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dawn, Carter tricked a guard, snatched the colonel’s horse, and was five miles up in the Arizona hills before they caught up with him.
    He steered the horse up a steep hillside and took a quick glance back. Six mounted soldiers led by Powell himself, gaining fast. And the colonel didn’t look happy. Carter swore, urged his horse forward faster. He’d stolen the guard’s coat and hat, and now the hot sun was making him sweat. But the guard’s gun might still come in handy.
    As Carter approached the crest of the hill, the thunder of hooves grew stronger behind him. They had him, he knew. Unless there was something unexpected over this ridge…
    There was. A dozen Apache warriors, dressed in full war regalia. And heavily armed, with modern rifles.
    Carter swiveled his horse to a halt, held up both hands in surrender. The Apache moved toward him, suspicious. Then they heard the sounds of Carter’s pursuers and snapped back to alert.
    Slowly, carefully, Carter addressed the Apache in their own language. He explained that this was an exercise, a game the white men were playing among themselves— not an attack against the natives. The Apache leader, a man called Domingo, listened warily, but his men’s guns didn’t waver from Carter’s head.
    Domingo seemed to have a beef with the local white men. Carter could relate. There were lots of white men he didn’t care for himself.
    By the time Powell’s cavalrymen charged over the ridge, Carter had almost talked Domingo into not killing them all.
    Then a twitchy corporal called out. “Sir!”
    The Apache moved to charge him.
    â€œShut your damn mouth, Corporal,” Powell said. He trotted over toward Carter and Domingo, whose men kept their guns trained on him.
    Powell’s men fanned out slowly, guns also raised. Apache and cavalrymen watched each other’s every move, fingers quivering on triggers.
    â€œWhat’s he saying, Carter?”
    Carter grimaced, held up his hand for silence. But Domingo was already growing agitated, accusing Carter of leading the Apache into a trap. Carter kept his voice low, calm, but insistent, explaining to Domingo that this was purely a matter between Carter and Colonel Powell.
    â€œCarter, what the hell are they—”
    One shot rang out—Carter never was sure who started it—and that was all it took. The ridge exploded in gunfire.
    Carter’s horse bolted down the hill, almost throwing him off. He struggled with the reins, trying to get control. He watched the cavalrymen fall—one, two, all six in the end, their horses running wild back over the ridge. And just behind him—
    â€œCarter!”
    Powell was in pursuit, his eyes red with rage. Then a stray shot hit the colonel. He screamed and slumped forward on his horse, which panicked, racing up even with Carter’s.
    Carter reached out and grabbed the horse’s reins, thinking, I must be crazy.
    Grimacing, Carter struggled to maintain control of both mounts. Domingo was shouting obscenities, but Carter and Powell had a pretty good lead. Still, the Apache would be after them soon enough.
    Powell grimaced, clutching his bleeding shoulder. “I thought—you didn’t care.”
    â€œShut up.”
    Up ahead, the sparse desert terrain narrowed into a thin canyon winding upward between high hills. It was their only chance. Carter pulled hard on both sets of reins, aiming the horses toward the canyon.
    He knew the Apache were already in pursuit. Silent as coyotes.
    Carter yanked the horses to a halt at a large cave mouth and quickly dismounted. Then he eased the groggy Powell from his horse. Powell glared briefly when Carter took his guns, but said nothing. Carter dragged him inside the cave and sat him up against the wall.
    The cave was dark, but there was only one entrance. Carter doubted he could bring down a dozen Apache singlehanded, but at least he’d be able to see them coming.
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