Well-satisfied with his handiwork, Kiannatah mounted and rode north, back toward the Mogollons, and a rendezvous with Talpute and the Coyoteros. Now that the Mescalero scout was dead, they would not have to worry about the yellow-legs, who would remain in their camp, blissfully ignorant of the fact that their scouts were about to be destroyed. And in the process, thought Kiannatah eagerly, I will finally have my revenge on the man in the stovepipe hat. That was one throat he very much looked forward to cutting.
Chapter 24
Charles Summerhayes was impressed. Short Britches had said that there was a possibility the Coyoteros would use the same canyon as before. And he'd been right. So far, at least, the old scout was one step ahead of the Netdahe who now rode with Valerio's bronchos and who, it was assumed, was now going to be leading the raiding parties. So Short Britches had sent two Mescaleros to watch the canyon. The other three had been dispatched elsewhere. Meanwhile, the old scout and the young lieutenant waited in the creek bottom shaded by willows and alders. It was, thought Summerhayes, a pleasant oasis in a land of sand and rock and cactus. But he wasn't afforded much time to enjoy it; the very next day one of the Mescaleros returned, to inform Short Britches that, indeed, a Coyotero war party had left the mountains by way of the canyon. As per the old scout's instructions, the Mescalero's companion had left immediately to return to Captain Cronin's camp.
Short Britches and Summerhayes saddled up and, accompanied by the Mescalero, rode out immediately. By midafternoon they had arrived at the canyon. Summerhayes calculated that Cronin and his detachment would show up before nightfall. Then, as before, they would make preparations to spring a trap on the Coyoteros, who, it was hoped, would return this way.
But nightfall came, and there was no sign of Cronin. Summerhayes started to worry, and though the old scout's creased and weathered face was an inscrutable mask, the lieutenant thought that he was more than a little perplexed himself. What had happened to the Mescalero rider sent to fetch the soldiers? Any one of a dozen mishaps could have befallen him. As far as Summerhayes could see, there was only one thing to do.
"I'll go," he told Short Britches.
The old scout wanted to send the Mescalero instead; his inclination was to keep the young lieutenant close by so that he could look after him. He liked Summerhayes, and didn't want to see harm come to him. And he believed that the Mescalero would be better able to handle any problems that might arise en route to the soldiers' camp. But he didn't argue. The lieutenant had something to prove. His self-confidence would be seriously eroded if Short Britches objected.
Summerhayes went down to where they had left their horses, and rode south of the foothills. The night was cool and clear, and the stars would guide him to Cronin's camp. With any luck he could be back at the canyon with the soldiers by dawn. He had to remind himself not to hurry, though—traveling at night in the desert called for caution.
Because he traveled at an easy pace, he was still in the foothills of the Mogollon—and therefore able to hear the gunfire behind him. He was instantly certain that the shooting came from the vicinity of the canyon. And there was a lot of shooting. Checking his horse, Summerhayes listened a moment, perplexed. What was happening? The only scenario that made sense was that the Coyoteros had returned, and Short Britches and the Mescalero scout were trying to stop them. But why would the old scout take such a chance? The odds were stacked too heavily against him. And Short Britches wasn't the type to take on odds like that. Summerhayes would have expected him to sit back and let the Coyoteros pass and hope that the odds were better the next time.
Whatever the truth of it, the sustained and heavy gunfire ringing down out of the mountains was a clear indication that Short Britches was in trouble. Summerhayes spun his horse around and returned whence he had come. To ride to Cronin's camp to fetch the two companies of troopers would take hours—more time than the old scout might have. The lieutenant wasn't sure what good he could do by himself. But he had to try.
As he drew near the canyon, Summerhayes began to see muzzle flashes. The shooting wasn't as furious as it had been previously. Up in the rocks where he'd left Short Britches, the lieutenant could see at least one rifle spewing flame. And all around that position, both above it and below it, were more rifles. The Coyoteros—who else could it be?—had the old scout and the Mescalero surrounded.
Summerhayes pondered his next move. The Mescalero had said that the raiding party he'd seen the day before consisted of a dozen bronchos. The lieutenant knew his own limitations; he wasn't nearly skilled enough in the art of desert warfare to get the drop on a dozen Coyotero warriors. He had to do something, though, and in a hurry. He couldn't be sure just how long Short Britches and the Mescalero could hold out. But what could he do?
Dismounting, he drew the carbine from its saddle boot and ventured up the slope, moving as quietly as possible through the rocks, trying to avoid skylining himself against a sky so bright with stars. He came to the rim of a depression and saw, much to his surprise, a bunch of horses down below. These had to be the Coyotero's ponies. And that meant there had to be . . .
He flung himself to the ground just seconds before the bullet ricocheted off a boulder's face, so close that splinters of rock peppered his face. Summerhayes scrambled on hands and knees laterally along the rim, until he found good cover, which also afforded him a clean shot down into the depression. He saw the shape of a man moving through the horses. It was the Coyotero horse guard. Apaches never left their ponies untended. Summerhayes could only hope that the single shot fired at him by the guard hadn't alarmed the other bronchos, that they couldn't distinguish it from the firing they themselves were doing.
Sooner or later, though, they would realize he was there. He had the element of surprise on his side—now he had to do something to keep the momentum. There was only one thing to do, and he didn't like it. Being a cavalryman, and a horse lover, it was difficult for him to raise the carbine and begin to shoot down into the Coyotero ponies. But he'd seen this same tactic used by Apaches to immobilize or, at least, disconcert their enemies. Good horses weren't easy to come by in the desert. He tried to close his ears to the screams of pain coming from the ponies down below. Several went down, and the rest scattered. The horse guard disappeared into the darkness. His carbine empty now, Summerhayes decided it was time to move, and he withdrew to the place where he had left his own horse. Once there he reloaded the carbine, his ears attuned to any telltale noise that would warn him of an adversary's approach. Instead, he heard the shooting diminish substantially. Were the bronchos pulling out? Hearing his carbine, had they mistaken him for an entire cavalry unit? He waited, not certain what to do next, and half expecting to be jumped by a Coyotero broncho. Eventually the gunfire ceased altogether. Still he waited. When a half hour had passed without any further shooting, he headed up the rocky slopes, staying on foot and leading his horse. As he got closer to the position he believed to be held by Short Britches and the Mescalero, and being more confident now that the Coyoteros were gone, he began to whistle the "Battle Hymn of the Republic." When, a few minutes later, the Mescalero popped up out of nowhere directly in front of him, Summerhayes nearly jumped out of his skin.
The Mescalero made a curt gesture. "Come," he said gruffly. As he turned, Summerhayes noticed how he held his left arm stiffly against his side. The scout had been wounded, but in the darkness the lieutenant could not determine the extent of the injury.
Summerhayes followed the Mescalero another hundred yards up a steepening slope. They arrived at an overhang, beneath which sat Short Britches. The old scout was propped up against the back of the shallow cavity in the rock. His head was tilted to one side, his eyes closed, and Summerhayes had a bad moment when at first glance he thought the man was dead. Sitting on his heels in front of Short Britches, the lieutenant reached out and tentatively touched the old scout's leg. Short Britches flinched as though he'd been startled awake, and Summerhayes found himself looking down the barrel of a revolver. He
gently pushed the gun aside, and his hand came away sticky with blood.
"It's me. Summerhayes."
Short Britches was surprised. When he spoke, his voice was reedy and weak, the words hesitant. His breathing was labored. "How did you . . . get there and back so fast?"
"I didn't get there at all."
"But all the shooting we heard—"
"I'm afraid that was just me. I stumbled upon their horses. Traded some lead with one of the bronchos, and then killed some of the horses. The rest scattered."
Short Britches grunted. "We thought it was Cronin. Guess the Coyoteros thought so too. They made for the tall timber after that. Good thing too." He thumbed back the hammer of his revolver, pulled the trigger. The hammer fell on an empty chamber. He didn't need to say more—Summerhayes realized that the scouts were out of ammunition, or very nearly so. He'd been right to hurry back, and was relieved to have made that decision.
"How badly are you hurt?" he asked. In the darkness of the cave he couldn't discern anything about the old scout's condition.
"I've been better," gasped Short Britches.
"That doesn't tell me much."
"I'm hit twice. The one in the shoulder doesn't amount to much. It's the one in my belly that might do me in."
Summerhayes felt a cold chill down his spine. Short Britches had been gutshot. The lieutenant knew that such a wound almost always meant death.
"I've got to get you to Captain Cronin," said Summerhayes.
"No."
"We might be able to get you back to the surgeon at Fort Union."
Short Britches scoffed. "Would you let that old butcher work on you, Lieutenant? No. Take me home."
"Home," said Summerhayes, momentarily confused. "You mean the ranch?"
"Yes." The old scout seemed to be drifting off again. Summerhayes feared that one time he would drift away and never come back. The idea that Short Britches was mortally wounded—that he might die—shook the young lieutenant. For some reason he'd always thought of the old scout as someone who was indestructible.
Summerhayes turned to the Mescalero. "Where are your horses?"
The Mescalero shook his head. "Gone. Coyotero take them."
"Damn it." Summerhayes realized the futility of trying to track down some of the Coyotero ponies that might still be running loose in the vicinity, especially at night. That would take time, and time was a luxury they didn't enjoy. "Okay," he said. "Help me put him on my horse."
The Mescalero helped him. Short Britches slumped forward over the horse's neck, but he had a good grip of the saddle, and Summerhayes could only hope he would manage to hold on. The ranch was at least a two-day walk to the east—the lieutenant wasn't even sure if he could make it, much less the old scout. But he was determined to try. Short Britches wanted to go "home," and since that could well be his dying wish, Summerhayes would do everything in his power to make it happen.
Before leaving, he turned once more to the wounded Mescalero scout, and told him to find the other scouts and then to ride to Cronin to inform the captain of what had transpired here. Summerhayes wasn't sure if he would be considered derelict in his duty by not reporting to Cronin himself, and then to be engaging in what the captain would undoubtedly call a quixotic attempt to honor a wounded man's request. But he didn't think Cronin and his troopers were in any immediate danger, as long as they stayed out of the Mogollons. He suspected that the raiding party was on its way back to Coyotero hideout. At least he hoped they were.
The Mescalero listened intently, nodded curtly, and then vanished into the night, still holding his left arm against his side. Summerhayes admired the man's stamina. Though wounded, he would carry out his orders. Of that, the lieutenant could be sure. In fact, it was just about the only thing Summerhayes was sure of. And the biggest question mark of all was whether he and Short Britches would make it to Joshua Barlow's ranch.
Chapter 25
"I don't know how he made it," said Summerhayes, sitting in a chair in a corner of the adobe ranch house's single bedroom, watching morosely as a stone-faced Joshua Barlow stood beside the iron four-poster bed, where Short Britches lay. He was struck by how small and gaunt the old scout looked under the covers—somehow he'd seemed much larger in life.
Barlow reached over and reverently closed the dead man's sightless eyes. Summerhayes stood up, not knowing what to say at a moment like this, and somewhat ashamed to feel his eyes burning with tears, especially in the presence of Barlow, who had known the old scout longer, and who had been closer to him. And Barlow seemed to be made of sterner stuff—there were no tears in his eyes. Still, Summerhayes knew his friend had to be hurting terribly inside.
For long, silent moments Barlow stood there, gazing at the old scout's face. Finally, he turned, and looked with gratitude at the lieutenant.
"I'll always be grateful to you," he said.
"For what?" asked Summerhayes.
"For bringing him back so he could die here."
Summerhayes shook his head. "I didn't do anything."
"You walked sixty miles through hostile country. You kept him alive somehow."
"No. He kept himself alive. How, I don't know. He lost more blood than I thought a human body could contain."
"He was the toughest hombre I ever met," acknowledged Barlow. "Funny thing is, after spending years with him, I don't know where he came from, or what he did before I met him, when he was working for John Ward. He never spoke of the past. Or the future, for that matter. And maybe that's the way to be in this country. Living one day at a time."
Summerhayes didn't respond, and a moment later Barlow heaved a sigh and turned to the young lieutenant. "You said there was a Netdahe with the Coyoteros."
"That's what he said," corrected Summerhayes, nodding at Short Britches. "I never saw him, myself. I don't think anybody did."
"The Coyoteros were after the scouts all along," mused Barlow. "That's why they used the same canyon as before. They must have had someone waiting to waylay the rider sent to Cronin. Then they turned on Short Britches. That's just the sort of thing a Netdahe will do. When on the defensive, attack. And attack the enemy's weakest point. Always do the unexpected."
"Can one Netdahe make that much difference?" Although he'd lived through the recent setbacks, Summerhayes wasn't quite ready to lay the blame on the doorstep of a single man. Even one of the notorious Avowed Killers.
"Sometimes. Depends on which one it is." Barlow went to the room's single window, looked out at the desert flats. Though he had no real reason to do so, he believed he knew the identity of the Netdahe in question. It was just a hunch. And if he was right, it was just as serious a development as if Geronimo himself had showed up in the Coyotero stronghold. For himself—and for Oulay—perhaps even worse than that.
"Well," said Summerhayes, "I'd like to hang around for the burying. Then I have to get back to Fort Union."
"Of course."
Barlow left the room. He went outside, and found some of the vaqueros lingering in front of the adobe, awaiting the news they'd all been dreading. He gave it to them. Though they tried to mask their grief, he could tell that the death of Short Britches affected them deeply. Not one of them could honestly call himself a friend of the old scout. Not even Barlow could do that. Short Britches hadn't been that kind of man. He didn't make friends. But, like Barlow, the vaqueros had valued him nonetheless. They'd felt safer just knowing he was around. Because if you had to pick one man to side with you in a scrape, it would have been the old scout.
Mendez and two of the others began to dig a grave out behind the adobe a ways, near where five other graves were located. One was the final resting place of Manolo. Three others belonged to the vaqueros who had died on the night, long ago, when the Netdahe named Kiannatah had come to steal Oulay. The other was occupied by yet another vaquero, one who had died a year ago from snakebite. Watching Mendez and the others work, and thinking of the others buried in this place, Barlow wondered if anybody actually lived lon
g enough to die of natural causes in the Arizona Territory. It made you wonder why people even bothered coming here at all, or why some, like the Apaches, were willing to die to hold on to this land. But then, all Barlow had to do was raise his eyes from the tombstones and look out across the vast desert plain, to the jagged blue line of mountains rising so majestically in the distance—and he knew why. Because even if you didn't live to a ripe old age, the years that you were fortunate enough to reside in this country were the best of your life, in the sense that those years were the ones that you lived to the fullest.
They laid Short Britches to rest late that afternoon, as the sun turned the clouds that streaked the western sky into broad bold strokes of orange and yellow and pink, and a wind kicked down off the Mogollons and began to cool the lowlands. All of the vaqueros were present. One of them had brought the mule that Short Britches always rode. Barlow opened a Bible and read a few lines of Scripture, realizing somewhat ashamedly that the only time he'd ever opened the Good Book was to read over someone who had died. When he was finished, some of the vaqueros spoke the Lord's Prayer together. As they spoke, Barlow glanced at Oulay. She stood across the gravesite from him, her back to the mountains, and he thought again of the lone Netdahe who now rode with the Coyoteros, and wondered if it was Kiannatah. The mountains had always been a menace, but never more so than now, because the one man Barlow had trusted in his absence to protect the woman he loved was gone. With Short Britches in the ground, Oulay was much more vulnerable.
When the vaqueros were done, all but Mendez and the other two gravediggers walked away. Oulay returned to the adobe. She had not wept in front of the others, but Barlow figured she was going to once she was inside. So he lingered at the gravesite, watching the vaqueros work, with Summerhayes beside him.
"Like I said, I'd better be starting back," murmured the lieutenant. He didn't sound enthusiastic. "Believe it or not, General Crook assigned me to the scouts. I wonder what he'll do now. Probably make me chief of scouts." Summerhayes laughed softly, but it was a hollow laugh. He'd been trying to make a joke, but it wasn't at all funny, least of all to himself.
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