Dead Man's Gold. J.A. Johnstone

He hated his name because it meant Little Manuel. Not only was he big, especially for an Apache, but he had nearly forty summers and was a war chief.

      None of the other warriors ever made fun of his name, though. They knew that to do so was to invite swift death. Manuelito was known throughout the Apache strongholds in northern Mexico as a man who could kill quickly and without remorse.

      Unfortunately for his people, there weren’t too many like him anymore. So many of the chiefs had given up the fight and surrendered to the white men. Even Geronimo’s fangs had been pulled, and now he lived on a reservation somewhere, at one of the white men’s forts. Some of those who had gone with him years earlier on raids across the border into the United States refused to believe that the great Geronimo could be brought so low, but Manuelito knew it was true. Only a few of the old, canny fighters such as himself were left.

      But there were still young men who wished to fight, hungry for the glory of battle as young men always were. Manuelito had led six of them across the border a week earlier with no firm destination in mind. They would just look around and see what they could find.

      A couple of days earlier, they had found an isolated ranch defended only by a man and two boys. Those defenders had died easily, leaving the woman and the girl-child for Manuelito and his companions to enjoy. After a day, the minds of both females were broken, and it was not nearly as pleasurable raping them when they no longer knew what was going on, so Manuelito had told two of the young warriors to go ahead and cut their throats. They had left the ranch house burning behind them with the corpses still inside it.

      Since then, the Apaches had come across nothing else to entertain them, until that afternoon when they heard shots in the distance. More than likely, gunshots meant white men, although it could be Mexicans. Manuelito didn’t care. He would kill either one, without prejudice. If they were not Apache, they were enemies.

      When night fell, they saw the fire. White men, then, thought Manuelito. Mexicans were not so stupid as to announce their presence like that. The war party left its horses out on the flats and approached on foot, stealing silently through the darkness.

      As they drew closer, Manuelito could make out the wagon, and then the two people moving around it. One was an old man, to judge by the way he walked and his white hair. The other was a woman.

      But what a woman…

      Tall and shapely, unlike the squat Apache women he was accustomed to, and with hair like fire that cascaded down her back. Manuelito had heard of redheaded white women, but he had never actually seen one until now. As he watched her, he felt his lust growing. He would take her first, after they had killed the old man.

      Or perhaps it would be better to let the old man live for a while, so that he could watch. The flame-haired girl was probably his daughter or granddaughter, and it brought a grunt of satisfaction to Manuelito’s lips to think of the old man being forced to look on while they all took the girl, one after the other. Then they could kill both of the foolish whites. It would be a good night’s work.

      Manuelito turned to the young warriors and issued his orders in swift, harsh Spanish. Some of them might not like it that he was claiming the redheaded woman for his own first, but none of them would challenge him. Manuelito was certain of that. He motioned for them to follow him.

      The Apaches lay on their bellies and crawled forward until they were just outside the circle of light cast by the fire, so close that they could almost reach out and touch the two whites, who were completely unaware of the danger. Manuelito had been watching closely. He knew the girl and the old man were alone. No one else was in the camp.

      “I’ll take the first turn standing guard, Father,” the girl said.

      Manuelito understood the white man’s tongue, although he would not speak it. The words tasted like ashes in his mouth. So the white-haired man was the girl’s father, as he had thought. Now that he had gotten a closer look at them, the old man seemed almost too old for that, but Manuelito didn’t waste any time worrying about such things. He was more interested in the gun the flamehair wore in a holster on her hip. Was it possible she actually knew how to use it? Manuelito had never encountered a female who carried a gun like that. Even if she could handle the weapon, he wasn’t particularly worried. He knew he was faster than any white woman.

      The Kid figured the lurking shapes in the darkness were Apaches. He was sure neither white men nor Mexicans could move with such stealth. He could barely make them out, and he was looking for them.

      Several years earlier, he and his father had run into some trouble from renegade Apaches in New Mexico Territory. Obviously, there were still a few hold-outs in the mountains south of the border who hadn’t given up the fight against the white men.

      The Kid waited. It would be better if he knew exactly how many enemies he was facing before he opened fire. He also didn’t want to reveal his position by shooting too soon. He watched the figures as they crawled along the sandy ground toward the fire. Finally, he decided that there were half a dozen of them, give or take one. Formidable odds, but he had the high ground and he had fifteen rounds in the Winchester. It was time for him to take them by surprise and start picking them off.

      Just as Manuelito to was about to leap up and rush at the redheaded woman, screaming a war cry that would paralyze her with fear, one of the young men jumped to his feet and sprang forward, no doubt allowing his lust to get the better of his common sense. He had to be crazed by the sight of the redhead, otherwise he never would have gone against Manuelito’s orders.

      Manuelito surged up and yelled piercingly, and so did the rest of the war party. The young man who had disobeyed orders was reaching out for the woman, but Manuelito was only a step behind him. Manuelito was so close that when the rifle cracked and the young warrior’s head exploded from the slug that bored through it, the spray of blood and brain matter splattered all over the side of Manuelito’s face. As he stumbled to an abrupt halt, more shots rang out.

      This was not good.

      The Kid didn’t have time to think, only to react. He tracked the Indian for a split-second with the rifle, then stroked the trigger. The Winchester cracked and bucked against his shoulder, and the Apache flopped at Annabelle’s feet, drilled through the head.

      By the time the warrior hit the ground, The Kid had already shifted his aim and fired again. His second shot wasn’t quite as accurate as the first. The bullet grazed the shoulder of the big Apache who’d been right behind the one leaping at Annabelle and knocked him sideways and down. That left five members of the war party still on their feet. As The Kid came up on one knee, he tracked the rifle from left to right, spraying bullets at them as fast as he could work the lever. He hoped Annabelle and Father Jardine had the sense to get down and stay down.

      From the corner of his eye, he saw that that wasn’t the case, at least where Annabelle was concerned. She had drawn that S&W .38 from its holster and slammed out three shots of her own. The Kid saw blood spurt as those slugs punched into the chest of one of the warriors and knocked him backward.

      The Kid’s fire had cut down two more of the Apaches. That left just two on their feet, and The Kid accounted for one of them by sending a bullet into his belly. The remaining warrior turned and ran like the Devil himself was after him.

      The Kid turned his attention back to the second man he’d shot, the one he’d only grazed. With a grimace of disgust, he saw that the big Apache was gone. He must have scrambled up and dashed off into the shadows, too. He hadn’t been wounded so badly that he couldn’t move fast.

      Holding the revolver level and ready to fire, Annabelle hustled Father Jardine behind the wagon. They crouched there, shielded to a certain extent by the vehicle in case the two surviving Apaches fired at them from the flats.

      “Stay where you are!” The Kid yelled to them as he stood up and leaped off the slab of rock. He landed on the hillside and started half-running, half-sliding down the slope toward the camp.

      With a clatter of rocks, he reached the bottom of the hill and ran behind the wagon to join Annabelle and the priest. Annabelle stared