And at night. It isn’t the Apache way.”
There was little sleep in camp that night. The troop was on the move before dawn, with three dead men in the paymaster’s ambulance. On the column plodded, a grim, scared bunch of troopers who were wishing the dawn would not slide up in the morning sky that day. The dawn belonged to the Apache.
Lieutenant Dana felt the onus of command. Every name on the roll and horse book was his responsibility. Three men were dead. That added up. The night attack didn’t. But together they were the two and two that made four. Even now Chaves was riding hard for Fort Bayard with the news.
And Dana was not a man to discount plain facts. He knew that, as sure as he was alive at the moment, the mark of Victorio had fallen like a dark cloud over the thin strip of civilization in the morning shadows of the Mogollons.
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