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will kill the one on the left. You kill the one on the other side, and be sure to cover his mouth so no one will hear his death screams.”
    The warrior named Sola gave the sign for agreement.
    Isa readied his blade, inching forward. Sola came soundlessly behind, a crude knife made from a rusted plowshare in his fist.
    Isa lunged around the corner of the small building, thankful there was no moonlight to make him an easy target.
    A shadow stirred on one side of the door. The gleam of a rifle barrel was dull, hard to see in dim starlight. Isa’s lunge sent him crashing into the soldier’s chest while Sola made a similar dive to reach the other guard.
    â€œWhat the hell—” the soldier gasped, bringing his rifle up just as eight inches of iron entered his belly.
    Isa jerked the blade upward, hearing the crack of bone and pop of gristle as blood shot all over his right hand. His free hand clamped the guard’s mouth shut as he slumped against the wall, dropping his rifle to reach for the pain racing through his body.
    Isa twisted the knife into the soldier’s heart and felt him grow slack, muscles quivering while more blood squirted from his mortal wound.
    Sola drove the second guard against the armory wall and pinned him there, ripping and tearing into flesh with his rusted knife, a hand covering the soldier’s mouth.
    â€œArrrgh!” the bluecoat blubbered between Sola’s powerful fingers. He slid to the ground on his rump, his Winchester tumbling from his grasp.
    Isa jerked his knife from the soldier’s body and took the unfamiliar iron key from a ring attached to the guard’s belt. As he had seen the soldiers do so often, he put the key into the lock and twisted it.
    The door opened into a dark room filled with rows of rifles in wooden racks.
    â€œTell the others to come quickly,” Isa whispered to Sola as he hurried to a wall lined with repeating rifles.
    More shadows rushed into the armory. Without a word Isa directed them to the rifles, four for each man, while he took down cardboard boxes of cartridges and began stuffing them into burlap bags, two tied together so each warrior could carry a pair over his shoulder.
    â€œThere are so many,” Sola whispered, helping Isa gather boxes of shells.
    â€œIt will not be enough,” Isa replied. “We will hide the ones we cannot use in the cave where Naiche waits for us. When more of our people slip away from the reservation, they will have rifles and bullets.”
    One of the guards groaned outside, and the sound made Isa’s heart labor. He ran to the door, jerking his bloody knife from his belt, and made a slashing motion across the throat of the soldier making the noise.
    Isa gave the fort compound a sweeping glance. It was late and all, but a few soldiers would be asleep. It would be an easy thing to slip past the few who paraded back and forth in the night near the horse stables and kill two more who watched the back of the barns.
    He raced back inside to finish loading the rifles and sacks of cartridges.
    * * *
    Henry Peters was rolling a smoke, his rifle resting against the rear wall of the stable. He hated night guard duty, for the boredom often got to him. Dave Watkins was asleep inside the barn atop a mound of hay, a serious violation of regulations.
    In the flare of the match he held to the tip of his smoke he thought he saw a snarling face very close to his, and he blinked to be sure he wasn’t dreaming.
    Pulling the match away from his face, flicking it out so he could see clearly, he felt a powerful blow to his stomach.
    In a sudden rush of understanding he saw an Indian, an Apache, staring into his eyes as a white-hot pain shot through his belly, spreading like fire.
    â€œJesus!” Peters grunted, feeling one of his ribs snap in two.
    The pain was more than he could take, and his vision clouded. He thought he heard Dave Watkins give a muffled yell from the hallway into the stable.
    Then