Could they outlast the Apaches? Knowing them, Cates had no desire to try, and yet there might be no alternative. Zimmerman was hatching some idea in that heavy brain of his, Taylor was surly, and Beaupre was watching Taylor like the tough old wolf he was. Trouble could break loose at any moment. As for Big Maria, she made Cates uneasy, and he could not tell exactly why.
The sun was higher now, and it was hot. He mopped sweat from his brow and cursed the heat, the dust, and the situation, cursed under his breath, for whatever happened he must not let them see anything but a good face and a confident one.
“I wish they’d attack,” Kimbrough said.
Cates glanced at him. A little of the polish was gone. Without a shave he looked irritable and somehow weaker than he had. The clothes that had been so dressy now looked worse than his own, and somehow it made the whole man seem shabby, down-at-heel.
The heat waves shimmered in the distance and overhead a lone buzzard wheeled, waiting.
Chapter Nine
Styles was dying, and he was delirious. They all knew he was dying, and by now the Apaches knew it also. Sometimes he cried out, his voice rising in a thin, wavering wail in the still, hot air of the desert. Junie sat beside him, putting damp cloths on his brow and sponging his face at intervals.
Grant Kimbrough paced restlessly. His coat was thrown aside and his shirt sleeves rolled up. The gun he wore was visible now and Logan Cates noticed it thoughtfully. It was a gun that had seen much use. Kimbrough’s face was haggard and he was unshaven. There was an impatience in him that had not been obvious before.
The heat, the waiting, the expectation of attack and the cries of the dying man were affecting them all. Overhead the buzzard had been joined by another … they swept in wide, loose circles against the heat-glazed sky. Nothing happened.
Kimbrough turned suddenly on Cates. “We’ve got to get out of here!” He was almost shouting. “We can’t stay any longer!”
“Sorry.”
Kimbrough glared at him, then strode away, his back stiff with fury.
Jennifer came to him from near the fire. “Logan,” her use of his first name startled him, “there’s not much food left.”
“How much?”
“Enough for today, and a little for tomorrow.”
He should have been thinking of that. Nobody had carried much food and they had been stretching it out as far as possible. That it had lasted this long was surprising, and at least partially due to the fact that there was too much else to worry about and so nobody had eaten more than a few bites. It was necessary to maintain a constant watch. Their position was secure only so long as they were vigilant, for they were in the arroyo and once an Apache was able to reach the edge of it all their positions became untenable.
So then … they might have to make a run for it after all.
How slim their chances would be once they left this trough in the rocks he well knew. Beaupre and Lugo knew also, and Sheehan. How much the others knew he could only guess, but Kimbrough, Taylor and Zimmerman all wanted to be moving. Yet once in the open, tied down by the few horses they had, they would be sitting ducks for the Apaches. All the Indians needed to do was hang off on their flanks and pick them off as opportunity offered.
No … they must stay here.
Even as he made the decision, he kept his mind open, hoping for a chance, for some other way out. South, as had been suggested? But what then? There was no place to go for many, many miles. Only an empty, deserted shore, sandy and miserable with intense heat, doubtful water supplies and only the faint hope of sighting a fishing boat from the south or a steamer headed for the mouth of the Colorado.
“Well,” Zimmerman asked, “what do we do? Stay here and starve, or make a run for it?”
Grant Kimbrough glanced up at him from his seat by the fire, his face expressionless. “Yes, leader,” there was a tinge of sarcasm in his voice, “we’d like to know? What do we do now?”
“We sit tight.”
“Damn it, man!” Taylor sprang to his feet. “Are you crazy? We’ll all starve to death or be picked off one at a time, like that poor soldier! I move we hit the desert and hit running!”
“What about the women?” Cates asked mildly.
Taylor’s eyes shifted, and he looked angry, but he was a Stubborn man. “I move we run for it,” he said.
“How much chance would we have in the open?” Cates asked. “Not much, I’d say. And how much water could we carry?”
“I’m ready to go any time,” Webb said. “I don’t believe there’s more than half a dozen ‘Paches out there.”
“We stay,” Cates said. “We sit tight.”
“You stay!” Zimmerman was ugly. “I’m goin’ and I’m goin’ now!”
“And I’ll go with him!” Webb declared.
“If you go,” Cates said, “you’ll have to walk. No horses are leaving here.”
Zimmerman turned slowly. He looked at Cates with a slow, measuring glance. “I say I’ll ride out of here,” he said softly, “and I think I’ll ride that zebra dun.”
Grant Kimbrough leaned back on his elbow, a faintly amused expression on his face.
Sheehan, Beaupre and Lugo were away on watch or sleeping. Lonnie Foreman was up in the rocks. Those who remained were against him, except perhaps the women. Logan Cates stood flatfooted, his feet a little apart. He was going to have to kill Zimmerman … he could see it coming and he did not want to do it. The big soldier started forward and Webb moved a little to the left and Logan Cates stepped back a little, his hand poised over his six-shooter. “I’d get back if I were you,” he said coolly. “I don’t want to kill either of you. We need you.”
“We don’t need you!” Zimmerman said, grinning. “And you won’t draw.”
“That’s right,” Kimbrough said quietly, “he won’t.”
It was unexpected … Kimbrough’s pistol covered Cates.
“Grant!” Jennifer cried out. “No!”
“They’re right, Jennifer,” Kimbrough said, “we’ve got to ride out of here. It’s our only chance. Take his gun, Zimmerman.”
“No.”
Junie Hatchett had Big Maria’s shotgun and she was holding it as if she knew how to use it. The shotgun was aimed at Kimbrough and the range was no more than thirty feet.
“You drop that gun, Mister Kimbrough, and you drop it now. You make yourself a move and I’ll cut your head off. The second barrel goes for him.” She jerked her head to indicate Zimmerman. “And if you don’t think I’ll do it, you just hold that pistol until I count two. One, t—”
Kimbrough backed up, his face sullen. “You better not go to sleep, Cates,” he said. “If you do, I’ll kill you.”
“When he’s asleep,” Junie said, “I’ll be awake, mister.”
As they moved away, Cates turned to Junie Hatchett. “Thanks,” he said simply.
She glanced at him. “If anybody can get us out of here,” she said, “it’ll be you.”
Jennifer looked after her as the girl returned to the fire. “I see what you meant,” Jennifer said. “There is iron in her.” She hesitated. “Do you think she would have shot Grant?”
Cates nodded grimly. “She’d have shot him. She would have done just what she said she would, and what’s more, they both knew it. Her finger was taking up slack when he dropped that pistol.”
“I can’t understand it.” Jennifer said, frowning. “What could have come over Grant?”
Logan Cates let his eyes wander along the edges of the arroyo. “Maybe he got carried away,” Cates suggested dryly. “It’s times like this that bring a man face to face with himself.”
The sun flared like a burnished sword and the sky was like a white-hot sheet of steel. Around them the lava grew too hot to touch and they led the horses to water, and returned them again to the thin shade in the lower arroyo. During all this time the desert stirred with no sound, the Apaches gave no indication of their presence and no quail called nor did the wind blow, nor did any stone rattl
e in the parched silence. The thirsty sky drank of the pools, and the people at the water holes drank, and the water seemed to fall away beneath them.
In the late afternoon a restless Conley, tired of sitting and watching where nothing was, lifted his head a little to peer at a cluster of rocks and brush. The report of the rifle was thin in the great silence and distance, a little, lost sound in the emptiness. The young soldier fell, tumbling down among the rocks, and there lay still.
Jennifer was first to reach him, then Big Maria and Cates.
Maria looked up. “Just burned him,” she said. “He’ll be all right.”
Cates descended into the lower arroyo. Beaupre was resting in the shade. Lugo was crouched immovable against a rock face. Cates squatted beside him. “What d’ you think? How many are out there?”
Tony Lugo shrugged. “I think twenty … more, maybe. I think Churupati won’t attack with less.”
“We need food,” Cates said. “I’ll try it tonight.”
“You get kill.”
“No.” Cates indicated a thin spot in the brush near the base of a smoke tree. “I go down the arroyo, tell nobody but you. I can go like an Indian. With the glasses I have seen some mountain sheep south of here. They want to come for water and they wait to see if we will go away. I think I can find them.”
“They’ll hear the gun.”
“No. I’m going to use a bow and arrow. I have used them many times when I lived among the Cheyenne.”
“I make. You let me go.”
“No, I’ll go. But you can make it. If I started, they would be wondering why. I don’t want anyone to know where I am, you understand?”
The need for food was serious. A few days might make all the difference, and Logan Cates knew that by now there was doubt in Yuma. The sheriff’s posse had not returned, and already there would be talk of sending out another group to find the first … or their bodies.
The disappearance of the soldiers at the same time would immediately alert the people at Yuma to the probability of an Indian attack. All travel from the east would have ceased also, and these indications would be sufficient to allow them to understand what had happened. There were not enough men at the Fort to send out an expedition, but combined with what civilians could be sent out there would be a good-sized party.
There was every chance for survival if they could wait the Indians out. Up to now the fight was all on the side of the defending party. Styles was dying—he had even ceased to cry out now—but otherwise they were still a formidable fighting force if he could keep them together, and their position was excellent. Despite the falling of the water, there was enough for several days even if the terrible heat continued. It was far over a hundred degrees, but with food they could make it.
The mountain sheep, a type of bighorn slightly different from those far to the north, were excellent eating, and it was likely they had never been hunted. He had noticed them on the ridges looking toward the wells several times, and they might still be there.
If he could get a sheep there was a good chance they could last out the week. By that time there might be a relief expedition sent out. It was true that such a force would be likely to go along the route to the north, but when they reached Bates Well and found it dry, then there would be time to start putting two and two together. In Yuma they knew of Papago Wells, and they would come south and find them. Everything depended on keeping the party intact.
He dared not let Zimmerman realize he was absent or the big soldier would be stirring up trouble. Sheehan would try to keep him in line, but tough as the sergeant was, he would be no match for the younger, tougher Zimmerman.
It was well after dark when Logan Cates made his move. Kimbrough was on watch in the rocks, and Lonnie was asleep. Zimmerman had turned in also, lying near Big Maria, yet far enough off so she would not be suspicious. The other men were scattered on watch or sleeping, and Cates had told no one but Lugo what he intended to do.
He left his pistol, and took only the bow, half a dozen arrows and his Bowie knife.
Lying flat, he eased his way under the lowest limbs of the smoke tree and into the rocks. When there he lay still for several minutes, listening. Then with infinite care he snaked down into the rocks and out on the edge of the sand. Again he paused to listen. When half an hour had passed he was no more than fifty yards from the barricade, and he had seen no one. Then, just as he was about to move, there was a subdued rustle of movement.
Not ten feet from him a dark form moved from the shadow of some brush and started up the wash toward the barricade. Waiting until the Indian had gone on, Cates rose soundlessly from the ground and moved out.
Another hour passed, and then he saw the first of the bighorns. He heard it before he saw it, heard it cropping grass upwind of him but against the side of a bluff and invisible. Notching an arrow, he settled back to wait. He was close. The slightest sound might startle the bighorn into a run, and it might be impossible to get so close to another, so he would not move. He would not move at all.
The minutes ticked slowly by, and several times he heard the movement of the bighorn’s feet on rock. Yet he could see nothing. Yet, on his left there was a place where the bluff fell away and when the sheep got that far he would be skylined.
He waited. Over the bluff in the distance there was a lone star hanging in the dark sky. He heard the bighorn step lightly, and then other sound—it was another sheep, further back. Or was it?
He held very still, listening. Somewhere, not a dozen feet away, he could hear the faint breathing of another man! He hesitated, and suddenly the sheep moved and Cates heard the sharp twang of a bowstring, heard the thud of the arrow striking home and the startled grunt of the bighorn! The sheep lunged, then fell to its knees and rolled over, the horns striking on the rock with a metallic sound. Instantly, an Indian arose from the rocks and started forward.
For a breathtaking instant the Indian was himself outlined, and Logan Cates turned his bow, loosed his arrow and missed! In the instant of turning some sound had warned the Apache for he turned swiftly and instantly sprang at Cates. Knocked over backwards by the hurtling body, Cates could only throw up his knees to protect his stomach. The Indian struck them with his body and Cates threw him off with a convulsive jerk, then rolled over, drawing his knife as he rolled.
The Apache struck at him, and Cates felt the whisper of the razor-sharp blade as it missed his ear and cut sharply into his shirt. At the same time, Cates struck a wicked left-handed blow into the Indian’s belly. The Apache was knocked back by the blow, almost winded, and they both came to their feet together.
Cates cut wickedly with the knife, felt it strike and glance off, and then they were tied in a clinch and something warm, wet and slippery was making his hands fight for their grip. The Indian broke free and backed off a step, and Cates followed, crouching, holding his knife low with the cutting edge up, ready to strike for the soft lower part of the Indian’s body.
They circled warily, and then the Indian attacked. He came in low, the knife gleaming bright in the starlight, and Cates caught the blow with his own heavier blade, the two clashing as they came together, then, even as the blades clashed, Cates stepped in and jerked the knife up with all his strength. It slid off the Indian’s blade and plunged into his body.
The Apache gave a hard gasp, and said something, too low for Cates to distinguish, then slid to the sand. From the choking, gurgling sound Cates knew the man was dying. He backed away from him, then looked around to orient himself. He must find the bighorn, cut it up and get back as swiftly as possible.
It was a blaze of white on the animal’s belly that guided him to it. Swiftly, he skinned the sheep, working fast in the darkness, and working by touch. Gathering the two hindquarters, the saddle and every available bit of meat he could get in the few minutes he had to work, Cates bundled it all into the hide and straightening up, bow and arrows in hand, he started back.
For several minutes he hurried, trying not to stumble,
fighting for breath, and then he found the arroyo. There he paused for several minutes, listening. He remembered the Indian who had gone up the arroyo as he came down it—that Indian would probably still be there. Shifting the burden to his left hand, which also gripped the bow and arrows, Cates drew his knife again and started up the wash, expecting at every step to be attacked.
It was very still as he worked his way through the jungle of growth in the bottom of the wash. From time to time he paused to listen, then moved forward again. Once a branch caught in the hide of the sheep and twanged sharply as it pulled free.
Hastily, he took three quick steps and crouched low, waiting and listening. Off to his left he heard a faint whisper of sound as of buckskin rubbing together or a moccasin in the sand. He moved again, quickly, then paused to listen.
He was sure he was almost at the place where he had left the oasis and he eased his burden of meat to the ground. For a long time he held his breath, listening. Despite the coolness of the night, he was sweating. He shifted the knife to his left hand and rubbed the right palm on bis shirt. On one knee, he rested.
An hour earlier, Grant Kimbrough had come down from the rocks and walked to the fire. Beaupre had relieved him and nobody else was moving around. He glanced at the bundled figures on the ground and tasted the scalding coffee. If any of them got out of this alive, they would be lucky.
How had he ever gotten himself into such a predicament? They should never have stopped, but kept running. Long ago they would have been in Yuma, and from there a man could buy passage to San Francisco, or go by stage over the Butterfield route.
San Francisco! The lights of the city seemed something that had never been, something beyond belief now. That was the life, not this. And old Jim Fair would come to terms. He had nobody but Jennifer and he would want her to have the best. The thing to do was to get out now, to awaken Jennifer, saddle their horses and make a run for it.
Last Stand at Papago Wells (1957) Page 7