Two legs of the tripod were smashed into splinters, while the tangent screw used for adjusting the mirror horizontally was missing, lost in the dirt or rocks. The crossbar was bent and the sighting rod had been broken.

  He had been given two mirrors, but neither had survived. The cases were fine. The contents were worthless.

  Sam Florence had made his way down from the canyon’s top and appeared to be looking for Holden, who raised his hat off his head and began waving it. Florence had been scouting for too many years to miss that, and he raised what appeared to be a heavy rifle in a greeting. Holden realized the scout had rifles in both hands, which he leaned against the side of the canyon wall. The scout turned as Ben Masterson came into view. Masterson was also holding rifles, and these he leaned against the wall near the two Sam Florence had brought down.

  The old scout pointed toward Holden, and both Masterson and Florence made their way to where Holden sat.

  They saw the wreckage of the field heliograph, as Holden kicked some dirt over the busted glass.

  “Be hard to send that message now,” Masterson said.

  “Hell.” Sam Florence shook his head. “I never had a whole lot of faith in those sun mirrors no-how.”

  Holden rose. “Yeah. And we have to get those rifles back before we could worry about letting Smythe know we were successful anyhow.”

  “You did good,” said Florence.

  Holden just shrugged. “Not bad yourself.”

  Florence laughed. “I staked you out. You staked me out. That’s the way the game’s played . . . sometimes.”

  “I thought I didn’t do too badly myself,” Ben Masterson said.

  Florence chuckled, and Holden let a weary smile form on his face.

  “We’re alive,” Holden said. “That means we all did pretty good.”

  “Come on,” Florence said. “I want to show you something.”

  “Me, too,” Masterson said, and the three men walked back down the canyon.

  * * *

  Sam Florence picked up two of the rifles he had leaned against the wall, and lifted the one in his right hand toward Holden. Holden was looking at the other two rifles, the ones Ben Masterson had retrieved. They were brothers and sisters to the rifle belonging to the bandit that Holden had shot dead.

  “I think,” Sam Florence said, “this is what we came after.”

  Holden took the rifle the old scout was offering him. He hefted it. Heavy. He didn’t care much for the size and weight, but he was an officer. Officers in the US Cavalry could use their own weapons, and Holden liked the Winchester. Just as he liked the heavy Schofield .45.

  “Cartridge casing’s stuck in the barrel of this one.” The old scout pulled open the trapdoor and showed the jammed shell.

  Ben Masterson took the two Springfields he had carried down the slope. Holden nodded at the Mexican he had killed, and the rifle leaning against the juniper branch.

  That made five Springfield rifles, and not the 1873 models. They had to be the new weapons for they had scarcely been fired, showed little signs of use, and despite multiple shots by inexperienced riflemen, they smelled of grease and wax.

  “Well,” Sam Florence said with a mirthless chuckle. “We have five of those valuable rifles back. You reckon that would satisfy Colonel Smythe back at Fort Bowie?”

  No one else laughed.

  Ben Masterson leaned one rifle against the canyon wall and then opened the breech of the other heavy rifle.

  “I don’t think,” the veteran soldier said, “he’d want any of these rifles. I don’t think any man who depends on a rifle to survive would want any one of these. They ain’t nothin’ but junk. Worthless junk.”

  CHAPTER 55

  Three of the five weapons had jammed. The copper casing remained in two of those, but Sam Florence had managed to pry out the metal from one of the Springfields by using his knife.

  “One of the boys I shot down,” Masterson said, “was doing that when I got the drop on him.”

  “Maybe,” Florence said, “they don’t know how to shoot.”

  “Maybe,” Grat Holden said, “Custer’s command at the Little Bighorn did not know how to shoot, either.”

  All three of them knew that story.

  Lieutenant Colonel George Armstrong Custer, four years earlier, had led most of his Seventh Cavalry against the Sioux and Cheyenne in Montana Territory. There, they had charged a massive village. There, Custer had fallen with his brothers and most of his immediate command.

  At first, a few know-it-alls had blamed the Army for sending men with single-shot rifles against Indians who had, through murder or gunrunners, fought with repeating rifles such as the Winchester, Henry, and Spencer. But other soldiers, those who had survived the slaughter fighting with Major Reno and Captain Benteen, told a different story.

  As the Springfield rifles fired repeatedly, the copper cartridges expanded from the heat of the barrel. Getting a spent casing out of the breech proved almost impossible. Soldiers had to use their knives, or a bayonet, or anything just to reload the weapon.

  If, of course, you were to follow the field manual for the Model 1873 rifle, you would merely take the rifle’s cleaning rod and ram it down the barrel, pushing out the offending piece of copper. That might work fine for the foot soldiers, but there had been no infantry at Little Bighorn. Cavalry soldiers were given carbines, not rifles, and carbines did not come with cleaning rods.

  “Springfield rifles have been jamming on us for years,” Holden said. “That’s nothing new.”

  “Don’t I know it,” Masterson said.

  “I guess you do,” Holden said, remembering.

  Two years earlier, Sergeant Ben Masterson had led five troopers on a scouting party that had been ambushed by eight or ten Chiricahua Apaches. The soldiers and the Indians had engaged in a running fight to a water hole, where the boys fought them off.

  “I let the boys do the shootin’,” Masterson reminded Holden and Florence. “I was the fix-it man. Somebody would hand me a jammed carbine, and I’d claw or cut it out, reload it, pass it to another soldier about the time I got handed another Trapdoor. That’s all I did. Just cut out a cartridge, reloaded a rifle, then got another jammed Springfield. As you know, Lieutenant, we enlisted men don’t get our picks of rifles.”

  Holden nodded.

  “You’d think the boys at that factory in Springfield would have come up with a way to fix it,” Sam Florence said.

  “Oh.” Masterson took a swallow from his canteen, sloshed the water around in his mouth, and spit onto a cactus. “The Springfield’s a good rifle. It’ll kill a man, kill a horse, and maybe even both at five hundred yards. It shoots hard. It kicks hard. And if you hit a man with a .45-70 slug, that man ain’t likely to be gettin’ up no time soon.”

  “So the cartridge is the problem,” Florence said.

  “Copper expands with heat,” Holden said. “At some point, the Ordnance Department of this man’s Army might come around to discovering that themselves. And maybe they’ll find something better suited.”

  “Like brass,” Masterson said.

  Holden shrugged.

  Masterson pulled one of the rifles close and began rubbing the dust off with his bandanna. “Look. The Trapdoor we’ve been using has problems, but it’s still better than anything else I’ve shot in the Army. It’s not the rifle that causes the jams. That’s the cartridge. But this here improvement isn’t an improvement at all.” He held the rifle up as though for inspection. “This piece of junk has plenty of other problems.”

  He tapped the rod underneath the barrel. “This comes loose. How many times did those hombres shoot at us? A dozen? Fifteen? Maybe not even as many as ten shots apiece. The spring here is supposed to hold the rod in place, but it isn’t working. You tell me that a spring’s going to come loose after ten, twelve, fifteen shots. That’s not going to work. That’s not going to work at all.”

  “That can be fixed,” Holden said.

  “Sure. That’s why they sent those rifles here. To get tested by real soldiers in the field. I’m just saying that if you give me my druthers, I’m sticking with the 1873 model. Because maybe I can deal with a cleaning rod that falls apart. Maybe I’d just shuck the damned thing and find me a willow switch, some axle grease, and a handkerchief to clean my rifle. But this here”—he touched the front sight and then slid his hand down the barrel to the rear sight—“this is a big problem when your life is on the line.”

  Florence said, “The rifle doesn’t shoot straight.”

  “Right.” Masterson’s head bobbed. “I shot. I missed. High and wide. And I don’t miss often. Hell, I don’t miss at all. So maybe that’s just one gun. But the fellow shooting at me, he missed, too.”

  “Maybe he was a lousy shot,” Holden said, but he knew that wasn’t the case. He shook his head. “By all rights, I should be dead myself. The man I killed had me dead to rights.”

  Florence’s head bobbed in agreement, too.

  “When the gunsmiths at Springfield toyed with the design,” Masterson said, “they messed up the . . . oh, hell . . . what’s the word I’m lookin’ for?”

  “Ballistics,” Grat Holden said.

  “Right. You change a gun, even just add fractions of an inch to a barrel, and you change how that baby’s going to fire. We know we have to sight in, but these guns are well beyond that. These guns are pretty much worthless. That’s my field report anyhow. Not that nobody gives a damn what a fightin’ cavalry sergeant has to say.” He dropped the rifle on the ground. “Besides, these guns are for infantry boys. As long as Springfield doesn’t try to saddle us horse soldiers with guns like this—” He spit into the dirt again.

  CHAPTER 56

  “So maybe,” Sam Florence said, “you’re suggesting that we let Jed Foster take his rifles and sell them? Ride back to Fort Bowie, let Colonel Smythe know that we’ve done him a favor. We’ve gotten back five rifles out of two hundred and fifty, but the two hundred and forty-five left won’t pose a problem to anybody but the fools shooting them?”

  “I ain’t sayin’ that at all, Florence,” Masterson said, stiffening. “You put two hundred rifles in the hands of Apaches or Mexican bandits—”

  “Or an ex-Confederate who wants to start the Civil War again.” Grat Holden said.

  Masterson nodded. “Blood will be spilt on both sides of the border. The guns might not be worth a damn, but they can still kill. They killed the lieutenant’s horse. Came pretty damned close to killing the three of us. We got to get those guns back. No doubt about that. The three of us.” He shook his head and chuckled. “Three of us. Against Foster and whoever he lined up. And whoever else wants to buy the weapons from him.”

  “A Mexican bandit named Amonte Negro,” Sam Florence said. “And most likely the Apaches.”

  “And Colonel Muncie’s Confederate renegades,” Holden added.

  “Against the three of us.”

  “Two,” Sam Florence said. He rose, his knees popping, and pulled his hat down lower on his head. “You keep forgetting that I owe Jed Foster my hide and hair. I told you I’d get you to Rancho Los Cielos and ask someone I know there to get you to The Canyon of The Sorrows. And that’s as far as I’m takin’ you two.”

  That took the wind out of the sails of Grat Holden and Ben Masterson.

  * * *

  They found the horses of the bandits on the far side of the canyon. Five horses. Five dead killers. That’s all there had been because surely Mexican bandits would not have left any horses behind.

  Holden removed the saddle from one of the dead men’s mounts, and replaced it with his own saddle and tack. The five 1880 Springfield rifles he wrapped in one of the dead assassin’s saddle blanket and bedroll, and strapped the heavy package behind his saddle.

  “If we’re gonna lug those rifles across the desert,” Ben Masterson said, “we ought to get a pack mule.”

  “You can leave them in Rancho Los Cielos,” Florence said. “That guide I told you about knows all the hiding places this side of the border.”

  They buried the dead, but not very well, covering the bodies with stones and sand and brush. Animals would have to do some work to dig up those bodies, but not that much work.

  After that, Sam Florence led the two soldiers out of uniform down the path toward Rancho Los Cielos.

  “Maybe . . . they might have left a couple more boys behind. Just in case.” Ben Masterson offered this as they came toward another canyon, although it was really nothing more than a winding, narrow arroyo.

  “I don’t think so,” Sam Florence said. “Not enough hiding places here.”

  Florence was right. All they saw were a few jackrabbits in the shade and some ravens circling overhead. They climbed out of the arroyo, circled around a handful of junipers, and rode toward what some people called a village.

  Sam Florence brought his pinto to a stop, and swung out of the saddle. Holding the reins, he knelt and put his right hand in a wagon track. Even in his saddle, Grat Holden could tell the track was deep. He could also see that there had been more than one wagon. By his count, there had to be four.

  “How long ago?” Holden asked.

  “Not long,” the scout answered, and he looked down the road, away from the village of Rancho Los Cielos. “Not long at all.”

  “A day?” Masterson asked.

  “An hour,” the scout replied.

  Masterson sat up straight in the saddle. “You mean the captain was here . . . during our little fight with those Mexicans?”

  “No. I’m saying these tracks were made an hour or so ago. I’m not saying these tracks were made by four wagons carrying stolen Springfield rifles. Not yet.”

  “But you know they were,” Masterson said.

  The old man came up, but kept looking south.

  “Why would he wait?” Holden asked. “He hired some men to ambush us. Why wait? Why push his luck?”

  “You know the answer as well as I do,” the scout said, and he grabbed the horn and pulled himself back into the saddle.

  “A gamble?” Holden shook his head at the thought.

  “The captain’s always gambling,” Masterson said, just to offer his thoughts on the subject.

  “Colonel Smythe could have sent a whole company here,” Holden said.

  “He could have. Maybe he should have. Your pal decided to bet that he wouldn’t. Then he stuck around to see if he was right.”

  “He’s no pal of mine, Florence,” Holden said.

  The scout had the reins, but he kept looking down the trail.

  “Should we follow him?” Masterson asked.

  “No,” Florence said.

  Masterson countered: “The trail’s fresh.”

  “Our horses ain’t,” Florence said.

  “It doesn’t take fresh horses to run down four wagons filled with ammunition and rifles that weigh a ton,” Masterson said.

  The scout pointed out the hoofprints that showed in the sand next to and sometimes on top of the wagon tracks. “You want to go up against that many riders with guns, go ahead. Me? I’m riding into Rancho Los Cielos. And if you want to meet the person I said could get you to that trading place, you can ride into town with me. You want to risk getting killed, you ride south and follow the tracks. Who knows? One of those boys might have figured out how to make that 1880 Springfield Trapdoor shoot straight.”

  CHAPTER 57

  “This town’s dead,” Ben Masterson said as the three men rode down the main street, the only street, in Rancho Los Cielos.

  “By this burg’s standards, this is a boom.” Sam Florence pointed at the dun gelding tethered in front of the place known as Mariscos. No horses were tethered in front of The Cantina That Has No Name, but a few worn-out mules lounged in the shade of some trees near the well and next to a barn and a lean-to.

  The mules looked like they had been pulling heavy wagons all the way from, say, Fort Bowie in Arizona Territory.

  “Foster got fresh mules,” Holden said.

  “A lot of them,” Florence said, “from the tracks I saw. And from all the dung in that corral, more mules than he needed to pull four Army wagons.”

  “Maybe he had men riding them,” Holden said.

  “Maybe. But I don’t think so.”

  “Where’s your guide?” Holden asked, but a movement caught his attention. His right hand landed on the butt of his Schofield as a young blond-headed man—not yet out of his teens judging by the complexion of his face—came out of Mariscos.

  Holden studied the lean pockmarked kid as he smiled like he was taking an afternoon walk and grinning his greetings at the three strangers. The boy, with his blond hair, pale eyes and fair skin, looked about as out of place in a border village like Rancho Los Cielos as . . . well . . . Grat Holden, Sam Florence, and Ben Masterson.

  “Howdy,” the boy said in a Texas brogue.

  Only Grat Holden watched the kid. Masterson kept his eyes on the place called Mariscos. Sam Florence turned in the saddle and looked everywhere else in town, including the little cantina on the other side of the street.

  “I been waitin’ on you fellows,” the boy said.

  “Is that a fact?” Holden noticed the punk wore a Colt low on his hip. The boy’s eyes said he was just crazy enough to pull it at any moment.

  “It is a fact indeed. You Army boys?”

  “Maybe,” Holden said. There was no point in lying to the kid. He had to be one of Jed Foster’s hired guns, and if Captain Foster had left him behind alone, then Holden figured there was more to this punk than met the naked eye.

  “You know”—the kid stepped into the street and backed away from the three riders, moving to the middle of the dusty little road that was more path than street—“I tried to join the Army down at Fort Davis. That’s in the Davis Mountains. Western part of the great state of Texas.”

  “I’ve been there,” Holden said.

  “Texas?” The boy’s eyes lighted up. “Or Fort Davis?”

  “Both,” Holden said.

  “Oh.” The kid shook his head. “They wouldn’t let me in. Join up. I wanted to. Thought it would be fun just to kill and scalp me a mess of Comanches or Apaches or Sioux or Cheyenne or even just a bunch of lazy digger Indians.”