by J. T. Edson
‘What do you think, Major?’ asked Deacon Routh in a tone which suggested the marshal should have thought everything out.
Ellwood drew in a deep breath, then gave out with his plan for defending the town. ‘We’ll dig rifle pits across the mouth of the hollow and keep them fully defended all night.’
‘Rifle pits?’ Haslett asked, a puzzled look on his face.
‘Yes, we used them in the war. Dig them just deep enough so a man can fire a rifle from them without showing too much of himself. That way he doesn’t stand so much chance of getting hit. We can hold the Apaches out of town from them.’
‘How about the slopes on the other sides?’ Haslett inquired.
‘Everybody knows Apaches fight on horseback,’ snorted Millet, giving Ellwood his support as a way of avoiding moving his stock. ‘They can’t ride horses down the slopes, so they won’t come in that way.’
‘That’s what I thought, too,’ agreed Ellwood. ‘Then we’ll get every man in town to start digging out there.’
Millet coughed. He was never the sort of man to relish doing any work, much less if he wasn’t getting paid good hard cash for doing it. ‘My wife was hurt by that little hussy,’ he began. ‘I should stay by her—’
‘I said every man of us,’ snapped Ellwood grimly. ‘The Town Council’s going to set an example to the others. There is an election coming off soon.’
‘And Elvira’s being well cared for by the other ladies,’ went on Haslett. He put his spoke in because he could not think of any excuse to avoid digging himself and did not mean that Millet should. ‘She’ll be all right, and she’ll be a whole lot worse hurt if the Apaches get in.’
Millet looked around for some excuse to avoid being taken along. His eyes went to the two men in the cells. ‘We could make the prisoners do all the digging.’
In the cells Scully gulped as he heard the words. There was one thing which he’d never committed in his life—work. He was proud of his record of never having worked any harder than toting a deck of cards up his sleeve and would die rather than get such a blemish on his spotless record. His noble sentiment was not put to the crucial test for Ellwood shook his head.
‘Two men couldn’t do all that digging and they’d be more trouble than they were worth if we took them along,’ he said. ‘Besides, they’re only in jail pending trial, and they could sue the town if they were forced into any kind of punishment before they were tried.’ He paused and there was a grim set to his face. ‘You go out and gather all the folks, Deacon. I’m not sure we shouldn’t take all your arms and ammunition to the church ready, Fred.’
‘There’s no need for that yet,’ Millet answered hastily. He thought he might lose some of his goods if he let other people handle them. His greed was such that, even in this present time of danger, he would not risk losing anything. ‘I think we ought to get the men out and digging.’
‘The town should take over your food and get it up to the church ready, Haslett,’ Ellwood went on, looking for more support. ‘Just in case.’
‘That won’t be necessary with the rifle pits dug,’ Haslett gulped, seeing his chance of a profit slipping. The other members of the council would not object to his making a profit—but not at their expense. They would not agree to paying more than the wholesale price if they purchased the goods from town funds.
‘Go and get the men together then,’ Ellwood ordered and the other three men left the room. Turning to his prisoners Ellwood went on, ‘I’ll get you a meal before I go out.’
‘There’s no rush, Marshal,’ replied Scully, so grateful at not being forced to commit work that he was almost willing to forgive Ellwood for not accepting his bribe. ‘And thank you, sir, thank you.’
Ellwood could not decide what the prisoner was thanking him for and left without inquiring. Scully and Willy exchanged glances, then both went to lay back on the hard, uncomfortable beds, ignoring the discomfort.
‘That was close,’ said Scully.
‘What’s it all about?’ Willy inquired. ‘I saw ole Doc and Miz Phyllis leave town with four men.’
‘Were they people from the town?’ asked Scully, for he liked Doc and Phyllis.
‘Nope, they wus cowhands and good uns at that.’
‘There was some talk of Apaches,’ Scully mused, looking up at the room. ‘I wouldn’t want to be caught in here by Apaches. It wouldn’t be restful or pleasant.’
Ellwood found a sullen, mutinous crowd awaiting him outside the office. The citizens of the town had one thing in common, a dislike for doing anything which did not pay a return in good, hard cash. They were so narrow-minded that none could see the sense in digging holes which might never be needed. There was still less enthusiasm when they realised they’d be forced to man the same holes.
One of the men stepped forward. ‘Look here, Major,’ he said truculently. ‘We been talking things over and we don’t reckon there’s any need for us to get all hot and bothered. Maybe a couple of miners were killed in the hills, maybe there wasn’t. We ain’t but got the words of them four men for it. Even if they did find the two miners it don’t mean Ramon’s people done it. It could have been done by renegades. Anyways, we haven’t heard from the Army yet.’
Ellwood was beginning to hate the people of his town, hate their selfish ways and actions. ‘So?’ he asked grimly.
‘The stage comes in at noon today.’
‘I know that.’
‘Last one come in a week back.’
‘What’re you getting at?’
‘It won’t be running if the Apaches are out, now will it?’
‘It wouldn’t, most likely,’ agreed Ellwood. ‘If folks knew about the Apaches being out, that is.’
‘Then how about waiting until one o’clock?’ the man demanded.
There was some sense in what the man was saying. Ellwood conceded the point, for he knew that the Wells Fargo Company would not be running their stage if they knew of Apache trouble. This was also a slack time of the year, and only one coach could be guaranteed to run. That was the fast mail carrying coach to Fort Owen, it was due in Baptist’s Hollow at noon this day, and the driver was proud of his boast that he was never late. The only trouble with waiting was that it would have wasted valuable time which could profitably be spent in preparing the defences of the town. Ellwood knew there was no chance of getting anything done by his people until they were sure it was absolutely necessary, so he gave in with bad grace.
‘All right, do what you want,’ he snapped. ‘But if that coach isn’t here by one o’clock, we’re starting to dig those pits without any more talk.’
The crowd dispersed and Ellwood went back to the jail. He was in a mood and did no more than grunt in reply to Scully’s questions. There was no reason why the Texans should lie to him. They were not working with the medicine show. He’d heard enough of Dusty Fog and the others to know they never sold their guns. Even if they were working in with the show there would have been no need to lie. There was no man, or bunch of men, in Baptist’s Hollow, who could have stopped the forceable leaving of the show. That was an Apache war arrow the Ysabel Kid threw at the feet of the crowd, and Ellwood was fully aware of the significance of such a weapon.
It was then Ellwood remembered that Chief Ramon and the other few converted Apaches were not at church for the past two Sundays. The chief was usually one of the best attenders to church, yet he suddenly stopped coming. Ellwood had always been suspicious of Ramon’s motives in becoming a Christian and expected him to give it up when he found he could make nothing out of it. Now Ellwood wondered. He would not have thought anything about the Apache’s non-arrival. Now he was not so sure, he felt something had gone wrong. The feeling grew on him as the minutes ticked away, dragging on towards one o’clock.
Noon came and went without a sign of the stage. Only a few men were on the street at noon, for all of them expected the familiar sight of the coach lumbering at full speed along the street, making a turn in the plaza and coming to a ha
lt before the Wells Fargo office. At ten past one there were worried looks and a few more of the citizens began to gather. By twenty past the worried looks were getting more and more in evidence. Then Millet gave an excited yell and pointed off towards the stage trail.
‘Something’s coming! Look at that dust!’
Ellwood looked in the direction of the pointing finger and saw dust, but not enough for the stage-coach to be making it. The others were watching the dust without giving any thought to how much or little there was. A few malicious grins were directed at Ellwood, and the men were ready to mock their marshal for having been taken in and fooled by the four Texans.
The grins faded from the faces as one riderless horse came into sight, turned from the range trail and headed down to the town on the run. A horse without a saddle, but with broken harness trailing behind it. The horse was flecked with sweat, the ears were laid back and the eyes rolled in panic as it ran. Ellwood was the first to react. He leapt forward and caught the horse’s trailing reins, bringing it to a stop. Talk welled up from the crowd, excited and frightened talk as they looked at the big bay horse. Even without the stage-line’s brand on the hip, everyone in the crowd knew where it came from. They saw the raw, bloody furrow on the side and all could guess at the cause of it.
There were no grins now, no thoughts of mocking their marshal for being a fool. The coach would not be coming, that was obvious. It would be out there on the trail some place, wrecked, the driver, guard and passengers either dead, or wishing they were. This one horse must have broken free, driven wild by panic and started to run. It must have followed the trail and turned down to the town through instinct, doing as it always did when hauling the stage.
‘I reckon we’d best get those rifle pits dug now,’ Ellwood snapped, and for once there was no argument to his orders.
Never did the citizens of Baptist’s Hollow throw themselves into a task with no personal gain as they did right now. They worked with the speed that only fear could inspire. Hands long unused to doing heavy work swung picks, shovels and crowbars with vigour, if not skill, sinking the pits as deep as the rock would allow. It was not as deep as Ellwood would have liked, but there was no other way to make them deeper. Not without blasting powder, and Ellwood did not wish to take time out to blast the holes. He climbed into one and found that by kneeling a man would be able to fire his rifle and still find safety. Ellwood was satisfied with the finished result. Knowing his people he’d never hoped to get so much done. In that he did the citizens of Baptist’s Hollow an injustice. They knew their lives were in danger and were willing to work hard at anything which would save them.
A man suddenly dropped his shovel and gave a startled yell, pointing off towards the hills. ‘Look up there!’ he yelled.
The others looked and panic filled them. Dust was rolling up in the hills, a moving cloud and coming their way, beneath the dust could be seen vague shapes of riding men. It was at that moment the working party realised how few of their number were armed.
Millet, as befitting a leading member of the community, gave an example of how to act in such an emergency. Dropping his shovel he gave a howl of:
‘Run for it. Apaches!’
Ellwood was watching the dust and he snapped, ‘Apaches, nothing. They’re miners from the hills.’
‘Miners?’ asked Millet, scowling, then raising his hand to peer at the figures from under its shade. ‘So they are. I’ve not got me spectacles with me, or I’d have seen that afore.’
For all that Millet licked his lips and looked ready to bolt. The figures were closer now, and he could make out that they were definitely not Indians. He recognised most of the riders, but this was the first time he’d ever seen so many of them coming into town at one time.
Seventeen men rode slowly towards the town, travelling in a loose group. Tall, lean, grizzled and bearded men wearing buckskins and riding shaggy Indian ponies. Each of this pair nursed a Remington Rolling Block rifle across his knees and belted a revolver. Every other man in the group was armed, rifle out and ready, revolver holstered at his side. They made a hard-looking bunch, fighting men all of them, and men who knew the Arizona country. They were worried men also. That showed in the wolf-cautious way they rode and watched the surrounding country.
Ellwood watched the approaching party. He knew all of them and most had been in his jail for drunkenness at one time or another. The two old-timers in front and the short, broad oldster, riding a mule and leading a burro, at the rear, were always cautious. There was more than just plain caution right now.
The miners came nearer without changing their pace any. The two men in the lead brought their horses to a halt. The taller looked down at the pits, spat out a well-chewed wad of tobacco and asked:
‘You heard something, Major?’
‘What about?’ asked Ellwood.
‘The Apaches done put their paint on. That’s why me’n ole Ike here cut out and found the other boys,’ the miner said, indicating his partner. ‘War a few we couldn’t find. Found one family and buried what was left. So we didn’t take no more time out to find the others—what’s left of ‘em.’
‘Have you seen any Apaches?’ Millet asked worriedly. These men were all well-versed in Apache ways, and their testimony was more to be believed than the words of a bunch of Texas cowhands.
‘Plenty in our time, me’n Zeke have,’ the man called Ike answered. ‘War seeing ‘em real regular until two-three days back.’
‘Then we stopped seeing ‘em,’ went on Zeke grimly. ‘So we concluded to git up and the hell out of the Dragoons for a piece. Us and all them as could.’
The other miners gave a grunting agreement to the words. They knew Apaches and knew full well when it was time to yell ‘calf-rope’ and head for a safer area than their small mining claims in the Dragoon Mountains. Any white man still in the Dragoons would likely be staying there permanently.
‘What do you mean?’ asked Haslett, looking nervously around and imagining Apaches behind every bush. ‘You come in when you stopped seeing Apaches?’
Zeke took his attention from the rifle pits and looked at the scared face of the storekeeper. ‘Waal, I ain’t eddicated, but there’s one lil thing I allus did l’arn. When you sees Apaches everything’s all right and peace falls full ‘n’ rich on the land. When you stops seeing ‘em it’s full gone time to start and worry—And mister, we done stopped seeing ‘em.’
‘So you just left your claims and walked out?’ Millet inquired.
‘No friend,’ replied Zeke, sun-squinted eyes on the fat man. ‘We didn’t walk at all—we ran.’
‘You’ll excuse me iggerance, Major,’ put in Ike, before the spluttering Millet could say another word. He indicated the rifle pits with a contemptuous wave of his hand. ‘Jest what do ye brand them things with?’
‘They’re rifle pits,’ Haslett pompously explained.
‘Now me,’ grunted Zeke. ‘I figgered you’d started in to dig for gold. You fixing in to fight Apaches from them things?’
‘What else would you have us do?’ Ellwood growled. It was a pity that his nerves were jumpy, and his tone held such a note. He really wanted help from these men, but his tone was sharp and forbidding.
‘Nothing, Major. Nothing at all,’ Ike replied mildly. ‘Allow you all knows what you’re doing.’
‘Of course he does,’ barked Millet, annoyed that these uneducated miners were trying to interfere. ‘The Major fought in the Civil War.’
‘Saloon open yet?’ drawled Zeke, interrupting Millet’s speech.
The saloon-keeper dropped his pick and rubbed his hands on his trousers. ‘It can be, if you want something.’
‘Hold hard there,’ Millet snapped as the saloon-keeper turned to head for the town. ‘We don’t want men traipsing off—’
‘Wants us some powder, lead and hulls, too,’ Ike interrupted.
Millet’s good intentions faded off right away. He swung his shovel over his shoulder and headed for town. The other
men watched Millet and the saloon-keeper and prepared to leave. Ellwood allowed the miners to ride by, then called the citizens back. They came slowly and reluctantly, facing him.
‘I want these pits manning all night. We’ll split the town into two groups.’
‘Can’t the miners do it?’ asked Haslett. ‘They’re stopping in our town and they ought to take on the defence of it. You could bring them here and—’
‘I said all of you would take it in turns,’ Ellwood cut in, his voice cold, grim and determined. ‘I’ll see the miners and ask them if they’ll take a turn, but we can’t force them to. I think that the Town Council should take the last turn, just to set the others a good example.’
There was a lot of agreement to this, although the members of the council were not among those who agreed. For once the council was voted under and Haslett went off with Deacon Routh muttering to themselves, threatening to get a new town marshal elected as soon as this trouble was over. Ellwood followed the digging party back to town, satisfied with what he’d done so far towards the safety of the people. The arrival of the miners was a blessing, for they confirmed that the Apache were out. They were also a most useful addition to his fighting strength and if they would help man the pits might hold the Apaches out of town.