by Jo Goodman
The troop was escorting four wagons to the rail line at Colter Pass southwest of Fort Union. They would be met by the patrol that had been stationed there for the previous month. Matheson's troop would stay, spread out along the rails; and the relieved patrol would return to the fort for a well-deserved rest. To all appearances the journey was business as usual. The wagons carried supplies for the new patrol, enough to last at least two months in the event there was a problem relieving the men. The greased axle wheels still groaned under the heavy burden of the foodstuffs. If ever there was a soldier who thought the Army's biscuits could substitute for cannon fodder in a pinch, here was proof; for the wagons scored the ground with their weight. They carried kegs of fresh water, tins of coffee, canned peaches, corn, tomatoes, and milk. Jerky and rice and dried beans filled large burlap sacks. Sweets would be provided by molasses and raisins. Flour and salt were staples, but butter in the field was made from a combination of bacon grease, flour, and water and had the consistency of gravy. A clay crock held sourdough starter for fresh biscuits that would be a touch lighter than the ones they were traveling with. The men going to take their turn at patrolling the rail line looked wistful when they had their last glimpse of the fort. Few of them were thinking of wives or sweethearts. Almost to a man they were thinking of their stomachs.
Ryder had no difficulty outdistancing the first lieutenant's men. His job could never be done beside the men in his safekeeping. Sometimes he worked with a partner—one of the other scouts for whom there was mutual respect if not friendship—but most often he worked alone by his own choice.
The route to Colter Canyon was not unfamiliar to any but the greenest of the recruits. Ryder wasn't along to blaze a trail. He had one purpose—to find Apache.
Many of the Apache tribes that populated the Southwest Territory had been rounded up by the Army and forced to take up residence on government reservations. In spite of that there were still renegade bands that struck hard and fled fast, causing damage to themselves and the settlers alike. Ryder thought of them as resistance fighters, men who thought their way of life, their beliefs, and their families were all worth saving. It was not a popular view, and because of who Ryder McKay was, and because of how he was raised, to state his thoughts aloud would have brought suspicion on his head. He was well aware that no matter how he proved himself he was always going to be regarded with a certain lack of trust. Walker Caide was an exception to that rule. So was General Thorn at West Point. In the Southwest he counted two men who had shown themselves to be in the same vein. One was General Mitchell Halstead, recently retired from his thirty-year career with the Army, and living in Flagstaff. The other was Naiche, a Chiricahua warrior and blood brother to Geronimo, both of whom were still at large.
Ryder did not expect trouble on the journey, but he had to anticipate it. The foodstuffs they carried were especially appealing to Chiricahua raiders who would be looking to feed themselves and their families. Ryder watched the ground closely. Displaced rocks were clues of someone passing on the land in front of him. He knew how to determine how many were in a raiding party, if they walked or were on horseback, how fast they were traveling, and if there were women and children bringing up the rear. Nothing he saw indicated the Chiricahua were on the trail of the wagons or the company's horseflesh.
Ryder circled around and back, covering the company's left flank and rear. He waited on the high ground among the red rocks for Matheson's men to catch up to him. Along the length of a nearby wash was a low-growing, spreading mesquite tree. Saguaro cacti spotted the desert floor, bristling guards for the unwary traveler. A tiny elf owl, no bigger than a finch, had taken up residence in one of the thick arms of a cactus, his home compliments of a woodpecker who had deserted the hole.
Ryder felt the skin at the back of his neck prickle. He did not try to dismiss the feeling. It was more important to accept it and understand what it might mean. In the distance he could hear the approach of the company, the shuffled cadence of men and horses, the creaking rhythm of wagons on the hard, dry earth. Ryder could not see the column as they wended their way through the canyon, but he followed the fine cloud of dust that rose high in the air above them like a morning mist. By the time they reached him he had formulated a plan.
Chapter 3
First Lieutenant Matheson listened gravely to Ryder's concerns. Matheson was a graduate of West Point and a veteran of two Western campaigns. He had been a quick study in the classroom and in the field, and it was generally agreed he was a young man with a future in the Army. One of the things he had learned was to trust his scout. This time Ryder was making that difficult to do.
"Tell me again about this premonition," he said impatiently. The heat was battering them all in spite of the fact that it was not yet eight o'clock. He lifted his hat momentarily and wiped his brow. The Army issued the same navy blue wool sack coat, flannel shirt, and kersey trousers to soldiers from the Northern Plains to the Southwest. The clothing was as ill suited for the bitter cold of Montana as it was for the unrelenting heat of the Southwest Territory. There was leeway given to men in the field, especially among the privates. First Lieutenant Matheson was expected to adhere to regulation dress. Now he was baking in it. "What signs have you seen?"
Ryder was honest. "None. There's danger anyway."
Matheson swore softly. "Jesus, McKay. What the hell are we supposed to do about that?"
"How many of your men are new recruits?"
"Half, maybe a little more."
Ryder didn't like those odds. He had trusted the makeup of the company to others and now he wished he hadn't. These men weren't seasoned to fight well in an ambush. "Split the company in two," he said. "Two wagons for each group. Divide the greenhorns in half; they'll need help if it comes to a hand-to-hand fight. You lead half through the canyon. Sergeant Shipley can take half on the longer route around."
Matheson wasn't certain he liked it. Splitting a fighting force, especially one as small as a company, was always risky. To do it all because Ryder McKay had a "feeling" could cost him the lives of his men and a promotion. He looked around at his troop. "What about her?" he asked, his chin jutting in the direction of Anna Leigh Hamilton. She was sweet-talking Corporal Harding into giving her a drink from his canteen. An unconscionable flirt, he thought, since she was carrying her own canteen. Matheson sighed and returned his full attention to Ryder. "For two cents I'd send her back to—"
"I'd do it for a penny," Ryder offered. "But for right now it'd be better if she stayed with you."
Matheson shook his head. He rubbed his chin with the back of his gloved hand. "She's safer with you. You'll be out ahead of the rest of us. If there's an ambush you'll have warning before we will."
Ryder didn't repeat that there was no one out there. He saw that the first lieutenant was having a difficult time accepting the reality of impending danger. To remind him that there were no signs on the trail ahead would not support Ryder's own case. The sensation that prickled his skin earlier had not left him since. "I'll take her," he said at last, weighing his options. "I won't be able to move as fast, but I'll take her."
Matheson nodded. "I knew you would." He also knew Ryder McKay would go to his death protecting the Hamilton woman, if it came to that. The first lieutenant called Sergeant Shipley over and rapped out his orders. There was a murmur of surprise up and down the line, but it was quelled quickly.
Ryder did not wait for the sergeant to split the company and organize the departure along two different routes. He nudged his horse forward to Anna Leigh's side, took the reins from her hands, and began leading her mount away. She was almost unseated by the sudden jerk forward, and she gave Ryder a hard stare after she caught herself.
"What's going on?" she demanded. She looked around for someone to help her, but everyone was busy carrying out Matheson's orders. "Where are you taking me?"
He didn't answer her.
"I can take the horse myself," she said, trying to grasp the reins back.
Ryder didn'
t want her to have control until he was certain she would stay with him and not return to the company. He jerked on the reins and the cinnamon mare followed dutifully, even when Anna Leigh tried to dig her heels in and hold her mount back.
As they climbed higher on the uneven, rocky ground Anna Leigh kept looking back and below. She could see the company reconfiguring to part ways. "What are they doing down there?" she asked. "Why are they breaking up?"
Her questions were unimportant to Ryder, and they weren't answered. "Save your strength," he told her instead. "We still have a long way to go, and this route is the hardest." Even as he said it, her horse stumbled. Loose rock and gravel shot out from under the mare's hooves and clattered down the canyon walls.
"Are you trying to get me killed?" Anna Leigh snapped. "I want to go back with the lieutenant." She stared daggers at Ryder's spine when he didn't respond. It was too dangerous to fight him for control of her animal, so she concentrated on staying in the saddle until they reached the top and the land flattened out again. In the end she didn't have the opportunity to wrest back the reins because Ryder tossed them negligently in her direction.
"Don't make the mistake of trying to return by the way we just came," he warned. "Your mare can't do it, and you'll break your neck."
A single glance down told her he was right. "I'd have thought that would please you," she said tartly.
Ryder merely shrugged. "Let's go."
"Wait a minute," she protested. "I'm thirsty."
"I just saw you get a drink from Harding's canteen. You can't need another one already. C'mon."
Anna Leigh stubbornly held back. Her broad-brimmed straw hat shaded the upper part of her face from the sun; even so, her blue eyes glittered with anger at Ryder's high-handedness. She sat stiffly in her saddle, refusing to move.
Ryder glanced over his shoulder. "You can drink as you ride." He kept going, expecting her to follow. He had covered fifty yards before he realized she wasn't behind him. When he looked back she was exactly where she'd been minutes earlier. In this test of wills Ryder could see that as long as she was conscious she had the upper hand. As he reined his mount around he actually considered knocking her out and throwing her over his saddle. Only the burden that would have put on his mare made him think better of it.
When he came upon her he didn't say anything. His level gray stare bore into her. His mouth was expressionless.
"You needn't look at me like that," she said. "I told you I was thirsty."
"And I told you to drink on the way."
Anna Leigh pointed to the canteen she had strapped across her shoulder. The leather strap had left a light sweat stain on her white blouse where it slanted between her breasts. "There's something wrong with my water," she said. "It doesn't taste right."
"It probably tastes like the canteen," he said. "That happens in this heat. There's nothing wrong with it."
Anna Leigh's lower lip was thrust forward. The saucy pout usually got her what she wanted. On this occasion she got what she wanted in spite of it.
"Take mine," Ryder said, unstrapping it from his horse. He held it out to her.
Anna Leigh offered hers in exchange. She unscrewed the top on his canteen and drank her fill. Droplets of water slid over her chin and onto her blouse, flattening it against her skin.
"Easy," he said. "You'll get a belly ache."
Lowering the canteen, Anna Leigh wiped the bottom of her chin with a gloved hand and then plucked at her damp blouse. "Concern? From you?"
"You can't ride if you're sick."
"Is that why you're not drinking?" she asked. "Or do you believe me that the water's bad?"
Obviously she required some proof before she was willing to move on. Ryder uncapped the canteen she had given him and took several deep swallows. It was no different than he'd expected; it had the tinny taste of the container. "Satisfied?"
Anna Leigh wrinkled her nose and let her distaste show. "I don't know how you drank that," she said a trifle breathlessly.
He strapped the canteen in place and gave his mount a kick. "Let's go."
This time they covered a distance just short of two miles before Anna Leigh pulled up. She watched Ryder move on ahead of her, weaving unsteadily in his saddle. His horse slowed, uncertain of where to go with no firm direction. Finally the mare halted, shifted her weight restlessly, but could not be urged forward. Anna Leigh's approach was cautious as Ryder remained slumped but essentially upright in the saddle. He managed to lift his head as she drew up beside him. His pale gray eyes were glazed, unfocused.
This time it was Anna Leigh who took the reins. She led the horses to a squared-off section of boulders that formed a shallow cave. There would be shade, even when the sun reached its zenith. It looked like a shelter Ryder would have chosen for himself.
By the time they reached the rocks Ryder was no longer self-supporting. Anna Leigh had to ride closely abreast of him and lend her shoulder to hold him in his saddle. His dark head was unprotected by a hat, and his black hair fell forward on either side of his neck. The red bandana he wore was soaked with his own sweat. His head lolled and his chin rested heavily against his chest. When Anna Leigh withdrew her support Ryder's slide from the saddle was ignominious at best.
She looked down at his sprawled, unconscious body. There was no remorse on her face or in her voice. As far as she was concerned, he deserved it. "I told you the water was bad."
Her sentence was punctuated by the first of a volley of shots echoing in the canyon below.
* * *
There was no time to take cover. Matheson's first indication that something was wrong was the return of the split-off company. No wagons accompanied them and less than half the men who had gone formed the new column. Sergeant Shipley was no longer in the lead. They looked like troops who had just engaged in combat yet Matheson hadn't heard a single shot.
Matheson motioned to his second lieutenant. The man was a recent arrival at Fort Union, trained at West Point but a virgin in the field. "Go back to that column and find out what the hell's going on," he ordered. "I want to know what's happened to Shipley and the wagons." Matheson looked up into the canyon rocks. Ryder and Anna Leigh hadn't been visible for the last half hour. He added impatiently, a trace of alarm in his gruff voice, "And see if Ryder circled 'round to their side and saw something."
Second Lieutenant Davis Rivers lifted his hand as if to make a smart salute. Spencer Matheson went to his death with that vision in his mind.
* * *
Ryder's vision was fuzzy when he woke. His hearing was distorted. He could hear shouting and shots and an Apache war cry that instantly took him back twenty-three years. He tried to come to his feet. He couldn't even lift his head.
Anna Leigh's voice was soft and soothing. "Here," she said encouragingly. "Drink this." She held a canteen to his lips.
Ryder used what remained of his strength to clamp his lips shut until Anna Leigh laid her gloved hand over his nose. When he sucked in his next breath she trickled water down his throat. He stared at her for a long time. Her eyes were not cruel, merely frank. Looking into their light blue gaze he felt as if his will were being leached, his energy sapped. He tried to speak, but in spite of the water she had given him, his mouth was dry. He felt her hand slide into his. With her free hand she was undoing the buttons of her blouse.
He shut his eyes and slept.
* * *
Davis Rivers was in command now, and he rallied his men. They fought hard and took the advantage. The battle was a bitter one. Many men died without clearly seeing the enemy. Some scaled the rocks, but there was no quarter given. They were hunted down, and none of them made it to the top of the canyon rim.
The battle was over by noon. Five of the surviving men set grimly about the task of collecting the dead. Others removed foodstuffs from one of the wagons to make room for the bodies. Second Lieutenant Rivers called in another group and gave them specific instructions. One soldier was sent back to the fort for reinforcemen
ts. Rivers assigned himself and a private to go in search of Ryder McKay and the senator's daughter.
"That half-breed son of a bitch is going to have a lot to answer for," he told his men. They kept on working—time was short—but they exchanged knowing glances.
* * *
Private Patrick Carr was the first to spot Anna Leigh. She was hatless and walking away from a grouping of boulders that would have afforded her some protection from the sun. Carr and Rivers pushed their mounts hard to get to her. They knew she had seen them when she dropped to her knees in an attitude of prayer and exhaustion.
Carr dismounted swiftly and knelt beside her. His eyes grazed her face, her hair, and her clothing. The assessment only lasted a few moments, but it was enough for the private to draw his conclusions.
From his saddle Rivers regarded Anna Leigh. Her hair was disheveled, matted to the crown of her head by a rivulet of blood. Dust streaked her face. The bridge of her nose and her cheeks were sunburned. Two buttons were missing from her blouse, and there was a rent in the seam of the sleeve. Even though her leather skirt was tan and meant for traveling, it was covered by a film of dust.
Private Carr raised Anna Leigh's hands and examined them. The manicured nails were broken and bloody. Carr glanced at Rivers. "Looks like the son of a bitch has more to answer for than we thought."
Davis Rivers said nothing. "Did he leave you here?" he asked Anna Leigh.
Her sob was wretched, but she managed to shake her head. She let Private Carr help her to her feet and leaned heavily against him. "He's over there." Anna Leigh pointed in the distance behind her. "In those boulders. He said they would shelter us." Her pale eyes darted pitifully between her rescuers.
"How did you get away from him?" Rivers handed her his canteen.
"The shots... they distracted him. I hit him with a rock." She shuddered delicately, causing Carr to hold her more tightly. "I was afraid after that... My horse bolted and Ryder's mare wouldn't let me mount. I didn't know what to do. I stayed there with him until it got quiet again, then I came looking for someone."
