Judgment Day. William W. Johnstone

of the stockade, then kicked their own horses in the opposite direction. They turned at the corner of the stockade and rode south, along the narrow path between the outer wall and the creek bank, as if Old Scratch himself was on their tails.

      They emerged into the open at the same time as the first fifteen riders and galloped toward the middle, relentlessly scattering or cutting down any Indians in their path.

      The men on the wall held their fire for the moment, and Jason rode his mare, Cleo, with her reins clenched in his teeth. Both of his hands were busy with the rifle, which barked repeatedly. The riders’ weapons belched sparks and smoke and bullets that spelled the end of many an Apache warrior.

      The remaining Apache, taken by surprise, were easily routed.

      Easily, that is, if one didn’t count the losses to the town. But Jason had no time to grieve over, much less notice, the losses. The only thought on his mind—and the minds of his men—was to kill as many Apache as possible, and that they proceeded to do, mindless of the toll it took on their own ranks.

      And they chased the horde away to the southeast, chased them so fast and furiously that the dust cloud raised by the Apaches’own ponies obscured the view of the meager force chasing them. They chased the Indians for ten miles before Jason said enough.

      They stopped there, ten miles to the southeast of the town, sat there on their blowing horses, and watched the cloud of dust behind the retreating Apache grow smaller and more distant.

      Somewhere behind Jason, a man muttered, “That outta hold the bastards for a while.”

      So softly that the words were barely audible, Jason replied, “Yeah. It better.” And then he reined his mare around.

      Their group had dwindled in number. Where there had once been thirty, there were now barely twenty riders, and they were all haggard and panting, and soaked through with sweat. Some were bloody. Several of them had taken arrows, but they had made it to the end. They had run the game to ground, and they were happy beneath the grime and gore that streaked them.

      “C’mon. Let’s get back and pick up our dead,” Jason said flatly.

      Someone knocked on the trapdoor, and both Matt and Jenny jumped. Then they heard Curly’s voice, and Jenny relaxed.

      She watched as Matt climbed up the ladder and released the bolt on the trapdoor, then threw it wide.

      Curly helped him out, then sank his head down again. “It’s all right, missus,” he said as Jenny got to her feet and began to gather their supplies. “Sheriff Fury stopped by. Said they chased the Injuns away to the south. Don’t look like they’ll be back.”

      Smiling, she handed up two sacks of supplies, then the water bags, one at a time. “Is he still here? The sheriff, I mean.” Curly held his hand down to her, and she took it, smiling. Her brother had saved them all, once again.

      But Curly, after hoisting her up and letting her gain her feet on the living room floor, shook his head. “He said he had to get back to town. Had to catch up to his men, he said.” Curly took off his hat for a second and bowed his head before slapping the hat back into place. “Said to give you his very best regards, ma’am.”

      “How kind.” Her smile remained in place, but only for Curly’s sake. And, she supposed, Matt’s.

      “How much damage to the town?” Matt asked. He had already poured himself a stiff drink, she noted.

      Curly turned away from her and toward her husband. “Some,” he said. “Said they burnt out the Milchers. Did damage to the livery and some of the south buildings, but they got it in hand.”

      Matt nodded. As if he cared. She wanted to slap his supercilious face.

      “Was anyone hurt?” she asked, although she knew the answer when it came to Apaches.

      Curly nodded sadly. “Said his deputy took an arrow, but he’s on the mend. Cooper, Swayze, Thorpe, and a bunch of others all dead. Got a lot more wounded, though. The wall held up fine.”

      She supposed he meant the stockade.

      “Your sister’s fine, too, Boss,” Curly continued without further prodding. “Said she helped Mrs. Morelli cook up a good stew last night for the whole town.”

      “Just like when we were trailing out,” Jenny whispered. But it didn’t matter. They weren’t paying any attention anyway.

      Suddenly, more than anything, she wanted to see her brother. She wanted to touch his beautiful face and see for herself that he was alive. She wanted to hug Megan tight and help her and Olympia cook a stew for everybody.

      She wanted to be someplace, anyplace but here. Anyplace but with Matthew.

      She asked, “Curly, do you think my brother wanted us to come into town?” And immediately regretted how she’d phrased the question.

      Curly said, “No, ma’am, I don’t think so. Said they’d be fine, now that the Injuns have took to the hills.”

      Matt said, “Just the same, tomorrow’s Monday. I’ll be going in to the bank.” He seemed to notice her for the first time. “You can come along with me if you like, Jenny.”

      Golly, thanks, Jenny thought, but she just nodded at him. As if she needed his permission! Without any further conversation, she picked up the food bag and lugged it into the kitchen.