There was a certain brutal beauty in the struggle between man and horse. The mustang, given his chance, decided to make a fight for it. Infuriated by the thing clinging to his back, the powerful horse bucked wildly, but the man remained in the saddle. Seeming to anticipate the horse’s every move, he swayed and bobbed with the maddened plunging of the horse, but stuck to the saddle and even seemed to urge the lineback on to do his worst.
And the lineback liked a fight. He put his heart and his powerful muscles into the battle, and with it all the fiendish ingenuity he had acquired in his years on the range and inherited from his bronco ancestors. It was a good battle.
Dust arose, lather flew from the plunging horse, but Hondo Lane stayed in the saddle, and suddenly the horse lunged into a run. He raced down the trail, went under a low branch, and tried to charge into the brush, but Lane was ready for him and swung him into the trail and they went up and over the hill with no obvious slackening of pace.
Behind them the dust settled. The yard was empty of turmoil, the trail dust settled, the skyline of the hill remained empty. Angie waited while the slow minutes passed. Johnny tugged at her hand. “Mommy, will he come back? Will the man come back?”
“Yes, Johnny,” she replied quietly. “He’ll come back. I’m sure of it.”
Yet as the slow minutes dragged by, she began to wonder if he might be lying up there with a broken leg, or if the horse was still pounding off into the desert on that furious run. She watched the skyline, and the skyline was empty.
Nervously she bit her lip, then shaded her eyes to look again, circling the hills as she had seen him do, and as she often did herself.
For the first time she found it impossible to understand her own feelings. There was an element of strangeness about the visitor that disturbed her, but was it only that? Was it his strangeness? Was it the fact that she had been so long alone? Or was there something else?
He kept her excited and upset as she had never been around any man. Why should that be? Moreover, and what was far worse, she was sure he knew how she felt. Yet he did not look like a man who would have seen much of women. He was remote, and—the woman in her told her this—he was lonely.
Yet he was a man who shielded his loneliness as he did all his feelings. He was ruthless, as ruthless with himself as he would be with others. Oddly, despite his strangeness, she felt more at home with him than she ever had with anyone else. When he had as much as called her a liar she had not been offended.
The horizon was still empty. She walked back inside and glanced in the mirror, straightening her hair. Her heart was beating strangely, and it was no way for a married woman to feel, no way for any respectable woman to feel.
That might be it…that might be the thing that disturbed her so. He made her feel like a woman. He made her feel…yes, that was it. She blushed into the mirror. He made her feel like a female.
She turned quickly away from the glass, a little shocked at herself. That was no way to be thinking. He would be back soon, and she must not even allow such thoughts to enter her mind.
When he came back over the hill the dun was lathered but moving smartly. Lane glanced at the woman in the door and was surprised by the relief in her eyes. Had she been worried about him or the horse?
And this was a lot of horse. The dun had fight. He also had speed and bottom. Lane had not allowed him to run himself out, just enough to let the horse know that the rider could handle that, too. Then he circled and rode back to the ranch.
A lot of horse, all right. Hondo Lane glanced up at the door and at the woman standing there. And that was a lot of woman, too. Slim, but graceful and with a lot of spirit and heart.
“Ready to shoe now, ma’am. And while I’m at it, I’ll shoe that pair of plow horses of yours. Their hoofs are clean grown over the front plate.”
“Thank you very much. They do need shoeing, I guess.”
He led the dun to the stable, stripped off bridle and saddle, and he took a handful of hay and gave the mustang a brisk rubdown. It was new treatment for the horse and he took it nervously, needing time to decide whether he liked it. But again the calm sureness of the man prevailed. There was simply nothing the dun could do about it. He was wary to kick, but he got no chance with this man, who seemed to understand just how he felt.
Lane stoked the forge and heated the shoe. Angie watched, impressed. “You’ll find everything there.” Then she turned to Johnny, who stood watching with excited attention. “You’d better go to the house and get ready for your nap.”
Johnny was hurt. “Oh, Mommy, can’t I stay?”
“You’ll do as you’re told!” Her voice was firm. “Run along now.”
With a backward glance, Johnny trudged off toward the house, hating to leave the glowing forge and the ringing hammer, hating also to leave this man who treated him so matter-of-factly, almost as if he were a man himself.
Angie Lowe looked at Hondo’s face from time to time, uncertain as to the best words. There was a point she wanted to get across to him, but everything she could think of to say seemed somehow flat and foolish.
Finally, shading her eyes toward the hills, she said, “I don’t see any dust coming down from above. I guess my husband’s having a hard time finding those strayed calves. Perhaps he won’t be home until late tonight.”
Lane made no comment, continuing with his work. She watched him, noting the deft, sure movements and the easy way he had with the horse. He seemed almost not to have heard her.
“He might even camp out in the hills and come in tomorrow after you’re gone. He’ll be so sorry to have missed one of our very occasional visitors.”
She looked at his face, but there was no indication of feeling or hint of what he was thinking. Suddenly she was confused and wanted only to get away.
She drew her hands down over her apron. “I’d better go look after Johnny.”
“Mrs. Lowe?”
His tone stopped her as she turned away, and, half frightened, she looked around at him. He was turning a shoe in the forge, not looking at her. She noted the breadth of his shoulders and the narrow hips. He must be awfully strong.
“You’re a liar,” he said.
His voice was so calm, so matter of fact that it was impossible to take offense.
“An almighty poor liar,” he added.
“I don’t understand.” She faced him, drawing herself up a little, a picture of dignity and reserve.
There was, he thought, a good deal of queenliness about her at such moments. She had breeding, that was obvious. Not even this ranch and the simple clothing could deprive her of that. It was like seeing a thoroughbred horse in his winter coat. The blood lines were there, despite season or situation.
He nodded toward the horses in the corral. “Those horses haven’t been shod in months. Your ax hasn’t had an edge on it in just as long, and no man has been using it. The five-pound tea can in your house is empty. Your husband’s been gone a long time.”
Angie Lowe’s face was pale. “Now, see here, Mr. Lane, I don’t think you have any right to—”
“Not talking about rights. I’m talking about lies. Why’d you lie to me, Mrs. Lowe? You were scared that you wouldn’t be safe with me here and your husband away. That it?”
“That’s part of it.”
Hondo took the shoe to the anvil and hammered it out. The sparks flew and the ring of the hammer precluded any conversation.
“Women always think every man that comes along wants ’em.”
She turned swiftly, chin high, and walked toward the cabin. Her heart was pounding and she had difficulty breathing.
“Besides,” she heard him say, “I looked around when I first came. Nobody has been out of here ahorseback since the rain. Maybe not for a long time before.”
When he had finished shoeing his own horse, he turned it back into th
e corral and led out the plow horses. It was growing late but he trimmed down their hoofs and went to work with the shoeing.
He stopped when he had finished with the first of the big horses and rolled a smoke. He stepped away from the stable and inspected the rim of the valley again.
This was a nice little place. The right man could do a lot with it. Of course, it was no place for a woman to be alone, and no right kind of man would ever leave such a woman alone in this country…unless he was dead.
He read more into the place than she would have believed. There had been a lot of work done here, good solid work that a man could be proud of, and it had been done by a man with pride in the work. But that had been a long time ago.
Since then the place had been slowly running into the ground, and here and there were the fixings of a man who was shiftless, a rawhider if he ever saw one.
Her father must have built the cabin. It was carefully done by a man who knew his business. It was built of stone, and the stones were fitted carefully. It was logically located both for use and for defense and for shelter from northers. A good man with a rifle could stand off almost any attack from this place, situated as it was.
And the corrals had been well built. They needed work now. The whole place needed work. The roof of the shed needed thatching. The water hole should be cleaned out, too. And once there had been a small dam to catch water in a pool to irrigate a small kitchen garden. The dam had been washed out by some cloudburst and never repaired.
A man could look around and draw his own conclusions. Her father had died, and her husband, whoever he was, had let the place run down. She had been trying to keep it up, but it was a man’s job, and she had her woman’s work and that child. He was a well-behaved child, and you could always tell what the parents were by the child.
She was a woman, all right. Scarcely more than a girl in years, but all woman. And mighty pretty. He took the cigarette from his lips and looked at it, took one more drag, and dropped it to the earth, where he automatically rubbed it out with his toe. He’d best get on with his shoeing. It was growing late. It was sundown, and in this cup it would grow dark sooner than it would up there on the level country. If you could call it level.
He heard the door close and saw her coming, carrying a water pail. He did not turn or speak as she walked by behind him, but heard her footsteps hesitate a little as if she had thought to speak, then went on. Returning, she stopped and shifted her pail to the other hand.
“Mr. Lane?”
“Yes, ma’am?”
“You’re right. I was lying. My husband is overdue. In fact, he should have been home long ago.”
Hondo nodded. “Figure Apaches killed him?”
She stiffened, shocked at his acceptance of the idea that had occurred to her many times. “Of course not. There are a hundred possible explanations.”
She knew of several that she never allowed herself to consider. She had known Ed Lowe enough to understand him.
“Indians are one of them.”
“But we’re at peace with the Apaches, except for a few renegades who—”
“Mrs. Lowe.” Hondo straightened from his job. “If you’ve got good sense you’ll pack up you and that child and come out with me. There’s a lot of trouble cookin’ in the Apache lodges. The main chief, Vittoro, has called a council. A full report of it is in the dispatches I’m carryin’.”
“Oh, no.” She shook her head with decision. “We’ve always got along splendidly with the Apaches. They drink and water their horses at our spring. I haven’t seen the great Vittoro, but there’ve been plenty of Apaches here.”
“I’ve seen Vittoro.” Hondo’s tone was grim. “Before the treaty. He had forty scalps hung in his horse’s mane.”
“But that was before the treaty.”
“We broke that treaty,” Hondo persisted patiently. “There’s no word in the Apache language for ‘lie,’ and they’ve been lied to. If they rise there won’t be a live white in the territory.”
Angie was not convinced. “They wouldn’t bother me. Us, I mean. We’ve always got along well.”
Hondo returned to his work. There was little to do now, and he was tired. The hammer drove home the nails, straight and sure. She watched him, noting the way the horses trusted him. Even that wild mustang he had broken had seemed to trust him. And there was Sam, that curious dog. She looked at Hondo’s face, wondering what was behind it.
What was he thinking? What, above all, did he think of her? Woman-like, she wanted to know. What kind of man was he? What had his home been like? What sort of woman would he want? A queer little shock of something almost like fear went through her. Suppose he was married?
Well, then. Suppose he was? It was no business of hers. What could it possibly matter? Nevertheless, the thought disturbed her, and she looked at him keenly, trying to find the marks of a woman on him, but she could find none. But you could not tell with his sort. A woman made her impression, but it was inside of the man. A woman could change a weak man, but not such a man as this. Yet to be loved by him would be…would be…
“People I know,” Hondo commented on her last remark, “man and wife, got along real well for twenty years. Then she blew a hole in him a stagecoach could drive through. She got mad. The Apaches are mad.”
“I have nothing to worry about, I’m sure.”
“Nice to be sure.”
Sam trotted up as they were talking. The big dog had been away on some business of his own. From the tuft of fur at the corner of his jaw, the business had concerned rabbits. He seated himself several yards away and watched Hondo. Both were somehow remote, untouchable, unreachable. She studied the dog as if hoping to learn more of the man.
“That’s a strange dog you have.”
“I don’t have him.”
She was puzzled. “But the two of you are together!”
“He stays with me. He can smell an Indian at half a mile.”
He returned the last of the horses to the corral and racked up the old shoes on the corral fence. He looked at Angie as he spoke, and, fighting the desire to look away, she met his eyes.
“He smells Indians? I don’t believe it.”
“Lots of dogs smell Indians. You can teach them.”
“Teach them? How?”
He leaned on the rail, shoving his hat back from his brow. The hair curled damply against his forehead. She repressed an urge to reach up and push it back.
The sun was down but it was still light, and the air was turning cool with the desert night. Long streaks of red remained in the sky, and on the western edge of a cloud there was a blush of old rose. Pale yellow light lingered on the topmost leaves of the cottonwoods, and their leaves whispered in the dry way they have.
Shadows gathered beneath the trees and beneath the western shoulder of the mountain, reaching out in long fingers toward the cabin and toward the man and woman who stood by the corral, talking.
“You get a puppy and hire a tame Indian. Then cut a willow switch and four or five times a day you have the Indian beat the puppy with the switch, and all the rest of his life he’ll signal when he smells an Indian.”
“Beat a puppy?” She was shocked. “How cruel!”
He shrugged. “That’s the way you do it.”
“And anyway,” she scoffed, “I don’t believe a dog can smell Indians. I mean as different from anyone else. You or me, for instance.”
He gathered the tools and returned them to the bench beneath the lean-to. “They can, Mrs. Lowe. Matter of fact, Indians can smell white people.”
“I don’t believe that.”
He smiled, and the smile lightened his features with a whimsical, almost boyish expression. “It’s true, ma’am. I’m part Indian, and I can smell you if I’m downwind of you.”
She was uneasy, but to cover it, she laughed, then s
hook her head. “Why, that’s impossible!”
“No, Mrs. Lowe. It’s not impossible.”
He stepped around so that he was facing her and downwind of her. She felt a strange tenseness come over her, and fought it, with sudden desperation. He stood close, his nostrils widening, narrowing. For a moment she thought he was going to…
“You baked this morning.” His voice was matter of fact. “I can smell fresh bread on you. Sometime today you cooked salt pork. I can smell that on you. And I can smell soap all over you. You took a bath. On top of that, you smell all over like a woman. A woman’s got a different smell from a man. Not salty and sharp, but kinda soft and rich and warm. I could find you in the dark, Mrs. Lowe, and I’m only part Indian.”
He was standing close to her and they were both aware of a sudden tension. She started to speak but would not trust her voice. There was something about him….It was impossible. It was ridiculous, but there it was.
She drew back a little. She smoothed her apron. “I think I’ll go back to the cabin,” she said hastily.
She turned swiftly, fighting down an overwhelming urge to run, to escape to the familiar surroundings of her own house. To get away somewhere, anywhere, away from him, away from this feeling.
It was wrong. It was all wrong. She should not feel like this about any man.
She told herself it was wicked, but deep within her she did not believe it.
And what sort of man was he? What did she know about him? What could she know? He had said nothing of himself, just nothing at all.
There was something big and hard and sure about him, something in the way he moved, or something from inside of him.
She had the feeling that there was nothing anywhere that could frighten or disturb him. That he was a man who knew himself, knew his strength and his weakness, who had measured himself against the hard land of his living, against the men of that land, and against its wilderness. Whatever he had discovered, he was no longer afraid.
It was dark now, and the wind stirred among the leaves and moaned softly around the roof. She knew that sound. It was a lonely sound, a sound that always frightened her, because it made her know her aloneness. But not tonight. Tonight even the wind had a comforting sound. And why was that?
Hondo (Louis L'Amour's Lost Treasures) Page 3