Requiem for a Warrior

SONORAN DESERT, ARIZONA, 8 JUNE 1874

Lucas McCain stumbled through the hot sand as the sun rose slowly in the east.  Already it was hot.  Soon the desert floor would be like a kiln.

Lucas' immediate problem was again water.  The water he had drank among the rocks the day before had quickly evaporated from his body, and now he was again thirsty as he plodded along following the faint trail in the sand and rock.

The sun would soon be baking him.  He would have to find shade, and water.  He would also have to watch is backtrail more carefully.  He had killed an Apache back there, a few nights ago, and they would be following him soon.  

He dared not travel far in the open daylight.  Armed with only the knife, he would be easy prey for any wandering Apache, and the sun would cook his brains without a hat.  He would have to find shade soon.  

Lucas' boots had been designed for riding, not walking, and he briefly wondered if he should have taken the Apache's moccasins.  He rejected the thought almost immediately; the Apache warrior, though strong, had been much smaller than Lucas' tall frame.  The moccasins would have been too small to wear.  Still, such footwear would have made walking a lot easier.  More importantly, moccasins would not have left as obvious a trail as did white man's boots in the sand.

Lucas' head still hurt a little, throbbing now and then, the skin burned where the bullet had split it.  That was a good sign.  Pain meant he was healing.  Pain meant that he was still alive.

Lucas stumbled on, following the horse trail across sandy foothills and rocky arroyos.  Everywhere the trail twisted among rocks and boulders, canyons and brush.  It wound through recesses choked with beargrass and cholla.

An hour after sunrise, Lucas crossed a hill and started down into a deep arroyo.  The bottom of the arroyo was an old wash, dry with powdery dust.  Short clumps of manzanita and mesquite littered the floor. The arroyo's walls were outlined by stacks of boulders.  They were stacked atop each other in the most awkward of ways, as if some prehistoric giant had long ago placed them into position, much as a child would stack blocks.  Smoothed by years of erosion, they provided strikingly beautiful and smooth surfaces, as well as shade for the floor of the canyon.  It would not be enough at noon, but in the morning and evening, there would be no direct sunlight on the floor of the arroyo.

The tall rocks cast purple shadows into the arroyo, and the rocks were dotted with snakeweed and ocotillo.  Lucas knew that the rocks might contain springs, and he desperately needed water, but there were other ways to get by than searching snake-infested rocks.

Lucas stopped beside a patch of prickly pear cactus and chopped off one of the flat, pear-shaped leaves.  Using the knife to cut away the cactus spines, he peeled the tough skin from the cactus, removing the greenish-white pulp.  It was not as juicy as barrel cactus, and it contained some pre-formed thorns, but it contained water and that was all Lucas needed.  The pulp was bitter, but it was wet, and it would have to do until he found water.

Chewing the cactus, Lucas climbed up among the rocks to study the surrounding country.  Finding a place to rest that had shade was essential, but he also needed other things.  A good view of the country would prevent enemies from sneaking up on him.  Good air flow was also essential, for Lucas had heard of men who had literally baked to death by heat reflected from rock walls; cooked alive by convection when they chose the wrong spot to sleep in the desert.

Finding a relatively cool place with enough shade and brush to hide in, Lucas made camp as best he could.  He carefully checked the area for snakes and scorpions, then settled down to consider how he might find water.

It was early June, and not far into the summer.  Rains in the desert were rare, but  not unheard of, often resulting in torrential downpours.  Flash floods could come raging down the canyons and arroyos from miles away, and a man caught on the canyon floor could be swept away without warning from a storm many miles away.

Lucas looked at the cobalt sky and decided there was little chance of rain anytime soon.  He stared at the floor of the arroyo.  From his high perspective, he could see bits of driftwood and broken ocotillo, evidence of past flash floods.  It was possible that such a flood had occurred here within the last few months.  If so, there might still be water in the arroyo below the surface of the dirt.  The problem was how to get it.

Climbing down, Lucas looked for a low spot next to the rocks, where water would have pooled.  Whorls in the sand indicated such a spot, and he fell to his knees and dug with the knife.  Three feet down, the sand became damp.  Lucas dug further, throwing the sand out of the hole.  The sand increased in dampness, and though he could not find visible water, he knew the water would pool.  The difficulty was getting it to form before the hot air could evaporate it.  He longed for a piece of oilcloth, but he had none, so he removed his tan corduroy shirt and placed it over the hole.  It was not waterproof, but it might slow the evaporation and allow some water to pool in the hole.  He cut more prickly pear, placing the leaves over the shirt to help it retain moisture, then cut more to suck on as he returned to his spot in the rocks.

Hopefully, an inch or two of water would eventually collect into the hole.  He would wait until sundown, surviving on cactus juice until then.  Then he would retrieve his shirt, drink any water that had pooled, and continue in the darkness.

Lucas looked to the south, watching a plume of dust far away.  There were men moving in the desert out there somewhere.  It was either the men he was hunting, or men who were traveling.  Either way, they were his destination.

He would have to wait for darkness, however.  It was too hot and dangerous to travel during the day, and he was exhausted from walking all night.  Now it was time to brush out his tracks, seek shelter from the sun, and sleep.  Soon the desert would be a furnace and it would be too hot to sleep, but for now he could sleep most of the morning away.

Unshaven and dirty, Lucas crawled in among the rocks and chewed on more prickly pear, then lay down to sleep.

Lucas dreamed again, and this time his dreams were not haunted with Apaches.  

Instead, he dreamed of water.

II

APACHE CANYON, ON THE PANTONA WASH, 9 JUNE 1874 

John Cannon and Mark McCain rode through the desert calmly as they approached the High Chaparral.  John's mind had been busy during the long ride, drifting back to the Apache camp and Cochise's subsequent funeral.

The awful howling and wailing had continued throughout the day and into the night as the Chiricahua mourned the loss of their greatest leader.  Tom Jeffords had been deeply grieved as well, and even John had to admit that a precious chapter of history had come to an end.  The greatest of all Apache chiefs had passed from the Earth.

Taza had approached John shortly after Sam had ridden out, asking him to be present with John Jeffords at the funeral services.  Despite his need to get the McCain boy back to the ranch, John had agreed.  It had been a great honor when Taza had asked him to stay.  The Apache were very guarded about their burial services, and only the most trusted of people were allowed to know where their people were buried.

Cochise's wife, Dos-te-seh, had prepared Cochise's for his final ride, bathing his body, combing his hair, and dressing him in his finest clothes.  After a medicine man had spoken what John guessed was a eulogy in Apache, the warriors had wrapped Cochise in a fine red blanket and placed his body on a travois drawn by his favorite horse.  The Apache procession had then moved out of the camp and up into the high peaks.

At a designated spot, they had moved the blanket for a final viewing of Cochise's body.  The famous old warrior had been displayed in full war paint and feathers.  After a while, Taza and Naiche had taken the travois off the horse, and led it up into the rocks.  There, they had killed the horse and tossed it into a fissure in the rocks, a very deep and dark chasm.  Next, they killed the old chief's favorite dog, and tossed it into the fissure as well, followed by Cochise's weapons, his bows and guns.  Then they had wrapped Cochise tightly in the red blanket, bound it up with ropes, and lowered him slowly and gently into the chasm as well, tossing the ropes in after him so that is body could not be retrieved.

At that point, the Apaches had built a huge fire.  All of the Apaches present had then began to strip off their clothing and toss it into the flames.  Most warriors were left with only with headbands and loincloths, as they burned the rest of their clothing in tribute to their dead chief.  The women had hacked away at their manes, throwing handfuls of hair into the fire, which had smelled terrible.  Others had burned a personal possession of some kind, a robe or a blanket, something to comfort the old chief on his ride into the unknown.  The fire had caused a huge column of smoke to rise into the afternoon air, a tall dark finger, seen for miles, to guide the Fallen One to Usen, the Grandfather Above.

"Tell no one of this place," Taza had told John Cannon at last, and John had agreed.  He would never tell anyone where Cochise rested.  The secret would be kept by himself and by Tom Jeffords.  Cochise had trusted him, so now Taza was willing to trust him as well, and John meant to keep that trust.  If the location of Cochise's grave were  known, human scavengers would come to desecrate his grave.  Many were the white men and Mexicans who would long to possess a finger bone or personal possession of the great chief.  John had seen too many instances where otherwise civilized men became barbaric concerning dead Indians.  It was sad, for while an Apache might torture a living opponent, or mutilate an enemy he had killed in combat, he would never have thought of robbing a grave.  It took civilized men to think of something like that, and John would have no part of letting that happen to this great warrior.

They had spent one more night in the Apache camp, listening to their mourning, providing a white presence for the Apache. At dawn, he, Jeffords, and Mark McCain had saddled up and ridden north out of the rocky pillars of the Dragoons.

From there they had crossed some very rough country and intercepted the old Butterfield Stage road before turning west.  By early afternoon Jeffords said his farewells and split off, riding north up the San Pedro valley toward the San Carlos reservation, where he would spread the word of Cochise's death.  John and Mark continued west along the road, traveling through a wide canyon, then turned south along the northern edge of the Whetstone range.  Later they turned due west at Apache Canyon and had crossed the Pantano Wash, pointing their noses at the distant Sierrita mountains. Now they were now approaching the flats that lay east of the High Chaparral.

as they rode, the boy had remained unusually quiet.  John had managed to get most of the boy's story out of him during the two nights in the Apache camp, and he knew how grim and lost the boy had to feel.  He wondered what kind of men would shoot a boy's father down in cold blood and then hand the child over for torture by Indians.  Whatever kind they were, Arizona would best be rid of them.  Once word got out that white men had attacked an Army convoy and killed soldiers, stolen rifles, and sold them to the Apache, the Army would be hard after them. The commanders at Forts Bowie and Lowell would want those rifles back desperately, not only to save settlers' lives, but to eliminate Army culpability.  To make matters worse, when word got out that the men had dressed like Apaches to do it, the Apaches would likely be hunting them, too.  Last but not least, when the people in Tucson heard that white men had turned a an eleven year-old white child over to the Apache for torture, the gun-runners would find no safe haven anywhere in the territory.  Every rancher, soldier, lawman, cowhand and drifter in the territory would be gunning for them.  People just would not allow white men to do evil to women and children.

The problem was that by the time the gun-runners were caught or killed, the renegades would have had plenty of time to put those stolen Army rifles to bloody use in Mexico.  Such actions would only inflame relations between Mexico and the United States, and might result in a war no one needed.

John pulled up beside the boy's horse and handed his canteen over.

"Thirsty, boy?"

"Yes, sir.  A little."

"You don't have to sir me, son.  My name's John."

"Yes, sir," Mark replied, then replied hastily.  "Uh, my Pa, he always taught me to be respectful of my elders."  Mark took the canteen and drank deeply before handing it back.

"Your pa sounds like he was a good man," John said.

Mark turned his head away, staring back up the canyon they had left behind.

"He was the best," he said softly.

Again, John felt a wave of pity wash over him.  Eleven was far too young an age to shoulder the realities of life the boy had suffered.  John had lost his own father when he was young, and that engendered a certain sympathy the boy would not understand.  John wondered, briefly, if Blue would grieve as hard as this boy if it were he who had been killed by the gun-runners.  He was not sure of the answer.

"How much father is it?" the boy asked, moving his horse expertly in unison with John's mount.

"About five miles yet," John told him.  "We'll be there shortly."

An hour later, they were riding through the gateposts under the sign welcoming visitors to the High Chaparral.  Mark stared in awe at the size of the hacienda, and John noticed at the unusual number of horses tied out front.  The guard was still on the windmill, however, so he felt safe enough, but stared hard at the Mexican saddles on the horses as he drew up and dismounted.

The door opened and Victoria hurried out, smiling at him.  Her hair was brushed back, hanging long and straight, as black as a raven's wing, just the way he liked it.  Even now, hot and dusty from the trail, there was something about her dusky beauty that took his breath away, making him feel somehow more alive.  It was not the same comfortable and warm love he had shared with his first wife at all, but rather something fresh and alive, new and exciting, and it invigorated him.  He took her in his arms and was starting to kiss her, but stopped when he noticed Victoria's father standing on the porch amid a crowd of vaqueros.

"Welcome home, my husband," Victoria said, and then she kissed him and stepped away, staring at the boy behind him.

"Don Sebastian," John acknowledged to her father.  "What are you doing here?"

"Apaches," Don Sebastian Montoya replied grandly.  "What else would bring me here?"

"John, who is this?" Victoria asked from behind him, and John turned to look at her.  She had placed her hands on the boy's horse and was staring up at him with a friendly smile.  Mark blushed and averted his eyes.  Apparently, the boy was not used to being around women.

"This is Mark McCain," he told her, tying his horse to the rail.  "He's going to be staying with us for awhile.  Mark, this is my wife, Victoria, and her father, Don Sebastian."

Victoria raised a questioning eyebrow and John shot her a look that said he would explain it all later.

"Howdy, Ma'am," Mark said softly.  "Hello, sir."

"Let us take you into the house," Victoria told Mark immediately.  "You must be starved.  Do you like pie?"

"Yes, Ma'am!" Mark said enthusiastically, and he hopped down to follow her.

John watched her lead the boy into the house, mentally thanking her for her immediate, unquestioning understanding of the situation.  Victoria was wonderful about things like that.  She did not require words for effective communication, for she seemed to sense his needs as well as those of everyone else.  John turned toward Don Sebastian.

"You say you're having Apache trouble?"

"When do we not?" Don Sebastian answered, shrugging.  "Once again, we are being raided, since you seem totally unable to keep the Apache on your side of the border.  We have been hit rather hard with raids all over, from Fronteras to Nogales.  By the Chiricahua, who are crossing your land.  Cochise once again sends his men to terrorize the people of Sonora."

"Cochise has done no such thing," John told him.

"Of course he has," Don Sebastian replied.  "It is his killers who now ride with Juh to attack Sonorans."

"Maybe, but it can't have been Cochise."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Because he's dead," John said.  "I just came from his funeral."

Don Sebastian's mouth opened in surprise, and for once the old man was genuinely speechless, but after a moment he found his composure again.

"Dead?  Are you trying to tease an old man?"

"No.  I was there.  That's where I found the boy.  He was a captive in Cochise's camp.  Cochise passed away yesterday morning, about ten o'clock."

"Oh?  Perhaps he has died from wounds he received on his last attack into Sonora.  Just what were you doing in Cochise's camp?  Since when does John Cannon ride with the Apache?"

"I was up there at the request of Tom Jeffords, the Indian agent at San Carlos," John said, irritated that the Lion of Sonora was questioning him this way.  "He had spotted the boy while visiting Cochise, and he came to ask me if I could bring the boy home.  We agreed it was best to get him out of the Apache camp, so I rode up there.  Cochise died while I was there--of dyspepsia, not wounds.  I was in camp at the time.  It was a sad day for the Apache."

"But a great day for Sonora!" Don Sebastian replied, and then his eyes twinkled merrily.  "So, this is how I finally get a grandson from my daughter?  Her husband goes to the Chiricahua and steals one?  That is very creative.  Is there a reason you cannot do it the usual way?"

John scowled at the old man's humor, and gave him a look that warned him to steer away from that subject.

"He's just staying until we can find out where his surviving relatives are," John said ominously.  "And I ransomed him, I didn't steal him!"

Don Sebastian was not deterred; he ignored John's warning completely.

"I am relieved," he joked, his face serious except for the twinkling eyes.  "I prefer to have at least one of my children carry on the Montoya bloodline."

"Perhaps you should take that up with Manolito."

Don Sebastian made a great show of sighing.

"Si.  It is his duty, but I have given up on him.  With Manolito, I never know which woman it might be.  He is so indecisive.  I doubt he can stay with one woman long enough to produce a child, much less build a heritage.  Even now, he is out chasing cows.  I do wish to have a legitimate heir, an event most unlikely with Manolito.  An old man's bloodline may pass away entirely in such a manner.  Because my own son is so neglectful, my daughter is the only course left open to me, and you are, of course, letting me down with her in that regard."

John tried not to grimace at the old conniver.

"We can discuss the Apache, and anything else you care to talk about, in the house," John said, and he stormed across the porch into the interior of the ranch house.

After cooling off a bit in the house, John proceeded outside to unsaddle the horses and rub them down before washing up for dinner.  Don Sebastian had brought ten men with him from Sonora, his inevitable escort, who would spend the night in the bunkhouse.  John had not seen all of them, for some had been out seeing to their horses, but he had issued an invitation for Don Sebastian to have all of his hands eat supper in the ranch house.  

Victoria prepared an extraordinary meal for her guests, and as they sat down to eat, the guests glared hungrily at the plates heaped with roast beef, tortillas, beans, and rice.  There was even a stack of tamales, a treat John had not seen since Christmas.  There were sauces, hot with chili, fresh cilantro, and lemon.  Victoria had even set the table with carafes of Spanish wine.  John had to admire how quickly his wife could create such a meal with little warning.

They moved to the table to sit, and most of Don Sebastian's escort entered to take their places.  They stood, waiting for Victoria to enter and sit.  Victoria entered the room a moment later, leading the McCain boy, and there was a sudden exclamation from one of the men, a man with quick dark eyes, a wide mouth, and a dark drooping mustache.

The man's face exploded in a brilliant smile, and he rushed forward and scooped the boy right off his feet and into the air, leaving everyone else a bit stunned by the suddenness of his motion.  He began twirling around in circles, holding the boy aloft and crying out in Spanish, and the whole thing would have been alarming had not the boy been grinning as well and pounding the vaquero on the back.  John, Victoria, Don Sebastian, and the others watched in mute silence as the two hugged each other wildly and laughed.

"Uh…" John began after a moment, "I, uh…take it you know each other?"

The vaquero flashed that brilliant smile of white teeth again and sat Mark upon his shoulder.

"Oh, si, si, Senor Cannon!  It is little Mark McCain from North Fork, the son of my compadre, Lucas McCain! Ay carumba, what are you doing here in Arizona?  Where is your father?"

Mark's smile evaporated at the question and his face fell.  Mark looked down at the floor and did not reply.  The vaquero looked confused.

"Xavier," Don Sebastian said, interrupting the awkwardness of the moment, "how do you know this boy?"

"My pardon, Don Sebastian," the vaquero replied quickly.  "Last year, I was inTejas, traveling with my previous patron from New Orleans, Senor Tiffagues.  Ah, but he was a bad patron, Don Sebastian.  He beat his men with a whip and abused them much.  We were driven out of Tejas by the Rangers, and we crossed New Mexico, and stopped on this boy's ranch.  This boy's father stood up to my patron, and there was a fight."

"You did not defend your patron?" Don Sebastian asked, taken aback.

"I would have, but he was a bad man," the vaquero replied.  "This boy's father, Senor McCain, ah, he reminded us that we were men, and that we had only to follow the orders of those we respected.  My patron tried to steal McCain's land, and I could not go along with that.  There was a fight, and Senor Tiffagues was killed.  After that, we were free, and more importantly, we were men once again!  Ah, Senor McCain, he showed us what we were, and gave us our freedom and respect.  You should see McCain's skill with that rifle of his!  He is as fast, and he does not miss, Don Sebastian.  He does not miss!  He is muy macho!"

John looked to Don Sebastian with questions in his eyes.

"This is Xavier Escobar," Don Sebastian said, pointing to the smiling vaquero.  "He has been with Rancho Montoya almost a year and acts as my  foreman while Rodrigo is in Matamoras negotiating a cattle deal with General Juan Cortina.  Apparently, he knows this boy you bought from the Apache."

Escobar's eyes darkened.  "Apache?  How did the Apache come to have you?" he asked Mark.

"They caught Pa and me out in the desert," Mark explained, his eyes watering, but he managed to restrain the tears.  "Some bad white men were with them.  We were coming to visit you, Xavier.  We were brining you a horse, a gift for your birthday.  But the Apache caught us, and we saw the white men with them, and they were afraid we would talk.  They shot him, Xavier.  They shot him down in cold blood!"

"No!" Escobar hissed, and his eyes were flame.  "I cannot imagine anyone beating your father in a gunfight.  He is El Diablo himself with that rifle."

"He didn't have his rifle.  The Apache jumped us and took us prisoner, and the white men took the rifle and the horses, including yours.  Pa talked to the leader of the gang, but it didn't do any good.  They shot him anyway.  Then they gave me to the Apaches."

Escobar's eyes darkened even more, and he seemed to grow cold and silent.  He suddenly seemed very dangerous.

"When did this happen?"

"Almost a week ago."

"So, you know this boy's father?" John asked.

"Yes.  Senor McCain was a rancher in New Mexico.  A small rancher, Senor Cannon, nothing like the huge rancho you have here.  He is…was, a good, an upstanding man who was known as a real hombre because of his skill with a rifle.  He was very famous for it in New Mexico."

"I seem to have heard of this man," Don Sebastian interjected, picking up his wine glass and twirling it around slowly.  "A man with a rifle.  He is supposed to be a man who does not carry a pistola, yet he has killed several notorious gunmen.  He is, himself, a gunfighter of some repute, or so I have heard."

"My Pa ain't no gunfighter!" Mark yelled defensively, glaring at Don Sebastian angrily.  "He's a rancher, just like you!"

Don Sebastian seemed surprised by the boy's outburst, and at first he scowled, for the Lion of Sonora was not used to being addressed by a child in such a manner.  After looking at the fury on boy's face for a few moments, however, his face began to smile and his eyes twinkled with amusement.  John coughed to draw his attention.

"Yes, I think I've heard of him, too," John said, scratching his chin.  "Escobar, can you describe this rifle he carried?"

"Si.  It is a saddle carbine, one of your Winchesters.  But it has a very large lever, in a circle like a ring. It shoots very fast.  He was faster than I am with a pistola.  You should have seen him use this rifle!  He could spin it like a rope."

"The Rifleman?" John asked.

"John, do you know him?" Victoria asked in surprise.

"No, but I know of him," John replied.  "Campfire tales, mostly from drifters.  They all said he was good, very good with a rifle.  He's rumored to have killed several gunfighters in New Mexico, men like Big Jim Lewis and Carl Lamprey.  I've also heard he stood down Oat Jackford.  I know Oat, and if he did that, it took some doing."

"What you have heard is correct," Escobar added.  "I will vouch for this."

"Well, if this McCain is the same person as the one they call the Rifleman, we've got a particularly nasty bunch of cut-throats operating in this area," John said.

"Senor Montoya," Escobar exclaimed, facing Don Sebastian.  "This boy and his father are my friends.  I owe them very much.  I would request a leave of absence to help this boy.  To help find his father, and his killers.  These banditos must be hunted down."

"The best thing we can do right now is eat supper," John said, cutting off any immediate reply by Don Sebastian.  "Let's eat and then we can discuss it."

They ate for a while in silence, but John was not content to leave the discussion alone.  The supper was delicious, and after John had eaten his fill, he refilled his wine glass and looked at Don Sebastian.

"Maybe we can get the Army to solve this," he said at last.

"The American Army?" Don Sebastian scoffed, almost choking on his wine.  "I do not think the Yankee military will be of much help."

"Oh?  And just why not?"

"In the last month, we have had many Apache attacks," Don Sebastian replied sternly.  "Mostly from the Janeros Apache.  Even Rancho Montoya has felt the weight of these butchers.  Always these raiders, these Apache, they strike and then flee back into the desert, back across the border into the protection of the American Army.  The Army says it has nothing to do with these attacks, of course, even that they deplore them, yet what is done about the raids?  How many punitive expeditions does the American Army launch against these wild marauders?  If the Americans are so friendly with Mexico, why do they allow this thing to go on?"

"The situation's pretty complicated, Don Sebastian," John said, looking into his wine glass.  "The Army is reluctant to start a war that will cost hundreds of lives unless there is no other choice.  And they have to be sure they get the right band of Apaches."

"The raids are already costing hundreds of lives!" Don Sebastian snapped back, reaching forward to refill his wine glass.  "Of course, these lives are all Sonoran, so perhaps it does not matter much to the great American Army.  Perhaps they are not quite the friends they would have us believe."

"Now what do you mean by that?"

"There have been many rumors of late," Don Sebastian said, sipping from his glass.  "Evil rumors, that perhaps the Americans allow the Apaches to attack into Sonora because the Americans themselves have designs on Mexico."

"That ridiculous!" John shot back, slamming his glass down on the table.  "Why would we want that?"

"Perhaps you need more land," Don Sebastian replied, opening his palms expansively and shrugging.  "You have so many settlers who are eating up the land you have opened.  Perhaps if Sonora is weakened enough, it, too, will be open to conquest by an American army."

"The Americans have no intention of invading Mexico!"

"Perhaps not," Don Sebastian conceded.  "On the other hand, they said the same thing forty years ago, when they took Tejas away from us.  Followed by your New Mexico territory.  Less than ten years after that, there was an American army in Mexico City.  I was a young man then, but I remember it well."

"We were at war with you then," John replied, and he knew his voice was rising.  Don Sebastian Montoya had the ability to get under his skin and bring John's his ire as fast as anyone he knew.

"Who's to say you are not at war with us now, John Cannon?"

"We have no desire for war with Mexico.  That's ludicrous!"

"War is exactly what we have."  Don Sebastian set his glass down and leaned forward to stare at John closely,  "War with the Apache.  Even now, as we sit here drinking and eating in your fine house, the Apache ride down from your country, your land even, to attack my neighbors and friends in Sonora and Chihuahua.  And what is your government doing about it?  Do they stop these raids?  Do they punish the Apache as criminals when they return from Sonora with Mexican scalps and property?  Do they even patrol the border?  No!  Instead, they turn a blind eye to these activities and say they are beyond their control.  It was hard enough to believe during your civil war, and it is impossible to believe now.  The Apache cross from your land into ours, carrying guns that have the marks of your Army on them, to kill and plunder our villages.  And when these killers return from these raids, your 'authorities' protect them from our just retribution.  Perhaps the idea of an American conquest of Mexico is not so far removed from reality, no?"

"I was an officer in the American Army," John replied after considering Don Sebastian's points for a moment.  "I know how the Army thinks, and I know how the government leaders in Washington think.  I also know what the people in Tucson and Tombstone say about how they feel.  I don't believe there is anyone in the territory who would support an invasion of Mexico, Don Sebastian.  I just don't believe it."

Don Sebastian eyed John a long moment, as if seeking some hint of a lie in his face.  At last, satisfied, he sat back and refilled his glass once again.  "Perhaps," he said, shrugging.  "Still, there are enough questions that the governor of Sonora has asked me to speak to your authorities, including the commanders of your Fort Bowie and Fort Lowell, and your territorial governor.  There are too many unanswered questions about why American Apaches raid Sonora with American army rifles."

"Those rifles were stolen from the Army, as you well know," John told him.  "Didn't you hear young McCain there say there were gun-runners dealing Army rifles to the Apache?  They were stolen by white men posing as Apache."

"Perhaps.  Or perhaps that is what they would have everyone think."

"Mr. Cannon's right," Mark said suddenly, jumping into the conversation between the two men.  "They men who gave me to the Apache, the ones who shot pa, they were the ones who stole those rifles.  They were selling them to the Apache for gold that the Apaches had taken in Mexico.  I heard them say so.  That's what they were doing when Pa and I came across them."

"Si, that would make sense," Escobar added quickly.  "This boy, Senor Montoya, he is not one to be loose with the truth."

"Gun-runners," John said, sighing.  "The last thing in the world this territory needs."  He had already discussed the men in question with Mark, and had even gotten some decent descriptions of the men, which he fully intended on reporting to the commander of Fort Lowell as soon as the herd was safely in.  "I'll not brook gun-running on my land.  It's not enough that we have Apache renegades running about on the High Chaparral, raiding across the border, and hotheads in Tucson who are looking for any excuse to go and wipe out the Apaches.  No, now we have to have white men who are selling guns to the Apaches and playing both ends against the middle, all so they can make money."

"They must be exceedingly good businessmen," Don Sebastian remarked dryly, and the twinkle returned to his eye at last.

"Maybe, but they're also ruthless cut-throats," John replied, standing an moving to the coffee pot.  Wine was fine, but he wanted coffee now.  "What's worse, for me at least, is they're using my land to do it on.  That makes me responsible, and I intend to do something about it.  At the very least, I intend to inform the Army and get the law after them.  They won't be wanted until the authorities know what they are dealing with.  If that doesn't work, then I'll take my hands and drive them off the High Chaparral by force, if necessary."

"Force will definitely be necessary," Don Sebastian said softly.  "Such men do not profit by showing weakness or mercy.  You will have to be ruthless with them."

"Young McCain here has described their leader to me, the one who killed his father," John said, sipping coffee from the porcelain mug.  It was somehow not as satisfying as the tin cup he used on the trail, but it sure kept the coffee warm for a longer period of time.  "Medium build, clean-shaven, easy-going manner.  Wearing a calico shirt the last time Mark saw him.  The rest are tough-looking men; the kind who've been down the creek and over the mountain.  When you get to Fort Lowell tomorrow, be sure to inform the commander about these gun-runners.  Will you be staying in Tucson?"

"No, the commander at your Fort Lowell is just one of many with whom I must speak," Don Sebastian replied, reaching for his own mug of steaming coffee.  "As soon as we have finished our visit, my men and I will ride to Fort Verde to speak with your territorial authorities."

"Well, you're welcome to stay here as long as you want.  I'm sure Victoria is glad to have you around.  Victoria and Blue will be heading into Tucson tomorrow, to try to telegraph someone in New Mexico who can come for this boy.  I'm sure they would appreciate the company, if you care to ride with them."

"Of course," Don Sebastian replied.  "We will be leaving at dawn.  But what of you?  Will you go with us?"

"No, I have to get back to the herd," John told him.  "I'll be riding out at sunup, too.  As soon as we've finished with the cattle in the north range, I'll bring all the men home.  I don't like leaving the ranch exposed like this with Apaches and gun-runners on the loose."

"A wise precaution," Don Sebastian agreed.  "You will be gone long?"

"Should be back by tomorrow evening, I think."

"Good.  Let us go and sit.  You must tell me of the death of Cochise."

Don Sebastian and John moved with Escobar and the other men into the living room, to drink their coffee by the fire, while Victoria busied herself with cleaning up the dishes and talking to Mark.  The boy was certainly well-behaved, she thought, but she was amazed at how much pie the boy could eat.

Hooves sounded at that moment, coming into the yard beyond the door, then boots tromped on the floorboards of the porch.  The front door on the right side of the house creaked open, and Blue Cannon stepped into the room.  It was dark outside, and he squinted his blue eyes, trying to adjust them to the bright lighting of the house.

"You're late, boy" John said tersely, but not seriously.

"Did I miss supper?" Blue asked.  He nodded at Don Sebastian.  "Hi."

"Hello," Don Sebastian replied grandly, his eyes twinkling again as he observed the tension between Blue and John, so much like the tension between himself and Manolito.  It was good to see someone else experience the same things that had troubled his life.

"Come in, Blue," Victoria interrupted quickly, stepping forward to take his hand as she shot a scowl at John.  "I will fix you a plate."

Blue took off his hat and headed toward the table, then pulled up short as he stared at the small boy sitting at the table.  The child was busy trying to cut a piece of apple pie with a fork.

"Uh…who is this?" Blue asked no one in particular.  He looked at his father and raised his eyebrows in question.

"This is why I had Sam send you home, boy," John told him.  "This is the boy I ransomed from the Apaches.  You and Victoria will be taking him into Tucson tomorrow.  I'll explain it all later."

"Hi.  What's your name?" Mark asked suddenly, looking up at Blue.

"Well, William is my real name," Blue told him, "but most people around here just call me Blue."

"Blue?  Really?"

"Yeah, all except my Uncle Buck.  He always calls me Blue Boy."

Mark suddenly burst out laughing, holding his stomach as Blue sat down in a chair beside him and Victoria put a plate of beef and frijoles before him.  A bit perplexed, Blue stared at the young boy and frowned.

"Well, just what's so funny?" he asked.

"Why, your name," Mark replied.

"My name?  What's funny about my name?"

"Blue Boy," Mark giggled.  "That's what your pa was talking about on the ride all the way here.  Now I get it."

"Get what?"

"Your Pa kept talking about getting Blue Boy to take me into town, only I couldn't figure out how he was going to do that.  It wasn't possible."

"Do what?" Blue asked, perplexed now.  "What's not possible?"

"To get Blue Boy to take me into town.  Now I get it.  That's funny."

"Yeah?  Well, I don't get it.  What's funny about that?"

"Why, Blue Boy is the name of my horse," Mark replied, and he burst out giggling again.  A moment later the entire room, except for Blue, had joined in.

By the time everyone quit laughing over the incident, Blue was beginning to think he might have been better off to have stayed out on the range with the hands, the coyotes, and the Apaches.

III

CAMPSITE, NEAR THE SAN PEDRO RIVER 

It had been another long day for Buck Cannon, and he had to admit, castrating young bulls was not his idea of fun.  They had worked hard that day, and accomplished a lot, but fortunately, he had not seen the longhorn again.  Now, at the end of a long day, as the afterglow of sunset faded into the deep purple of twilight, a lone star peeked out of the heavens to the west.

Buck looked at the lonely star as it shown bright and yellow against the indigo of the sky.  He reflected that the star was much as he was; a lonely sentry in an otherwise barren sky.  When the heavens darkened up to admit the millions of night stars into the bowl of black above, the single yellow star would be gone; forgotten as the heavens moved about its business through the night.  Buck wondered, idly, if he would end up like the star.  A lonely flare in the desert, a man alone, riding across the sand.  Brief and brilliant, but all too fleeting.  One day he would be gone, too, and millions of others would stream into this desert, building cities and civilizing the land.  By then, he would be gone, as forgotten as that lonely star in the sunset.

He heard Manolito grumble, and glanced over to where the vaquero was cooking their evening meal.  Manolito did not cook often, but when he did it always allowed Buck a chance for levity.  Buck had developed a habit of going on and on about how lousy Manolito's cooking was.  In truth, Manolito was a good cook, but Buck was not about to admit it, at least not to Manolito's face.  Such contentions were the only thing that made evenings fun.  Yep, eating vittles and picking on Manolito.  That's what his life had become.

Still, it was better than some times had been in the past.

"I tell you, Mano, I sure be lookin' forward to somethin' besides beef and beans in the near future," Buck told his friend, digging in his tin plate with a fork.  "What say we head into Tombstone a spell when this is done and get ourselves a real meal."

"I don't know, compadre," Manolito replied, grinning as he settled down across from Buck to eat his own food.  "Tombstone, she is a pretty rough town."

"Ain't no rougher 'n bustin' cattle," Buck snorted back.  "Besides, since when cain't we handle a rough town, amigo?  I could use me a drink, and a pretty face or two.  Likely you could use the same, eh?"

"I don't know, Buck.  John will want us to return to the Chaparral when we are done.  I'm sure there is more work to do, and the ranch is short handed as it is."

"Yeah, well, what Big John don't know ain't likely to hurt him," Buck said, digging at the beans in frustration.  "Work is all that man thinks about.  You and me, well, we don't have a wife to go home to, no woman cook us meals every night.  You an' me, we understand the idea of fun, now don't we?  Big John, why, he don't know how to have no fun at all."

"Has he always been so…responsible?" Manolito asked suddenly, and Buck had to think a moment before replying.

"No…ah cain't say that fo' sure, Mano.  Time was when Big John was like any other man, I guess.  He knew how to have fun back then.  I kin remember him and me when we was boys, huntin' squirrels in the backwoods.  Why, one time we hunted all the way down to the Rappahannock.  Got us a mess of squirrels, too.  I kin still remember John laughing 'round the campfire at night, tellin' jokes an' all.  Our papa was fit to be tied when we come home.  We couldn't neither one of us sit down for nearly a week, what with the tannin' we got.  We'd sort o' shirked off on the plowin' an' milkin' and such, so's we could go squirrel hunting.  Our daddy, well, he didn't cotton to that shirkin' business.  Larruped our hides good, he did.  But the whuppin' was worth it.  John and I, we had us a time, a'hunting squirrels and bein' out loose in the woods.  Free, like a couple of Dan'l Boones.  I always remember John sittin' there an' laughing by that fire, whenever he does something makes me real mad at him.  That's when I remind myself of those times that was important.  How he could be a wonderful brother, teachin' a kid how to shoot, and clean game, and track, and all.  Yep, he used to be a whole lot mo' fun when we was kids.  Later on, he up and changed."

"What happened?"

"The war come."

"Ah," Manolito replied, as if he understood completely.  "The war.  It changed so many things for so many people.  It makes us old before our time."

"If'n we survive it," Buck said, sipping coffee.  "It makes boys into men, all right.  Fast.  Way too fast, you ask me.  And… we lose something in it, Mano.  Something about bein' young.  I tell you, war might make boys into men, but them men also lose their boyhood in it…and there's somethin' ashamed in that.  Somethin' sad.  When John rode off to that war, he was still a young man.  The one what come back was all growed, old afore his time, and…well, ain't none of us been young since the war.  Me neither."

"It is hard to remain forever young when you have seen too much," Manolito agreed, leaning back against a rock.  "That is why I try to hard to see too much.  A man can only be young as long as he thinks he is young."

"Ah reckon so," Buck agreed.  He scooped us the last of his beans, then picked up his own coffee tin before replying.  "An' I intend to stay as young as you, amigo.  Best way to stay young out here is to head into town and have ourselves a little spree, blow off the strain of all this work."

"My father, he would say that is not a very smart way to save money."

"Yo' daddy and Big John got a lot in common," Buck snorted.  "They don't seem to be havin' much fun, now do they?  Work, and worry, and more work, that's all they know.  They don't understand that life has got to be lived.  A man cain't just root himself all down in one spot and build somethin' when he ain't finished enjoying life yet.  There's a sight of land a man's gotta see, a lot of friends he's got to meet, and a lot of just plain experiencin' to do.  I seen a lot already, but I ain't see'd enough, my friend.  I ain't through having me sprees, and I ain't ready to settle down and be all responsible just yet."

Mano laughed and lifted his coffee mug in mock salute.

"Here is to a life of party and to irresponsibility," he said, and Buck lifted his own cup.

"I'll drink to that, Mano!  Here's to a fine time in Tombstone, a lot a drinks, a little company of the female type, and a long ride home."

"Here's to a job well done, compadre."

"And here's to a good meal," Buck toasted back, and Manolito frowned at him.

"There is something wrong with the meal?"

"No, not if you like the same thing night after night," Buck replied, leaning back to rest the cup on his stomach.  "Man sort'o gets tired of the same thing all the time, Mano.  Especially if it ain't so good."

"Perhaps you would rather cook for the rest of the time we are out here?" Manolito said, pouring himself more coffee.  "Especially since you are so picky about what you eat."

"Now, there you go, getting' all riled on me," Buck replied, shaking his head.  "You act like we was married or something, the way you jump at the slightest complaint.  I do declare, Mano, you as huffy as a spurned woman.  On the other hand, you do make the best burned frijoles I ever set my jaw to."

"Burned?  I did not burn them.  They were not burned."

"You be right, Mano.  They wasn't burned at all.  Just flavored a bit with charcoal.  I understand.  Don't go getting' something stuck in your craw, now."

"Whatever is 'stuck in my craw' cannot be as bad as cactus spines on the inside of my legs, my friend," Manolito told him with a grin.  "I am sure that even someone as sharp as you will get the point of such a barb sooner or later."

"You witty about half of the time, Mano.  You keep them kind of jokes up, I might just have to admit you a regular half-wit."

"Perhaps you a right," Manolito admitted, grinning even larger.  "On the other hand, you are stuck with me.  I am sure that sitting in the saddle has been quite a job for you, the way you had your arms and legs wrapped around that cactus."

"Well, I'll admit it has been a pain in the backside," Buck admitted.  "Well, ain't exactly on my backside, but you get my meanin'."

"Yes.  If your horse runs away tonight and returns to the High Chaparral, they will be very concerned."

"Why?"

"Because of all of the blood in the saddle," Manolito teased.

"You pretty funny," Buck sighed half-derisively.  "For a man what cain't cook."

"I cook just fine.  You ate it."

"Even a coyote has to eat something.  Sometimes I think you are trying to poison me with them burned beans."

"You never complain when you cook them."

"That's because I know how to cook beans.  You got to get them off the fire before the bottom layer turns into coal.  I tell you, Mano, if'n you expect to make a man a good wife one day, you best learn how to cook."

Manolito laughed and shook his head.

"I do not think I am in great danger of that."

"Makin' a man a wife, or learning how to cook?"

"Both."

Buck and Manolito laughed together and sat silent for a few moments, sipping the last of their coffee.  The stars were now popping out in the indigo velvet above, winking as merrily as the campfire.  It had been a hard day, and it felt good to sit among the rocks, feel the warmth of the fire, and the evening's coming coolness.  It was a fine thing to rest after a day's work, to laugh with an old friend, and reflect on life.  It was a rugged life, this being a cowhand, but moments like this were just compensation. Such moments would be remembered fondly years in the future, when they were old and gray and remembering the past.  It was for times like this that a man lived.

As it grew dark, Manolito stood and wandered down toward the river, where a tiny stream gurgled along the bottom of the wash.  "I will wash the dishes," Manolito said, disappearing into the darkness.

"Okay, Mano. You kin wash them dishes.  I'll take the first watch."

Buck lay back and watched the stars appear as the fire faded.  In a few moments, Manolito was back.  He moved to his saddle, spread his blankets, and pulled off his boots before dropping down to plop his head on his saddle.

            "Good night, Buck."

            "'Night, amigo.  I'll wake you come midnight."

            Manolito pulled his blankets around him and rolled to one side.  Buck watched the stars for several minutes more, and the fire died, leaving him in blackness, but the stars in the sky were brilliant and beautiful.  He watched a falling star track a green line of fire across the sky to the east, then quietly put his cup away and moved out into the rocks, starting the first of the shifts for the evening.

In Apache country, someone was always left on guard.

Buck sighed deeply.  It looked to be another long and uneventful night.

IV

SACATON WASH, NEAR THE SAN PEDRO RIVER 

Lucas McCain had found water during the day by watching bees.  His father had once told him that everything in the desert needed water to survive, and a canny man could usually find water by watching critters that needed it.  The small seep he had found had hardly been enough to quench his thirst, but it was enough to give him the strength to move on. It was far sweeter and thinner than the bitter pulp of the prickly pear cactus he had been sucking on up until that point.

Lucas had taken care at first to conceal his own trail, walking in the bottom of arroyos and crossing solid rock where he could find it.  The heat of mid-day had gotten to him, however, and he had not wanted to be caught out in the open.  The dust from his movement could be seen for miles, and would probably lead the Apache right to him, or warn those he hunted.  Without a hat or canteen, the sun was a constant danger, so Lucas had spent most of the day hiding in the brush, finding what shade he could and trying to sleep.  To pass the time in the searing heat, he had thought long and hard on his prey.

He had cut their trail at dawn, but found that the paths had split off in different directions.  Several, including mostly shod horses, had gone northwest, following a dry wash that meandered between Apache Peak and another tall peak to the southwest.  Lucas was not sure, but he believed that trail led toward the town of Tucson.  The other trail mostly contained unshod tracks, and it turned eastward.

He pondered the most likely direction Mark's abductors would have taken.  Could the Apache have gone northwest?  He doubted it.  Apache had no reason to head for Tucson.  It was most likely that the Apaches were on the eastern trail, for that trail contained fewer shod tracks.  It also made sense, because it headed away from the settlement.  Which meant the northwest trail was likely the gun-runners.  The real question was, which group had Mark?

Lucas felt certain that Mark was still alive, as he had come across no signs of a body.  If the western fork was the trail of the gun-runners, it would make no sense for them to have taken Mark along.  They would have killed the boy quickly or set him adrift in the desert to let the sun do their dirty work for them.  Lucas could not think of a single reason for a bunch of cut-throats, especially ones who had just murdered a boy's father, to bring the sole eyewitness to their crime with them into a town.  They might have given him to the Apache, of course, and that gave Lucas a little hope.  If the Apache had wanted Mark dead, they would have killed him quickly and scalped him, or tortured him, and he had seen no evidence of that.

Lucas had found the eastern tracks were such that the band was moving quickly.  Common sense said that a boy would slow a war party down, and there was no sense in keeping him alive, but perhaps the Apaches had other plans for Mark.  Maybe they thought to sell him down in Mexico, or use him as a bargaining chip.  You could never tell about Apaches.  Yet, why would the Apaches ride east?  San Carlos was to the north, and the raiding grounds of Mexico were to the south.

Lucas had dozed off and on during the day, thinking land dreaming, but the afternoon had been too hot to sleep, and he fretted, worrying about dehydration.  Fortunately, the bees led him to water, and that had given him renewed strength, even if the seep had contained only a little water.

At dusk, as the sun set in rich purples and oranges, and Lucas had risen and doggedly began putting one boot ahead of the other again.

He had lost the trail shortly after darkness set in, unable to see it.  Yet, the trail had seemed to be turning, arcing almost due east now, in the direction of Tombstone.  The Apache were evidently traveling fast to cover ground, and changing directions frequently to confuse pursuit.  That had to be the case.  No Apache would head for Tombstone any more than they would head for Tucson.

Lucas moved eastward in the darkness, finally coming across the drying river bed of the San Pedro river.  Fortunately, it had rained somewhere to the north, and there was a thin trickle of water in its basin.  The water was a wonderful find, and Lucas fell on his belly and lapped until his thirst was slaked.  Then, he proceeded grimly on in the darkness, looking for sign.

The Indians had not crossed to the other side anywhere that he could find, and Lucas realized had lost the trail.  He thought maybe they had turned south and tried to hide their tracks in the bed of the stream.  Stumbling over countless rocks in the dry basin in the dark, Lucas caught the unmistakable odor of wood smoke.

It was well into the night.  There was a freshening wind from the southwest, and a fingernail slice of a thin moon rose above the horizon to the east.  The smoke could have meant anything, including a campfire or a ranch burned by the Apaches.  No matter what it meant, however, it would offer more clues.  Cautiously, Lucas had followed the smell, watching carefully for a fire so that he would not step into a trap or surprise his targets.

It was around midnight when Lucas finally located the campfire, that had already gone to coals.  He might have missed it completely had he not heard one of the horses nicker.

Dropping low, he eased up to study the camp on his belly, quickly spotting the twin horses pulling at the soapweed between the rocks.  In the dim light of the moon, he could make out only two dark shapes, likely men rolled up in bedrolls, and there were probably others, guards he could not see.  A sense of grim satisfaction came over Lucas.

Bedrolls meant white men, not Apaches.

He had found the gun-runners!

He could make out one of the men by the faint glow from the coals, and the other was dimly visible in the faint moonlight.  There was a sputtering hiss as something in the fire popped, and the sound was quickly lost in the night.  He would have to approach very carefully, remaining downwind from the horses, if he wished to get his rifle back.  Once he had the rifle, the odds would be evened.

It was time to pay some bad men back and teach them a tough lesson.

Lucas paused a moment, his eyes narrowing as he looked and listened.  When he had last seen their trail at sunset, he had made out at least ten different sets of hoof prints, including one he thought had been those of Mark's horse.  Yet, he had seen only two horses so far in this camp.  White men and Indians alike tended to keep their whole remuda together at night.

He had not yet seen any other horses, and that worried him.  It was possible that he had been spotted, and they were laying a trap for him.  He would have felt a lot more comfortable raiding this camp with his Winchester than with a scalping knife, but it was all he had.

He knew he would have to keep very alert as he tried to sneak into camp.  Desert men were wary by nature, and they slept lightly.  He would have to be very quiet, and avoid stepping on stones or brush that might crack or make noise.  He had to get in and locate Mark, then try to awaken the boy silently and sneak him out of harm's way.  Odds were, something would give him away, and if he and the boy were to have any chance at all, Lucas needed a gun.

As Lucas peered at the sleeping men, his eyes spotted two saddles lying in the sand.  One man was using his saddle as a pillow, but the other saddle was laying near a boulder.  He could just make out the butt of a rifle in the saddle scabbard.  It took him a while to see it, for he had to use his peripheral vision rather than look right at it, but he was sure it was a rifle.

Lucas moved forward on cat-feet, trying to remain low and silent.  The butt of the rifle came closer and closer, and he could hear his own heartbeat pounding like a drum in his ears.  Only a few more feet to go…

Then the wind shifted.

A horse whinnied, and one of the sleeping men sat up abruptly.

Lucas dove on him in an instant, cupping his left hand over the man's mouth even as he drove the man back onto the ground with the hard point of his shoulder. He quickly brought the scalping knife up to press against the man's throat.

In the dim light of the moon, he saw the man's eyes widen with shock as the knife touched his throat, and he immediately ceased resistance, recognizing the very real threat of the blade.  He appeared to be a man of medium build, with a thick mop of dark hair, and he was clean-shaven.  He wore a short Mexican-style jacket.

"Don't move, or you be a dead man," a voice said very distinctly, and Lucas felt the barrel of a gun touch his head just behind the ear.  He whirled instantly, slapping the arm away, the impact knocking the gun from the man's hand.  Lucas brought the knife up toward the new opponent's belly, intending to slash, but the man saw it coming and caught his wrist with both hands and yanked.  Lucas stumbled to regain his balance, his feet tripping in the rocks, as the other man stepped back and kicked the knife out of Lucas's hand.

Lucas backhanded him with a wicked left slap across the cheek, the sound loud in the darkness.  As the man staggered, Lucas twisted left and hit him with a right, square in the face, and the man went down hard.

His opponent was game, however, and rolled to his feet.  The man shook his head, and then swung a powerful fist into Lucas' ribs, bruising them.  He followed with a left that Lucas blocked, then Lucas hit him again, a left and right to the body, and an uppercut to the head.  The smaller man fell again and Lucas turned and bent, reaching for the pistol he had knocked out of his assailant's hands.

Bright stars of pain erupted in his head as someone struck him from behind, and then the sand of the desert seemed to rise and slap him in the face.  He could feel grit and sand in his mouth as he lay on his face, and his head hurt badly.  Lucas tried to move and could not, but he heard voices talking over him.

"Are you all right?" said one in a faintly clipped accent.

"Yeah," the other replied with a thick Southern drawl.  "Thanks fer whoppin' him with that gun butt.  He was about ready to get the best of me."

There was a scuffling sound and then a rough hand grabbed Lucas' shoulder.  He felt himself being turned roughly onto his back.  One of the men tossed a pile of brush on the coals and the fire flared up, casting bright orange light over them all.

Lucas opened his eyes slowly, and they focused on the orange light that was reflected on the faces of the two men standing over him.  One held a gleaming silver Colt pointed at his chest, the hammer thumbed back to full cock.  He looked to be a vaquero.

"That ain't no A-pach," the smaller man grunted in surprise.

"No, it is a white man," the vaquero agreed.

Lucas stared at them a moment, trying to speak.  The second man, the one he had punched, had short, blondish, almost curly hair.  He looked like a man who had been down the creek and over the mountain a time or two; a tough man.  He wore black clothes and a yellow bandanna, and a black vest that reached to his legs.  Lucas noticed a bullet band on one arm.  The man was deeply tanned, and his black eyes were framed in a war map of lines.  He looked vaguely familiar somehow, but Lucas was unsure why.  He tried to focus his eyes and sit up.

These were definitely not the gun-runners he had been pursuing.  He had attacked the wrong men!

"Whoa, boy," the tanned man said quickly.  "You move just real easy-like now, heah?"

The shorter man squatted on his heels to get a better look in the light, as the vaquero kept Lucas covered with the unwavering muzzle of his pistol.

"Well, looka heah," the white man exclaimed in surprise, but there was nothing friendly in his face.  "Ah don't believe my eyes, Mano.  Yep, it's him, all right.  It surely is."

Lucas rose to one elbow, staring at the man's face, trying to recall where he had seen it before, but he could not.  The vaquero kept the pistol pointed at him, but he was staring at the other man with a questioning look.  Lucas looked at the man who was speaking.

"You know me?" he asked in a voice that was raw from thirst and fighting.

"You damned right I know you," the man replied, stepping closer to look Lucas in the eye with unrestrained anger.  "I fo' certain know you, Bluebelly!"

The vaquero looked confused at that, and he looked at the man staring in Lucas's face.

"You have seen this man before?" the Mexican asked in surprise.

"Yep," Buck Cannon replied, as he picked up his pistol from the sand, cocked it, and aimed it at Lucas.  "This heah's the Yankee I swore I'd kill if'n I ever seen him again!"

Buck raised the Colt and pointed it between Lucas' eyes.                     

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