Shalako (1962)

by L'amour, Louis

  The distance was scarcely twenty feet, the shotgun a short-barreled express gun.

  Kreuger’s face was pale and perspiring, but there was no doubt that he meant what he said.

  “I have enough buckshot to cut you in two, Fulton,” Kreuger said, “and nothing to lose.”

  The gunman’s eyes seemed to change color. Or was it the light in the room? Irina, who was watching him, saw an ugly hatred come into those yellow eyes, but he eased the hammer back in place with elaborate care, and then he turned and started for the ladder. There he hesitated, stealing a glance over his shoulder, but the twin muzzles followed him relentlessly.

  When Fulton had disappeared up the ladder, Kreuger lay back on his pallet, gasping hoarsely, his brow beaded with sweat.

  Von Hallstatt remained standing by the door, staring out across the desert, his back to the room. The sun was going down. The day would soon be gone.

  He stared blindly, conscious of it all but seeing nothing. He had been afraid. He, Frederick von Hallstatt, had been afraid.

  He had known that surely as he stood there that unwashed hireling would kill him.

  No command of his mattered here, no authority of position or personality stood between him and these men.

  He hated them, he hated the wild, irresponsible freedom and independence there was in them all. He was used to subservience, to acceptance of his authority, his position.

  That independence was in Shalako, Harris, Fulton … all of them.

  Buffalo Harris’s frank, matter-of-fact, man-to-man talk had always offended him, yet it had taken a cocked gun in the hand of Bosky Fulton to make him aware of how little he mattered here. He, Frederick von Hallstatt, baron and general, could be shot down and killed as simply as any peasant.

  Turning slowly, he threw a glance at his wounded aide. “Thank you, Hans,” he said.

  Taking up his rifle he went outside and returned to his position, and not until he was there, watching the desert once more, did he realize that for the first time he had called Kreuger by his given name.

  And well he might, for Hans Kreuger had saved him from more than he knew. Possibly he had saved him from death, possibly from an exhibition of cowardice.

  Had Kreuger not intervened, what would he have done? Would he have attempted to turn?

  Or would he meekly have submitted?

  Blindly, Frederick von Hallstatt stared out across the desert. For the first time in his entire life he did not know. For the first time, he was unsure.

  Chapter Three.

  When von Hallstatt had gone, nobody spoke for several minutes, then Buffalo Harris finished his coffee, and went to the door. He hesitated there, turned as if to speak, then ducked outside and was gone.

  Count Henri’s handsome features were expression less. He glanced at her. “I am sorry you are here, Irina.” Then he went outside also.

  Her decision, when it was made, was deliberate. And in the moment of deciding she knew it was a decision that should have been made before this. Gathering her skirts, she started for the door.

  “Irina!” Laura caught at her arm. “Stay away from the door! What can you be thinking of?”

  “I am going to the wagon,” she said calmly, “for some food and ammunition.”

  “You will be killed!”

  “I do not think so,” she replied calmly, “I think they will want the women alive.”

  Laura’s eyes were without expression. “Yes, yes, of course. But be careful.”

  It was a silly thing to say at such a time, but what could be said? She took a deep breath and, stepping out side, she walked coolly and deliberately to the nearest wagon.

  Climbing into the wagon, she gathered up a parcel of food, a medicine kit with additional medicines, and a box of ammunition. Putting them all in a burlap sack, she swung it over her shoulder and walked back to the stable.

  Returning, she climbed into the wagon again. The heat was stifling under the canvas wagon top and the interior smelled of the sun-hot canvas, a smell like no other, yet not unpleasant.

  From a box of her own things she took a .44-caliber derringer with two barrels, one over the other. Checking to be sure it was loaded, she tucked it into her clothing.

  Loading another box of ammunition and more food into her sack, she returned again to the stable.

  She had concealed the sack when Bosky Fulton suddenly came down the ladder and, without glancing at her, went outside and worked his way around to the house.

  She recalled hearing a low mutter of conversation from the loft, and remembered that one of the other teamsters was up there.

  Fulton remained in the house but, after a few minutes, Rio Hockett came to the door and motioned to one of the other men. The man crawled, then suddenly darted for the door and ducked inside, a bullet tapping the doorjamb with a disgusted finger.

  Aided by Laura, Irina returned to the wagons and re moved more of the food and ammunition.

  No shot was fired at them.

  Buffalo returned to the stable. “They’re pullin’ out,” he said. “Those smokes are drawin’ them off. I’d say we’d better light out of here.”

  “Do you suppose it is a trick? Something to draw us out of this position?”

  “Don’t think so. Their dust shows up too far off for that. They’ve sure enough taken out.”

  Roy Harding strolled up to the door. “What do you think, Buff? Could we make Fort Cummings? My guess would be the troops are out by this time.”

  The rest of their party slowly congregated. “Please,” Edna Dagget said, “let its go now.”

  Bosky Fulton spoke from the stable door. “Too late for you folks. You’re goin’ to stay here. We’re takin’ out.” Their heads turned as one, and Bosky Fulton stood in the stable door behind them, and beside him were four men with rifles, hip high, ready to fire.

  “We decided we don’t like it here no more,” Fulton said. “Rio, you shuck their guns and shake them down for money or whatever.”

  “If you wish to leave,” Count Henri said coolly, “you must realize you are not alone.

  We were discussing such a move when you came in. I suggest you harness the teams and be ready to move out.”

  “We go,” Fulton repeated, “you stay.”

  Von Hallstatt clutched his rifle by the upper barrel, but he stood among the women and there was no chance of bringing it into use without endangering them all. And he had seen how quickly Fulton could go into action.

  “If you appear with our belongings,” Dagget warned, “questions will be asked. It must be obvious to you that many of our weapons and other belongings will be recognized or easily identified.”

  Fulton grinned at Dagget. “Not in Mexico. Not in the border towns. And when the Apaches get through with you folks nobody will be asking any questions at all.”

  He glanced over at Harding. “You’re in the wrong crowd, Roy. You belong with us.”

  “I like it where I am,” Harding replied bluntly. “I never did cotton to thieves.

  Nor do I want to get my neck stretched.”

  Fulton shrugged. “Suit yourself. Soon as they see what those smokes meant the Apaches will be back. They’ll take care of whatever we leave.”

  When they had been disarmed, their guns were emptied and handed back. “Look funny if you had no guns. It would make the Apaches talk and we might have to answer to the Army if we were caught. So you just keep those fancy guns.”

  Irina thought of her derringer. If she could get it out… but that would only lead to shooting and her friends would be wounded or killed.

  Hockett took their rings from their fingers and what valuables they had on their persons. Cold with anger, Irina watched, knowing the men were as helpless to act as she herself.

  The heaviest of the riding stock were hitched to the wagon into which they loaded all that remained of food, ammunition, and valuables that could be disposed of below the border. The horses were not broken to drive, but to men accustomed to the handling of bro
nchos it made no difference. Her own horses were led out and for a moment she felt a savage pleasure. Neither of her horses had ever been ridden by a man, and while these men were horse men, nonetheless she knew the mares would be watching for an opportunity to throw their riders and escape.

  “Leave the roan,” Fulton said, “he’s all stove up.” “They’ll take that horse and hunt for help,” Hockett objected.

  “Rio, you know that horse is in bad shape. Where would they go for help? The nearest would be seventy or eighty rough miles, maybe twice that far, and Apaches all over the country.”

  Suddenly Fulton’s eyes switched to Irina. “You,” he said, “you and that Davis gal.

  You’re a-coming with us.” “I think not.”

  There was an odd, snakelike quality in the way in which Fulton turned his head.

  Count Henri had spoken, and now he met Fulton’s gaze calmly. Only a fool could look at the Frenchman and doubt that he would fight.

  Roy Harding took a step wide of the group, but in a position that made his intentions obvious. Von Hallstatt gathered himself, giving all his attention to Fulton.

  “Ride out with what you have,” Henri said coolly, “otherwise you must kill us all, and you’ll not do it without our leaving a mark on you.

  “I suspect this Colonel Forsyth of whom we have heard will be curious as to why we were all shot at close range and why a wagon is gone. Also,” he added, “the Apaches may not be so far away as to wonder why there is shooting when they are not attacking.

  They might be curious enough to return to find out.”

  “Forget ‘em, Bosky,” Hockett said. “We’ll find plenty of women in Mexico.”

  Fulton turned abruptly. “All right, let’s go!”

  They left in a swirl of dust, and when they were gone, only Roy Harding, Buffalo Harris, and Mako, the cook they had brought from Europe, remained with them.

  Irina uncovered the ammunition hidden under a pile of blankets in a corner, and ammunition was passed out among them. The sun was setting.

  “We cannot defend this place,” von Hallstatt said. “We are too few.”

  “We’d do better to run for the hills,” Harding suggested. “We might find a better place to hole up.”

  “We’ll need water,” Buffalo said doubtfully.

  Shalako rode up out of the wash and walked the Arab stallion into the circle. “Get whatever grub you’ve got, blankets and whatever you can carry. If you want to live you’ve got to get out of here.”

  “There’s water here!” Dagget protested. “And that stable is built like a fort!”

  Shalako wasted no words. “How will you get water with Indians shooting into the door?”

  “A trip across the desert will kill my wife!” Daggett “What will happen if she stays here?”

  Irina wasted no time listening. Mustering the help of Julia and Laura, they began getting what blankets and food there was. Von Hallstatt and Henri made a stretcher of two long coats by slipping a pole through the arms of the two coats on one side, then another pole on the other. Then they buttoned the coats.

  It was quite dark when they finally moved out. Edna Dagget went first, walking beside her husband. The roan followed, led by Julia, and packed with food and medical supplies.

  The Arab was also loaded down, and led by Laura.

  Henri and von Hallstatt carried the stretcher on which Hans lay, protesting the necessity for taking him. Harding and Harris brought up the rear, and Mako walked behind the Arab.

  Shalako had removed his boots and donned moccasins for the walk. They were Apache moccasins that came well up the leg and had stiffer soles for desert walking.

  The stars were out, the night very still. Once, three years before, he had camped at the place where he planned to take them. He had no idea of attempting to make Fort Cummings. With the wounded man and Edna Dagget they could not hope to make the distance, and Apaches had been known to kill right under the walls of a fort. Nor would Julia Paige stand up to such a walk … the others might.

  The journey before them was serious enough without thinking of the much, much longer trek to Fort Cummings. All he could expect to do was to hide them in the hills and hope the backwash of retreating Apaches did not find them.

  Harris had told him briefly about the robbery and flight of the group under Fulton, but that was none of his affair.

  Shalako walked to the head of the small column, Irina falling in beside him. Von Hallstatt glanced at them as they went by, but made no comment.

  “Why did you come back?” she asked suddenly.

  If there was an answer to that he did not know what it was, nor was he a man given to self-analysis or worry about his motives. If they were caught out in the open there was no chance for them, simply none at all.

  Knowing no logical answer, he did not attempt to make one, but walked beside her in silence. He walked well ahead of the others so the sounds from the desert would not be merged with their own sounds.

  When they halted he fell back and squatted on his heels beside the stretcher, rolling a smoke in the darkness. Carefully shielding the flame, he lighted it, then handed it to Kreuger.

  The German inhaled deeply, gratefully. “It is the little things,” Kreuger said.

  “Yes.” “It is far?”

  This man was beyond truth or lies, and he had shown himself a brave man. “It is farther than I told them. You will understand.”

  “A good place?”

  “At the last it will be bad for you, Hans. There will be climbing and turning, but it is a good place.”

  “Do not think of me.”

  The bulk of Gillespie Mountain lifted against the sky, still several miles away.

  The notch toward which he directed their steps was just to the south of it. The cliffs at that place reared up more than a thousand feet and, atop that cliff, between it and Elephant Butte Canyon, there was a place to hide. There was water at the head of Park Canyon and the corner where the two canyons headed up was a difficult place to attack.

  “I do not think you have long been a Western man,” Kreuger said. “The general was surprised when you mentioned Vegetius and Saxe.”

  “A Western man is a man from elsewhere,” Shalako said. “The West was an empty land and men were drawn to it from the East, from Europe, even from China. An officer killed with Custer at Little Big Horn had been a Papal Guard at the Vatican.

  I know a rancher in New Mexico who was an officer in Queen Victoria’s Coldstream Guards. There is a marshal in the Indian Territory who served in the French Army.

  Western men were poor men, rich men, beggar men, thieves. Only whatever they were, they were strong men or they did not come West, and of those who came, only the strongest survived.”

  “And you?”

  Faintly, on the soft wind, was a smell of woodsmoke. Shalako swore. “There are Indians south of us.”

  “And you?” Kreuger persisted.

  “A man who wanders, that is what I am. It is a wide land, and much of it I have not seen, and much I wish to see again. A man is what he is, and what he is shows in his actions. I do not ask where a man came from or what he was … none of that is important.

  “It is what a man does, how he conducts himself that matters, not who his family were.” He got up. “I know it is otherwise in Europe.”

  “Not entirely,” Kreuger said, “but it is important.” He paused, then added defensively, “Breeding is important.” “Breeding can breed weakness as well as strength, cowardice as well as bravery. I do not think much thought was given to virtue or courage when the blood lines were laid down. They did not breed for quality, they bred for money. Estates were married, not people.”

  “There is something in what you say,” Kreuger confessed reluctantly.

  Walking forward again, he spoke to each of them. “Not a whisper,” he said, “not a sneeze. If you drop anything you may drop our lives with it. No matches, no cigarettes … there are Indians south of us.”

 
The woodsmoke might come from Cowboy Spring or even that other spring beyond the buttes. Not far enough away for comfort. When they moved out again, Buffalo took the lead and Harding shared the stretcher with Shalako.

  Edna Dagget was already dragging her feet. Julia, al though she walked well, was showing discomfort.

  They walked and rested, they walked again … without the stretcher they might have made it by daybreak, as it was a rising wind tuned the violins of the desert shrubs, the Animas Mountains lifted a black wall before them, but a tinge of crimson touched the ridge. Reluctantly the darkness retreated into the narrow-mouthed canyons.

  No smoke against the sky. They halted again where mountain run-off had cut a gash in the accumulated debris at the mountains’ base. Charles and Edna Dagget huddled together, holding their faces tight against disaster. Laura’s eyes seemed larger this morning, and there were hollows in her cheeks.

  Only Hans Kreuger seemed unchanged.

  Mako, a thin, wiry man who looked more like a doctor of philosophy than a cook, glanced up as Shalako approached him. “I could make some coffee, sir,” he suggested.

  “No.” Shalako allowed nearly an hour of rest, for the Daggets had little reserve remaining.

  It was cold in the shadow of the mountains. The desert lay pale beige before them, dotted with cloud shadow and desert shrubs. Julia Paige looked at the desert and held her shoulders pinched against the chill. Von Hallstatt had a stubble of beard on his jaws, and he stared sullenly at the sand. Count Henri leaned back against the bank, breathing easily.

  Shalako squatted on his heels and studied them from under the brim of his hat, assaying the reserves of each. Von Hallstatt was like iron. Whatever else he was, there was strength in the man, strength of body and strength of will. The breeding had told there, all right. This was one who had been bred for the Prussian Army officer corps … yet the breeding had lost something, too.

  Henri … a member of the nobility who still possessed nobility. His physical strength might be less, but his morale was greater, he had stamina of the spirit, which outweighs all physical strength.

  Shalako was rising to start them moving again when he heard a sound that was more than the wind. Hat off, he lifted his head slowly until his eyes cleared the bank.