Ryan watched them for several long seconds. They were lying down, two of them passing a soapstone pipe backward and forward. It was obvious that they had no idea there was anyone close by, watching them.
The wind shifted a little, bringing the smell of roasting meat to Ryan’s nostrils, making him realize that he was feeling kind of hungry. There were two more rabbits, unskinned, tossed on the ground on the far side of the fire.
“Sharing time,” he whispered to himself, wriggling back down the slope to rejoin the others.
Jak looked up, his mouth open, ready to call out to the returning figure of Ryan, who lifted a finger to his lips to silence the teenager. He waited until he was among the others to tell them what he’d seen up the hill.
“Five, all warriors, armed with hunting bows and arrows. Three have rifles of some kind. Couldn’t make out the detail. Four of them got pistols stuck in their belts. They weren’t especially on the alert.” J.B. stood up, slinging the Uzi across his shoulder. “And you said they got food?”
“Rabbits. Two cooking, two skinned ready. I don’t reckon they’d put up a fight if we took the uncooked pair. Let’s go see.”
Ryan crawled on hands and knees back up the steep slope, the others spread out on either side of him. The bushes gave them all cover until they were ready to make their move on the fringe of the clearing.
The one-eyed man waited a moment, checking that none of the five Apaches was aware of their presence, less than a dozen yards away. But they all seemed completely relaxed and confident, three of them now sharing the pipe.
He glanced across at the others, all of them waiting for the signal to move forward, all of them with their blasters drawn and cocked.
Ryan nodded. “Now,” he said quietly, pushing through the brush, SIG-Sauer leveled at the nearest of the Native Americans.
“Nobody moves and nobody gets hurt,” he commanded, gesturing with the muzzle of the handblaster.
For a moment the Apaches sat quite still, shocked at the sudden threatening appearance of the companions, all of them well armed.
“We’re kind of short on food, so we’d appreciate the loan of those two rabbits in the grass there.” A pause. “You agree? Well, you don’t disagree.”
The tallest of the group narrowed his eyes, saying very clearly, “Children of Rock, my brothers.”
And he drew the revolver from his belt.
Ryan couldn’t believe what he was seeing.
The Mescalero were all covered by cocked weapons, and had absolutely no chance of defending themselves. And all that Ryan had asked for was a couple of rabbits.
It wasn’t something men would normally be willing to give up their lives for.
“Don’t!” J.B. yelled, as stunned as Ryan, loath to gun down helpless men.
But the event was inexorably set.
The Apaches were going for their blasters, some slower than others, as if they couldn’t believe what was happening to them, either.
It was Jak who fired first, squeezing the trigger on his enormous .357 Colt Python.
You couldn’t possibly have called it a firefight. Perhaps massacre was the only appropriate word for what happened in the next four seconds.
J.B. fired six rounds of 9 mm ammo from the Uzi. Krysty got off two rounds from her double-action Smith & Wesson. Ryan shot down the two nearest Mescalero Apaches with the SIG-Sauer. Mildred only fired once, but the bullet took away the lower jaw of the youngest of the Native Americans, opening up his throat in a welter of gushing blood. Jak had fired once, hitting the leader of the group in the right thigh. Doc leveled the big Le Mat, ready to use the single shotgun round. But he saw that he was already too slow and he held fire. Dean, as well, was unable to get off a shot. It was done.
The Apaches managed a single shot in retaliation. That came from a rusting, rebuilt Colt .45 and exploded into the dirt and leaf mold as the man’s trigger finger tightened in his death spasm.
“Hold it,” Ryan said unnecessarily.