Novel 1963 - Catlow (v5.0)

by Louis L'Amour

  So Ben Cowan rode north, but he rode uneasily, worried by that half-eaten mule. Those moccasin tracks were surely made by the Seris, and they would be somewhere around; if they lived up to the stories about them they would be up ahead, scouting that mule train.

  Did Catlow know? The vaquero who told Ben about the Seris had crossed himself when he mentioned them, and that vaquero was a tough man and a brave one. Ben Cowan rode more slowly, studying the country, and taking care to avoid any likely ambush. He could think of a lot of ways to die, but one he particularly did not want was to turn slowly black with a poisoned arrow in his guts.

  He had heard many stories about how that poison was made, none of them appealing. Bartlett, who had led the party that surveyed the border between the United States and Mexico along those miles where New Mexico, Arizona, and California adjoin the Mexican states of Chihuahua, Sonora, and Baja California, reported that the Seris obtained the poison by taking the liver from a cow and putting it in a hole with live rattlesnakes, scorpions, tarantulas, and centipedes, then stirring up the whole mass until the creatures exhausted their venom on each other and on the liver. The arrow points are then passed through this and allowed to dry in the shade.

  Father Pfefferkorn, who spent many years in Sonora during the earliest times, had a somewhat different story to tell. The poisons, he said, are collected from all those creatures and also from the Mexican beaded lizard, and mixed with the juices of poisonous plants, then sealed in a large earthenware jar so that none of the poison can evaporate. The pot is then placed on a fire under the open sky and cooked until ready for use. The care of this evil concoction was always delegated to the oldest woman, for when the pot was uncovered the vapor invariably killed her.

  Thoughts of such tales as these were in Ben Cowan’s mind as he rode.

  To the north of the route he was following was the Cerro Prieto, the Black Range, so called because it was covered by dark forest. This was a favorite haunt of the Seris, second only to the Isle of Tiburon.

  Ben Cowan rode with caution, his eyes continually busy, not only looking for what the desert could tell him in the way of tracks, but searching the horizon too. In the desert, the careless die…and wherever they are, the reckless die, some sooner, some later. Ben Cowan was neither.

  Four miles off to the west, six Seris trotted across the sand. They held to low ground, and they were patient. They knew about Ben Cowan, but they were in no hurry. He was going where they were going, and all in good time they would have him too. They could afford to wait.

  The Seris were of the desert, and the desert can wait.…the buzzard that soars above the desert also knows how to wait. Both desert and buzzard know that sooner or later they will claim most things that walk, creep, or crawl within the desert.

  Though the men who drove the mule train were in a great hurry, neither the Seris nor the buzzards were worried. The mule train was marked for death. In fact, death was already among them, and once there, it would not be leaving before its work was done.

  Bijah Catlow had seen a mule die…and afterward, another mule.

  And now a man was to die…and then more men.

  Chapter 19

  UNDER A HOT and smoky sky the mule train stretched out for half a mile, plodding wearily, heavily, exhausted by the distance, the dust, and the everlasting heat. Contorted by the heat, the air quivered and trembled, turning the low areas into pools of water that beckoned with sly, false fingers of hope.

  The sky was blazing with the sun of Sonora; though the sun was masked by the smoke from the fires that burned in the hills, there was no relief from the heat. This was the desert…sand, rock, cactus, greasewood, and ocotillo…and nowhere was there any water.

  Bijah Catlow mopped the sweat from his face and blinked at the strung-out train through the sting of the salt sweat in his eyes. He should ride back and make them bunch up; despite all his warnings they did not pay heed to them. It was too far west for Apaches, they claimed, and it was north of Yaqui country; of the Seris, most of them had never heard.

  They had watered well at the tinajas of Golondrina, but the rock tanks at Del Picu had been bone-dry; so instead of adding another twenty miles to the twelve they had covered, Catlow had turned east toward Pozo del Serna, where there was nearly always water.

  Less than an hour ago they had lost the second mule, and had divided its load between five of the others. At the next camp Bijah planned to bunch the supplies that were left, and so free a mule for packing treasure. Though he had expected to lose mules, he had not expected it so soon.

  The Tarahumara trotted up to him as Merridew drew up alongside. The Indian spoke rapidly, using sign talk as well. Merridew glanced from him to Catlow. “What’s he say?”

  “He says we’re bein’ followed.”

  Merridew spat. “Well, why don’t he tell us somethin’ we don’t know?”

  “He says it isn’t white men—it’s Seris. And he’s scared.”

  Merridew looked at the Indian. He did look scared, come to think of it. The Old Man’s bleak eyes studied the distance, which revealed nothing—only the dancing heat waves, and faint haze of smoke that hung over everything. But he knew the desert too well to be deceived by the apparent emptiness. If that Indian said there were Seris out there, they were there.

  The Old Man’s horse, carrying much less weight than Bijah’s own, was in better shape. “Ride back and bunch them up, will you?” Bijah said to him. “Tell ’em it’s not far to water.”

  He gestured toward the mountains. “It’s up there, maybe three, four miles.…Then you come back up here—bring Rio or Bob along and we’ll scout those wells.”

  Catlow watched while the riders bunched the mules, scanning the desert at intervals. He had an odd sense of impending disaster that worried him.

  From the slight knoll on which he sat his horse, he watched the Old Man ride up with Rio Bray. The three turned their horses eastward then, and cantered forward toward the dark, looming mountains. The low mountains to the right were bare, but to the left and north the crests were covered with a thick forest of pine.

  The springs, when they reached them, lay in the bottom of a branch off a dry wash, surrounded by ironwood and smoke trees. In the trees, birds sang; all else was still.

  The Tarahumara came up, drank briefly and then disappeared among the trees.

  “If there’s anybody around,” Catlow said, “he’ll find ’em.”

  Rio Bray stepped down from his saddle and drank, then filled his canteen. “How much further, d’you reckon?”

  “Hundred miles.”

  Bray indicated the mules. “They ain’t gonna make it.”

  “We’ll have to get more.”

  Bray said nothing, but his expression was sour. Bijah swung down and eased the girth on his saddle, then led his horse to the water. Old Man Merridew was doing the same thing.

  Suddenly, Rio swore viciously, and kicked a rock.

  Catlow glanced up and spoke mildly. “Somethin’ bitin’ you, Rio?”

  “We were damn’ fools to come by the desert! Why, if we’d come up the trail we could have stole fresh animals all the way along! We’d have been nigh to the border by now.”

  “And have half the country chasin’ you? That Calderon ranch has a reg’lar army on it, an’ tough vaqueros. Did you ever tangle with a bunch of hand-picked Sonora vaqueros? Take it from me, and don’t.”

  “Halfway to the border and not a shot fired,” the Old Man commented. “Don’t seem too bad to me.”

  The mule train streamed into the hollow and the mules lined up eagerly along the trickle of water that spilled down from the springs and then disappeared in the sand.

  Rio Bray stalked off, and stopped to talk to Pesquiera. Bijah’s eyes followed him. “There’s trouble,” the Old Man commented.

  “Old Man,” Bijah said, “if anything happens to me, you take this outfit north to Bisani. There’s water there, and the ruins of an old church—good place to fort up if you have to. Ca
borca’s to the east of us, but fight shy of it. You head for La Zorra…about fifteen miles. Less than that distance beyond La Zorra, you come up to the Churupates. There’ll be mules waiting there. Follow up the bed of the Rio Seco, then cut for the border and the foot of the Baboquivaris.”

  “You figured mighty close.” Merridew drove the cork into his canteen with a blow of his palm. “Any of the rest of them know that route?”

  “No…but stick to it.” Catlow took up a twig. “Old Man, there’s troops stationed at Magdalena, and we all saw them. By now the troops at Altar have been alerted, too. If we tried to go the way Bray suggested they’d have us in a pocket.”

  The packs were stripped from the mules, and they were led out and picketed on the grass. Catlow was everywhere, checking their backs for sores, checking their legs and hoofs. Not much further with this bunch, he realized, but every mile was important now, and every pack.

  The Mexican soldier squatted on the sand and put together a small fire. He glanced up at Catlow with an odd expression in his eyes, and Bijah was instantly alert. He raised his eyes and without turning his head or seeming especially interested, he placed every man—all but Pesquiera.

  Rio Bray stood up and two of the Tucson crowd were also standing, spread out from Bray.

  “I figure,” Rio said, “we should go east, up the Pedradas.”

  “No,” Catlow replied quietly, “we’d be walkin’ into a trap.” His eyes went slowly around the group, pinning each man. Where the hell was Pesquiera?

  Keleher got to his feet slowly, suddenly aware of a showdown.

  “We talked it over,” Rio said, “and we’ve had enough of goin’ short on water. We’ve decided to take off up the Pedradas.”

  “You’ve ‘decided’? Rio, you decide nothing here. What’s decided will be decided by me.”

  Rio’s eyes flickered, and Bijah knew where Pesquiera was. On his right, Old Man Merridew held his rifle in his hands. “Go ahead,” Catlow said, “you take care of Pesky, Old Man. Rio’s my meat.”

  Rio Bray began to sweat. He looked at Catlow, and suddenly Bijah was smiling. “It’s your play, Rio,” he said. “You go with us, or you go for that gun.”

  A few minutes before, Rio Bray had been sure and confident. He had been looking forward to this showdown, and he had Pesquiera for insurance. Now suddenly there was no insurance.

  “We’re callin’ your hand, Catlow,” Bray said. “We put it to a vote, and the most of us want to go up the Pedradas.”

  “Why, now, Rio, you’re gettin’ mighty democratic about things. You had you a vote, but without me. And I take it, without the Old Man and some others? Well, I want a show of hands. I want the men who want to go by the Pedradas to stand up.”

  There was a moment of silence and hesitation and then Jake Wilbur stood up. Kentucky and the Greek had already been standing. Nobody else moved.

  “All right, Rio. You heard what I said. You go with us, or go for that gun…and that goes for all of you.” He stood carelessly. “Looks to me like we can almost double our shares right here, Old Man.”

  Bob Keleher spoke quietly. “Count me with Catlow, boys.”

  Rio Bray was tense, then slowly he relaxed. “I’ll go along, Bijah. No use us shootin’ each other to doll rags just when we’re all rich.”

  “What I say,” Bijah replied.

  Jake Wilbur unrolled his bed and turned in without a word, and after a minute he was followed by the Greek, and then by Kentucky.

  Pesquiera’s name was not mentioned, and he did not appear.

  Afraid to face Catlow after his plan to kill him had failed, Pesquiera drew back in the brush and went to the horses. For a moment he hesitated, wanting to get a muleload of the loot to take with him, but there was no chance of that. Catlow had known he was out in the brush ready to cut him down the moment Rio drew; and when day came, Catlow would certainly call him on it.

  Yet there might still be a chance. Ride to General Armijo, claim he had been held a prisoner in his own home, and had escaped. And tell the General where the outlaws were. He might even come out of it with a reward. As for the treasure, he told himself they would have killed him as soon as they reached the border. He believed this because it was what he would have done in their place.

  When they saddled up at daybreak, Pesquiera was gone, and no one spoke his name.

  Catlow led off before the sun was up, riding due north toward Bisani, which lay twenty-eight waterless miles across the desert. Rio Bray was sullen, and angry with himself. He should have tried for his gun…he had been a fool, and this morning his allies of last night held off.

  They found Pesquiera’s body lying sprawled in the sand less than a mile from camp, with a poisoned arrow through his throat. His face, neck, and the upper part of his body had already turned black with the effects of the poison. He lay there stripped bare. His clothing had been taken away by the Indians.

  There was no need to worry about keeping bunched up now. Every man rode with a rifle in hand, and every eye was on the sandhills around them. Bijah Catlow’s throat was tight with apprehension. He had never believed the stories he had heard about the Seris. He believed them now.

  Mile after mile passed. The Tarahumara ran at Catlow’s stirrup now.

  They were well clear of the smoke trees and brush when one of the supply mules suddenly reared up, then collapsed in the trail. An arrow projected from its throat.

  Keleher started to turn, but Catlow had seen the arrow, and knew that to stop would be fatal. “Keep going!” he shouted, and Keleher swung back to the end of the train.

  “Move ’em!” Catlow yelled. “Faster!”

  Shouting, and cracking the mules with ropes, they speeded up the train. Catlow and Old Man Merridew galloped back to help Keleher at the drag end of the line.

  As they reached the rear of the train, two Indians broke from the sand where they had somehow concealed themselves and ran toward the dying mule, their knives in their hands. Already the nearest mule was a hundred yards from them.

  The Old Man raced his horse toward them, and as the Indians leaped up, he fired. The nearest Indian screamed and plunged forward, falling over the dead mule.

  Suddenly a dozen Indians broke from the sand within a few yards of the Old Man, and Catlow, slapping spurs to his horse, raced toward them, firing with his Colt. An arrow whipped by his face, and then the Indians were gone, disappearing among the low hills.

  Merridew, his face sickly yellow, came up alongside Catlow. “Let’s get out of here!” Catlow said.

  They had gone less than a mile when Kentucky dropped back from the flank of the mule train. “Bijah”—he motioned toward the desert to the west—“they’re still out there. I just saw one.”

  Only a few minutes later Bijah saw another, on the other side of the mule train, keeping abreast of it but a good four hundred yards off.

  The day grew hot; shadows disappeared. Again the smoke cast a haze across the sun, across the distance where mirage tantalized with its shimmering lakes. The long marches were telling on the horses, and some of the mules were lagging more than ever. The mule train slowed to a walk.

  Rio Bray was avoiding Bijah, but he worked as hard as any man to keep the train moving. There was no thought of pausing at noon. They had only one thought now—of reaching Bisani. They had even forgotten General Armijo, and his soldiers who would be riding all the trails, searching for them.

  With every mile the danger became greater, but the border drew nearer; and among the weird rocks of the Churupates they would find fresh mules and horses awaiting them, ready for a fast march to the border.

  They knew that the Indians were all around them. At times they heard weird calls from the distance, strange sing-song sounds from the sandhills. But they saw no one. The Indians never showed themselves, but from time to time their signals to one another sounded across the desert.

  Another mule went down, struggled to get up, then stayed down. Ringed by rifles, two of the men stripped the pa
ck and pack-saddle from the animal and distributed the load among the others. Then they started on, but only a few minutes later the mule was up and following them on wobbly legs.

  Before the first shadow appeared on the eastern flank of a hill, three more mules had gone down—one of them did not rise again.

  Now the going was very slow, for all the remaining mules were overloaded.

  Catlow rode toward the top of a rise. A coarse stubble of beard covered his face, and his shirt was stiff with sweat and dust. He mounted the ridge, and there, beside the dry bed of Asuncion River, was the ruined church of Bisani. Among the ruins he could see the flickering green leaves of a poplar—almost a sure indication of water.

  “Here it is!” he called. “We’re safe!”

  From behind him came a ragged cheer.

  Chapter 20

  DEPUTY UNITED STATES Marshal Ben Cowan had no need to trace the trail left by the fleeing outlaws and their mule train, for the route was marked by circles of flying buzzards.

  From a low ridge crowned with rocks and a clump of elephant trees, Cowan studied the desert before him through his field glasses. He liked the spicy odor of the small trees, and they offered a limited but welcome bit of shade. Nearby the brown gelding cropped at some desert plants.

  That the mule train was under attack was obvious. He could hear the distant sound of guns and could see racing horsemen, although where he sat he was too far off for him to identify any individual rider. Nor could he see the attacking Indians.

  He watched the fleeing mule train and its accompanying riders. Suddenly a rider went down and others raced to his aid. There was a flurry of shots and white smoke lifting, and then they were racing off again with, he surmised, the rescued man.

  The shooting continued, sporadic firing at targets invisible to him. It gave him a strange sensation to sit as at a show and watch men fighting for their lives against a ghost-like enemy. As for the Indians, he had no need to be on the spot to understand their strategy. They were following the mule train like wolves after a crippled animal, attacking, escaping, returning to attack again.