Holden looked across the street to see Sam Florence working the Winchester from the doorway to The Cantina That Has No Name. He saw the woman running, weaving, and the Indians charging again. Grat Holden cocked the heavy .45 and charged.

  The Schofield boomed twice as he ran toward the girl, who seemed to change direction and run to him. One Apache, a vicious-looking devil, leaned over in his saddle. He wanted to grab Soledad Tadeo for himself, but Holden dived. His right shoulder took her in the hips and he kept flying, carrying her underneath the Apache’s grasping hand and out of the path of two other horses as they charged past.

  They hit the dirt hard. Holden’s jaw slammed shut so hard he thought for sure he had broken or chipped every tooth in his mouth. She grunted. He rolled over, and tried to find the Schofield he had dropped. Dust blinded him. He heard two more shots, and an echo that sounded more like a cannon. He had heard that roar before, back when he had played sitting duck in the canyon that led from the American border to Rancho Los Cielos. It was an 1880 model Springfield, and that meant Ben Masterson was covering them from Mariscos.

  As long, Holden thought, as that rifle doesn’t jam!

  A bullet tugged at his hat, which somehow had not fallen during the commotion. He heard the roar of the Schofield and through the dust, saw the woman on her knees and firing the big .45 at the backs of the Apaches as they galloped down the street. The gun was so big, so powerful, she had to use both hands to hold it, and she definitely had trouble bringing back the hammer to full cock. But she fired that heavy pistol. And she kept firing.

  He went to her as the hammer snapped hard on an empty chamber.

  “Here.”

  She whirled, her eyes blazing with hatred, but softening slightly when she realized that he was no Apache. He took the gun from her hands, helped her to her feet, and they ran.

  He saw the Apaches at the edge of the road before it turned to head deeper into Mexico. Their horses were hard to control, and they seemed to be arguing with each other again. One pointed at the corral, and Holden guessed that they were pointing at the dead brave they had left behind.

  Apaches, like most Indians, did not like to leave their dead behind. In that regard, they showed the same attitude as officers and enlisted men in the US Cavalry.

  Holden and Soledad reached Mariscos and quickly stepped inside.

  “Where the hell did they come from?” Masterson asked. He tossed one of his Colt Lightning revolvers to the woman.

  Holden leaned against the adobe wall and began reloading the big Schofield.

  He didn’t answer Masterson’s question. He asked another one. “Where in hell is the bartender?”

  Masterson shrugged. “My guess is he’s halfway to Vera Cruz by now.” He moved to the window.

  “They’re coming again!” He pulled back the hammer of the Springfield rifle, bracing the heavy barrel against the frame of the busted window.

  “Eight,” Holden said as he filled the last chamber with a .45-caliber cartridge and cocked the Schofield. “By my count.”

  “All it takes,” Masterson said, “is one.” The Springfield roared.

  An arrow thudded in the wooden post next to Holden as he fired. Another shot tore into the adobe. Some of the Indians were shooting rifles, others were using bows and arrows. Two of them did not stop. They raced past Mariscos and The Cantina That Has No Name and stopped at the corral.

  Holden hoped they were collecting the dead man and the horse. That might mean they had tired of the fight and were withdrawing. He ducked, fired, and watched the Indians spin their horses and kick the sides. They galloped past, and the two who had collected the body of their fallen comrade turned and rode behind Mariscos.

  One Apache remained. He snapped a single-action Colt, sending three shots toward Holden and Masterson and three others at Sam Florence on the other side of the street. He looked to be a younger man, maybe Holden’s age. The Apache shoved the empty Colt into his breechcloth and raised his fist in triumph, turned, kicked his horse, and galloped away, ducking under the shots fired by Sam Florence and Ben Masterson.

  He had a belligerent face, long hair, and a mangled ear. It looked like someone had bitten or torn off the lobe.

  As they rode out of Rancho Los Cielos, Soledad Tadeo screamed. She ran into the street and fired Masterson’s double-action .38 at the last Indian. She kept firing, too, even after she had emptied the six-shooter.

  CHAPTER 72

  Colonel Carlton Smythe sat in his desk staring at the papers the sergeant major had brought before him to sign. Outside his office, the soldiers at Fort Bowie were scattering to the various duties they had been assigned for the day.

  Eventually, reluctantly, he dipped the pen into the inkwell and signed one paper, blew on it, and set it aside to dry. He signed the next paper, did the same, and finished his task quickly. He glanced across the room until his eyes landed on the decanter of brandy. Smythe looked at the clock and checked the time against his pocket watch. It was, he feared, still a bit too early in the day to enjoy a cordial or two. The bugler had just sounded out that mess was over, so Smythe leaned back in his chair and twiddled his thumbs.

  He wasn’t certain how long he had been doing that when he realized that the sergeant major was tapping on the door. Smythe had become an astute observer, learning which way the many men under his command knocked on his door. The sergeant major, of course, knocked the most so guessing his rat-tat-tat-tat was not difficult. Not even worth the challenge.

  “Come in, Sergeant,” he called out and stood.

  The sergeant came in, saluted, and waited for the salute to be returned, which Smythe did half-heartedly. “Corporal Stevens is outside, Colonel.”

  Smythe blinked. He could use that brandy right about now. “Corporal . . . Stevens?”

  “Yes, sir. Dispatch rider. You sent him out to stay with Captain Garrison.”

  Smythe nodded, but that name was as foreign to him as Corporal Stevens. He waited, but the sergeant major offered no more particulars. Smythe swallowed and said, “Captain . . . Garrison?”

  “The heliograph, Colonel,” the noncommissioned officer said. “The one stationed at Dismal Mesa down along the border. Monkeying around with those sun-signalers. . . and keeping an eye out for Lieutenant Holden and Sergeant Masterson.”

  Smythe breathed in deeply and felt his heart begin to race. “Of course, Sergeant. Of course, Well, don’t just stand there, Sergeant, send the corporal in.”

  Within moments, the corporal had replaced the sergeant and the door had been closed. Smythe beamed, saluted the corporal who was covered with dust and looked as though he had not bathed or shaved in months, though he had only been gone for days. He was a thin man, short, with bowed legs and a bronzed face. He weighed next to nothing. But everyone the rank of sergeant or higher swore that he was the best galloper in the man’s Army.

  “Corporal,” Smythe said, having already forgotten the trooper’s name, “you look like you’ve ridden far. I bet some brandy would cut the dust. Let me pour you a glass.”

  “Don’t mind if I do, sir,” the corporal said.

  That made Smythe beam with joy. The way his luck had been going, this corporal would be a teetotaler.

  He filled one snifter, then poured more into a wine- glass. “Sorry, Corporal,” Smythe said as he handed the small cordial to the young rider, “but they have misplaced many of my cordials. I’ll have to use the wineglass myself.”

  Corporal Stevens did not notice the discrepancy. He downed his drink in a second, wet his lips, and set the empty glass on the edge of the counter.

  Smythe carried his large wineglass to the desk, sipping along the way, and settled into his chair. “Let’s hear your report, Corporal,” he said, and took another drink.

  “Well, Colonel. They made it into Mexico. I don’t know how they got there—which way they went, I mean—but I picked up their dust on the other side of Dismal Mesa. They rode into Rancho Los Cielos, using the trail through the canyon instead of the main road. I heard shooting. A lot of shooting. But I obeyed your orders since they were in Mexico by that time and not in the United States. At night, I figured I was off duty, so I got shun of my Army duds, and crossed the border. I reckon whoever had taken shots at them got the worse end of the deal. I saw the lieutenant and the sergeant in that little bitty ol’ town. So they got that far.”

  “You got no further reports?” Smythe asked.

  “Per your orders, I rode hell-bent-for-leather back here to Bowie. Captain Garrison is keeping an eye on the border for their return.”

  “Very good, Corporal. That is all. Tell the sutler that I said it is all right if you have a beer.”

  “Thank you, most kindly, Colonel.” The trooper snapped a salute, spun on his heel, and exited through the door. Smythe followed him, gave the little man enough time to make it outside, and then opened the door and stepped into the antechamber.

  The sergeant major rose and saluted, but Smythe was tired of those formalities. “Sergeant, get Lieutenant Paine. Have him assemble a patrol of ten men, issue rifles and forty rounds of ammunition. Enough food to get us to Dismal Mesa and the border. We will ride out in two hours. That is all, Sergeant. Tell Mr. Paine that I will ride with him.”

  The sergeant major’s eyes almost popped out of their sockets.

  “Tell Mr. Paine that I will command.” Smythe spun, went back to his office, slammed the door shut, and found the wineglass of brandy he had left behind.

  He laughed softly and drank. He would be ready in case Holden and the sergeant made it out of Mexico with those rifles. Then he would ride down upon the men, shoot them as traitors, and have the rifles back in his hands. The Springfield Armory would likely send him a healthy bonus. The general and his staff in Arizona would offer him medals and promotions. That was one scenario.

  And the other? If Holden’s little expedition failed, which, most likely, it would, then Smythe could report that he had chased the coward that had stolen the Springfield rifles to the border, and there, reluctantly he had been forced to stop.

  He wouldn’t get any medals from the general or a reward from Massachusetts or his name in many newspapers for that . . . but he would save his arse and avoid any Court of Inquiry or, God forbid, a court-martial.

  CHAPTER 73

  Holden and Masterson raced into the street after the hotheaded Mexican woman. Across the street, Sam Florence practically fell out of The Cantina That Has No Name, cursing, and stumbling, and coming up with the Winchester ready for any Apaches who dared charge again.

  None did.

  All that was left of the Indians was their dust.

  The scout lowered the rifle and roared at Soledad Tadeo. “What the hell was that—?” He stopped, caught his breath, and lowered his tone and his gaze. “Are you all right?”

  The woman glared at him, then turned her anger to Sergeant Masterson. She pitched the smoking Colt .38 toward him, snapping, “Here, take your pistol.” She turned around, cursed and said, “I must go catch up my horse.” She started walking away.

  Sam Florence said, “You’ll never catch him by walking. Hold on! Damn it, Soledad, I said stop! Now!”

  She did.

  The scout turned around and moved into The Cantina That Has No Name. Moments later, he led his pinto horse out, stepped into the saddle, and the mustang exploded into a gallop. The woman stopped, drew a breath, and moved to the dead bartender on the street.

  Sergeant Masterson was already kneeling by him, checking for a pulse that everyone knew would not be found. He kept his eye on the dust.

  Holden knelt beside the dead Mexican just as Masterson let the hand fall back onto the ground.

  “Any idea what that was about?” the lieutenant asked in a whisper.

  The Indians were gone. He guessed they would not return as there was no reason for them to come back. What would less than a handful of scalps—if those Apaches actually took scalps; most did not—and so few horses do to boost the Indians’ glory? Holden wiped his sweaty hands on his trousers.

  “You mean the girl and my Colt? Means she don’t like Apaches, be my guess. Or do you mean—”

  “The raid, damn it. What was that raid about? Surely they didn’t send in nine raiders to kill him.” Holden pointed at Juan Gomez.

  “My mother raised me better than to go around guessing what motivates a red injun,” Masterson said.

  “They rode to the corral,” Holden said. He nodded at the dead man in the street. “This poor fellow just happened to be crossing the street at the wrong time.”

  Masterson turned to look at the corral and shrugged as he rose. “I don’t think that corral ever holds many horses, at least, none worth stealing. And damned few worth eating if you’re an Apache.”

  “I think they were after the wagons,” Holden said.

  “You mean—?”

  “Foster’s wagons.” Holden nodded. “They wanted to take the guns from Foster.”

  “But Foster ain’t here.”

  “He was.”

  “Crooked Nose is a lot smarter than that, Holden,” Masterson said.

  “That wasn’t Crooked Nose leading that bunch. You saw them. Young. Even the leader isn’t any older than I am.”

  Rising, the sergeant turned and handed his Springfield to the Mexican girl. “You take this, sweetie. Holden and me will carry in your boss.”

  She took the rifle without a word and crossed the street toward The Cantina That Has No Name. Masterson pulled out the arrow from the dead bartender’s chest and pitched the bloody instrument to the ground. Then he took the arms of Juan Gomez, Grat Holden took the legs, and they took him into the tiny saloon where they laid him on a table. Inside, Soledad Tadeo returned the rifle to Masterson and went to find a blanket to cover the dead man.

  She was out with the blanket, which she draped over the poor man’s body without a word.

  “We cannot stay to bury him,” Holden said. He had taken his hat off. “I’m sorry.”

  “There is no need to be sorry,” she said and she nodded through the door. “Pico will see to Juan. As soon as the gringo is back with my horse, we must go.” She walked out the door.

  Holden reloaded his Schofield. Masterson reloaded his Lightning, and picked up the Springfield rifle the girl had left in the cantina.

  “It didn’t jam,” Holden said, nodding at the big weapon in Masterson’s hands.

  “Didn’t shoot it that much.” Masterson laughed. “And didn’t hit anything I aimed at, either.”

  * * *

  Sam Florence rode up ten minutes later. He handed the Mexican beauty the reins to her horse, remaining in his seat until he saw the girl’s face. Swinging down off his pinto, he ducked under the horse’s head and stopped in front of Soledad Tadeo. His fingers touched the bruise on her cheek.

  She pushed the hand away. “It is nothing,” she said in Spanish.

  His face revealed a harsh anger, but he said nothing in response.

  He looked at Holden and nodded at the road that led out of town and into Mexico.

  “All right. I’ll say it again. I told you I’d get you here. That I’d introduce you to someone who can take you to the trading place. My job’s done. You agree?”

  Silently, Grat Holden nodded.

  “Well, I ain’t agreeing. Not anymore. I’m going with you boys, and with you, Soledad. I’m going to kill me one miserable son of a bitch. Back in the war, Foster told me I owed him a life. He didn’t specify that it had to be his life. His life ain’t worth spit. I’m gonna kill him.”

  “No,” Soledad Tadeo said. “That is something I will do.”

  “If I don’t kill him first,” Holden said.

  CHAPTER 74

  The mules carried the load of weapons through the arroyo, climbing into higher country, and then into the canyon. The sun was bright, but the canyon felt unnervingly cold. The wind moaned like ghosts. Foster laughed as he saw the men he rode with shivering in their saddles. Not cold. Scared.

  It was The Canyon of The Sorrows, and they were sorry they were there.

  They had lost one man, but only temporarily. A Mexican named Emanuel whose horse had come up lame. Foster had debated killing the man and his horse, but such moves could lead to a lowering of morale. He let the man stay with his horse. Foster wasn’t sure about the wisdom of such a plan, but . . . well, it would be fun to put his life in the hands of a worthless greaser. It would test his luck.

  He dismounted and wrapped the reins around an old corral where the prisoners had been kept. It wasn’t exactly the federal pen at Leavenworth, nor was it Yuma. Anybody could have climbed out or under the fence, but they would have had nowhere to go. Not with Apaches and white slavers surrounding them, and not with a bitterly harsh desert to cross if they could get out of the wretched, terrifying place.

  “Foster,” said one of the hired killers.

  “Yeah.”

  “This is it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Man alive, Foster, this is a box canyon. There ain’t no way out. We’re going to sell these guns here?”

  Foster grinned. “No.” He laughed and slapped his thigh. “You think I’m going to sell two hundred and fifty Springfield rifles to a bunch of dumb Apaches who likely won’t have fifty pesos between them? Or that fool who thinks he’s a big man and will be able to command an entire country when he couldn’t command two ten-year-olds?” He shook his head and laughed again. “And don’t get me started about the great and grand Colonel Will Muncie and his bunch.”

  “I don’t get it,” the hired gun said. “I don’t get anything you’ve done since we pulled out of Rancho Los Cielos.”

  “Well, boys”—Foster opened his saddlebag and pulled out a bottle of rye whiskey—“let me explain it to you. While you unload those boxes.”

  * * *

  Meeting at The Canyon of The Sorrows, Jed Foster had to think, was brilliant. Knowing that the three groups who wanted to bid on the Springfields could not be trusted, that the Apaches, the Mexicans, and the Johnny Rebs would try to steal the weapons—and kill Foster and his men—he had taken a few precautions.