The man who had dropped the bottle stopped running at the sound of the gunshots that cut down his partner. He turned, drew a revolver from his pants pocket, and shot Diego Matías out of the saddle. He tried to shoot Alejandro, too, but his gun misfired and he tossed the gun to the dirt, raised his hands, and said that he surrendered. But Alejandro, who was Diego’s brother, was in no mood, and he brought down his machete that split the man’s head open. Alejandro Matías kept hacking the dead man while the galloper leaped off his horse and began removing the watch and the crucifix and the pouch of money from Diego’s pockets.

  The men were dead. Tired or lazy, the mules had barely lifted their heads during the shooting. Most of them kept drinking as Negro splashed through the shallow water and ran to the first mule. He pulled open the leather bag and reached inside. Pulling out a rock, he exclaimed with much gusto, “Gold!”

  But when he looked at the rock more closely, he realized that it was not gold. Not even quartz. Not silver. Not copper. Just granite. He threw it angrily into the water, checked four other leather bags, and found more rocks.

  He yelled at his men to get mounted, that they could forget the mules, that they had to get back and see if they could find the gringo in the gray coat.

  Alejandro Matías quit using his machete on the remains of the man who had killed his brother, and walked back to his horse. He was climbing in the saddle when a shot rang out. His horse bolted, and Alejandro Matías fell on top of the mutilated body of the man who had killed his brother.

  “Rurales!” shouted the galloper plundering Diego Matías’s body. Then he fell dead as another bullet sounded.

  Amonte Negro whirled. Rurales were riding in from all directions. The last of Negro’s men tried to fight, but he was shot dead quickly.

  The revolutionary sighed and showed the Rurales that he was a peaceful man. He removed his pistol and let it fall in the water. He called out to the Rurales that he was glad to see them, that he had been kidnapped, that he was the most peaceful farmer ever to stay in Rancho Los Cielos. He said he was so glad to see them that he would share some tequila with them. He reached the shade and the bottle, and lifted it to them. Maybe, he thought, these fine young Mexican peacekeepers would let him at least taste the tequila—until he saw the rifles aimed at him.

  “¡Fuego!” the leader of the Rurales commanded.

  CHAPTER 81

  Badger Killer found the wagons. It was easy. And Blind Skunk knew of the perfect place to ambush the pale eyes who drove the wagons with little enthusiasm. The eight Apaches circled around the wagons, giving the pale eyes a wide berth, and came to the place where the two arroyos met. Deer Hoof and Ten Feathers and the two young Apaches whose names were not worth remembering would stay on the eastern side. Badger Killer would take Hawk’s Claw on the western side. Plenty Drunk would move back behind the wagons in case some of the pale eyes tried to run back to Rancho Los Cielos.

  It would be fun. It would be glorious. Badger Killer could not wait to show old Crooked Nose the rifles he had captured—captured and not paid a silver coin to the bluecoats or anyone. They had been bought the Apache way, with blood of their enemies.

  He breathed heavily as the wagons approached. The drivers looked practically asleep. This would be so easy.

  Badger Killer grinned and brought the rifle closer to him. He was about to leap, unable to contain himself, and start shooting, when Hawk’s Claw grabbed his shoulder and pulled.

  Turning quickly, angrily, Badger Killer saw the young Apache jutting his jaw out toward the south. Badger Killer looked in that direction and frowned bitterly. Dust. A lot of dust. Riders were coming and they were coming fast.

  He leaned back down as Plenty Drunk made the sound of a raven to let the others know of the approaching men. It did not matter, Badger Killer told himself. Let the new men join the wagons.

  The more pale eyes Badger Killer and his warriors could kill, the more they could laugh in the face of old Crooked Nose—if that fool ever dared show his face in Apache country again.

  The driver of the last wagon saw the riders first. He did not look happy to see them for he rose in his seat, spit out the tobacco he had been chewing, and screamed a warning to the men ahead of him. He pulled hard on the brake, leaped into the back, and grabbed a repeating rifle from the seat. The other two drivers stopped, too. The man in the lead wagon turned, saw the dust, and by that time he could see the five riders, but he did not set the brake to stop his wagon. He stood, lashed out with the whip, and his wagon thundered to the intersection with the second arroyo.

  “Lott! You dirty, yellow-tailed coward!” one of the men shouted, but the man named Lott did not care. He was not only a dirty, yellow-tailed coward, he was a fool and a bad driver of wagons. He took the turn into the arroyo too sharply. The wagon rolled onto its side, throwing the pale face named Lott into the dust. He hit his head on a rock and did not move, most likely dead, but the mules pulling the wagon ran in their traces down the second arroyo and on toward the land of the bluecoats.

  The men attacking wore gray coats. Badger Killer realized they were very, very brave, and fine warriors—for pale eyes.

  The driver of the last wagon was the first to die, shot twice in the chest by the men on horseback. The driver in the next wagon, ducked inside the box of his wagon and fired. One of the horses screamed and somersaulted, sending its rider crashing into the tailgate of the last wagon. The man landed hard on the ground, his head tilted at an angle that told Badger Killer that he was no longer a threat to anyone.

  Two riders rode on either side of that same wagon, and the man shooting panicked. He tried to leap off the wagon and hide, but he was shot dead by the man in gray who rode right past that wagon and was shot by the driver of the next wagon up the line. The man dropped his rifle, but reached for his belly gun, only to be shot again by the last of the wagon drivers.

  The soldier clutched his stomach, groaned a weak, “Mama,” and pitched off his horse before he could see Sergeant Winters on the other side blow the top of the last driver’s head off.

  “Browne!” Winters reined his horse to a stop and leaped into the wagon. “Browne!”

  The soldier lay in the dust as his horse trotted to the next canyon. Browne, Badger Killer knew, could not answer.

  “Carter!” the sergeant yelled, turning to the next rider. “Check the—” He stopped, stared, and cursed.

  “Damn! This wagon ain’t got nothin’ in it but rocks!”

  Badger Killer frowned. He saw the overturned wagon and the rocks lying all around the wrecked wood. All the wagons were the same. They carried not long-shooting rifles preferred by the bluecoats. They carried rocks. Huge rocks.

  His bloodlust up, Badger Killer rose, aimed his rifle, and shot the man named Carter through the head.

  The Apaches rushed the two men who still lived. One shot Deer Hoof as he leaped over the side, but Hawk’s Claw shot the Confederate in the back. Deer Hoof rose long enough to shoot the Confederate in the belly before joining his ancestors.

  The last gray coat shot Ten Feathers in the throat then ran down the arroyo, but he ran straight into Plenty Drunk’s knife, which the Apache twisted and pulled out, and then plunged again into the gray coat’s chest.

  And it was over. The Apaches had mules if they wanted them, and the horses of the gray coats, and the guns the gray coats and other pale eyes had used. And they had rocks. Plenty of rocks. Rocks and rocks and rocks and none of the new blue coat rifles.

  They had followed the wagons to nowhere. The rifles must still be at The Canyon of The Sorrows.

  “Ride with me!” Badger Killer yelled. “We will avenge our brothers and get the long guns from the pale eyes at The Canyon of The Sorrows.”

  But Plenty Drunk and Hawk’s Claw did not speak to Badger Killer. Plenty Drunk stood over Ten Feathers, trying to stop the hole in his throat from bleeding. Hawk’s Claw was singing a song over Deer Hoof’s body.

  Badger Killer yelled at his brothers again, but they would not look at him. He spit, found his horse, and took one of the dead gray coat’s handguns. “You will be sorry when I ride into camp with more long guns than you have ever seen!”

  As he rode away, he tried to close his ears . . . because what he heard, or what he imagined he heard, was the mocking laughter from Crooked Nose.

  CHAPTER 82

  “What the hell do we do?” Ben Masterson shouted. Grat Holden’s horse turned, stamped its hooves, and wanted to run, either toward those horses thundering down the canyon or to the end of The Canyon of The Sorrows.

  It was the third of July. Holden was certain of that. The meeting was tomorrow. Who in hell could be galloping down the canyon now? Jed Foster? Surely, Foster was already waiting.

  Sam Florence swung off his horse. “We got to hide!” he snapped.

  Holden looked around. There were rocks, plenty of rocks, and even a handful of junipers.

  He dismounted. He was an officer in the United States Cavalry. “What about the horses?” he yelled.

  “Let them go!” Florence was running toward Soledad Tadeo, who had swung off her horse but was holding tightly to the reins. The horse pulled her to her knees, but she refused to let go. Florence’s pinto, meanwhile, was rearing up, snorting, then circling around. It bolted toward the sound of the approaching fury, turned around, started deeper into the canyon, and stopped again, running this way, then the other way, unable to make up its mind.

  Which, Grat Holden realized, was what he was doing.

  “Off the horses!” he shouted. “Into the rocks! It’s our only chance.”

  “What about the horses, Lieutenant?” Masterson yelled.

  “They’ll do . . . whatever they damned well please.”

  “They’ll give us away, sir!”

  “If we don’t get out of sight, we’ll all be dead!” Holden ran to help Soledad Tadeo, reaching her before Sam Florence could. He pulled her away, watching the reins slip from her hands. He jerked her to her feet. “There!” he yelled and shoved her toward the rocks.

  Her horse bolted down the canyon.

  Masterson swore, and spurred his Morgan. He caught the reins of Holden’s mount and screamed, waving his Springfield over his head.

  “Masterson!” Holden yelled after he shoved the Mexican girl into the rocks. “Masterson!”

  The soldier was pulling Holden’s horse and moving his into a gallop. Somehow he managed to turn Sam Florence’s pinto, and he rode into the bowels of The Canyon of The Sorrows.

  “Masterson!” Holden yelled again.

  “Just name a medal after me, Lieutenant Holden!” Masterson yelled. “Sir! And raise a toast to County Cork!”

  He rode hard, leaning low in the saddle.

  The pinto of Sam Florence was running ahead, driven by fear and Masterson on his Morgan, pulling Holden’s horse behind him. Soledad Tadeo’s horse snorted, bucked, and took off after the pinto. Masterson rounded the corner and was gone.

  “Masterson!” Holden called out one last time and started to run after him, but Sam Florence roughly shoved him back and into the rocks.

  “Get down, Lieutenant!” the old scout said as he faded into the shadows and knelt.

  Fifteen seconds later, an army in gray and mismatched Mexican outfits exploded into view. Grat Holden held his breath until the army of killers were out of sight.

  Slowly, he rose and stared down the canyon. He wanted to cry. He wanted to throw up. Mostly, he wanted to salute Sergeant Ben Masterson.

  Drunk. Belligerent. Disobedient. The worst soldier at Fort Bowie. And the bravest damned Irish son of a bitch Grat Holden had ever had the pleasure of commanding.

  CHAPTER 83

  Jed Foster leaned one of the Springfields in the corner of the narrow chimneylike crevasse that shot straight up to the top of the canyon. Even with handholds and footholds spaced up it would be a hard climb, but it would be a great test. It would challenge his ability and endurance. It would put his luck to the ultimate trial.

  When he stepped away from the wall, he saw Joe Coberly still staring at him with that hangdog, confused look of a green kid. The boy had yet to get over the shock of Foster’s announcement that the men sent as decoys with the wagons and mules would likely be killed.

  “Joe, Joe, Joe,” Foster said, smiling. “Don’t believe everything I say, son. The men with the wagons and mules, why, there’s a mighty fine chance that they’ll just be wandering aimlessly in the desert—like Moses did for those forty years. You heard me tell the boys where to meet us. Don’t fret. Tomorrow you’re going to be a rich man.” If you live, which is unlikely.

  “But the Apaches, the Mexicans, or the Rebs are sure to follow those trails.”

  “Just till they figure out it’s bait. Come on, kid. Tomorrow’s the Fourth of July. Let’s get back to the top and make sure everything’s looking good.”

  They moved away from the towering, foreboding rock wall, toward the boxes and the corral. Their horses had been tethered on an old whipping post, far away from any of the explosives.

  Foster stopped and checked above. On the rim of the canyon, his men were making their final preparations, putting together shooting sticks on which they could rest the barrels of the Springfields in a sturdy “V” and fire down with enthusiasm and accuracy at the men they would pick off. Apaches. Rebels. Greasers. It would be such fun to watch, especially since Foster would be down in the middle of it, risking his life, putting everything at stake.

  If one did not take chances, what was the point in living?

  He pulled up short, and his right hand reached instinctively for the butt of his Colt revolver. Joe Coberly stopped, turned, and then looked back to the mouth of the canyon. The kid heard the noise, too.

  Horses. Their hooves on the hard rocks rang out loudly, sending eerie echoes bouncing off the towering walls of granite and around the canyon the myriad spaces against which noise could bounce. Foster had often heard that the women and children who’d screamed there could be heard forever.

  As if pleading for reassurance, the kid Coberly turned, caught his breath, and seemed to ask, “Maybe it’s Emanuel.”

  Maybe. The Mexican whose horse turned lame once they entered the start of the canyon. Foster corrected that thought. The Mexican who said his horse was lame.

  Foster drew the Colt and thumbed back the hammer. “That is more than just one horse.” He turned and waved the Colt over his head . . . back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.

  The fools on the rim could not hear the clanging of hooves on hard rock. He thought about firing a shot, but that would just warn whoever was galloping toward him.

  “Ennio!” Foster yelled up at the best of his marksmen.

  His answer was the echo.

  Ennio . . . Ennio . . . Ennio . . . Ennio . . . Ennio . . .

  Soon some of the men working on the top heard, and they looked down.

  God, Foster thought, how small those men up there looked. How small must he and Joe Coberly look from those towering over his head. He pointed the barrel of his gun at the cave.

  Then he heard Joe Coberly stammer, “M-m-m-my g-g-good-n-n-ness.”

  A pinto horse, more white than black and a little mustang at that, rounded the corner, its eyes wide with fear. The horse was saddled. There was no rider. It galloped toward Coberly and Foster, saw them, veered, and made a dash toward the corral posts.

  Foster swore, turned, and ran at an angle, hoping to intersect the horse, to turn that wild thing back before he ruined everything. Before he caused one of the bottles of nitroglycerin to explode. The kid, Coberly, remained stuck in his boots on the hard floor, paralyzed by fear.

  The saddle had a scabbard, Foster realized as he ran in blind panic and fury. The scabbard was empty.

  He waved his gun, he cursed, he waved his other hand, and the small pinto mustang turned before it slammed into the fence posts or stepped on one of the crates marked Springfield Armory. The horse ran along the wall, realizing that the only way out was the way in which it had entered.

  Another horse exploded through the narrow opening. It was a mare, and it was just as frightened—and equally as riderless—as the small pinto.

  Foster slid to a stop. He realized quickly that he had seen both of those horses. He just could not place them at the moment.

  A few yards away, Joe Coberly was waving his hands over his head, shouting, cursing, and trying to get those two horses under control. Or at least out of there and away from the highly volatile explosives laying all over the canyon.

  CHAPTER 84

  His chest burned as his lungs heaved and heaved and screamed for air. His heart raced like those frightened horses that started out of the canyon, back down the narrow, long, terrifying trail, but stopped, whirled, wheeled, and whinnied before they bolted around again.

  Foster swore and ran toward the beasts, trying to keep them away from the empty Springfield boxes. He realized that another horse—no, more than one—came down the trail and into the trading post in The Canyon of The Sorrows.

  A rifle shot fired, and he heard the bullet whine off a rock. He turned, bellowing and waving his pistol again. He shouted toward his men who lined the canyon’s rim. “Not yet! Not yet! For God’s sake don’t shoot. Don’t shoot!”

  A moment later, a horse—a fine Morgan, judging from the quick glimpse Foster could manage—entered the boxed portion of the canyon. Another horse was being pulled alongside. Two horses. One rider. A big man who waved a big rifle over his head.

  Joe Coberly palmed his pistol—the kid had blinding speed—and Foster shouted at the boy, but his order came too late. The bullet roared out of the kid’s .44 barrel and hit the horse the rider had been pulling.