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  No one yelled orders or instructions. The Morrison party seemed to react automatically: they wheeled their mounts. They struck at their horses with spur and quirt and broke for the east as one man. Taylor spun the bay and was almost bowled over as Buck Evans flashed past him. Taylor spurred his horse and followed Evans’s dust.

  The bay found its stride and Taylor began to close the distance to the men galloping ahead. Then they reined in, turning their horses in a smother of dust.

  Taylor could see why. What he’d seen in the canyon mouth to the west he now saw mirrored in the canyon entrance to the east: dust spewing into the basin, riders in the dust, men with rifles in their hands, coming at him, yelling their fierce cries.

  It wasn’t real, he decided. This was a dream, a recurring one, the same thing happening again: he was in a high-walled basin, trapped by Apaches.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The horsemen milled in dust. Taylor glanced around, looking for a place to fort up. But Morrison seemed to make the decision for them. He spurred to the north and Garth and Evans followed; then Taylor followed them.

  He found he was driving the bay upslope, whilst he tried to close his ears to the yelling and rifle fire behind him. The slope became steep and the bay began to rear and paw as ground turned loose under foot. He saw the others above him, piling from their horses. They made no attempt to hold their animals, but let them flee, except Evans who was attempting to get his rifle out of his saddle boot. He had a time of it as his horse danced about. Taylor used his knees to urge the bay to climb higher. Suddenly it reared, neighing crazily, and went over. Taylor hit the hard ground on his side and rolled as the horse toppled towards him. He missed being pinned under its crushing weight by inches; the bay scrambled to its feet and bolted.

  Taylor rose, coughing in dust. He glimpsed Benito galloping across the flats below with Apaches on his heels. The Mexican struck the first rising ground. Rifles crackled. His horse reared, screaming, and fell, spilling the rider. Benito staggered to his feet and started to run upslope.

  Taylor ran upslope too. There was rifle fire from above and below. Bullets keened. He raced through this crossfire, dodging between rocks and brush. Thorns raked him. His feet churned shale, he lost footing and sprawled on a steep slope that suddenly became loose stones. He slithered downhill in an avalanche of this stuff. He slid some yards, then began to climb again. There was stinging pain on his chin where he’d scraped off skin, the taste of blood and dust in his mouth. He came to rocks and the slope became easier. He climbed until he had to pause to breathe, his heart big as a cannonball and trying to hammer its way out of his chest. He glanced back.

  Benito was a hundred yards below, in tangled brush. Above Benito was a bare slope and then the rocks where Taylor crouched. Benito ducked down, almost hugging the earth, because Apache bullets lifted dust all around. Then he broke from cover, running upslope. He ran zigzagging, Apache style, as bullets whined about him. He was halfway to cover, three quarters. Then he was spilling forward, hitting on his shoulder and rolling on. He fetched up almost at the first of the rocks.

  Taylor sprang downslope. Benito was down on all fours at his feet. Taylor heard bullets chew into the rocks around him, singing viciously past his head. He bent and grabbed the Mexican’s arm, lifting the limb awkwardly because his hands were tied together. Benito leaned against Taylor, his legs failing. Taylor ducked under Benito and the man sprawled across his shoulders. Taylor stood, Benito draped over his back like a sack of feed. Taylor carried the man upslope. He stumbled and went to his knees once or twice. Something yowled in Taylor’s ear and stung his cheek, fetching blood, but he kept climbing.

  Then Morrison was on the slope above him, standing with legs braced, his rifle pulled into his shoulder as he fired. Taylor and his burden staggered past the rancher and entered a roughly square piece of ground bounded by small boulders. Here the others huddled, firing their rifles downslope. Taylor eased Benito down gently on his side. Then Taylor sat, putting his back against a boulder.

  Morrison appeared and sank into cover too. For a minute both Apaches and Anglos were firing as fast as they could pump their rifles.

  And then there was silence.

  In Taylor’s ears it was a pretty noisy silence, a tin plate clattering as it fell on a table, the sound ringing on and on. His arms trembled. Things had happened too fast for him to be conscious of fear before but he was aware of it now. It was back in its usual place, a lump of granite blocking his throat, a high singing in his ears, a cold rottenness in his belly.

  He gazed around him. The five men were on a shoulder of level ground jutting out of the slope, skirted with boulders and brush. The tallest rocks and boulders he immediately named the ‘Front Rocks’, a sort of stone palisade. They made the front ramparts of their little fort, looming over the slope below and to the west. To the east the shoulder backed against an almost sheer granite wall. He crossed their little square of open ground – he christened that the ‘Compound’ – to the Front Rocks. He gazed down through a narrow slit between two tall boulders. He saw Apaches moving, afoot and on horseback, at the base trot of the slope, out of range. A few of them called out derisively.

  Evans asked Morrison, ‘You hit?’

  Morrison touched his right arm, which was bloody. He hissed and sucked in his teeth but said, ‘Just a nick.’ The others checked themselves for wounds. Garth and Evans were uninjured. Taylor found there was blood on his chin from the scrape, and more on his face where a bullet had nicked his cheek, but was otherwise unhurt. For all that there seemed to be at lot of blood on the right side of his shirt, soaking it through.

  Evans called, ‘Hey, Morrison. Your greaser friend!’

  Morrison crouched over the Mexican. He said, ‘Benito.’

  He lifted his face, grey with pain and shock, to Taylor.

  Taylor saw Benito was dead. A bullet had caught him in the back of the head and exited through the right cheek. Maybe the same bullet that had raked Taylor’s own right cheek, as he’d carried his burden upslope. In which case that might be bits of brain glued to the blood on his shirt. Thinking of that, and looking at the bloody ruin of the dead man’s face, Taylor felt his stomach tighten.

  Garth said, ‘Well, Taylor, looks like you was a big hero for nothing! You drug a corpse in here!’

  Morrison pulled off his canvas jacket and laid it over Benito’s head and torso. He told Taylor, ‘This was a good man and you tried to save him. I’m beholden.’

  ‘Then cut me loose! If I’m going to die, do I have to do it with my hands tied? Give me a rifle and let me fight!’

  Garth smiled. ‘No chance. You’d turn your gun on us, then go join your Indian friends!’

  Morrison looked doubtful, as if he was thinking about it; then he returned to his place at the Front Rocks.

  Garth stared up at the wall above and behind them. He said, ‘They get above us, they can drop rocks down on us, and sniper down.’

  Morrison observed, ‘It’ll take ’em a time getting up there. Meantime, Cameron and the others are somewhere near. They’ll have heard the firing. If they come quick enough, we might get out of this all right.’

  Taylor moved to what he already considered his place at the Front Rocks and gazed down. The slopes immediately below were fairly steep and bare of cover, with a good field of fire. He told Morrison, ‘You picked a good place here.’

  Garth sneered. His lips twisted and he spat, accurately, at a rock. ‘Sure, everything’s just dandy.’

  Garth watched Apaches moving at the bottom of the slope. He shaped what might be his last cigarette. He noted that his fingers trembled slightly, but that was all right. He was still keeping his nerve. Nothing licked him. That was what Garth always told himself. But just maybe this time Loco had licked him.

  There had been a moment, when the Apaches jumped them, when he had a choice. He might have taken off for open country by himself and left the others to it. If Apaches cornered him he might have had time to te
ll them: You don’t want to kill me, I’m the man sells you guns!

  But it was hard reasoning with a fellow in the middle of a fight, when bullets flew and blood ran hot. Most likely the Apaches would have cut him down before he had a chance to speak. Or they might be broncos in Loco’s band who didn’t know him. They might not even be part of Loco’s band, but another bunch of renegades, maybe out of Mexico.

  So he’d chosen to stay with Morrison. And run the risk of getting killed by his own clients. If these Apaches recognized him now, fighting against them, they’d be less than happy about another treacherous white eye; he’d better not let them take him alive!

  Still, he could smile at the irony of being shot by his own guns….

  Evans lifted his canteen. He’d found time to bring this with him. He drank. ‘They’re moving into cover down there. How many of ’em, you figure?’

  Morrison had also salvaged his canteen; he drank. ‘Seen twenty or so.’

  The heat trapped between these rocks was already fierce and would soon be sickening. Garth felt sweat squeezing out of every pore under his dark clothes. The defenders only had two canteens between them and they’d dry out in a few hours. The dead Mexican’s body would bloat and become flyblown, the stench unbearable. This place would be a torture box, come noon. But Garth wasn’t worried about any of that. The Apaches should have settled them before the sun got halfway to noon. He wondered what was holding them up. He lifted his head, peeking over the rocks and an Apache took a shot at him. The sniper didn’t come close but Garth ducked anyway.

  He asked nobody in particular: ‘You figure this is Loco’s band? You see him out there?’

  Taylor said, ‘No. But it’s his band all right. I spotted one of ’em I know from the Mescalero agency. Feller named Kesus.’

  ‘I thought you said the Apaches had run off to Mexico, Mister Indian expert!’

  ‘They make a habit of not doing what they’re supposed to.’

  Evans rubbed his chin. ‘What do you figure they will do? Are they gonna rush us, Taylor? They got the stomach to come at us across that slope? I thought you said they hadn’t the guts for that kind of fighting.’

  ‘It wasn’t me said Apaches ain’t got guts! They’ll come. You’ll see.’

  Evans fixed him with a look of hatred. ‘You ain’t changed, have you? Even now you’re still an Indian-lover!’

  Garth exhaled smoke and watched it drift towards the far side of the basin. He flipped the husk of his cigarette after it. ‘He’s right, though. They’ll come, once they’ve made their medicine and such.’

  ‘You reckon?’

  ‘We’ll have ’em in our laps in a minute!’

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  But a minute passed and no attack came. Evans stood and peered over the boulder in front of him. ‘What are they waiting for?’

  Garth was gazing downslope too. ‘They’re bunching down there, getting ready. Cameron better get here quick, he wants to find us alive.’ He spat and grinned. ‘Come on, you red bastards!’

  Taylor felt a quick stab of admiration for Garth, his arrogance in the face of death. He might be a son of a bitch, like Evans, but there was no doubting either man’s courage. Taylor said, ‘They’re just waiting until they’re in place, above us.’

  Evans sneered. ‘Suddenly you know what they’ll do, after all.’

  ‘I can make a fair guess. They’ll start sneaking up on us. Draw our fire to get us to waste our bullets. Once they’re in position, they’ll hit us all at once, from above and below. Swarm all over us. And when that happens, three guns won’t be enough. So give me a rifle!’

  Evans declared, ‘We ain’t arming no murderer!’

  ‘I didn’t murder that Schim feller.’

  ‘Then who did?’

  That was a good question, Taylor decided. If he had the time he’d ponder it. But time was something he’d run out of. There might only be twenty Apaches out there, but that would be enough. Normally they wouldn’t risk the casualties they’d likely take in a frontal assault on this place, but maybe this little party of white eyes was just too tempting a target.

  Even if he got out of this bind, Taylor remembered there was still a rope waiting for him. It took a man with a remarkable talent for making enemies to find himself under siege, and in mortal danger, from both attackers and defenders. It was a shame every deck was stacked against him, and death was waiting whichever way he turned, because he’d just lately come up with some good reasons to stay alive.

  One good reason in particular.

  The crack of a rifle brought him from his thoughts.

  Garth said, ‘Here they come!’

  Firing started. Taylor shifted his position in the Front Rocks, peering through the narrow slit between boulders at the slope below. He saw dark cottony bursts of powder smoke and heard lead strike these rocks and snarl about them. He glimpsed Apaches dodging between cover, moving upslope, lifting to fire, then vanishing. They were yelling, to hold up their own courage and put fear into their enemies. They made the yipping, ki-yi-ing sounds of squabbling coyotes. One or two shouted obscenities, in Spanish or English, as there was no profanity in the Apache tongue.

  The defenders fired as though they had all the ammunition on Earth. The air grew thick with powder smoke and its too-sweet smell. Evans reloaded. ‘You can’t hit the bastards, they’re too fly!’

  Taylor called, ‘I told you! They’re just getting you to waste your bullets! Try to get ricochets in ’em!’

  Morrison came alongside him. He put his back to a boulder and started thumbing shells into the face plate of his Winchester. Taylor lifted his tethered hands. ‘Cut me loose, Morrison!’

  Garth cried, ‘No you don’t, Eli!’

  As he spoke, bullets chewed into the rocks around him. Garth gasped and one hand went to his ear, as though he was slapping a biting insect; then he slewed around and returned fire.

  Taylor said, ‘Morrison!’

  The rancher gave him his fierce blue eyes. He stared a moment. Then he produced a knife and cut through Taylor’s bonds.

  Taylor found the spare Winchester in the outfit. He took Benito’s cartridge belt. As firing intensified Taylor kneaded life back into his wrists and hands. Then he fed shells into the Winchester and moved alongside Morrison, looking for targets below.

  There was firing from a scatter of boulders at the bottom of the bare slope. Taylor studied that for a moment, as best as he could; then he started firing, trying to angle ricochets in amongst the rocks. He tallied: an Apache yelled and jerked up out of cover, his hands to his back. Evans shot him through the face.

  Taylor put his back to a boulder, reloading. As he thumbed the last shell home, dust spumed from the rock besides him and there was a noise like an angry wasp in his ear. Instinctively Taylor glanced upwards. At the top of the rock wall behind and above him, maybe a hundred yards up, was a dark drift of powder smoke! And then another!

  Taylor called, ‘Morrison!’

  Taylor ran across the Compound and flattened against a tall boulder on the east side. Morrison was suddenly at his side. Both men fired upwards. Taylor saw more powder smoke high on the rock wall and drove shots towards it. A bullet plucked at his hat brim. One man came loose from the top of the rock wall and plummeted towards them. Another spilled over the edge and seemed to hang there, head down, poised to dive. Taylor fixed him in his sights and squeezed the trigger. The hammer punched an empty chamber. Taylor grabbed for more shells in his cartridge belt. Morrison kept firing. The Apache hung there a moment more; then he fell.

  Taylor heard yelling and firing close behind him. He turned. He saw Evans and Garth firing downslope and then Apaches were coming over the Front Rocks. Taylor glimpsed his old friend Kesus. Kesus sprang at Garth and tackled him to the ground. Another man ran at Evans. Evans grabbed his rifle by the barrel, swung and missed; the Apache ducked and Evans pitched over him. Evans rolled on the earth and the Apache plunged down on him, a knife flashing in his hand.

>   Another Apache sprang into the Compound, pulling his rifle to his shoulder as he charged forward. Morrison shot him and the man went to his knees. But as he fell he fired. Morrison grunted, spun half-about, then went down.

  Taylor took his empty rifle by the barrel and ran towards the fray. He yelled. Evans and the Apache both reared to their knees and strained together, fighting over the one knife. The Apache won. He drove the knife down into Evans’s chest. Evans gasped and fell. By which time Taylor was on them. He stood over the combatants, beginning to swing the rifle in its deadly arc to the Apache’s skull. He heard a small sound behind him and half-turned. There was sharp pain near Taylor’s temple and then he was down on his back.

  He didn’t quite lose consciousness but lay stunned. He blinked, staring up stupidly. After some time he determined that there was an Apache standing over him, legs straddled, a stone-headed club upraised in his hand.

  Taylor tried to move but could find no strength. All he could do was lie and watch.

  He saw some strange things.

  He saw another Indian rise to his feet, Evans’s assailant. There was blood all over this man’s long shirt but maybe it was Evans’s blood. Both Apaches gazed down at Taylor. He waited for one of these men to kill him. To begin looting the camp, at least.

  Instead they turned and ran.

  He became aware that all the Apaches had gone. Except Kesus. He remained, locked in combat with Garth.

  Taylor watched the fight, curiously disinterested.

  Garth was flat on his back and Kesus knelt on top of him, pinning Garth’s shoulders and arms under his knees. Kesus lifted his knife.

  Another strange thing happened. Kesus seemed to freeze, with his knife upraised. As he stared down at his victim, there was surprise in his face.

  There was a shot: Kesus was torn around and flung backwards.