The Winchester bucked. A splotch of crimson appeared just below the ribs in the center of the Mexican’s gray shirt, and he staggered back. The Remington slipped out of his fingers, striking a rock, and discharging a .44-caliber bullet into the dirt. Florence was sitting up and levering another cartridge into his rifle. The Mexican bandit was dying, but he reached behind inside his shirt.

  Florence shot him again, driving him to the edge of the cliff. Somehow the man managed to pull a leather thong from underneath the gray shirt. The crucifix slid off the broken thong as he toppled over the side, crying out as he plunged to the rocks and brambles below.

  “Hell, mister,” Sam Florence said apologetically. “I didn’t know that’s what you was reachin’ for.”

  CHAPTER 51

  The screaming man crashed into a dead juniper, breaking limbs and smashing his lifeless body on the rocks and cactus.

  Grat Holden spit the taste of bitterness and disgust out of his mouth. The echoes of rifle fire and the dying man’s screams faded in the canyon. Grat had seen two of the bushwhackers plunge to the bottom, one on each side. He had to figure Sam Florence had killed another up there. Holden looked down the ridge and the high walls to his left. By all logic, Ben Masterson had killed the second bandit on that side of the canyon.

  Four dead. Most likely, anyway. So how many were left? Or had there only been four?

  The little ambush had turned into a guessing game.

  Holden studied both sides of the canyon’s floor. Four men. Two on each side of the canyon, but up high. That could do the job, but that’s not how he would have staged the affair. You needed at least one man on the canyon floor. But where?

  So far, all Holden had done was provide a target for the sharpshooters up on the high ground. He had some cuts on his face from splintered bullets and rocks kicked up by gunfire. He had a dead horse, and that really got his dander up, even though the man who had killed that fine horse was now dead, too.

  Holden waited. A minute passed. Then another. He waited five more, but still heard nothing.

  He had to work up enough spit in his throat to swallow, and he didn’t know for certain if what little saliva he could form would do the job. He raised his left hand to the side of his mouth and called out, “Masterson?”

  His voice bounced across the canyon floor.

  “Yeah!” Masterson called out.

  So the old sergeant was still alive.

  Once that echo faded, Holden turned to his right and called up toward the canyon’s rim, “Florence?”

  Again, the name rang up and down the canyon.

  “Yo!” came the response, and that syllable also echoed long and lasting.

  Holden did not look toward the voices. He did not even look at the top of the canyon. His eyes were locked on the floor and the myriad hiding spots a bushwhacker might set up for a killing shot.

  The canyon measured roughly two hundred yards before it opened into rough terrain and raw desert, and there had to be two hundred thousand good hiding places in those six hundred feet. But which place would be the most effective to lay down a murderous barrage?

  Holden stood.

  “Florence!” he yelled then listened to his echo and, eventually, the old scout’s terse reply.

  “Other side of the rocks,” Holden called out. “On the floor below Masterson’s position.” He let those echoes fade. “Empty your Winchester into those.”

  At the first crack and whine from Sam Florence’s repeater, Grat Holden was moving, hugging the wall below the scout. He moved quickly, weaving from rock to tree, boulder to cactus, while lead slammed into rocks and whined and ricocheted, splintering branches, clipping leaves, and ringing like thunder in his ears.

  Fifteen shots from the Winchester sounded like five times more. One ricocheting bullet even buzzed over his head, but he had covered half the distance he needed. With luck, the killer . . . if anyone was indeed still left . . . had kept his head down during Florence’s cannonade. With even better luck, he was dead or dying, torn apart by .44-40 slugs.

  Waiting, catching his breath, studying the terrain ahead, Grat Holden found his patience. Another five minutes passed. He did not even move to wipe the sweat from his forehead. One thing he’d realized was that if he yelled, the echoes would make his location impossible for a bushwhacker to figure out.

  There were some times Grat Holden did not care for command. An officer had to make decisions, decisions that could lead to the death of another soldier, or in this case, even a scout. If you couldn’t live with that, there was no reason to put on a uniform. It wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t decent. But, hell, neither was war.

  “Florence?” he yelled.

  “Yo!”

  The echoes faded.

  “They must be gone.”

  Gone bounced across the canyon.

  Holden sucked in a breath, exhaled, and said, “See if you can spot dust.”

  He had no time to feel repulsed or remorse. He was setting the old man up as bait, and would likely get just one chance to save the scout’s life. He could have chosen Masterson—hell, he might have even preferred to risk the temperamental sergeant’s hide—but a man in the rocks would likely be protected by those rocks if he had to take aim at Ben Masterson. If he wanted a shot at Sam Florence, he would have to show himself. And Holden had a pretty good idea where that man would be. Where he had to be.

  He did not look up the hill toward where Sam Florence would be showing himself. He looked at the rocks, and when the rifle barrel rose, Grat Holden let his Winchester do the talking.

  CHAPTER 52

  The rapid tat-tat-tat of a repeating rifle faded away, and Jed Foster poured the rest of the tequila in his dirty glass into the dust. The liquor had lost its flavor, and he knew better than to get drunk that afternoon.

  “Hell.” He tossed the glass into a water trough that was only half full.

  He wanted to curse Amonte Negro for his cowardice, his stupidity, and his frugality. That blackheart had the six new-model Springfield rifles to do an ambush and he had sent maybe five men—perhaps six, but not from the sounds Foster had heard—to do a job that should have taken ten. Maybe the bandit figured if he was getting only six rifles, then those were all the men he should risk.

  On the other hand, Foster figured, that meant he had six fewer men he’d have to deal with. No. Not six. He knew Amonte Negro well enough. The captain of the so-called revolutionaries would have kept one of those new Springfields for himself.

  “Maybe,” Foster said, “it’ll blow up in that bastard’s face.”

  He called out, “Whittaker!” and one of his men stepped away from The Cantina That Has No Name.

  “Yeah, boss.”

  “Get the wagons hitched. We’re moving out. Now. Pronto. Don’t dally. Don’t ask questions.”

  “The gin bottles?” Whittaker asked.

  “Take them with you. Drink them at our next camp if you want or pour them out. I don’t care. Just get moving.”

  He whirled and shouted into Mariscos. “All of you. We’re pulling out. Now. Pronto. Get moving. We don’t have much time.”

  Whittaker barked orders at the men who had been lounging inside or outside The Cantina That Has No Name and those who had stepped outside listening to the distant reports of a battle a few miles from Rancho Los Cielos.

  Seeing the men do their work, Whittaker moved to Jed Foster.

  “You think the Mex’s ambush party failed, boss?”

  “You heard what I heard,” Foster said. He was checking the loads in his Colt revolver.

  “I heard shots. That’s all I heard, boss. And those shots were a good distance from here.”

  Foster smiled and dropped the Colt into his holster. “Guns have different sounds, Whittaker.”

  He was a young man, eager and a good gunman. Foster knew that much about him, but that youthfulness had one disadvantage. The kid lacked experience.

  “You heard shots. I heard four single-shot rifles. A couple pistols, most likely double-action. And a smattering of repeating rifles. Winchesters. Marlins. Maybe a Henry. But not a Spencer. Not enough power for a Spencer.”

  The kid was amazed. “You could tell all that, boss?”

  “I know a few things about guns, Whittaker.” He winked. “I know a lot more about women, though.”

  The boy laughed.

  Foster put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “So we’re pulling out. Heading to The Canyon of The Sorrows. I’m going to leave you behind, Whittaker, because I trust you. Because I know you can do the job.”

  The boy straightened. “I’ll do my best, boss.”

  “That’s all I can ask for, Whittaker. Negro’s boys failed. I shouldn’t have left that job to a bunch of stupid little greasers. I should have sent you. So now I’m sending you.”

  “Where do I go?”

  “You stay right here. Stay here and when they come, kill them. Then rejoin us where we’ll be selling those wagonloads of rifles and ammunition. Can you do that for me, Whittaker?”

  “I’ll kill a hundred of them for you, boss.”

  Foster chuckled. “I don’t think you’ll need that many bullets, son. By my guess, there should only be three or four. And with luck, maybe Amonte’s bunch got rid of one or two of those.”

  “Piece of cake, boss.”

  “See you in a day or so, lad.”

  Foster looked around. The men were doing a pretty good job of hitching the wagons with fresh mules. He found another outlaw, the best rider of the bunch, and ordered him to mount his best horse and raise dust . . . and keep raising dust . . . until he had caught up to Reese. “Have him and the others head straight to The Canyon of The Sorrows. Don’t stop. Don’t stop for anything.”

  “What about that crazy gray-coated ol’ coot?” the rider asked.

  “We’re not going to worry about him for the time being. Go!”

  They would be moving out in ten minutes. That’s all the time he needed. Jed Foster walked into The Cantina That Has No Name, saw the Mexican girl eating a bowl of beans with corn tortillas and walked up to her. She did not look up.

  “There will be some men coming into town soon,” he said.

  She ate.

  “I’m just telling you that these men will be gringos. Yankee soldiers. Now if your revolutionary friend Amonte Negro wanted to do something for the Mexican people, he could do a lot by wiping out those old boys. And maybe your hero can do a whole lot better than he did a few minutes ago.”

  She looked up.

  That’s what he wanted. He slammed his fist into her face and watched her fall onto the floor. When she pushed herself up, he brought his left foot up and caught her in the ribs. The old man behind the bar sat up, and then sat back down and stared at the dirt on the floor.

  Soledad Tadeo rolled onto her back, bleeding from both nostrils, clutching her ribs. Tears filled her eyes, but she showed no fear when Jed Foster knelt beside her.

  “Most ladies think of me as a dashing young man, a catch to be sure. You look at me as if I’m dirt. So you remember what just happened here, little lady. And if you ever shoot at a whiskey bottle I’m holding again, you better adjust your aim.”

  CHAPTER 53

  Grat Holden fired the Winchester from his hip while he charged the rocky fortress. Dust and bits of rock flew from the rocks, and the barrel of the Mexican’s rifle disappeared. Holden did not turn from the rocks and the man he charged. He did not check on Sam Florence above. He did not look to his left to see if Ben Masterson was taking a hand. He just jacked the lever and pulled the trigger.

  He adjusted his aim as he ran. He sent the bullets at an angle into the far wall of the little side cave. White marks began appearing on the blackened rock wall, and Holden could hear the whines as the bullets bounced off the rocks. He even thought he could hear the screams of the man hiding in those rocks.

  The Winchester bucked and barked. Holden smelled the gun smoke. Then the man dived out low, hitting the ground and rolling over while Holden slid to a stop and swung the .44-40 at the rolling man.

  He was a big Mexican with a black beard, buckskins, and a flowery shirt. Coming to his knees, he brought the big rifle up.

  Holden’s feet slipped from under him, and he landed on his back as he pulled the trigger. The bullet sang harmlessly into the rocks and trees. The bandit had his Springfield ready. The weapon roared, and Holden felt the fire of the blast as the bullet singed the hair above his left ear.

  “Hijo de la puta!” the Mexican roared, and opened the breech to the rifle. Quickly he gave up and flung the rifle at Holden, who blocked the massive Springfield with the Winchester. The big single-shot rifle dropped to the ground. Holden swung the Winchester up as the man clawed for a short-barreled Colt holstered on his right hip.

  Working the lever, Holden touched the trigger. He heard the hammer strike and nothing else. He had emptied the magazine. He threw the rifle at the big man while diving to his left and drawing the Schofield from that holster.

  The Winchester caught the big man in the belly, sent him staggering into the dirt while his bullet blasted a cactus near Holden into oblivion.

  Both men lay in the dirt, arms stretched out in front of them, right hands gripping revolvers.

  Holden spit out sand and thumbed back the heavy hammer. The Mexican cursed and cocked his Colt.

  A pistol roared, and for an instant, Holden found himself wondering who had shot first. Then it dawned on him that if he had not touched the trigger first, he would not be thinking anything at all.

  Slowly, Grat Holden pushed himself up, rolled over, and leaned against the rock behind him. The Mexican lay on his side, an ugly hole in the center of his forehead. He still clutched the short-barreled revolver, the hammer cocked, the finger on the trigger. It had been that close. Too close.

  Holden was too tired to move, but no one else was shooting at him. That meant there had been only five bushwhackers. If there were others, they had fled. He looked up and saw Sam Florence standing on the edge of the canyon’s top to Holden’s right. To his left, he spotted Ben Masterson waving his hat.

  Holden lifted his gun in return, and the two men began making their way back down the trail that ran across the top of the canyon. He figured it would take them ten minutes, probably twenty, to get down to the floor. Somehow, Holden got himself to a standing position. He covered the few feet that separated him and the dead man, and slowly, carefully, removed the Colt from the man’s stiffening hand. After lowering the hammer, he shoved the pistol into his waistband and went to check on the other dead men lying on the canyon floor.

  He saw his horse, dead in the rocks, and frowned. That was just like an officer in the cavalry. Officers could order men to their deaths but hated to see a good horse shot down. It wasn’t fair. He hadn’t ridden the horse long enough to really get to know him very well, but it still sickened him.

  Sighing, he walked toward the dead animal, trying to figure out what made the bandits shoot down the horse. It couldn’t have been to keep Holden pinned down. The horse was going the other way.

  It did not matter, he told himself. The horse was dead and there wasn’t a blessed thing he could do about that. Likely, he tried to tell himself, the horses belonging to the men they had killed would be somewhere down the canyon. He’d be able to replace the horse. Yet the closer he got to the dead Morgan, the more he felt like cursing the bandit who had shot down the noble mount.

  The killer of horses had not just put Lieutenant Grat Holden afoot, he had substantially reduced the chance of accomplishing this mission. And the odds had not been anywhere close to Holden’s favor before that little run-in with Mexican bushwhackers.

  CHAPTER 54

  The saddlebags lay fifteen yards away from the dead horse. That fatal gunshot had caused the horse to cartwheel several yards, and the bags had pulled loose from the rawhide thongs meant to keep them connected to the rear of the saddle. The horse’s momentum had basically catapulted the leather bags into the air, where they had smashed against several rocks and boulders that had fallen to the canyon floor during some avalanche or rockslide or mudslide.

  One bag was open, and its contents had spilled out onto the rough rocks and debris.

  Slowly, Holden walked away from the horse—there was nothing he could do for it other than get the saddle and bridle off—and dropped to his knees as he picked up a piece of metal.

  The words of Colonel Smythe rang in his memories.

  “You will carry a heliograph mirror in your saddlebags. If you are successful, you can climb a hill and signal to the closest point.”

  “Hell,” Holden said as he tossed the piece back to the ground near the shattered glass that once had been a mirror.

  “You do know Morse code, don’t you?” the colonel had asked back at Fort Bowie.

  “They still require that at West Point, Colonel,” Holden remembered answering.

  “Then,” Colonel Smythe had ordered, “you will send the message ‘Happy Independence Day.’ ”

  It would be hard to send any message with what was left of the mirror. The shards lay scattered in the rocks and cactus like the smallest of all diamonds.

  Holden dragged the bags away and opened the second one.

  Instructors at West Point had trained Holden that in the experimental method of “sun-signaling,” or as they liked to call it, heliography, the larger the reflected bit of sunlight, the farther away it could be seen.

  A three-inch square of glass could signal observers as far away as ten or twelve miles. Colonel Smythe had outfitted Holden with a four-inch-square, which should be able to cover up to twenty miles. Given the right weather and terrain—Northern Mexico and Southern Arizona Territory usually provided that weather and that landscape—a heliograph might stretch across the sky another twenty miles, increasing the range to forty.

  Grat Holden did not have a shard of glass even an inch square.