Devil's Creek Massacre Read Free Page A

the distance, it had looked like a fast-firing new model instead of the single-shot rusty implement of death in Kateynah's hands.
    Kateynah heard a shot directly in front of him. A puff of smoke billowed through the branches of a chol-la cactus, and a lead projectile smacked into Kateynah's forehead. The Apache warrior's promising career came to a sudden end as his brains blew out the back of his head, and he was gone to the happy hunting ground before his face hit the ground.
    Duane withdrew behind the boulder, not certain that his bullet had found its target. It might've been a hawk, the trembling of a leaf, or an Apache warrior with blood in his eyes. The shot echoed off distant caprock escarpments and then faded gradually into the buzzingof insects and chirping of birds seeking breakfast in the desert morning.
    Duane sucked air between his teeth and pressed his back to the boulder. The wait was getting to him, and a rivulet of perspiration ran from his hatband to his eyebrow. He wished the Apaches would rush, and he'd fight it out hand to hand till the bitter end. But they were playing games with his mind.
    Duane wanted a cigarette and shot of whiskey to steady him, because it looked like he was going to die. Ever since he'd left the monastery, it had been one narrow escape after another. He'd seen many men bite the dust and had helped a few along, but now it was coming down on him. There were too many holes in his defense, and sooner or later an Apache would move into position for a clear shot. Duane wished he had his back to a wall, but there was only the open desert in every direction.
    Duane wished he'd stayed at the monastery, and had many other regrets also. He figured that he'd been born under an unlucky star, and life wasn't so wonderful anyway. Glory be to the Father, the Son, and to the Holy Ghost, as it was—
    A gun fired, and lead whacked into the boulder two inches from his right cheek. In an instant, Duane was flat on his stomach, crawling frantically to another boulder, saddlebag filled with ammunition hanging over his shoulder. The next bullet kicked up dirt six inches from his left hip, and he rolled over, jumped to his feet, and broke into a run. Bullets whizzed around him like angry gnats, and sharp needles tore his clothes and flesh as he landed behind a bush with shreddy brown bark. He touched his finger to his cheek; it came back flecked with blood; the first shot had hurled splinters of stone through his beard and into his soft flesh.

    He propelled himself forward on elbows and knees, keeping his chin close to the ground, hard rock scraping his jeans. He knew they could hear his every move, but they wouldn't waste precious ammunition; they'd advance close like last time and plug him economically with one well-placed shot.
    He came to a halt behind a hawthorn tree covered with yellow nutlets. Every time he moved, a needle or spine from a nearby cow's tongue cactus jutted into him. He battled waves of terror, felt as though he were choking to death, but summoned his will, swallowed hard, and prepared to go down fighting.
    He knew that he didn't have a chance, and there were at least six of them, to judge from the shooting. He glanced at the desert bower that would become his tomb. They'd rip away his clothes and leave him for the coyotes, buzzards, and vermin that infested the desert. He glanced up and saw the old crook-necked buzzard circling about, waiting for lunch to be served in all its gory splendor.
    The time for Machiavelli was over, and the only entity that could help Duane was Lord God Almighty. He reached into his saddlebag, pulled out his Protestant King James Bible, and opened it at random:
    And how dieth the wise man? As the fool.
    Ain't that the truth, Duane thought. He flipped a few pages.
    I shall lift mine eyes up unto the Lord, from whence cometh my help.
    Duane looked at the sky, but all he could see was the wise old buzzard preparing his menu. The ex-acolyte realized that he'd