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Then the laughter stopped. Hyde groaned, “Oh, my God!” and in the instant spurred his mount and yanked rein to wheel off to the left. There was the report of a heavy rifle and horse and rider went down.

Angsman’s arms were jerked suddenly behind his back and he saw three Apaches race for the fallen Hyde as he felt himself dragged over the rump of the mare. He landed on his feet and staggered and watched one warrior dragging Hyde back toward them by one leg. Hyde was screaming, holding on to the other leg that was bouncing over the rough ground.

Billy Guay had jerked his arms free and stood a little apart from the dozen Apaches aiming bows and carbines at him. His hands were on the pistol butts, with fear and indecision plain on his face.

Angsman twisted his neck toward him, “Don’t even think about it, boy. You don’t have a chance.” It was all over in something like fifteen seconds.

Hyde was writhing on the ground, groaning and holding on to the hole in his thigh, where the heavy slug had gone through to take the horse in the belly. Angsman stooped to look at the wound and saw that Hyde was holding the map, pressed tight to his leg and now smeared with blood. He looked up and Delgadito was standing on the other side of the wounded man. Next to him stood Sonkadeya.

DELGADITO WAS NOT dressed for war. He wore a faded red cotton shirt, buttonless and held down by the cartridge belt around his waist; and his thin face looked almost ridiculous under the shabby wide-brimmed hat that sat straight on the top of his head, at least two sizes too small. But Angsman did not laugh. He knew Delgadito, Victorio’s war lieutenant, and probably the most capable hit-and-run guerrilla leader in Apacheria. No, Angsman did not laugh.

Delgadito stared at them, taking his time to look around, then said, “Hello. Angsmon. You have a cigarillo?”

Angsman fished in his shirt pocket and drew out tobacco and paper and handed it to the Indian. Delgadito rolled a cigarette awkwardly and handed the sack to Angsman, who rolled himself one then flicked a match with his thumbnail and lighted the cigarettes. Both men drew deeply and smoked in silence. Finally, Angsman said, “It is good to smoke with you again, Sheekasay.”

Delgadito nodded his head and Angsman went on, “It has been five years since we smoked together at San Carlos.”

The Apache shook his head slightly. “Together we have smoked other things since then, Angsmon,” and added a few words in the Mimbre dialect.

Angsman looked at him quickly. “You were at Big Dry Wash?”

Delgadito smiled for the first time and nodded his head. “How is your sickness, Angsmon?” he asked, and the smile broadened.

Angsman’s hand came up quickly to his side, where the bullet had torn through that day two years before at Dry Wash, and now he smiled.

Delgadito watched him with the nearest an Apache comes to giving an admiring look. He said, “You are a big man, Angsmon. I like to fight you. But now you do something very foolish and I must stop you. I mean you no harm, Angsmon, for I like to fight you, but now you must go home and stop this being foolish and take this old man before the smell enters his leg. And, Angsmon, tell this old man what befalls him if he returns. Tell him the medicine he carries in his hand is false. Show him how he cannot read the medicine ever again because of his own blood.” For a moment his eyes lifted to the heights of the canyon wall. “Maybeso that is the only way, Angsmon. With blood.”

Angsman offered no thanks for their freedom, gratitude was not an Apache custom, but he said, “On the way home I will impress your words on them.”

“Tell my words to the old man,” Delgadito replied, then his voice became cold. “I will tell the young one.” And he looked toward Billy Guay.

Angsman swallowed hard to remain impassive. “There is nothing I can say.”

“The mother of Sonkadeya speaks in my ear, Angsmon. What could you say?” Delgadito turned deliberately and walked away.

Angsman rode without speaking, listening to Hyde’s groans as the saddle rubbed the open rawness