Hondo (Louis L'Amour's Lost Treasures)

by Louis L'Amour

  Against the boulder where he sat, Lieutenant Davis waited. He was a slender young man with a face darkened by desert suns, a pleasant face, composed and still now.

  He signaled Breen and Patton. They drew near and then dropped to their knees as he motioned to them. “We’ll move out at midnight,” he told them, “keeping downslope in the sand. If we get away, when we’re a mile out we’ll mount up. Then we’ll move at a trot.”

  When they had gone, he turned to his blankets and stretched out. He would not sleep, he knew. He might rest a little….

  A hand was shaking him. It was Breen. “Time, Lieutenant. Midnight.”

  Davis sat up, amazed. He had slept for hours. Quickly he was on his feet, straightening his uniform, checking his gun. His horse was saddled and waiting.

  All was dark and silent. Taking the lead, he moved out. The slope was soft sand and stoneless, as was much of the valley bottom. The small column moved without sound.

  For ten minutes they walked. Corporal Patton moved up from the rear. “Seems quiet, sir.”

  “All right.” He turned. “Sergeant, pass the word along. Mount up. Walk the horses another ten minutes.”

  After ten minutes he lifted the column into a trot. Holding the pace, they held on down the valley. If they had escaped the Indians, there would be no following them until morning. It would give them a safe lead. He was already thinking ahead, checking over the country in his mind, and he knew the place.

  It was not a good place for an ambush, hence was sure to be unexpected by Vittoro. There was a place among low hills….He rode on, heading directly for the fort, yet his plan was made. It was a chance to trap Vittoro and he meant to take it. The defeat of the Apache war chief might easily end the outbreak. Certainly it would end the trouble for a time. Until another chief was selected.

  He held the horses to a trot for an hour, then slowed to a walk. All night they moved steadily, taking only two short breaks. At daybreak the country was opening out and by noon they would be less than forty miles from the post.

  Suddenly he saw the hills. It would be here….He halted the column and quickly gave his orders. On the spot, the situation looked even better than he had remembered.

  The valley down which they had been riding had ended, leaving them in a country of rolling hills. Two low hills lay on each side of the meadow, and he rode down this meadow, then moved to the right and concealed his horses in a draw. On the far slope of the hill there were several hollows ideal for concealment.

  “Corporal,” Davis looked at Patton, “take Silvers and Shoemaker and get behind that hill opposite. When the enemy are well into the meadow, fire on them. I want three Indians down with those three first shots. Then fire again, get into your saddles, and swing wide and get back here. Understand?”

  “Yes, sir.” Patton hesitated. “You’re going to be here, sir?”

  Davis nodded. “When you fire, I think they’ll run to this hill for shelter.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Silence fell, the little dust settled. The sun rose well into the sky, the earth smelled faintly. A few flies buzzed. An hour passed slowly. Men drank from their filled canteens. They waited.

  Clanahan saw them first. Davis felt his scalp tighten. They had been strengthened. There were more than seventy. There were ninety or more.

  No matter.

  They seemed to have no fear, no realization of what lay ahead. They rode steadily down the meadow. Two Indians were well ahead, and suddenly one of them drew up sharply. Instantly Davis knew the man had seen the bent grass where the horses had turned. The Indian wheeled his pony and yelled sharply.

  From across the meadow there was a crash of shots. The Indian fell headfirst off his racing pony and turned head over heels in the grass. Two more fell, the other lead warrior and one man in the column.

  It worked perfectly. Instantly the Indians broke for shelter, charging the hill behind which lay Davis and the company.

  They came on a dead run, and Davis let them come. At point-blank range he fired. A crashing volley hit the charging Indians and those in the lead went down in a wild melee of screaming, wounded horses and yelling Indians. Firing coolly, Company C poured lead into the mass below. And then the Indians were out and running.

  Scattered shots, then silence. Corporal Patton came up at a dead run and swung down. He saluted swiftly. “Silvers gone, sir. Tangled with a ’Pache and both of ’em gone, sir.”

  “Thanks, Corporal. Get set. They’ll be back.”

  There was sporadic firing, and Davis studied the meadow and the slope. The ambush had taken seventeen Indians and half again that many horses. A number of wounded had been carried away.

  He studied the grassy plain where the Indians had disappeared. There was a faint stirring of the grass. He fired into the grass and saw an Indian half rise, then sink back.

  He studied the situation. Nothing more to be gained here by sniping fire. In any event, they had taught Vittoro a lesson.

  “Sergeant?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Get the horses. We’ll move on.”

  Clanahan’s voice boomed. “Lieutenant! Look!”

  Davis wheeled and saw the rider. At first he thought it was an Apache, and then he knew no Indian ever rode like that. The man was hunkered down low and riding hard, but he had stirrups and there was a flash of sunlight on polished leather, and then he recognized the horse.

  The rider was coming at a dead run and he did not slow up until he had plunged into the very circle of soldiers. Then he drew up sharply, his horse rearing high, and he slid to the ground. It was Pete Britton.

  His hard old face was gray and there was blood on his shirt. “Lieutenant,” his voice was calm, “you got more’n a hundred Mimbreños comin’ up behind you.”

  Lieutenant Creyton C. Davis stood very still. He had his hat in his hand and he felt the wind stirring his hair. “What chance of getting through to the fort, Pete?”

  “Not none a-tall.” Pete Britton hesitated, then he said quietly, “I caught me a brave. He wasn’t so brave an’ he talked. He said forty Mescaleros left the reservation last night. There’s more Mimbreños comin’, too. You’re boxed in, Lieutenant. My guess is what we know ain’t but part of it. I figure half the Apache nation is betwixt us an’ the fort.”

  “Could you get through?”

  “Might.”

  “I want a message taken.”

  Old Pete spat into the dust, then he grinned slowly. “Lieutenant, git yo’self another boy. I got a crease in my hide back yonder. I ain’t fixed for ridin’. Anyway, I’ve took a lot of ’Pache hair in my time. I’ll give ’em a chance at mine.”

  Davis put on his hat. “All right, Pete. Glad to have you.”

  “They’ll know soon enough,” Pete said dryly. “Anyways, I’m agittin’ rheumatic these days. Figure I’d like it better thisaway.”

  Lieutenant Davis turned to Breen. “All right, Sergeant. Have the boys dig in and get settled. We’ll wait for them.”

  Wind stirred the grass. Sweat trickled down his face. He shook his canteen. It was over half full. They moved back to the rim of the hills around the tiny basin where the horses were held.

  There was dust to the south, and away there to the east there was dust. He mopped his brow and waited. He took the letter to his wife from his pocket and thrust it conspicuously over a spear of bear grass.

  He settled down and lighted a smoke. Clanahan was squatted on his heels and he grinned at the lieutenant. “Wished I had a drink,” he said. “I could get drunk without makin’ the guardhouse.”

  Davis turned and reached into his saddlebag. He drew out a flat bottle and tossed it to the burly Irishman.

  Clanahan grinned and caught the bottle in his big palm. The pulled cork made a comfortable sound. He tilted back his head and drank.

  T
here was no sound but the wind, no movement but the bending grass.

  CHAPTER 5

  HONDO LANE WALKED the lineback into the willows and let the horse plunge his dark muzzle into the cold, clear water of the stream.

  Day had come but the sun was obscured behind towering masses of thunderheads. The morning was cool. There was no wind.

  Two days out of Angie Lowe’s ranch and he had just reached the bank of Little Dutch Creek. At this rate he would be four days getting to the post. If he got there at all.

  Twice on the first day he had cut the trail sign of small Apache bands. Yesterday, after swinging wide to try to avoid further meetings, he had narrowly escaped being seen on a grassy hillside.

  Luckily he had left the lineback in an arroyo over the ridge, so he flattened out in the grass and lay unmoving, and so unseen.

  Thunder rumbled like the booming of far-off guns. The cumulus had darkened. Hondo flattened beside the stream, drank, then filled his canteen. Sam had crossed the stream and was drinking there. His head came up sharply, muzzle dripping water.

  Hondo caught the lineback’s nostrils and held them.

  Two Mescaleros came up the creek, one of them riding a big chestnut horse with a U.S. brand. The other wore a lieutenant’s blue coat, now dusty and darkly stained.

  Not twelve feet away they stopped. Hondo slid his bowie knife into his hand. A gun would be more certain, but how far away were other Indians? He took a quick, sure step.

  The Mescaleros turned like cats and he lunged. The nearest Indian struck down barehanded at the knife blade…too late. The blade went in hard and Lane jerked it across and free. The Mescalero grabbed his wrist and pulled Hondo down, dying under him.

  Jerking free, Hondo rolled over, and then he saw that the other Indian was down. Over him, humped in awful fury, was Sam. The big dog had sprung from close up, and the startled Apache had no chance with ninety pounds of snarling, driving fury on top of him.

  Lane scrambled to his feet and put a hand on the dog. “All right, Sam.”

  Reluctantly the dog let go. There was a long scratch on his ribs. Ears pricked, still growling, he walked stiff-legged around the dying Indian, then at another word from Hondo he turned and went into the cold water, lying down.

  Lane peeled bridle and blanket from the horse with the Army brand and turned it loose. There was a bloody scratch on the flank not yet a day old.

  The Mescalero with the officer’s coat had something else. Hondo stooped and pulled it from the pocket. The guidon of Company C, trampled, dusty, and bloody.

  He stepped into the leather and moved off, riding with caution. There was a faint stirring in the grass now, and there was a smell of dampness in the air. Sam moved far out on the flank, trotting with his head up, knowing the danger.

  Then he saw the buzzards. They were low down over a distant hill. He put the lineback into a trot, and then, turning in the saddle, he looked back. Only the long grass moved, only the distant hills lined the horizon.

  He inhaled deeply, liking the cool, fresh air. He rode down into the long valley down which the Apaches had come.

  At least eighty warriors, likely more. Davis had been outnumbered two to one. He puckered his brow. The Indians had been moving right along, not like men going into battle.

  The first thing he saw was a dead pony. He drew up, scanning the ground. He counted nine more, moved ahead, and saw too many to count. There was blood on the grass where men had fallen. He saw a spot of white. It was a dead trooper, stripped and mutilated.

  Swinging right into the hills, he saw several brass cartridge cases. Two, three men here. He saw it then. Ambush. Not by the Indians, but by Lieutenant Davis and Company C. And they had hit hard at the moving Apaches.

  On the opposite hill, toward which the Apaches had fled for shelter, he saw more horses and several spots of white.

  Atop the hill he drew up, looking around. He saw all that remained of Company C, the naked bodies of the dead, fallen in their blood and their glory as fighting men should. Some were scalped, many were not.

  Lieutenant Davis had been shot three times, twice through the body, then a finishing shot through the head. His body was not mutilated. Neither was that of big Clanahan, lying close by.

  They had died together, the lieutenant and the malcontent.

  Nearby lay a broken whisky bottle. Hondo Lane rolled a smoke and lit it, knowing what had happened here. That bottle had belonged to Davis, and at the end he must have given it to Clanahan. Hondo could picture the scene…the lieutenant giving the bottle to the man he had several times sent to the guardhouse for drunken brawling, but a man who died well beside an officer he understood.

  He drew deep on the cigarette. This was no place to stop. Yet he hesitated, looking for the one man who should be here. He saw him then, some thirty yards away.

  Old Pete Britton had outlasted them all. That was evident from the scattered shells around his body. Despite the Apache’s need for weapons, the two rifles he had used were not taken. His body was unmutilated. These were signs of respect paid by the Apaches to a fighting man.

  Judging by the signs, the old man must have held out at least an hour longer than the others. On his hard old face there was a taunting, wolfish grin. He had defeated his ancient fears of loneliness, sickness, and poverty.

  Only when he was once more in the saddle did he see the fleck of white on the blade of bear grass. It was a thick letter, addressed to Mrs. Martha Davis.

  Turning down the valley, he saw the rest of the story. The ambush had worked, a decisive blow if not a conclusive victory. And then the Mimbreños had come up from behind. The unknown factor…

  Briefly he scouted around, reading the last grim details of the story, written plainly here. Then he started the lineback down the long valley at a steady trot. So it had started, then, and with a crashing victory for the Apaches. Yet a victory that had cost them much. The Apaches carried off their dead and wounded, but there were bloodstains on the grass and many of them marked where men had died.

  He rubbed the scrabble of beard on his jaws, staring bleakly into the west. He felt the stir of wind upon his neck, the grass bent around him, and the lineback’s mane streamed away, and with the wind came a few large, scattered drops of rain.

  Turning, the slap of rain against his hard cheeks, he dug into the bedroll for his slicker. When he had it on, he kept to low ground, off the hills where lightning would strike. And then came the rain and the wind. It struck with a solid blow. There was an instant of pause, then the downpour. Thunder roared in the distance, then lightning snapped at the ridge to his right and there was a smell of brimstone and charred grass.

  The lineback moved out, wanting to run, and he let it go. The rain roared down and the wind swept it along the grass. In a matter of minutes there was a trickle of brown water down the valley, then a widening rush. He moved the horse to ground a few feet higher and pushed on.

  Suddenly an arroyo cut the ground across before him. Already the sand was damp and there was a trickle of water. He hesitated, hearing the roar of the water coming downstream, knowing that wall of rolling water would be upon him in seconds. Then he gambled.

  He put the lineback down the bank and slapped him hard on the hip. The startled animal leaped from under him, and, snorting in terror, was running, belly down, across the arroyo. Almost in the middle he saw the wall of water upstream, bearing great logs on its crest. Bank to bank the rolling wall of brown water rushed at him, and he slapped spurs to the lineback and the horse gave a pain-maddened lunge and reached the bank. Its hoofs slipped in the clay, then caught, and with two great bounds the horse was up and away from the water.

  “Good boy.” Hondo patted the horse’s shoulder. “You’ll do to take along.”

  The horse tossed his head impatiently and they pushed on. Rain pelted them, the sod turned soggy underfoot, waves o
f wind washed over them, and great whips of lightning lashed the darkened hills. Stones glistened like gems, and the gray veil of the rain strained out the distance and left nothing but the wet and roaring world through which they moved, man and horse, joined now before the common terror of the storm.

  A dozen times he turned aside, working away from torrents of white water roaring down arroyos. Once he saw a great cottonwood uprooted and lying upon its side. He saw tall grass flattened to the ground, and hail beat upon them, then passed.

  There was no stopping, for there was no place to stop. He rode on, half stunned by the driving fury of the storm, remembering the house in the basin and wondering how Angie fared. She should have a man. It was not good for a woman to live alone. Nor a man.

  And that boy…The lad needed a father.

  From a low place in the hills his eye caught a glistening something, and he reined over and rode nearer. It was a low roof, a stone-faced dugout in the side of a hill. He rode the horse down and, swinging down, opened the door. It was roomy and dry within.

  It was a struggle to get the horse through the door, but he made it. At the back of the dugout there was a dirt-floored cave where there was a hitch rail and a trough. He shucked out of his slicker and took wood from a pile of mesquite roots and built a fire in the crude fireplace. There was a little grain left in the bag brought from Angie’s, and he hung a feed bag on the horse, then wiped him as dry as possible.

  The fire blazed up, the room grew warm. Hondo barred the door and fixed a meal, then lay down on the boards of the bunk and dozed. The firelight played on his face, the rain roared and pounded on the roof overhead.

  What kind of man could leave a woman like that in Apache country? His eyes were suddenly wide open and he was angry, thinking about it. She was all woman, that one. And a person…a real person.

  Somewhere along the tangled trail of his thoughts he dropped off and slept, and while he slept the rain roared on, tracks were washed out, and the bodies of the silent men of Company C lay wide-eyed to the rain and bare-chested to the wind, but the blood and the dust washed away, and the stark features of Lieutenant Davis stared at the sky, where the lightning played and the fury of the storm worried its way out. Lieutenant Creyton C. Davis, graduate of West Point, veteran of the Civil War and the Indian wars, darling of Richmond dance floors, hero of a Washington romance, dead now in the long grass on a lonely hill, west of everything.