the Lonely Men (1969)

by L'amour, Louis - Sackett's 14

  "About the dead ones, now. Did one of them have a scar on his cheekbone? That would be just too much to expect, I suppose."

  "No ... not the dead ones. I didn't notice any scars on the dead one. But that one I left alive, he had a scar on his cheekbone."

  Chapter 3

  Captain Lewiston sighed. "You may wish you had killed him, Mr. Sackett. That was Kahtenny, one of the most dangerous and elusive Apaches of them all."

  "He was in pretty bad shape, Captain, and I'm no man to kill a fighter like that when he's down and helpless."

  Lewiston smiled. "I feel the same, but I am afraid there are some who do not.

  There are those who feel they all should be killed."

  That there blonde girl across the room was sure enough listening, although she was making quite a show of doing nothing but sort of idling over her food.

  "Captain, I fought those Indians because they attacked me. I don't blame them for that. The Apache has made fighting his way of living for as long as his oldest people can recall. Or as long as the oldest Pimas and Papagos recall.

  "The way I figure it, they fight because it's their way, and we fight back because it's our way. Somebody wins, somebody loses. Nobody in this country, or anywhere that I know of, can live in peace unless he's got somebody somewhere, protecting him."

  Mrs. Wallen brought the Captain some coffee, and we sat there a few minutes more, discussing the Apache and his ways.

  "You've been a soldier, Mr. Sackett?"

  "Yes, sir. I served four years during the War Between the States. I was at Shiloh and the Wilderness ... and a few other places."

  "We could use you here. Ever thought of joining up again?"

  "No. I did what I had to do when the time came to do it. Now I'll fight when somebody can't be persuaded to leave me alone. Seems to me I've done enough Indian fighting without joining up to hunt for it."

  "Are you related to Congressman Sackett?"

  "Brother. Fact is, I'm here to talk to his wife." I glanced across the room at the blonde girl, who was now looking right at me. "I figure to get their son back from the Apaches."

  "Their son?" Lewiston looked puzzled, but before he could say more, Laura Sackett interrupted. "Tell? I am Laura Sackett. Will you join me?" So I got up.

  "Excuse me, Captain," I said, and taking my coffee I walked over to her table.

  "Howdy, ma'am. Seems strange, not knowing you, but when you and Orrin married I was clean across the country. Never heard much about it."

  "Sit down, Tell. We must talk." She put her hand on mine and looked at me with those wide blue eyes. "Let's not talk about trouble now, Tell. I want to know about you. After all, we must get to know each other."

  Now, there isn't much that's more likely to make a man talk than a pretty woman who is ready to listen, so I found myself a-talking to her, mostly about Ange and how I found her high up in those far Colorado mountains where nobody lived, and then how she was murdered and how I hunted down the killer and got myself in a tight spot.

  She had a pretty smile, and she gave me a lot of it. There were a couple of things about her looks that I didn't really shape up to like, but nobody is perfect. She had a small mouth, and it was kind of tight and hard at times, but she was a pleasure to talk to, and I talked.

  Finally, she said would I walk her home, and it came to me suddenly that we'd talked the afternoon away and those Army officers were gone. Once out of the restaurant, she told me about the boy Orry, as she called him.

  "He was taken with the Creed boys," she explained, "and the Army can do nothing.

  I know if Orrin were here he would ride right down into Mexico and bring him back, but by the time Orrin could get here it might be too late. Then I heard you were in Yuma. You were my only chance."

  "How old is the boy?"

  "He's five ... going on six." She paused. "I must warn you, Tell, whatever you decide to do, you must not mention it around here. The Army would not allow you to cross the border on any such mission. Right now they are trying to arrange a working agreement with the Mexicans to join forces in stamping out the Apaches.

  They want to attack them right in their stronghold in the Sierra Madre ... and that's another reason we must hurry. I have heard that if the Apaches are attacked they will kill all their captives."

  Shortening my pace, I walked beside her. There was small chance the boy was alive, but I could not tell her that. Not that I even gave thought to not going to hunt for him. We Sacketts stand by one another, come hell or high water. The boy was a Sackett, and he was my brother's son.

  My mind went down that trail into Mexico, and I had a cold feeling along my spine. Every inch of that trail would be trouble, and not only from the Apaches.

  Water was scarce, and whilst the folks were friendly, the Rurales and the Army were not. They'd likely shoot a man out of hand.

  Somewhere along the trail I'd heard about Dan Creed's two boys and another youngster being taken, but I hadn't any details, and they weren't important now.

  A body would have to be almighty cautious. If the Army got wind of anyone going into Mexico with any such notion that would be the end of it. They'd surely stop him.

  With negotiations going on between the two governments that would be all it would take to end them ... they'd never believe he'd come into Mexico on his own.

  My name being Sackett, and all, they might be suspicious. I mean the Army might.

  And Laura made me uneasy. I'd no knowledge of womenfolks, and never had been able to talk to any but Ange. Other women left me tongue-tied and restless, and Laura, she was all white lace, blonde hair, and those dainty little lacy gloves with no fingers in them. And that parasol she carried ... I was a raw country boy from the hills, not used to such fixings.

  "You will try, then?" We had stopped at her door, and she rested her hand on my arm. "Tell, you're my only hope. There is no one else."

  "I'll do what I can." Standing there on the step, with her a-looking at me from those big blue eyes, it made me wish I was three men, so as I could do more.

  "Don't you forget, ma'am, there's no accounting for Apaches. They're mighty notional when it comes to prisoners. You mustn't be hoping for muck."

  "He's such a little boy."

  It came on me to wonder if she'd any notion what she was letting me in for, but I pushed the thought away. I had no call to be thinking of myself. How could she know what that trail into Sonora was like? A trail like a walk through hell, with ugly death waiting on every side, at every moment. You had to travel trails like that to know them. In my mind's eye I could see the faint thread of it winding across the hot desert under a brassy sky, with the sand underfoot and all lands of cactus and thorny bush around, with rattlers and Gila monsters and all ... to say nothing of outlaws and Indians.

  A thought came to me suddenly. "I was wondering how Orrin ever let you get so far from him? You and the boy?"

  She smiled quickly, sadly. "It was my father, Tell. He died in California and I had to go there for the funeral. There was no one else. When I found how dangerous it was, I left Orry here ... I thought he'd be safe here."

  That made sense, all right. Still, there was a lot that puzzled me, but a man could waste any amount of time quibbling and fussing over details, which was never my way. If anything was to be done it had to be done fast. With her description of the boy and his clothing, I decided I'd best get together an outfit and pull out.

  She stood there, her white dress like a light against the adobe walls. I looked back once as I walked away, and she was still standing there, looking after me.

  It worried me some because this whole thing had come on me so sudden that I'd no chance to sort of think things through. Out there on the trail with those Apaches around there'd been no time, and now it seemed there was no time either.

  Nevertheless, there was some thinking I had to do.

  The worst of it was I was almighty short of money, and no matter what a man sets out to do, it seems it costs hi
m something. This here was going to cost money as well as sweat, and maybe blood.

  All I had to my name was about two hundred saved-up dollars, the most I'd had in months, and I'd lost my saddle back yonder, and needed a horse. We'd come into Tucson on horses just borrowed from the stage outfit, and they'd be going back soon.

  So I needed a horse and an outfit, and a pack horse if I had enough to handle it.

  What I wanted was a good used saddle, and there was a reason. I was of no mind to ride into Apache country with a squeaky new saddle. Now, any saddle will squeak a mite, and it's a comforting sort of sound, most times, but when there are Apaches around any sound more than your breathing is liable to get you killed.

  I needed not only a saddle, but also, a pair of saddlebags, a canteen, a poncho, a blanket, a spare cartridge belt and a small amount of grub. I'd have to live off the country, on food I could get without shooting. From the time I crossed the border I was going to have to move like a ghost.

  Tampico Rocca was in the Quartz Rock Saloon when I came in, and I went to his table and sat down. He leaned across the table. "John J., he rides out tonight.

  There is trouble, I think."

  "Trouble?"

  "There was difficulty in Texas. Battles won out. Two of the dead man's brothers are in town, with some friends. Battles wants no more trouble."

  "He's broke, isn't he?" Me, I dug down in my jeans. "I'm outfitting for Mexico, but I can let him have twenty dollars."

  Rocca shook his head. "This is not what I mean, amigo. He will meet us outside of town. He wished me to tell you this so you would not think he rode off alone.

  We are coming with you, senor."

  "Now, you see here. This is my affair, and you boys got no call to ride along.

  It's going to be rough."

  Tampico chuckled. "Amigo, you talk to Rocca, not to some pilgrim. I am Rocca, who is half Apache and who has lived with them. I know where they go. I know how they live. You will need me, amigo."

  Well, I just sat there, finding nothing to say. Words just don't come easy to me, and at such times I find myself coming up empty. So I just looked at him and he grinned and waved for another beer.

  The place was filling up, and it was a tough place. Nobody ever said the Quartz Rock was gentle. Over at the Congress Hall Saloon you'd find the gentry. You'd find the solid men, the good men, and mixed with them some of the drifters, but the Quartz Rock was rough. At least when Foster ran it.

  You drank their liquor and you took your chances at the games, and the men who hung out there were hard cases, men with the bark on, men who had been born with the bark on. There were men came into that place so rough they wore their clothes out from the inside first. When you saw a man walk into the Quartz Rock wearing a six-shooter or a bowie knife he wasn't wearing it for show.

  We were finishing our second beer when four men came into the place.

  Rocca sat up easily and moved on the chair to keep his gun hand free. This was beginning to shape up like grief of some kind, and I was in no mood for it.

  They were four of a kind, raw and ragged, just in off the trail and they looked it. Like uncurried wolves they bellied up to the bar, and when they had had a drink, they looked around.

  "It is those who seek for John J., amigo. I think they know I am his friend."

  They crossed the room, the four of them, and every man-jack in the room could smell the trouble they brought with them.

  They came to our table and ranged themselves in front of it. All of them were armed, and they wore guns as if they knew how to use them.

  Me, I just sort of shifted one foot. The other foot was propped up on a chair's edge, resting easy.

  "You!" The one with the handle-bar mustache stabbed a finger at Rocca. "You, greaser. They tell me you are a friend of the man named Battles."

  Rocca was like a coiled snake. He looked at them, and he smiled. Now no Mex likes to be called a greaser. Me, I've been called a gringo many times and couldn't see that it left any scars, but some folks are almighty touchy, and Rocca was that way now. Not that I blamed him. It is all very easy to say trouble can be avoided, but these men were not going to be avoided. They were looking for trouble, they wanted it.

  "Si, senor." Rocca said gently, "I am honored to call John J. Battles my friend."

  "Then I guess we'll just kill you, Mex, seein' as how we can't find him."

  Well, I just looked up at the man and I said, "I'm a friend of his, too," and I said it sort of off-hand as if it didn't matter much, but they knew it did.

  They turned their eyes on me, and I just sat there, a tall, lonely man in a wore-out buckskin shirt and a beat-up hat.

  "You want part of this?" Walrus-mustache was speaking again.

  "A man can ride many a long mile in Texas," I said, "and see nothing but grass and sky. There's streams down there, and a man could raise some cows. Here in Arizona there's timber country with fine, beautiful meadows and cold mountain streams -- "

  "What're you talkin' about?" Handle-bar mustache broke in. "Are you crazy?"

  "I was just thinking a man would have to be an awful fool to throw all that away to prove how mean he was. I mean you boys got a choice. You walk back over there and drink your liquor and ride out to those mountain streams where the tall grass grows."

  "Or -- ?"

  "Or you stay here, and tomorrow you'll be pushin' grass from the under side."

  They stared at me. They were trying to figure whether I was all talk, or whether I was tough. Now, I'm a patient man. Had they been talking to Tyrel, folks would have been laying out the bodies by now. Me, I'm not backward about giving a man a chance. Many a time a man with whiskey in him is apt to talk too much, and suddenly realize he wished he was somewhere else. I was giving them this chance.

  They didn't take it.

  The long-geared man with the handle-bar mustache looked at me and said, "I'm Arch Hadden," as if he expected me to show scare at the name.

  "Glad to meet you, Mr. Hadden," I said gently. "I'll carve the slab myself."

  He kind of flushed up, and I could see he was off his step, somehow. He'd come walking up to fight, and my talk had put him off. Also, that name meant nothing to me, and I never was one to put much stock in reputatations, anyway.

  Rocca had let me talk, he just sat quiet, but I'd come up the trail from Yuma with Tampico Rocca, and knew he was no man to buy trouble with. Arch Hadden had lost step, and he tried to get back again.

  "I came to kill this greaser, an' I aim to do it." Rocca came to his feet in one smooth, easy movement. "Then why not get started?"

  The man with the walrus mustache had had more to drink, and he wasn't being bluffed. He went for his gun, and I straightened my leg with a snap. The chair slammed into his legs and he fell against Hadden, and I shot the man on the end while they were falling. I heard another gun boom and then Rocca and me were standing there looking down at Hadden and his brother, one of them in a half-crouch but off balance, the other on one knee.

  "You boys brought it to us," I said. "We didn't ask for it. You brought it, and now two of you are dead."

  They hadn't looked at their companions until then, and when they did I saw they were suddenly cold sober.

  "Arch," I said, "you may be a tough man where you come from, but you're a long way from home. You take my advice and go back."

  Rocca was holding a gun on them, as I was. He reached around with his other hand and picked up his beer, and drank it, watching them.

  Foster was standing across the room, his back to the bar. "Why don't you boys pack it up before the law gets here?" he suggested. "I don't want any more shooting in here. It's bad for business."

  "Sure," I said, and holstered my gun. Deliberately I started for the door.

  Tampico Rocca had been called a greaser, so he took his time. He put his glass down gently and he smiled at them. "Keep your guns," he said, "I want to meet you again, senores."

  Outside in the street we ducked into an alley a
nd stood listening for footsteps, but hearing none, we walked away.

  At the corral we stopped and leaned on the bars, and Rocca built a cigarette.

  "Gracias, amigo," he said. And then he added, "You are quick, amigo. You are very quick."

  Chapter 4

  Come daybreak, and worry was upon me. It was a real, old-fashioned attack of the dismals.

  The shooting of the night before was bad enough, although I never gave much time to worry over those who came asking for trouble. When a man packed a gun he was supposed to give some thought to his actions and his manner of speech, for folks weren't much inclined to set back and let a body run over them.

  It was that youngster who was worrying me. There was a small boy, a prisoner of the Apaches, or maybe already killed by them. And he was my blood kin.

  Nobody knew better than me the distance I'd have to cover and the way I'd have to live for the next month or more. It was a hard country, almost empty of people, scarce of food, and rare of water that was fit to drink. The fact that Tampico Rocca was coming along sort of made it better. Two men can't move as quiet as one, except when one of them is Rocca. But his coming also made it worse, because if anything happened to him it would be because of me.

  Now the first thing I needed was a horse, and I could find none for sale.

  Meantime I sort of sauntered around and let folks know I needed a saddle, and finally bought a beat-up old Spanish single-rig saddle with a mochila, or housing, to throw over it, and oxbow stirrups. It was almighty old, but in good shape, and a lot of hard use had worn comfort into it. That saddle set me back eighteen dollars, and I picked up some old saddlebags for three dollars more. An old Army canteen cost me twenty-five cents. Little by little I put an outfit together, and by the time I'd bought a spare cartridge belt, a bridle, and a few other odds and ends I'd spent more than fifty dollars of what little I had. And still no horse. Whilst I went around the town of Tucson I kept a careful eye open for Arch and Wolf Madden. It turned out that one of those boys shot the night before wasn't dead. He'd been hit hard, but he was going to pull through.