Stryker's Revenge Read Online Free PDF Page A

loosed the flap of his holster, thumbed a sixth cartridge into his Colt and replaced the weapon. He waited.
    Sergeant Hooper led his men forward in an untidy column, riding over broken ground. He saluted the lieutenant and said, “Detail all present and accounted for, sir.”
    Stryker nodded, then glanced at Hogg. The scout read the question in his eyes and said, “Maybe another thirty minutes. Let them bucks get good an’ drunk.”
    “Sergeant Hooper, we’ll fight dismounted,” the lieutenant said. He disliked the thought of weakening his command, but there was no alternative. “Leave Trooper Kramer and one other man with the horses.”
    Hooper saluted again. “Permission to picket the mounts, sir.”
    After nodding his approval, Stryker again turned to Hogg. “Will they be guarding the arroyo, Joe?”
    A white moth fluttered past the scout’s face. “Maybe, but I doubt it. The Apaches don’t know we’re here.”
    “You sure about that?”
    “Sure I’m sure. If they were around, they would have smelled your tobacco smoke, Lieutenant. You’d be dead by now.”
    “Hell, Joe, you told me I could smoke.”
    “I said, ‘If it pleases you.’ I didn’t say do it.”
    Stryker glared hard at Hogg. But the scout only shrugged and turned away, his talking on the subject done.
    After Stryker judged that the thirty minutes had passed, he swung out of the saddle and Hogg did the same.
    “Sergeant Hooper, we’re moving out,” Stryker said. “Carbines, but leave the canteens behind and, like I did with Trooper Kramer, anything else that makes a damned racket.” He gave Hogg a sideways glance. “And no smoking.”
    If the scout felt the slightest pang of guilt, he hid it well. He stepped to his horse, reached into the beaded possibles bag that always hung behind his saddle and took out a tally book. He tore out a page, folded it lengthwise and stuck it in the front of his hat.
    He stepped closer to Hooper. “I’ll scout the arroyo again. When I come out o’ there, tell them alley rats of yours to look for the white paper in my hat. I don’t want them boys gettin’ scared, taking me fer an Apache, an’ cuttin’ loose.”
    Hooper nodded and looked around him at the troopers. “You heard Mr. Hogg. Look for the white paper in his hat. Got that?”
    There were a few scattered nods; then Stryker stepped forward as the scout mounted his pony and drifted into the gloom.
    “Men,” he said, pitching his harsh voice low, “in a few minutes you will be fighting the tigers of the human species, an enemy cruel, crafty and quick to scent danger. The Apache is a treacherous animal, patient in defeat, merciless in victory. All you can do is kill him. And that’s what I expect of every one of you—kill . . . kill . . . kill again.”
    Stryker’s voice stilled the troopers’ quiet cheers. “And here’s good news. Any man who falls in the engagement will be posthumously promoted to corporal.”
    This time the only huzzah came from Hooper. He looked around at his men and said, “Now there’s generosity from the officer for you, lads. It’s not every day a dead man is promoted to full corporal.” He saluted Stryker. “You can depend on us to do our bit, sir.”
    “Excellent,” Stryker said. God, he disliked Hooper intensely. “Move out the men, Sergeant, and from now on keep it quiet.”
    The lieutenant in the lead, the detail moved into the gathering darkness. Above them, shedding a bladed light, the sickle moon silently reaped the stars. Stryker saw one fall to earth and he imagined that it thumped onto the desert sand and was now laying somewhere close, glowing red and smoking like a cinder.
    He walked on across broken country, skirting the foothills. Behind him his troopers, cavalrymen who had an intense dislike of walking, stumbled and cursed softly, drawing muttered threats from Hooper.
    Suddenly Hogg emerged from the gloom, leading his horse at a jog, the white paper in his hat bobbing.
    “Hold your