Apache Canyon

Brady pushed back his hat and sm-veyed the river in both directions; it wound out of sight both ways, leaving him nothing but the thin perimeter of cotton-woods to look at. He turned back to his horse, tightening the cinch and mounting. Brady frowned and sat there, not moving the horse, curlingone leg over the saddlehorn. He patted his pocket and swore; he did not have his cigarette makings. "Fine day," he muttered. "Fine day-everything's going right." He put his foot down into the stirrup and lifted the reins, yanking his hat low over his forehead.

That was when the sight of something out of place froze him. He squinted forward. Presently a breech-clouted Indian, short and lean, rode a dappled horse out of the trees across the river and sat his horse, regarding Brady.

Brady matched the Indian's frank stare. It meant only one thing: that Indian was not the only Indian around here. Most likely, Brady was surrounded by now.

Brady grimaced. If he hadn't been so stupidly engrossed in his own problems, he would have heard them sneaking up on him. He scowled at the silent Indian and tried to figure up the odds against him, but he had no way of telling how many of them were concealed in the cottonwoods.

Pretty soon they would get tired of their little game. One of the young bucks, more restless than the others, would take a shot at him from the trees. That would be the end. He didn't propose to wait for that.

He had to assume two things. One was that the majority of the Apaches were in the trees behind him on his own side of the river, expecting him to tmn and walk or run from the silent one across the river. Another was that surprise would give him a little edge-the edge he needed-between life and death. "Well," he said, under his breath to the pony, 'Tiere we go."

The Apache across the river sat his dappled horse blandly, unbhnkingly. Brady cocked his muscles, gave his horse warning with a little twitch of the reins, and jabbed in the spurs. He charged straight across the shallow stream into the surprised Indian on the dappled horse.

The Indian shouted and lifted his lance; Brady leaned far forward along the horse's withers, water splashing up against his legs, and lifted his revolver from its holster. He fired two hurried shots.

Shooting from the back of a lunging horse did not make for accuracy. He hit the Indian-the Indian lurched on his saddle and dropped the poised lance -but he had not hit a vital area. A tight grin of tension spHt Brady's lips. He splashed out of the water, and wheeled past the swaying mounted form of the woimded Apache. The Indian reached out for him but missed; Brady spun his horse into the trees with the first of a fusillade of shots winging by him. He heard the bullets strike trees, he heard the boom of Agency rifles and the sharper crack of one fast-shooting Winchester—all this in a few spht seconds.

He plunged his horse, galloping through the fringe of cottonwoods.

He broke out of the trees and sped at a dead run up a slope, crossing a patch of rocks and looking back in time to see the first of the bucks on horseback leaving the trees in pursuit of him. He heard a couple of shots, and ran straight up the slope and over the top and cut shaiply to his left. After a steady run he reined the horse again to the top of the ridge and looked back.

The Indians were strung out in a ragged line. The ten Apaches were considerably beyond accurate rifle range. He ran forward along the crest until he turned to the left again and ran once more for the trees. That was his mistake.

There were very few stupid Apaches when it came to hunting down a man. When he was halfway to the river, a trio of mounted bucks broke from the cottonwoods and charged toward him, rifles lifted.

He cursed and yanked the horse's head around, making for the steep hillside. The maneuver had given the main pai'ty of braves a chance to gain on him. He fired a few random shots over his shoulder, and felt the horse begin to scramble, attacking the stifle rise of the hill. The firing of the Apache rifles increased. Ricocheting bullets screamed off rock surfaces. A glance backward showed him that the three Apaches from the river had joined the main party; they were within two hundred yards. Far back along the trees, a straggling solitary rider was trotting forward. He guessed it was the one he had charged and wounded at the river.

The horse heaved forward; he had the precarious sensation of starting to fall backward, the hill was that steep. He leaned flat forward over the horn. A rearward glance flung at his pursuers told him they had gained thirty yards.

And finally, the horse lunged over the top. Brady gigged it to a canter and went across the narrow, rocky ridgetop, and began the long run down the shallow dropping slope of the other side. He knew exactly what the Apaches were doing. Two or tliree would be cutting to either side, making the long run around the end of the ridge. The rest would be following him up the slope.

His only course was straight ahead into the tortured ruggedness of the foothills, into the darkness of the Arrowheads.

Brady s mind worked swiftly. If he maintained his present direction, it would not be too long before the Apaches drove him into a box. There were very few passes into the fortress of the Arrowheads; most of the notches were dead ends, box canyons. He had to make a long swing around until he was ru

The horse was already badly vmided. He could feel the shod hoofs stumble now and then. Behind him he saw the first of the Indians scrambling over the ridge top and plunging forward after him, whooping. The distance was not much more than half a mile.

A man could not outgun fourteen fighting Apaches. But to continue ru

It was the nearest thing to a natural fortification this desert had to oflFer. A manzanita branch rushed by, tearing at his trouser leg. He went around the side of the hill and pointed the horse up its steep slope and let the horse rock and stagger up the hill.

Halfway up, Brady yanked the rifle from its scabbard and the canteen from the saddle and, carrying only these two things, flung himself off the horse and ran uphill.

He covered ground with pumping legs until his eyes swam with blood and his chest heaved and he could not get enough of the hot, stinging desert air into his lungs; he squeezed upward between the faces of a rock-sHce and scrambled on, demanding of his punished legs step after step. And finally, in that ma

He lay flat, canteen and rifle at hand, and for a single moment let his head drop onto his arm while he brought great rasping lungfuls of scorching air into his body. His legs were numb, immediately starting to stiffen. He lifted his head and looked downhill.

They were coming.

He saw his own riderless horse standing with its feet splayed, utterly beaten, head hanging ahnost to the ground, eyes wide and bulging and glazed.

The Indians charged right up to the base of the hill and stopped, milling, holding a quick conference. The brassy sun beat down on Brady s back and sent up painful reflected heat from the surface of the flat rock on which he lay. He reached his rifle, extended it over the edge of the rock and rested his cheek against the stock. He shook his head; he bhnked; he aimed the rifle, held his breath and squeezed off a shot.