The Lonely Men

                                                                                    The Lonely Men

  It was HOT. The shallow place where I lay atop the desert ridge was like an oven, the rocks like burning coals. Out on the flat below, where the Apaches waited, the heat waves shimmered and danced. Only the far-off mountains looked cool.
  When i tried to push out my tongue  to touch my cracked lips it was like a dry stick in my mouth, and the dark splashes on the rock were blood... my blood.
    The round thing lying yonder with a bullet hole in it was my canteen, but there might be a smidgen of water left in the bottom- enough to keep me alive if i could get to it.
    Down on the flat lay my sorrel horse, who had run himself to death trying to save my hide, and him with a bullet hole in his belly. In the saddlebags were the few odds and ends that were likely to be as much as I'd ever have possessions in this life, for i didnt seem to be a fortunate man when it came to getting the riches of the world.
      Back in the high-up Tennessee hills they used to tell it that when fighting time came around a body should stand clear of us Sacketts, but those Apaches down yonder had never heard the stories, and wouldnt have paid them no mind if they had.
        If you saw an Apache on a parade ground he might not stack up too much, but out in the brush and rocks of his native country, he was a first-class fighting man, and maybe the greatest guerrilla fighter the world ever saw.