“I got it figured now. Handsome woman like you, walks with her head up, ought to kiss a man before she dies.”
“You’re very strange, Mr. Lane.”
He swung into the saddle and the lineback humped its back, then settled down, restless, but aware of the man in the saddle and remembering the fight of yesterday. “I don’t know about that,” he said thoughtfully. Then he looked away. “Good-by, Mrs. Lowe.”
She waited, standing very still in the center of the yard until he went over the hill, and even then she did not move, but stood there, silent and alone in the middle of the bare yard. The dust settled into the trail and the rim of the hills showed nothing but the morning sky, brightening. It would be very hot.
She turned, picked up her pail and walked to the spring.
CHAPTER 4
NO MAN KNOWS the hour of his ending, nor can he choose the place or the manner of his going. To each it is given to die proudly, to die well, and this is, indeed, the final measure of the man.
The forty-seven men in Company C rode with an awareness of death, for there were no recruits in their twin files. All were seasoned, desert-wise fighting men who knew the character and ability of their enemy.
The mission allotted to Company C was a wide sweep of the basin to warn, and to bring to the camp if possible, all ranchers, prospectors, trappers, and pioneer homebuilders who might still be at large and unaware of the impending outbreak of fresh hostilities. Their commanding officer was Lieutenant Creyton C. Davis.
At thirty-two, Creyton Davis was a case-hardened veteran. Graduated from the Point in time to serve the last year of the War between the States, he had transferred west following the war in time to ride with Carpenter to the relief of Forsyth at Beacher’s Island. Later he was at the destruction of Tall Bull’s villages in ’69.
In the five succeeding years he had campaigned in the desert, working from a series of bleak, windswept sun-baked posts against the Apaches, that fiercest and wiliest of guerrilla fighters.
Squinting his eyes against the sun glare, he tried to penetrate the shimmering heat waves. Beyond the heat waves were the mountains, and from the liquid movement before them arose the sentinel spires of the saguaro, those weird exclamation points of the desert.
No sound disturbed the fading afternoon, no sound but the creak of saddle leather, the rattle of accouterments, the click of hoofs on stone—and these were always with them.
Sweat trickled through the dust on his face, and alkali had made his uniform stiff and gray. His neck itched from the heat and dust, and his skin was raw from the baking sun. Nowhere, in all that vast expanse, was there movement. Yet out there somewhere was the Apache.
When he saw the solitary rider sitting motionless against the background of the hill, he almost drew rein.
Cotton Lyndon was a square-built man of forty, his face so seamed and lined with desert years that he looked twenty years older. The nickname was born of his hair, once corn yellow, now pure white, and his one apparent vanity.
He swung his horse alongside the Lieutenant’s. He indicated the direction in which they rode. “Water yonder.”
“What do you think?”
“They’re around. I don’t know where.”
“See anything of Lane?”
“Won’t—not until he wants you to.”
“The General expects him. He’s overdue.”
Lyndon tilted his hat against the sun. “He’ll make out.” There was a slight change in his voice. “Hope you an’ me do as well.”
Davis glanced aside at Lyndon, a quick frown shadowing his eyes. Coming from Lyndon, it sounded ominous. Davis knew enough of such men to realize they often knew things without being able to explain why they knew them. It was, he supposed, a result of some subconscious perception.
As if in answer to his thoughts, Lyndon added, “That’s Vittoro out there.”
Davis let his horse walk on a dozen steps, then turned in his saddle. “Sergeant Breen? There’s water ahead. We’ll make camp.”
Breen involuntarily glanced at the sun. Two good hours of riding left, and Davis was not a man to waste time on a trail.
“We may not find more water and I want the men to rest,” Davis said. “A bad day tomorrow.”
He felt an immediate satisfaction with the spot. The water was a small stream, clear and cold, that flowed from the mouth of an arroyo scarcely fifty yards deep. At the head of the arroyo the spring flowed down from a dozen cracks in the rock.
The spot selected for the camp was in a basin under shelving rock, and about twenty yards out from the face the ground sloped away, offering a fine field of fire. The camp was masked from the wide plain by a ridge of volcanic rock several hundred yards off.
It was a sudden relief from the saddle and the men relaxed quickly, getting their horses out and mounting guard at once. Old Pete Britton, who had just joined as a scout, went atop the cliff for a look around. There was little talking, the men bathing, filling canteens, and taking the unexpected rest.
The sun declined, the shadows reached out from the cliff, faint smoke lifted from the few fires. Lieutenant Davis walked alone to the edge of the hill and with his glass studied the volcanic ridge, then the plain. He saw nothing.
He had the feeling now himself. Despite that, there was a solid confidence within him. If they had to face serious trouble, he could not face it with a better company of men. Sergeant Breen had a record of twenty years of service, and he had been in the Southwest when Mangus Colorado was active, and Cochise. After that he had seen service at Bull Run, Shiloh, and the Wilderness.
Corporal Owen Patton had ridden with Nathan Bedford Forrest, and had been a lieutenant himself. He was a tall, rangy young man with blond hair that waved back from his brow. He was the best shot in the company, and one of the finest horsemen. O’Brien had been a freighter before he joined up, veteran of many Indian battles. Silvers and Shoemaker had been buffalo hunters.
The faint, smoky haze of evening lay over the desert, and the clouds were tinged with the rose of the setting sun. Davis stopped by the spring, drank of the cold water, then walked back to where his bedroll was dumped against the cliff’s face. He threw his campaign hat aside and sat down, digging writing materials from his saddlebags.
Lyndon opened his eyes and watched him. It was the first time he had ever seen Davis writing on patrol. Sergeant Breen noticed it, too, and looked quickly at Lyndon. No courier was being sent back. The command would return in just two days…if it returned.
Breen checked the guards and added a word of warning, then returned to camp. Lyndon was lighting his pipe.
“Too quiet out there,” Lyndon said. “I wish Pete would get back.”
“Comin’ now.”
Pete Britton had lived fifty hard years, forty of them in Indian country. He did not stop, nor did he look toward Lyndon and Breen, but walked on by to where Davis sat.
Davis glanced up. “Yes?”
“No use to ride by the MacLaughlins’.”
Davis felt something inside him go sick and empty. He had liked the MacLaughlins, had sat at meals with them more than a dozen times. Three stalwart men and two women, four youngsters.
“You sure?”
Pete Britton’s irritation sounded in his reply. “Sure? Ah’m almighty sure.” He jerked his head to the north. “Smoke. Too much for a small fire. That barn an’ house, most like, sometime this afternoon.”
Lieutenant Creyton C. Davis sat very still, the trial of command before him. If he moved out now, one or more might still be alive. He might effect a rescue. On the other hand, he would be riding off into darkness with tired men against a relentless and ruthless enemy that would know he was coming. And if they were gone, the tracks could not be followed before daybreak.
If he led out his command and men were lost, he would be asked why. If he did not lead
them out and some of the family could be saved, he would also be asked why. He sat very still, then said quickly, “Thanks, Pete. Anything more you can tell me?”
Pete Britton shook his head. “Daylight, mebbe.”
The old man turned and walked away to join Breen and Lyndon, who had listened. Britton jerked his head. “Ain’t no fool. Afeerd he’d want to go traipsin’ after them in the dark.”
Breen shook out his bed and pulled off his boots. He sat for a minute, looking off toward the first faint stars, then he rolled in his blankets. When he finally dropped off to sleep he could still hear the faint scratching of the Lieutenant’s pen.
In the first clear light of dawn Davis stood over the campfire with a cup of coffee. He glanced around for Britton.
“Pulled out before sunup,” Lyndon said.
Horses were led out and saddled and mounted, and the company moved out. Dust lifted, sun glinted on rifles. Davis swung his horse into the trail toward the MacLaughlins’.
Lieutenant Davis did not doubt that Britton had been correct, but it was his duty to check, and to bury the bodies if they were to be found. It was, he reflected, no pleasant task for such an early morning.
With a lift of his hand, Cotton Lyndon moved out to the flank and angled up the slope. Davis watched him, frowning slightly, then turned in his saddle. “Sergeant?”
“Yes, sir?”
“We’re riding into trouble. I don’t know where it will come from or when. Pass the word along. No lounging in the saddle, no carelessness. I want every man alert. This is no routine patrol.”
Breen dropped back, and Davis let his eyes go again to Lyndon. The man was riding quietly, keeping his mount to the crest of the ridge and in such a position that he could see over without exposing more than his hat and eyes.
Dust climbed, the sun grew warm. Through a notch in the trees Davis saw a fleck of bright green. That would be the cottonwoods at the MacLaughlin ranch.
As they came out of the draw into the wide valley, all was still in the morning sun. Where the ranch house had stood they could see blackened ruins and a slow lift of smoke. Davis tightened his lips. His eyes swung around the valley.
“Sergeant?”
When Breen moved up, he said quickly, “As we move in I want a perimeter defense. Detail a burial party. There’ll be bodies down there. Have Corporal Patton take six men and sweep those woods.”
“You think they’re still here, sir?” Breen was dubious. “It ain’t like them, sir.”
“They’re Apaches, Breen.”
“Yes, sir. Of course, sir.”
Breen dropped back. The lieutenant was right, of course. There was no telling what an Apache might do, except that it would be the most unexpected thing. Breen had heard it said that Davis was too careful. With Apaches a man could not be too careful.
The company moved into the ranch yard and swung down. The bodies were there. After a quick glance, Lieutenant Davis turned aside. MacLaughlin, his two sons, and the women. They had all died here. It was better than being prisoners, except, perhaps, for the children. The Apache, a cruel and vicious fighter, was kind to children, often adopted them into the tribes and treated them gently. With women it was otherwise.
He glanced around. Patton was moving out with six men toward the small grove of trees, the burial party was working, other men had moved out, and the perimeter defense was set up. Suddenly Davis glanced around. There was no sign of Lyndon.
Anxiously he walked to the edge of the yard and glanced around the hills. No rider, no dust.
Breen walked toward him, hat in hand, mopping his face. “Nasty job, sir. They’re hacked up mighty bad.”
“How many do you think?”
“Maybe a dozen. Not more’n twenty.” Breen put on his hat. “Nothing we could have done, sir. It was earlier than Britton thought. Yesterday morning, I reckon.” He indicated the corral. “Horses didn’t eat all the hay they were fed.”
Davis nodded. It fitted with what he himself had observed. The Indians must have been waiting out there at daybreak, lying perfectly still, probably scattered around the ranch.
MacLaughlin had died at the corral, struck down by three arrows. Jim MacLaughlin, the older of the boys, had evidently received some warning, for he had rushed to the door, gun in hand. There was a spot of blood at the barn that could mean a dead or wounded Indian. And Alex MacLaughlin lay sprawled and dead with an overturned bucket beside him.
“Must’ve been comin’ from the spring,” Sergeant Breen said, “an’ he saw something and yelled. Then they got him. Jim rushed to the door, an’ he stood ’em off a spell. One of the women had her hands blackened like she’d been firin’ that old muzzle-loader.”
Davis tightened his lips. Corporal Patton stopped before him and saluted sharply. “Woods clear, sir. Found where several Indians had bedded down, sir. Looks like they’d remained some time.”
The burial party was returning, their faces gray and sick.
“All right, Sergeant. Mount up.”
They were in their saddles and moving out when they saw the rider. A horse was coming down toward them at a dead run and on the back was the bobbing figure of a man. It was Cotton Lyndon.
But it was such a Cotton Lyndon as they had never seen. The proud white mane of hair was stained red with blood. Strips had been peeled from his hide. Blood streamed from his wounds and stained the sides of the paint pony on which he was tied.
Patton raced out and caught up the horse and men surrounded the dying man. For an instant, as his body was lowered to the ground, Lyndon’s eyes rolled up to Davis.
“Vittoro. Must have seventy…men.” Lyndon caught at Davis’ sleeve. “Get out! Get out, Davis, while you can!” He choked, but clung with agonized grip to the sleeve. “Stalkin’ you! Mescaleros, Mimbreños, Chiricahaus, an’ Tontos…all up! More comin’! Get to…fort.”
The scout’s body sagged back to the grass. Lieutenant Davis straightened. “All right, Sergeant. Bury him here, where he lies.”
He swung back into the saddle. No sign of Pete Britton. No sign of an Indian. And he had not met Hondo Lane.
Lane was out there somewhere, and his dispatches were important. His thoughts leaped ahead, placing the few outlying homes. The decision was his, and it might mean life or death for the poor unwarned devils who were at their ranches or in camp. It might also mean the end to his command.
He glanced around at them, his face expressionless. He knew every man of the company. Knew something of their troubles, trials, and tribulations. Clanahan, who drank too much, Nabors, who was surly and hard to get along with, and Sandoval, who wore a knife scar he had picked up from a señorita in Tucson.
They moved on into the desert and the morning. Lieutenant Creyton C. Davis rode beside the guidon now. His eyes reached out to the hills, and he thought of Vittoro.
Cunning as a wolf, the old chief was a fierce and vindictive fighter. His treatment of Lyndon had been a warning of what he intended for them all, if they were caught alive. And how had he caught Lyndon alive? Cotton Lyndon, who knew so well all the Apache tricks? And where was old Pete?
The command moved on, trotting now, and swung around a group of low hills. They passed another burned-out ranch, and buried the dead. Davis hesitated, then made his decision. “Sergeant, have the men refill their canteens here. We’ll swing south toward Mescal Springs. When we reach the open country we’ll dismount and walk the horses.”
“Dismount?”
“Yes, Sergeant.” Davis hesitated, then said quietly, “We’re going back, Sergeant. These ranches are answer enough. There’s no reason to go on. If anyone is alive up ahead, they know more about the Indians than we do.” He paused. “We’ll dismount in the open country where they can’t ambush us. That will rest the horses. We’ll make camp early, as we did last night. When the men have rested we’ll mount up a
nd move out slowly. I dislike to leave a good fight, but if the tribes are out, the General should be informed.
“Moreover,” he smiled, “we may get a chance to trap the old boy himself. He’s waiting for something, you can bank on that. For more warriors, possibly. I think he’s waiting to get us in rougher country, where he can use an ambush. If he thinks we’ll go on south of Mescal, he’ll probably wait. There isn’t better ambush country in the world.”
Breen nodded, waiting. Lieutenant Davis had always let him know just what he was thinking. There was nothing of the martinet in the man and he believed that if the men knew the score, each could carry on in better fashion.
“Once he knows we’ve started back, we’ll have a fight.”
“Does the Lieutenant hope to lead him back?”
Davis hesitated. “If we can, Sergeant. If we can.”
The plain opened before them, and once they were well into it, he slowed the column and dismounted the men to save their horses. Apparently they were moving into rugged country where by tomorrow every mile would offer a new trap. Would Vittoro wait? Or would he attack at the first opportunity?
Vittoro might be waiting for a contingent of Apaches from another tribe. A successful battle and much loot would do much to cement the allegiance of his allies. Nobody would realize this better than Vittoro.
They walked slowly. It was very hot. Dust arose. A road runner darted away ahead of them, a streak of dull brown against the desert. A rattler buzzed from under a mesquite bush. They walked on.
A mile, three miles. The hills were dawning nearer now. No sign of Pete Britton.
The lieutenant mounted the column and they moved out at a walk, and they came up to Mescal Springs at four in the afternoon. Under double guards, they bedded down for a rest.
The sun dropped behind the hills, long shadows reached out, the mesquite clumps turned to blobs of blackness against the gray of the desert. Horses had been rubbed down and watered, a few fires were lighted, coffee was made.
Hondo (Louis L'Amour's Lost Treasures) Page 5