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Chapter Two

he orange sun touched the west horizon, scorching
Taway the light until the sky turned the color of ashes.
Shadows stretched and filled the arroyo. Our little band
huddled around the crippled stagecoach hoping that morn-
ing would bring reprieve.
Pope’s face was as gray as the sky over us, yet the sol-
dier clung to a stern sense of duty to his men. He ordered
his troopers to divide the sentry duty. One man watched the
arroyo rim, another the flat ground behind us, while two
rested. Lookouts changed every three hours.
Ford snapped the lever of his Winchester open and
slammed it shut. “Listen to me,” he pushed the words
through his clenched teeth. “I say we slip down this draw
’fore the moon’s up. There’s enough weeds and brush to
hide us. We find a place out there in the desert and hole up
’til mornin’. If he’s right,” Ford nodded at Pope, “and the
Apaches are gone, we’ll be that much closer to Vengeance.
If’n he’s wrong and those savages come in for the kill, we’ll
be gone.”
“We can’t move Pope. His leg’s broken.”
“Leave ’im and his nigras. They’re paid to fight Apaches.”
His stale breath washed over my face. “C’mon, Kepler,
you and your woman, let’s make a break for it. The three of
us got more chance out there then we got here.”
June helped Pope take a few drops of water from the

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