Apache Rampage (6 page)

With eager grins the braves started forward, towards the victim who they fondly imagined lay dead. Their grins died as the same victim came lunging out from the other side of the trail. He landed half-crouched before them, his old gun swinging up to line on them. He came fast, silent and moved faster than they were capable of moving. The old Dragoon bellowed like a cannon, flame lancing from the barrel, and the brave holding the musket was flung backwards from his feet by the impact of the soft, round lead ball, powered by a full forty grain charge of prime Du Pont powder.

Through the whirling eddies of the powder smoke, the Kid saw the other Apache bring back his bowstring ready to release the arrow. The Kid was moving Indian fast, his reactions just that much ahead of the young Apache. He flung himself to one side even as he shot down the first brace, trying to get clear of the smoke, get a. clear shot—and avoid the arrow. The brave was fast, his arrow cut through the Kid’s vest as it swung away from his body. The Kid drew back the hammer of his old Dragoon and let it fall, strike the percussion cap and send a tiny jet of flame into the chamber below. There was a roar, and the round ball was expelled through the seven-and-a-half-inch barrel of the Dragoon.

The bow-toting brave was spun around, his left shoulder almost torn from his body by the .44 ball. Even as he went down, the brave tried to get his knife out and carry on the fight. There was no hesitation in the way the Kid acted now. The brave was an Apache, even if a young one, and as such he was dangerous as long as there was breath in his body. Lining the gun carefully, the Kid fired again and the ball tore the top of the brave’s head away. The young Apache slammed back to the ground and lay there, limbs quivering.

Even as the brave was going down, the Kid went into cover again, moving faster than a greased weasel. His gun was still out and ready, and he felt sweat making his black shirt cling to his back. By all fair means he should be dead right now, either bullet or arrow sunk into his body. There should be at least one more Apache in the bushes, covering the other two. That one must have missed his chance; the Kid decided and waited for some sign.

Once more silence fell, broken only by the moaning of the wounded Apache on the trail. The Kid was still again, his palm felt sticky and his mouth was suddenly dry. He was scared and not ashamed of the fact. Any man who knew enough about Apaches would have been scared at a time like this. Fear did not make him either relax or panic, for it was sensible fear, nearer to caution than fear proper. He’d got just three loads left in his gun. There was not time to reload, even if he was able to do so. This was one of the rare times when the Kid almost wished he owned a metal cartridge firing Peacemaker, even with its comparatively light, twenty-eight grain, powder charge. If he owned a Peacemaker he would have been carrying extra bullets in his cartridge loops on the gunbelt. There was no way he could carry spare loads for his Dragoon, his powder flask and bullet bag were in his warbag. Even with the flask and bullets on hand it took time to reload the Dragoon, and time was one thing the Ysabel Kid was fresh out of.

The wounded Apache was on his knees now, not trying to get to cover as he wailed out his death song. It was at that moment the Comanche in the Kid gave him the answer to the missing Apache. The two braves who came out were just that—two, no more. If there’d been more of the same age all would have come out at the same time, and if there’d been an older brave along it would not have been the Apaches lying out on the trail.

The Ysabel Kid came out of cover again, giving a shrill whistle which brought the sound of his horse moving back towards him. Coming out of the bushes, the Kid advanced to give the Apache a merciful bullet. There was nothing could save the Apache boy now, no medical power great enough to stop his dying, even if the Kid felt like leaving him alive. The brave was done for, the .44 ball having torn right through his body. Stepping forward the Kid lined his revolver, then listened to the words the brave wailed out:

‘My father is shamed! My lodge is shamed! I have failed my chief!’

At times like this the Ysabel Kid thought and acted like an Indian. There were few more chivalrous warriors than the Indian when fighting against one of his own kind. That was why the Kid spoke instead of shooting. He lowered his gun, without holstering it, then in the deep throated, guttural Apache tongue asked:

‘Why so, brother?’

The young Apache looked up, agony twisting his face as he focused his eyes on the white man who fought like an Indian and spoke his own tongue so well.

‘Lobo Colorado sent Antelope Boy and me to bring all brave-heart warriors to make the great medicine battle at the village of the stone god house. It is his big medicine and will show all men that Lobo Colorado is the leader’ who will drive the white-eyes from our land. We should have gone on and left you, but Antelope Boy saw you and said we should count coup on you. Also he wanted your big white horse, your rifle and little gun. I did not want to waste time, but he said you are only a white man and would be easy to kill,’ the dying youngster said. He shuddered, then stiffened himself to prevent the other man seeing any sign of pain. ‘Now I know you are no white-eye. What tribe do you come from?’

The Kid was not ashamed of his Indian blood and proud of the tribe to which he belonged. ‘I am Comanche.’

‘I am ashamed, Comanche,’ the young Apache gasped out. ‘My lodge is shamed, and my father will never sing my praise at the council fire, for I have failed my chief!’ He coughed, the blood running down his chin. ‘My horse is in the bush, Comanche. If you bring it to me and help me mount, I can die a warrior’s death, trying to do as my chief wants.’

The Ysabel Kid did not even think of refusing the Apache’s request. He turned and went into the brush and found two wiry ponies fastened to a tree. He unfastened them and led them back to the trail. The young Apache managed to get to his feet, although how he managed it the Kid could not tell. Helping the young Apache to mount the Kid stepped back and looked up. Gripping his horse’s mane and clinging to its flanks with his knees, the young brave gasped out:

‘Soon there will be a great battle, Comanche. Lobo Colorado has made his medicine, and the coups at the village of the stone god house will be the sign. Die well when Lobo Colorado comes.’

‘I’ll try, brother,’ answered the Kid. ‘Die well!’

The Apache rode his horse from the trail and disappeared out of sight into the bushes, his death song coming back to the Kid. Then there was a strangled gasp and a thud, followed by the noise of the horse moving at a better speed. The young Apache brave died happy, trying to obey the orders of his chief.

The Kid would deny that he was any kind of sentimentalist. He’d done what he could for his enemy, acted as a Comanche Dog Soldier should. Now it was long gone time to be away from here. The big white came up, and the Kid dragged the dead Indian to one side of the trail. Then he gripped the saddlehorn and vaulted afork the horse with a lithe, Indian-like bound. This would not be a healthy spot if there were other Apaches around.

In the saddle the Kid gave some sudden thought as to what he should do now. He should go back and warn Dusty about the ambush and tell what he knew. He should also go on to the relay station and warn the men working it, if they did not already know or were still alive to profit from the warning.

So the Kid turned his horse towards the relay station and rode on. Dusty must be told about the attack on Baptist’s Hollow. It would most likely come at dawn. However, the horses needed watering, and the nearest water was at the relay station. So that was where the Kid must head now and wait for Dusty to catch up.

The need for caution was even greater now, and the Kid rode with care. His shots would be likely to bring any Apaches swarming in to investigate. If there were other and older braves in the vicinity, the slightest inattention would give them their chance, and he would be aware of their presence. As aware as a man could get with a barbed killing arrow through his body.

There was no sign of life on the ride. The Kid might have been the only living thing in Arizona Territory. He felt relieved when the bush opened up ahead of him, and he saw the remains of the relay station ahead. Where once stood a stout wooden shack, outbuildings and corrals, there was now nothing but charred timbers. From the lack of smoke, the Kid guessed the fire was long over. Long enough for safety at any rate.

Reaching down, he drew his rifle and rode forward. The open land was still as far as the eye could see. It rolled off into the foothills, and they rose to the heights of the Dragoon Mountains. The scenic beauty held no charm for the Kid. His attention was on that burned-out building.

Dropping from the big white, the Kid made a careful check of the building. He laid a hand on the charred timbers and found his guess was right. The fire had been over long enough for the timbers to have cooled now. There was only one more thing to do, something which must be done before the wagon brought Phyllis and her daughters to the relay station.

Making a circle of the area on foot the Kid checked over everything he could find, reading a story from the sign on the ground. With relief, he saw that the relay station people got clear before the attack. They pulled out with all their horses a week back. Shrewd men, those two, reading the signs and getting out while the going was good and safe. He wondered where they’d gone to and hoped they were lucky enough to make it. A herd of prime horses would be like a magnet to every trouble-hunting Apache.

The burning of the building happened two days after the agents pulled out. A small party, eight or so strong, came on the place looking for coups and loot. They took all they wanted and burned the rest.

The Kid took his horse to the banks of a small stream near the station, and after removing the saddle allowed the big white to drink. Then he loaded his old Dragoon and, from his warbag, took his second weapon, another of the heavy old Dragoon guns, but of a later model. This weapon was loaded and only needed capping, so he placed on the percussion caps and sat back to wait for his friends.

CHAPTER SIX

The medicine show wagon came into sight of the burned-out relay station. Out front, Winchester carbine resting butt down on his knee, rode Dusty Fog; his eyes flickered left and right in fast but careful looks which missed little. Mark Counter rode to the right of the wagon, also holding his rifle; Waco brought up the rear, no longer talking with Rosie, for the door was closed. He rode easily, yet his Winchester was ready for instant use, and the back trail held a fascination for him. They all showed some relief at finding their friend alive and well.

The Ysabel Kid came to his feet in a lithe bound and walked towards the approaching wagon. He glanced at Phyllis and her three daughters who were standing at her back. All of them looked pale and shaken by what they’d seen on the trail, and the Kid cursed his stupidity in leaving the Apache’s body in plain view. He should have dragged the body out of sight of the trail, not just left it lying where the girls could see it.

‘Man’d say you ran into a mite of trouble back there, Lon,’ drawled Waco as he rode forward to greet his friend. ‘Way I read the sign war two lots of trouble. I didn’t see but one, though.’

‘A man can tell your work any place, you damned Comanche,’ growled Mark. ‘The way that ole cannon tears a man you can’t miss the sign.’

Dusty stopped his big paint and looked around the open area. His eyes met the Kid’s asking a question and receiving a head shake in reply. The Kid indicated where the station agents made their escape. So Dusty made his decision. Here would be a good place to allow the horses to rest, water and graze. It was also a place which they could easily defend if need arose.

‘Couple of young bucks tried to take me,’ answered the Kid. ‘Got both of them. One told me it’s to be Baptist’s Hollow for the first attack.’

‘Two of them?’ Dusty inquired, watching his friend’s face and reading more in it than any other living person could have. ‘There was only one by the side of the trail.’

‘Why sure,’ agreed the Kid and explained what happened, then finished, ‘It’s to be the Hollow. The boy told me that was where Lobo Colorado’s medicine’s to be made. He gets the town and the whole of Arizona Territory’s going up in flames.’

Dusty showed no surprise at the way his friend acted. Full well Dusty knew the strain of Comanche blood which the Kid held down most times. It came to the fore at such times, and it was the blood of Chief Long Walker which made the Kid honour a dead enemy’s wish. There were more important matters at stake right now, things which needed attention.

‘It’ll surely be the Hollow then?’ he asked gently.

‘Surely so. What’re you fixing in to do?’

Dusty did not reply immediately. It was a hard decision to make, one few men would have cared for. The town was to be attacked at dawn, and Dusty must decide if he should go back to help, or make for the fort and get the cavalry out. His eyes went to the wagon, to the girls beside it and he shook his head. There was only one way he could play it.

‘We couldn’t make it back there in time to warn them. Couldn’t make it before dawn, not to let the horses rest enough to be of use. Even then we’d likely have to fight our way in. We’d best let the horses rest up for a spell, then push on for Fort Owen as fast as we can go. If we knew the country I’d let you and Waco go on ahead, make better time than we could.’

‘Sure, but we don’t know the lay of the land. You’ll likely need all hands and the cook, happen you run into a bunch coming to the fight,’ drawled the Kid. One of the many things the Kid liked about Dusty Fog was the way he made important decisions on the spot. A lesser man might hesitate, call on the others to help make the decision, so that if it went wrong there would be others to blame. That was never the way of Dusty Fog. The decision was his, and his alone, to make. He would make it alone and stand by the consequences, right or wrong.

‘I warned them folks back at the Hollow,’ went on the Kid. ‘Told them they were likely Lobo Colorado’s number one choice when he made war. Told the marshal to fort up that church. Happen he’s done it they should be able to hold out until the cavalry can relieve them. If he don’t take my word—wal, there’s nothing we can do for them, or anybody else, ‘cepting for going and burying what’s left. It wouldn’t do us no good taking the show folks back with us and maybe getting them all killed on the way in.’

‘Trouble, Captain?’ Phyllis asked and joined the two men, carrying two steaming cups of coffee.

‘Some,’ answered Dusty. ‘I’ll get you all together and tell you what the Kid just told me. I want all of you to know what we’re up against.’

‘It’s about that town back there, isn’t it?’ Phyllis asked. ‘Could we help them if we go back.’

‘Not as good or as much as a couple of troops of cavalry,’ Dusty replied, comparing Phyllis with the women of Baptist’s Hollow. They’d driven her and her daughters out to risk death at Apache hands. They’d insulted her and her girls, tried to get them jailed. Yet Phyllis was still willing to go back and try to help them out.

He gathered the others and passed on the Kid’s words. All eyes were on him as he spoke, and none of the others interrupted. He finished up his review of the situation and told them what they were going to do. Phyllis asked a question:

‘What would you do if we weren’t with you?’

‘Same as we’re doing right now, likely. Four men couldn’t fight their way in through the Apaches,’ Dusty replied, then went on. ‘What arms do you have?’

‘Doc’s revolver. A ten-gauge; The two rifles Molly uses in her act. Each of the girls has a Derringer.’

‘Which same’s near as many arms as the Confederate Army had in the war,’ remarked Dusty with a grin. ‘Can they hit anything with the guns?’

‘Hit a running Apache at four feet,’ Phyllis replied. ‘Especially if he’s running at them.’

‘
Bueno
. We’ll lay up here a piece and let the horses blow, then we’ll push on for the fort. Soon as we’re clear of the Apaches we’ll let the Kid go on ahead.’

The rest were satisfied with that. They broke up, and Molly served out food to them. Thornett sat back with his shoulders resting against the wheel of the wagon, as he so often had in his wandering years. He watched Dusty and nodded in approval. There was a real big man.

Mark’s eyes went to Elwin. The young man hardly touched his food, picked at it and stared into the fire. Mark grinned, he could recognise the signs.

‘What’re you fixing in to do at the fort, friend?’ Mark asked. ‘Join the cavalry?’

Elwin looked up. He’d just been thinking of the same thing himself. It was absurdly easy to pull up stakes and run from his old way of life, but it was not so easy to decide how to live now he’d left. He was painfully aware of his limitations, for working in a town like Baptist’s Hollow did not broaden a young man’s mind or outlook. There was little Elwin knew about other than serving in a store, and his belly was full of that sort of work. The Army was a choice, although he did not fancy such a life.

‘Can’t he stay on with us, Doc?’ Janice asked, before Elwin could make a reply. ‘He’s a real good juggler.’

‘Juggler?’ said Thornett, eyebrows raising as he looked at Elwin. ‘We could use a juggler to give a more balanced arrangement to our show. The public gets tired of looking at pretty girls.’

‘I surely don’t,’ put in Waco, but the others ignored him.

Janice jumped to her feet and went to the wagon, returning with the six cans in her hands. Her face was flushed and eager as she said, ‘Come on, Elwin, show Doc what you. can do.’

Elwin gulped, feeling suddenly scared and nervous. He’d never showed his juggling skill in public, having always been forced to practise in secret. Now he was asked to juggle before a critical audience, with a job hanging in the balance. Then he saw Janice smiling at him, and he felt more confidence. The girl would not want him to show his talent if she did not have faith in him. Taking the cans he got to his feet feeling all eyes on him. For a moment he hesitated, then began to flip the cans into the air. Instantly he forgot the crowd, his full attention being on the flying cans.

Once he’d got his act started Elwin found time to look at the faces of his audience and try to read something from them. In his lack of experience he failed to make anything of how the others looked and sought for a way to take attention from what he imagined were fumbling attempts. There’d been a comedian in the show he saw, and Elwin recalled the jokes told by the man. That might be a way of taking attention from his act. He lost a can by an apparent accident, then recovered it by another equally accidental appearing move.

‘I went into Tucson, to a hotel for a meal. The waiter came to my table,’ Elwin held his voice to a lazy drawl and kept his face dead-pan. ‘I said, “Do you have pig’s feet?” and he said, “No, my shoes pinch”.’

The cowhands laughed, so did the girls. They’d all heard that tired joke before, but the way Elwin told it made them laugh. Thornett was not laughing, his face was thoughtful as he watched the cans flying into the air and listened to Elwin tell tired joke after old joke. The laughter of the cowhands did not interest him, they were part of his usual kind of audience and easily amused. It was the laughter of the girls which caught and held Thornett. They were used to seeing skilled comedians and blase about them, yet they were laughing at the tired jokes. Thornett knew why, it was Elwin’s unconscious timing which brought the full humour to the act. If the young man could appeal to Phyllis and her girls he would most certainly appeal to less sophisticated tastes.

Elwin juggled on, sending the cans leaping and flying. For the first time in his life he heard the heady sounds of applause. Always in front of him, smiling and looking at him with love in her eyes, was the pretty girl. She inspired him to do his best. He finished the trick by catching the cans on top of each other, all six on his left hand in a pile.

‘That was good, friend,’ said Mark eagerly. ‘I’ve never seen it done better.’

Thornett nodded in grave agreement. The boy was rough and raw, but he was the finest natural juggler the old showman had ever seen. With a bit of polishing, the right sort of act behind him, Elwin would be a great asset to the show.

‘I can do more tricks,’ Elwin said, worriedly watching the old man.

‘Most satisfactory, I’m sure,’ Thornett answered. ‘In a career which has brought me into contact with most branches of the profession, I have never seen a juggler use such unusual props. I think that if you would embrace the nomadic existence of a travelling showman, there is a great future ahead for you.’

‘Happen that dust’s what I reckon it is,’ Waco put in, ‘same future’s going to be a mite uncertain.’

The rest looked in the direction of his pointing finger, seeing the dust cloud rising from where a side trail ran off into the hills. There was no hesitation in the way Dusty acted. He knew what might be causing that dust and did not intend to be caught unprepared by it.

‘Under the wagon, you girls!’ he snapped. ‘Fan out, the rest of you?’

The girls dived under the wagon, flattening down on to the ground, and each taking out her Derringer. Phyllis stopped on her feet long enough to make sure her girls were all armed, then before she took cover herself she saw Elwin was not armed. Calling his name, Phyllis grabbed one of Molly’s rifles and tossed it to him, then went under the wagon with her daughters. Elwin levered a bullet into the breech and darted to where Thornett was lying behind the burned-out timbers of an outhouse, the old ten-gauge shotgun in his hands.

The Texans fanned out and took up fighting position fast. They were long used to doing such a thing, and their positions were chosen even as they moved. The result was that while Waco vaulted the sagging corral rails and flattened down, Mark was taking shelter in the charred remains of the station, the Kid flattened down behind a rock and Dusty stayed in a central position. Without needing to be told, the four men got into the best positions to cover each other and protect the wagon.

The Kid lay nestling his rifle and watching the dust. Then he came to his feet to take a closer look at the dust cloud. He relaxed slightly, rifle held across his body and a grin on his face.

Dusty came to his feet, signalling the others to stay where they were. Joining the Kid he also looked at the dust, then asked: ‘What do you make of it?’

‘That’s not Apache raisings. Too much dust for that. ‘Sides which, Apaches wouldn’t stick on a trail,’ the Kid replied, pausing, then grinning. ‘Fair bunch of soldiers and a wagon, I reckon.’

Dusty relaxed slightly himself now. He knew the Kid’s almost amazing eyesight was capable of picking up things beyond anything any of the others could. He did not doubt but that the Kid’s guess would prove correct.

‘Can you see any more?’

‘Caught me a glint of something shiny. No Apache’s going to make a fool mistake like that. No more than a big bunch like that’d stick to a trail. They’d be off it, in the bushes there, so the dust wouldn’t show. And there’s a wagon with them. I figger it’s either a detail headed for the fort, or coming out from it,’ the Kid replied. ‘Was I asked, that is.’

‘Take it you’re asked,’ grunted Dusty. ‘What else can you see?’

Dusty could make out the faint shapes by now, but he wouldn’t have wanted to bet his life on their being white or Apache. He saw the Kid grinning and knew his keen-eyed young friend saw something more. It was some moments before the Kid spoke, then he indicated the shape at the head of the rest.

‘Mind that man riding out front?’

Dusty squinted his eyes and tried to make out who the man in front was. He’d always admired the Kid’s long vision, and this was another example of it. Five minutes dragged by before Dusty could make out who the point rider of the advancing party was. When he did, Dusty felt relieved.

The man at the front of the approaching party was a big, burly figure in the uniform of a United States cavalryman, a sergeant. His brick-red face could only belong to an Irishman, and his campaign hat was shoved back from short-cropped red hair. It was a face Dusty knew well, and the sergeant rode in a manner Dusty knew all too well. He slouched in his saddle, Springfield carbine across his knees, eyes flickering in each direction.

Seeing the way Sergeant Paddy Magoon rode, Dusty knew there was bad trouble in the air. Magoon learned Indian fighting against the Sioux and Cheyenne to the north, the Comanche and Kiowa to the east; and was now taking a post-graduate course against the wildest, most savage of them all, the Apaches. Magoon knew Indians, could read the signs and Magoon was full ready for war.

The approaching party consisted of Magoon and some twenty men, counting the rear-guard of a corporal and four men. They surrounded a wagon, a big Army wagon, driven by a large shape in a sleeveless, dark blue shirt, cavalry trousers and boots, and with a Stetson hat drawn down to shield the face.

A mischievous grin came to Dusty’s face. ‘Magoon!’ he roared out. ‘You drunken Irish wastrel! Sit erect in that saddle, you look like a loose-tied sack of cowdung.’

The troopers riding under Magoon’s command expected to see their sergeant explode into sudden and violent action, for he was no man to allow a stranger, and a civilian to boot, to make fun of him. Instead of leaping from his saddle and hurling the impertinent, small cowhand clear over the burned-out relay station, Magoon sat stiff and straight. His posture could not have been more correct and according to the drill manual had he been passing Generals Grant, Sheridan and Crook all in one group. His rugged Irish face twisted in a grin of pure delight, and turning he bellowed at his troopers:

‘Darlin’s! ‘Tis me ould friend, Captain Fog, who’ve you’ve heard me talk about so often. Now sit yourselves up straight and try to look like cavalrymen, or by gob, he’ll be making you. Sit up now, and don’t be disgracing your poor ould sergeant in front of Cap’n Fog.’

Dusty held his carbine in his left hand and stepped forward to greet Magoon. The big sergeant’s dismount came straight out of the drill manual. He snapped into a smart brace and brought off a salute which would have done credit to the drill instructor at West Point. Then he took Dusty’s hand in his, the smile on his face and the warmth of his grip showing his delight at meeting his hero once more. For Dusty Fog was very much a hero to this hard-drinking, hard-fighting sergeant of cavalry. He’d been Magoon’s hero ever since he took over a leaderless, demoralised battalion of cavalry and turned them into an efficient, proud, fighting unit. The fact that in doing so Dusty also saved Magoon from a court-martial did nothing to detract from his merits in the big sergeant’s eyes.

‘You’re a long ways from home, Paddy,’ greeted Dusty, his hand tingling from the other’s grip.

‘Been over to Fort Beckett, Cap’n. Lootenant took sick with the fever and left me in charge.’

Dusty did not think much about the words, not at the moment. Fort Beckett was the main base for the army in Arizona. It was General Crook’s headquarters and the supply point for the other forts. There was nothing unusual in a wagon being sent to Fort Beckett, except the size of the escort. A lieutenant, a sergeant and twenty men seemed a little superfluous unless trouble was expected, or the load was important.

‘Seen any Apaches?’ Dusty inquired, glancing at the big wagon, at the knots of the canvas cover. They were waxed over and bore an official seal.

‘More than a bit, Cap’n,’ replied Magoon seriously. ‘They’re up and painted for war, or I’ve never seen a bad Indian. We ran into the track of a big bunch and cut over this way to try and get the folks out. Looks like we got here too late to help.’

‘The Kid allows they got clear there a week back. What’s in the wagon?’

‘Damned if I know, Cap’n. ‘Twas all very secret and mysterious. We was sent off in a helluva rush. The lootenant might have known but he never said a word if he did. Anyways, he took down with fever and may the devil sleep on his pillow every night. He was the damned fool who shot down ole Ramon. We left for Beckett eight days back. Right after the court-martial.’

Ideas were running through Dusty’s head. Ideas half formed and discarded for lack of men to make them work. The Apaches were up, and it looked as if every tribe were sending men to see if the medicine of this new leader was good. If they could be held and the attack of Baptist’s Hollow was to fail, there would be no uprising. The braves would fade back to their own people, and even Lobo Colorado’s own tribe would not follow a leader after his medicine went bad.

With these twenty men at his back, Dusty knew he could fight his way into Baptist’s Hollow. He would come in behind the Apaches after they started their dawn attack, charge in on them and either break the attack or get through to hold the church. With twenty men like these, backed by his three friends, Dusty knew he could hold the church until reinforcements from Fort Owen arrived.

It was something to think about. Dusty was not in the Army, in fact, never had served officially with the Union Army. He’d no right to take these men from their duty or make any plans in which they formed a part. For all that, he meant to try out his idea. Magoon would follow him, he knew that, would risk court-martial if Dusty said the word. If they succeeded it would break up the great uprising before it properly got under way. If they failed—Well, it wasn’t likely they’d be around for the Army to take action against. Lobo Colorado would see to that. He and his war-hunting warriors.

The other members of Dusty’s party were emerging now that they saw there was no danger. Magoon beamed in delight and advanced to scoop Phyllis up into his big arms and kiss her hard.

‘Phyllis, me ould darling,’ he whooped. ‘Sure and you look more beautiful every time I see you. When’re you going to marry me, so’s we can raise the finest fighting family in the world?’

‘I’ll think about it,’ Phyllis replied, shoving Magoon away from her. ‘If you muss up my hair I’ll flatten you. Who’ve you got to match against me this time, Paddy, Calamity Jane?’

‘A gal who’d make Calam look like a powder puff,’ answered Magoon, then turned to where the driver of the wagon was swinging down. ‘Hey, Big Em, come over here and shake hands with Madam Fiona.’

The driver turned and removed the Stetson. Phyllis bit down a gulp as she saw long black hair fall to a pair of wide shoulders. She’d thought the driver was a man and a big one at that. Now she found herself looking into a pair of laughing, Irish blue eyes and a large, but pretty Irish face. Big Em, pride of Fort Owen, stepped forward, holding out her right hand to Phyllis. She was big all round. Her hard muscled figure strained at the shirt and pants she wore, her arms bulged with powerful muscles.

‘Howdy, Madam,’ she greeted, her brogue almost thick enough to be cut with a knife. ‘Sure, and I thought you’d be bigger than you are. I was looking forward to licking you.’

‘I’ve licked bigger than you,’ Phyllis sniffed, taking one hand.

‘Have ye now?’ purred Big Em. A glint of battle came into her eyes. She loved fighting as much as did Phyllis. ‘Well, we can soon see about that—’

‘I think we had best wait until the Apaches are settled first, ladies,’ Thornett put in mildly, for he knew Phyllis was capable of pitching right into Big Em.