He was in tall brush. He could see nothing. Just
vague shadows that threatened to take shape in the moonlight... and never quite did. He tightened the reins. He wished he knew the mare. He'd give everything he owned... all the gold he had almost owned.. • for a good brush pony.
Something moved, something white ... and he remembered one of the bucks sitting a pinto in the ranch yard. He cocked the Winchester, wondering at the last moment if there was a cartridge in the chamber, and fired. He didn't wait for the results. He jammed the rifle back in the scabbard, kicked the mare in the flanks and went down low over the saddle.
The mare took the first patch of brush in stride. Then it got thicker ... mesquite and catclaw now, he thought... and she began to stumble. Logan closed his eyes; it was better that way. They were going too fast to see the branches coming up, too fast even for simple reflexes. And avoiding one branch just put you in the path of another.
The mare was game. She was tearing the hell out of herself, he knew that, but each time he could get his balance he raked her flanks. And after awhile he was shouting at her. "Don't stop now. We're outrunning them. Goddamnit, don't stop now." He could hear nothing behind. They had probably lost him and pulled up to listen. He opened his eyes. There was a faint lightness that meant the end of the brush. If they could just make it that far, it was a straight easy run to Fort Preston after that. Not five miles. If the mare could just hold up, if he could just hang on...
The branch caught him in the neck and swept him out of the saddle. He fell on his back and lay there gagging, and thinking, "the hell with it now"; he didn't even have a knife, nothing.
It was a pity. Three, four, maybe five days it had
taken him to come down out of those Malpais, and now he was less than five miles to safety. Or less than one mile, if you counted Jeffrey's place. Angela's place. But he didn't count that. The bitch. The dirty bitch. And he loved her. Had loved her.
He groped around for a rock. There was no sound, but just give them time; they'd find him all right. He hoped that old fool Pablo was with them. Just give him one chance. He'd show him how bad a white man could be.
The brush rattled, and he sat up, clutching the rock. Then he let it slide slowly from his hands. God, he'd picked himself a good brush pony, all right. She had stopped. She was standing just at the end of the mesquite, waiting for him.
He went toward her on his hands and knees. It was easier than trying to walk through the thick brush. And besides, he might not have the strength to stand. He couldn't quite get his breath. His throat, where the branch had hit it, kept tightening.
The mare waited patiently, just fidgeting a little. "Whoa," he said, hoarsely. "Don't get nervous. Don't spoil everything now." He crawled past her hinquarters and found the stirrup and pulled himself up. She didn't turn her head. She didn't move at all, except that she was quivering.
"It's all right," he said. But he knew it wasn't. She hadn't been waiting for him after all. He saw the lance come up, heard the mare snort, felt her lurch and start to sag. He just had time to snatch the Winchester before she thudded to the ground.
It was all plain enough now. And they were smarter than he'd given them credit for. They had listened to him crashing through the brush and had simply loped
around to where they figured he was going to come out. And somehow stared down the mare. And then drove a lance through her, just for the hell of it.
He was next. But it might cost them something. He had his back to the brush and he'd be hard to see. And he could see all he needed to. There were five of them, including one who sat a head above the rest. Mule Ears. If he couldn't get Old Pablo, the old bastard's son would be the next best thing.
He glanced down at the Winchester. Damn Jeffrey. Most of the bluing on the rifle was gone. If he tried to raise it, they'd see the glint. They were just sitting there, wondering what he was going to do; curious, watching, like young coyotes with a crippled squirrel. He levered the Winchester without lifting it from his hip, but the sound gave him away. Mule Ears... and the other coyotes... were already coming down on him when he fired.
It took him a long time to fall. The first horse that struck him started him down, but the next one knocked him almost upright again. He lost the rifle, but he didn't care about that any longer. It was too late, anyway. He just hoped he had hit one of them, and he kept trying to count them in the darkness. And when he went all the way down finally, he thought he had counted only four.
There were better than a dozen of them when he awoke. Some of them squatted in a shadowy half-circle around him. The rest were in the deeper shadows by the horses. None of them spoke. What were they waiting for? He supposed that someone had gone to get Old Pablo, and to bring back the girl who was supposed to cut off his cajones. It was no less than she deserved, according to Apache etiquette.
"He*s awake," a voice said, and the sound of it surprised Logan. It was no Apache voice. He got up on his elbows.
"Take it easy, mister. I'll light a fire."
He struck a match and held it to a small pile of twigs. The fire spluttered and then flared up, lighting his face. His face was dark, but it was the darkness of sun and wind. He was a white man, all right, and the whitest thing about him was his hair; it looked almost snowy, even in the imperfect light from the fire.
"Logan, isn't it?" he said. He spoke softly and slowly, as though he were afraid he might frighten Logan.
"Yes," Logan said. "You're Ramsey Moon."
"That's right," Moon said, still gently. "Tell me what happened."
Logan started to, then changed his mind. "I'm not sure," he lied. He couldn't make up his mind which was worse: being in the hands of the Mescaleros... or in the hands of Ramsey Moon, their Agent.
"No, you're right; let's not talk about it now," Moon said agreeably. "I noticed a light back- to the west. We'll haul you over there and fix you up."
"I was heading for town,"^TaDgan said. He didn't want to go back to the ran(,ii. C >'ng back would mean leaving again. And once h. ^ U? Rough.
"Sure, but you can't rid> th or," Moon said soothingly. He stood up. He was bigger than he had seemed squatting. And his head seemed the biggest part of him... though perhaps that was only because of the long flowing snowy hair.
He turned to the Apache police and used the same soft, slow manner that he had used on Logan. He spoke Spanish. Two scouts came into the fire circle and helped Logan to his feet. Another led in the pinto pony.
"She's not as good a horse as that mare you were riding," Moon said. "But she's yours. You earned it. About the scalp... If you don't want it, one of my boys..."
"I don't want it," Logan said. It was too late even if he did. The buck who was holding his horse had something red hanging from his bandillero.
They took the saddle off the mare and put it on the pinto and helped him into it. The light at the ranch went off as they were riding toward it, and for a moment he thought of using it as an excuse for turning toward town. Except that it wouldn't make any sense. And wasn't worth the trouble. All he wanted to do was sleep now. Anywhere. Even in the same room with Angela ... with her cold eyes staring at him.
The light went on again when they rode into the yard and Angela opened the door. Ramsey Moon got down without waiting for an invitation. Two Apaches eased Logan out of the saddle.
"I have a sick man here," the Agent said. "Got jumped by some Mescaleros. I thought you wouldn't mind..."
He didn't give he? ^ chance to answer. He said to the Apaches, "Entrerf>^n" liid they took Logan through the doorway. He V -^A a*->Angela's face as he passed. He wanted to make. nie i>gnal to her; he was afraid of what she might say to Moon. But he couldn't quite bring himself to do it. He couldn't ask her for anything, not even her silence.
Moon's Apaches were gone, off somewhere in the darkness, and there were owls hooting again. But friendly owls this time. Moon watched Angela washing the blood from Logan's face. He loaded his pipe. He had big, thick hands, but t
hey worked deftly.
"Don't worry about those Mescaleros," he said. "My
boys will keep them away. That brush tore you up some. What happened?"
"I don't know." It was time to lie again. "They just jumped me, for no reason. I tried to run for it."
"Funny," Moon said. He lighted his pipe and in the flicker of the match his eyes were the color of steel. "But not so funny, I guess. I guess Old Pablo would jump anybody at this point. He's sore."
Logan didn't say anything. Angela went on washing his face.
"Or so he says," Moon continued. "You can never tell about that old phony. He'll try anything once. Or a dozen times, for that matter." He chuckled, reminiscing about something.
"Though this time I've got a hunch he's telling the truth. Seems there were some white men up on the Reservation, prospecting for gold in some hidden canyon called The Place in the Rocks. That's the way Old Pablo tells it. He didn't say what he was doing up there himself, but he didn't have to. Brewing tis-win, probably. Anyway, one of these whites came up to camp one night after dark and caught one of the squaws alone. Got fresh with her. Raped her." He glanced at Angela to see if the word offended her, then went on. "It turns out the squaw belongs to Old Pablo's son, and the old man wants revenge. He came to me, hoping I'd give him two or three beeves to ease his pain in the meantime."
He went to the stove and knocked the ashes out of his pipe and refilled it. "I didn't, of course," he said after a while. "I told him to stay on the Reservation and leave the revenge to me. I'd find whoever raped his daughter-in-law and bring him in to trial. But I knew that wouldn't satisfy him; Apaches have their own ways. So I followed him. I wouldn't want to see him
get into any trouble... he's just a child, really. I wouldn't want to see any innocent people hurt, either."
Logan thought he looked at him significantly, but It was probably just his imagination. Angela had finished washing his face. She carried the basin to the door, threw out the water and stood there with her back to them.
"You look better now," Moon said. "I thought for awhile you were hurt bad. I want to ask you something."
Here it is, Logan thought. He braced his legs under the table. Moon bit down on the pipestem and fixed him with his steel-colored eyes.
"I wish you wouldn't say anything about tonight, about Old Pablo's bucks jumping you."
Logan relaxed; and waited.
**If the story got around, I'd have to punish the old geezer. I wouldn't want to. You can't blame him for going off half-cocked."
"I suppose not," Logan said, and pretended to think it over. No thinking was necessary. "All right. It's your business."
"Thanks," Moon said. He got up, joined Angela in the doorway, and seemed to be considering something. It turned out to be nothing of importance. "Maybe you can give him a bunk. He shouldn't be doing any more riding tonight."
"Of course."
Logan heard him ride out of the yard, calling to his Apaches. He went to the door and stared after him, but the darkness had already closed over him. Not that it made any difiEerence. Being able to see him hadn't made him any easier to understand. Harder, probably. He had a mixed reputation in the country, but there was one thing that everybody agreed on: he was shrewd.
He hadn't seemed particularly shrewd tonight. He could have connected Logan with The Place in the Rocks, and hadn't,... but that might have been part of his game. Cat and mouse, maybe.
The hell with it, Logan thought. He was letting his imagination run loose with him again. He needed sleep, wanted sleep. And he'd changed his mind: he couldn't sleep here. He knew a place where he could. He got up, stumbled against the table and made his way to the door.
"Logan."
"What is it?"
"You heard what Moon said. You can't ride any more tonight."
"I can ride."
"You're angry, aren't you?"
"Hell no."
"You've got to understand, Logan. I'm sorry I sent you away. It's just that... that I don't know what to think. With all those men gone... with Jeffrey gone ... and you the only one left."
"So I raped an Apache girl." ^ She was silent. Christ, he thought, does she still believe it? That's what happened to women in this country after a few years on a stinking, starve-out homestead, with nothing to do but listen to the wind and jump at shadows and let their minds play tricks on them. On him.
He looked her up and down. "Next time I'm hard up, I won't be so choosey."
He was sorry at once that he had said it. But when he put his hand on her shoulder, he felt her shudder. He let it drop. She was looking ugly again... there were tears in her eyes and her mouth was twisted in that way that he would never get used to... and it
reminded him that he had loved her. He went to the hitch rack and untied the pinto and came back to her.
"I'll be back sometime," he said. "I'm going after that gold again, as soon as I can put an outfit together. I'll find it. Part of it's yours, and I'll see that you get it. You can go back east, maybe forget..."
He climbed up into the saddle. She could stop him now, he thought, but only now. In another moment it would be too late. She had sent him away once. She could send him away again, just as surely, with her silence.
She said nothing.
Once was enough, he thought. Once was plenty.
There were still lights on at Fort Preston, in the saloons, in the honkytonks, even on some street corners where the lanterns hadn't been shot out. There was nothing left of the fort since the Mescaleros and White Mountains had gone onto the Reservation. Except for the post commissary, which was now the Mint Saloon and Dance Hall. A piano jangled inside. Two old skin hunters stood outside the batwings, leaning on their rifles, oblivious to the smoke that came drifting past them.
Logan rode by and turned down a side street. The houses along the street were all adobe, except one. Selina's. Hers was made of logs and that made it more desirable than all the rest because logs were precious (they had come to her from the mountains via the Army post). He pulled up and got down. The place was dark; it was probably only midnight, way too early for her to be home. He tied up the pinto and loosened the cinch. Later he'd have Selina take it around to the livery. It was all he could do to make it to the door, find the rocking chair... his chair, Selina called it... in the darkness, and sit down.
But he didn't sleep. Something bothered him. He got up, struck a match, lighted one of the pair of fancy lamps on the dressing table. He hadn't been in this room for a long time; almost a year, wasn't it? But he knew his way around. He went to the dresser
and opened the top drawer and for a moment simply stood there fingering Selina's underthings. Then he pushed them aside and took out the derringer. He shoved it in his belt. He sat down in the rocker again. It's hard to break old habits, he thought, and went to sleep.
When he awoke, it seemed he was back at The Place in the Rocks. It was dark and the Apaches were screaming and he was lying against his horse, in its warm blood. Then he realized he'd been dreaming and that there was someone in the room. He took out the derringer and cocked it.
"Wait, Logan." It was Selina. Something struck her as amusing; she laughed.
"You ought to announce yourself," he said grumpily. The dream had left a bad taste in his mouth, like bad whiskey.
"In my own house?"
She didn't light a lamp. She moved about in the darkness and he could hear the rustle of her clothes as she undressed, the screech as a drawer was slid open and slid shut again, the sigh as she stripped herself of some particularly binding garment.
"You must be tired, Logan," she said. She sounded tired herself; tired, matter-of-fact, almost bored. He wondered if she had given up on him, at last.
"You mean sleeping in the chair?"
"Not that. When I saw the pinto outside, I figured it was you; you're the only one who ever leaves your horse for me to take to the stable. But I came in first, just to make sure. You didn't wake up."
He wa
s silent. Always before, no matter how tired he was, the slightest sound would awaken him: the skittering of a wood rat, the rustled awakening of a startled bird, the absence of sound from his grazing pony.
Selina had caught him off guard, and it worried him. He had a feeling, vague but uneasy, that in the next few weeks he would need every sense he had.
"That's not the only reason," she said. There was the clink of glass and then the smell of perfume in the room, a fragrance different from the one she'd been wearing. It mingled almost immediately with the other, but not before he had distinguished it. At least one sense hadn't deserted him.
"Another reason?"
"Of course. You never come here, Logan, unless you're tired."
He wondered if it was true. He had never ... at least consciously... thought of her in such an unflattering light. He said, "You don't sound glad to see me."
She lighted a lamp and came over and stood in front of him. She was wearing a nightgown now, of almost transparent silk, and she had nothing on beneath it. She was no beauty. A little too short, her hips a little too wide, her breasts, perhaps, even a little too large. But he liked her that way. And he thought: maybe she's right, maybe I only come here when I'm tired, and...
"I'm always glad to see you, Logan," she said. She handed him tobacco and paper. "Make me a cigarette."
He obeyed. And as he built the smoke, he watched her. She had foreign blood ... Hungarian, he thought he remembered ... and that probably explained the fire that always seemed to be in her eyes. It was there now. God, he was tired ... he could only have slept an hour or so... but it was a pleasant tiredness now, and in a little while he'd have the strength to... Hell, why hadn't he thought of her, during those long agonizing days he'd spent trying to find his way down from the Malpais. She was worth coming home to.
Secret of the Malpais Page 2