“I don’t speak Apache,” he said, “but from what I heard, those Apaches seemed to think they were having some fun. Leaving me in that can to bake.”
Lying had always come pretty easy to Reilly. It helped him win more than he lost when he sat down to play poker, and it had gotten him a deputy’s job when he had told Marshal Tidball that he had never spent time in jail.
“Nice story, Mac.” Pardo raised the rifle to his shoulder. “But Major Ritcher would have told me if Apaches was on the prod.”
Reilly dived off the horse just before a shot left his ears ringing. He hit the ground, rolled, hearing another shot, and another, hearing the sickening wail of a dying horse, then Pardo’s cursing. More gunfire. Even a man with an Evans couldn’t shoot that fast. Horses running, wild yips like those of coyotes, only…Reilly looked up and found Pardo’s leg pinned underneath the dead roan. Bullets kicked up dust around Pardo, the horse. Another tore off Reilly’s hat. The sorrel was galloping due south, leaving nothing but a cloud of dust.
Across the desert floor charged a half-dozen Apache riders.
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