Last Stand at Papago Wells (1957)

by L'amour, Louis

  Too large a party would make too much noise. It might be best if he did it alone, yet such an attack would be less effective. He decided, finally, that it must be three or four men. The selection of Lugo for one of them was immediate. He would be the best of them all on such an attack, and he would refuse to be left behind, anyway, Lonnie would want to go, and the remaining man must be one of the others. He considered Kimbrough, then passed over him. The man had been a horse soldier, no doubt brave enough, but not a man to crawl on his belly in the sand or lie still for what might be hours.

  Sheehan must be left behind because if anything happened while they were gone, he was the man to handle it. He wanted no part of Zimmerman or Webb, for he had faith in neither man. It boiled down to Taylor or Beaupre.

  When the sun had gone the evening turned the desert into an enchanted place. A soft wind cooled the sands and took away the last of the heat, but it was a wind that just stirred the leaves and was not bold enough to brush branches aside or lift dust. Somewhere far out over the sand a quail called, and the mountains in the west, abandoned by the sun, grew dark with shadow and only the eastern ridges were bright.

  Taylor brought fuel to the fire and built it brighter, and Cates strolled to where Lugo sat watching the desert. He squatted on his heels beside the Pima. “Three, four hours from now,” he said, “a few of us are going to hit the Apache where it hurts.”

  “I come,” Lugo said. “It is time.”

  Cates remained, talking quietly with the Pima, telling him what he planned, anxious to get the Indian’s reactions. The man was a fighter and he knew the Apache; he would know if the plan was a wise one. But Lugo had no protests, he accepted the suggested route and had only a few comments to make on the probable placing of Apache sentries.

  Lonnie was next. The boy was talking to Junie, who was working over the fire, but when she left for a few minutes, Cates explained his purpose. He poked at the fire a bit, then lifted a burning stick to light his cigarette, talking around the cigarette. “You, Lugo and me,” he said. “I think one more man.”

  “You’re going to hit their camp?”

  “And get a couple of horses, if we can. Maybe four or five.”

  “That’ll be tough.”

  “Most of all I want to slow them down, make them sick of their job. By now they think we’re whipped.”

  “All right … whenever you’re ready.”

  “At eleven, then.”

  In the last minutes of daylight a sudden smashing volley hit the camp. A bullet knocked the old pot off the fire, another scattered coals. Lonnie hit the ground hard and fired at the brush beyond the margin, and everyone scattered for shelter and firing positions. For a few minutes the fire came thick and fast. One of the horses screamed and reared but miraculously it was only a burn. Beaupre rolled into shelter behind a rock, then scrambled up and raced for a better firing position, and as suddenly the attack was over.

  The cooking pot was gone. One of the horses had been creased on the shoulder and Lonnie had had the top of his ear burned, yet they were badly shaken. It seemed unreasonable that the Indians could have been so close and no more serious injuries were sustained.

  “Maybe they want us alive,” Beaupre said,

  Taylor lifted his head slowly and peered at Beaupre. “That’s fool talk. Why would they want us alive?”

  “We’ve women here,” Beaupre said grimly, “and an Apache can have a sight of fun with a living prisoner.”

  Taylor’s features seemed to alter, his grimness left him, and some of his certainty. He looked from Jim Beaupre to Cates. “They’d never do a thing like that,” he said. “Why, that’s crazy!”

  Yet it was apparent he believed they would. Every person in the southwest had heard stories of what an Apache could do with a living prisoner, and for the first time Taylor seemed to consider that possibility. He lowered his eyes and began trailing sand through his fingers. Nobody else said anything. Junie worked on Lonnie Foreman’s ear and Beaupre ran a ramrod through his rifle.

  The fire had burned low.

  Lugo was rubbing grease in the bullet burn on the horse, and several minutes passed without comment. Kimbrough was thinking of San Francisco … once away from here he’d never come back. If Fair was dead, and the ranch was theirs, they’d sell out and go back East. This was no country for a sensible man.

  The stars came out, the night wind stilled, somewhere a coyote called. The faint glow from the coals showed on Beaupre’s seamed face and glinted from the rifle barrel as he worked. One of the horses stamped and blew. Leaning his head back against a rock, Sergeant Sheehan sang They’re Tenting Tonight On The Old Camp Ground in a fair Irish tenor. The mournful sound of the song lifted above the little circle among the rocks, and as he sang, Jennifer put sticks on the coals and a little flame began to rise.

  The firelight played on their faces and when the song died there was silence.

  Chapter Thirteen

  It lacked two hours of midnight and the camp was asleep when Webb finished saddling the horses. He had worked carefully and not a sound had disturbed the sleeping people. Grant Kimbrough was up on the rocks and Zimmerman was somewhere in camp.

  Webb had filled Cates’s two canteens and a couple of others and they were strapped on one of the horses. He got his own rifle and carried it to Cates’s dun horse, which he had selected to ride. The zebra dun had the look of a good horse and it was all he wanted … he knew nothing about the dun’s nature or that he possessed the disposition of a fiend and the cunning of a Missouri mule.

  When he was through he went up into the rocks to Kimbrough. “How’s it look?” he whispered.

  “Couldn’t be better. Not a move down there; still as a grave.”

  Webb shivered a little, but it might have been the cool air. “Then we’re ready, any time.” he said.

  For a moment longer Kimbrough hesitated. There was in him a queer reluctance to leave his post. He had been a soldier and he knew what it could mean to have a sentry absent from his post; a man who has the lives of others in his trust has no right to sleep, no right to leave that post. Yet this was not the Army, and there had been no trouble at night.

  “Where’s Zimmerman?”

  “Around. He slipped off somewhere.”

  “All right,” Kimbrough had made up his mind. “I’ll get Miss Fair.”

  Webb hesitated. He had said nothing but the idea of taking Jennifer Fair did not appeal to him. She was a responsibility and he shirked such things by nature. “Think we oughtta?” he asked. “Look, Colonel, I think—”

  “She’s going,” Kimbrough said flatly. “Get on down there now.”

  Webb left, swearing to himself. “Think he was my bloody commandin’ officer!” he muttered.

  Zimmerman was ready … almost. There was one thing he wanted, and one thing he intended to have. He wanted the saddlebags Big Maria had brought into camp. Right now he was out in the rocks at the edge of the area, working around to the place where those bags must have been cached. Like Logan Cates, he had seen Maria slip away from the camp and hide them, and he had his own idea where they were. What was more, he was quite sure where they had come from.

  For the past years Zimmerman had been thinking about that gold himself. A prisoner at Fort Yuma had whispered to him the story about the gold at the mines at Quitovac and had told him how easy it would be to get. The whispered information had been a bribe to escape, and Zimmerman let him go … and then shot him dead.

  The mine was not far south of the border. There was one American there and four or five peons. A tough man or couple of men could handle it alone if nobody had an idea what they came for, and Zimmerman had been planning just that. Now he was quite sure that it was just this gold Big Maria had, and he wanted it.

  Grant Kimbrough stooped over Jennifer and touched her shoulder. Almost at once, her eyes opened. “Jen,” he whispered, “come on. We’re going!”

  She sat bolt upright. “Going? Where?” She swept the sleeping camp
. “Oh? You’re going with Cates?”

  “Cates?” he was puzzled. Jennifer had overheard a few words about the planned foray, and she had immediately surmised this was what he planned. “He has nothing to do with this! Come on, we’re riding to Yuma!”

  “Grant! You don’t mean it! You’d leave … you’d desert them all?” Then she remembered. “Grant, aren’t you supposed to be on guard?”

  “Are you going to argue?” He was growing angry. “Let Cates hold these people if he wants to! I tell you, Jen, they’ll all be killed, and we will too if we don’t get out! Come on, your horse is saddled.”

  She got out from under her blanket and stood up. She thought of Yuma, of a town, houses, people, safety. Then she said something she would never have believed she could say. “I’m not going, Grant. I’m staying here.”

  He stared at her, coldly furious. What fool idea was this? “Jen,” he began patiently, “you don’t understand. Cates hasn’t a chance of getting these people out of here alive; they’re trapped, and he knows it. But all of us aren’t so foolish as to stay; we’re going out, and in a few hours we’ll be safe in Yuma.”

  She hesitated. The camp around her was still. She could not see Cates, but he could be no more than a few yards away. It would be so easy … a swift ride over the darkening desert and they would be free, away from this and riding toward Yuma, marriage, and the world of cities, of ladies and gentlemen, of afternoon teas and pleasant, idle chatter.

  It was what she wanted, and after all, what did these people mean to her? What could they mean? Logan Cates was a footloose cowhand—or worse, a man as like her father as another man could be. And who were the others? Such people as she had occasionally passed in the street, but nobody she would ever have known but for this.

  “You’ll have to hurry, Jennifer,” he said, “we’re all ready. Webb and Zimmerman are going with us.”

  She started forward, then stopped. “You go ahead, Grant, I’ll stay here.”

  He was really angry. “Jen, don’t be foolish! Why should you stay? These people mean nothing to you, and there will be more food and water for them! After all, it gives them a better chance, too.”

  “I’ll stay here, Grant. Somebody will have to stand guard until they awaken. You go ahead.”

  “Without you?”

  She looked up at him. “Yes, without me.”

  “But we’re going to be married! We’re engaged! It’s only a few miles to Yuma.”

  “I’m sorry, Grant. You go ahead. If you make it to Yuma, send somebody for us. There will be time enough to talk of it then.”

  He stared at her, trying to stifle his fury. Without her there was nothing … nothing at all but going back to the gambling houses and the life he loathed. Yet what had she said? Send somebody for them. That was it. He could get help, come back, rescue them in the nick of time.

  “Jen,” he insisted, “you must come. There’s no time to talk now. Come with me and we’ll get the Army to come back here, and I’ll come with them, but I want you out of here. I want you safe.”

  “I’m staying,” she said quietly, “I’m not leaving until we can all go.”

  Zimmerman, only some thirty yards away, had reached the crevice where he was sure the gold would be. He reached into it and his fingers touched the cold leather of the saddlebags. He grasped the top. His heart gave a leap—they were heavy, very heavy! They were bigger sacks than usual, obviously made for the purpose. He hauled them into the open and stood up.

  Grasping the heavy bags he turned and stepped back into the edge of the outer light from the fire. He took one more step, then froze. Behind him he heard the double click of a cocking shotgun … the double-barreled gun of Big Maria.

  “Drop them bags, Zimmerman,” Maria’s voice was utterly cold. “Drop ‘em or I’ll cut you in two.”

  Zimmerman stood stockstill and helpless. Never for an instant did he doubt that she would kill, nor did he have any doubt she had already killed for the gold in the sacks. “Now look here,” he said, trying to speak reasonably, “we can—”

  “Drop ‘em, mister.”

  He dropped them. Webb was staring at him over a saddle. Grant Kimbrough and Jennifer Fair had turned to face him, and beyond them, standing in the shadow at the far edge of the area, was Logan Cates.

  Zimmerman turned around slowly. The shotgun was right on his belt buckle and it gave him a queasy feeling. A pistol he might face, a man had a chance there, but nobody had a chance against the twin barrels of a shotgun.

  “Split fifty-fifty and I’ll take you with me,” Zimmerman said.

  “You won’t take her anywhere,” Logan Cates said, his voice cutting across the night, “because you’re not going anywhere.”

  Webb had heard enough. Zimmerman with his greed and Kimbrough with that girl, and now they’d missed their chance, but he had not! With a leap he was in the saddle, his spurs slapped home, and the zebra dun sailed over the lower rocks with a great bound and was gone in the night.

  They were all up and standing around now. For a moment they listened to the rush of pounding hoofs.

  “He won’t get far,” Cates said, “he’s on my horse.”

  “What difference does that make?” Beaupre asked.

  “I know that dun. He was startled by the sudden jump into the saddle but right now he knows what has happened.”

  The dun was running freely and Webb’s heart was pounding wildly. He was away! He was free! He was—

  The zebra dun felt the strange rider. He slowed, then suddenly braced his legs. Webb came loose in the saddle and caught himself, but not in time to save him as the dun swapped ends twice and sent him sailing. He hit the ground all in a heap and the dun’s flying hoofs narrowly missed his skull, and then the dun was off into the night.

  Webb lunged to his feet and started to cry out, then the danger of his position came home to him. He was on his feet with only a pistol, and no horse, no canteen. There were Indians all around him.

  He stood still for a moment. He could go back. He thought of that, then changed his mind. No, he was free. No matter what they said, it could not be far to water, and he would keep going. If the Apaches could live out in this desert, he could. He faced northwest and started walking.

  Suddenly he seemed to hear something out in the desert. He paused, listening. He heard no sound. After a moment he walked on, and heard it again. He started to walk faster, then broke into a run. He ran and ran, then stumbled and fell. He scrambled to his feet, his hands bleeding, and rushed on. He plunged into a bunch of cholla, backed off filled with thorns and ran on …

  At daylight, staggering with weariness, he was out on the desert. Not far away were some rocks. He started toward them. After an hour he was no nearer and the sun had come out. He stopped to try to pull thorns from his hands with his teeth. He pulled one out, then fastened his teeth in another. Something moved near him and he lifted his eyes to look.

  For an instant he stared, then slowly his eyes went from right to left around him. He backed off a little, then turned, his teeth still in the thorn. They were all around him. There was no escape.

  It was almost noon when they heard the first scream.

  Kimbrough came to his feet, his face white with shock. “What was that?”

  Nobody said anything for a long minute and then Cates replied, “That was Webb … he didn’t like it here.”

  The dun came back shortly after noon. He came trotting in, stirrups flopping. Logan Cates walked to him and the dun jerked up his head, eyes rolling. Cates spoke to him softly, got hold of the bridle and led the horse to water. Then he unsaddled him and picketed him with the rest, gathering mesquite beans for him from places the horse could not reach. The screams had been coming for the past hour, but now they were growing fainter.

  Nobody had said anything for a long time. Zimmerman walked over to Cates finally. “What are they doing to him?” he whispered hoarsely. His face was gray with horror and sweat beaded his brow. “He—he sounds li
ke an animal.”

  “He is,” Cates said dryly, “he’s just a hurt animal, in pain. By now he doesn’t even remember he was a man. I don’t know what they’re doing, maybe skinning him little by little, maybe sticking cholla thorns into him and setting fire to them. An Apache has a sight of imagination when it comes to that sort of thing.”

  Zimmerman mopped a big hand over his face. “You—you think we’ve got a chance, Cates?”

  “We’re alive, aren’t we? Sure, we’ve got a chance.”

  The planned attack on the Indian camp had been given up, yet he knew it was still the thing to do, and might be their only chance to cut the odds between them. They had a man less now.

  Taylor was staring at the saddlebags. “What’s in them?” he asked.

  “None of your business!” Big Maria flared.

  Zimmerman squatted on his haunches. “I’ll tell you what’s in ‘em,” he said. “It’s gold. Maybe sixty, seventy thousand dollars. And it’s stolen gold, too.”

  “Stolen?”

  “Yeah. My guess is from the mines at Quitovac. All that stuff about Tucson is a cock-an’-bull story. She was there, sure. But my guess is she an’ her man went down to Quitovac after that gold. Prob’ly murdered old Adam down there.”

  “Ma’am,” Taylor spoke sharply, “you’ll have to turn that gold over to me. I am an officer of the law.”

  Big Maria’s fat face was sweaty and dust-streaked. One stocking was down and her clothes were all awry, but there was no nonsense about the shotgun. “All right,” she said “you want it, you come an’ get it.”

  Taylor wet his lips with his tongue. He stared greedily at the sack, but he made no move to get it at that particular moment.

  “You don’t have to go after it now,” Zimmerman scoffed. “Just wait … whoever lives through this can ride out of here a rich man.”

  “That’s enough of that talk!” Cates interrupted. “You have enough trouble without stirring it up among you. Zimmerman, you start any more of that talk and I’ll send you out there after Webb.”