We started on again when the first streaks of dawn were coloring the eastern sky. The cactus began to be separate from the other shadows, and the rocks stood out, dark and somber. We rode single file, nobody talking until the gray sky was yellowing overhead, and then in a quiet corner we stopped, found a place to hide a fire, and made a small breakfast We were careful to build our fire in a hollow and under a mesquite bush, where the rising smoke would be dissipated by the branches overhead ... though using dry wood there was little smoke. Our time for hot meals was about over. Barring some sort of accident, we should soon come up to the Bavispe. Once we crossed that we would be in the heart of Apache country, with them on every side of us.
The Apache, in a sparse, harsh land where raising any crops was mighty nigh impossible, turned to raiding and robbing.
Generally, the men I'd heard talk of the Indian thought it was taking his land that ruined him. As a matter of fact, it had much to do with it, for an Indian couldn't live on a fixed ten acres or a hundred acres and live as he liked. He needed lots of hunting ground, and country that would support fifty Indians would support ten thousand planting white men.
But the Indian was whipped the first time one of them had a rifle for his own.
It was the trader who whipped the Indian by giving or selling him things he couldn't make himself. From that time on, the Indian was dependent on the white man for ammunition, for more guns, for more of the things he was getting a taste for. It was good sitting there in the cool of early morning, with the faint smell of woodsmoke in the air, the smell of frying bacon, the smell of good coffee. We were taking a chance, but we had scouted the country with care.
"How old's the boy?" Spanish asked suddenly.
"Five ... I think. About that."
"You think he's still alive, Tamp?" Battles asked.
Rocca shrugged. "Depends on whether he's a nervy kid, maybe. We'll pick up some tracks soon."
"Seen any more of that strange rider?" Battles asked. "I been watching for tracks all morning."
"No," I said, "I haven't seen any."
"What's it like up yonder?" Spanish asked.
"Oaks ... then pines. Running streams, rocks. All anybody could want but grub.
They have to bring it in. They get it from the Mexicans, or they kill them." He gestured. "The Apaches have almost cleared this part of Sonora of the Mexicans.
At least the rich ones. And the poor ones can only stay if they'll provide food for the Apaches."
My thoughts went back over the desert to Laura. She was a pretty woman, and she was brave ... holding herself up, like she did, with her little boy lost, and all. But somehow she left me uneasy. But I was never very comfortable around women ... except Ange. And the Trelawney girls I'd known back home in the hills.
We sat there quiet a little longer, listening to the horses cropping at the shrubs. Rocca was smoking and squinting at the hills around.
None of us knew what might be waiting for us up yonder. Even if we found the boy alive, we still had to get him from the Apaches and get him back across the border. Our chances were none too good. I looked over at Rocca and said, "Shall we move out?"
He rubbed his cigarette into the sand, and got up.
Me, I just stood there a moment or two thinking. All of a sudden I wished I was somewhere else. We were facing up to a lot of hell, and I looked forward to none of it. Besides, there was something about this whole affair that made me mighty uneasy.
We crossed the Bavispe and took a thin trail that led up through scattered oaks, along steep switchbacks toward the pines. The only sound was the chirping of birds, the grunting of one of the horses over a steep part of the trail, or the clatter of a falling rock.
For an hour we climbed, pausing several tunes to let the horses catch their breath. Finally we rode out on a bench under the pines where stood the ruins of stone houses built of rough lava blocks with no mortar. There were at least a dozen of them in sight, and maybe more back under the trees. The walls were of a sort of gray felsite, and here and there one appeared to be better built than the others, as though built by different hands, by different thinking.
Rocca indicated a slight depression in the grass near one of the walls. "We're still on the trail."
A crushed pine cone looked as if it had been scarred by a sharp-shod hoof. There were other signs too.
The country here was wild and rugged, and we saw no water. We were now over six thousand feet up, judging by the growth around us, and still we climbed. The trail occasionally wound along a rim with an almost sheer drop falling off on one side or the other. We rode with our rifles in our hands, our boots light in the stirrups, ready to kick free and hit the ground if there was time. Riding that kind of country with Apaches around will put gray in your hair.
We came out presently on a shoulder of the mountain with pines all around us.
There was sparse grass, and a thin trickle of snow water ran down the mountain slope. Found the tracks of the rider there ... plain. The small horse had stood under a tree, tied to a low branch while she scouted ahead. She?
The word came to me unbidden, without thinking. It came like a voice speaking to me, and I spoke aloud what I had heard in my mind's ear. "It's a woman, Tamp.
That's a woman or girl riding that horse."
Rocca rested his big hands on the pommel. "I think you are right," he said. "I think so."
"A woman?" Battles was incredulous. "It don't stand to reason."
"Did Dan Creed have a wife? Or a daughter?" I asked.
Rocca looked around at me. "I don' know, Tell. I tell you, I don'."
I dropped to the ground. "Sit tight," I said. "I want to see what she went to look at."
A step or two and it was dark and green under the trees. A step or two more and I was lost to them, waiting back there for me. I could see a pressed-down leaf here, and the kicked-over damp, dead leaves, scuffed by a passing boot. The trail was easy, but it took time, for I scouted the trees around me as I moved.
Suddenly -- a running man could scarcely have stopped in time -- I was on the brink of a cliff. Not sheer, but a steep falling away, something a man could climb down if he could find foothold and used his hands, or if he could slide.
It was maybe a couple of thousand feet down to the bottom, and there was a meadow, the greenest you ever saw, and a pool with trees around it. It was a small hanging valley that opened out over an enormous canyon. There were three cooking fires in sight, and a dozen Apaches.
First I squatted down, easing down so my movement would draw no attention, and then I studied the camp through a manzanita growing on the rim.
Squaws were working, children playing. They felt secure here. Nobody had ever followed them into this country, nobody had ever found them here before. For years, for generations, they had been coming here after their raids, after stealing the cattle, the horses, and the women of the Mexicans. Stealing their food, too, and bringing it here and to other places like this ... there must be many of them.
Little Orry was in one of them. How long could we look before they caught us?
How long, then, could we expect to live?
But Orry was my brother's son, and I was a Sackett, and in the Sackett veins the blood ran strong and true. It was our nature and our upbringing.
A few minutes longer I squatted there, watching the camp. Not staring, for staring can be felt, and will make an animal or an Indian uneasy. Then I went back through the trees.
"It's a rancheria," I said, "but I doubt if it is the one we want."
Chapter 6
Whoever it was who had come up the mountain before us had spent a good bit of time studying that camp. There were a-plenty of tracks, knee impressions, and the like, so we could see whoever it was had stayed there quite some time. And then that person had mounted up and ridden on.
We, too, moved on, and the trail we now followed was a deer trail ... or maybe one made by big horn sheep, which leave a somewhat similar track. The only other t
racks on the trail were those small hoof prints, or sometimes, when the rider got on and walked, were boot tracks.
We entered soon into a wild and broken country, past towering masses of conglomerate and streams of a dull opalescent water, slightly bitter to the taste, but nonetheless good for drinking. Many times we were forced to dismount and lead our mounts, for large limbs or out-thrusts of rock projected over the trail.
Among some pines we pulled off and got down from our saddles. Tampico Rocca hunkered down and stared at the ground. Spanish Murphy glanced over at me. "Tell ... you think we're going to find that boy?"
"Uh-huh."
Well, I knew what he was feeling. The quiet. It was getting us. We were in the heart of Indian country, and we were all jumpy. There wasn't one of us who didn't know what it would mean if we were seen. It would mean a running fight... And our only choice would be to try to get away.
Once it was known we were around we'd have no chance to get close to those children. So far we'd had luck, with the skill of Rocca to provide a good part of it -- his skill and his knowledge of the country.
Presently we moved on, and now we saw Indian tracks from time to time. Up to now we had been traveling high, lonely country where Indians seldom went, but now we were descending slowly, getting into the areas where there was game, and where at any time we might encounter Indians.
"There's another rancheria ahead," Rocca soon said.
This one was also in a hollow, with a towering cliff behind it, and low, rolling pine-clad hills around. The rancheria lay in a nest of boulders and trees, with a small stream curving around the encampment. Even as we came up through the pines, several horsemen arrived. They rode into the area accompanied by a small swirl of dust and dropped to the ground. There were six Apaches in the group, four of them armed with bows, two with rifles.
Two of them were carrying chunks of meat, probably from slaughtered cattle. A third was handing down some articles of clothing, evidently stripped from some Mexican or his wife -- from our distance we could not determine which.
Suddenly Battles grabbed my arm and pointed. Several children had come up, carrying bundles of sticks. At least one appeared to be a white boy, his face was partly turned from them. He was a tall youngster, perhaps eight or nine years old.
This could be the place. Whatever else we did, we must talk to that boy.
I was conscious of the fresh smell of the pines and of crushed pine needles underfoot. There was a faint smell of smoke from the camp, and I could make out the sound of Indian voices speaking. Inside me, I was still -- waiting, thinking.
If there were other white children around, that boy would know about them. But what if he had already become close to being an Apache? Taken young enough, many American or Mexican children had no wish to leave the Apaches. To speak to him was a risk, but it must be done.
Spanish, he looked over at me. "We got us a job, boy," he said.
"I never figured it to be easy." I studied the rancheria, and I did not feel happy about the situation.
"We're too close," Rocca said. "We'd better move back. If the wind changed a mite, the dogs could smell us."
So we moved back among the trees and, weaving around a little, we found ourselves a tree-shaded hollow with a lot of boulders around and some big trees.
It was a perfect place to hide, and we were out of the wind there.
But I was worried. When I traveled alone, as I most often did, I had nobody to worry about but myself, and if I got into trouble there was only my own scalp to lose. This shape-up was entirely different, for these men had come along only to help me. If anything happened to them I'd have it on my mind.
We were here, though, and we had a job to do. "Rocca," I said, "is it likely that boy yonder would ever be left alone?"
"I doubt it. Depend on how long he's been with them, and how much they've come to trust him. There's a chance maybe."
"He'd be likely to know about other white youngsters, wouldn't he?"
"It's likely. Word gets around, and the Apache children would know, and they'd be apt to speak of it. At least when I was a boy in those Apache camps I knew most of what went on."
For the time being there was nothing much we could do, so the others stretched out to catch a little sleep, and I worked up to the bluff to get a better look than we'd had before.
The camp was quiet. The squaws never stopped working, of course, always busy at something, and a few youngsters played around. One of the Apache braves we had seen ride into camp sat cross-legged in front of his wickiup. He was a stoop-shouldered but strongly made man of about my own age, and he had a new Winchester that was never far from his hand. Even here, in their own hide-out, they never let up.
After a while I returned to camp and Spanish took my place up on the bluff.
Under a low tree I settled down for some rest.
When I awoke I fought myself back to reality with an effort. I'd been dog-tired, and whilst I usually was ready to wake up on the slightest sound, this time I had really slept.
The first thing I noticed was the silence. There was no fire, of course, and there was little light. It was late afternoon, and under the trees it was already shading down to dusk.
For a moment I lay quiet, listening. Raising my head, I looked around. Over yonder there was a saddle -- I could see the faint shine of it. I could see nothing else, nor could I hear any sound but the soft rustling of the leaves overhead.
My right hand moved for my rifle, closed around the action. A shot fired here would bring Apaches around us like bees from a kicked hive.
Carefully, I eased back the blanket, moved my feet out, and then drew them up and rolled to my knees. Glancing to where John J. Battles was lying, I could see his body under a blanket. He was asleep ... at least he was not moving.
Rocca was nowhere in sight, his bed was empty. We had purposely scattered out to sleep. It gave us that much more of a chance if the camp was attacked.
A moment longer I waited, then came up swiftly and with one long step was molded into the shadow of a tree. And still nothing stirred.
Nevertheless, I knew it wasn't just a case of worry with me. Somebody or something was prowling our camp, and we were too close to those Apaches for comfort. At the same time I know that the Apache, generally speaking, won't fight after dark. He has the feeling that the soul of a man killed in the night wanders forever in darkness. Of a sudden, something moved near me. There was no light but that of the stars. Here and there a tree trunk stood out, or a leaf caught the shine of a reflection.
It was a haunted place, this camp of ours, a corner among the crags, a place where cliffs reared up or fell away, where broken rocks lay among the trees.
There were so many shadows that one saw nothing clearly.
Slowly I lowered the butt of my rifle to the ground. At my belt was a bowie knife, sharp enough to shave with -- in fact, I often did shave with it. But it was my hands on which I would depend this time, hard work had made them strong, had built muscles into my arms and shoulders. For little softness had come into my life, little but hard riding and harder work. I waited, my hands ready.
The movement was there again, not a sound so much as a suggestion. Then it was the breathing that warned me ... only breathing, and I reached out with my hands.
Something slipped through my hands like a ghost. My hands touched it, grasped, and the thing wasn't there ... a faint grasp, and my fingers clutched only hair ... Then it was gone!
Battles sat up. "Tell? What is it?"
"A ghost, I think." I spoke softly. "Whatever it is, I wish it would believe we're not enemies." But whatever it was, was gone. A couple of hours later, by the light of day, we found tracks enough. Tip toe tracks of a small foot I felt a shudder go through me, and Rocca noticed it. "What?" he said. "You are afraid?"
"I was remembering ... someone who is gone," I said. "But these tracks are not hers. They are small, like hers, and the steps are quick, like hers ... but she is dead."
&
nbsp; Tampico Rocca crossed himself. "She haunts you?"
"No ... it is only a memory. Her name was Ange, and I found her trail first, like this. I lost her again, like this. But Ange is dead. She was murdered," I said, "up in the Mogollon country."
"Ah!" That was Spanish. "You are that Sackett!" He looked at me thoughtfully. "I heard talk of it. I was in Cherry Creek then, but everybody knew the story ... and how your family came to help."
He looked at me over the tip of his cigarette, and I could guess what he was thinking. In the western lands where all news came by word of mouth, men quickly became legend, they became larger than life. It was so with Ben Thompson, Wild Bill, Mike Fink, or Davy Crockett. The stories grew with telling.
"The boy we're hunting," I said, "is my brother Orrin's boy. Orrin was one of them who rode to the Mogollon."
"I never had a family," Spanish said. "I was always alone."
John J. tamped tobacco into his pipe. "Most men are alone," he said. "We come into life alone, we face our worst troubles alone, and we are alone when we die."
"It was the girl we tracked," I said. I'd been looking around while we talked.
"She needed grub. She's taken some bread and some dried apples, and maybe a little jerky."
And then we were quiet again.
We knew what we had to do, and the waiting was hard, for we were men who preferred action. Our way of life had been to act ... there was rarely need for contemplation. We were men who moved swiftly, surely, and we lived or died by the success of our movement. So to wait now came hard. To wander in the mountains added to our danger, and to wait here was risk, but a man who does not move leaves no tracks.
So we watched and waited, for it was all we could do, and even just watching worried me for men who are being watched become aware of it.
The white boy we had seen appeared again, more than once, but always with Indian boys around him. And then, after another long day of watching, I saw him take a spear and go alone along a trail between some rocks. Like a cat I was off the rock where I watched, nodding to Rocca as I passed him.
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