When they had pulled out of Rancho Los Cielos with the wagons and more mules than needed, Foster had stopped his command on the hard-packed ground south of town. He had transferred the rifles to several mules, and those mules had brought the rifles all the way to The Canyon of The Sorrows. The wagons had left the hard road with his drivers ordered to take the wagons all the way to another canyon in a rough area known as Madre Blanco—about twenty-five miles south and east. Of course, before those wagons had pulled out, Foster had had his men load the beds with rocks. Enough to make whoever followed the tracks think they were following more than two hundred Springfield rifles and boxes of ammunition and bayonets.

  That still left them with fourteen more mules, so Foster had ordered two of his men to take those mules, whose packsaddles had been loaded with satchels containing more rocks, down to the Rio Fuerta. From there, they would double their way back around Feo Canyon, Ugly Canyon, recross the border north of Rancho Los Cielos and wait in Bisbee for word from Foster and his men.

  “Chances are,” Foster explained to the six men left with him, “that someone will follow the wagons. Some others will follow the mules.” He tapped the hard ground. “No one can follow us here. Few men can read the signs on rocky ground this hard.”

  “Apaches can,” one of his men said.

  Foster nodded. “But Apaches already know where this canyon is. I’m not worried about Crooked Nose’s bunch.” He chuckled. “Hell, I’m not worried about Amonte Negro or Colonel Will Muncie, either.”

  “So what’s our play?” the red-bearded man from Indiana asked.

  “We’ve reduced the odds,” Foster said. “Some are following Wilson’s bunch in the wagons. Others are trailing Morgan and those mules all the way to Bisbee if needed. What’s left will have to wait. We’ll send our escort to guide them here. Where we’ll be waiting.”

  The mean one with a hook for his left hand shook his head. “And the Apaches?”

  Foster shrugged. “They’ll be here. They won’t need a guide.”

  The one with the red beard shook his head and spit a river of tobacco juice onto a sun-bleached bone. “So we’re trapped. In a box canyon. With Apaches, with renegade Southern trash, and Mexican bandits blocking us in.”

  “Not entirely.” Foster had that part figured out, too.

  Once all of the participants—Crooked Nose’s Indians, Muncie’s gray coats, and Negro’s ruffians—had arrived at The Canyon of The Sorrows, a rifle case would be opened, and the Springfields—empty—would be passed around. All of the bidders would be asked to show their money. Then the bidding would begin.

  “Any one of those groups will just start shooting,” the man with the hook said. “There won’t be anyone safe in this canyon.”

  “Which is why you won’t be in this canyon.” Foster pointed at the high walls.

  The men still with Foster would be on both sides of the canyon top, armed with Springfield Model 1880 rifles to shoot down upon the Apaches, the Mexicans, and the Rebels.

  “We’ll blow the entrance up,” Foster said. “Everyone will be trapped here. From your perch above, and with all that ammunition you have, you’ll be able to take your good sweet time killing every last one of those boys.”

  The one from Indiana took off his hat and scratched his bald head. “How do we blow up the canyon? How do we stop them from riding out? We’re just a handful of men.”

  Foster grinned. These men weren’t as stupid as Will Muncie or Amonte Negro.

  Foster moved to a U-shaped cairn of rocks that had likely once been used as a roasting pit for the slavers and the Apaches. Carefully, he brushed off the ashes and dirt that was covering a blanket. He removed the blanket, then five more blankets until he had reached a small box, which he unlocked with a key he produced from his trousers pocket, and then carefully, almost painstakingly, he opened. He reached into the box and pulled out a small bottle that seemed to be steaming from inside the glass.

  He whispered, “We had gin in the bottles on the wagon seats back in Rancho Los Cielos. But this . . . this is the real stuff. This”—he grinned—“is nitroglycerin.”

  Every man jack of them took a step or two back.

  Foster wanted to laugh, but didn’t want to blow himself to pieces. He knelt again, taking his good, sweet time, and gently returned the small bottle into a well-padded place. He softly closed the lid, but did not lock it, and with a nurse’s touch, he covered the box with three of the several blankets.

  “This will bring down the walls,” he said. “Then we kill them all. After which, we come down and take the gold they brought or whatever they brought to buy these Springfields.”

  “And then?” the one with the hook asked.

  “Then?” Foster laughed before he explained to these fools. “Then we go south, and we do the same damned thing to Rurales, to Yaqui Indians, and to the Mexican army.”

  His men glanced at each other. Likely, they thought they had a madman for a leader. They just did not know how lucky Jed Foster was.

  The one from Indiana, however, brought up a very intelligent question. “One thing, Captain, that you’ll have to explain. What’s to bring all those Apaches, the Johnny Rebs, and the Mexicans in here? So we leave the boxes down here? Empty boxes. Those men aren’t going to come in here and just wait. They’ll expect us to be here. To make the trade. To start the auction.”

  “Very good,” Foster said. “Yes. They’ll expect at least one man here. And they’ll find one man here. The leader. I’ll be here.”

  “Hell, Captain,” said the one with the hook. “Bullets flying, nitro blowing this canyon to hell and gone. How do you expect to get out of this death trap alive?”

  “That,” Jed Foster said, “you just leave to Lucky Jed Foster.”

  CHAPTER 75

  Crooked Nose had saddled his favorite war pony, a deep-chested sorrel with a star on her forehead, and began painting the mare for war. He kept his back to Badger Killer when he returned from his little raid.

  He could feel Badger Killer’s rage, but Crooked Nose kept with his mare, not looking around, not even concerned, and finally Badger Killer roared out Crooked Nose’s name.

  The old man turned and saw the horse that was being led away by sobbing women. A fine Apache warrior was strapped to that horse. There would be mourning in camp tonight. Also, eight warriors had ridden out with Badger Killer, but only five had returned—and one of those was dead. Crooked Nose frowned before he looked up at Badger Killer, who remained mounted on his weathered dun horse.

  He saw surprise make the young brave with the mangled ear lean back in his saddle. It had been a long time since Badger Killer had seen Crooked Nose’s face painted for war.

  “What—?” Badger Killer began but could not finish.

  “Four men and I are riding north,” Crooked Nose said. “To fight the pale eyes.”

  “We have already fought the pale eyes,” Badger Killer said, so excited that his horse began to jump around. “We have brought honor to our people.”

  Crooked Nose looked at the riders, the young men who had followed the Indian with the ugly ear and the bad attitude. Most of the men watched the body of the young brave being taken from the horse. They did not look like a war party returning from victory. They looked scared . . . and so young.

  “Three I do not see,” Crooked Nose said.

  “Blind Skunk, Deer Hoof, and Ten Feathers ride after the long guns, which have left the place where the Mexicans and the Americanos drink. But they are not on their way to The Canyon of The Sorrows. The pale eyes have no intention of selling the guns to you or anyone. Pale eyes can never be trusted.”

  Crooked Nose considered that and shrugged. He had lost interest in taking the pale eyes’ guns anyway. He had another idea.

  “You run away,” Badger Killer said mockingly, but his voice could not betray his uneasiness.

  “I run to fight men who, maybe, know how to fight. There is no glory, there is no honor in dealing with men who try to sell us guns. You, Badger Killer, are the man I should thank for this wisdom, for it was you who showed me how wrong, how foolish I was. We do not steal gold from the black robes. We do not torture Mexicans to tell us how many long guns we can buy with Mexican and blue-coat gold we had stolen. We were becoming men like the Mexican bandits who hide in canyons and steal from anyone they can. Now, my brothers and I will ride to glory. We will return victorious. Or we will not return at all.”

  The young man turned his head, studying Crooked Nose. He tried to figure out what the catch was, the scheme, the trick, the lie.

  “I would like very much, Badger Killer, if you and your warriors joined us when we take our fight to the bluecoats or whoever we meet in the land of the paleface soldiers.” That was a lie. He didn’t want Badger Killer anywhere near him, but more men would be better. Even Badger Killer.

  “You are running away,” Badger Killer repeated, which made Crooked Nose smile.

  He had extended the invitation, and Badger Killer had rejected it. Good. That made Crooked Nose happy.

  Badger Killer pointed. “Go ahead. Run with”—he looked at the old men who had agreed to ride with Crooked Nose—”your grandfathers. My warriors and I will ride after the wagons. We will take the long-shooting long guns from the bluecoats. You take your old men, Crooked Nose, and you run away. When you come back, if you are man enough to come back, you will find a place for you in my camp. This I promise you. I will not turn my back on you, Crooked Nose, even though you are weak, even though you are a coward, even though you are a squaw. You ride away. When you return, I will let you clean my long-gun that I will have taken from my enemy’s dead hand. The pale eyes will find nothing but death. And I, Badger Killer, will find glory. And honor.”

  Crooked Nose was already in the saddle of his sorrel by the time Badger Killer finished his speech. The old man did not look again at the brash, bold fool. Crooked Nose looked at his friends, nodded at them, and rode out of camp. His friends followed him. They sang a song as they rode out of the camp and turned north. The song they sang was one of honor.

  In the camp that Badger Killer was now commanding, there was much singing, too. But it was a song of mourning . . . for the brave young warrior who had followed Badger Killer . . . to death.

  CHAPTER 76

  Colonel Will Muncie had led his command back to Rancho Los Cielos, only to find the wagons gone, and the town abandoned except for one of the saloonkeepers—and he was packing his liquor and his tables into a wagon. He said the town was dead, that Juan Gomez was dead—whoever Juan Gomez was—and that he was going to find his brother and his mother in Zacatecas. He wished he had never left Zacatecas. The land there was pink from the beautiful quarry. The land in Rancho Los Cielos was red from the blood.

  Outside of town, Lieutenant Fountain found the tracks, a mix of shod and unshod ponies, which meant Apaches—riding their horses and horses they had stolen. They also followed the wagon tracks till it reached the hard-packed earth.

  Fountain and two other fine Confederates knelt close to the ground, studying the sign. The corporal who had lost his arm at Nashville rode off a ways. Fountain walked in another direction, but Will Muncie could see the tracks the lieutenant was following. Those tracks were plain as daylight.

  Eventually, Lieutenant Fountain turned around and walked back to his horse, which was being held by a private named Reginald. Fountain swung into the saddle, nodded at old Reginald, and eased his horse to Muncie. By that time, the corporal was loping back. The hooves left the sand, clang loudly on the hard rocks, and the rider reined to a stop just to Fountain’s left.

  “Report, bookkeeper,” Muncie said.

  “Wagons head off that way, sir, southeast, but there are mules going yonder, likely toward the Fire River.”

  Muncie pointed at the wagon tracks. “Those run deep, Lieutenant. Just as deep as they ran when they left that flyspeck of a village.”

  The bookkeeper nodded. “Your eyes are as sharp as they were at Chancellorsville, Colonel.”

  “So the wagons still have the Springfields.”

  “Maybe.” Fountain turned to the corporal.

  “Mules,” the man said and spit tobacco juice onto the hard earth. “Somewhere between ten and eighteen. Not in any particular hurry, but carryin’ a lot of weight. You’re right, Lieutenant. They’re headin’ southeast.”

  “How much weight?” Muncie asked the soldier.

  “Enough to be Springfield rifles and boxes of ammunition, Colonel.”

  “Or rocks,” Lieutenant Fountain said.

  Will Muncie sank slightly in his saddle. “That damned Yankee wants us to guess. Follow the wagons. Follow the mules. I underestimated that traitor. But he has under-estimated me. What would you say, Lieutenant?”

  Fountain shrugged. “Mules would make more sense, Colonel. Easier to maneuver through rough country than wagons. And from what I’ve heard, The Canyon of The Sorrows is a tough place to get through.”

  “But those are just stories. We’ve never been to that canyon. For all we know, it’s nothin’ more than a little dry wash in the desert. Corporal?”

  The corporal shrugged. “Wagons are headin’ southeast. In that direction, you’re not likely to find much in the way of hiding spots or canyons.”

  “So . . .” Captain Knight, who had remained silent, spoke up, “we have to make a guess. Follow the wagons. Or follow the mules.”

  “Or,” the bookkeeper said, “just wait in Rancho Los Cielos till the yank sends his guide to take us to that trading place.”

  “There’s another option.”

  The men looked at their leader.

  “How many mules did you say you found, Corporal?”

  The man shifted uncomfortably in his saddle. “Not altogether certain, suh. More than a dozen. Not more than twenty. It’s hard to read tracks in that sand, what with the wind and all.”

  “How many mules were in the corral?” Muncie asked.

  “A lot,” the corporal said.

  “And none are left.”

  Lieutenant Fountain said, “Yes, sir, but no one’s left in that town, if you’d call it a town, except for some saloonkeeper who has lost his mind.”

  Captain Knight suggested, “Those mules could have belonged to . . . I don’t know. The man who ran that cantina. Or the girl, the pretty Mexican girl.”

  “Or the Yankee.” Muncie nudged his horse and circled the men who stood watching, wondering. And curious. The hooves clanged loudly on the ground, and the colonel laughed when he pulled his horse to a stop. “Corporal, “do you see any tracks?” He pointed behind him.

  “No, suh.”

  “Exactly. So, let me offer a suggestion. If you were a Yankee, and you did not trust me, a Southern gentleman and man of honor, to wait like some black slave to get told to come to some place and follow your beck and call”—he spit with bitterness—“would you go to your secret canyon that only you and slavers and red heathen injuns know . . . and leave tracks that a blind man could follow?” His voice raised with anger, and he removed his hat. “Or would you take a trail that would be downright hard to follow unless you had a good coon hound or an Apache buck in yer employ?”

  The men glanced at one another.

  Lieutenant Fountain cleared his throat.

  “The question, Colonel,” he said, “is can we risk that? Do we gamble and bring everyone with us and just follow this hard ground? Or do we send some of our men after the mules, and others after the wagons?”

  “Dividing our troops, right?” Muncie let out a light chuckle. “It did not work out well for that yank named Custer a few years back up Montana-way.”

  “No, sir,” the corporal answered.

  “Which is something I meant to ask you, Colonel,” Captain Knight said. “When you were talking about Shiloh, the overconfidence, and how the bluecoats pushed us . . . you and General Johnston’s army back after the first day. Well . . . the only reason Grant’s butcherin’ yanks were able to do that was because they got—”

  “Reinforcements,” Muncie finished, and he pointed toward the northeast.

  CHAPTER 77

  A monte Negro reined the black horse to a sliding stop. His sombrero almost flew off his head, but he managed to catch it and slap it against his thigh as the stallion recovered, rose, and blew hard from the long run. The men swung out all around him, and they stared, their hands on their guns at the gringos in gray coats who looked on nervously.

  “Coronel,” Negro said, donning the big hat at the old American who had not been able to beat the Yanquis with all that money, all those slaves, all those guns. And the fool still wanted to go back to his country and lose another war.

  That would be a good thing, Amonte Negro thought. At least the fool gringo and his army would be out of Mexico.

  “It is good to see you, Coronel.”

  “And,” the old gringo said, “it is good to see you, Dictator.”

  Amonte Negro laughed. He wondered what this word, dictator, meant.

  “I thought we were to meet at Rancho Los Cielos. My men are thirsty. I am thirsty. Let us ride to that town. Maybe that Soledad can fill my glass with tequila and maybe I can fill her—”

  “You won’t find anyone left in that . . . ahem . . . town to serve you, Señor Negro. It has been abandoned.”

  “Dios mío, eso es una noticia que rompe el corazón.”

  Negro had not expected such terrible news. And he was quite thirsty from all the riding across the desert.

  “But we are glad you have arrived, suh. We are about to pay our friend, Mr. Foster, a visit.”

  Negro leaned forward. His thirst could wait. “You know the way to The Canyon of The Sorrows?”

  “I think we can come close, yes.” The colonel pointed at wagon tracks in the sand. “But in case I am mistaken, we need to send some scouts after those wagons.”