Iverson spun. He screamed down at the Kraft man by the juniper. “Apaches!” he shouted. “Apaches!” He started running, when the breath slammed out of his lungs, and he felt himself driven forward, tumbling, rolling over the rocks and cactus, sliding down a few feet. He looked up, tried to get his legs to work, but they wouldn’t. He couldn’t even feel them. He felt something roll from his lips, and lifted his head, looked at the blood pumping from his chest, heard the sucking sound each time he drew an agonizing breath.
“I been shot,” he said. Blood frothed from his lips. He looked up. Saw the Apaches running down the canyon, firing, reloading, firing. He heard the Kraft man behind him grunt; then came the noise of the man’s Henry rifle clattering as it tumbled down the canyon.
More figures came from the doorway through the top of the canyon. A few Apaches, followed by white men. In blue uniforms. Yellow stripes down the seams of their pants.
“Soldiers.” Iverson tried to shout a warning, but his lungs burned. Turning his head, he found he lay near the twine. He reached, grabbed it. “I’ll show you….” He jerked it hard, sending a spasm of pain through his chest and neck. He still couldn’t feel anything below his waist.
Nothing happened.
He jerked again.
Then, the Apache was on him, wielding a knife in his hand, slicing Swede Iverson’s throat, and moving on. More moccasins ran past him, followed by boots. Swede Iverson still gripped the twine. The last thing he heard was the sound of a trumpeter blowing the charge.
“Boss man!” Duke shrieked. “It’s the cavalry. It’s the damned Army.”
“It can’t be,” Pardo said, but he heard the blaring trumpet, the scores of shots, pounding of hoofs. He whirled. “Get up to that nitro. Pull the twine. Pull it, damn you. Blow it up!” He saw Duke spin, crouch, and head around the corner.
It was going to hell. How could it have gone to hell?
“My brother!” W.W. Kraft began screaming. “You son of a bitch. You bastard. You killed my brother.”
Finding the youngest Kraft kneeling by his brother, Pardo could see W.W. was right. K.C. lay on his back, spread-eagled, sightless eyes staring into that brilliant blue sky. Then, like a damned fool, W.W. rose, tripped over his dead brother’s boots, started a dash for the boulders behind which Dagmar and Mac were hiding, pulling the Colt’s trigger as he ran.
“Come back here!” Pardo yelled, but found himself chasing after him, admiring W.W., even if the kid was an idiot, because W.W. was showing the dearly departed K.C. Kraft a thing or two. About family. About blood. About honor.
W.W. Kraft’s pistol roared, knocked a chunk of boulder off. Suddenly, Mac rolled out from the side of the boulder, both hands gripping a long-barreled Colt. Flame shot from the barrel, and W.W. staggered. Mac’s gun roared again, and W.W. dropped to his knees, sending his gun sailing toward a mesquite. He let out a wild groan, and fell on his back, joining his brother in death.
Pardo saw Mac raise the barrel, pull the trigger, heard, above the echoes and cacophony throughout the canyon, the hammer click as it struck an empty cylinder. With a grin, Pardo aimed his Colt, and pulled the trigger.
It, too, snapped empty.
He stopped, threw his useless gun at Mac, the pistol striking the rocky ground in front of the lawman’s face, and bouncing over his head. Pardo kept running, leaning over, sweeping up W.W. Kraft’s revolver, cocking it, squeezing the trigger. The bullet knocked the heel off Mac’s right boot.
Don’t rush your shot, Jimmy, he heard Ma’s scolding voice.
Pardo staggered toward them. Dagmar ran around the corner, screaming, her left side drenched in blood, her face wild with anger, like some damned animal. She wasn’t a Three-Fingers Lacy, that was for sure. He swung the barrel of Kraft’s revolver, heard the crunch, saw the wild woman drop at his feet, unconscious, and he tripped over her. Got up. Saw Mac crawling toward the yucca, where his Evans repeater rested.
With a snigger, Pardo began pushing out the empty casings as he walked, filling the cylinder with fresh loads from his shell belt, praising the late W.W. Kraft for having the good sense to carry a .44-40 Colt, same as Pardo did, and when he reached Mac, he thumbed back the hammer, and grinned.
“Hey, Bloody Jim!” a voice called.
When Pardo spun toward the voice, he felt a bullet rip into his gut. He fired, knowing he had missed, as another slug hit just about the same place the first bullet had. His knees buckled, and he fell to a seated position, looking up in surprise.
Staring at the person who had shot him.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
She dropped the smoking .32 Triumph, now empty, and ran to her mother, falling to her knees, gently rolling her mother on the ground. “Mama?” Blanche Gottschalk said, then more urgently, “Mama! Are you all right?”
Dagmar’s eyes fluttered. Blood leaked from the corner of her head, just above the left eye. A vicious bruise was already forming from where Jim Pardo had buffaloed her with the revolver barrel.
“Mama?”
“I’m all right,” she said, and forced a smile.
At which point, Bloody Jim Pardo, sitting on the rocky ground, legs out in front of him, both hands clutching his bleeding stomach, started giggling.
“A kid,” he said, and coughed up blood. Swallowed, leaned his head back, and laughed savagely. “A kid. Bloody Jim Pardo is killed by a kid.”
Outside, beyond this rocky fortress, bullets continued to whine, horses galloped, men screamed.
“A kid. A damned snot-nosed kid.” Pardo shuddered. “And a girl to boot. You hear that Ma? Ain’t that something? I’m gut-shot by a ten-year-old girl!”
Reilly McGivern kept crawling toward his rifle in the yucca.
Pardo fell onto his back, still laughing, coughing, bleeding, dying.
Blanche’s mother slowly sat up. She leaned against her daughter for support.
“No!”
Both Blanche and her mother looked at Pardo, who was scrambling to his feet. “No, Ma. I ain’t dying like this. Don’t you worry, Ma. Bloody Jim Pardo ain’t being killed by a girl.” He fell against the boulder, but didn’t fall, and pushed himself forward, weaving his way, the Colt still in his hand. He pointed it at the crawling Reilly McGivern, and fired, but tripped over W.W. Kraft’s legs, spoiling his aim, sending him to his knees. Pardo shook his head, coughed again, and rose.
“Duke!” he yelled. “Duke! Pull the twine. Set off the nitro.” He was weaving toward the opening. Fired another round at McGivern, but the shot thudded into a mesquite limb. McGivern had reached his Evans, yanked it out of the yucca, brought the stock to his shoulder, and swung the barrel, but by then, Jim Pardo had rounded the boulder, out of sight.
Her mother said something, and started to her feet. She leaned on Blanche for support, and they moved. Reilly McGivern had pulled himself up, using the Evans as a crutch, and staggered hurriedly toward the opening. He slid to his knees, brought the Evans into position, fired. As Blanche and her mother made their way toward the lawman, another figure slid inside the opening. Reilly spun, aimed the rifle, then lowered it and shook his head at the young cavalry soldier who was busy reloading his revolver.
“Hello, Reilly.”
“Jerry.” McGivern shook his head, tried to clear away the cobwebs, amazed to find Second Lieutenant Jeremiah Talley sitting beside him. “What…?”
“Long story,” Talley said, snapped the loading gate shut on his Remington, turned, and fired. Reilly saw one of Kraft’s men tumble.
Spinning, Reilly jacked another round in the Evans, but Pardo had dived behind a boulder. He saw the madman’s hand grab the twine he had cut earlier this morning—but that Swede Iverson had repaired just minutes earlier—and give it a savage yank.
Reilly cringed, then heard Pardo’s laughter.
“I took care of it,” Blanche whispered. “Told Pardo I had to take a piss. Cut it with my teeth.”
Cackling, Jim Pardo rolled over onto his back, and jerked the twine. Nothing h
appened. Beside him knelt Duke, Winchester rifle lying in the dirt, the stupid oaf holding both hands against his right ear, too big a coward to have tried to detonate the nitro himself.
“An Apache,” he whimpered. “An Apache shot off my ear, boss man.”
Pardo laughed, and yanked the twine again. There was no resistance, and, certainly, no deafening explosion.
“What’s an Apache doing riding with soldiers, boss man? You don’t reckon they teamed up to beat us, do you? Apaches and the Army, riding together?”
“They’re scouts, you damned fool.” Pardo coughed.
From below, came a shout. “You two men! There’s no escape. Give up. Now.” Pardo rolled over, pulled himself up, and fired two rounds at the officer demanding their surrender. He laughed again, raised the Colt, pulled the trigger. Empty.
He let the pistol fall into the dirt, and pressed his hands against his blood-soaked shirt. “Oh, Ma. I can’t believe this is happening to me.”
Beside him, Duke rose, his left hand over his head, right hand still pressing against his bloody ear, and started walking down the hill. “Don’t shoot. I quit. Don’t shoot.”
Pardo chuckled, dragged himself closer to the Winchester. Picked it up, braced the barrel against the boulder, and shot Duke between the shoulder blades. Watched the coward fall and slide a few feet, dead as Pardo soon would be. Cackling, he butted the rifle’s stock in the dirt, and forced himself up, leaned against the boulder, and jacked another round into the chamber.
“Give up, Pardo!” a voice called up.
Pardo lifted the rifle, and staggered away from the boulder. He fired, not at Mac, not at that officer demanding his surrender, not at the Apaches and blue-bellies gathered in the rocks below. Swayed, stumbled, worked the lever, fired again. Laughing as he did it.
“What the hell’s he shooting at?” Jeremiah Talley asked.
Fear tightened Reilly’s face. He drew a bead, pulled the trigger, saw a puff of dust fly off Pardo’s side, and drive him back, but the son of a bitch didn’t fall. His Winchester roared again.
“What the hell?” Reilly said, cocking the Evans, firing again. Worked the lever. Pulled the trigger. The rifle clicked empty.
Pardo’s Winchester roared. Ten shots ripped the earth, whined off the rocks around him. The troopers and Apache scouts were doing their best to kill that crazy man, but shooting uphill, at a moving target, with all the dust in the air would challenge the best marksmen. Pardo cocked and fired the Winchester as he swayed down the hill.
Reilly remembered the extra shell, which he quickly fingered out of his vest pocket, began to reload the Evans.
Beside him, Talley’s Remington roared, but Pardo was out of range for a six-shooter. Reilly jacked the last round into the Evans, aimed, fired. This time Pardo hit the ground, and slid a few feet down.
Reilly sighed, looked at Talley, and said hoarsely, “He was going for the nitro. Ten beakers of it. Over there.”
A grin spread across Talley’s face. “I’m glad we had—”
“Oh, hell!” Blanche blurted. She was pointing. Reilly turned, his mouth dropping open. Jim Pardo had risen, worked the Winchester. Another bullet from an Apache’s Springfield hit his shoulder, but Pardo kept coming, firing the Winchester from his hip. Disappearing behind the boulders.
“Damn!” Reilly pushed himself to his feet, using the Evans as a crutch. Reached out for Blanche and Dagmar with his free hand.
“Run!” he yelled. “Run!”
From behind the boulders came the shots from Pardo’s Winchester.
Jerry Talley had stepped out, waving his revolver over his head, shouting in Spanish, English, and Apache for everyone to retreat. Reilly staggered, dropped the Evans. Soldiers tried to mount horses. Apaches ran past them. Reilly tried to push Blanche ahead. He stumbled, fell flat on his face. Moaned, “Go on,” but heard Dagmar’s sobs. Felt himself being dragged up. He draped one arm around Dagmar, the other over Jerry Talley.
“Come on!” Blanche screamed.
Her shout was drowned out by a tremendous explosion that knocked all four of them off their feet.
Jim Pardo fired the Winchester. Saw the bullet kick up dust just inches from the blanket-wrapped crate in the shade. He worked the lever, jerked the trigger, but the Winchester was empty.
“That’s all right,” he said, falling to his knees, walking on his knees toward the crate. “That’s all right, Ma.” Blood now poured from both corners of his lips, and he fell forward, dragging the Winchester behind him, until he reached the crate. Pulled himself up.
Hearing the terrified screams of men beyond the rocks.
Laughing, he shoved off some of the blankets.
“Hey, Ma.” He raised the rifle by the barrel above his head. “How about this, Ma?” Brought the walnut stock down on the crate.
Then felt the breath of hell.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
The explosion knocked George Crook’s mule to its knees and pitched the general into the sand. He landed on his right shoulder, rolled over, and almost immediately felt hands attempting to pull him up, dust him off, anxious voices asking, “Are you all right, sir?”
Crook shoved off the arms, found his pith helmet, set it on his head, and rose on his own volition. He looked at the smoke and dust belching from around the bend. Then, higher up the canyon’s southern wall, another explosion rang out, and again, George Crook was knocked onto his rear. This time, before anyone could reach him, a third explosion sounded, followed immediately by a fourth. On the other side of the canyon came another terrific roar, trailed by three more almost simultaneously.
Behind the general, horses screamed, soldiers swore, hoofs stomped. Sitting down, his pith helmet knocked askew, Crook tugged on his forked beard and stared at the smoke and dust up the canyon, smoke stretching like he had never seen, heading for the top of the world, the steady roar of a landslide as the southern walls came tumbling down, and the northern boulders slid down, tearing a wide swath as they descended.
“Lord Jehovah!” an officer shrieked in Crook’s ear, and Crook, feeling twice his fifty-six years, pulled himself to his feet. A gust of hot wind took the approaching smoke and grit and dust southward.
“We’ve got men in there!” a captain screamed, pointing down the canyon that was engulfed by smoke and dust.
“Steady,” Crook said, and took a few tentative steps ahead of his command. He bit his bottom lip.
Out of the carnage thundered a riderless horse, which a few troopers tried to stop, but failed. Then…nothing…for the longest while.
Rocks and boulders continued to tumble down both sides of the canyon, kicking up more dust.
“Talley!” the captain shouted. “Mister Talley!” He turned, faced the general with a face ashen.
“Steady,” Crook said again, and took another step forward.
Now came two more horses, one riderless, the other carrying a soldier leaning forward. This time, the troopers managed to stop both mounts, and pulled a corporal from the saddle.
“It’s Corporal Cohan, General!” a first sergeant shouted. “Georgie,” the sergeant said, softer, patting the sides of Corporal Cohan’s face. “Georgie, can you hear me, Georgie? It’s me, Rocky.”
“Mr. Bourke,” Crook called out in a stentorian voice.
“Yes, General,” his adjutant said.
“Fetch my ambulance. Also, send a galloper back to the wagon train. Tell them we need anybody who has ever set a broken bone or bandaged a cut up here on the double.”
“Yes, sir.”
“We might need anybody who can handle a spade or say last rites,” a trooper whispered. Crook thought about rebuking the young man, but instead, took another step.
An Apache ran out of the dust, followed by a few other riders, more horses without soldiers, and some staggering soldiers.
Crook turned. “Help them,” he barked, and his soldiers raced forward.
Spotting the general, the Apache ran over. “Nantan Lupan,” he
said, calling Crook by his Apache name, Grey Fox. He pointed into the inferno, and sank to his knees, shaking his head. His black hair was singed, he stank to high heaven, his buckskin shirt was covered with grit, blood.
“Yes,” Crook said softly. “I see.”
As the rumbling of rocks died down, he heard other noise from inside the smoke and dust. Apaches singing their death songs. Soldiers praying. Horses screaming. More troopers came out, coughing. Others carried their wounded comrades, some dragging them. Crook found a rock, and sat down, took off his helmet, and mopped his thinning, sweat-soaked hair with a handkerchief. He looked into the cloud. Nobody else emerged from the carnage. Still, he waited. One minute…two…five…
“Sir,” a lieutenant said. “Requesting permission to ride in there.”
“Very good, Mr. Kincaid. But let’s wait ten more minutes. I don’t want to lose—” He jumped to his feet, stretched out his arm.
From the smoke and dust emerged a short man. No, it was a girl. A young kid. She was followed by a man, supported by a woman on his left and a man—Mr. Talley, by God!—on his right.
“Help them!” Crook cried. “Help them, by thunder!”
Reilly McGivern opened his eyes to find himself shaded by a sea of dusty blue uniforms and a man with a forked salt-and-pepper beard dressed more for Africa than Arizona. He tried to swallow, but the attempt hurt like blazes. His head was resting on something soft, and he turned his neck, despite the pain, and looked into a pair of mesmerizing green eyes.
“Hey,” he said, “you’re alive.”
Gwendolyn Morgan lifted his hand to her lips, kissed it, and blinked away tears. “Yes, my love, and so are you.” Her face looked battered, her eyes red from tears, but she looked beautiful.
Something squeezed his other hand, and he looked over, saw Dagmar Wilhelm, her head bandaged, another bandage wrapped tightly just above her waist. She was holding his hand, smiling.
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