The Lonely Men
( Sacketts - 14 )
Louis L'amour
The Lonely Men
Louis L'amour
*
Chapter 1
It Was Hot. The Shallow Place Where I Lay Atop The Desert Ridge was like an oven, the rocks like burning coals. Out on the flat below, where the Apaches waited, the heat waves shimmered and danced. Only the far-off mountains looked cool.
When I tried to push out my tongue to touch my cracked lips it was like a dry stick in my mouth, and the dark splashes on the rock were blood ... my blood.
The round thing lying yonder with a bullet hole in it was my canteen, but there might be a smidgen of water left in the bottom -- enough to keep me alive if I could get to it.
Down on the flat lay my sorrel horse, who had run himself to death trying to save my hide, and him with a bullet hole in his belly. In the saddlebags were the few odds and ends that were likely to be as much as I'd ever have of possessions in this life, for I didn't seem to be a fortunate man when it came to getting the riches of the world.
Back in the high-up Tennessee hills they used to tell it that when fighting time came around a body should stand clear of us Sacketts, but those Apaches down yonder had never heard the stories, and wouldn't have paid them no mind if they had.
If you saw an Apache on a parade ground he might not stack up too much, but out in the brush and rocks of his native country, he was a first-class fighting man, and maybe the greatest guerrilla fighter the world ever saw.
Squinting my eyes against the glare and the thin trickle of salty sweat in my eyes, I clutched the stock of my rifle right back of the action and searched the terrain for something at which to shoot. My mouth was dry, my fingers stiff, and my rifle action so hot I daren't touch it unless to shoot, and quick.
Down there on the trail Billy Higgins lay gut-shot and dead, killed at the last by my own bullet to save him from torture.
We'd been riding east in the cool of the morning when those Apaches hit us from out of nowhere. Rightly, this wasn't even Apache country. This was Pima or Papago country, and they were Indians who were friendly to us, and who fought the Apaches on every occasion. When those Apaches hit us it was every man for himself, and Billy Higgins and me, we taken out a-running, heading for the rocks where we could make a fight of it. An Apache with a .56 Spencer reared up from behind a greasewood and shot Billy right through the belly, opening him up as if it had been done with a saber. It meant he was dying, and he knew it.
Swinging my horse, I came back to him where he had fallen, but he looked up cool as could be and said, "You light out, Tell. I've seen some gut-shot folks in my time, but nobody had it worse than me."
The shock of the bullet was still on him, but in a minute or two he would begin to suffer.
When I got down to lift him up he stopped me. "Before God, Tell, if you try to pick me up everything I've got in me will spill out. You hit the trail, but try to get another one for me, will you? You can help more up in the rocks, keepin' them off me."
What he said was gospel true and we both knew it, so I swung my horse and lit a shuck for those rocks as if my sorrel's tail was afire. Only we didn't get far.
I heard the shots and felt the sorrel's hoofs break rythm, and then he started to cave under me, but somehow he fought himself up and kept on for fifty yards more. Then he started to go and I hit the ground running before he was down, with bullets kicking gravel ahead of and around me.
Almost at the top of the ridge a bullet caught me, and it saved my life.
It spun me, knocked me rolling butt over teakettle into the rocks, with two more bullets hitting right where I'd been. Scrambling up, I dove over into that shallow place and lay there, rifle in hand, hugging the ground. When the first Apache showed, I nailed him right between the eyes.
After that things quieted down, but there was no way to get clear. The ground around me hadn't anything in the way of cover, so I had to stay where I was ... with the morning ebbing away into noontime.
I'd no idea how many Apaches were out there. As they lived off the desert they never traveled in big bunches, there were rarely as many as thirty, more often twelve to eighteen, so far as I'd seen or heard.
Off to the northwest I could hear shooting, time to time, so some of the others must be alive, after all. There'd been five of us, to start, and all strangers who met in Yuma. That was the way it was in those days. More often than not a man might find himself traveling with folks he'd never seen before. None of the five of us had any knowledge of the others before we hit the trail. Traveling alone was a mighty chancy thing in Indian country, so it was lucky that we all shaped up to go east at the same time.
Now Billy was down, but I'd nailed an Apache. Right at the moment my chances didn't look good. If they were settin' a place for me in Tucson they'd best wait, for it began to look like there'd be an empty spot at the table.
I hunkered down a mite and piled a few rocks on the edge of the hollow to give me some more protection, leaving a place here and there to look through or fire through. I took time to replace the shells I'd fired ... no idea when the chance would come again.
Apaches are great waiters. They could set for hours on end, just waiting a wrong move. A white man, he gets restless, wants to move, and the first thing you know he does, and he dies.
Not me. I grew up in Cherokee country in Tennessee, and my pa had been a mountain man who'd fought Indians from boyhood ... he'd taught us when he was home, taught us all he could, and I learned from the Indians, too.
This shallow place in which I lay was scarcely three feet deep. It was maybe eight feet each way, and the lowest part was where the run-off water had started a trench that emptied into a draw in back of me.
The sky was a hot yellow, the land pinkish, with out-croppings of dull red or black. There was mighty little growth -- just scraggly desert shrubs and prickly pear, and mighty little of that.
The time inched by, with no change in the heat, no change in the sun, no change in the country around. Unless I lifted my head, nothing could be seen and I must trust to my hearing.
On the slope, there was nothing. My horse lay down there, and the body of Billy Higgins.
I hadn't been there long when I heard Billy scream. Taking a chance, I peeked out.
The Apaches were shooting flaming slivers of pitch pine into him with their bows. They were hidden down close to him, and there was no way I could get at them, nor them at me. They were shooting into Billy to torture him, which amused them, but also they were doing it to draw me out.
Three fires were smoldering in him before he screamed. And then he yelled to me:
"Tell! For God's sake, Tell! Shoot me!"
He lay out on the white sand in the glare of the awful sun, ripped open by a bullet, and the Apaches kept shooting those little arrows of flaming pitch pine into him. "Tell!"
There was terrible agony in his voice, and a pleading, too.
All of a sudden, he forced himself up and he put a finger against his skull.
"Tell! Right there! For God's sake, Tell!"
So I shot him. He would have done it for me.
You should have heard those Apaches yell. I'd spoiled their fun, and they were mad, real mad.
One of them jumped up, running at me, but just as I was about to shoot he dropped from sight, then another started and another, both disappearing before I could bring my rifle to bear, but each one a few yards closer.
Times like that, a body does some thinking, and right then I was a-wishing I was somewhere else, a-wishing I'd never come to Arizona a-tall, although until then I'd been mighty proud of the Territory, and even though hard times had come upon me I liked the country. Right now all I wanted was a
way out ... any way out.
But those Apaches had a mind to keep me there.
All of a sudden one of them came up out of the sand and started for me, but when I swung my gun, another started up.
Now, even a fool boy from the hills is going to learn after a while, and so the next time one started up I didn't swing my gun and try to nail him, I just waited with my eyes on the place where the first one dropped. Not exactly on the place, for no Apache will ever get up from where he drops, he rolls over a few feet to right or left, sometimes quite a few feet.
Another of them started up, but I let him come until he dropped, and I waited for the first one. Sure enough, up he bobbed and I had to move the rifle muzzle only inches, and I nailed him right in the brisket, dusting him on both sides.
Before he could fall I worked the lever on my Winchester and got him again.
Then the others were coming and, swinging the gun, I caught another one ... too low down. He hit the ground in the open and the third one also dropped, not more than twenty feet now from the rim of my hollow.
One lay out there with what looked like a busted leg, and I let him lay until he tried to bring his rifle to bear, and then I eased around for a shot at him. The muzzle of my rifle must have showed a mite beyond the rocks at the edge of my hole, because the third one fired, hitting the rocks and spattering me with stinging rock fragments, one of which took me right in the eye.
Then they came, the two of them. The one with the bloody but unbroken leg, and the third one shooting as he came. I dropped my rifle and, with my eyes full of water from the smart of rock fragments, grabbed my bowie knife.
Now, I'm a pretty big man, standing six foot three in my socks, and although on the lean side what beef I had was packed into my arms and shoulders. That bowie knife was a heavy blade, razor-sharp, and when those two Apaches jumped into the hollow with me I took a wicked swipe at where they figured to be. Somebody screamed, and I felt a body smash against me. Upping my knee, I threw him off and fell back, just missing a slashing blow that would have taken my head off.
One Apache was down but not out. I could see a little now, and when I started to come up he grabbed at my rifle which was lying there and I threw myself at him, knocking the barrel aside with one hand and ripping up with that blade with the other.
He threw me off and I fell, all sprawled out, and they both came up and at me.
One had a wounded leg, one had a slash across the chest and biceps, but they were tigers, believe me. It was like being in a mess of wildcats, and for the next thirty or forty seconds I never knew which end was up, until of a sudden the fight was over and I was lying there on the ground, gasping for breath, with tearing gasps.
Finally I pushed myself up from the sand and turned over into a sitting position.
One Apache was dead, my bowie knife still in his chest. I reached over and pulled it loose, watching the other one. He was lying there on his back and he had a bullet hole in his thigh that was oozing blood and he had at least three knife cuts, one of them low down on his right side that looked mean.
Reaching over, I took up my rifle and jacked a shell into the chamber.
That Apache just kept a-staring at me, he seemed to be paralyzed, almost, for he made no move. The other two were dead.
Jerking a cartridge belt from one of the dead ones I looped it around my middle, still keeping an eye on the living one. Then I picked up my bowie knife from the ground and, leaning over to the living one I wiped off the blood on him, then stuck the knife into the scabbard.
One by one I collected their rifles and emptied the shells, then threw them wide.
"You're too good a fightin' man to kill," I told him. "You're on your own."
I walked down to where my canteen lay and picked it up. Sure enough, there was maybe a cup of water that had not drained out, and I drank it, watching the rim of the hollow all the while.
By now it was coming on to sundown and there were other Indians about. I took one more look into the hollow and that one was still lying there, although he'd tried to move. I could see a big rock back of his neck that maybe he'd hit across when he fell.
Taking a careful look around, I went down into the shallow gully left by the run-off water and started away.
About that time I found myself going lame. My hip and leg were mighty sore, and when I looked down to size the situation up I saw that a bullet had hit my cartridge belt, fusing two of my .44's together, and a fragment had gone up and hit my side, just a scratch, but it was bloody. That bullet that hit my belt where it crossed the hip had bruised me mighty bad, by the feel of it.
Shadows were creeping out from the rocks, and of a sudden it was cool and dark.
A voice spoke out. "You want to live long in this country you better get shut of them spurs."
It was Spanish Murphy. He came up from behind some brush with Rocca and John J.
Battles. Taylor was dead.
Murphy had lost the lobe of his left ear, and Rocca had been burned a couple of times, but no more.
"You get any?" Battles asked. "Four," I said, knowing that was more Apaches than many an Indian fighter got in a lifetime. "Three, and a possible," I corrected.
And then I added, "They got Billy."
"We'd best light out," Spanish suggested, and we walked single file to where their horses were. They had two horses, so we figured to switch off and on.
Spanish was tall as me, but twenty pounds lighter than my one-ninety. He was a reading man, always a-reading. Books, newspapers, even the labels on tin cans ... anything and everything.
We set out then. After a while I rode Tampico Rocca's horse and he walked. By daybreak both horses were tired out and so were we, but we had sixteen miles behind us and a stage station down on the flat before us. We were still several hundred yards off when a man walked from the door with a rifle in his hands, and we were almighty sure there was another one behind a window from the way he kept out of line with it.
When we came up to the yard he looked at Murphy, then at the rest of us, and back at Murphy. "Hello, Spanish. What was it? Apaches?"
"Have you got a couple of horses?" I asked him. "I'll buy or borrow."
"Come on inside."
It was cool and still. Me, I dropped into the first chair I saw and put my Winchester on the table.
A second man left the window where he had been keeping watch and, carrying his rifle, he went back toward the kitchen, where he began rattling pots and pans.
The first man went over to a table and carried the wooden bucket and the gourd dipper to us. "I'd go easy, there at first," he suggested. And that we did. The station tender leaned on the bar. "Haven't seen you in years, Spanish. Figured they'd have stretched your neck before now."
"Give 'em time," John J. Battles said. Setting there in the chair, taking occasional swallows of cool water from the bucket, I began to feel myself getting back to normal.
Spanish, he leaned back in his chair and looked over his cup at the station tender. "Case, how long you been with the Company?"
"Two ... maybe two and a half years. My wife left me. Said this western country was no place for a woman. She went back to her folks in Boston. I send her money, time to time. Afraid if I don't she'll come back on me."
"Ain't never married, myself," Spanish said. He looked over at me. "How about you, Tell?"
For a moment there I hadn't anything to say. I kept thinking of Ange, the last times I saw her, and of the first times, high in those Colorado mountains.
"My wife is dead," I told him. "She was a rarely fine girl ... rarely fine."
"Tough," Spanish said. "You, Rocca?"
"No, senor. I am not a married man. There was a girl ... but that is far away and long ago, amigos. Her father had many cows, many horses ... me, I had nothing. And I was an Indio ... my mother was an Apache," he added.
My eyes were on the floor, tracing the cracks in the rough boards, often scrubbed. My hungry flesh was soaking up the lost moisture and I felt s
leepy and quiet, liking the square of sunlight that lay inside the door, even the drone of the flies ... I was alive.
The blood of Apaches was still on my hands. There had been no water in which to wash until now, but soon I would ... soon.
The room was like many of its kind, differing only in the plank floor. Most floors were of stamped earth. There were several rough board tables, some chairs and benches. The room was low-raftered, the walls were of adobe, the roof of poles and earth. I could smell bacon frying in the kitchen, and coffee.
Spanish Murphy hitched around in his chair. "Tell, we make a team, the four of us, why don't we stick together?"
The man came in from the kitchen with tin plates and a frying pan filled with bacon. He dumped the plates on the table, then forked bacon onto them. He went out and returned with the coffeepot and a plate of tortillas. Still another trip and he brought a big bowl of frijoles -- those big Mexican brown beans -- and a dried-apple pie cut into four pieces.
"We'll need a couple of horses," I said, looking around at Case.
"You'll get 'em," Case replied. "I think the Comp'ny would like to get them to a safer place. We've been expectin' an attack almost any time."
He gestured toward the bacon. "You got to thank Pete Kitchen for the bacon. He raises hogs down to his place, calls 'em his 'Pache pincushions, they're so shot full of arrows."
John J. Battles, a solid chunk of a man, glanced across the table at me.
"Sackett ... that's a familiar name."
"I'm familiar," I agreed, "once you know me." It wasn't in me to get him comparing notes, figuring out who I was. Once he did, he'd bring up the fight in the Mogollon country, and how Ange was murdered. It was something I was wishful of forgetting.
"I still figure," Spanish said, "that we'd make a team."
"If you want to risk hanging." John J. Battles grinned at us. "You all heard what Case said."
"Me," Rocca said, "I wasn't going nowhere, anyhow."
"Later," I said, "it will have to be later. I've got a trip to take."
They looked at me, all of them. "My brother's kid. I hear tell he's been taken by the Apaches. I've got to go into the Sierra Madres after him."
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