Free Kitt Peak by Al Sarrantonio

gash across the chest, at heart level. Again there were slashes on the hands and arms, as if the man had tried to ward off his attacker.
    Thomas backed away, and the litter carriers bore the body away.
    "Okay if we leave now, chief?" Bartow said. Through the entire ceremony he had stood smiling, chewing on his jerky.
    "Yes," Thomas said.
    They camped outside the village, but still in reservation territory. Bartow was no longer afraid of Kitt Peak. It loomed behind them. Just before sundown Bartow left, and returned with another prairie dog, which Lincoln looked forward to ravenously.
    By the time they ate it was late, and after the long day Thomas and Lincoln turned in. They left Bartow sitting by the fire, humming, still talking as he finished his own meal.
    In the middle of the night, Thomas awoke. The fire was low, but still lit. Something was wrong. He counted the outline of horses.
    There were only two.
    He rose and walked to where Lincoln lay sleeping. Bartow was nowhere to be seen. His bedroll had been packed; his horse was gone.
    By the fire, Thomas found Bartow's plate, with a scatter of animal bones on it. They were in the same pattern they had been when Bartow had gotten so upset the night before.
    "Trooper Reeves!" Thomas called. He didn't wait for Lincoln to scramble out of sleep before setting off himself into the darkness, gun drawn.
    They found Bartow two hours later. He had been heading back to Tucson; his horse stood near his body, huffing impatiently, and waiting to be led. Bartow was face up, staring at the stars, head thrown back. As they got closer, Thomas could see the pulled back rictal look of fear on the man's face.
    "That's the way Sergeant Adams looked," Reeves said.
    "Yes," Thomas said. He examined the body. There were marks of a struggle, claw marks on the arms and hands. Thomas crawled close to Bartow's face, brought his nose down to the dead man's mouth, and sniffed.
    "Lieutenant — " Lincoln said in distaste.
    "Quiet, Trooper." He continued to sniff, then, to Lincoln's disbelief, put his finger into Bartow's mouth and scraped against his teeth. He then brought the finger close to his nose and sniffed.
    "All right," Thomas said, getting up. He strode back to his horse, pulled his bedroll down, and rolled it out.
    "You take the first watch, Trooper," he said to Reeves, then promptly lay down, and rolled himself up.
    Shaking his head at Thomas's antics, Lincoln unslung his rifle, crouched in the shadows near the newly made camp, and looked to the stars for four hours before Thomas Mullin awoke, alert and bright-eyed, to take his place.

Chapter Eleven
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    With pride, Lone Wolf watched as a representative of the last of the Six Tribes approached his camp. The rider halted below, looked up, and held his staff of feathers high overhead in greeting. In answer, Lone Wolf raised his hand high in salute.
    Lowering his staff, the rider continued to climb his horse up the steep path to the top of the bluff.
    Content, Lone Wolf turned back to the Council. The other members had been fed, and were now smoking. Curling Smoke was telling a story to keep them amused. Lone Wolf had grudging admiration for the old man; Curling Smoke had, at least according to himself, been in nearly every major war party of the past fifty years, including the last one of Geronimo. According to Curling Smoke, Geronimo had been a good chief who had merely grown too tired to fight, and now allowed himself to be shown in circuses and newspaper photos. Once that had happened, Curling Smoke said, some of the greatness had bled out of Geronimo, like the blood from a slain deer. Curling Smoke and Geronimo were nearly the same age, and still Curling Smoke fought on. The implication was clear.
    Lone Wolf half-listened to the old man's rambling story about a raid on a fort while he waited impatiently for the new emissary to arrive. This day would prove him triumphant as a chief. No one had been able to call a war council in nearly