Apache Canyon

The sentry was up and moving, heading for the cover of a brush clump. He settled the rifle butt into the hollow of his shoulder, and methodically emptied the rifle's five remaining cartridges toward the sentry.

He punched fresh .44-40 shells out of his belt, thumbing them one by one into the side loading gate of the rifle and settled down to spray the sentry's position with another burst.

He could see two shapes—one at either side of the hill-flitting through the rocks and scrubs, ru

It was hardly a free ticket home, but it was the best break he could hope to make for himself. He tightened his fist around the balance of the rifle. He gathered his muscles and pushed himself forward, over the rim of the hilltop, sliding on his belly.

Going downhill over pebbles and fist-sized rocks was no easy job, especially since he had to maintain absolute silence. Steadily he crawled. The waiting Indians might be within ten feet of him, for all he could tell.

That was when a strange, rising-and-falling call floated dimly across the desert. The call undulated against his ears, dying slowly: the Apache death cry.

It was a piece of luck he hadn't counted on. He must have hit the sentry with one of the many bullets he had fired. He clamped his mouth shut and stayed put, hoping the cry would draw the other Apaches ofiF the slope to go around the hill.

He allowed himself a moment to get air into his lungs, then held his breath again. He had heard the muffled short roll of a pebble dislodged. His hands tightened on the rifle. Then he heard the quiet, stealthy progress of muffled footfalls. The faint sounds of travel—sounds that an untrained ear would have missed entirely-grew steadily louder. The Indian was coming straight at him, going up the slope, perhaps intending to come up and catch him unawares, or shoot down from the hilltop, blasting him off the face of the cliff.

Brady held the rifle in sure hands, ready to club the Indian, shoot him, or freeze and let him pass if the Indian did not spot him. But it didn t work out that way. The Indian's thick, square shape came easing around the end of the rock shelf and dimly across the four feet of night Brady saw the Indian's rffle muzzle start to swing toward him.

With a faint inward touch of regret, Brady brought the rifle barrel down with full energy against the Indian's head-and reached swiftly forward to catch the faHing body. Gently he let the motionless form down, and swimg away, moving rapidly downslope, bent double and hoping the other Apaches were too far away to spot him.

Taking his chances, Brady made haste as best he could. A twig snapped underfoot; he froze in the shadow of an upthrusting boulder. He moved away from the rock and found the earth leveling out. He had achieved the bottom of the hill.

Holding the rifle, his hand was damp with sweat. He switched the rifle to his left hand and wiped his moist pahn on his breeches. The four or five remaining hobbled Indian ponies were not far ahead now; he heard the clack of a hoof against a rock, and the faint tear of tough desert grass being ripped up by a horse's jaws.

Finally he came to a halt sheltered by a four-foot mesquite, and stood regarding the dark shapes of the horses. His own horse was there, but it was far too worn out to be of use tonight. His best bet, he decided, was a tall dark gelding standing not fifteen feet from him. The horse had not shied away from his white-man smell and that was a good sign. It was a larger animal than most Indian ponies. He suspected it had probably been stolen from a ranch during a raid. He took a long breath and moved forward.

The horse's big head lifted; the animal inspected him boldly. Brady lifted the knife from his belt. He approached the horse silently and knelt by its feet, reaching forward to cut the rope hobbles. The gelding's head jerked up and its nostrils blew softly; thus warned, Brady wheeled, lifting the rifle.

He saw the lean face of an Apache not ten feet distant. The Indian was prone on the ground, crawling—the one he had wounded back by the river. He saw a revolver lifting in the Apache's fist.

Instinct guided Brady's actions. He rolled aside. The Apache's bullet struck the ground a hard blow where he had been an instant before; he landed hard on his shoulder, dimly aware of the horse jumping away behind him, and pulled the rifle trigger.

The bullet took the Apache somewhere in the chest; the man flipped backward and lay facing the sky. Brady whirled; his eyes found the tall horse not far off. The horse stood restively, moving on its feet. He spoke a few soothing words and caught the rope halter. He pulled the geldings head down and turned to mount. But the gelding, startled by the sudden shooting, jumped around, and he had to drop the rifle and use both hands on the horse's mane to swing aboard.

The horse settled down the instant Brady was upon its long back. Brady's head lifted, sca

He kept up that pace for a half mile, then slowed down to save the animal. It was a long ride to Fort Dragoon, and he had to make it in the best possible time. There were eight or nine Apaches headed there tonight and they had an hour's lead on him. The only fact in his favor was that the Apaches had to exercise care to avoid being seen, and they would have to make a pretty wide detour around the little settlement at Tilghley's Ford. Their horses, too, were tired out by the day's nmning. Brady pla

Caked with dust and sweat, bone-tired and hungry, he spoke irritably to the sentry at the post gate, and cantered into the compound. He rode directly to the guardhouse, swung from the saddle and walked with long-legged strides to the door.

The guard lifted his rifle. "Brady?"

"Yes," Brady said. "He all right in there?"

"I guess so," the trooper said. Brady stmck a match against his thumbnail and held it up to the small barred opening in the door.

Tonio was curled up on the floor in the far corner, scorning the cot. Tonio's head lifted and his eyes regarded Brady sleepily. Brady shook the match out, expelling a long breath; he was in time.

He went back to the cowpony, climbed into the saddle, and said to the trooper on guard, "Keep your eyes open, soldier. They may try to break him out tonight."

"Sm-e," the trooper said.

Brady wheeled the horse across the compound and dismounted at the door of Harris's quarters, and went to the door.

After a moment of poimding, Harris's sleepy voice came forward: "What the hell?"

"Open up, Justin. It's Brady."

He heard Harris grumble something; presently feet trod the floor and the dim light of a match wavered through the window. Then a lantern came on, slowly brightening. Presently the door opened, re-vealing Hams in his nightshirt, squinting and sleepy-eyed.

"What's wrong?"

"I'm about two jumps ahead of a bunch of Inyo's bucks. I think they headed here to bust Tonio out."

It brought Harris awake quickly enough. He wheeled back into the room, catching up his trousers. "How big a bunch?"

"Eight or nine." Brady stepped inside and closed the door. "I spotted them about five miles back. They were walking their horses. It'll take them a while to get in position and start crawling up on us. But we'd better get ready for them." "How much time?" "Maybe a half hour."