Novel 1957 - Last Stand At Papago Wells (v5.0)

by Louis L'Amour

  Chapter 11

  LOGAN CATES SEARCHED the empty desert with his red-rimmed eyes. Nowhere was a sound or a movement. The sun seemed to have spread over the entire sky, and there was no shade. The parched leaves of the mesquite hung lifeless and still, and even the buzzards that hung in the brassy vault above them seemed motionless.

  The rocks were blistering to the touch, the jagged lava boulders lay like huge clinkers in the glowing ashes of a burned-down fire. The heat waves drew a veil across the distance. Cates opened his shirt another button and mopped his face with his bandanna. He shifted the rifle in his sweaty hands, and searched the desert for something at which to shoot.

  Lonnie Foreman crawled up in the rocks and seating himself, took a healthy pull at his canteen, then passed it to Cates. The water tasted flat and dull, lukewarm from the canteen.

  “It’s awful down there.” Foreman gestured toward the deeper arroyo where the horses were held. “Like an oven.”

  “They can cover the horses from up higher. Tell ’em to come on up.”

  Foreman slid off the rocks and when he stood up on the main level he walked slowly away, his boots grating on the rock. He walked past the narrow shelf of shade under which the three women sat. Nobody cared about the fire, nobody wanted coffee. Despite the shortage of food, nobody was even hungry.

  Cates watched the men retreat to the higher level. They could watch the horses as well from there, and the defensive position was better. He was afraid of that corral now … he could not say why, but it seemed the most vulnerable, and the Apaches would want what horses they could get, either to ride or eat. Pulling the defenders back meant his line of defense was tighter, more compact, better sheltered.

  Nothing stirred out there. Now that the men had been pulled back he could hear their conversation. Cates sat quietly among the rocks, ready for anything. Evidently the Apaches had observed the construction of the corral when it was first built, for no attempt had been made to stampede the horses, nor for some time had any effort been made to kill them, so evidently they believed they would have them all before many days had passed.

  Nothing moved. From down by the waterhole someone was swearing in a heavy, monotonous voice. A fly buzzed near and lighted on Cates’s face. He brushed it with an irritable hand and a bullet spat fragments of granite in his face as the sound went echoing down the hills.

  He hunched lower, and, peering between the rocks, tried to find a target. He glanced down to see Zimmerman squatting near Big Maria, whispering. The big woman’s face was lowered and Cates could not discern what effect the words were having, if any. They had drawn apart from the others. It was very hot, and very still.

  Sheehan found a place in the thin shade and stretched out, trying to rest before the night watch. Kimbrough and Webb sat side by side in the rocks, talking as they kept a lookout.

  Logan Cates tried to think of an escape. There had to be a way to get out of here, there was always a way. No matter how he squinted his eyes over the desert and tried to think of some way out, none came to him. By this time, however, the Army knew its patrol was lost or in trouble, and they would know the sheriff’s posse was in the same situation. The fact that two well-armed parties had vanished in the same area at the same time was sufficient warning of what must be happening out there. Also, there could have been little or no desert travel in the meantime which would be evidence enough of an Indian outbreak. By this time there would be speculation and undoubtedly a search party was being organized.

  In Tucson, Jim Fair would have given up the search or would by this time have started west, and being the man he was, Cates was quite sure that if Fair realized his daughter had run into trouble, he would be heading west without delay. Nor would they take too long in finding them at Papago Wells. There was, therefore, a double reason for alertness. They must be prepared to warn any search parties of a trap.

  Cates began considering a smoke signal … yet there was little fuel, and what there was must be conserved until there was absolute necessity.

  It was beyond reason that Churupati and his renegades could exist out in those blistering rocks, but they were doing it, and the fact that the slightest incautious movement by the defenders brought a well-aimed shot was evidence enough.

  Zimmerman got up suddenly. “To hell with this!” he said suddenly. “I’m gettin’ out of here!”

  Nobody replied. Lonnie Foreman got up and walked over to the rocks to climb up and relieve Cates. Kimbrough spat into the sand at his feet. His coat had long since been discarded and his shirt was torn and dirty. There was a thick stubble of beard on his jaws and his eyes seemed to have thinned and grown mean. They studied Zimmerman now, but he offered no comment.

  The big man stood in the center of the open space and glared around him. “I’m ridin’ out of here tonight, and anybody who wants to come is welcome!”

  Cates reached the ground near him. He turned slowly. “Zimmerman, forget it. We’ll all be out of here before long. Just sit tight.”

  Zimmerman turned sharply around. “When I need advice from you, I’ll ask it. I’m ridin’ out of here at daylight.”

  “If you want to leave, just go ahead. But you’re not riding.”

  “No?” Zimmerman measured him with insulting eyes. “You’re stoppin’ me, I suppose?”

  Sheehan was suddenly awake. “Zimmerman!” His voice rang in the space between the walls. “Sit down and shut up!”

  Zimmerman did not even turn to glance at Sheehan. He simply ignored the command, his eyes on Cates. “I don’t like you, Cates. I never have. All you’ve done is say ‘sit tight.’ Well, I’m tired of it, and when I want to ride, I’m ridin’, and when I ride, I’m ridin’ your horse. What do you think of that?”

  Zimmerman took a step nearer. Cates held his ground, his face expressionless. Beaupre was watching him with a kind of fascinated attention, and Grant Kimbrough sat up, curious.

  “Sit down, Zimmerman, and forget it. The heat’s getting to us all.” Logan Cates was cool. “By this time the search parties are preparing. We’ll be out of here soon.”

  “I’ll be out when I want to go,” Zimmerman said, “but there’s something I’m going to do before I leave. I’m going to take that little pistol away from you and—”

  Cates struck, and swiftly as he struck, Zimmerman slapped down Cates’s left hand with his left, leaving his chin open. Cates’s right was a flickering instant behind the left and it struck the bigger man’s jaw as the butt of an ax strikes a log. Everybody in the clearing heard the thud of the blow and saw Zimmerman’s knees buckle, but the left and right followed so swiftly that Zimmerman hit ground from the force of all blows. He sat stunned and shaken for an instant, while Cates coolly drew back to let him get up. Suddenly, realization seemed to reach Zimmerman and he came off the ground with a lunge and began to close in; his arms were widespread for grasping.

  Cates stood very still and let him come and then as Zimmerman lunged, Cates stepped in with a smashing left to the mouth. His lips split, Zimmerman followed through, grabbing at Cates, who turned swiftly inside of the enveloping arms and threw Zimmerman with a rolling hiplock. The big man hit the ground hard. Zimmerman started to rise, and Cates told him, “Don’t get up, Zimmerman, or I’ll take you apart.”

  Zimmerman stayed where he was, on his hands and knees, and after a minute Cates walked away to steady himself. He was shaken by the fight. Zimmerman, for all his bulk, knew little of fighting and to have continued would have meant a needless slaughter. Yet he knew with such a man there was never an end. Zimmerman would not forget.

  Nobody said anything, and after a while Zimmerman got slowly to his feet and walked to the far end of the arroyo.

  “What did you prove?” Taylor asked, looking up at Cates.

  Cates ignored the question. “We’ve got to stay here. It’s our only chance. Out in the open, with several of us walking, and women to think of, we wouldn’t have a chance. And believe me, that stretch of country from here to Yuma is
one of the worst in the world.” He turned to Taylor. “You know it is.”

  “I’ve been over it before,” Taylor declared, “and I can do it again.”

  “You didn’t have women to think of,” Cates said, “and you probably had water.”

  Taylor got up and stalked away to the far side of their area, ignoring the comment. He sat down with Webb and Kimbrough. Big Maria after a moment got up and walked after him. For a moment Logan Cates looked at them, then glanced away.

  Lonnie called down from above. “Logan. Somethin’ stirrin’ up out there!”

  He scrambled quickly into the rocks, but the desert showed nothing at all, nothing but the same rocks, the same brush, the same shimmering heat waves, the same—

  The arrow came out of the desert from the rocks down near the arroyo, from the rocks out of sight behind the brush that lined it at that place. It came over and it trailed a dark trail of smoke.

  “Lugo! Jim! Grab the horses! Fire!”

  Everyone was on their feet in an instant. The arrow dropped into the brush that formed the corral. There was a brief silence, then a crackle of flame.

  Lugo had been quick. He had glimpsed the arrow even as it fell and he made a running dive and scooped sand into the brush and he was lucky. His first scooped double handful lit right on the tiny blaze, and then a second arrow came, and a third. The second was a clean miss, landing in the sand somewhere back of the brush, but the third lit. Beaupre was there now, and Taylor, all desperately throwing sand.

  Yet Cates could see from his vantage point that there was no hope. They might extinguish one or a dozen, but the Apaches would keep trying and they would get one arrow where they wanted it. That dry brush would go up like tinder and nothing would be left of the corral.

  “Sheehan!” he shouted. “Get the horses up here! Fast!” Sheehan was moving even as Cates yelled and Cates turned swiftly. “Pay no attention to the fire, Lonnie. They may try to attack now!”

  Kimbrough had reached the same conclusion and hurriedly got into the rocks to face south toward the lava, his rifle ready. Zimmerman was in the rocks facing north. Suddenly he fired, and then Lonnie fired.

  “Missed!” Lonnie said bitterly. “If I could get in just one good shot!”

  Cates glanced around at the fire. Another arrow had hit further back, out of reach, and suddenly the wall of brush was swept by roaring, crackling flame. “Back!” he yelled. “Back to the rocks!”

  Sheehan, working swiftly with Webb and Jennifer, was already bringing the horses into the rocks, and the others retreated swiftly and fell down in firing positions. The flames roared and the stifling heat beat against their faces, yet they lay still, watching.

  The lower tank was lost to them now. With the brush gone the Indians could cover it effectively and there would be no chance to get water from there. And that was the one where the horses had watered. It was low now, little water remained, but enough to have lasted another day, at least. And they must share their water with the horses.

  Their position was tighter, and it was still strong. It was still a formidable position to attack by any charge, but the net was drawn closer, and there was less room, less water, less food.

  For half an hour the brush blazed, then settled down to smoldering, blackened heaps. And overhead the sun blazed from horizon to horizon, and the heat shimmered, and the patient buzzards soared and waited.

  Nobody spoke. Their brief efforts in the heat of the sun had left Beaupre and Lugo exhausted. Taylor looked pale, and for once had nothing to say. Each one was impressed with the seriousness of their position, and each realized all the implications.

  It was Kimbrough who voiced their feeling. “Now what do we do, Cates? Do we sit tight?”

  “We do.”

  Taylor glared at him; Zimmerman looked his disgust. But it was Beaupre who said, “He’s playin’ with us, Churupati is; he’s playin’ with us like a cat plays with a bird. He knows he’s got us, he knows we can’t get away. He’s just havin’ himself some fun.”

  It was hot. There were only thin strips of shade where the rocks cast a slight shadow. The lava caught the blasting heat and reflected it into their faces, for the shade the brush below had offered was gone now. They sat around, stupid with the shock of what had happened, empty of thought.

  Without waiting for help, Cates began shifting stones to provide added protection and after a minute or two, Lugo joined him, then Beaupre. Jennifer glanced at Kimbrough but he huddled in deep conference with Webb and Zimmerman and offered no help.

  They had water for two, perhaps three days longer; even that meant half rations. Their food was sufficient for three slight meals.

  When he climbed back up the rocks, Lonnie glanced at him. “What do we do now?” he asked.

  Cates shrugged and tried to huddle into the shade that was gathering behind a boulder as the sun moved westward. “All we can do is wait. You can bet they aren’t having it easy, either.” He studied the back of his hand thoughtfully. “I think we might try an attack tonight.”

  “I want to go.”

  “Well—maybe.” Cates looked up at him. “How are you and Junie making it?”

  Lonnie flushed. “She’s a mighty nice girl.”

  “Don’t find too many out here.”

  They sat together, watching the desert. The glare was terrible, although the afternoon was now almost gone, and in the last hours the sun seemed to shine with redoubled intensity. Cates took the glasses and searched the skyline toward Yuma, then that to the east.

  Nothing … nothing at all.

  A bullet clipped rock near his glasses, then another. An arrow, apparently fired at random, came over the rocks and brush and landed near the fire. A third bullet clipped a neat hole in Lonnie Foreman’s hatbrim, and another harmless arrow dropped over the rocks.

  Cates steadied his rifle and waited. He saw sand slip near the crest of a dune ridge and fired, holding a little low. A hand flew up, seen a moment as it shot high, then slowly lowered. The fingers dug into the sand, clutching a handful, then slowly spreading out as the hand slipped from sight.

  “One down,” Lonnie said. “That was a good shot.”

  “It was a lucky shot. I just guessed he might be there.”

  “Wonder what they’re planning out there?”

  Cates shrugged. “Who knows? I think Churupati is restless now. He has been expecting us to break and run for it. I think all his planning was for that … to get us into the open. We’ve held them here, they can’t have much water, and no Indian wants to leave the rifles and horses they’d get if we ran for it.”

  Down below in the rocks, Grant Kimbrough got to his feet. “Tonight then?” Webb asked.

  “Tonight,” Kimbrough replied.

  Chapter 12

  GRANT KIMBROUGH HAD made his decision. The party was doomed, and he did not intend to be a part of that doom. For several nights he had been studying a route among the rocks, and he had decided it allowed a safe passage, relatively free of observation, and one over which no sound would be made because of the sand.

  Webb could get the horses saddled, and when all was quiet during their watch, they would mount up and slip out. Give them a few miles’ start and no Indian pony was going to catch his thoroughbred. They could make it north and then west and they were sure to reach Yuma. On the river as it was, there was no way they could miss, for the Colorado made a moat across the whole west border of Arizona.

  Let Logan Cates play his game of sitting tight. He could have it. They would die here, of starvation if not of Indian arrows or bullets. Nobody would come, nobody knew where they were. Zimmerman wanted to come and Zimmerman had some idea of his own … all right, let him. Three targets were better than two, and Zimmerman was a big man. In the darkness he was sure to attract most of the gunfire, if there was any, and Kimbrough was sure there would be none.

  He walked to where Jennifer was roasting some strips of mutton. She brushed a wisp of hair back from her face and smiled at him. Sh
e had changed in some way he could not define, she seemed more mature, more sure of herself. It was a change that disturbed him, why he could not have said.

  “No job for you,” he said.

  “Somebody has to do it, and Junie does more than her share.”

  “We’ll be out of it soon.”

  She glanced at him. “I’m glad to hear you say so. I thought you were beginning to think like the others, the ones who believe we’ll never get out.”

  “They may not, but you will.”

  Her eyes searched his face. “What do you mean by that?”

  “That I’m taking care of you, Jen, as I promised I would. I am going to see that you get out of here.”

  Her eyes softened and she put her hand on his sleeve. “Of course, Grant. I never doubted that you were thinking of me.”

  “Get some rest,” he said; “you’ll need it.”

  He walked away and she saw him go to his horse. He had been rustling extra feed for the thoroughbred these past two days, bringing it to the horse, and picking his hat full of mesquite beans as he lay in the brush.

  She made coffee and one by one they came to the fire to eat. Grant was in the best mood she had seen him since their arrival, and she was pleased. Yet when she glanced at Cates she was vaguely uneasy.

  Night was drawing near, and the first shadows were creeping out from the rocks, gathering in the hollow spaces, pointing long fingers from the cacti and the ocotillo, but it was a haunted evening. Each in his or her own way was feeling the sudden apprehension, and the Indians who had before seemed closed out now seemed desperately near. The burning of the brush walling the corral had opened a way into their fortress, had deprived them of at least a third of their remaining water, had left them feeling exposed to the dangers of the creeping night.

  Nobody talked, and yet nobody slept. All were restless, silent, alert for danger. Fear was a living thing among them. Webb mopped his slack-jawed face with a nervous hand. Taylor’s tough assurance was no longer stolid, he moved quickly at the slightest sound, on edge and jittery. Even Jim Beaupre was feeling it. He moved from place to place, studying the desert, eager for a shot at something. Only Tony Lugo seemed the same, and even the Pima was alert. His eyes, which were quiet as a rule, now seemed larger.