swept his arm in the direction of the fourth wickiup. They kicked their ponies to a leaping start,
dashed to the hut and gave it a quick inspection. In
a minute they were back.
24
ELMORE LEONARD
The scouts watched Travisin intently as he studied the situation. They knew what the signs meant.
They sat their ponies now with restless anticipation, fingering their carbines, checking ammunition
belts, holding in the small, wiry horses that also
seemed to be charged with the excitement of the
moment—for there is no love lost between the Coyotero and the Chiricahua. Eric Travisin knew as
well as any of them what the sign meant: sixteen
drunken Apaches screaming through the countryside with blood in their eyes and a bad taste in their
mouths. It was something that had to be stopped
before the Indians regained their senses. Now they
were loco Apaches, bloodthirsty, but a bit careless.
By the next day, unless stopped, they would again
be cold, patient guerrilla fighters led by the master
strategist, Pillo.
✯ ✯ ✯
From the direction of the agency a scout rode
into sight beating his pony to a whirlwind pace. He
reined in abruptly and shouted something to Fry
through the dust cloud.
“We been sleepin’, Captain. He says Gatito made
off with a dozen carbines and two hundred rounds
of forty-fours. Must have sneaked them out sometime last night.”
In Travisin, the excitement of what lay ahead
was building up continually. Now it was beginning
Trail of the Apache
25
to break through his calm surface. “We’re awake
now, Barney. I figure they’ll either streak south for
the Madres right away, or contact their people up
near Apache by dodging through the Basin and
then heading east for the reservation. I know if I
was going to hide out for a while, I’d sure want my
wife along. Let’s find out which it is.”
✯
Chapter Four
By midmorning Travisin’s scouts had followed
the tracks of the hostiles to an elevated stretch of
pines wedged tightly among bare, rolling hills.
They halted a few hundred yards from the wooded
area, in the open. Before them the land, dotted with
mesquite and catclaw, climbed gradually to the pine
plateau; and the sun-glare made shimmering waves,
hazy and filmy white, as they looked ahead to the
contrasting black of the pines. A shallow arroyo
cut its way down from the ridge past where the detail stood, finally ending at the banks of the Gila,
twelve miles behind them. On both sides of the
crusted edges of the arroyo, the unshod tracks they
had been following all morning moved straight
ahead.
Ningun, the Apache scout, rode up the arroyo a
hundred yards, circled and returned. He mumbled
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only a few words to Fry, who glanced at the pine
ridge again before speaking.
“He says the tracks go all the way up. Ain’t no
other place they could go.”
“Does he think they’re still up there?” Travisin
asked the question without taking his eyes from the
ridge.
“He didn’t say, but I know he don’t think so.”
Barney Fry pulled out a tobacco plug and bit off a
generous chew, mumbling, “And I don’t either.” He
moved the front of his open vest aside with a thumb
and dropped the plug into the pocket of his shirt. “I
figure it this way, Captain,” he said. “They know
who’s followin’ ’em, and they know we ain’t about
to get caught in a simple jackpot like that one up
yonder without flushin’ it out first. So they ain’t
goin’ to waste their time settin’ a trap that we won’t
fall right into.”
“Sounds good, Barney, only there’s one thing
that’s been troubling me,” Travisin said. “Notice
how clean the sign’s been all the way? Not once
have they tried to throw us off the track—and
they’ve had more than one opportunity to at least
make it pretty tough. No Apache, no matter if he’s
drunker than seven hundred dollars, is going to
leave a trail that plain—that is, unless he wants to.”
He looked at the scout, suggesting a reply with his
expression, and added, “Now why do you suppose
old Pillo would want us to follow him?”
Trail of the Apache
27
Fry pushed his hat from his forehead and passed
the back of his hand across his mouth. It was plain
that the captain’s words gave him something to
think about, but he had been riding with Travisin
too long to show surprise with the officer’s uncanny familiarity with what an Apache would do at
a given time. He was never absolutely sure himself,
but for some unexplainable reason Travisin’s judgment was almost always right. And when dealing
with an unknown quantity, the Apache, this judgment sometimes seemed to reach a superhuman
level.
Fry was quiet, busy putting himself in Pillo’s
place, but de Both spoke up at once. “I take it
you’re suggesting that the Indians are not really
drunk. But what about that unconscious Indian
back at the reservation?” He asked the question as
if he were purposely trying to shoot holes in the
captain’s theory.
“No, Lieutenant. I’m only saying what if,” Travisin agreed, with a faint smile. “Could be one way
or the other. I just want to impress you that we’re
not chasing Harvard sophomores across the Boston
Common. If you ever come up against a better general than Pillo, you can be sure of one thing—he’ll
be another Apache.”
Though he was sure of Fry’s and Ningun’s judgment, Travisin sent scouts ahead to flank the pine
woods before taking his command through.
28
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In another hour they were over the ridge, in the
open, descending noisily over the loose gravel that
was strewn down the gradual slope that led to the
valley below. On level ground again, they followed
the tracks to the north, up the raw, rolling valley,
flat and straight from a distance; but as they traveled, the sandrock ground buckled and heaved into
shallow crevices and ditches every few hundred
feet. The monotony of the bleak scene was interrupted only by the grotesque outlines of giant
saguaro and low, thick mesquite clumps.
Even in this comparatively open ground, de Both
noticed that Travisin and all of the scouts rode halftensed in their saddles, their eyes sweeping the area
to the front and to both sides, studying every rock
or shrub clump large enough to conceal a man. It
was a vigilance that he himself was slowly acquiring just from noticing the others. Still he was more
than willing to let the scouts do the watching. The
damned stifling heat and the dazzling glare were
enough for a white man to worry about. He
mopped his face continua
lly, and every once in a
while pulled the white bandanna around his throat
up over his nose and mouth. But that caused the
heat to be even more smothering. He could feel the
Apache scouts laughing at him. How could they remain so damned cool-looking in this heat! With
every step of the horses, the dust rose around him
and seemed to cling to his lungs until he would
Trail of the Apache
29
cough and cover his nose again with the kerchief.
Ahead, but slightly to the east, he studied the jagged,
blue outline of a mountain range. The Sierra
Apaches. The purplish blue of the mountains and the
soft blue of the cloudless sky were the only pleasant
tones to redeem the ragged, wild look of the valley.
He pressed his heels into his horse’s flanks and
rode up abreast of Travisin. The climate and the
unyielding country were grinding de Both’s nerves
raw; he wanted to scream at somebody, anybody.
“I sincerely hope you know where you’re going,
Captain.”
✯ ✯ ✯
Travisin ignored the sarcasm. “You’ll feel better
after we camp this evening. First day’s always the
toughest.” He was silent for a few minutes, his head
swinging in an arc studying the signs that did not
even exist to de Both, and then he added, “Those
mountains up ahead are the Sierra Apaches. Lot farther than they look. Before we pass them we’re going
to camp at a rancher’s place. His name’s Solomon, a
really fine old gentleman. I think you’ll like him,
Bill.” It was the first time Travisin had used de Both’s
first name. The lieutenant looked at him strangely.
✯ ✯ ✯
It was close to six o’clock when they reached the
road leading to Solomon’s place. The road cut an
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ELMORE LEONARD
arc through the brush flat and then passed through a
grove of cottonwoods. From where they stood, they
could see the roof of the ranch house through the
clearing in the trees made by the road. The house
stood a few hundred yards the other side of the cottonwoods, and just to the right of it a few acres of
pines edged toward the house from the foothills of
the Sierra Apaches towering to the east. Fry pointed
to the wide path of trampled brush a hundred feet
to the left of the road they were following.
“There’s one I wouldn’t care to try to figure out.
Why didn’t they take the road?”
Travisin was watching Ningun circle the cottonwoods and head back. “They’re making it a bit too
easy now,” he replied idly.
Ningun made his report to Fry and pointed above
the cottonwoods in the direction of the pines. A
faint wisp of dark smoke curled skyward in a thin
line. Against the glare it was hardly noticeable.
“Know what that means?” Travisin asked. He
looked at no one in particular.
Fry answered, “I got an idea.”
They dismounted in the cottonwoods and approached the clearing on foot. The ranch house,
barn and corral behind it seemed deserted.
Travisin said, “Go take a look, Barney.” Fry
beckoned to four of the Apache scouts and they followed him into the clearing. They walked across
the open space toward the house slowly, all abreast.
Trail of the Apache
31
They made no attempt to conceal themselves by
crouching or hunching their shoulders—a natural
instinct, but futile precaution with no cover in
sight. They walked perfectly erect with their carbines out in front. Suddenly they all stopped and
one of the scouts dropped to his hands and knees
and put his ear to the earth. He arose slowly, and
the others back at the cottonwoods saw them
watching the pines more closely as they approached
the house. Fry walked up to the log wall next to the
front door and placed his ear to it. He made a motion with his right hand and three of the scouts disappeared around the corner of the house. Without
hesitating, Fry approached the front door, kicked it
open and darted into the dimness of the interior,
the fourth Apache scout behind him. In a few moments, Fry reappeared in the doorway and waved
to the rest in the cottonwoods.
He was still in the doorway when Travisin
brought the others up. “Just the missus is inside”
was all he said.
Travisin, with de Both behind him, walked past
the scout into the dimly lit ranch house. The room
was a shambles, every piece of furniture and china
broken. But what checked their gaze was Mrs.
Solomon lying in the middle of the floor. Her clothes
had been almost entirely ripped from her body and
the flesh showing was gouged and slashed with knife
wounds. Her scalp had been torn from her head.
32
ELMORE LEONARD
De Both stared at the dead woman with a frozen
gaze. Then the revulsion of it overcame him and he
half turned to escape into the fresh air outside. He
checked himself, thinking then of Travisin, and
turned back to the room. The captain and the scout
studied the scene stoically; but beneath their impassive eyes, almost any kind of emotion could be
present. He tried to show the same calm. A cavalry
officer should be used to the sight of death. But this
was a form of death de Both had not counted on.
He wheeled abruptly and left the room.
The next step was the pines. Travisin ordered the
horses put in the corral. In case of a fight, they would
be better off afoot; though he was sure that Pillo was
hours away by now. They threaded through the
nearer, sparsely growing pines that gradually grew
taller and heavier as they advanced up the almost
unnoticeable grade. Soon the pines entwined with
junipers and thick clumps of brush so that they
could see no more than fifty feet ahead into the dimness. They were far enough into the thicket so that
they could no longer see the wisp of smoke, but now
a strange odor took its place. The Coyotero scouts
sniffed the air and looked at Travisin.
✯ ✯ ✯
Fry said, “i’ll send some of ’em ahead,” and
without waiting for a reply called an order to
Ningun in the Apache tongue. As five of the scouts
Trail of the Apache
33
went on ahead, he said, “Let ’em do a little work
for their pay,” and propped his carbine against a
pine. He eased his back against the same tree and
looked at Travisin.
“You know, that’s a funny thing back there at the
cabin,” Fry said, pointing his thumb over his shoulder. “That’s only the second time in my life that I
ever knew of a ’Pache scalpin’ anybody.”
“I was thinking about that myself,” Travisin answered. “Then I remembered hearing once that
Pillo was one of the few Apaches with Quana
Parker at Adobe Walls six years ago. Don’t know
how Apaches got tied up with Commanches, but
some Commanche dog s
oldier might have taught
him the trick.”
“Well,” Fry reflected, picking up his carbine,
“that’s about the only trick a ’Pache might be
taught.”
Ningun appeared briefly through the trees ahead
and waved his arm. They walked out to where he
stood. Fry and Travisin listened to Ningun speak
and then looked past his drooping shoulders to
where he pointed. The nauseating odor was almost
unbearable here. De Both tried to hold his breath as
he followed the others into a small clearing. In
front of him, Travisin and the scout moved apart as
they reached the open ground and de Both was
struck with a scene he was to remember to his dying
day. He stared wide-eyed, swallowing repeatedly,
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until he could no longer control the saliva rising in
his throat, and he turned off the path to be sick.
Fry scraped a boot along the crumbly earth and
kicked sand onto the smoldering fire. The smoke
rose heavy and thick for a few seconds, obscuring
the grotesque form that hung motionless over the
center of the small fire; and then it died out completely, revealing the half-burned body of Solomon
suspended head-down from the arc of three thin juniper poles that had been stuck into the ground a
few feet apart and lashed together at the tops. The
old man’s head hung only three feet above the
smothered ashes of the fire. His head and upper
portion of his body were burned beyond recognition, the black rawness creeping from this portion
of his body upward to where his hands were tied
tightly to his thighs; there the blackness changed to
livid red blisters. All of his clothing had been
burned away, but his boots still clung to his legs,
squeezed to his ankles where the rawhide thongs
wound about them and reached above to the arch
of junipers. He was dead. But death had come
slowly.
“The poor old man.” The words were simple,
but Travisin’s voice cracked just faintly to tell
more. “The poor, poor old man.”
Fry looked around the clearing slowly, thinking,
and then he said, “Bet he screamed for a bullet. Bet
he screamed until his throat burst, and all the time
Trail of the Apache
Trail of the Apache and Other Stories Page 3