What had seemed exciting in a conversation at Del monico’s in New York was frightful here, and she was not calmed by Frederick von Hallstatt’s attitude.
The fact remained that Pete Wells was dead, and his death was in part her own fault.
In part it was all their faults for coming out here in the first place. How many more would die before this venture ended? If there was no attack, they should leave.
Suddenly, she resolved. Regardless of what the others did, she was going to Fort Cummings as Shalako had advised and then back home.
The crunch of a boot on the gravel behind her was her only warning. And then the smell of stale, unwashed clothing before the voice spoke.
“Waitin’ for somebody, ma’am?” It was Bosky Fulton. “If you are, you just don’t have to wait no longer.”
She turned and measured him coolly. “I am waiting for no one. Will you step aside?”
Fulton made no effort to move. “You’re goin’ to need a friend, so don’t come it so high and mighty over me, ma’am. You better make up your mind that you’re goin’ to be nice to me, or else you’ll find yourself in the hands of some Apache … and that could be worse. Could be.” He chuckled.
“Will you step aside?”
Fulton hesitated, grinning insultingly, and then he stepped aside and as she walked toward her wagon, he said, “And if you want to get that general of yours killed, you just tell him what I said.”
She was trembling when she reached the wagon and she stopped, her knees shaking.
She remembered then some of the talk around the camp, that Bosky Fulton was a gunman who had killed several men in gun battles.
Suddenly there was no safety anywhere, and the night seemed filled with crowding menace.
She started to get into the wagon, then hesitated again. Would they not be safer in the upper room at the stable? If she and Laura, and some of the others…?
Shalako heard the whisper of the approaching riders’ coming through the sand, and he eased his position in the saddle, holding the Colt ready to fire.
The horsemen, riding single file, came like ghosts out of the night, and for an instant each Indian was starkly outlined against the sky as he reached the edge of the wash, then dipping into it he dipped into shadow and was gone, like the targets in a shooting gallery. There were six.
Only those brief, momentary shadows, a whisper of hoofs in the sand, the rattle of a stone as they left the wash, and they were gone.
He walked the Arab steadily into the night, holding his pace down, wanting no Apache to smell dust as he had smelled it, for others might be coming.
There was a canyon of which he knew, a canyon that reached back into the mountains south of Gillespie Peak, and there was a place there he might hole up. Farther up the canyon there was a trickle of water that occasionally flowed in the early months of the year.
He walked the stallion for approximately three miles, then touched him lightly with a spur and let the Arab run. The horse ran tirelessly until the black wall of the mountain loomed over them. He knew when he had reached the mouth of the canyon by the sudden coolness of the air, and turned the Arab.
Twice he rode past the place he sought, but finally he located the small hollow, shielded from the rest of the canyon by brush and boulders. There was an acre or so of sparse grass where water from the spring kept it fresh. There he unsaddled and picketed the horse on the grass.
Spreading his ground sheet and blankets, he stretched out with a sigh, easing his tired muscles and closing his lids over eyes that ached from the strain of watching a far land under a blazing sun. Once more he opened his eyes to look up at the pinnacle of the mountain, and the last sound he heard was the placid munching of the horse, close beside him.
Lieutenant Colonel George A. Forsyth, in command at Fort Cummings, replaced the letter on his desk and was for a moment swept by a wave of helpless fury. His lips tightened and he sat very still, fighting down his anger before he looked up at Lieutenant McDonald.
The colonel pushed the letter across his desk. “Look at this! Of all the damned fools!”
McDonald took the letter and read it through twice before realizing all it implied.
Fort Concho, Texas April 3, 1882
Officer Commanding, Fort Cummings, New Mexico Territory Sir:
The Baron (General) Frederick von Hallstatt and party, believed in your area. Last seen, vicinity of Lost Horse Lake, buffalo hunting. Eight wagons, twenty odd persons, including four white women. One of the latter is Lady Irina Carnarvon, another is the daughter of U. S. Senator Y. F. Davis. Locate, and escort out of the area.
Sincerely, John A. Russell, General Commanding Lieutenant McDonald was shocked. “My God! Four women! At a time like this!”
Colonel Forsyth tapped his pencil on the edge of the desk and studied the map before him. If von Hallstatt’s party had been in the vicinity of Lost Horse Lake on or before the third it was just possible they had reached this area. But why would they come here?
Antelope were the only game, and there were more of those in the country from which they had just come. In the mountains there were big horn sheep, but they also could be found farther north. The desert mountains to the south were bleak and inhospitable to an outsider, offering little, promising less.
A veteran Indian fighter, dangerously wounded in the Beecher Island fight in which Roman Nose was killed, he respected the Indian as a fighting man, and knew few warriors more cunning than Chato existed.
The barrel-chested, flat-nosed Apache had the torso of a two-hundred-pound man on his stocky body, and enough battle lust for a dozen men of his size. Not an hour before had come word that Chato was over the border and moving north.
Moreover, Nachita and Loco had fled the San Carlos reservation with a party of young braves who were spoiling for a fight, and undoubtedly the two groups would meet somewhere to the south. And right in the middle of the country where the meeting was likely to take place was a party of casual tourists, ignorant of the desert and the Apache.
If anything happened to any one of them he would be replying by endorsement to the War Department for the next two years.
Colonel Forsyth’s force was too small and the area he was expected to patrol too large. Military forces much larger than his had failed to pin down the will-o’-the-wisp of an Apache band. Chato would be sure to raid north and east, trying meanwhile to augment his forces still further by drawing upon discontented elements at San Carlos.
For months Forsyth’s scouts at the reservation had warned that trouble was stirring.
“Lieutenant,” Forsyth said at last, “I want you to take your scouts and ride west toward Stein’s Peak, then swing back a little south of east and come up toward the Hatchets. If you cut the trail of those wagons go in and bring them out of there.
Understand?”
“Yes, sir… I have heard, sir, that von Hallstatt can be difficult.”
“You are a soldier, McDonald. Bring him out of there.” “Yes, sir.”
“Lieutenant Hall will make a scout toward the Hatchets, so be on the lookout for him. I shall follow with six troops of the 4th Cavalry.”
When McDonald had gone, Sandy Forsyth sat back in his chair and considered the situation.
He was a handsome, square-jawed man with the scars of his wounds to prove what Indians could do. Trust an Indian to know of any movement in the area … there was not the slightest possibility that Chato did not know of the von Hallstatt group.
Hall would swing south and west, McDonald south and east, so if von Hallstatt was in the area they would be sure to cut his trail. At the same time their pincers movement might catch Chato in between. Meanwhile he would come down from the north with the 4th Cavalry.
The colonel scowled as he studied the map. That was the way he had planned it and that was how it was supposed to work. The difficulty was that things almost never worked as planned, for Chato and his band would break up and proceed as individual members to a predetermined
rendezvous. He had seen such groups fragment before, leaving nothing but a confusion of tracks almost impossible to fool low.
Von Hallstatt had horses, and by the time the Apaches came up with his party, the Apache would need horses.
So few men, so much territory. Forsyth walked to the window and looked out. Somewhere in all that dusty brown vastness was a party of dusty brown bodies, bodies with hard faces and narrow eyes, scanning the desert as he was scanning it. And those bodies were those of forty or fifty of the most dangerous fighting men on earth.
The moves had been made, and it remained to see what happened. His task was to reach von Hallstatt before the Apaches did and, if possible, to capture or defeat the Apaches.
He swore bitterly. A party of casual hunters had gone in boldly, carelessly, where companies of soldiers rode with caution.
Lying on her pallet in the upper room at the stable, Irina could not sleep. It had taken all her arguments and persuasive powers to convince the others that they should move from their comfortable beds in the wagons to the stable, but even now she was not satisfied.
Only Laura Davis had listened and agreed, but Laura’s mind had been made up beforehand.
Edna Dagget had complained of the trouble, Julia Paige had scoffed mildly, but with a bit of a bite to her scoffing, too.
Julia had long had her cap set for Baron von Hallstatt, a fact of which only von Hallstatt seemed unaware, and it irked Julia to see Irina walking off so easily with the man she wanted.
Lying in the darkness, Irina stared up at the ceiling overhead, and considered the people with whom she faced this emergency, if such it would prove to be.
With the exception of Count Henri, none of these people had ever faced any kind of a difficulty, or were less prepared to deal with an emergency.
Frederick had been a highly successful officer in a highly organized army, accustomed to issuing orders and seeing them obeyed, yet the organization of that army was such that it left little initiative to any of its officers.
He had won victories over a disorganized, retreating foe, one whose generals had grown old and tired in their Positions and who thought in terms of wars long completed and over. Frederick had received orders and given them, but there had been little chance for improvisation.
How would he react against an enemy when he would receive no orders himself, and where he must fight in per son against an elusive enemy?
Count Henri, somewhat older than Frederick, was in many ways much younger. Henri had fought against Frederick in the Franco-Prussian War, but what was more important, Henri had served in the African desert against a foe much like the present one. Yet he was a man who talked little.
Frederick was brave … of that she had no doubt, yet more and more she was beginning to be aware that he was not only terribly self-centered, but that he was also without imagination.
Charles Dagget was not a fighting man. He was a diplomat, shrewd enough, congenial, and pleasant company always. This was his first venture into any wilderness greater than the environs of Paris or London. Furthermore, he was not suited to a rugged life.
Edna Dagget was a pretty woman, too thin, and apt to become somewhat hysterical … yet a lovely and gracious person under normal circumstances.
Laura Davis was the only American among them, a pleasant, charming girl, just short of being really beautiful, and a fine horsewoman. She had traveled in Europe, lived in Washington and New York, and had hunted in Virginia and Kentucky.
Hans Kreuger had been Frederick’s aide during a brief period at the Franco-Prussian War’s end. A serious, capable young man from a poor but honorable family. Like Frederick and Henri, he was an excellent rifle shot.
Edna loathed guns, and Charles had never fired any kind of a gun until this trip, and was notably poor as a rifle shot. Julia was an excellent horsewoman but uninterested in guns … as for she herself, she had hunted with her father from childhood, killing her first wild boar at fourteen with her father standing by, and her first lion at seventeen.
Hours after she finally dropped off to sleep she awakened with a start, staring wide-eyed at the roof above. For a moment she could not recall where she was. The faint glow from the dying fire reflected on the underside of the roof, coming through the wide open door at the side of the building, which they had opened to get fresh air.
Otherwise, it was quite dark and she could hear no sound from the outside. Careful to make no sound so as not to disturb the others, she got to her feet and tiptoed to the door.
The fire was a bed of glowing red coals with only a few tendrils of flame doing their weird ballet above them. Beside the fire, his chin on his chest and evidently asleep, was the sentry.
The area within the circle of buildings was perhaps thirty yards long by twenty wide, and the firelight flickered on the canvas wagon tops and made weird, dancing shadows around their spokes. A few men slept under the wagons.
Nothing stirred in the space below, yet she stood for an instant, enjoying the stillness of the night and the red glow of the coals. Then from the corner of her eye she seemed to detect movement near the fire.
The guard was slumped forward, the black log near the fire was … there had been no log!
She reached quickly for her rifle, but even as her hand grasped it, the log came suddenly erect, a knife flashed in the firelight, and the guard toppled forward, falling at the edge of the fire.
She fired … too quickly. The Indian turned as if stunned and looked up at her.
She saw the wide, hard-boned face and the dark holes where deep sunk eyes would be, and then a second shot merged with the echo of her own. The Indian took two staggering steps and fell on his face.
From outside the circle there was a sudden chorus of yells and then a rush of hoofs that turned into a thunder of racing horses and mules … and then the sound died and there was only the dead guard and the naked dusty, brown figure sprawled face down on the hard-packed earth to indicate that anything had happened.
Men came from all over the yard, rushing out, then ducking for cover as there was an outburst of firing. She had never seen men take cover so quickly.
Edna Dagget sat up, clutching the blankets to her breast. “What is it? What has happened?”
“We’ve been attacked.” Irina was surprised at her own calm. “A man has been killed.”
Irina dressed quickly, and beside her Laura was dressing also. Irina took up her rifle and started toward the steps. Edna Dagget stared at her, frightened. “Where are you going? Why is everybody dressing? It isn’t even daylight.”
“We should all dress and be ready to help. A man has been killed.”
“Killed?” Edna Dagget’s shrill cry faded into a gasp of horror, and she started to dress also.
For the moment there was no further shooting. After the outburst of sound the silence was frightening. Stars held still in the sky, and the night was velvet soft. It was unreasonable that a man was dead … two men.
She went to the guard and, taking his sleeve, pulled him away from the edge of the fire that was already smoldering in his coat.
Buffalo called softly. “Ma’am! Get out of the light! Quick”
She turned quickly and sprang away from the fire just as a bullet kicked sparks near where she had been standing. She knelt beside Buffalo, at the rear wheel of a wagon.
There was something reassuring about his stalwart body. He was unshaved, and probably unbathed, but he possessed an air of competence that gave her confidence.
Buffalo had drawn up the old chopping block and a couple of loose rocks for added protection.
“If I had been a moment sooner I could have saved that guard. I did not recognize that Indian until just before he moved.”
“Figured that was you shooting. You set him right up for me. That was good thinking, ma’am.”
Inordinately pleased at the compliment, she crouched lower, looking out into the darkness. Here and there she could make out clumps of creosote bush, but nothing more.
For the first time she thought of what had happened and its meaning to them. The Apaches had stampeded their wagon stock and now they were immobilized unless they wished to abandon all their belongings. The saddle stock had all been held inside the circle … a small concession to Shalako’s warning.
“Were there no guards outside the circle?”
“Two. Look close and you can see one of them lying out there. He’s the lucky one, he’s dead.”
Vague recollections returned to mind of stories she had heard, and only half-listened to, about what Indians did to prisoners. Suddenly the night was filled with menace, and with horror.
The castle in Wales where she had lived, London, Paris, New York… they seemed to be in another world. “How much chance do we have?”
With other women he might have lied, but he respected the coolness and intelligence of this girl and she seemed somehow one of them. In part it was her own at attitude and quickness with the rifle, in part it was the fact that she had loaned a horse to Shalako.
“Less’n fifty-fifty, I’d say. Ma’am, I ain’t a-lyin’ to you, you keep one bullet for yourself, d’ you hear?”
She had never thought of death as something that could happen to her… older people died, or lives were lost in accidents, and she heard of them or read of them in newspapers and was rarely stirred. The facility with which people bore the hardships of others was amazing.
She had always known that someday she would die. We are born with this knowledge or acquire it soon after birth, but death always seems remote and far-off. To realize there was no special protection for her… that she, Lady Irina Carnarvon, could die a bloody and cruel death out here in these sand hills filled her with horror and distaste. “He was right to leave us,” she said.
“Mighty independent man. Wish he was here, though.” Buffalo Harris was doing some thinking of his own. How did a man get himself into a fix like this? How long had he been learning about Indians, anyway? Since he was six, crouched in a cornfield with his sister, listening to the awful, dying screams of his father and mother.
Shalako (1962) Page 5