat rock chips from a nearby boulder. The bullet ricocheted, whizzing off into the rapidly approaching darkness. The astonished raiders recovered carefully as they realized the shot had come from the rifle in Chambers' hands.
Chambers was as surprised as anyone else.
"By golly, she sure is a hair-trigger thing!" he exclaimed in astonishment, looking carefully at the rifle once more. "Lookee here, boys, this here repeating rifle has a little screw geegaw drilled right through the trigger guard. Every time you close the lever, that there screw thingy pushes on the trigger. Now, that's downright smart. Yessir, right tricky! You any good with this thing, Mr. McCain?"
Lucas regarded him with coldly morbid eyes.
"Just hand it over and I'll give you a little demonstration."
Chambers grinned and shook his head.
"No, sir, I don't think I'll do that, Mr. McCain. Wouldn't seem to be very prudent. I figure a man what carries such a rifle in the wilderness, well, he can probably use it just fine. I think I'll just have to keep this here rifle, too. I need me a good rifle."
"You're taking our horses and my rifle?" Lucas snapped. "That's as good as murder in this country, mister! What kind of man are you?"
"Why, like I said, I'm just a businessman, Mr. McCain. Just a simple purdee old businessman."
"Out here? Among Apache?"
"Well, yes. You see, that there's my business?"
"Stealing folks belongings for the Indians?"
"Oh, no, sir," Chambers replied evenly, "stealing's only a side line. That's not my business, exactly."
"Then what is?"
"Well, you see, there's an Apache named Natiza in these parts," Chambers said. "Now, Natiza is the leader of a band of Apaches what don't see eye-to-eye with Cochise about the best way to go about handlin' things. Cochise wants to stay on the reservation, but Natiza and some others don't think that's such a good idea."
"So I've heard," Lucas muttered.
"I 'spect you have, Mr. McCain. Natiza says Cochise has lost his nerve for fighting and wants to stay on the reservation like an old woman. Says he's got no nerve to fight the Mexicans and the Army any more. Now, the Army down to Fort Bowie has been puttin' pressure on old Cochise to stop Apache raids down into Sonora, and Natiza and Cochise had a partin' of the ways over that. Natiza, well, he just plumb hates Mexicans, Mr. McCain. Me, I ain't got much use for greasers myself, but Natiza hates 'em something fierce. So, he's been down in Mexico with the Janeros band, under Chief Juh, raidin' the Sonoran settlements. But them Mexicans, well, they caught up with old Natiza a while back, and chased him and his bunch all the way back up here to Arizona Territory."
"I've heard."
"Yeah? Well, have you heard that them Mexican soldados caught one of Natiza's men and hanged him in full sight of the Apache? Just strung him right up. Well, that got Natiza and his bunch just fighting mad, and he wants to go down there and rub 'em all out. Only trouble is, them soldados got him outgunned. Bows and lances and old flintlocks don't hold up to Mexican army rifles. But that's where I come in."
Lucas' eyes widened in sudden understanding.
"And you just happen to have rifles to give him," he said.
Chambers grinned like a kid who had been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
"Yes sir, that's a fact. Oh, nothing as fancy as this here Winchester of yours, but at least rifles good enough to make him even with the Mex army. Like that Sharps that Remigo is holding against your head there. Good rifle; fifty caliber. Can drop a buffalo out at two hundred yards."
"You're a gun runner," Lucas said through clenched teeth. "If you give modern rifles to the Apache they'll rape, murder and burn along the entire border! There won't be a safe ranch or hacienda in Arizona or Mexico. Hundreds will die, and all so you can make some money!"
"I'd say you got the right of that, Mr. McCain," Chambers said with another laugh. "They got Mexican gold they stole from the greasers down there, and me, well, I got Army rifles to trade for it."
Lucas' eyes narrowed in granite ferocity, but Chambers was unfazed.
"Now, don't go givin' me that holier-than-thou look, Mr. McCain. Get down off'n that high horse of yours! It ain't like I'm the first person to ever sell guns to the Apache. Why, gun runnin's 'been an honest trade in these parts for nigh on a hundred years. Them Mexicans been doin' it theyselves since before the turn of the century."
Lucas knew what Chambers was talking about. The Spanish had tried for years to exterminate the Apache altogether, and had gradually realized they could not. In 1786 they had issued the Instrucci¢n, a policy which had established the presidio system which rationed guns, whiskey, corn and tools to the Apache. The new policy had been intended to make the Apache become dependent upon Spanish goods for survival, gradually weakening them, and making them ripe for destruction. The new policy had actually caused a long period of peace as the Apache gladly turned from the tough way of raiding life and accepted the newer handout of trade goods and food. The peace had lasted until 1810, when all of the necessary supplies for the presidio system had been taken away to support the local army during the Mexican Revolution. Left destitute by the war, the Apaches had returned to raiding, and had been doing so off and on for sixty-four years.
"Sure they did," Lucas replied harshly. "They knew the Apache had nothing, and survived by raiding. When they found they couldn't kill all of them by force they decided to make them slaves instead. They sold them old guns, and wormy meat, and lots of whiskey. Always the whiskey, and then when they were drunk they murdered them as they slept! And look what it brought! Death and destruction all along the border since the days of the Alamo!"
Chambers lay the rifle across his shoulder and walked over to look Lucas in the eyes. The man actually looked very friendly, and he had a casual easy way that was disarming.
"That could be as you say, Mr. McCain, but it ain't no business of mine. Fact is, these Apache were on the warpath long before I came along, and this bunch is on a tear with Sonora right now. They need what I got, and they got what I need. Rifles I got. Gold they got. It's as simple as that, Mr. McCain. It's just simple business."
"No matter who gets hurt?"
"Like I said, it's no affair of mine who gets hurt. If they don't get the rifles from me, well, they'll just get them from somebody else. I gotta look after my interests."
"I suppose that whole wagon load of rifles the Apache stole at Fort Bowie back in the spring wasn't enough?" Lucas asked, his face dark.
"You mean last April? Well, sure they was enough. I mean, they would have been if it had been Apaches what stole 'em."
Lucas literally hissed at the calm young man.
"You mean you shot those soldiers down in cold blood?"
Chambers laughed again.
"Well, yeah. They weren't too keen on letting me take them guns. I mean, otherwise, how would I have gotten all of these new shiny rifles?"
"You're a murdering traitor," Lucas growled at him.
Chambers frowned at last, and brought the Winchester down, placing the muzzle flat against Lucas' belt buckle.
"My, my, Mr. McCain, it's as plain as paint to see that you got me all figgered out. No, sir, there's just no foolin' a man like you. And that's too bad, really, 'cause it leaves me with a problem. I don't like problems, Mr. McCain, and that's why I'm keeping your horses and your rifle."
"They'll hang you."
"They gotta catch me first, and they don't even know who I am," Chambers replied. "They think it was Apaches what stole those rifles. I'm content to just let 'em keep thinking that."
"What about me and my boy?"
Chambers grinned in that friendly manner of his again, his even white teeth bright in the fading light.
"I've been givin' that some thought, sir. Now, these 'Patches here, there's nothin' they'd like better than to just stake you out over an ant bed and cover you with honey. Or maybe tie you upside down over a slow fire so that your brains just sort of cook right inside your skull. They're really good at that, and they can keep a man alive in torment for days if they take a notion to. But you been sort of friendly-like, answerin' my questions and all, so I really don't want to see that happen to you, Mr. McCain. No, sir, it wouldn't be neighborly to let the redskins torture you.
"But you see, Mr. McCain, I'm full up right now. I just don't need any new partners in my business. And you know what my business is. You said yourself you ain't got no woman or ranch hands to come lookin' for you, and you are kind of worthless to me as a source of trade. I can hardly just let you go traipsin' back to the law and tell them who I am. Why, the Army would stretch my neck for sure if I did that. So, all things considered, I've been giving it some thought and I've decided on some poetic justice."
Chambers nodded and the Apaches released Lucas. Rubbing his wrists, Lucas stood and faced Chambers warily, watching him with cold eyes.
"What kind of 'poetic justice'?"
"Why, I've decided that I'll just have to solve the problem, Mr. McCain," Chambers said, pointing the rifle once again at Lucas' belly. "I'm afraid I'm just gonna have to shoot you dead with your own rifle gun."
Chambers' eyes suddenly turned deadly as he began to lever the Winchester's action once more. Lucas leaped into him at that instant, his gloved hand batting the rifle's muzzle away and down, and he stepped in deep and twisted, hooking a hard punch to Chamber's heart. Chambers grunted, his head snapping down as he rotated violently to the left and bent over, staggering back a full step.
Chambers managed to keep his grip on the rifle and Lucas knew in that instant he had to make a decision. To continue to fight with Chambers would only get him killed, as the Apaches or Chambers' men would kill him in only a few moments, no matter what he did to the gun runner. There was no time to wrest the rifle from the man's grasp, and Chambers had already stated his intention to shoot him down in cold blood. The only chance he had was to get away, and the only way out was to leap off the side of the ledge and down into the arroyo.
It was a decision made in a split second, and Lucas turned and ran for the edge of the cliff. The fall was potential death, but to remain was certain death. He took five lunging steps and began his leap, intending to jump over the ledge feet first. Lucas zig-zagged as he ran, trying to throw off the aim of any shooters, but things suddenly seemed to move in slow motion. As he reached the edge of the cliff he heard Mark's shouted warning, turned his head to see Chambers bringing the Winchester up into shooting position. Chambers' right hand worked the lever in slow motion, and Lucas distinctly saw the flash and puff of smoke erupt from the barrel as the rifle fired.
His mind registered Mark struggling in the arms of the Apache once more, his mouth opened in a horrified scream. There was a sudden loud thump, and a violent impact snapped Lucas' head away, out into the darkness of the arroyo below, and Lucas watched the darkness rush up and swallow him whole.
SONORAN DESERT, NEAR APACHE PEAK
Sod Chambers walked to the edge of the cliff and stared down into the arroyo for long moments, listening to the sounds of McCain's body as it tumbled end over end into the darkness below, breaking loose rocks and crushing small thorny bushes. McCain's fall unseated an avalanche of loose sand and shale that clattered down for long moments into the wash below, long after McCain should have reached the bottom. For several moments the only remaining sounds were the violent screams of the boy in the arms of the Apache warrior.
"Pa! Pa! You shot my Pa!" Mark yelled viciously.
Chambers turned and walked up and suddenly slapped the boy to silence him.
"Shut up, kid," he said with menace. "Your Pa's dead, now. He can't hear all your caterwaulin'!"
The boy collapsed into a fetal position on the sand as the Apache released him. Chambers watched the boy curl up in a ball and sob violently.
"Damn kids," he said at last.
The Apache McCain had punched walked forward, blood dripping from his split and bruised chin. He stared at the white child with hate-filled eyes.
"I go down, take his scalp," Pionsenay said in his guttural English, gesturing to the arroyo below.
"What for?" Chambers replied with irritation. "He's a goner, Pionsenay. If the bullet didn't kill him outright, then the fall certainly did. The desert critters will be dining on him tonight. He's buzzard bait."
"He is a white eyes!" Pionsenay replied with a vicious hiss. "He has been slain! We must take the scalps of enemies we kill! The Life Giver watches, as does White Painted Woman! If we do not take the white eyes scalp they will curse us. Our medicine will turn bad and we will not fare well."
"He's just a two-bit sodbuster," Chambers spat right back, equally vicious. "He's no account! You want his damned scalp, then you can crawl down in that canyon and get it yourself! But you'll have to do it later, Pionsenay. I've got no time for Injun superstitions right now. We have business to conclude, and Natiza is waiting for his rifles!"
Pionsenay considered that a long moment, his eyes dark. He did not like being talked to in that manner by another white eyes.
"We take his horses, too," he said at last.
"No, the horses are mine. And I'll keep the rifle, too."
"We need rifle to fight Mexicans," Pionsenay warned.
"And you have plenty, over there in the crates," Chambers told him. "This rifle is mine. I killed the white eyes, so it is mine to take. It is my right."
Pionsenay was silent as he considered Chambers' words. He could just order his warriors to kill this arrogant white man and his helpers, and they could take the rifles and leave. His Apaches outnumbered the white men three to one. Still, Natiza needed rifles, and this white eyes was willing to supply them. It would perhaps be foolish to destroy so quickly such an easy source of power for he Apache. He did not like this white man, but Natiza and the Apache needed him, so Pionsenay would let him live.
Pionsenay gestured to where Mark lay crying.
"And the white boy?" he asked.
Chambers glanced at Mark as if studying some strange insect in the sand. It was kind of a shame, he concluded. The boy's entire world had just come to an end. But the desert was a harsh land, and even boys had to learn its lessons when they traveled across it. Death was a reality in the desert. And the boy just wasn't his concern.
"You can have him," he said at last.
"For what?" Pionsenay asked in surprise.
"For whatever. Suit yourself, Pionsenay. Sell him to the Comancheros, if you want. I hear some of them like young boys. Sell him as a slave in Mexico. That's your business, not mine. Hell, if you boys are bored tonight you can torture him to death, for all I care. Peeling that boy's skin off an inch at a time, that ought to really make him scream. I hear that's great entertainment among the Apache."
Pionsenay's fiendish eyes lit up with excitement at the thought of torturing a white captive, but the warrior who had been holding the boy during the struggle frowned deeply.
Coyani did not believe there was any honor in torturing a child. The boy was not a warrior. He was not even old enough to have reached dikohe status. Coyani saw no honor in killing a child. A true warrior only tortured his enemies, and those enemies should be warriors, not children. But Pionsenay was the leader of this party.
Ignoring all of the Apaches, Chambers mounted his own horse and draped the Winchester across the saddle horn, then turned and rode toward his men in silence.
Somewhere in the darkness a coyote howled.
Use your browser back arrow to return to Stalk the Chaparral