the Lonely Men (1969)

by L'amour, Louis - Sackett's 14

  Tying the black horse under the maple, but on a rope long enough so he could graze, I carried the saddle and gear to the shelter. The boy was already seated in the corner.

  From under a couple of fallen trees I peeled some dry bark, gathered twigs from the fallen maple limb, and in a few minutes I had a fire going. It looked good, and felt better.

  I had built the fire close against the wall so the heat would be reflected, and there we huddled in reasonable comfort. The wall, the sheltering trees, and our improvised shelter kept off most of the rain. After a few minutes, the boy fell asleep.

  I checked my guns, made sure my rifle was fully loaded, and trusting to the black to warn me, I huddled against the wall on the opposite side of the fire from the boy, and slept too.

  Chapter 8

  The night wind moaned in the passes, and the small fire sputtered. The fuel burned down to coals, and the coals were a dull red except when touched briefly by the wind. The rain had come to an end, but big drops fell now and again from the leaves of the maple.

  From time to time I opened my eyes, looked around, land slept again. It was always so with me ... I can remember few nights when I slept the hours through without awakening, usually to lie awake listening for a while, sometimes to get up and prowl restlessly.

  The black horse, now that the rain had stopped, moved away from the tree to crop the thick grass. Up on the ridges the grass had been sparse and had little nourishment, but the grass that grew around the fallen stones was rich and green.

  You know how it is when you hear something a long time before you are really aware of it? It was like that now with riders coming down the trail. Most likely I didn't hear much ... maybe only a whisper of sound ... maybe some hidden sense felt the difference in the night, for they came like ghosts in the darkness, or like wolves, soft-footed and sure of their prey.

  They must have been puzzled, and worried too, for I'd come down the trail of the Old Ones, where no one ever rode.

  It was a spirit trail, and they would not have liked it, especially in the night. Their horses would be mountain-bred and sure-footed, and more than likely they had known this valley of the ruins when they ran wild, for there was grass here, good grass and water.

  These riders must have been slow in getting away from their rancheria, coming after my tracks had crossed the trail of the Apaches that pursued my compadres.

  Seeing the tracks of my lone horse, they had followed, sure of a kill.

  My small fire gave off so little smoke as to remain undetected, and its slight red glow would be hidden by the tree and the wall. Yet they found me. I suppose they heard my horse cropping grass.

  All was still in my camp. A drop fell hissing into the coals, and my horse stopped cropping grass and lifted his head, blowing softly through his nostrils.

  I came clean awake.

  An instant I lay there, listening, and then I rolled over and left the blanket in a long smooth dive into the darkness, and heard the whip of an arrow as I went. When I looked back, I saw that the arrow had gone through my blanket into the ground.

  They came in fast, and my butt stroke missed the head of the nearest attacker, and hit his shoulder, staggering him. Then my rifle was knocked from my hands.

  Now, back yonder in the mountains where I hail from, the boys and men do a sight of knuckle and skull thumping. The girls go to the dances for the dancing and the boys, and the boys go for the fighting and the girls.

  Me being such a tall kind of homely boy, I had more time for fighting. Then in the Army, and on the river boats, and all -- well, I'd done my share. So when I lost my rifle it just sort of freed me for fighting.

  A body lunged against mine and I butted at the face, used my knee in his crotch, lifting him clean off the ground, so as I could lay hands on him. I fairly picked him up and threw him, and then I took a roundhouse swing at something coming at me. I saw a knife flash, and my fist landed and I felt bone crunch.

  It was bang with both hands, swing, grab, but Apaches were fair hands at wrestling, but they had no experience at fist-fighting, and that was what I was doing. One short, powerful Apache grabbed me by the arm and the waist to throw me, but I brought my boot heel down on his instep and he let go and I could swing my elbow against his ear.

  It was kind of lively there for a few minutes. There was three of them, but I was bigger and stronger. One of them jumped on my back with his forearm across my throat, but I grabbed his hand and elbow and flung him over my shoulder and smack down across the stone wall. He hit hard, and I heard him scream. And just then there was a shot.

  Coming from outside of camp, it caught us unawares, but I saw an Apache fall and then the others ghosted into the night, one of them dragging the one I'd thrown across the wall. Then they disappeared like drops of water into a pool. They were there, and they were gone.

  The one who had been shot was lying there near the fire, and Harry, his skins clutched around him, was sitting up, huddled and scared, in the corner of the wall.

  And then a low voice said, "Hello, the camp!"

  I said, "Come in, if you're of a mind to," and the next thing there walks into camp the cutest button of a girl you ever laid eyes on.

  She was scarcely more than five feet tall and wore a buckskin hunting shirt that looked better than any such shirt I'd ever seen before. She was quick and pert, and she was leading her pony, but the Winchester in her hands wasn't for fun -- that Apache would have realized it had he lived past her bullet.

  She held out her hand. "I am Dorset Binny," she said, "and I hope you will forgive me for not looking as much like a lady as I should."

  "Ma'am," I assured her, honestly enough, "when you come up like that and shoot that straight, I couldn't care how you're dressed."

  And I added, "I am William Tell Sackett, and the boy yonder is Harry Brook, recently taken back from the Apaches."

  We had both moved back into the shadows, and with that much said we took to listening. It was my idea those Apaches had them a bellyful, but they weren't alone, and this was no place to dally.

  "Some other children got away, didn't they?"

  "Yes -- a couple of boys and a small girl."

  "The girl was my sister. That is why I am here." Well, she was talking to a shadow, for I was already saddling up. Right then, what I wanted between me and those Apaches was distance, for within a matter of hours this mountain would be alive with them, like a kicked anthill with ants.

  She came along with me and the boy, and for an hour we followed the old trail north, then we turned west, taking a trail on which I found no tracks. Once in a while through the parted clouds I could see the sky, and sometimes a star was right above us. Black walls crowded closer, and we were skirting some almighty big boulders. Me, I kept thinking what a nasty place we were in, with the weather what it was. A body didn't need to look at the walls for a high-water mark. You just knew that the water must run through here thirty feet deep for an hour or two after a heavy storm. But the water had already passed on ... and I wished for no more rain now.

  The folks that had made this trail had no horses, it was a moccasin trail. After a while we had to get down and lead, for there was just no riding, but I let Harry stay on the black.

  What I wanted most just now was to get out of these mountains and head off across the flatland, and maybe get to a ranch. But I had a time keeping my thoughts on my business with that girl along.

  She was only a bit of a thing, but she must be packing a lot of nerve to come into this country after her sister. There was no chance to talk, for we were going single file, and I wasn't stopping. This was a strange trail, and we'd no idea where it might lead. Mayhap right into a bunch of Apaches -- in which case some brave might have my scalp in his wickiup, if he bothered to take it. The Apaches were very strong on scalping.

  At the top of a long slope we paused for a breather, and I looked around at Dorset. She was right behind me, leading her pony, and taking two steps to my one. Harry Brook, up there o
n the horse, had not said a word.

  We stood there for a mite, and she said, "The sky's turning."

  There was gray in it, all right, and day would come quickly now. We stood quiet then, saying nothing nor needing to, but there was communication in the night, we felt each other, felt the darkness and the danger around us, and felt the cool dampness of the canyon ,after the rain. We could smell the pines ... and we smelled something else.

  We smelled smoke.

  It was enough to curl your hair. In this layout we couldn't expect friends. My partners had lit out to the north, I was sure, and if there was anybody here it had to be Apaches. And that smoke was right ahead of us.

  We daren't go back, and we couldn't climb out. Me, I slipped the Winchester out of its scabbard, and so did she.

  "Well go ahead quiet," I whispered, "and if we can get by 'em, we will.

  Otherwise, we got to mount up and run for it. You and the boy get on the same horse, and if trouble shows, run."

  "What about you?"

  Me, I smiled. "Lady, you're not looking at no hero. I'll get off a few shots and I'll be dusting the trail right behind you, so don't slow up or I'll run right up your shirt tail."

  We started on. Dawn was streaking the sky when we saw the canyon was starting to widen out. Then I saw moccasin tracks, some shreds of bark, and a few sticks -- somebody collecting firewood. And then we heard yelling ahead of us, and I knew that kind of yelling.

  "Might be," I said, "we can get by. They're mighty concerned, right now."

  She looked at me. She said, "What concerns an Apache so much that we might slip by his camp?"

  A man couldn't look into those honest gray eyes and lie. She would guess, anyway. "They got them a prisoner," I said, "and they're tryin' to find out how much of a man they caught. If he stands up to torture and dies well, they will figure they're big men, because they caught a big man."

  We moved ahead, each of us warning our horse against noise, and those horses could be warned, they were that smart. Aside from their own instincts, they had caught some of our wariness for danger, for a horse, like a dog, can become extremely sensitive to the moods of his rider.

  The western man trusted to his horse's ears, its eyes, its senses. He shared with it his water, and if need be, his food.

  We moved forward quietly but steadily, and soon we saw their camp on a bench near the stream, partly hidden by brush and trees. The stream was not over four feet wide and no more than four or five inches deep, and the canyon through which we had come evidently caught the overflow.

  Rifle ready, I led the way, watching the camp from the corner of my eye.

  Here the dry stream-bed was perhaps fifty feet wide, most of it white sand dotted with rocks, many of them half buried. The brush was mostly willow, and thick.

  It was a cool morning but I could feel sweat trickling down my back between my shoulder blades, and I worried for fear a hoof would strike stone. We went steadily on, drawing close to the camp, then abreast of it.

  The Indians were almighty concerned with their prisoner, and they were shooting at him with arrows, missing in as close as they could, pinning the sides of his shirt to the tree, parting his hair with arrows. There was a trickle of blood down his forehead which I glimpsed when he lifted his head, and for the first time above their yells I heard his voice, and he was singing.

  It was Spanish Murphy.

  Yes, sir. Spanish was tied to a cottonwood in the clearing and the Apaches were shooting arrows at him and working themselves up to more serious ways of hurting ... and he was singing!

  Oh, they hated him for it, but they loved him for it, too, if I knew Indians.

  For their prisoner was a man with nerve, singing his defiance right into their faces ... and it was also a means of keeping up his courage.

  They would kill him, all right. They were devils when it came to inflicting pain, and they would try to make him last as long as possible, devising new tricks to give him the tortures of hell, and loving him for his strength and his guts.

  Spanish was a singing man who loved the sound of the old songs, the western songs, the songs from the high-up hills. He was singing "Zebra Dun" when we caught sight of him and, raising his head, he looked right through an open space in the brush, looked right at us, and he changed his tune to "John Hardy."

  "John Hardy was a desperate man, he carried his two guns every day. He killed a man on the West Virginny line, but you ought to see Tell Sackett gettin' away, I want to see Tell Sackett gettin' away!"

  There he was, a-warning me. Him in all that trouble, but thinking most of us getting out of there. And me, I daren't stop, for I had a girl and a small boy depending on me. But this I did see. There weren't more than inine or ten Indians there, so far as I could see, they were all warriors.

  We went on, our skins crawling with fear for Spanish Murphy, and also with fear for ourselves. We were beyond their camp now, but were expecting any moment to hear a yell behind us and to see the Apaches come streaming after us.

  The thing that played into our hand was that the Indians probably had no idea there was anybody else about. They had either killed the others, or they'd taken out running.

  Fifty yards beyond their camp the canyon took a bend, and when we had it behind us we felt some better. I decided we didn't have much time before those 'Paches got down to serious business with Spanish. I knew I had to get him out of there, and I had to do it before he was hurt too bad to travel.

  When we had gone a little way I pulled up. "You'll have to go on alone from here," I said to Dorset Binny. "Do you know Sonora?"

  "No."

  "The Apaches have run most of the folks off their ranches north of here, and the few who are still there won't fight back. I'd say ride due west and watch for a trail. If you can find a ranch, ask them to take you in and hide you."

  She lingered, and I said, "Whatever made you try this, anyway?"

  "There was nobody else to come. I didn't want my sister growing up an Apache."

  She hesitated. "Not that what we had was so much better. Since Pa died I've been trying to ranch, but we haven't done very well."

  "You ride west," I repeated. "I don't need to tell you to be careful. You didn't get this far riding it blind." I swung my horse, lifting a finger to my hatbrim.

  " 'Bye, Dorset."

  "Good-bye, William Tell," she said, and they rode away up the canyon and I turned back.

  I had no idea in my mind at all about what I was going to do. How does a body go about taking a prisoner away from blood-hungry Apaches? I couldn't just open fire. In the first place, they'd scatter out, pin me down, and surround me in no time. Also, they might just up and kill Spanish right off.

  All the time there was a-nagging at me a thing I knew about Indians. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred a man who rides into an Indian camp is safe as long as he stays there -- that is, if he rides in of his own notion, and not forced.

  It was a long chance, for we were already shooting-enemies. They most likely knew me by sight by this time. Yet try as I might, I just couldn't come up with any other idea. But what to do when I got into their camp? How to get Spanish out of there?

  I could get along in the language. Not that I was an easy talker like Tampico Rocca, but I could make out.

  Spanish Murphy was in this fix because he had chosen to ride with me to Mexico, and it was up to me to take him from those Apaches, or to die with him.

  I was packing plenty of iron. My Winchester was loaded, and I carried a six-shooter in my holster, with which I'd always been considered uncommonly swift There was another six-shooter tucked into my belt.

  So I swung my black horse up that bank and rode in amongst them.

  For a minute there, you never saw anybody more surprised. These were Netdahee Apaches -- killer warriors -- dedicated to wiping out their enemies.

  Now, as I've said, the Indian is a curious sort of man. They were bred to battle, and among the Apaches the Netdahee were the fiercest, a war
rior society of chosen men. They appreciated nerve, but they were curious, and maybe they wanted to see what I was going to do. Maybe it was because I was inside their camp, but nobody lifted a hand.

  My eyes took in the lot of them, methodically picking the ones at whom I would shoot first. If trouble started I'd have small time to pick targets, but if I could nail a few of them ...

  "Greetings!" I spoke to them in Apache. "I have come for my friend!"

  Chapter 9

  They turned like tigers at bay, cornered, their black eyes staring. Of the nine of them, one was wearing an old Army coat, another a faded red shirt, and the others were naked except for breech-clouts and knee-high, Apache-style moccasins.

  One held a rifle, two had pistols, and one held a bow and a handful of arrows.

  The others were armed only with their knives. Their rifles and bows lay near the fire.

  The Apache with the bow and the one with the rifle, those I'd take first. An Apache can shoot his arrows just as fast as a man can work the lever on a Winchester ... and they made a nastier wound.

  "The man you have tied is my friend. We have come far together, and we have fought well together. He is a good man in the desert or in the mountains."

  My sudden appearance had startled them, and they were unsure. Was I alone? I saw their eyes go to the rocks around their camp.

  They could not believe I would ride into their camp alone. There was brush along both sides of the stream from where I had come, and the hills at this point were lower and covered with boulders.

  They were all in front of me now, and I dared not ride among them. Taking my time, and lifting one hand to hold them as they were, I then lifted my rifle and pointed it at Spanish, then lowered the muzzle a trifle and fired.

  My bullet cut the rope where it passed around the tree to which Spanish was tied. He tugged, the rope loosened, and he tugged again.

  Suddenly one of the Apaches moved. "Kill him!" he shrieked.

  And I shot the man with the bow, then spurred the black and he leaped among them. I fired again, missed, and swung the stock of my rifle against an Apache skull. My horse went through them, turned swiftly, and started back.