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head cocked high, tail erect, strutting even while standing still.
    “ Amigos, you seem to be doing well in this country. Dressed fit to kill. Sitting pretty. Perhaps I will join you, after you kill this gringo. If you can.”
    Juan strained to look over the edge of the cliff. He nodded as he took in the scene. His instinct was correct. The gringo was no fool. He had chosen his fort well. Water, good cover, grass for his horse, and food , if those bulging saddle bags were stocked for travel. He also looked to be very well armed, with a long barreled Winchester rifle in his arms and two white handled pistols stuffed in a wide red cummerbund around his waist, which was itself secured with a military style belt. He also wore a fringed buckskin jacket decorated with what appeared to be Indian beadwork.
    Juan noted the dead scattered in front of the man’s fort. A very good shot . His assessment of the situation changed. This was a man to respect, a man he might call friend. An equal. Juan knew one good friend or partner was more valuable than twenty hungry bandits. Two men who could shoot well and were prepared to back each other could be formidable even against great odds.
    His last real friend had been Ramon Valencia, but they had been separated during a violent battle with Mexican army troops more than two years before. Ramon had not been seen since. Before Ramon, there had been his mother.
    SNAP!
    Juan whipped his head to the right, then back down on the sand. Someone was coming. He risked a quick look. An Indian crept along the edge of the canyon some twenty feet away. Juan crouched lower into the shallow draw, his face now half buried in the sand. He could not sneak away without being seen and was certain to be discovered soon. In the heat of battle he could expect no mercy from these wild men. If he had more time to approach them carefully, perhaps. The gringo , on the other hand, was clearly competent but in need of help. With his back covered, he would likely defeat the rest of these men.
    Juan peeked over the edge once more. The Indian was engrossed in obtaining a good position from which to fire down on the gringo . The man had but to look behind him to see Juan’s exhausted horse, head held low as it stood spraddle legged in the dry watercourse. Juan’s mind raced with the pounding in his chest. Decision time. But still Juan waited. Perhaps this Indian would end the battle with one shot, in which case Juan should permit him to do so.
    The Indian cautiously rose, sneaked a peek, and then popped up to snap a shot over the cliff. He was rebuffed by a barrage of rifle fire from below.
    As the Indian rose to fire again, Juan decided. There was no real choice. “ Amigo . Turn around, por favor. I do not wish to shoot you in the back.”
    The Indian whirled, eyes wide, searching, trying to bring his weapon around, but Juan’s heavy barreled Sharps crashed out its message of death. The 50 caliber bullet struck the hapless Comanche full in the chest. He was propelled several feet backward and fell screaming over the edge of the cliff.
    Juan automatically knelt to perform the sign of the cross. A bullet whined past his ear. Another Comanche stood across the canyon seventy-five yards away, firing rapid but poorly aimed shots at him with a lever action repeater.
    Juan dove back to the safety of the small arroyo, reloaded his Sharps, and with one quick look for range and direction, rose and fired. The Indian’s face exploded.
    Juan flopped down to catch his breath. Miserable shooting. Aim for the belly and hit the face. This is going to get you killed someday, Juan.
    A few seconds later, heart pounding, he scrambled to the edge of the canyon and looked out onto the spread of the river plain below. The remaining riders started their final charge. They apparently believed the firing above had come from their companions. They rode forward from several different directions, screaming, yelling, whooping like maniacs.
    Juan