He couldn't reach his rifle. It was still on the horse, which was bolting down the canyon. He reached for the Colt on his hip, but a second rope snagged his ankle. He was yanked off his feet again, face-planting into the gravel. Luke rolled, spitting blood and dust.
A figure loomed over him, a warrior with gray hair and a face like a dried apple. The man held a club. Luke lashed out, driving his fist into the man's knee. The old warrior grunted and buckled, but he did not let go of the rope. Then they were on him, not a horde of screaming braves, but a flurry of desperate strength.
Hands grabbed his jacket, his hair, his boots. He kicked out, connecting with something soft. He managed to stand, swinging wild punches. He struck a shoulder, a jaw. He saw a braid whip through the air.
A woman. The realization froze him for a split second. In that hesitation, a heavy piece of driftwood cracked against the back of his head. The world went white, then gray. Luke crumpled to his knees.
Rough hands stripped the gun belt from his waist. He felt his pockets being turned out. His knife was taken. His watch, Sarah's watch, was ripped from his vest. He blinked, trying to clear the swimming vision.
He was surrounded by six or seven people. Two were old men, their chests heaving with exertion. The rest were women. They were dressed in tattered buckskins and trade cloth. Their faces streaked with dust and fury.
"Get up. " Someone commanded in Apache. Luke understood the tone, if not the word. He was hauled to his feet. His hands were wrenched behind his back and bound with rawhide, tight enough to cut off the blood. A rope was tied around his neck, the other end held by one of the old warriors.
They did not kill him. This surprised him. In the stories told in the saloons, the Apache killed men where they found them. "Move. " The warrior grunted, jerking the rope. They began to march.
It was a brutal pace. Luke stumbled over loose scree, his head throbbing in time with his heartbeat. The sun beat down on his bare head. They had taken his hat. They led him deeper into the labyrinth of canyons, along paths that no horse could navigate.
They scrambled up shale slides and squeezed through cracks in the rock. As they walked, the adrenaline faded, leaving room for observation. Luke looked at his captors. They were thin, painfully thin. The women's collarbones stood out sharply.
The old men moved with a stiff gait of starvation. They passed the remains of an old camp, perhaps a week abandoned. There were blackened circles of ash and the bones of a mule, cracked open for the marrow. Further on, they passed a shallow grave, barely covered with rocks. A small pair of moccasins had been left on top of the cairn.