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  The cap rock sealing the Apache Water was a marvelous fit. Unless you knew what was under it, the stone looked like a million others scattered through the south mountains.

  Logan moved the lid aside with more than a little trepidation. Although he doubted it, there could be another Apache waiting with a cocked rifle, but he had to look.

  He immediately smelled water, then a carnal stench of men long dead. The stink itself was enough to have driven the enemy forth, but Logan expected they had gotten used to the smell, and only desperate hunger made them surface.

  A crude stone ladder-way led deeper into the mountain's bowel, and as best Logan could determine, a slant of rubble rock led to the spring far below.

  He had only a single candle stub in his pouch, but Josh expected that if he did not go too far down, the light from the entrance would guide him back out. He wanted mightily to see the secret spring for himself. It was there all right. The damp air proved it.

  Carrying his Spencer, Logan climbed down. He lit his candle, and descended the rock fall. Overhead, huge slabs wedged to hold the thousands of tons of rubble from burying the spring forever. The sensation of vast weight poised to collapse was intimidating, but the spring had been here since the mountains were formed. Logan guessed the place would hold for a few minutes longer. Most likely it would remain for more thousands of years.

  The almost overpowering stench came from a row of fallen Apaches lined along one side of the passage. Logan judged there were twenty of them. The raiders had carried most of their casualties away and had hidden their dead here at their spring. Logan garnered satisfaction from knowing that the scouts had done better shooting than their body counts had indicated. He could understand how the survivors had grown desperate enough to stumble from their hiding no matter what the time of day or night.

  The sloping notch opened into a wider room, and the spring lay before him. The surrounding flat had been well used, and scraps of chewed bones and some hide strips were evident. A rock alcove reeked of human waste. The Apaches had done their best not to foul the nest they huddled in.

  Even with the spring's dampness the cave air was decently dry, and Logan judged that the bodies would mummify with only a minimum of rotting. Eventually, the stenches would be gone, and the spring cave would again be fresh.

  He knelt close to the water. The pool was shallow with a sandstone bottom. His finger found it cold, and he cupped some to drink. Good water. Cold, clear, and clean water. Josh carefully placed his candle and sprawled on his stomach to drink his fill.

  Water droplets from his mouth showed the spring water moving, and Logan thought about that as he filled his canteen. He decided that there was a steady downhill flow. Not swift, but enough to change the water with regularity. If he had been among the Indians hiding here, he would have bathed. The idea made him itchy and aware of his filthy body. If his candle had not been about to gutter, he might have ignored the stink and taken a good scrub.

  With his candle failing, Logan took a last look around, but there was nothing else to see. A few burned up brands showed that light had been kept, but there was no wood left. He wondered how long the Apache braves had lived in total dark. The idea made him shudder. The raiders' lives had turned brutally hard. Josh Logan hoped they had suffered. The renegades' deeds had been horrific, and he figured they had deserved all that had come their way.

  The outside air felt good, and Logan was pleased to put the Apache Water behind him. He wondered how many Apache still alive knew of the existence of the spring, and then he wondered how many of those who knew of the spring could actually find it. There would not be many, and any that lived were no longer in these mountains. Logan was sure of that

  He lined up the warrior's few weapons, but decided they were too many to carry out. None were worth a carry anyway, but he had thought to prove that the last of the Apaches had been put under. He could scalp them, but Josh Logan had never been a scalping man. To hell with it. The scouts could believe or not believe. What did he care?

  He carried the dog soldiers to the spring entrance one at a time and dumped them in. They fell limply, bounced against the rock ladder, and slid down the slope and out of his sight. The bodies had been light in his arms. The Apaches had truly stayed in the hole as long as they could.

  Logan bent the rifle barrels, and dropped the weapons in on top of their owners. Then he sealed the hole, and leaned an extra rock or two to disguise the lid's size. If he had not known exactly where the hole lay, he could never have found it.

  Logan took Sweet's personals, placed his companion's body against a steep rock slide and pushed tons of loose rock onto it. He said no words. Barkley Sweet had been beyond that kind of ceremony. He looked around, but beyond drying blood and their few empty cartridge cases he saw nothing that might reveal that a battle had been fought.

  Leaving the mountains, Logan was unable to accept that the danger was past and that Apaches no longer lay in wait. He practiced the same care he and Sweet had unfailingly used, and truth to tell, he missed the security of Barkley Sweet watching where he was not.

  Josh Logan's word was accepted. The Apache menace was deemed finished, and the scouts made ready to break camp. He told of finding the Apache Water, but the spot was impossible to describe, and no one else appeared particularly interested anyway.

  When discharged, Josh Logan headed north, far north, back into the Colorado Rockies where air was cool and water ran freely. Later, he swung east. He took no vows, but Logan never expected to again see the south mountains. The Dark Shadow would hunt no more.

  4

  For the first time, Logan found their few possessions almost pitifully meager. What they did not need they did not have, and Erni's favored possession was the cast iron wood stove they had brought down from Utah. Her clothes hanging from pegs were worn and faded. His? Logan had no interest in clothing, and except for his hunting gear, his pegs held even less than Erni's.

  They need not have lived so poorly. His brother Frank sent whatever money Logan requested. Back home, the Joshua Logan account in the Blain bank was fat, but Erni did not wish to live above her neighbors and friends, and she gave ten percent of whatever money Josh received to her church. Logan did not resent the tithing. All Mormons tithed, and for some, the giving was truly difficult.

  Josh could in no way blame Erni for their plain living. He too liked it simple. Why have three lamps if they could share one? Of what interest were gee-gaws from city stores? Still, looking around the cabin he believed that he should have made Erni accept more for herself.

  He held her nightgown against his cheek allowing her scent to enclose him a final time. Again his throat closed, and a hopeless sounding sob touched his hearing. Gritting his teeth, Logan fought off his depression and rehung the gown.

  He forced his mind to say, "So be it," and he turned his thoughts from their things to the even fewer items he would now need.

  The house had been hastily searched. Their bed was tossed, and their few drawers emptied. Nothing had been hidden there, but the desecration stoked the coals simmering in Josh Logan's guts.

  The searchers had not found what was now important. From behind a rafter Logan withdrew his fighting tools. The Spencer was not the carbine he had used in the south mountains. That gun he had quickly sold away, but his new rifle was much the same, a Spencer carbine, manufactured by the Burnside Rifle Company late in the Civil War.

  Logan's Spencer was as issued. It fired a .56-52 rim fire cartridge and had a twenty inch barrel. Like all Spencers, Logan's loaded through a seven shot tubular magazine held in the carbine's butt stock. The rifle had a leather carrying strap and the simplest of open sights, but out to one hundred and fifty yards, Logan would rarely miss. Beyond that range, the stubby, low velocity bullet performed poorly.

  Logan had a leather-bound, wood-lined carrying case that held four extra loaded tubes of cartridges. The combination gave him terrific firepower. If he had been at home when the raiders had struck, their
stay in the village would have been less rewarding and undoubtedly much shorter. There were other Spencers in the community. Unfortunately, there had been no experienced fighters to use them.

  Logan checked his Peacemaker Colt before rolling it back in its greasy cloth. He set it aside with its holster. The revolver was in .45 Long Colt caliber, and in close, its bullet hit like a mule's kick. Logan was not a pistol man, but on this hunt he could need anything he had.

  His stock of cartridges for the big Sharps was enough. There were eighty loaded rounds. He reloaded empty cases after each hunt, but taking the antelope had used only two cartridges. His time was short, he would leave those empties behind.

  Onto the growing pile he added his hollow pointing tool and a box of .22 rimfires.

  Logan also packed less war-like equipment. He included all of their household candles, and covered his load with their best buffalo robe. If the chase led into the mountains, the nights could become bitter cold. He got the mule and loaded his supplies into the panniers. So far, the weight was not great, but there was more to come.

  When he walked his animals to the burned out town square, Logan had his emotions under control. Men hurried to meet him, and he was pleased that the large wooden canteens were filled and waiting. A man offered two boxes of Spencer cartridges, and one box was the correct caliber. Josh thanked him solemnly.

  The bishop took Logan aside for a moment.

  "Joshua, you do not have to chase those devils. If you cannot save our Julie you must not risk your life seeking only revenge. Stay here, Josh. We have a place for you in our community. Nothing any of us will do can return our loved ones, and losing you will only add to our hurt."

  Logan suspected that the bishop had a hard time saying the words. He expected that deep inside, Bishop Otis and all of the others hoped he would go out and slaughter every one of the bandits. Well, that deep wish might not get completely satisfied, but Logan figured to make a powerful try at it.

  Logan stayed courteous, and he did appreciate the town's caring about him. Mostly because they had loved Erni, he supposed, but none of that made any difference. He kept his voice steady.

  "Sorry, Bishop. I'm going, but I am grateful for your caring."

  He handed across a hastily written letter and a small pouch of coins.

  "I'd appreciate you seeing this letter off to my brother. It tells what has happened and what I am planning to do. The money was Erni's and is to help the town rebuild."

  He cleared his throat noisily. "I may not be back this way, Bishop. I'd appreciate you seeing to Erni's grave, and I know you'll keep praying for her. I give our place, and all that is in it, to the town to do with as you like."

  Logan paused to let his eyes roam across the small and damaged community. "Erni and I enjoyed our lives here with you, Bishop. I've no regrets we came this way."

  The boy, Billy Hasgrove who had carefully counted the raiders also had the clearest descriptions.

  "They were all Mexican or Indians except one, Mister Logan. Their leader was a white man, and they called him Punto. The name fitted because the man had a huge black looking spot on his left cheek. It looked like an old burn, Mister Logan, and Punto really was a devil. He laughed out loud about everything that happened. When they picked Julie Smith to take with them, Punto just laughed some more and nodded all right. He was the worst of 'em, Mister Logan, I'm sure of it."

  Twenty Mexicans and Indians. Logan wished they had all been white. Mexicans and particularly Indians fought like cougars. The bad ones charged hard and clawed at you until they were all the way dead. Logan guessed a lot of them knew no other way and probably had little to live for anyway.

  Whites could be easier. They tended to plan, maybe to fort up and to take their time. Whites might also break off and make a run for it quicker than the others, but having a white man in charge with all of those fighting men waiting would make for busy work. All Logan had to do was to find them.

  He had one task before he went to look at Erni's grave and to say a final goodbye. He chose to speak to Emit Baird because Baird was always a leader in village affairs, but he spoke loudly so that all would hear.

  "If I am lucky and get Julie Smith clear, or if she breaks loose and gets home herself, you see to it that she is treated with special caring from everybody here. She will need a lot of it because those men will have hurt her bad.

  "Don't make the mistake of thinking that she is all right because she made it back. I've seen it before, and a lot of times. When captives get loose they may seem as usual on the outside, but inside they are hurting with wounds so grievous that some can't live with them. I've known released captives to up and kill themselves without a hint of warning, so if Julie makes it home, this village has to take her in and hold her close. I hope that is clear and that no one is slow acting on it."

  Trailing the mule he rode to the small cemetery. The new graves were stark, and they would be long in growing grass.

  He decided that he would not say prayerful words. Instead he would talk to Erni as if she could hear him, and maybe she could. No one knew for sure.

  Sorrow lay on his soul, and he felt his eyes tear. He was pleased that they did because he had not remembered how to cry for two decades, and he doubted that after this time he would ever cry again.

  Thinking about it, he did not see why he could not talk with Erni any time he wished no matter where he rode. He thought that a good idea and told her so.

  He dismounted to touch the grave, expecting that he would never see it again. That did not matter much. The Erni he loved and cared about was not under the ground. Her spirit flew free, and he hoped that she would not suffer with him during what was coming.

  Logan turned and took the raiders' trail to the south.

  It was a broad trail, widened by horses stolen from Micah. The raiders had hauled a cow along, but the animal could not maintain a horse's pace, and they had killed it a mile out. One of the brigands had used an ax to chop away meat. The rest of the animal rotted where it lay.

  Only a little further, the driven horses had bolted, and time had been lost rounding them up. Far off the trail the carcass of one animal was already bloating. The raiders preferred to kill than to have the village regain a mount. To Logan the pattern was familiar. He had seen it among the long dead Apache who had retreated in the same direction.

  Logan rode at his usual walking pace, his Sharps cradled across his thighs. The Spencer was jammed into a leather scabbard along the saddle with the four-tube cartridge box balancing the other side. The hunter's telescope was collapsed in its leather case and hung from the saddle horn. Essentials were jammed into saddle bags. An old army blanket was rolled behind the saddle, and Logan's one quart canteen rode on top of the blanket.

  If the mule was lost, Josh Logan could manage for a while with what he had on his horse, but this campaign might be long and arduous. The supplies on the mule could make it possible.

  Here on the flats, water could be found, and if the raiders stayed on the low ground, the big canteens the mule carried might not be needed, but the raiders could choose to control the water holes. If they used that tactic, Logan would have to travel far to refill his canteens, and contact could be lost. If the raiders chose the south mountains for their flight, Logan would need every drop of water he could carry, because unless he stayed close, he would surely lose them among the twisted, trackless ridges and their cutback canyons.

  Logan judged there were nearly four hours of daylight remaining. Before dark he would cross the Rio Grande and be in Mexico. He thought about that crossing and decided how he would handle it.

  He would follow the bandits a little longer to determine where they would hit the river. As soon as he felt sure, he would turn off and circle wide around the outlaws' crossing. From what he had seen and heard, the leader called Punto was both clever and careful. Although the raiders had passed nearly two days earlier, Logan did not intend walking into an ambush.

  His animals were tirin
g. They had labored a normal day coming from the north mountains, and their rest in Micah had not been enough. Both had been grained and watered in town, and the mule carried enough grain for a few feedings. Thereafter, both horse and mule would survive on grass, but after a few days, neither would be as strong as before. Grass granted life, but grain gave strength and endurance.

  Of course, the bandits might not fare as well as he. Allowing his horses time to graze would drastically slow Punto's travel. No ranch would offer free fodder, but if Logan came near a farm or ranchero he had Mexican pesos to pay for grain.

  Perhaps the leader, Punto, planned on bartering the stolen horses for feed. Logan recognized that idea as sound. Few Mexican ranchers would question the animals' background, and if they suspected that the animals were stolen in the north, they would not care. Mexicans had little use for gringos anyway.

  Erni came too often to his mind. It was essential that his thoughts stay on his task. Distraction could lead him to a fatal mistake, or cause him to miss an important sign, but her memory rose repeatedly in his mind.

  Only hours before he had been looking for Erni on their porch. No real sense of danger had touched him then. Now she was gone. Gone forever, he made himself repeat. He had to get that settled in his mind. Not until this was over could he safely raise her memory and allow himself to drift in the lost pleasure of it.

  That could mean never, of course. If he got his way, he would fight them all, and from that he could not expect to ride clear.

  Logan looked squarely at the probability of dying, and realized he did not feel strongly about it. He would fight until he could no longer move, and then he would attempt to chew on their legs, but in the end he would not care too much. Seventy was old, and most never made that age. There were real old timers out there, ancients who rocked with rheumy eyes, lost in distant memories with minds that rarely surfaced. He did not really wish for that. Logan raised his eyes to the cloudless skies. Erni waited somewhere up there, and if he arrived sooner rather than later it would be all right.