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  "I was wondering who would be riding with Apaches. I guess I shouldn't be surprised to find it's you, sir. After all, from what I've been told, you've made it a habit to take the Indian side in things."

  "Not taking anybody's side. But these two broke the law and threatened the peace, so the way I see it, their punishment is your responsibility."

  "Thank you for pointing out my duty to me, Mr. Barlow."

  Barlow glanced grimly at Short Britches. To find Major Trotter replaced—especially by this man—was a stroke of bad luck. Having served with Trotter, Barlow knew him as an honest, forthright officer with a by-the-book approach to his job and precious little ego to contend with. Trotter would have been happy to render justice unto the scalphunters. Barlow wasn't sure the same could be said for Major Cronin.

  The major turned to Lieutenant Symond. "Take those two into custody, Lieutenant," he said, without enthusiasm.

  "Yes, sir!" Symonds looked around at the troopers who had gathered to watch the proceedings, and called out two names. These men stepped forward, and took charge of Coughlin and the Mexican. The former turned in his saddle for one last glower in Barlow's direction.

  "We'll meet again," he snarled.

  "I doubt it," said Barlow.

  "Lock them in the guardhouse," Symonds told the troopers, "and then notify the surgeon that one of them is wounded."

  "Is there anything else I can do for you today?" Cronin asked Barlow.

  "That about does it." Barlow turned to Valerio, spoke to him briefly in Apache.

  Valerio gave a curt nod, and barked an order to his bronchos. They turned their ponies and rode away to the north. Barlow spared Fort Union one last look. It had been his post once, and he thought about the acquaintances he had made here. Most of them were dead now. He was eager to put the place—and all the memories it held—behind him. So he nodded to Cronin and kicked his horse into motion. Short Britches followed. Cronin watched them go. When he turned to enter the fort, he was annoyed to find the congregation of troopers blocking his path.

  "Lieutenant Symonds, find these men something to do. Sergeant Yard?"

  "Yes, sir."

  Cronin pointed at the scalp pouch. "Bring that along."

  "Yes, sir."

  Yard picked up the pouch and fell in behind the major, who started across the parade ground, making for the headquarters building. When they reached the porch, Cronin stopped, turned, and looked at the pouch.

  "Don't bring that in here," he said.

  "No, sir. What, um, does the major want me to do with it?"

  Cronin had already made up his mind. "After nightfall, Sergeant, you will ride an hour in any direction you choose, and then bury that pouch. After which you will forget you ever saw it. Is that clear?"

  Yard was perplexed; he had no idea what the major was doing, but he did know that it wasn't his place to understand. "Yes, sir," he said.

  "Good." Cronin took another look around the stockade, an expression of disgust on his face, shook his head, and went inside.

  Chapter 6

  Coughlin spent a week in the Fort Union brig with the Mexican. Thanks to the ministrations of the outpost's surgeon—less than gentle but thorough treatment—he recovered from a slight infection and an accompanying high fever. He wondered why they were bothering to fix him up, since he fully expected to be hanged or shot for his offenses. So when, on the morning of his eighth day of captivity, a lieutenant arrived to inform him that the commanding officer wished to see him, he assumed he was about to be officially informed of the charges that faced him and the fate that lay in store for him. Shackled hand and foot, he was marched across the parade ground in sunlight that was blinding to a man who'd just spent a week in the suffocating dark of the guardhouse.

  When he was ushered into Cronin's office, the major was busy at his desk with dispatches. The lieutenant put Coughlin in a chair facing the desk, then stood at attention behind the chair until the major glanced up.

  "Wait outside, Lieutenant."

  The lieutenant withdrew and Cronin turned his attention back to the papers on the desk for a moment. Coughlin thought that was pretty cold-blooded, since he was waiting to be condemned. He noticed a pistol on the desk, and for a second or two thought about going for it; he was going to die anyway, so what did it matter if he killed one more son of a bitch?

  "I wouldn't do it, if I were you," said Cronin, without looking up.

  Coughlin sat very still, surprised. Leaning back in his chair, Cronin laced his fingers together and stared at the prisoner with hooded eyes.

  "The surgeon tells me you're going to recover from your wound. I had decided to keep you in the brig until I was sure you would survive."

  "Afraid I'd cheat the hangman?" sneered Coughlin.

  "Not that it mattered much to me. The thing is, I have no intention of putting you on trial. I'm going to release you and your associate."

  "What?" Coughlin sat forward, certain that he hadn't heard right.

  "There are, of course, a couple of conditions. . . ."

  "You're lettin' me go?"

  "Are you hard of hearing or just slow?"

  Coughlin scowled. "Take these irons off me and then say that, you goddamned Yankee."

  Cronin was unruffled. "I learned a very valuable lesson on the battlefield: to adapt to constantly changing circumstances and to turn them, whenever possible, to my advantage." He glanced at Coughlin's butternut gray tunic. "I had hoped you learned that lesson too."

  "Just get to the point," said Coughlin. "Why aren't you gonna hang me?"

  "Because you're of more use to me alive."

  "How am I of use to you?"

  "You kill Apaches for money. If those Coyoteros had, in turn, killed you, my purpose would have been served. Unfortunately, Barlow interfered. His mistake is that he assumed I want to prevent a war. The contrary is true. So I'm going to let you go about your business. Whether you kill more Apaches, or they kill you, is no concern of mine."

  Coughlin was beginning to understand. "You think you're smart, don't you? You think you're better than me too. But you're not. Yeah, I kill for money. But you kill for glory. It's just sport to you."

  "Don't try to antagonize me. I could change my mind." Cronin opened a desk drawer. Then he stood, picked up the pistol, and stuck it in his belt before circling the desk to stand over Coughlin. Opening his hand, he revealed a skeleton key. Coughlin figured it fit the shackles he wore. "So what do you say?" asked the major. "Do you want to live a while longer or not?"

  "Cut me loose."

  Cronin unlocked the shackles. When he was done, he called out for Sergeant Yard, who entered the office immediately. Coughlin turned in the chair, and saw that the Mexican was standing, still shackled, in the wide hallway behind the noncom, guarded by two troopers. Cronin tossed the key to the sergeant, who freed the Mexican.

  "Sergeant Yard will escort you to the gate," Cronin told the scalphunters. "I will not provide you with cavalry horses. But there's a town, of sorts, not far to the east of this post. Maybe you'll find what you need there."

  "What about guns?" asked Coughlin.

  "Fend for yourself."

  "And the scalps that bastard Barlow took from me. What about them?"

  "Gone," said Cronin. "Go collect some more."

  Coughlin snorted. "No guns, no horses. You might as well sign our death warrants."

  Cronin shrugged. "As I said, whether you live or die doesn't matter, not in the grander scheme of things."

  Coughlin had the urge to tell Cronin what he could do with his grander scheme, but decided not to waste his breath. With one last baleful glare at the major, he walked out of the office, rubbing his wrists. Yard hesitated, looking to Cronin for confirmation—and received it in the form of a curt nod. Then he too left the room, closing the door softly. Satisfied with himself, Cronin sat down behind his desk and gazed at the territorial map, this time with a hopeful expression on his face. Mexico and Maximilian could wait just a while longer
.

  Somebody with a droll sense of humor had named the town Paradise Gulch, but it was certainly no paradise, and not really much of a town. It had sprung up out of the sand and rock and cactus not long after Fort Union was established—a tent town populated by individuals who tried to make a living by catering to the needs, whims, and desires of the soldiers posted at the fort. That meant Paradise Gulch had a good many card sharps, whiskey peddlers, cutthroats, and ladies of easy virtue. A soldier might think of it as paradise because he could get cheap liquor or a cheap woman there. But inevitably his opinion about the place would change—as soon as he'd been cheated out of his pay, or rolled by hardcases in an alley, or found himself afflicted by a disease acquired as a consequence of intimacy with one of the town's "soiled doves." Eventually, Paradise Gulch would become a ghost town. It's denizens would move on to greener pastures. There were no ''respectable" citizens who wanted to make the town a permanent feature of the territorial landscape. And that meant there wasn't any law, which suited Coughlin just fine.

  During the long hike from the fort to Paradise Gulch, the scalphunter gave serious thought to the means by which he would acquire guns and horses for himself and the Mexican. He had no money to pay for these things. This left him with only two options, as far as he could tell: He could try to steal what he needed, or attempt to talk someone into giving it to him. The latter hardly seemed realistic. So when he arrived at the outskirts of the town, he'd made up his mind; he and the Mexican made their way to a livery at the north edge of the town. They went over a wall and through the back door of the adobe-and-timber stables. Once inside, Coughlin cast about for something to use as a weapon, in case anyone tried to stop them. But before he could find anything, the all too familiar sound of a hammer being cocked reached his ears. Resigned, the scalphunter just shook his head. He was having a hellacious string of bad luck.

  A man emerged from the shadows of a stall up near the front of the stables. He was a paunchy, balding man with a double-barreled ten-gauge shotgun braced against a shoulder and aimed at the pair of interlopers.

  "You boys are up to no good," he said. "I can smell it. Make any sudden moves and I'll kill you where you stand. Don't think I won't. Got a barrel full of buckshot for each of ya." He squinted at the Mexican. "Seen you comin'. Thought at first you was deserters. Get some of them kind through here now and again. But you"—he pointed with his chin at the Mexican—"you ain't no deserter. Never seen a bluebelly greaser."

  "We're not deserters," growled Coughlin.

  The man spat a stream of tobacco juice. "Then what the hell are you?"

  "We're scalphunters. The army was holding us as prisoners for a spell. Then we were cut loose."

  "Really." The man sounded skeptical. "Guess they was just overcome by your charm and good looks, eh?"

  "Why don't you go to hell?"

  "I'm there already, or haven't you noticed? I'm thinkin' you're here to steal some horses, am I right?"

  "You're right," said Coughlin, too disgusted to play the man's games. "So what do you aim to do about it?"

  The man lowered the shotgun a bit. "Well, I can't bring myself to shoot men who do the territory a favor by killin' Apaches. You ain't got no money at all?"

  "None. Nor scalps, either. The army confiscated what we had."

  "But they let you go." It didn't make any sense to the livery owner. "Goddamn bluebellies. They should be protectin' us from those redskins. Instead, they're protecting the Injuns from us."

  "It was the major who set us free. Seems he wants us to keep killing Apaches."

  "Now why would he want that?"

  "Why don't you ask him yourself?" rasped Coughlin. "Now either fire that blunderbuss or get out of our way."

  "Much as I admire your work, boys, I can't let you take my horses without payin' for 'em. This ain't no charity. I gotta make a livin', same as you."

  "Fine. I'll give you my note. Soon as we collect the bounty on some more scalps, I'll see to it that you're paid back."

  The livery owner grinned, flashing a mouthful of crooked yellow teeth. "You don't look like the type to go out of his way to pay off a debt. But tell you what. You head on down to the Red Door Saloon and talk to the man who runs it. His name is Hagen. You might be able to work something out with him."

  "Why is that?"

  "Why, just the other day I was down at the Red Door having me a shot of Hagen's snakehead whiskey. Heard him talking about a bunch of Aravaipa Apaches that have set up a village over near Camp Grant. He thought it was downright wrong that a bunch of Injuns would feel safe and sound next to an army post." The livery owner chuckled. " 'Course, Hagen hates Apaches more'n most—and that's saying something, in these parts—on account they killed his brother."

  Coughlin glanced at the Mexican. He wasn't quite sure how, just yet, but he had a hunch that this man Hagen and that bunch of Aravaipa Apaches meant his luck was about to change.

  Chapter 7

  A week later, Coughlin was thinking back to that moment when his luck had changed for the better, as he stood on the rim of a low ridge peering through field glasses at the Apache village located less than a half mile away. Beyond the village, the sun was setting in a blaze of reddish-orange glory behind a jagged blue line of mountains. He handed the glasses to the Mexican, who stood beside him, and glanced behind him at the knot of horsemen who waited at the foot of a steep, rocky slope. Hagen was down there, with seven other men recruited in Paradise Gulch.

  "I count at least thirty jacales," he told the Mexican. "Must be at least a hundred and fifty Apaches down there. That's a lot of scalps, amigo."

  "Not split ten ways," muttered the Mexican, a comment that, for him, was a long-winded speech.

  Coughlin shook his head. "Only a couple of those boys down there are even thinking about scalp money. Hagen and the others just want to kill Apaches. So this is what we'll do—we let them do most of the killin', and we'll do most of the scalpin'. And after it's done, we head for Mexico, where we'll finally have our pockets filled with pesos. We've hit the jackpot."

  The Mexican just grunted, and returned the field glasses to Coughlin. "What about the soldiers?"

  "What about 'em?" Coughlin once more scanned the desert with the field glasses. Somewhere west of the Aravaipa village was Camp Grant. According to Hagen, the outpost was garrisoned by no more than forty men commanded by a lieutenant named Summerhayes. According to Hagen, Summerhayes was an incompetent shavetail and his men were the dregs of the army, and it was the opinion of the saloonkeeper that the Camp Grant garrison posed no threat to their plans. Coughlin was of the same opinion, but not for the same reasons. "The soldiers don't matter," he continued. "By the time they figure out what's happened, you and me'll be making tracks for the border. If they bother anybody it'll be Hagen and the others. And I don't know about you, compadre, but after tomorrow, I won't care what happens to Mr. Hagen."

  The Mexican nodded. He didn't care about anyone, least of all Hagen, despite the fact that the proprietor of the Red Door Saloon had provided them with horses and weapons out of his own pocket. In fact, Hagen had been willing to pay for anything they wanted after finding out about their line of work. He saw in the two scalphunters the means by which he could finally realize his dream of vengeance against the Apaches. It didn't matter to him that his brother hadn't been killed by Aravaipa—in fact, Hagen's brother had been in the employ of the Butterfield Stage Company during a period of time a couple of years earlier when that company had been beset by a series of raids that most people believed to have been perpetrated by the Bedonkohe renegade named Geronimo. A hostler at one of the stage company's way stations, the brother had been slain during one of those raids.

  As far as Coughlin knew, the Aravaipa had not been involved in any attacks on white folks. They were about as peaceful a bunch as you were likely to find. This, however, wasn't enough to make Coughlin think twice about killing them. Peaceful or not, they were Apaches, and their scalps would bring just as many
pesos as those of warlike renegades.

  In Hagen's view, Coughlin and the Mexican were the most experienced Apache killers he was ever going to find. An astute businessman, he knew his own limitations. An attack of this magnitude, on a group the size of the Aravaipa band, was not something he could pull off by himself. And while Coughlin had never undertaken anything of this scope—an all-out assault on an Apache village—he had convinced Hagen that he was the right man to lead such a enterprise. Coughlin deemed it his best chance to finally realize his dream, to earn enough blood money so that he could settle down in Mexico and enjoy life for a spell. Hagen would have his vengeance. Major Cronin would likely have his war. And Coughlin would just sit back in some out of the way Mexican village, drinking mescal and messing with the senoritas, while the world went to hell in a handbasket.

  "We better get back down there," said Coughlin.

  They descended the slope and rejoined Hagen and the others.

  "What's it look like?" asked the saloonkeeper.

  He sounded edgy. In fact, he'd been making Coughlin nervous ever since they'd left Paradise Gulch. It had been Coughlin's experience that in this kind of enterprise, a nervous man got himself—and often everybody around him—killed.

  "It looks quiet," replied the scalphunter. He started to unsaddle his horse.

  "What are you doing?" asked Hagen.

  "We'll camp right here. Good a place as any."

  "Camp? Why not ride in and finish it now?"

  "In the morning."

  "Why in the morning?"

  "It's the best time, for a lot of reasons."

  Hagen looked at the others. "I don't cotton to the idea of sitting around here, with Apaches just over the hill."

  Coughlin turned to look at him. "I know you're footing the bill here and all. But you wanted me along because I've had some experience in this kind of thing. We ride in at dawn because that'll put the sun at our backs, which gives us an advantage. And some of 'em will still be asleep. Those that aren't won't be expecting any trouble. Okay?"

  Hagen nodded, reluctantly conceding that Coughlin's reasons made sense.