Stryker's Revenge Read Online Free PDF Page B

was saying. “Sergeant Hooper, you will form two ranks on me and shoot into the savages at my command.” He turned. “Mr. Hogg, you will fire independently at targets of opportunity. Use your Henry to good effect.”
    The scout said nothing, but Hooper snapped off a salute and said, “We’re ready, sir.”
    “Then let’s proceed with the attack,” Stryker said.
    Quietly, Hogg again reminded the lieutenant about the woman.
    “Ah, yes,” Stryker said. He looked at Hooper. “There’s a white woman back there. Try to avoid shooting her if you can.”
    Hooper and the men followed Stryker into the clearing and shook into two lines on the officer’s left. “Front rank, kneel,” Stryker whispered. “Now pick your targets.” Then, “Front rank, fire !”
    Bullets crashed into the sleeping Apaches. Indians rose, groggily fumbling for their weapons.
    “Rear rank, fire !”
    Apaches staggered under the impact of the powerful .45-70 rounds and went down hard. At Stryker’s side, Hogg was working his Henry.
    “Front rank, fire !”
    At least half the warriors were hit. The others tried to regroup and a couple were ineffectually firing their rifles.
    “Rear rank, fire !”
    The Springfields crashed and more Indians went down.
    “ Independent fire! ” Stryker roared.
    As a ragged volley swept the clearing, an Apache charged directly at Stryker through a hanging pall of gray gun smoke, a knife in his upraised hand. At a distance of eight feet, the lieutenant shot into the man’s stocky body, then fired his Colt again. The Indian screamed and went down.
    “Advance five paces!” Stryker yelled. “Get the hell out of the smoke.”
    All the troopers but one obeyed the command. Stryker didn’t wait to see who had fallen, but stepped forward into cleaner air.
    The clearing looked like a charnel house. Apache bodies, stained scarlet, lay in heaps and a few wounded groaned and tried to crawl away from the terrible firepower of the Springfields. The indifferent moon braided silver light over the scene and smoke drifted everywhere, like spirits rising from the dead warriors.
    “No prisoners,” Stryker yelled. “Sergeant Hooper, see that it’s done.”
    Hooper was invisible somewhere in the crashing darkness, but his loud, “Yes, sir,” carried in the breeze moaning through the stillness.
    Joe Hogg appeared from the gloom, a Winchester in his hands. “Brand-new, like I figgered, Lieutenant.”
    “It’s got to be one of Rake Pierce’s guns,” Stryker said. He looked around him as though searching the arroyo walls for the man. “Where the hell is he?”
    “My guess would be the Madres, Lieutenant,” Hogg said mildly.
    Stryker swore. “Damn him, damn him to hell.” Shots echoed around the clearing, the sound hitting the hard rock walls like a hammer on an anvil.
    “I took this rifle off’n a wounded buck,” Hogg said. He inclined his head. “Over there by the base of the wall. Maybe we should talk to him afore Hooper does for him.”
    “Will he tell us anything?”
    “No. But I’ll talk to him anyhow.”
    The Apache was young, gut shot and dying tough. There was defiance in his black eyes and a bottomless well of hatred.
    Stryker looked down at the man, no pity in him. “Ask him where he last saw Rake Pierce.”
    The scout jabbered words that Stryker did not understand; then the Indian raised his eyes to Stryker. He spat in the lieutenant’s direction, a feeble effort, his spit full of black blood.
    Hogg smiled. “He just told you to go to hell, Lieutenant.”
    “I gathered that.”
    But to Stryker’s surprise, the Apache began to talk and Hogg cocked his head and listened intently.
    When the Indian stopped speaking, the scout turned to Stryker. “He says the white man will soon be driven from all the Apache lands. Old Nana broke out of the San Carlos four days ago and he’s joined up with Geronimo. Between them, they plan to raise hob by killing as many settlers, soldiers and Mexicans as they can