Chapter Sixty-Three
Some five hundred warriors in full war dress thundered across the Sulphur Springs Valley, turning north to bypass the Dragoon Mountains, where Cochise’s west stronghold was hidden.
Jack was fully armed with a quiver of arrows and bow, a lance, his rifle, Colt and a knife.
The bow, arrows, and lance he carried were Shozkay’s, which Datiye had wisely packed in the Coyotero camp.
Brown and black white-tipped eagle feathers hung from the end of the lance and the black’s bridle.
Jack’s face was barely distinguishable beneath streaks of red, yellow, and black paint.
Before he had left, Datiye had pressed a war amulet upon him, and he did not know whose it was, or if she had made it for him overnight and gone to the shaman for blessings.
The mass of warriors veered south down the Sonoita Valley.
Their target was the Warden ranch, just twelve miles north of Fort Buchanan.
They bypassed the other ranches in the valley, and when they surrounded Warden’s, it was still dark, the sky turning from black to slate and then mauve gray in the east. An owl hooted. The signal to attack. With wild war cries from every direction, the Apaches attacked.
Jack was riding at a gallop amid dozens of warriors toward the back of the ranch house, a wooden one-story cabin with one chimney, smoke wisping upward.
He urged the black on until he reached the front ranks of the riders, then surged ahead, alone.
The cabin was only twenty yards away … fifteen … ten. He wanted Warden.
He let loose a bloodcurdling scream.
He rode the black straight at the house, and when a rifle protruded from the window that was the focus of his attention, he drew his Colt and fired.
The rifle blasted with a puff of smoke, but a second too late.
The barrel waved loosely, aimlessly, in the air before slipping out of sight behind the windowsill.
Jack sawed hard on the reins. The black reared, then came down and was turning for another pass at the window.
All around him Apaches were attacking the cabin, the bunkhouse, the cookhouse, and torching everything they could.
Flames were starting to lick at wood, smoke curling almost lazily.
The stock that had been freed from the corrals were stampeding, horses screaming, a donkey braying.
Jack reached the window at a gallop, pulled up hard, and leapt off, dropping the stallion’s reins.
Gun and knife in hand, he threw himself against the wall and peered through the window.
To meet the startled gaze of a man.
They both lifted their guns simultaneously, but Jack was quicker, and he blew the man’s face apart, flesh, blood and brains splattering his shirt and face. He climbed through the window, dropping agilely to the floor. He paused, eyes searching the dark interior, to wipe his face with one sleeve.
He was in a small bedroom the size of a large closet with one bed and a table, the door partly ajar.
Already he could smell smoke, even see wisps—five hundred warriors could do great damage against a dozen unsuspecting men in a very short time.
He could even hear the crackling of flames, and when he looked back at the window he had come through, he saw a tendril of fire snaking into the house. He pushed through the door.
A woman screamed, raising her rifle.
Jack fired instinctively and she fell, blood flowering on her chest. But he wasn’t looking at her.
“Warden!” he shouted.
The big rancher was at the window across the kitchen, where flames were moving rapidly along both walls converging upon him. He had already turned at the sound of the gunshots, had already raised his rifle, was already pulling the trigger.
The front door burst open with a splintering of wood.
Cochise, Nahilzay, and another warrior burst in.
Warden and Jack were firing. Jack knew the woman had cost him the draw, and felt the burning sensation of the bullet as it tore into his side.
Simultaneously three rifles boomed, and Warden fell backward, blood gushing from his neck, his chest, his ribs.
He screamed as he fell into the flames, and was engulfed in the inferno.
“Come, Nino Salvaje!” Cochise ordered.
Jack realized he had staggered backward until he was sitting on a chair.
With effort, holding his hand over his side, sticky blood pouring through his fingers, he tried to stand, and barely managed.
Dizziness swept him. Nahilzay reached him first, grabbed him, threw one arm around him, and half propelled, half dragged him out.
All around him the Apaches were looting and destroying the ranch.
Jack looked around for his horse and whistled feebly, then again with all the effort he had.
The black came galloping around the corner of the house, eyes white and rolling, ears pinned back, nostrils flaring.
Jack grabbed the reins, placed one foot in the stirrup, clinging to the pommel, trying to heave himself up, failing, and was pushed upward from behind.
He managed to find his seat and hung grimly on.
He nudged his horse slightly. The black needed no prodding to follow amid the rest of the galloping horses.
Caught up in the herd of thundering warriors, the black ran, while Jack fought to stay on.