Apache Canyon

Behind him lay George Sutherland, dead from an anonymous bullet. It was, he thought, probably the best Sutherland could have hoped for—at least now he would not have to stand before the military tribunal and face the consequences of his acts.

Something struck him a blow, half-turning him in the saddle, and he realized that he had been hit. For a moment he did not know where; it was a frightening interval. The horse bounded ahead, rapidly closing the distance to the canyon, and when he felt the begi

Leaning forward to make a smaller target, he rammed through the night, crossing the last hundred yards, begi

Big twdn boulders, simk mto the top of the notch, made of it a single-file fissure, through which everyone must pass who wished to enter the canyon. It, was a perfect spot from which to block entrance and hold off pursuers. Brady yanked the reins back, ready' to jump out of the saddle with his rifle, when something caught his eye. A riderless horse wandered aimlessly in search of grass. "Who's here?"

''Keep going, Will." The voice was hoarse but strong. Emmett Tucker's voice. "Don t be a fool, Emmett."

Tucker came out of the rock's shadow and stood with his rifle lifted and trained on Brady s chest. Tucker was bent over a little to one side, favoring the arrow wound. In the night Brady could not make out his expression.

Tucker said, "I wouldn't make it all the way down anyway. Will. You go on."

"You re crazy," Brady said, lifting his leg over the saddle to dismount.

"Stay put." Something in the shading of Tucker's voice stayed Brady. Tucker said, "I'm not foolin', Will. I'll put a bullet in you if you don't keep going. And two of us, wounded, can't do any better a job than one of us. Move on. Will, and hurry it up. I'll shoot if you don't."

"To hell with you."

"I mean it. Will."

Brady's eyes narrowed. "I believe you do," he said in a quieter tone. Behind him the onrushing thunder of horses was a growing racket. "Emmett—when you get through, remember that horse ranch." "Yeah," Tucker said huskily. "So long, Will." "So long," Brady replied, "partner." And under the unwavering muzzle of Tucker's cocked rifle, he wheeled reluctantly away and put his horse down the treacherous switchbacks of the canyon trail. The walls rose swiftly so that the world grew even blacker and his eyes became useless except for affording him a look at the narrow strip of sky winding overhead.

Then he heard the first of the gunshots behind him.

He reined in and turned the horse aroimd, and sat the saddle uncertainly. Tucker's rifle barked again. Brady heard the muffled echoes of the column down below him, somewhere in the black depths of the canyon. He cursed hvidly; he slammed a fist into his open palm and glared defiantly against the night; and turned around again, pointing the horse downward through the canyon. The night was complete; he had to trust the horse's head since he could not see the trail. Behind him the firing settled down to a steady rate and slowly grew faint with distance.

At the moment when Brady disappeared into the canyon, Tucker's chief emotion was a sudden, vast loneliness. It sank into his belly, almost overpowering him. He took his carbine, canteen, and ammunition, and dragged himself mainly by wall power across the narrow opening, dropping behind a low rock that would shield most of his body from anvthing except a chance ricochet. Out on the plain, the Apaches had quit shooting and were probably off-horsing to come up on the canyon afoot. He sighed, poked the carbine forward, and fired in the direction of a vague movement. His bullet drew no response, but he suspected it had served to caution the Apaches and slow them down. And that, in the end, was all he could expect to do—slow them down, hold them off for a limited time.

His lanky body lay cradled in the rocks. The tightly bound wound throbbed with dull heat. He felt a bit lightheaded, and knew without doubt that there was a definite hmitation placed on his time. His face was long and dour, reflecting a half-warm faraway regret. He remembered a good many things and he thought,

I guess after all a man makes his own breaks. A long time ago, at the time of his first enlistment, he had made his choice, and it had come inevitably to this. The best he could do was shrug it off: I have to die sometime.

He saw a bobbing shape and fired at it, whereupon it dropped from sight. He had no way of knowing whether he had hit the man or just warned him. His eyes were close-lidded; they swept the flats in steady arcs. A thousand memories came hard and sudden, the bitter and the sweet intermingled. He squeezed off a shot and had the satisfaction of hearing a man cry out in the night; he reloaded the carbine and saw in his mind an image of a ca

He took a drink from his canteen and felt his body jerk in sudden spasm; his left arm fell to his side and he could not move it, and when he touched it he knew that a bullet had smashed the bone near his shoulder. He grunted, blinking away the haze that coated his eyes, and lifted the revolver out of his holster. It took a good deal of energy to ear back the hammer. He rested his gun-hand on the rock, waited.

"So this is what it's like," he muttered. He thought of praying, but set the idea aside. The time for praying had been a long while ago; it was too late for that now. His hfe was behind him. If he was to be judged by it, nothing he could say now would change anything.

"Well," he murmured, "good luck, everybody," and pulled the trigger.

A SHAFT of sunlight streamed in through the window slantwise, showing a sharp-comered pall of dust hanging in the room's air. Brady stood bone-weary, hipshot against McCracken s desk, slowly and mechanically building a cigarette and lifting his red-rimmed eyes toward Justin Harris.

Major Cole was talking: "I suppose it's just as well."

"Yes, sir." Harris said tiredly.

"Good or bad," Major Cole went on, "I've only had one life, and that was the army. If we'd court-martialed him and drummed him out or imprisoned him, he'd have been worse off than he is now. To tell the truth, Justin, I've known worse officers than George Sutherland. At least he had guts."

Harris nodded bleakly and Brady said with momentary fire, "So did the men who rode with him, Major."

"We can't resurrect them," the major said to him, and turned back to Harris. "For the sake of his wife, and everyone else concerned, I'm going to report nothing more than that he died in the performance of his duty."

"Yes, sir," Harris said again, and Brady, seeing how meaningless it would be now, kept his peace.

The major said, "Sherman's reply just came in. Our guess was right. It's going to be a tough campaign. Our orders are to throw troops into those mountains and keep them there, keep Inyo off balance—press him, harass him, pick his men off, wear them down and give them no chance to rest."