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By Root 1015 0

on the opposite side of the slope. He studied it. It could have come from a deer scrambling up from the creek, but it would stir up more dust. He waited. The dust appeared, then vanished, and that meant it was not a deer, but someone not wanting to be seen. He eased himself from the saddle moving slowly, and lifted his rifle, being careful the streaks of sunlight shining through the branches didn’t strike the metal. His eyes were glued to the spot where he had glimpsed the dust. He watched and waited, crouched down behind a clump of brush and weeds. He had stayed high up enough on the slope to be able to see the side of the draw, and yet see the wagon coming from the east. The sun was in the west, giving full light to the valley and shade to the sides of the slope.

Watchfulness was no new thing for Slater. Watchfulness and patience will keep you alive, he had been told more than once. The first to move is often the first to die.

In the hot stillness of the afternoon, Slater could hear the jingle of harness, the soft thud of hooves on the packed trail, Bulldog’s muffled curse as the wagon jolted over a stone. He dared not to take his eyes from the willow clumps. The Apaches would wait until just the right moment. They knew the value of waiting. He had to have a sign soon, so he could fire . . . there it was. A movement of brown and his finger tightened, the rifle leaped in his hands. The sound of the shot echoed in the valley even as the Apache stood, then crashed over, his arms flung wide.

The sudden attack caught the Indians by surprise. They were shrewd and careful fighters, elusive, never trusting a wild charge if they could accomplish their purpose by concealment. Now mounted, whooping Indians came racing toward the wagon, firing and missing. It was diversionary action that Slater and his men were too experienced to fall for. The men crouched behind the wagon, the women and children lay flat in the wagon bed, the frightened team, their heads pulled up by the quick-thinking Bulldog, stamped their feet and moved restlessly. Slater put the butt of his Winchester against his shoulder and fired, his shots seeking out the hidden enemy, firing carefully, squeezing off every shot. Answering fire from the hillside suddenly ceased.

The silence seemed to charge over the hill. Rifles lowered, and in that instant the nearer Indians sprang from the cover of the willows. One big brave lunged his horse straight at Slater. Slater sidestepped and hit him in the small of the back with his rifle butt. The Indian hit the ground and rolled over, lance in hand. Slater hit him again to make sure he was unconscious. A horse was down, screaming. Colt in hand, Slater wheeled, and felt a sharp, stinging pain in his thigh that almost brought him to his knees. From behind the wagon came a crash of shots. Two more Indians fell, and a third fell headfirst off his racing pony and turned head over heels in the grass. The other two broke, seeking shelter, Firing coolly, the men of McLean’s Keep poured lead into the brush. Then again, the sudden silence.

Slater waited. No sound followed except from the wagon; a child was crying, the sound low and muffled. The attack was over. The Apache, like ghosts, vanished, melting into the landscape.

Summer had been trying to figure out the reason for Bulldog’s anxiety when the first shot was fired, the sound bouncing off the hills. The reaction was instantaneous. Bulldog hauled up on the reins and the horses turned halfway across the trail in their effort to stop. Before she realized what had happened, she and Sadie were over the seat and she was flat on top of the squirming John Austin, who was trying to get out from under her so he could see what was going on.

“Stay down and be still, or I’ll hit you!” Summer gasped out the words.

With pounding heart, arms and legs locked around the boy, Summer fought off panic. The noise from the guns beside the wagon was deafening. She heard something far away on the side of the slope that sounded like a shriek. The team stirred restlessly, and the wagon creaked as it