Survival of the Fittest

APACHE CAMP, DRAGOON MOUNTAINS, 5 JUNE 1874

The exhausting heat of the day had given away to a cool evening with the setting of the sun, and the desert was wild and beautiful beneath a sea of stars.  An occasional whiff of the fragrance of night flowers permeated the air, as the soft wind moved across the organ pipe and the saguaro.  Around the lonely tops of cactus an occasional bat flitted, and crickets chirped softly in the background.  The beauty of the scenery was lost on Mark McCain, however, as he sat staring into the fire, his eyes wide with shock, shuddering as he tried to cry some more, but could not.  The tears had run out long ago.

It's all gone, he told himself for the thousandth time, feeling the loss all over again.  Pa is gone.  He's with Ma now.  Everything I've ever had or known is gone.  Everyone I love.  Everyone who's ever loved me.  Who will take care of me now?  I am all alone.  What will become of me?

His mother had died two years ago.  She had been a strong woman in her own way, with warm hands and soft eyes, but she had not been strong enough for the frontier.  She had done well in the Indiana and Illinois forest towns, but the prairies in the Nations had been too much for her.  She had become sick while they lived there through the harsh winter, in a cabin that stood alone in the snow and the eternally bitter winds, and she had slowly withered away until she was gone.  Diphtheria some had said.  Cholera was another rumor they had used.  The cause had not mattered, for she had left him and Pa alone in that little cabin when Mark had been nine years old.  In his heart, Mark suspected he knew the truth.  She had always longed for home, for the forested glades of Indiana, and the prairies had been too empty, too remote.  In the end, she had died of homesickness.

Now, in the blink of an eye, in as little time as it had taken to pull a trigger, his Pa was gone as well.  Mark was a prisoner of Apache Indians, and he had often heard there was no worse fate than that.  Under normal conditions, that would have terrified him beyond measure, but with the loss of his father, he just no longer cared.

Pa is dead.  And I will be too, soon.

The thought came unbidden, whirling through his mind to torment his very soul.  He had always adored his father.  His Pa had seemed as tall as a mountain, as strong as an ox, and as tough as granite, and he had been his Pa.  His Pa had always had a reputation as a good man, and to Mark, especially having recently lost his mother, he had become the center of the entire universe.

He remembered how tenderly his father had cradled his mother's body and wept alone in the silence of that lonely cabin.  He remembered how his father, sick and heart-broken, had buried his mother in the hard rocky ground of the unforgiving Nations.  They had packed up not long after that, in the summer of 1873, and ridden south.  A wandering ride across the wide Red River into the woodlands of northeast Texas, which had been still reeling under the Reconstruction efforts of the War Between the States.  Then southwest, to the cattle town of Fort Worth, and then due west across the grand prairies, out into the Comanche lands of the Llano Estacado.  There the land had been an endless rolling plain of grass and mesquite, and the threat of Indian attack had been constant, for the Comanche under He-Bear and Quannah Parker had been raiding.  Eventually, after weeks of riding, they had crossed the Pecos and entered the mountains of New Mexico.  There, riding along the trail one day in the autumn afternoon, they had happened upon the abandoned Dunlap ranch.  There had been a sign, announcing that it was for sale, and he and his Pa had stopped to smell the grass, to study the land.  Together they had decided they had ridden far enough.  There had been some trouble with a man called Big Jim Lewis, but his Pa had bought the lonely little ranch house that sat near the creek just a few miles outside of the town of North Fork.

He and his Pa had certainly had their trials and trouble since arriving in New Mexico.  First, the ranch hands of cattle baron Oat Jackford had tried to run them off, burning the ranch in the process.  His Pa had set off on their trail, caught up with them, and met with Mr. Jackford.  His Pa had set them straight, besting Oat Jackford in a fist fight, and Jackford had reluctantly sent his hands back with a load of lumber to help his Pa rebuild the house and barn they had burned.

The new cabin had taken days to build.  It was not as fancy as the original had been, but the new one had been built with love, and it had become their home.  His Pa had added a fireplace and dug a well with an inside pump, and together they had built the barn and the corral.  Many people had wandered by in the following months, some as friends, some as enemies.  There had been a wandering and still-wounded Confederate soldier, a famous Union Army general, a crime lord from New Orleans, and even his Pa's best friend, the aging lawman, Micah Torrance.  A lot had happened in their first year in North Fork, and though much of it had been scary, Mark had been happy with his life.

Now, it was all over.  Ended by a villain who sold guns to Apaches so they could murder women and children along the border. Sod Chambers had shot his Pa, stolen their horses, and taken his Pa's rifle.  He had even given Mark to the Apaches to do with as they pleased.

What kind of man was Sod Chambers?  How could a white man be so cruel, so heartless?  How could a man like that turn on his own kind?  If his Pa could have gotten to his rifle, he would have shown Sod Chambers a thing or two!

Unfortunately, his Pa had never had a chance.  Chambers had shot him down with his own rifle, and left him for the coyotes. 

The Apaches had bound Mark's hands before riding out, placing him atop a saddle-less pony behind a young warrior named Coyani.  The white men had given the Apaches army rifles, and they had paid the white men in gold.  Then they had ridden north at a bone-jarring pace, riding well into the night and not stopping until late the next morning.  After a few drinks of water, they had ridden on, seemingly without rest, until they arrived at the Apache camp they were in now.

There were voices now, and Mark looked up to see the leader of the renegade Apaches, Pionsenay, as he conferred with several of the camp Apache.  There was some kind of trouble between them, and Mark felt fear flutter up the back of his spine.

He had heard that Indians burned white people at the stake.  Were they talking about doing that to him?  The thought terrified him, but he reasoned that if they did burn him it might be all right, since he would go to heaven and be with his Pa and Ma again.

Coyani stood beside him as a guard, a Sharp's rifle draped across his forearms, and he, too, watched the exchange between the other Apache with dark eyes.  Pionsenay was talking to a stocky warrior of medium build, a warrior with prominent cheekbones and sad eyes.  After a few moments, both Apaches turned and came toward them.  Mark's eyes were wide with fear, but he knew it no longer mattered what happened to him—without his Pa there was no point going on.  Yet, he could not completely stifle the fear that gnawed at his belly like ice in a winter stream. The stocky warrior with the sad eyes reached down and grabbed him by the hair, yanking his head up to examine his new white captive's face.

The pain of getting his hair pulled made Mark angry.  It hurt, and it was one hurt too many.  Forlorn and suffering, anguished over the murder of his father, the boy lashed out with a boot and caught the stocky warrior squarely in the groin.  The warrior's eyes went wide, and he grunted as he collapsed into the sand.  Many of the Apaches immediately began to laugh, but Pionsenay reacted viciously, slapping Mark across the face and knocking him into the dirt.  He heard Coyani growl something in Apache as Pionsenay drew his knife and stepped forward with a look of utter hatred, and Mark knew his life was at an end.

So be it.  He was ready to die and be with his parents again.  He closed his eyes.

A guttural grunt stopped Pionsenay, and he whirled back to look at the stocky warrior whom Mark had kicked.  The injured Apache was slowly uncurling from the semi-fetal position the blow had caused him to assume.  As the sad-faced Apache got to his knees, he again grunted an order to Pionsenay and held up a hand, indicating that the Pionsenay was to stop and hold still.

The stocky warrior got to his feet in obvious pain, but when he looked at Mark it was not with anger or hatred.  He remained slumped over, catching his breath, but he began to exchange words with Pionsenay, words that made Pionsenay mad.  Pionsenay gestured at Mark with his knife, arguing angrily, but the stocky warrior was firm and seemed to be in a position of authority.  Pionsenay looked again at Mark with a look of liquid hatred, then stormed off in disgust.

The stocky, sad-eyed warrior shuffled closer, looking at him.  In the flicker of light from the fire, Mark could no longer see the Apache's eyes, but as he looked at the Indian he could see the corners of the warrior's mouth crinkle up into a strange, satisfied smile.  The warrior muttered something in Apache to Coyani, then turned and walked away with a mild limping motion.

Mark was beginning to marvel that he had survived when he heard Coyani draw his knife.  He closed his eyes tightly as he waited for the death blow, and there was a sudden yanking and tearing.

But there was…no pain.

He felt his hands come free as the Apache warrior cut the latigo thongs that had been binding them.  He turned to look at Coyani, who nodded at him and re-sheathed his blade.

"W-what was that all about?" Mark said in a dry rasping voice.

Coyani looked at him a moment before replying.

"Taza is man you kick," the warrior explained in surprisingly good English.  "Taza is son of Cochise, leader of Chiricahua.  Pionsenay not like white eyes, even child of white eyes.  He want kill all, even children.  Pionsenay mad you kick Taza; want take your scalp, but Taza stop him.  Taza say you very brave to kick Apache chief son.  Taza tell Pionsenay no kill you.  Make Pionsenay have bad heart for you, and bad heart for Taza."

"But why did Pionsenay listen to him?"

Coyani's face sobered, and his eyes looked troubled in the firelight.

"Pionsenay big warrior, could soon be Chiricahua chief, but Taza is son of Cochise.  Cochise much sick, maybe him die soon.  If Cochise die, Taza is new chief.  Pionsenay go to help Natiza and Juh in Mexico.  Cochise not like Natiza.  Cochise at peace with white eyes.  Pionsenay and Natiza not at peace; they belong Juh's band, not to Cochise.  Pionsenay need Taza; him need place to stay before go to Mexico.  Not want make Taza mad or Taza make Pionsenay leave camp.  Taza want no white eyes killed in Cochise camp.  That bring soldiers.  Taza want feed Pionsenay and send him away.  Taza tell him you belong Chokonen now."

"I…I don't understand," Mark blurted, rubbing his hands where the leather ropes had chafed them.  "Why did you cut me loose?  What's a Ch—ch—Choko…"

"Chokonen," Coyani finished for him.  "This band of Chiricahua, we Chokonen.  We people of Cochise.  Pionsenay also Chokonen, but he follow Natiza now.  Natiza follow Juh, not Cochise.  Natiza and Juh not Chokonen.  They Nednhis, live in Mexico.  Taza say if Pionsenay follow Nednhis, then Pionsenay now belong Nednhis; no more Chokonen.  All Nednhis on warpath with Mexicans.  Chokonen not on warpath .  No white eyes understand.  White eyes say all Apache same.  All Apache not same!  Taza say you belong Chokonen now.  He say you brave, and that Pionsenay give you to him.  That is price for Pionsenay to stay in camp for night.  Pay with life of young white eyes."

Mark was confused, and he sat down on a rock, staring at the tall young warrior.

"But why?" he asked.

Coyani shrugged and sat in the sand beside him.

"Maybe Taza not want more war.  Cochise once fight big war over missing white boy.  Soldiers come and say Cochise steal boy.  Cochise tell them he not steal boy, that Coyoteros steal boy, not Chokonen.  Soldiers say all Apache same.  They try capture Cochise, but Cochise escape, so soldiers capture brother of Cochise.  Cochise then capture white men and try trade for brother.  Soldiers say no, so Cochise kill white men.  Soldiers then hang brother of Cochise.  Big war follow.  Many die, both sides.  Much bad come from war.  Bad for white eyes, bad for soldiers, bad for Chiricahua.  Chiricahua warriors brave, but not many.  Kill many soldiers, but always more soldiers come.  Not enough Chiricahua left, so Cochise make peace.  Want no more war.  Pionsenay kill you, might start war again.  Taza say no.  Too much bad happen if Apache kill white eye boy.  Bad omen.  Curse.  Taza not want war.  Cochise not want war.  Pionsenay want war, but he leave soon.  Go to Mexico to join Nednhis."

"What are you going to do with me?"

            "Not sure," Coyani admitted.  "Taza think you brave.  Maybe you become Apache dikohe."

            "What's a dikohe?" Mark asked incredulously.

            Coyani smirked and got to his feet.

            "White eyes all alike," he sighed.  "Too much talk.  You come.  We eat."

            "That's all right," Mark replied.  "I'm not hungry."

"White eye child no eat two days now.  Not good."  He squatted and leaned closer.  "Father gone now, little one.  That is all.  Apache say best not think too much on past.  Best not think too much on dead.  Better to think on now.  Better to think about belly.  Come now, we eat."

            "I'm not hungry," Mark insisted.

            "Hat'uhga?  Why not hungry?"

"I'm just not, that's all."

"Soon will be," Coyani replied, and he began pushing him toward the fire.

II

APACHE CAMP, DRAGOON MOUNTAINS

To one side, less than eighty yards away, a pair of interested green-blue eyes watched the Apache warrior and the young white boy with an expression of mixed fascination and horror.  Tom Jeffords had been the Indian agent for the Chiricahuas for some time, and he was a very good friend of Cochise.  He had come to the Dragoon Mountains because the old chief was ill with dyspepsia, and he was dying.  Jeffords feared what the old chief's passing might bring.  Indeed, he had spent much time in the last few days trying to keep several of the Apaches from killing each other, and he knew the fear was justified.

Naiche, Cochise's second son, had been involved some kind of argument with a member of the Nednhis band, a certain warrior named Eskinya.  To top that off, Eskinya's hot-headed brother, Pionsenay, had ridden in with several warriors, and all were armed to the teeth.  The rifles they carried were new U.S. Army rifles, and Jeffords was sure he did not want to know where they had acquired them.  The Nednhis were troublemakers, and Jeffords would be glad when they were gone.  There was little love lost between Cochise's Chokonens and Juh's Nednhis, mostly because the Nednhis did not respect Cochise. All the Nednhis wanted to do was fight, to keep the old hatreds alive.  The rivalry between them would some day lead to a fight between the bands, and there was little Jeffords could do about it, but he could try to stave off the conflict as long as possible.  Naiche and Eskinya had become bitter rivals, and Jefford's knew that someday the rivalry would end in bloodshed.  Naiche's older brother Taza, Cochise's eldest son, was more level-headed, but even he had been a bit crazy lately.

Taza, for some reason, believed than an old Apache wizard had placed a curse on his father's life; a curse that was now killing the old chief. Taza had hunted this supposed wizard man down with the intent of burning him at the stake should Cochise die.  Jeffords had managed, after much negotiation and a little outright pleading, to convince Taza to let the old wizard go unharmed.  Still, it was a perfect indication of just how touchy things remained among the superstitious Apaches in Arizona.

Jeffords had just finished informing Cochise of these events, and had stepped from the old warrior's wickiup so that Cochise could call his sons inside to confer.  That was when he had spotted the white boy.

Jeffords dark brows had knitted fiercely over his kindly eyes, and he had stepped quietly back into the brush so that the boy would not see him.  He pulled absently at his white beard as he considered the problem now before him.

A white child in an Apache camp could only mean trouble.  Trouble that neither the Apache nor the Army needed.  That the boy was even in the camp meant that either the Apaches had kidnapped him—God forbid—or he had wandered in on his own.  Jeffords wasn't a betting man, but he felt pretty certain that the latter possibility had about as much of a chance as a snowball in the Sonoran desert.  He was not sure he wanted to know the facts, either, for he was in a touchy spot already, living on a knife's edge between the Apache and the white residents of Arizona.

The boy was trouble, however, that was certain.  If the people of Tucson got wind that the Apache were holding a white boy captive in Cochise's camp, all hell would break loose.  The residents of Tucson were certainly no friends of the Apache.  In almost every instance and on every occasion, the Tucson residents had indicated their unremitting desire to see every Apache exterminated.

It had only been three years since those very residents, under the leadership of one William S. Oury, had massacred over a hundred Western Apaches at Camp Grant.  The fact that the majority of their victims had been women and children had meant little to the civilized people of Tucson, and the event had once again thrown the entire region into turmoil.  The Apache reaction had been quite predictable, and retaliation raids had roared across the desert.  Incense over the brutality of the Camp Grant massacre had been strong in the east, however, prompting President Ulysses S. Grant to appoint a new Indian commissioner to Arizona, Vincent Colyer.

Colyer was a Quaker, and his religion had disposed him to trying to work fairly with the Apache, but his sense of fairness had enraged most Indian-hating Arizonans.  His assignment had halted the offensive campaigns of General Crook, who had, until that point, been very successful in retaliating for the Apache raids.  Colyer's temperate views on how to treat the Apache had been labeled "philanthropic," as well as "naïve" by many Arizonans.  Jeffords had even read one account, written by editor John Marion for the newspaper Arizonan Miner, which had called for citizens to actually revolt against Colyer. Marion had called for citizens to "dump the old devil into the shaft of some mine, and pile rocks upon him until he is dead."

No, there was no love lost between the whites and the Apaches, he reflected sadly.  Jeffords knew of atrocities on both sides of the fence, but he had, like Coyler, always tried to treat the Apache with a sense of fairness. That sense of fair play had won him no friends with the Indian haters in Tucson.  The white and Mexican residents there had been victims of too many Apache brutalities to turn the other cheek any longer.

Jeffords had, under Army general Oliver Otis Howard, been influential in getting Cochise's band of Chokonen to make peace, and despite this success, the region was still in turmoil.  Apaches, mainly Nednhis, were still raiding and burning into Mexico from the reservations in Arizona.  The raids had resulted in a lot of friction between the United States and Mexico. Though Jeffords had publicly denied that Cochise's Chokonen were involved in such raids--had even explained that it was mostly the results of the Nednhis band under Juh--no one believed him.  Ignacio Pesqueira, governor of Sonora, had scoffed openly, and Mexican newspapers had not been any kinder.

"Oh innocent Apaches!" the Mexican newspaper Estrella de Occidente had written in response.  "Oh cruel whites!  Oh, distinguished officials!  Who continues these murders in Sonora with impunity if Cochise tells his people they must behave?"

That was the entire trouble with people on both sides of the border, Jeffords thought bitterly.  They could not distinguish between the major Apache tribal and band divisions, much less understand the complex political machinations within those bands.  Oh, they knew of the major tribal divisions, such as Chiricahua, Mescalero, Tonto and White Mountain, but they consistently misunderstood the political subtleties within the smaller bands that sub-divided these tribes.  In the case of the Chiricahua, Cochise was the overall acknowledged leader and chief, but his direct authority did not necessarily extend over all Chiricahuan sub-bands such as the Bedonkohes, Chihennes, or the Nednhis.  The so-called "civilized" residents of Arizona, however, still believed Cochise held ultimate rule over all Chiricahua, in the same way General Sherman held control over all of the U.S. Army. It simply wasn't true.

There were fifty of sixty Apaches that were raiding into Sonora from the U.S. side of the border, and some of them were Chokonens, but they were renegade Chokonens, mostly young bucks out to prove their manhood.  The real instigators were mainly Nednhis like Eskinya and Pionsenay.

The situation had been growing especially bad for the Chiricahua in general, and lately, for Jeffords in particular.  As the government agent for all Chiricahua, he was technically responsible for the Nednhis, too, even if Cochise held little sway over them, and it appeared they were on the warpath again.  Only a few weeks before, an Army captain named Sumner had reported seeing fifty stripped and painted Apaches in the desert near San Simon. The Army had been busy handling small Apache raids all over Arizona ever since.

Now the Apaches had a white captive among them again.  It was precisely such accusations of white prisoners that had led to the outbreak of war back in 1861, and only last year Jeffords had helped recover a captive Mexican boy named Panteleon Ignacio Rocha from the Apache.  Rocha had been kidnapped in Mexico by some Nednhis under a Bedonkohe warrior named Goyahkla, better known to the whites as Geronimo.  Only the fact that the boy had been a Mexican had prevented the citizens in Tucson from going crazy over that.

With the recent troubles caused by the Mimbrenos under Victorio at Cañada Alamosa, and with Cochise's deteriorating health, the last thing Jeffords wanted was to have word get out that Cochise was holding a white child captive.  The fact that Cochise's Chokonen were not the ones who had taken the boy would be a moot point for most Arizonans.  Apaches were Apaches, and, as General Sheridan had so aptly stated public sentiment, the only good Indian was a dead one.  The mere fact that any Apaches held a white child would be more than enough to start a new war.

Jefford's blue-green eyes softened as he thought of his friend Cochise.  The highly capable old warrior had been suffering greatly of late, and Jeffords knew he probably would die soon.  Lately, Cochise had stayed drunk on tiswin for days at a time in an attempt to alleviate his stomach pain, yet as far as Jeffords could tell, the old chief had admirably stuck to his word to keep the peace.  It was not fair to the old tiger that he had to take the blame for what a bunch of rebellious young bucks had done.  Especially renegades who had failed to take his orders and who, indeed, he had no real authority over to begin with.  Yet in the end, none of that would matter.  Cochise was perceived by both whites and Mexicans as the leader of all Chiricahua. That view included the renegades.  That was all that would matter in the end.

Jeffords did not want to hand the sick old chief a war as he lay dying.  In truth, Cochise was probably unaware the boy was even in the camp.  He probably had no idea that Pionsenay's warriors had arrived, for that matter.  He had been drunk too much lately to know much of anything.

The best thing that Jeffords could do was to find a way to whisk the boy out of camp and back to his people quietly.  He had to do it without the residents of Tucson or the Army at Fort Bowie ever finding out he had been taken.  Oh, the story would eventually come out, but hopefully by that point the situation would have calmed down.  By the time anyone found out, Jeffords hoped it would be old news and hardly worth mentioning, especially if the boy was already safely back with his folks.

The trouble was, there were few white men Jeffords could turn to for help. General Crook would not see him, hated him in fact, and even working cowboys called him an Indian lover.  Few white men had any desire to help Jeffords, much less the Apache.  Yet, there were still a few rugged individuals in southern Arizona who were not afraid of public opinion, men who did what was right and who treated everyone fairly, Apache or not, regardless of what other people thought.  He had need of such a man now.

Jeffords' smile broadened as he scratched his white beard.  There was one individual he might be able to turn to; a man of some influence, who strove hard to live in peace with the Apache, the whites, and the Mexicans.  He was a man whose values as an individual were a strength and not a weakness.

Jeffords backed away slowly, careful not to be seen by the white boy.  The situation would have to be handled discreetly and quickly.  It was best not to hang around waiting when the fuse was smoldering on a powder keg, and this was definitely a powder keg waiting to explode.

Jeffords found his mare where he had tied her to a juniper bush. Hooking a boot in the stirrup, he flopped into the saddle and rode away quietly.  It was time to go see the one man who could help him.

III

 LITTLE RINCON MOUNTAINS, ARIZONA, 6 JUNE 1874

Lucas McCain walked until the sun began to rise on his left, desperately seeking the trail of his son's kidnappers.  He was feeling queasy as the sky's gray began to blue, yet he stumbled on, putting one foot ahead of the other, as he tromped through the sand and the cacti.

By the time the sun peeked over the mountains to the east, Lucas was feeling sick.  He knew the head wound was bothering him, and he needed water.  The desert sun would kill him if he continued to walk, and he needed a place to rest.  A place with water, hopefully.  The thought of Mark, screaming and terrified, continued to drive him on with sheer determination.

At some point, the sun got the best of him.  Lucas was not exactly sure when, but he suddenly awoke to find he had passed out and fallen.  He had no idea how long he lay out in the sun, but he estimated it to be about ten o'clock in the morning when he came to, and it was very hot.  

Huge drops of sweat were forming up and dropping from his face, and his shirt was stained with perspiration.  Lucas found the knife and picked it up, then sat miserably in the sand in the hot sun.  He was exhausted, sick, and hot, and he knew he had to find shade soon or die.  His stomach felt so nauseated, however, that he could not find the strength to stand up.  A heaving ball of pain knotted his belly just beneath his ribs, and he wanted to throw up, but could not.

Most likely complications from the head wound, he told himself.  The lack of water was certainly not helping, and he silently cursed the sweat that formed and rolled off his body; precious moisture he could ill afford to lose, especially at a time like this.

Mustering his strength, Lucas forced himself to stand, and was surprised as the world teetered crazily.  He was dizzy now, as well as sick, and that was a very bad sign.  Squinting, he looked around and found a pile of boulders that provided some shade.  Maybe there he could catch his breath.  Struggling, he started toward them, and somewhere in the process he passed out again.

He awoke in the afternoon, with only his legs in the sun, for his head had fallen close enough to the rocks that they shaded him.  Pulling himself up on his hands and knees, he gagged, for his tongue felt like a dry stick in his throat.

Lucas crawled into the shade and collapsed again, wanting to sleep, but he knew he needed moisture to live, and that the very dryness of the desert was killing him.  If he did not do something to find water, he would die.  He had to find water before he was past caring.

He spotted a barrel cactus and crawled to it.  It took tremendous amounts of his energy to saw through the tough hide to get at the pulp, and the spines lacerated his hands, but Lucas dug the pulp out of the cactus and put it into his mouth.  It was bitter, but very wet, and that was all that mattered.

Feeling a little better, he moved farther into the rocks.  He spotted an arroyo before him that tumbled down into it a short distance, and then tried to climb atop some  boulders to see what was around on the other side.  Moving up the slope of rocks, a wicked buzzing suddenly caught his attention.  Lucas himself face-to-face with an unhappy rattlesnake, who had coiled up defensively and was rattling, its yellow eyes cold as it flicked its black tongue in and out not three feet from his face.

Jumping away, Lucas stumbled, then tumbled down the short arroyo into the rocks at the bottom.  He passed out again, and awoke a short time later, feeling dampness on his fingers.

Bringing his fingers to his mouth, Lucas he realized they were wet, and rolled over, opening his eyes.  The knife had fallen down with him.  It lay before him on a table of rock, and in front of the knife, where his hand had been resting only a moment before, was a shallow depression.  Water bubbled up slowly from an underground spring and pooled in the depression.  It was not much, only a centimeter or so of water in a pool about ten inches in diameter, but it was enough to save the life of a man lost in the desert.

Lucas pulled himself to the pool and drank, and soon the water was gone.  Almost immediately, he retched and threw up, turning away to empty the contents of his stomach into the desert.  For a short time, his body was hammered with dry heaves, but eventually he could roll over and breathe normally again.  When he looked back, the pool had refilled slightly, so he washed his mouth out with a handful of water and drank the rest.

He no longer felt sick, but he was still very weak and needed sleep.  Lucas picked up the knife and crawled in among the rocks, as tired as he could ever remember feeling.  He fell asleep then, and when he awoke there were the first stars in the purple of the twilight overhead, and the pool had refilled once again.  Crawling toward it in the fading light, he startled a roadrunner that had come to drink.  It flitted away into the rocks, running away in a smooth, almost unreal motion.

Lucas drank again until he was full and only a trickle of water remained in the depression. As he sat back, a horned toad came out from some rocks and stared at him, twisting its head with small jerks as it watched the intruder that was stealing from its water hole.

"You can have some, boy," Lucas said softly, and his voice hoarse from lack of use.  Holding the knife, he crawled back into the rocks and slept some more.

Overhead, a bat flitted against the twilight and moved on, seeking its prey.

IV

ARROYO CIENAGA, HIGH CHAPARRAL EASTERN RANGE

Buck Cannon reigned his horse to a stop amid a cloud of dust and wiped his face with a yellow bandanna as he waited for Manolito to catch up.  It was early in the afternoon and already it was hot for this early in the summer.

Tombstone's not all that far away, he told himself longingly, squinting as he gazed northeastward into the hazy blue distance.  No more than thirty miles or so.  Perhaps Mano and I could take a little side trip into town for the evening and tie one on.  A little rip-roaring fun, a little whiskey and some women-folk in the local cantinas, and…

He grimaced as the thought formed.  No, he and Manolito would not be going into town tonight.  He was not even going to suggest it.  Big brother John had laid it on way too thick for that.  Not this time.  Calling him a greenhorn kid, that had rankled.  Irresponsible Buck, that's what John had said.  That was all John ever seemed to think of him these days.

It had always seemed that way.  Big John, always trying to bully him with his righteous moral authority, always preaching about right and wrong like some Sunday preacher.  Always talking about duty, and responsibility; always harping on about a greater vision and such-like.  Big John, who always had to act so grown up, just as he had tried to do when they were children back in Virginia.

In those days, Buck had followed his older brother just about everywhere, much to John's annoyance.  They had shared the normal activities of brothers common to Old Dominion in those days, working the fields for their father, hunting and fishing in the woods and streams of the Shenandoah.  In those days, it had been enough for Buck just to tag along, to be with Big John.  It had been enough just to be in John's shadow.

As they had grown older, however, things had changed a mite.  John had started taking an interest in education, business and politics, while Buck had taken a greater interest in how to run the farm, and in the twin sisters who lived down the road.  The day had finally come when they had a disagreement, an argument over the John Brown affair, and it had sent them in opposite directions.  With the first shots at Fort Sumter, John had reluctantly ridden off to join the Union, all fired up about the moral rightness of the Union's cause, and Buck had been stunned at John's action.  Buck had felt betrayed that his brother would willingly abandon his family responsibilities and ride away to side with the damned Yankees.  That had been at a time when even Robert E. Lee himself had turned down command of the Union Army to defend his native Virginia.  Buck had not understood John's actions.  John had joined the enemy.  That had hurt him deeply, for he had never wanted to be ashamed of Big John, and he had been ashamed that John had become a Yankee that year.

John's argument at the time had been that the South's pro-slavery position was morally indefensible.  Buck had never been exactly pro-slavery himself, and the Cannons had never owned any slaves of their own, and the few slaves he did know had not been mistreated.  Prisoners, certainly, but never beaten.  At least, not as far as Buck knew.  Not that some slave owners didn't abuse slaves, but Buck hadn't known any personally.

In fact, life in the South had been downright good until those meddling Yankees had decided to come down and tell the southern states how things were supposed to be.  That was what the fight had been about for Buck, not slavery.  He hadn't cared one whit about preserving slavery, but in freedom from Yankee tyranny.  He had hated the idea of a bunch of city folks living in the north of the country deciding that they and they alone had the right to tell the Southern country folk how to act.  Most Yankees had never even been to a southern state.  They had no idea of how genteel Southern culture was; they'd had no knowledge about the way of life they had set out to abolish.  It had been the whole idea of being pushed around by a bunch of people from somewhere else—of being bullied, in fact—that was what had finally gotten Buck to join the Confederate Army.

He had never liked being pushed; not by anybody.  Especially by a bunch of self-proclaimed, morally-superior Yankees from New York and Boston.  The result had been that shortly after John had ridden off to join those enemies, Buck had decided to join Virginia's troops in the glorious cause of the Confederacy.

That fateful decision had put them on opposite sides of the fence in a brutal war that had decimated families on both sides of the Mason-Dixon Line.  It had been five murderous and bloody years of death and pain; a time of suffering, and dying. So much of it had been for senseless reasons, too.  Battles fought for no real objectives, other than merely to strike back, or perhaps to seek glory for some pompous general.  Gentlemen generals who committed me to die on a whim; as if they could win a place in heaven through war.  It had been pure hell, and after the war was over, he and John had eventually reunited.  Buck still adored his big brother, even if he had fought for the Yankees, but many things had changed between them during the war.

If anything, the war had made John harder than before.  He had rarely laughed in those first few months after the war, once telling Buck that after the fight at Gettysburg he saw no point in ever laughing again.  His only solace had been his wife, Anna Lee, that prim little Southern belle who had married him before the war. Yet, even for her, John had not been able let down the emotional walls he had built during the war.  Though Buck knew John loved her, John had never found a way to openly express his true feelings again.  The war had chased them behind a solid wall of work and responsibility.

He had once heard John say that he had let men down in the war, and that some of them had died for it.  He had explained that because of that, he would always bear the burden of their deaths.  John believed it had been his lack of leadership and his refusal to accept responsibility that had gotten them killed.  As a result, he had closed even Anna Lee out as he sought to come to terms with his inner demons.  The war had turned him from an overly-serious, righteous young man into a walking chunk of granite; a man who now seemed to see apology as a weakness, and compromise as a defeat.

Buck, too, had been changed by the war.  What sane person could not have been affected by the senseless brutality and horror that had been the American Civil War? All those years of walking, riding, and starving, of living in the rain and the snow, often without food or clothing, all for the mere reward of killing a few more Yankees.  The glory of the Cause had worn off after the first battle.  After that, it had merely been years of watching the cream of a country's youth murder each other.  All over ideals that were beyond reality for most of them.  That and trying not to be killed himself.  His biggest fear had been the chance of meeting John on the battlefield, and of being forced to choose between love for his brother and his duty as a soldier.

Those had been years of his giving everything he had for Virginia, for Robert E. Lee and Stonewall Jackson.  He had given every effort to them, only to have his dreams of glory collapse in the end, just as it had for every other man in that long, forlorn line of butternut gray.

They had lost in the end, and Buck had been bitter.  He had seen too much, suffered too much, to ever again be the same carefree and innocent lad who had joined the Confederacy with dreams of glory.  To have worked as hard as a man could work, to have given everything he had, and still to have failed, was bitter beyond his ability to accept.

How many good boys had died for nothing?  That had left a rage burning in his heart, his soul on fire with the bitter futility and stupidity of the whole war.  How many friends had he lost to Yankee bullets and bayonets?  How many good boys had expired under the uncaring grape and canister?  How many good Union boys had he shot in the name of the Cause, their deaths on his hands in a useless cause?  He had been turned by the war into a killer, and the Cause had been for naught.  Even now, that thought soured his belly if he took time to ponder on it.

He remembered all of those trails where he had loped behind Stonewall Jackson, rushing to meet the enemy with bold urgency, only to have it all collapse, like the memory of a soap bubble on the wind, at Appomattox.

He had left the war a loser.  The Confederacy had collapsed and died.  The Cannon farm had been a victim as well, burned by Sheridan's Union troops as they raged through the Shenandoah to destroy Bobby Lee's commissary.  He remembered all of those miles he had walked home from the war, wounded and barefoot, with what survivors remained of the 5^th Virginia Infantry.  All of those lonely and bitter miles, he had put one poor foot ahead of the other, knowing each step of the way that he had lost the most important fight of his life, if not the century.  Even worse, he knew he had let everyone who mattered down. The young and old of the South, the home folks who had depended on him to win; he had let them down all right.  He had lost the War for them all.

A loser, through and through, and no way to deny it.

That was Buck Cannon, yessiree.  The loser.

Yes, he had been bitter, but he had also felt that he had finally come of age.  He had been fair as a child, but had returned from the war as tanned and as gaunt as an old piece of shoe leather, wearing that faraway stare that only veterans of combat shared.  He might have joined the war as John Cannon's kid brother, but he had come home, even in defeat, as his own man.

John had come home different, too.  In many ways, things had changed between them during the war, but in other ways, many had remained the same.  Buck had seen enough of war and the killing that he had been driven to try to enjoy every moment of life as a precious thing, one that could be snuffed out in an instant.  That realization had made his need for laughter and enjoyment a frantic obsession at times.  He had done his best to try to party and laugh the bitter memories of the war out of his system, to forget his status as a loser of the Confederacy. Most of all, he had tried to forget his longing for a childhood in the Old South that no longer existed, destroyed by his inability to win the war.

John, on the other hand, had merely grown tougher and more resolute than ever before; ever more sure that his way was the only way. John had taken a stance that the best way to control his environment was simply to bully right ahead and overpower it.  John had been a winner, for John had been a Yankee, and there was no debating him on that.

It had been bad enough to be chewed out and chastised by his brother when he was a kid, but it was even worse now to have to endure it as a grown man.  He had already earned his right to be treated as an equal.  He had earned it many times in the bloody fields of Virginia, in the storm of leaden mini-balls and artillery, in the years of deprivation and sacrifice as a soldier.  He had earned it again by following his brother all over the west as he searched for a new home, and fought to carve one out of the desert.

Yet, John still treated him like a kid.  He had become so hard in the war that his treatment of everyone in general was often brutal. When John had started to turn that same hardness against his own young son, Buck had rebelled.  He had not been able to stand it when John picked on Blue Boy, but stopping that abuse had also given Buck a place to be; a space where he finally felt he belonged.  In his efforts as a go-between for his young nephew and the hard-nosed brother, Buck had discovered the one place he was  actually needed.

Buck understood Billy Blue's kind and sensitive nature, and he also understood Big John's desire to prepare the boy for life in a harsh land like Arizona.  In that, Buck had finally found a reason to stay home and quit drifting.  He could explain Blue Boy's needs to John far better than the boy himself could, and he could also interpret John's toughness to the boy in a way that was more loving than John ever cared to show.  He knew them both, knew they loved each other fiercely, but as often happened between stubborn people, and especially between father and son, neither could show it.  Even so, he and Blue had fallen into a similar pattern, both of them constantly seeking Big John's approval, and neither one of them ever getting it.

Just like now.

Sitting on his horse in the hot dust of Huachuca, looking for lost bulls running around in the brush.  He may have ridden out from the High Chaparral in hot anger, but he'd had plenty of time to cool off since, and he wasn't too pleased at what he had gotten himself and Manolito into.  Now, only a cool fire burned in his breast, one determined to show Big John that he was just as responsible as any other Chaparral hand.

You still be trying to win John's approval, he chastised himself irritably.  Even out here in the desert, you still be wantin' him to tell you you done a good job.

Big John could make a man feel so low with his expressions of disapproval that a man would do almost anything to get back in good graces.  The worst of it was, Buck knew what was happening, and yet he still could not find a way not to need John's approval.

Tombstone and Bisbee were not too far away, and Buck looked to the east in their direction, a certain longing in him trying to respond to the beckon of their siren's call.  No, he would not go.  Not this night, anyway.  First he and Mano would have to get the job done, just to shut Big John up.  When that was done, then they could go and get a drink with satisfaction, and in Tucson, not Tombstone.

A swirling cloud of dust made Buck grimace as Manolito rode up, his short black sombrero hanging behind his back from the chin straps dangling from his neck.  Manolito was sweating, but he held his leather lariat loosely, his eyes scanning the brush for the young bulls they were seeking.

" Amigo, you are all right?" Manolito asked with concern.

"Yeah, I be all right, Mano," Buck replied with a look of irritation.  "Least I was 'fore you covered me with all this dust."

"Sorry," Manolito said.  "I was concerned.  It is not like you to sit so still and think."

"Now, whaddaya mean by that?"

"Nothing," Manolito replied innocently, but Buck felt certain Mano had gotten a dig in there somehow.

"I was just thinkin' about things, Mano.  You find that bull you saw yet?"

Manolito shook his head.

"I have seen several who are young enough, but they are moving deep in the brush.  I have not yet been able to get close enough for a good throw.  It would help if you were attempting to drive them toward me."

"Yeah, I reckon it would," Buck admitted.  He reached down and pulled loose his own lariat from the saddle horn.  He quickly tied a honda into the rope and shook out a loop.  Buck had always preferred a woven grass rope as opposed to the braided rawhide lariat that Manolito used.  Mano preferred the vaquero's leather rope because its weight allowed him to throw longer distances, but Buck preferred to get in close before tossing.

They were attempting to cut out young yearling bulls from the wild herd, spotting them in the brush and then driving them out by enveloping them from either side.  When the bulls chose a direction in which to run, Buck and Mano would fall in behind them and race along on either side of them.  Mano, who could accurately lasso a bull from fifty feet, would put a loop around the bull's head, while Buck would ride up behind the bull for a heel catch.  After lassoing the animal's rear legs, Buck would halt his horse and Mano would advance ahead slowly.  Caught between them by the head and the heel ropes, the bull would topple over onto its side.  A quick set of figure-eight knots on the saddlehorn allowed them to dally the bull, then they would hop down to tie the animal.  After castration, they would then release the animal and let it go.

There were many wild and semi-wild cattle on this section of Chaparral land.  The cattle, living on the sparse bear grass and soapweed between the cacti and cholla could be rambunctious, and it took a lot of time and sweat to successfully castrate a wild "mossyhorn."  It made for a hot, dirty, and tiring job.  The biggest difficulty was in spotting a bull and trying to distinguish it from a steer or a cow; not an easy job in the thick brush.

It was tough work, and it required concentration, but one could not afford to concentrate completely on the task at hand.  The High Chaparral rested in the center of what was Apacheria, and called that for a good reason.  Though Cochise's Apache were officially at peace on the San Carlos reservation, not all Apache bands were in agreement with him.  There were always young bucks sneaking off the reservations in the White mountains or along the Tonto range to loot and kill in an attempt to prove their warrior manhood.  The situation was often exasperating for the elder Apaches, who, despite their agreements, could not seem to prevent their young men from sneaking off to earn glory.  The elder Apaches then had to suffer the resulting consequences.  No, it did not pay to let your guard down while riding in Apache country, for even very young Apaches were skilled at ambush, and being alone, Buck and Manolito were constantly vulnerable.

There was a sudden movement in the brush, and Buck's eyes fastened on it immediately.  He leaned on his pommel and motioned toward the movement with his chin.

"Is that yo' boy, Mano?"

Manolito squinted in the direction Buck indicated, his mouth open in that perpetual grin that he always wore, and nodded without taking his eyes off of the bull.

"Si.  That is him."

"Fine," Buck replied, touching his spurs to the flanks of his horse. "I'll mosey on over heah to the right, an' you can take 'em on the left.  When he bolts, you got the head an' I got the heels."

Manolito spurred his horse away to the opposite side in a gallop, quickly disappearing into the chaparral, as Buck continued moving to the bull's right.  It was hot and quiet in the desert, the kind of day that made any sane person seek the shade.  It was the kind of day in which sound carried better than usual, almost as good as at night.  Buck would have to move carefully to prevent the wild bull from detecting him too early and running outside of the trap.

Buck used his heels to guide his horse through the brush, listening intently.  The horse responded well to the light touches of his spurs, sidestepping through cholla, yucca, and prickly pear as if dancing.  Small Gila woodpeckers darted here and there among the chaparral, their black and white mottled wings flashing, as well as a few Virginian warblers.  Buck smiled at that; he was just like them, a Virginian warbler lost in the chaparral.  He saw the bull move then, and his gloved fingers tightened on his grass lariat in anticipation.           

There was a sudden snort and clatter of hooves, and the chaparral exploded as the bull made its dash.  Buck jabbed his horse with his spurs as the young bull trotted out of the brush toward him, urging his own horse into a gallop.  The bull was in a trotting, trying desperately to escape the stalking Manolito.  Detecting Buck at the last instant, the bull pivoted and went into a run to get away, but Manolito was already upon him from the other side, closing fast, his leather lariat singing in the dusty air above his head.  Confronted with adversaries on either side, the bull should have bolted away in a direction perpendicular to them both, allowing them to fall in trail for the snag.  Instead, the bull suddenly bellowed and made a swing toward Buck's horse, twisting its head as it tried to gore the stallion.  Buck's horse was highly trained, and smoothly danced away from the ripping horns, but then it backed into a thicket of Spanish bayonet.

The sharp spikes of the bayonet plant pricked the horse's backside at the same instant its hooves awakened a western diamondback that had decided to use the spiky plant as protection from the sun.  Stuck in the rear by spines at the same instant that the rattlesnake buzzed its distinctive warning, the horse panicked and jumped forward, then reared.

Caught off-guard, Buck let go of his lariat and made a desperate grab for his saddle horn, his legs tightening even as he felt the horse begin to buck.  At that instant, the cinch on his saddle slipped and the entire rig shifted.  Buck kicked his legs free to prevent getting a foot caught in a stirrup, for such would surely lead to a death by dragging.  The next second, he was in the air and landed with a bone-jarring thump in an aloe vera patch.

The semi-rigid agave was squishy enough to break his fall, and fortunately, he landed some distance from the rattlesnake, but Buck felt like a fool as he rolled over into a sitting position.  His back was wet with the sticky green sap of the aloe plants.  Buck's eyes snapped automatically to the clump of Spanish bayonet, but the snake was already crawling away, evidently seeking someplace a little more quiet in which to rest.

Manolito had not paused, however, even as Buck fell from his horse.  Instead, as he rode his horse at a full gallop, Manolito merely twisted in the saddle to see if Buck was all right.  His intent had been to lasso the bull's head, but without Buck's assistance, he would have to bust the bull, ridding away at a sharp angle so that his rope would twist the bull's head around to the right. That done, Mano would loop the rope on the bull's right side and then ride away at a forty-five degree angle to the left, allowing the length of rope to lift the bull's rear feet.  It was an old technique, usually reserved for stopping herd-quitters, but it would result in a violent corkscrewing somersault for the bull.  Manolito had to be deft enough to "bust" the bull and throw it without breaking its neck, no mean feat in the thick brush.  Then he would have to dismount quickly enough to tie the bull before it could recover.

Buck's falling had distracted him, however, and as he twisted in his saddle to look behind him, he forgot to continue to look where he was going.  Just as Manolito grinned in realization that Buck was okay, the long, out-hanging "arm" of a tall saguaro caught him across the torso.  Buck winced as the loud popping and crack of the impact came back to him, and then Manolito tumbled from the saddle amid a cloud of dust and falling saguaro pieces.

There were several seconds of stillness as Manolito's horse galloped off in the distance.  Dust drifted past Mano's inert form and Buck struggled to his feet in alarm.

"Mano!  Mano, you all right?"

The cloud of dust dissipated and Manolito's calm voice came back to him from it.

"Yes, I am fine.  But my pride, I think it is hurt."

Manolito sat up with a look of disgust, even as his cheeks dimpled with a sheepish grin.  His clothing had protected him from most of the cactus spines, but he was filthy, covered in dust.  Buck looked no better.  Dust clung to him in patches where it stuck to the aloe vera sap.

Buck started to laugh.

"Boy, howdy, Mano, I think that be the hardest I ever seen you hit the dirt before."

"Look who is talking," Manolito shot back good-naturedly, picking up his hat and dusting his pants.  "I was knocked from my horse.  Should I not remind you that you simply fell off of yours."

Buck was laughing hard enough that his eyes were watering.

"My cinch slipped, Mano.  I reckon I didn't tighten it enough afore ridin' out of camp this morning."

"And the bull…he is away free," Manolito replied, beginning to laugh himself, swinging his hat to encompass the horizon.  "Still free to roam the countryside like a king, terrorizing all the ladies.  I am envious."

That comment made Buck laugh even harder, and he bent forward to rest his hands on his knees as he cackled, trying to catch his breath.  "Some cowboys we are," he guffawed, slapping his leg.  "Fallin' off'n our broncs chasing one poor little ol' bull!"

Manolito began to laugh, too, but his face suddenly sobered and his eyes widened.

"Buck," he said softly.

Buck pulled up a sleeve to wipe his eyes.  His mental picture of the whole scene still had him laughing.  "I tell you, Mano, I'm sure glad Sam and the boys didn't see that little shenanigan.  We'd never be able to live that one down, not fo' a long time!"

"Bull," Manolito replied.

Buck quit laughing and stared at Manolito in irritation.

"Whaddaya mean 'bull'?  It be the honest truth!" he demanded, but he went quiet when he saw Manolito's face.  Manolito's cheeks were dimpled, as always, but he was no longer grinning, and his eyes were focused with concern on something that was behind Buck.

 That got Buck's attention, and his eyes snapped down to his gun.  The rawhide thong was still over the hammer, so there was no point in trying to draw fast.  He was not exactly sure what Mano was looking at, but it was obvious that whatever it was, it scared him, for Manolito had raised his hands as if surrendering. He was in a half-squat, and looked to be trying to decide whether it was best to surrender or flee.

That probably means the A-patch done got the drop on us, Buck told himself, fighting the urge to turn around and look.  He had an overwhelming impulse to grab for his gun and turn to shoot, letting the cards fall where they would, but if there was an Apache behind him, that foolish move would probably result in his immediate death.  He could not get the Colt out quickly enough with the hammer thong in place, and likely the Apaches had him covered with several weapons already.

Manolito began slowly backing away, and that made Buck's face screw up in confusion.  If there was an Apache that had the drop on them, why would Mano be trying to back away?  No self-respecting Chiricahua would simply let his prisoners walk off.  Slowly, Buck turned his head to see what danger lay behind him.

The bull was a huge Texas longhorn, and it was angry.  It was the biggest longhorn Buck had ever seen, and it was not a young one.  The horns were as wide as a man was tall, and there was a good ten inches between the bull's two eyes.  Its massive horn tips were scarred with age and from life in harsh terrain, and its beady hot eyes were centered right on Buck.  The bull snorted and pawed sand.

"BULL!" Buck yelled, and he started running.

The longhorn saw movement and charged.  Buck ran with all of his might, but two human legs were no match for four bovine ones, and he felt the beast closing, its hot breath rasping just behind him, as the bull lowered its head for the strike.

Manolito took that instant to decoy the longhorn, running between Buck's back and the bull's head at a right angle.  The sudden movement did what Manolito had hoped, and the bull slowed to change direction as it picked Manolito as its new target.

Manolito leaped over a yucca plant and ran behind the saguaro that had earlier knocked him from his horse.  The bull tried to follow him around the trunk of the saguaro, hooking with its horns, then rushed around the plant and thrust into Manolito.  Manolito grabbed the bull, catching its horns in his hands, and tried to dig his boots in, but the bull pushed him relentlessly backwards, his boots digging long furrows in the dirt.  Manolito needed Buck's help now.

"Hey!" Buck yelled, and he pulled off his yellow bandanna and waved it to get the bull's attention.  "Hey, you ornery old piece of razor strap!  Heah ah am!  Come an' get me!"

The bull flicked its head once, the motion tossing Manolito backwards into the chaparral as if he were a rag doll, then turned to face Buck.  Now that he had its undivided attention, Buck was not very sure he wanted it.

The huge bull blew, its muscles rippling beneath its glossy skin as it tossed its head and snorted in warning.  Plumes of dust spouted from its nostrils, and then it came on like a rushing locomotive.

Buck took a few shuffling steps and before realizing how deceptively fast the longhorn really was.  He angled away to the right in a dead run, forcing the animal to slow to turn after him, and the bull pivoted, hooves flinging dirt. Then it was on him very quickly.

The only available safety was another tall saguaro, and Buck Cannon leaped for all he was worth, wrapping his legs and arms around the wide serrated edge of the huge cactus. He grunted in pain as the longhorn rushed past with a clatter of hooves on rock.  It paused at the crest of a small ridge to snort once more in defiance, lord of its realm.  Satisfied that it had vanquished the intruders of its domain, the huge bull turned and trotted majestically away into the brush.

Manolito scrambled up from where the bull had thrown him into the manzanita.  He paused a moment, making sure the bull was gone, then placed his hands on his hips and stared at Buck, who was still hugging the saguaro for dear life.

"Buck, the bull…he is gone?"

"Ah think so," Buck's muffled voice floated back towards him, garbled because he still had his cheek was pressed against the skin of the cactus.  Manolito chuckled, and dusted his pants with his sombrero.

"That was a close one, amigo."

"Yo' tellin' me," Buck replied.  "We come out heah to castrate a bull, but ah believe we was the ones what got cut deepest."

Manolito laughed and replaced his hat on his head.

"I think it is time to take a break and to find our horses."

"Yep," Buck agreed, but he made no effort to climb down from the saguaro.

"You look as though you are attempting not to come down, my friend."

"Ah ain't."

"Well, are you going to hang around up there all day, or come down and help me find the horses?"

"I was speculatin' on staying up heah," Buck replied casually.

"You may come down now, Buck.  The bull is gone."

"Ah cain't."

"What?"

"Ah cain't come down, Mano."

Manolito's face dimpled again as he attempted to stifle a grin.  He pushed his hat back on his head and sauntered to the base of the saguaro.

"And why, may I ask, not?"

"Ah'm stuck."

"Stuck?"

"Ah'm stuck up heah on this cactus, your straw-footed knucklehead!" Buck yelled, suddenly angry.  "I got spines stickin' in my arms and legs!  Now help me get down!  It hurts."

Manolito began to laugh, harder than he had laughed in weeks.  Oh, how Buck Cannon would pay for this back at the High Chaparral!   It would be a great story, told over campfires and suppers for many years!  It was, Manolito reflected happily, always an adventure to ride with Buck Cannon.

Still chuckling, he stepped forward and reached up to pull Buck from the cactus by the back of his gunbelt.  Buck hit the ground with a thud.

"Oh…my," Buck said miserably, and then Manolito was giggling so hard that he had to sit in the sand beside his friend, laughing until the tears streamed from his eyes.

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