The lean-hipped rider stared at him with contempt. “If you ask me, the Cavalry’s scared of Vittoro. And I think the U.S. Cavalry…”
Major Sherry came in from the room behind the sergeant. He was a tall man, wire-taut and strong, but his face was lined and exhausted. The speaker, suddenly aware of his presence, let his voice die away.
“I am greatly interested in your opinion of the United States Cavalry,” Major Sherry said dryly. “Continue, Mr. Whatever-your-name-is.”
“I’m Ed Lowe,” the lean-hipped man said. His voice lost its irritation before the sharpness of the Major’s and became complaining. “The Cavalry’s supposed to support the settlers. I’ve got some cattle up north and I—”
“Company C is making a sweep to the north to escort out any settlers they may find. Company C is over a week late in returning. That is all I am able to tell you.”
Hondo came through the door behind Lowe, followed by Sam. The big dog sank to the floor just inside the door. Hondo crossed and hung his saddle on the wall beside several other saddles. When the saddle was hung he looked back over his shoulder.
“C Company won’t be back.”
He turned slowly, as if reluctant to give them the news, and on the desktop before the sergeant he dropped the crumpled, bloodstained guidon of C Company.
Major Sherry stared at the guidon, his face growing stiff and old. Crey Davis….He would have to tell his wife. Why the hell did he ever volunteer for the Arizona command?
The story was there. Hondo would provide the details, but actually, none were needed except for the reports. Suddenly, wearily, Major Sherry knew he would rather not hear them. Good friends gone…good soldiers, good fighting men. C Company had been his best, his toughest outfit.
Looking up, he saw Ed Lowe. A flicker of disgust showed, and he said irritably, “You may leave. I have business to attend to.”
Major Sherry’s head came around. “Sergeant!”
The implication was plain and the sergeant came to his feet abruptly. He started around the desk. “Git!” he said. “An’ don’t come botherin’ around no more!”
Lowe turned angrily and started to the door. Hondo had moved back to the wall to hang up his pistol belt. Lowe found himself facing the big dog, and although there was plenty of room to pass, his anger flamed suddenly. “Get out of the way, you mangy cur!” He drew his foot back.
Sam came to his feet with a swift, almost catlike move, crouched, his muscles bunched to leap. His lips curled back from his teeth but he neither growled nor snarled, only looked up at Lowe, his face ugly with readiness.
Taken aback by the sudden reaction, Ed Lowe stepped back. Then he reached for his gun.
Hondo’s gun belt was on the hook but his Winchester was in his hand. He tipped the barrel forward with his left hand slapping the butt into his hand. The butt struck his hand and at almost the same instant his thumb cocked the hammer back. Lowe froze at the sharp click, turning his head.
There was no mistaking the rifle. It was hip-high and the muzzle was aimed at his stomach and not eight feet away. Ed Lowe looked at the rifle and his eyes lifted to the bleak, wind-raw face of Hondo Lane. Something in Ed Lowe seemed to back up and sit down.
“If that’s your cur, get him out of the way.”
Hondo neither advised nor threatened. “Walk around him.”
“I’ll be hanged if I ever go out of my way for a cur dog!”
Lane’s face did not change. His voice was matter of fact. “Man should always do what he thinks he should.”
A fly buzzed in the room. Outside somewhere a horse stamped and there was a clang of iron on iron. Ed Lowe stood very still.
He did not know this man. He might be anybody. Yet there was something in his manner that was too calm, too casual. Ed Lowe was a good man with a gun and had found occasions to demonstrate it. He figured there were few better. Yet suddenly he was examining his hole card and he did not like what he saw.
There was that in the attitude of the stranger that implied all too much familiarity with such situations. Ed Lowe’s thoughts probed his memory for the face, for something that would be a clue. He liked to know what he was going up against.
Nor did he like the obvious satisfaction in the sergeant’s face. The sergeant would not be unhappy to see him dead, and the sergeant seemed all too sure that he was about to see just that. And Ed Lowe did not have the kind of guts it would take to find out.
The blue fly buzzed. Somebody laughed in the outer air, and the flickering instant of hesitation was ended. Ed Lowe had been fairly called and he knew it. All he had to do was to gamble….Suddenly sick and empty inside, Ed Lowe stepped around the dog and went blindly through the door.
For an instant there was silence and the sergeant sighed briefly, with genuine regret. “Thought maybe we’d be rid of him,” he said to nobody in particular. “He’s got it coming.”
Hondo pushed the dog aside with his foot. “Don’t block the door,” he said quietly.
Major Sherry gestured to the guidon. “Where did you get this?”
“About half a day’s ride south of Twin Buttes.”
“How?”
“Off two Indians. Running Dog Lodge of the Mescaleros.”
“So the Mescaleros are up, too. That makes all the Apache lodges.”
Hondo shoved his hat back and began to build a smoke.
“Went up there,” he said, “and backtrailed them Mescaleros. Davis ambushed Vittoro. Figure he got twenty or more. He was pullin’ out of the ambush when they hit him from behind. ’Nother outfit, maybe a hundred strong. He never had a chance.”
“All there?”
“Yes. They got no prisoners, if that’s what you mean.” Hondo hesitated, and then said quietly, “Clanahan fought ’em off Davis’ body at the end. They went out together, him an’ the lieutenant.”
“Clanahan?” The Major’s eyes brightened a little. He remembered the man, a big, black-haired Irishman with a brutal face. A drunk, a brawler, a troublemaker, but a fighter. And he was Army. “He was a good man.”
Hondo described the action briefly as he had seen the sign on the ground. It was a clear, accurate picture and had its value. Every battle was a lesson; in each there was something to be learned. Major Sherry never ceased to marvel at what these men would read from the ground, yet he had seen their facts proved too many times to doubt them.
“They won,” Hondo said, “but it hurt. They got hit hard.”
He took a long drag on his cigarette and turned to the door, then paused. “Any settlers out of the north basin since I been away? Lately?”
“A few.”
“Handsome woman? Fair? With a small boy, maybe six years old?”
“No. All middle-aged or elderly people.”
Hondo Lane walked to the door and found Buffalo waiting with his war bag. He reached for it but Buffalo pushed his hand away. “I’ll tote it.”
Hondo walked out into the cool of the evening. They had not come out, then. He had hoped that after he had gone Angie would change her mind. She could have made it through while he rode north to follow through on the story of Company C. But there was nothing.
Buffalo walked along beside Hondo, shifting the war bag to his other hand. “Old Pete Britton was scoutin’ with C Company. Wintered with Pete oncet up on the Divide. Ornery cuss.”
“Last of them,” Hondo said. “Maybe an hour, alone on a hilltop.”
They walked on in silence. At the door of the jacal where Hondo stopped, Buffalo put down the bag.
“Old Pete, he worried himself a lot. That winter on the Divide he was laid up a lot of the time. Rheumatic, he was. Skeered of being crippled.”
They stood together and smoked quietly. Hondo explained about the body. Buffalo dropped his cigarette, then walked away, saying no more. Hondo stood alone then, looking into the night.
He was no man to be thinking about a woman. He had never lived with a woman…wouldn’t know how to. He wouldn’t know how to handle a kid, either. And women…It was one thing with a squaw. After a while you knew them. But a girl like Angie, now, that would be different. He was a fool to even think about it. What did he have to offer a woman?
He sat down in the doorway and took off his boots. He saw a soldier coming down the line of tents. It was the same trooper that had been in the headquarters building.
“That fellow, complaining to the Major. Who was he?”
The trooper hesitated, liking the big man and ready to talk. “Don’t know his name.”
“Why doesn’t he go in?”
“Same reason he walked around your dog when you told him.” He waited, wanting to talk, hesitating. “Them Indians you took that C pennant off’n. Dead Indians?”
“Finally.”
He got up and turned inside. The trooper stood outside in the dark, a faint shadow in the greater darkness of the night.
The cot creaked. Almost at once there were snores. The soldier stood alone, looking into the night, thinking of a night in his own little New England village. A night like this, cool, quiet…
There had been a girl there. He could not even remember her name, just a quiet, pretty girl. He wished he could remember. He would like to write her a letter.
He thought of Company C, lying under the rain, and under the stars.
A man needed somebody to think about, he needed somebody somewhere….
CHAPTER 8
IT WAS AFTER ten when Hondo awakened. Accustomed to sleeping in short snatches, when and where it was possible, his body could not attune itself to long, unrestricted rest. To oversleep was dangerous, and despite his weariness, he awakened suddenly and with a start.
He stared up into the dark, not moving until his mind knew where he was and the countless tiny sounds began to sort and adjust themselves. Slowly his muscles relaxed. He was at the post.
Groggily he sat up and ran his fingers through his hair. His body felt heavy and his mouth tasted bad. He swore, walked to the bucket on the table, and lifted it to drink, then he spat into the street.
It was very dark but there were stars. A coolness left by the rain still pervaded the desert night. He bathed his face, combed his hair, and then picked up his hat. From up the company street he heard the sound of an out-of-tune piano, and with it a clear Irish tenor singing “Brennan on the Moor,” an old Irish folk song of a highwayman and his love.
Hondo Lane stepped out into the night and looked around, sensing the darkness, taking his feel of it before moving on. Far out over the hills a coyote yapped his loneliness to the listening stars. A faint breeze stirred the tent flaps. A tent not far away showed the dull glow of a lamp and he heard a murmur of voices and a slap of cards.
Hondo Lane walked up the street toward the sutler’s store, his boots grating on the gravel and clay of the parade ground. Two men sat outside the store, smoking. One of them murmured a greeting, and Hondo replied with a short “Howdy,” not knowing the man.
Inside the room was crowded. It was a long and dingy room without color, without light, without women. Several men leaned against the homemade bar at one end. At the other there was a counter where trade goods were dispensed, with shelves behind it.
The Irish tenor leaned on the battered upright piano, wearing a rumpled but once fashionable gray suit and a derby hat with a dent and a badly scuffed brim. He was a young man with a dashing mustache, and he needed a shave. The man at the piano was a cow hand, bearing out the fact that in the melting pot of the West there was no estimating the hidden talents of a drifting man.
All were roughly dressed but the soldiers. A few were still around, although most had turned in by now. The men of the crowd were cow hands, cattlemen, gamblers, prospectors, drifters, and scouts. There was a tension in the group, and nobody was talking of what they were all thinking. In the morning a burial party would go out to inter the bodies of Company C—a party that must in itself be strong. Not a man here but might be called upon to go, and not a man here who had not lost a friend or drinking companion in the massacre of Company C.
Hondo walked to the bar and the sutler reached underneath for a bottle of Irish whisky. He winked at Hondo, filled his glass, and said quietly, “On the house.” Then the bottle vanished again, unseen by the habitués of the saloon and store.
Hondo looked around slowly. A card game was going at the other end of the room. Buffalo was sitting in, and Hondo recognized the man with whom he had had trouble at headquarters. There was another character of whom he had seen a good deal, not only here but at the Pass, over in Texas. A sour-faced man with a snaky look to his eyes and a habit of winning in poker games, no matter how. The last of them was Pete Summervel.
Pete was seventeen, a hard-riding youngster, cocky, overconfident. Now he was not quite drunk, but nearing it. Obviously he was in no condition to play poker, and obviously the gambler was encouraging him to drink. Hondo tossed off his own drink and watched the game. The man with whom he had had trouble earlier seemed adept with the cards. Hondo put down his glass, drew the back of his hand across his mouth, and walked over to the table.
Ed Lowe looked up when Hondo stopped by the table, and something in him tightened. “Three sixes and two pretty fours,” he said, spreading his cards. “I win. Let’s go again.”
Pete looked up and grinned. “Hi, Hondo! Broke my heart when I heard you made it.”
“Your pa know when you started going against that so-called whisky, Pete?”
Pete grinned. The whisky was already having its effect. “Ain’t seen him for a month.”
Hondo dropped his hand to his shoulder. “I know you haven’t, an’ I’ve got a message from him for you. Come on.”
Pete got to his feet, staggering a little. “Sure, Hondo.”
“Come down to the bar where we can talk. These gents’ll excuse you.”
“I won’t.”
The words were low-spoken, but Hondo heard them clearly. He turned. It was the man with whom he had had trouble earlier.
“I’m out almost a hundred simoleans.”
“That I can figure,” Hondo replied mildly, “with Buffalo in the game. Come along, Pete.”
Lowe came to his feet quickly and caught Hondo by the shirt front. “Wait a minute!”
Hondo looked at the hand gripping his shirt, then lifted his cold eyes to Lowe’s. “I just bought that shirt,” he said mildly. The other men were on their feet, too.
Hondo pushed Pete out of range as Lowe started a punch. It was the wrong thing for Lowe to do. As the punch started, Hondo’s left hand came up and knocked the grip loose from his shirt and he stepped inside of the looping left with a lifting right uppercut to the chin.
Lowe staggered, and instantly Hondo swung a right that knocked Buffalo into a corner. Lowe had gone down hard, but as Buffalo sat up, Lowe gathered himself.
“What did you hit me for?” Buffalo demanded in pained surprise.
“Because you’re the most dangerous.”
Hondo had started to turn away when Lowe went for his gun. “Not in the back!” Buffalo shouted. “Leather it!”
Turning swiftly, Hondo kicked the gun from Lowe’s hand, then he grabbed him by the shirt front and jerked him to his feet. Hondo smashed a right into Lowe’s stomach, then shoved him away and hit him in the face with both hands. Lowe lunged, swinging, but Hondo knocked down Lowe’s right and crossed over his left. Lowe staggered and Hondo walked in, his face expressionless. He hit Lowe with a left to the body, then a right.
Lowe backed up, not liking it, and Hondo slapped him. It was a powerful, brutal slap that jarred Lowe to his heels and turned him half around. Then Hondo dropped him with a straight right.
Lowe sprawled on the floor and Hondo picked him up by the s
cruff of the neck and the seat of the pants, and when somebody opened the door, he heaved him out into the dirt. Lowe landed on his face in the gravel and Hondo waited an instant in the door.
Ed Lowe rolled over. His body was alive with vindictive hatred and he stared up at Hondo. “You ain’t heard the last of this!” he said thickly.
“Then I’ll keep listenin’,” Hondo said, turning back into the saloon. The door closed and Ed Lowe remained on the ground, staring at the blackness.
The two men seated outside had not moved. One’s cigarette glowed red.
Lowe gathered himself and got shakily to his feet. He spat blood from a cut lip. His head felt foggy and there was a raw pain in his side. “I’ll kill him!” he said into the night. “I’ll kill him for this!”
The cigarette glowed briefly. “I was you,” the voice said mildly, “I’d figure I was lucky he wasn’t packin’ a gun. That’s Hondo Lane.”
Inside, Hondo walked over to Buffalo. He put his hand on the big man’s shoulder. “Sorry, friend. I didn’t know who all was in that shindig an’ I figured I wanted no part of you in a brawl.”
Buffalo chuckled. “All right. I was wishin’ the kid was out of it. Ed an’ that sidewinder from the Pass roped him in.”
Hondo jerked his head toward the door. “This is the second time I’ve tangled with that mouthy no-good. Who is he, anyhow?”
“Calls himself Lowe. Ed Lowe.”
Ed Lowe…Hondo looked at the glass on the bar. Angie’s husband, and alive.
What kind of man would leave a woman and child alone at such a time as this? And he had been lifting the roof at headquarters about his cattle. Nothing said about his wife and child.
* * *
—
WHEN F COMPANY rode out of the post at daylight Hondo Lane was standing by to watch them go. With them was riding a company of scouts commanded by Lieutenant Crawford. These were a mixture of Apaches, Yaquis, Opatas, and Mexicans, with a scattering of Americans. All were skilled Indian fighters. It was a strong force for a burial detachment, but their orders were explicit. They were under no concern to attempt to follow Vittoro or to engage in any battle unless first attacked.
Hondo (Louis L'Amour's Lost Treasures) Page 8