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  "And while we're at it, let me say this," added the scalphunter. "There are probably no more than twenty-five or thirty bronchos with that bunch over there. But when you start shooting, shoot anything that moves. Apache women can kill you just as quick as the men can. And the boys learn how to use the bow at an early age."

  The others exchanged glances. Then one, whose name Coughlin could not recall, spoke up. "I'm not sure about killing children."

  "Haven't you heard?" asked Hagen coldly. "Nits make lice. Remember, those Apache brats will grow up to be killers just like their fathers. They've got to be exterminated. All of them. Only then will this country be safe for white folk. And since the army isn't going to get the job done, it's up to us."

  Coughlin scanned the faces of the other men. He didn't know much about them, or why Hagen had chosen them to come along. It was risky going into a fight with strangers, but under the circumstances he didn't have much choice. The only man here he knew he could count on was the Mexican. But the way he had it planned, that would be okay. Whether Hagen and the others lived or died tomorrow didn't matter to him. All he could think about was the rich harvest in scalps. . . .

  They attacked the Aravaipa encampment just the way Coughlin had in mind—riding in on galloping horses, coming in from the east with the just-risen sun at their backs, blinding the startled Apaches, most of whom never knew that the attackers numbered only ten. Yelling like banshees, guns blazing, the white men tore through the village like a whirlwind of destruction, and Coughlin was pleased to see that none of the others seemed to have any problem gunning down the women and children right along with the men. For his part, he had pistols in both hands and the reins clenched between his teeth, and he made just about every one of his shots count. When he'd gone about a third of the way through the village, he abruptly checked his horse, and noticed that the Mexican, close by, was doing likewise. Hagen and the others kept going. Coughlin jumped down out of the saddle—a man on foot made less of a target—and put a bullet right between the shoulder blades of a young Apache woman who was fleeing for her life. She fell, dropping an infant child that she'd been cradling in her arms. Coughlin didn't waste a bullet on the baby. He stepped over the dead woman and entered the nearest jacal. An old man was standing in the middle of the lodge, gripping a knife; Coughlin gunned him down—and then saw the other three occupants, a woman and two children, huddled in the shadows. He fired three times, killing them all, then paused to reload before stepping back outside.

  For a moment he surveyed the scene. Dead and dying Apaches littered the ground. Over yonder, a broncho was running at the Mexican with a tomahawk raised aloft; the Mexican whirled and put two bullets into the warrior's chest, knocking him backward. A haze of dust lay heavy in the still morning air, and Coughlin couldn't see Hagen and the others, but he could tell by the gunfire that they were on the far side of the village. It sounded to him as though the Aravaipa were fighting back now; that didn't surprise Coughlin—he and his associates had enjoyed the element of surprise, but while they might be considered "peaceful" Indians by some, the Aravaipa bronchos weren't going to stand by and watch their families being slaughtered. Time to get to work, thought Coughlin. Drawing his knife, he bent over the nearest corpse—the woman who had been carrying the infant child—and proceeded to take her scalp. In place of the leather pouch, confiscated by Barlow and the army, he had a gunnysack he'd picked up in Paradise Gulch. In a matter of minutes he'd taken more than thirty scalps, and the sack was almost half full, the bottom soggy and black with blood. Nearby, the Mexican was making quick work of his victims.

  The gunfire on the far side of the village began to slacken. Coughlin had no way of knowing if that meant Hagen and the others had dispatched the rest of the Apaches, or if they themselves had been killed. Either way, his instincts told him it was time to make tracks. He returned to his horse, tied the gunnysack to the saddle, and mounted up. The Mexican was following his lead and doing likewise. Together they left the scene of carnage, riding south for Mexico. Coughlin was pleased with the way things had worked out. Ten days ago he'd figured himself done for. Now he was finally making for the border with enough scalps to really fill his pockets with pesos.

  Chapter 8

  When the vaquero named Rodrigo rode in with the bad news, Barlow was working on the corral, where damage had recently been done to the gate by several rambunctious broncos. Even though it seemed the crisis with the Coyoteros had been settled to everyone's satisfaction, he'd still been inclined to stay as close to home—and to Oulay—as possible. He had a hunch that even if trouble had been averted it was just a temporary respite. The situation with the scalphunters had pretty well convinced him that he was just fooling himself if he thought that peace between Apaches and his own kind could be maintained. Sooner or later, all hell would break loose. And when it did he wanted to be in a position to protect the woman he loved.

  Rodrigo was riding like the devil himself was giving chase—and that made Barlow put down his tools and pick up the repeater that he always kept within reach. Like all the vaqueros who worked for him, Rodrigo had spent his entire life in this country, which meant there was very little that could spook him. But he looked spooked when he reached Barlow and checked his horse, yanking on the rein leather so hard that the animal's front legs locked and the back legs skidded under him so that it seemed to be sitting down on the hardpack.

  "What is it?" asked Barlow, bracing himself for bad news.

  "Manolo," gasped Rodrigo. He plunged head and shoulders into the water trough, quenching his thirst and washing off the layer of pale dust that covered his face. Coming up, he elaborated. "Manolo is dead. And more than twenty cattle. Killed by Apaches!"

  Barlow's gaze was bleak. "Where?"

  "Five, maybe six miles to the north. Right on the river, at Black Horse Crossing."

  Barlow muttered a curse. "You're sure it was Apaches?"

  "Sí," said Rodrigo solemnly. "I know their handiwork, padrone. I have seen it many times. There were ten, maybe twelve unshod horses. What should we do?"

  "We wait, until sundown, and the rest of the men come in. You get up on the roof with Pablo. Take your rifle with you."

  "We cannot just leave Manolo out there."

  "We won't," snapped Barlow crossly. He had no intention of leaving the dead vaquero for the desert's scavengers. Nor was he about to leave Oulay and the ranch unguarded, not with a dozen bronchos on the prowl.

  As Rodrigo headed for the bunkhouse, where he would climb up to the roof to join Pablo as lookout, Barlow racked the repeater on his shoulder and trudged across the sun-bleached yard to the adobe house he shared with Oulay. She had noticed Rodrigo's arrival, and was awaiting him in the doorway, shading her eyes and peering curiously at her man, trying to read his expression. Barlow didn't try to hide the fact that he was troubled. Had he tried, it probably wouldn't have done any good; she was almost always able to read him like a book.

  "Manolo's dead," he said curtly, and went inside. Throwing the rifle on a table, he opened a trunk and pulled out a bottle of whiskey. He didn't often drink, but today he needed one to smooth out his nerves.

  She watched him intently as he took a long pull on the bottle, and wiped his mouth with a sleeve.

  "Rodrigo says Apaches did it," he added.

  "Poor Manolo. He was too young to die."

  Barlow nodded—and took another drink. Manolo had been the youngest man on the payroll. When he'd come looking for a work a year ago, he'd sworn he was twenty, but Barlow hadn't believed him. Still, he was cousin to one of Barlow's best men and seemed to have plenty of grit, so he was signed on.

  "Why would they do such a thing?" she wondered aloud, gazing out through the doorway. "You have always been fair and honest with my people."

  "Maybe they figure this is still their land." Barlow thought about another swig, then reluctantly corked the bottle. He needed to keep his wits about him. "And maybe they're right."

  She was silent for
a moment, pensive. "You stayed here for my sake. But you didn't have to do that. I would have gone anywhere with you. I still will go anywhere."

  He watched her, sympathetic, knowing that there was more that she wasn't saying, and sensing that she'd long ago resigned herself to the likelihood that she would never see her father again. Nonetheless, he held to his belief that it meant at least something to her to live here, in the land of her birth, where she could at least see the mountains that she'd once called home. But was that really why he'd worked so hard to make a home for them here? Barlow was beginning to wonder about his motives, especially now that his stubborn determination to stick to it was proving hazardous to Oulay's health. Maybe his reason was much more selfish. Maybe it was because he didn't like being run off. There was a pride in him that, according to his mother, had been spawned by the contempt with which his peers back in Georgia had treated him. Instead of turning away from their contempt, he'd confronted them. There had been plenty of fisticuffs as a result, and if he'd thought that he could earn the respect of those who hated him, he'd been mistaken. But at least he'd earned some self-respect. And here, now, things weren't that much different. There were those in the army who despised him—some even thought him a deserter. Many of the white civilians in the territory considered him an Indian lover and, therefore, a traitor to his race. And the many Apaches, he assumed, hated him for no other reason than he was white. Most men, he mused, would have had the sense to seek out greener pastures. But not him. Even if it meant putting the woman he loved at risk—not him.

  It wasn't too late, he told himself. He could put Oulay on a horse and ride out with her, leave the territory, leave Apacheria, leave all the hate and the violence behind.

  But he just couldn't do that.

  "We're not going anywhere," he said bleakly. Putting the whiskey bottle down, he moved to the stove, where she always kept a pot of coffee on. He poured himself a cup. It was hot and thick and had a kick like a mule. Just the way he liked it. He sipped the coffee, then took it over to the table and sat down there, in a position from which he could look out through the open door at the approaches to the ranch. "We'll stay right here. This is our place. It doesn't belong to John Ward anymore, and it doesn't belong to the Apaches, either. It's ours, and that's how it'll stay."

  She turned and gave him a patient smile. "Of course." That was all she said. She came away from the door and sat down at the table across from him. Reaching over the rifle that lay atop the table, she rested her hand on his forearm. They stayed like that, without talking, but content to be close, the rest of the afternoon, until the vaqueros began to drift in from a day's work on the range.

  Barlow left eight men at the ranch to watch over Oulay, and rode out with Rodrigo and Mendez, who had been Manolo's cousin, and one other. Numbering only four, they wouldn't stand much of a chance against a dozen bronchos, but Barlow wasn't willing to leave a smaller number behind at the ranch.

  It took them about an hour to reach the crossing, and every minute of that time, Barlow expected the Apaches to appear out of nowhere, which they seemed to have a knack for doing. But they arrived at the river without mishap. The sun had set, and in the darkening sky they could see a moving black spot—a spot that became distinguishable as a half dozen buzzards circling. When they got to the scene of the killing, they found that a few of the scavengers had already landed, and were starting to feed, not only on some of the dead cattle that were scattered through the sagebrush, but also on the body of the young vaquero. With a strangled cry, Mendez unsheathed his rifle and fired a few rounds as he raked big-roweled spurs across his horse's flanks, urging it into a gallop. Barlow didn't think it was very smart to do any unnecessary shooting with hostile Apaches around, but he didn't try to stop Mendez. Squawking indignantly, the buzzards scattered, their wings making a leathery sound. Mendez leaped out of the saddle and fell to his knees beside Manolo and cradled the boy's body in his arms. Silent tears streaked his coarse cheeks. Barlow and the others were embarrassed. They hung back and said nothing. Finally, Mendez stood up and carried Manolo to the extra horse they'd brought along. Barlow dismounted to help him drape the dead man across the saddle. They covered the corpse with a blanket, and then lashed it down with a rope.

  "I'm sorry," said Barlow, when they were done. The words didn't seem adequate, but what else was there to say?

  With a stricken expression, Mendez just nodded.

  Rodrigo had ridden a tight loop around the area. Now he returned to inform Barlow that he'd counted sixteen dead cattle. Barlow assumed that Manolo had been driving the cows to water when he'd been waylaid by the Apaches. At least they hadn't mutilated the boy. He wondered why, and the only conclusion that made sense was that they'd been in a hurry. They were on their way to a particular destination when they'd stumbled on Manolo and the cattle.

  That destination could be the ranch.

  "Let's get back," he said.

  The last shreds of daylight were beginning to fade from the western sky when, halfway back to the ranch, they were ambushed.

  The first shot brought down Rodrigo's horse. The second knocked Mendez out of his saddle. Barlow and the other vaquero were returning fire within a matter of seconds, even though their assailants were well concealed in the sagebrush and cactus that covered the flats. Though wounded, Mendez struggled to his feet and starting blazing away with his pistol; with the other hand he held fast to the reins of the horse that carried Manolo's body, even as his own horse made tracks with a high-stepping trot. Barlow knew how unlikely it was that he'd be able to hit anything—even if he could see a target to shoot at—if he continued firing from the deck of a fiddle-footing horse, so he dismounted, and as the horse began to move, he used it for a moment as a shield to get closer to where Rodrigo lay, still and facedown, in the dust. The other vaquero dismounted, also, and he too used his horse as a shield, but then a bullet struck the animal in the heart and it went down quickly. The vaquero emptied his pistol and then started for his compadres, but an Apache slug hit him in the thigh and knocked him down. Barlow knelt beside Rodrigo, placed a hand on the vaquero's back—and was relieved to find that the man was still breathing. He'd been knocked cold by the fall. Barlow turned and shouted at Mendez to let go of Manolo's horse and to get down. For a moment he thought that the vaquero was going to ignore him—which meant he would surely die. But he came to his senses in time; letting go of the reins, he hit the dirt not far from where Barlow was crouched.

  Now that they had no clear targets, the Apaches' fire slackened. Barlow took the opportunity to crawl over to the third vaquero, who was writhing in the dust, clutching with bloody fingers at his leg. Clawing at the seams of his shirtsleeve, Barlow pulled the stitching loose and ripped off the sleeve. This he used as a makeshift tourniquet to stem the flow of blood from the wound. The vaquero was fading in and out of consciousness as shock set in. Barlow knew that they would have to get the man back to the ranch and take the bullet out and cauterize the wound, or he would die before the night was out.

  But how were they going to do that? They were pinned down.

  Mendez crawled over to join him.

  "Padrone, there are only a few of them, I think," said the vaquero.

  "Yeah," said Barlow. That meant the rest had probably proceeded to their main target—the ranch. It was likely that the bronchos had cut the trail he and the vaqueros had made on their way out to retrieve Manolo's body. A few of the Apaches had hung back to spring the ambush. Barlow was nearly overwhelmed with frustration. Oulay was in danger—and there wasn't anything he could do to help her.

  Chapter 9

  There was only thing to do.

  Even though the odds were stacked against his survival, Barlow figured the way out was to go after the Apaches—to crawl through the brush until he found them, and hope he could kill them before they killed him.

  Mendez seemed able to read his mind. The vaquero drew a big belduque from a belt sheath. "I will go," he said grimly. "I have a s
core to settle with them."

  "No, I'm going. You stay here with the others. In case I don't make it."

  "You will make it, Padrone."

  "Right." Barlow reloaded his pistol, and took the pistol from the hand of the young vaquero, who had slipped into unconsciousness, reloading it, as well, before snugging it under his belt.

  "Take this." Mendez offered the knife.

  Barlow accepted the offer gratefully. He told himself he'd been in a similar situation before. He and Sergeant Eckhart had been ambushed by Apaches, in a fix every bit as desperate as this one—and they'd survived. They'd survived because the Apaches had grown impatient, left their cover, and charged forward to finish the fight, allowing Barlow and the sergeant to pick them off, one by one. Barlow was impatient now, but he wasn't going to stand up and charge the Apaches. Though the sky was darkening rapidly, he would still be silhouetted if he stood above the sage and cactus, and the bronchos would surely pick him off. Dead, he would not be of much help to Oulay.

  He began to crawl through the brush, trying to make no sound, going slowly, and working hard to keep his nerves in check. If he made a telltale noise or a sudden move and gave himself away, the game would be over. But it was bad enough to face a broncho when you knew where he was; when you didn't even know that much, you were in trouble. Barlow stopped every few feet to listen hard. There was nothing to hear, and he began to wonder if the Apaches were even there anymore. Sweat poured in rivulets down his face, stinging his eyes. He didn't bother wiping the sweat away; he made no unnecessary movement.

  It took him a quarter of an hour to move thirty feet. And then he thought he saw something, out of the corner of an eye—a shadow moving in shadow to his left. He stopped moving—stopped breathing—and strained to see in the gathering night gloom. Had it just been his imagination? He was beginning to think that this was so—and then saw the movement again. It was one of the bronchos, moving as silently as a ghost, crouched low. The Apache was heading in the opposite direction, trying to get closer to the place where Mendez and the others were concealed. Barlow raised himself up into a crouch, waited a moment until the Apache was well past him, and then stood up and charged forward, pistols in both hands, blazing away. Muzzle flash momentarily lit up the night, and he caught a glimpse of the broncho, turning, with a shocked expression on his face—and then several of Barlow's bullets hit him, and he went down in a bloody heap. Barlow heard a loud cracking sound, and threw himself to the ground. He'd heard that sound before—the noise a bullet made when it passed too close for comfort. It was followed immediately by the boom of a rifle. Make that two rifles, at least. Barlow rolled sideways, trying to get out from under the withering fire of the other Apaches. A pistol joined in, and Barlow figured that had to be Mendez. Then, abruptly, the shooting stopped.