by Abe Dancer
‘White folks tend to fall off their horses a lot more than his red brothers, Talka. We needs all this stuff just to stay on the backs of our animals.’
Talka nodded and turned. He raised a hand and waved it at his followers. Within seconds they had all thrown themselves on the backs of their ponies. Harper held on to his saddle horn and thrust his left boot into the stirrup. He mounted slowly beside the waiting riders.
‘We go.’ Talka pointed ahead.
The ponies led the way with Harper at the rear of their small band as before. Again Talka led them expertly through the maze of strange stone columns which seemed to have grown out of the very cave floor itself. Then he guided those who trailed him into yet another long cave tunnel.
This time it was dark. There was no light from anywhere and yet the lead rider seemed to be able to navigate the twists and turns without any problem at all. The other braves stayed close and Harper was forced to use his ears to listen to where the horse ahead of him was moving in order to steer his own horse without colliding with the tunnel walls.
For more than an hour the line of riders trailed after Talka until all of them could see the sunlight ahead of them. It was bright, almost blinding, yet Talka continued leading them with his hooded eyes seemingly immune to its brilliance. Harper knew that this was no ordinary man. There was a greatness about him which the young horseman had to admire.
At last the ponies and the solitary horse reached the cave mouth and the light. The ponies increased their pace and trotted out first, as if they wanted to shake the chill of the cave off their coats. The heat of the sun was felt immediately by them all.
Harper was last to leave the cave tunnel. He pulled his hat off his back by its drawstring and pulled its brim down to shield his eyes.
He looked all around. The buttes and the mesas rose like golden statues created by mythical giants. He had never seen anything like these rocks which surrounded them before. In his long journey to this secret place there had been nothing to compare with the sheer grandeur of it.
But his awe was short-lived.
Suddenly, without warning, rifles opened up from far above them. The entire canyon shook with the deafening sound of bullets as they twisted down and bounced off the boulders to either side.
Talka swung his terrified pony around and pointed up at the plumes of deadly gunsmoke.
He yelled out his warning loud and clear.
‘Apaches!’
SEVENTEEN
There might have only been eight Apaches on the rocks but their prowess with the repeating rifles made it seem as though an entire battalion had suddenly unleashed its venomous fury on the Indians and Harper below. The morning air was filled with gunsmoke as deafening volleys of rifle fire sought out the handful of riders. Bullets tore down into the heat haze from both sides. Lead ricocheted off the rockfaces around them, showering debris over the horsemen. Until the moment that the shooting started Harper had not realized that the Indians he rode with did not have any firearms of their own. Their entire arsenal consisted of nothing more than simple bows and arrows.
The young horseman drew and started to return fire as he saw one of the closest braves hit by well-aimed shots. His back exploded in a mess of scarlet gore. After twisting in the air for a few seconds the Indian fell from his pony and landed just ahead of Harper’s own mount.
Harper dragged rein and spun his animal around. Looking upward he saw the rifle barrels which jutted from above the golden-coloured rocks. He took aim and fanned the hammer of his six-shooter to give Talka and the remaining Indians a chance to get their bows and arrows into action. Within seconds the Indians around him started to send their lethal arrows up at their attackers.
The small canyon was filled with choking debris as bullets tore into the rockface.
Harper spurred and rode towards Talka just as the Indian leader sent one of his deadly projectiles up into the rocks far above them. An Apache screamed out as the arrow sank into his chest. The warrior tumbled and fell from the rocks. A plume of dust rose up from the canyon floor as the body landed hard between two of the ponies.
The battle carried on regardless.
‘We better get out of here, Talka!’ Harper yelled as he shook spent brass casings from his smoking gun and quickly reloaded it with fresh bullets from his belt. ‘They’ll finish us all off if’n we don’t!’
Talka did not speak.
There was no time for words.
He kept plucking arrows from a leather bag which hung from the neck of his pony, placing them on the bow and letting them fly towards the rifle smoke.
Some of the rest of his braves hastily plucked their dead comrade off the sand and placed the limp body over the back of the nervous pony. Only when they had achieved this courageous deed did Talka look at Harper.
‘Now we go!’ Talka shouted out loudly over the sound of the constant rifle shots.
The ponies thundered along the dusty trail as the Apaches leapt down from their lofty perches, scrambling down the rocks towards their own hidden mounts. Some of Nazimo’s men still managed to keep firing their carbines as they reached their ponies.
The chase was on.
Against his better judgement Tate Talbot had followed the route taken by Nazimo and his braves down the steep trail and he descended into the blazing-hot canyon with Smith a length behind him. The man who wore a star, but in reality was a wanted outlaw, knew that if he were to tell his companion that he was really the infamous Diamond Bob Casey he would end up as dead as those they had left behind them back on the desert sand.
Talbot knew that Smith had never actually liked playing second fiddle to him and if he even suspected the truth the outlaw would not think twice about putting bullets into his back to claim the bounty.
Both riders had only just reached the floor of the rocky canyon when they had heard the sound of rifle fire ahead of them.
They steadied their mounts as the echoes of the bullets surrounded them. It had come as a surprise to them both. They wondered who, apart from the drifter whom they had trailed all the way from Senora, was out here in the unholy land?
Then Talbot started to think that his fear of there being even more Apaches out here in this cursed desert might be closer to the truth than he had imagined.
Talbot swung his lathered-up pony around and stared at Frank Smith. Smith’s face had fear carved into it.
‘What the hell was that, Tate?’ Smith asked. He eased his horse closer to the Indian pony and stared along the canyon. ‘Who would be shooting out there?’
Talbot had no answers. The firing continued.
‘We ought to get out of here, Frank. Whoever it is that’s doing all that shooting, it sure sounds like there’s an awful lot of them.’
Smith gritted his teeth. He knew the older rider was right but he wanted to collect the bounty. He could almost smell the $20,000 Talbot had told him about.
‘I ain’t yella,’ he snarled. ‘I ain’t the sort who turns and runs when the shootin’ starts. Ya know that.’
‘Sure I know that, Frank. But it ain’t yella to light out when the odds are against ya, Frank.’ Talbot spoke through dry, cracked lips. ‘If we go back to Senora we can always find ourselves another drifter to kill and claim the reward money for. We don’t need that varmint. What ya say?’
Furiously, Smith slapped the neck of his tired mount. He thought for a few moments and then reluctantly spun his horse around.
He had been about to agree, but then his eyes narrowed as they saw the line of troopers descending towards them. The cavalrymen were still a couple of hundred yards above them but the narrow trail meant that it was now impossible for them to get out of the hot canyon by the same way as they had entered it.
‘Troopers!’ Smith pointed a crooked finger. ‘Look up there, Tate! A whole bunch of troopers!’
Talbot rode closer to his partner and raised a hand to cover his eyes from the blinding rays of the sun. His guts churned as he focused on the familiar figure
of the officer who rode just behind the scout. Even at this distance Talbot could tell who the military officer was by the way he rode.
‘Damn it all!’ Talbot cursed out loud. ‘Not him! For Christ’s sake, not him!’
‘What’s wrong, Tate?’ Smith asked.
‘I know that damn officer up there, Frank,’ Talbot admitted. ‘I had me a run in with that critter about six or so years back. He ain’t changed one bit.’
Smith held on to his reins tightly. ‘Does he know ya a wanted outlaw?’
‘Yep,’ Talbot answered. ‘Reckon he ain’t ever likely to forget me or my face.’
‘What ya do to him to make ya so memorable?’
‘I killed his son.’
Smith looked around them. The high canyon walls were almost sheer. There was only one way they could go and that was in the same direction as the Apaches had taken hours earlier. He stared into the swirling heat haze which blurred the canyon. The gunfire still resounded.
‘Then we better ride, Tate. We don’t want no soldier boys to spoil our plans.’
Talbot pulled on his rope reins and again turned the pony around. It was impossible to tell what lay ahead but it had to be better than remaining where they were, to await the cavalrymen and their leader. Captain Eli Forbes was one man the outlaw did not want to tangle with again.
Both outlaws spurred and rode into the unknown depths of the canyon. The further they travelled the louder the rifle shots got.
Far above them Forbes lowered his field glasses and took a deep breath as he carefully steered his mount down the steep rocky trail after the scout. He had recognized Talbot instantly. Like the outlaw, the memory of the man was branded into his mind for eternity. Only death could erase it.
‘Who were they, Captain?’ Coogan asked from behind Forbes.
‘One is an outlaw called Diamond Bob Casey, Sergeant,’ Forbes replied.
‘How’d ya know that, sir?’
‘You never forget the faces of men you’ve vowed to kill, Coogan,’ Forbes told him.
EIGHTEEN
A few minutes had made the vital difference between life and death for Talka, Harper and the remaining Indians. Most had avoided the bullets of their bushwhackers, but not all. Now there were two bodies tied to the backs of ponies. Time had given them a good quarter-mile lead of their pursuers. The small hunting party and the lone rider had forced their mounts to reach break-neck speed before Nazimo and his half-dozen followers had managed to reach their own mounts.
Yet the Apaches were by far the more skilled horsemen of the two tribes and had soon managed to close down the distance between them. Every stride of the painted ponies had seen the Apaches get closer.
At full pace, Talka aimed his wide-eyed mount down into a draw. The others trailed him. Then he spun his pony around and led them through a narrow split in the high wall of rock which was barely wider than their ponies. Talka had been here many times before and was using his knowledge to try to save them from the Apaches’ fury. It did not work. The young Apaches were not so easily shaken off. They were like a lizard who, once it has closed its jaws on its victim, it could not release its grip.
Soon Talka and his small party were headed back out towards the middle of the canyon. Clouds of dust spewed up from the arid canyon ground as the ponies and saddle horse galloped across its dry surface. But the rifle bullets again started to seek them out. Each shot got closer.
The deafening noise as red-hot tapers of lead poison passed through the dust and bounced off the canyon walls around them was a chilling reminder that Nazimo wanted to punish and kill them all.
Knowing that they needed more speed from their mounts, the riders threw the heavy water bags off the shoulders of their ponies in an attempt to increase their pace. It worked. Suddenly the small muscular mustangs were able to lift their forelegs high off the ground as they drove across the unforgiving terrain.
Talka led his small band from one side of the canyon to the other. There stood rounded giant boulders left from a time when the entire region had been covered in ice. The boulders were as big as houses and dotted throughout the canyon. The leader of the tribe with no name used his arms to encourage his pony to find a pace that should have been impossible in the blazing heat. He rode along the canyon and negotiated its twists and turns with an expertise born of knowledge of a place he had visited many times.
It began to dawn on Talka that he would never reach his homeland if the Apaches managed to get any closer. The Indian leader steered his pony in between the great rocks, knowing that they were the only cover he and the riders behind him had within the confines of the sun-bleached canyon. The others raced in the tracks of his unshod mount.
The dust grew thicker behind them as it was thrown up from the hoofs of their fleeing mounts. Yet the Apaches still fired their rifles even though they could not see their targets.
With hot lead cutting through the dust, Hal Harper spurred his powerful mount and drew level with Talka. He glanced at the face of the Indian. He had never seen anyone with so much determination before. This was a man who knew that the survival of not only himself but those who looked to him for guidance was at stake.
Talka could not afford to make any more mistakes. He had already lost two of his small hunting party and the odds were stacked against him.
They trailed the brave down through a sandy draw, over a small hill of sand set between two boulders and into a forest of tall cactus and Joshua trees. Talka pointed to their right and slowly began to ease his pony towards a place which was dense with viciously spiked cactus.
Desperately trying to keep up with young but far more experienced Talka, Harper ate the choking dust and followed. As the animals ploughed through the gaps between the cactus and the Joshua trees Harper thought that if a man made one false move here, he could have been skinned alive by the vegetation. The smaller ponies made easier work of it than his bigger horse. Harper felt the sleeves being ripped from his arms as he vainly attempted to find a clear, safe trail between the forest of spikes.
Then, just as they cleared the last of the angry, flesh-slashing plants, Talka drew rein and turned his pony in an attempt to head into a small draw.
Another volley of bullets tore through the wall of dust behind them. This time some of those bullets found their target.
Harper dragged his horse to a stop when he saw Talka slump over the neck of his pony. Without a thought for his own safety the young drifter spurred and forced his horse to leap across the rough ground until he was next to the chieftain. He dismounted quickly and rushed to the pony. Harper caught Talka before his bloodied body hit the ground.
The other braves rode close. They too ignored the bullets which kept on coming through the fog of dust. A pony was hit just as its master jumped clear. It fell on to the sand and kicked its legs out as life quickly drained from it.
‘Go, White Eyes Hal!’ Talka commanded as he was cradled in the arms of the youngster. ‘Go! I Talka command it!’
Harper held on to the warrior as the others gathered around him. They all knelt beside their leader.
‘Go!’ Talka said weakly.
‘I ain’t going no place, Talka,’ Harper gritted. ‘Not without you, anyways.’
Suddenly the dust parted like the waves of the Red Sea. Seven Apache braves proudly rode through the dense barrier and encircled the kneeling men before them. Each rifle barrel was trained on them as Nazimo kicked the sides of his black-and-white pony and approached.
Harper looked up at the Apache.
‘Howdy!’ he said.
Nazimo raised his rifle above his head and gave out a chilling victory war cry. He then waved the carbine at his men and spat out a few words. The braves dropped down to the sand and moved towards their prisoners. Each had his finger balanced on his rifle trigger.
‘You all die!’ Nazimo said in broken English.
‘Ya know somethin’? I’m damned if I really care!’ Harper replied, holding the wounded Talka in his blood-cover
ed arms.
Nazimo moved closer to the defiant Harper.
‘You I will kill slow, white man.’
‘Good,’ Harper retorted. ‘I ain’t in no hurry.’
The young Apache warrior pushed the handguard of his carbine down. A spent casing was expelled before he drew it back up and cocked the rifle into action. His thumb pulled the trigger back. The sound of it clicking into position filled the desert air. Each of the braves huddled close to Harper and Talka looked at one another silently.
Then another sound filled the canyon beyond the cloud of swirling dust behind the Apaches. It was the sound of horses charging across the arid terrain. It echoed all around them.
Harper noticed Nazimo’s eyes as they darted to his fellow braves. He turned and stared into the dust like a statue, waiting for it to clear.
Then it did and Nazimo could see the distant horsemen.
‘Men and soldiers!’ he exclaimed angrily.
Two of his fellow tribesmen moved closer to him.
‘We must go!’ one of them urged.
‘Not before we kill those who have defiled our dead!’ Nazimo spat his words out at the sand.
The Apache next to Nazimo raised his rifle and pointed its long barrel at the riders who were getting closer with every passing heartbeat.
‘No time, Nazimo. Soldiers come for us.’
Nazimo grunted. ‘We kill soldiers.’
NINETEEN
The two outlaws whipped and spurred their mounts and rode deeper and deeper into the canyon towards the well-armed Indians whom they had yet to see. Both horsemen had looked over their shoulders several times and could not believe their eyes. The cavalrymen were now in hot pursuit of them. Neither man knew that Captain Eli Forbes had dismissed any thoughts of Nazimo and the other Apaches he had travelled so far to capture or kill. All the cavalry officer could think of now was the face he had seen through his field glasses. A face he had not been able to rid his nightmares of for over six years.
