The first shot went into Badger’s chest, knocking him back a step and widening his eyes in shock and pain. His gun had barely cleared leather.
Smoke’s second bullet punched into the midsection of the man to Badger’s left, doubling him over. He had gotten his gun out, but it was still pointed at the floor when his finger clenched spasmodically on the trigger. The shot chewed up splinters at his feet.
Smoke had already tracked back to the third man, who was trying to duck to the side. The slug from Smoke’s revolver shattered his left shoulder and spun him off his feet. He dropped his gun and collapsed, whimpering and pawing at his wounded shoulder.
Badger was the only one still on his feet. Smoke didn’t see how he was even still alive. Hate must have been holding him up. He tried hard to raise his gun.
Smoke shot him a second time, the black, red-rimmed hole springing into existence in the center of Badger’s forehead. The bullet bored through his brain and blew out a fist-sized chunk from the back of his skull. He thudded to the floor next to his friends.
In the echoing silence that followed the final shot, George yelled, “Holy cow! They weren’t Injuns, but . . . holy cow!” The boy was standing in the open back door with his grandmother behind him, looking horrified.
Smoke glanced at the fourth man, the one sitting by himself at the rear table. “Friends of yours?”
The man hadn’t budged during the gunfight. Slowly, he shook his head back and forth. “Never saw them before today, mister. I don’t have a single card in this game.”
“That’s good to hear.” Smoke looked at Mike, who had turned on the bench and angled the coach gun’s barrels toward the man in the cowhide vest. Figuring that the young man had things under control, even if Cowhide Vest tried some sort of trick, Smoke broke open the Colt and started replacing the expended cartridges.
Behind the bar, Paulson blew out a disgusted breath. “That’s what I was afraid might happen. Oh, well. Won’t be the first time I’ve cleaned up some blood and brains in here.”
“Oh!” Mrs. Bates gasped. She took hold of George’s arm and started dragging him back around the building toward the front without going through the station. “Come along! We’re going back to the coach!”
“Aw, Grandma! I want to see what Mr. Jensen did!”
“You’ve seen enough! More than enough!”
Smoke knew that the only shot any of the hardcases had fired hadn’t come anywhere near Sally or Preacher, so he wasn’t worried about them. As he closed his reloaded Colt and pouched the iron, he said, “Sorry for the ruckus, Mr. Paulson. I could tell they weren’t going to give me any choice, so I figured it was best just to get it over with in a hurry.”
“You certainly did that. What was it, four shots in three seconds? Too fast for me to follow, anyway.” Paulson leaned forward and looked over the bar, down at the wounded man on the floor. “What’ll I do with him?”
“We don’t want him,” Scratchy said. “He ain’t the responsibility of the Saxon Stage Line.”
Paulson scratched his bony jaw. “There’s an Indian woman who lives up the creek a ways. I’ll send one of the hostlers to fetch her. She can patch that varmint up as best she can and then I’ll send him on his way. Maybe he’ll make it.” Paulson’s shrug made it clear he didn’t care all that much, either way.
Honestly, neither did Smoke. Badger and the other two had made up their own minds to pull iron on him. What happened to them was on their heads.
Over at the table where she was sitting, Catherine swallowed hard and said, “I think I want to get out of here now. The . . . the smell is making me a bit ill.”
“The gun smoke, you mean?” Mike said.
“I just want to get out, please.”
“Sure.” He took her arm and held on to it until the two of them were back outside. Then he said, “I’ll fetch you a cup of water out here.”
“Thank you. That would be . . . very nice.”
Inside the station, Smoke said to Sally, “Do you want to go, too?”
“I’m all right,” she told him. “This isn’t the first shooting I’ve seen, you know. But I wouldn’t mind going on as soon as we can.”
“Fresh team’s almost hitched up, ma’am,” Scratchy told her. “I reckon we’ll be rollin’ again in another five minutes.”
That prediction was off, but not by much. It was six minutes later when the stagecoach clattered away from the station at Flat Rock Crossing.
None of the people on it saw the man in the cowhide vest come out of the building, get on his horse, and ride away fast a few minutes after that.
Although the stagecoach would circle well to the south so it could curve around to Sahuarita Ranch, Caddo didn’t need to follow that route. He had recognized Tom Ballard, even though the newspaperman hadn’t paid any attention to him.
They moved in different circles back in Tucson. Caddo was usually in one of the saloons or whorehouses and seldom saw the light of day. Ballard, being a good family man, didn’t patronize such places.
That thought put a faint smile on Caddo’s face as he pushed his horse almost due east toward Tucson. Most of the houses of ill repute in the world would probably go out of business if it weren’t for the “good family men” who patronized them.
None of that mattered. The only important thing was that Caddo had confirmed Ballard was on the stagecoach. That was what Smiler Coe wanted to know. Caddo was on his way to tell the boss gunman about it. If he rode all night, he could reach Tucson by the next night.
He might just about kill his horse doing it, but Caddo was willing to pay that price. Of course, there was always a chance he might come across some wandering cowboy who’d be glad for Caddo to take his mount . . . after Caddo put a bullet in him.
He might find some isolated ranch where he could get a fresh horse, too, again at gunpoint if necessary.
One way or another, he would make it back to Tucson and deliver his news to Coe as quickly as he could.
Caddo hadn’t counted on something, and his only warning was a glimpse of late afternoon sunlight reflecting from the side of a small butte as he approached it. instincts and reflexes allowed him to react instantly. He jerked his horse to the left. At the same time, he heard the whine of a bullet passing close by on his right.
If he hadn’t jumped when he did, that slug would have knocked him out of the saddle.
A half-second later, he heard the flat crack of the shot that had already missed him and saw a puff of powder smoke at the base of the butte. He yanked his horse even more to the left, away from the butte, and rammed his spurs into the animal’s flanks to make it leap ahead into a gallop.
Several figures on horseback came boiling around the side of the butte and charged at him. Caddo didn’t have to get any closer to know they were Apaches.
What the hell? Why hadn’t Coe warned them an Apache war party was roaming around that part of the territory? Those redskin bastards would never pass up a chance to jump a white man traveling alone. Despite his nickname and his complexion, Caddo had no Indian blood in him, although he didn’t go around explaining that to people.
He didn’t know . . . or care that Coe hadn’t known about the Apaches. All that mattered was getting away from the red devils.
He urged his mount on to greater speed. The horse was a big, rangy bay gelding. Caddo was confident that it could outrun the scrubby ponies the Apaches rode.
At least, it could have in a straight race. Problem was, the savages had an angle on him. What he should have done, he realized, was turn around and head back the way he had come, toward the stage station at Flat Rock Crossing. That would have taken advantage of the distance between himself and the Apaches, and the station would be a good place to fort up if he could reach it in time.
But that was no longer an option. If he turned around, the Apaches would cut across his trail for sure. All he could do was try to stay ahead of them.
It didn’t help that he’d already been pushing his horse pretty hard, try
ing to get back to Tucson and carry the news to Smiler Coe as fast as he could. Even though the bay had more speed than the Indian ponies, if they were fresher, that would negate any advantage Caddo might have.
As he leaned forward over the horse’s neck and urged it on, he turned his head to the right and looked back over his shoulder. The Apaches were still angling toward him, cutting the gap between him and them with every lunging stride of their mounts.
Caddo tried to count them. At least five, he thought, probably more. It could be a scouting party. No telling how many more might be around. They might have already heard that shot and be on their way.
He thought about stopping right where he was, getting off the horse, and making a fight of it. He could pull the bay down on the ground, take cover behind it, and try to pick off some of the Apaches with his rifle. If he downed two or three of them, they might decide capturing or killing him would come at too high a price.
But they had rifles, too, he reminded himself. If he opened fire on them, they would return the shots. Almost certainly, his horse would be killed. Even if the savages turned tail, that would leave him on foot, a long way from anywhere. He might be able to walk back to Flat Rock Crossing, but his feet would be two gigantic blisters by the time he got there.
He wouldn’t stop and make a stand just yet, he decided. He kept pushing on.
Close enough behind him, he thought he could hear the Apaches’ shrill, exultant whoops over the pounding hoofbeats. That was just his imagination, he knew, but it made chills go through him, anyway.
Caddo was past the butte where the Apaches had been hiding. The area was off the beaten path, with no regular trails going through. Stark desolation surrounded him. Water could be found—unless the weather had been extraordinarily dry—but an hombre had to know where to look for it.
Something loomed up from the mostly flat landscape in front of him. He squinted and saw that it was a pile of rocks. Why those boulders, each of them weighing tons, were sitting there with nothing around them, he had no idea, but he wasn’t going to question his good luck. He pointed the horse toward the rocks. “Come on, you bastard. Make it there and we might both have a chance to live through this.”
The horse seemed to understand. Its legs stretched out farther as it raced across the rocky, sand-strewn ground.
It was a race, plain and simple, with Caddo’s life as the stakes. If he could make it to that nest of boulders and take cover there, he could pick off several of the pursuers. He was a good enough shot with a rifle that he was sure of that.
On the other hand, he had only a couple canteens of water and a little bit of food. Those supplies wouldn’t last very long. If the Apaches decided to lay siege to the place, in the end he’d probably die anyway, one way or the other.
What he had to do was kill enough of them to make the others abandon their efforts to capture him. But every Apache he killed might just make the others more determined to have their grisly sport with him.
He was in a hell of a bad spot, no getting around that.
First, he actually had to reach the rocks.
The Apaches had failed to cut him off. The angle they had wasn’t quite good enough. They were directly behind him, about three hundred yards back. The boulders were still half a mile away. Caddo thought he could make it, as long as his horse didn’t make any missteps.
The few minutes it took to cross that half-mile were the longest of Caddo’s brutal life. He forgot all about Tom Ballard and Smiler Coe and Avery Tuttle. His entire universe had boiled down to him, his horse, those howling savages behind him, and the heat and dust that surrounded them all. The sky turned blood red behind him as the sun dipped to the horizon. That crimson hue washed over the Arizona landscape and made it look like something out of a nightmare.
The rocks loomed larger and larger ahead of him, and suddenly he was among them. He hauled back hard on the reins to bring the horse to a skidding stop and was out of the saddle while the animal was still moving. He grabbed the butt of his Winchester and dragged it out of the sheath strapped under the fender. He hit the ground running and stumbling and twisted around toward one of the big slabs of rock so he could start shooting.
He worked the rifle’s lever and lifted it to his shoulder. Before he could fire, he heard something behind him and glanced over his shoulder to see a bronzed figure clad only in high-topped moccasins, loincloth, and blue headband lunging at him and swinging some sort of club.
Terror leaped into Caddo’s heart as he saw the snarling face framed by long, midnight-black hair.
In that instant, he knew what had happened. The Apaches had played him for a fool. When they first spotted him, they’d sent this man trotting out to the rocks to lie in wait while they herded the foolish white man right to him. And Caddo had cooperated, galloping straight to his death.
He tried to jerk the Winchester around and fire, but he was too late. The club smashed against his head with stunning force, sent his hat flying, and made him drop the rifle as he toppled to the ground. The Apache hadn’t hit him hard enough to smash his skull and kill him.
That would have been better.
He felt strong hands on him, heard the swift rataplan of hoofbeats as the others rode up, and muttered a curse as he tried to force his muscles to work, to fight back. A foot slammed into his groin, doubling him up in agony.
Caddo knew they were ripping his clothes off, stretching out his arms and legs and lashing them to stakes they pounded into the ground. Then the knives came out and he started to scream.
The shrieking went on for a long time as the sunlight reddened more and more and then began to fade away. The screams didn’t stop until long in the night.
CHAPTER 22
The stagecoach reached the way station at Hondo Wells a short time after dark. Catherine Bradshaw, Mrs. Bates, and George were all tired, and Smoke could tell they were glad the coach would be stopping for the night instead of continuing on as it would have if a relief driver and guard had been available. Even Sally, who had a core of steel, as Smoke had seen demonstrated many times, looked weary after a day of stagecoach travel.
A man named Whitney ran the station and greeted the passengers. “Got a pot of stew, some fresh-baked bread, and plenty of hot coffee inside, folks. The rooms just have cots, but I promise you, after sitting on those bench seats all day, once you stretch out those cots will feel almost as good as feather beds.”
“I doubt that,” Catherine muttered sullenly as she and some of the other passengers began to drift inside.
Smoke noticed him sidling over to Scratchy and Mike with a worried expression replacing the smile he had displayed earlier. Smoke drifted closer to hear what the stationmaster was going to say.
“I didn’t really expect to see you boys. Couple riders came by earlier, stopped to water their horses, and said the Apaches were out again on this side of the border.”
“Just a raidin’ party from across the border,” Scratchy said. “They jumped a supply wagon . . . maybe. Ain’t no real proof even of that.”
“Well, there’s proof now,” Whitney said grimly. “Last night they hit a ranch south of here, burned it out, stole most of the stock, and killed all the folks who ran the place except for one fifteen-year-old boy who managed to get away with an arrow in his shoulder. He made it to one of the other spreads scattered down that way and told the tale.”
“He was sure it was Apaches?” Scratchy asked with a frown.
“Certain sure. And that isn’t all. There’s been reports that some of the bucks have jumped the reservation. They probably heard about the raids from south of the border and decided they want to get in on the sport.” Whitney gave a glum shake of his head. “It looks like it might be shaping up to be a general uprising, Scratchy. I’d tell you to turn around and head back to Ajo, but hell, you might be better off just trying to make a run for Tucson. There’s no way of being sure where the hostiles are.”
“I ain’t turnin’ back,” Scratchy decla
red. “That ain’t the way I do things. I’ll stick to the schedule and make the reg’lar run. We can get through all right, can’t we, Mike?”
“I reckon.”
Smoke didn’t think he sounded entirely convinced, though. The young shotgun guard was concerned—as anybody with a lick of sense would be.
Whitney glanced over at Smoke as if just noticing that he’d been listening. “Mister, you don’t need to worry—”
“You don’t have to try to reassure this hombre, Hal,” Scratchy broke in. “He ain’t a reg’lar passenger. This here is Smoke Jensen. The old fella who went inside with Mrs. Jensen is that old mountain man they call Preacher. They could lose half the bark on ’em and still have more than anybody else in these parts.”
“Smoke Jensen, eh?” Whitney put out his hand. “I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Jensen. I’ve heard a considerable amount about you.”
“The pleasure’s mine, Mr. Whitney,” Smoke said as he gripped the man’s hand. “I appreciate the plain talk about the dangers we’re facing. We wouldn’t be heading for Tucson by stage if there was any other way.”
By way of explanation, Scratchy put in, “Railroad bridge is out between Casa Grande and Tucson. Likely won’t be fixed until after Christmas. These folks didn’t want to wait that long.”
Mike added, “They didn’t know they had to worry about Apaches when they started out, though.”
“Anybody who wants to stay here until the army has a chance to corral the hostiles is welcome to do so,” Whitney offered. “The station has a lot thicker walls than a stagecoach does.”
“The station don’t move, though,” Scratchy said.
Smoke smiled. “I reckon we’ll push on, although I don’t speak for anybody but myself. Everybody else seems anxious to get to Tucson, though. I expect you’ll still have a full coach tomorrow morning, Scratchy.”
“I hope so,” the burly driver rumbled. “My job is to deliver all you folks safely to where you’re goin’, and by golly, I intend to do it!”
* * *
Mike was inside the station, headed toward the stove where a pot of coffee was staying warm, when Catherine Bradshaw approached him.
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