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hissen what hurts him bad now 'n again—makes him hold hisself up all tight 'n
hard. Jus' don't yo' rile him none when he lights inter yo'. He's like to flay
the skin offen yore back with his tongue—all a matter of what he considers his
duty. Only them what don't take to doin' duty regular —'n some what do—mostly
winds up here. If they are found at all!"
                   He jerked his finger over his shoulder up the
rise of the hill. Ritchie looked more closely at the narrow wooden boards that
stood sentry at the end of each mound. He could read the words carved on
several of the nearest.
                  "Hiram Johnson, ist Dragoons, died of
wounds inflicted by the Apaches. Lester Silvers, tortured to death by Apaches.
K. Knowles, met his death at the hand of Indians.
Unknown man tortured and killed by Apaches."
                   "Kinda intimidatin', ain't they,
son?" Tuttle spat a stream of tobacco juice downhill. "That's why a
man hasta keep his wits 'bout him in this here country. In the summer we fight
thirst 'n Apaches. In the winter we fight snow 'n Apaches. When yo' see Apache
sign, be careful, 'n when yo' don't see nary a sign, yo' gotta be more careful
yet!"
                   But almost before the words had left his lips,
Tuttle was on his feet, staring keen-eyed down the slope. Then he reached down
and pulled Ritchie up.
                   "The signs read as how we're gonna be
needed down thar, son. Gita-movin'!"
                   The one-time Mountain Man moved downhill at a
swift pace, which made Ritchie breathe faster. He hadn't yet seen what had
startled the scout into action.
                   There was a wagon coming up the fort road.
Mules ran at a full gallop along the rutted stretch, their ears laid back, their mouths spewing foam about the bits. From the wheels
came tiny puffs of whitish smoke.
                   "Golly—the greasin' tar's bumin'!"
shouted the sentry. "That's travelin'!"
                   Ritchie ran for the barracks. He could guess
that such speed meant bad news. He was strapping his belt about him, forgetting
even the pain in his bruised shoulder, when the summons he had been waiting for
rang out—the trumpet call of "Boots and Saddles."
                   They pounded for the stables. Anything from a
short sally after a raiding party to a whole Indian war might be before them
now.
     

3
     
''Ain't No Winter Fer Apaches''
     
                   The lone wagon which banged into the fort at a
dead gallop, its wheels smoking from friction, proved to be the only survivor
of the paymaster's cortege.
                   "Roast 'n fry them ‘Paches!" growled
the dragoon on Ritchie's left as they swung into the saddle. "Stow away my
pay under their lousy breechclouts will they! I'll double-eagle the—"
                   Ritchie was watching the falling snow.
                   "Kind of bad weather for an Indian
attack, isn't it?"
                   The dragoon spat an expertly aimed brown
stream, "Lissen here, there ain't no winter fer Apaches—no, ner no summer
neither. Them dodblasted devils raid all year round.
We freeze 'n then we fry, but them—they jus' laugh at the weather. This time
we're gonna freeze."
                   To this gloomy prophecy they rode out of the
fort, carbine on hip, the guidon cracking in the stiff wind at the head of the
column. Breath from men and horses made blue-white streams on the air. It
wouldn't be long now before dusk closed in. Up front Lieutenant Gilmore,
Tuttle, Velasco, and Herndon headed the small troop.
                   The snow was falling steadily but in fine
shifting particles that had not yet covered over the back trail of the fleeing
wagon. They rode at a steady trot, the jangle of equipment providing an
accompaniment to the pounding of hooves on the frozen ground.