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THEY TOOK CROUCHED positions five to ten feet apart behind the natural barricade of rocks and trees, pointing their carbines out between the rocks. And they waited. At their backs, the jagged canyon wall, veined with crevices and ledges, loomed skyward.

The lieutenant searched the cliff with his gaze, but could see the top in only one place through the dense trees. Apaches could get up there, but they wouldn’t see anyone to fire on. No, the danger was ahead, among the rocks not three hundred yards away—and you couldn’t see it. But he was satisfied with his position. It was small, right under the wall and not more than thirty yards wide. It wasn’t a position you could hold forever, not without food and water. Still, the young officer was satisfied. There was no place the scout could lead them.

He nudged Cline. “Do you think they’ll try to run over us?” He spoke in a low voice, as if afraid the Indians would overhear.

Cline shifted his chew, looking out over the clearing. He only occasionally glanced at the lieutenant. “Mister, I’ve known Apaches all my life—I even lived with them when I was a boy—but don’t ask me what I think they’ll do. Nobody knows what an Apache’s goin’ to do until it’s done. I don’t think even the Apache himself knows. But,” the scout reflected, “I know they ain’t goin’ to come whoopin’ across that open space if it means some of ’em gettin’ killed. He’s a heller, but he don’t stick his neck out.”

“Lieutenant!”

Towner and the scout crouched low and crawled to the trooper who had called.

“I think they’re comin’. I seen somethin’ move,” the trooper said, pointing. “About twenty feet from the other side.”

The scout squinted hard through the low branches. “Hell, yeah, they’re comin’! Look!”

An Apache showed himself for a split second, disappearing into a shallow gully near the spot where the trooper had pointed. Cline threw up the Remington-Hepburn at the same time and fired, the bullet kicking up sand where the Indian had disappeared. “You got to shoot fast or there’s nothin’ to shoot at.” The last word was on his lips when he threw the piece up again and fired.

“Damn, they move fast!”

Individually, then, the soldiers began firing at the darting, crawling, shadowy figures that never remained in sight more than a few seconds. They fired slowly, taking their time, with a patience that started for some of them at the first Bull Run. They knew what they were doing. They knew how to make each shot mean something.

From the opposite ridge came a heavy fire, continuing for almost a minute, keeping the soldiers crouching low behind their defenses.

“Keep shooting, dammit!” Towner screamed down the line. “They’re moving up under fire cover!”

He turned to his own position in time to see the blur of a painted face and a red calico band loom in front of him not twenty feet away. The Apache was screaming, coming straight on, bringing a Sharps to his shoulder when Towner raised his handgun and fired. The face disappeared in a crimson flash, and for a split second a picture of Sinsonte passed through his mind. He stared between the rocks where the painted face had been. He saw it still. Gordon Towner had killed his first man…and sometimes it will do something to you.

Cline called over, “Good shootin’, mister.” But Towner didn’t hear. He was squeezing off on another creeping shadow. He had been baptized.

They were firing continuously now, seeing more Apaches than there actually were. Every few minutes someone would yell, “I got one!” but most of their bullets whined harmlessly off the rocks and into the brush and sand. On to the middle of the day the cavalrymen pecked away in this fashion, firing sporadically at every cover that might conceal an Indian.

They were holding their own, successfully keeping the hostiles at bay, whittling down their number, except for one disastrous occurrence. An Apache who had crawled unbelievably close, was shot through the side as he dove for a cover, but