Sergeant Major Joe O’Bierne came out of the tent and glanced sharply at Mike Young. “What’s the matter?”
Young jerked his head toward the two, then quietly repeated what had happened.
O’Bierne nodded. “You did right, boy. ’Twas none of our affair.”
“They’ll follow him, I’m thinkin’.”
O’Bierne shrugged. “Then on their own shoulders it’ll be.” He chuckled. “If the Injuns don’t get ’em, Lane will, an’ good riddance.”
* * *
—
HONDO LANE WAS moving swiftly, with no idea of those who came behind. He knew exactly what situation he faced. Between the post and its relative security and the basin where lay Lowe’s ranch, lay miles of country, wild and desolate, crossed and recrossed by hostile Indians. Rarely did they move in as large parties as those encountered by C Company on that fatal day of the massacre. Rather they traveled in smaller groups of eight to a dozen warriors, and were the more dangerous because of this.
An Apache might be anywhere. This was his country, this heat-baked nightmare of waterless, treeless land, cut by no streams and with few water holes. Dotted with clumps of greasewood and cut by savage arroyos or uplifted ledges of black volcanic rock or sandstone, it was a weird and dangerous country over which to travel.
No man knew better the art of concealment than the Apache. His own hide, his instinctive feeling for terrain, and his ability to live for days with little water and less food made him a fearful antagonist always. Hondo Lane rode into that heat-baked wilderness knowing exactly what lay before him. He had lived with the Apache. He knew his ways and much of his thinking, and he knew better than anyone how small was the chance that Angie Lowe and her Johnny were still alive.
Yet he knew also that the Indian was a creature of whim, and although cruel to his enemies or those he believed were enemies, he could be kind to children. No Apache had ever been known to strike his child. He might beat his wife, but never his child. And the very fact that Angie Lowe was alive this long proved she had been fortunate. She might continue to be so.
He moved now as he had before. He scouted the terrain before him, and only then did he move. He knew much of it, but he did not rely on that knowledge. He kept out of low places, held to the concealment just below ridges, studied every fresh track. He wore nothing that gleamed. The lineback’s dun color shaded into the desert as did his own clothing.
With no weapons but his bow and arrows, his lance and war club or knife, the Apache had ruled over this vast area for generations, and when the rifle was introduced, he quickly learned its use and became an adept. Although always lacking ammunition, the Apache became a marksman in many cases second to none.
At noon Hondo rode the lineback into an arroyo and swung down, leading the horse back into the shade of an overhang. Some dead curl-leaf lay in the canyon bottom and he collected it, then a few more sticks, all dry. He ate jerky with hardtack, and drank two cups of coffee hastily made over the fire.
The dry wood made no smoke, and when the coffee was hot, Hondo extinguished the fire and carefully buried the coals, brushing over the surface with a loose branch. He squatted there, finishing his coffee and smoking, letting the heat of the day slip by while the lineback ate of the grass close under the cliff’s edge.
Sam lay panting in the shade a few yards off. Hondo leaned back against the wall and dozed. Not until two hours had passed did he move, and then he tightened the cinch on the lineback and stepped into the saddle.
Taking his time, he worked his way out of the arroyo, careful to study the country before moving into the open. All afternoon he traveled on, keeping a steady gait but frequently shifting his trail. Several times he paused, studying his backtrail. A faint dust was visible once. A dust devil? Or was it someone on his trail?
At dusk he was approaching Deadman Water Hole, and he took his time. A mile from the water he crossed the trail of four unshod ponies. The trail was scarcely an hour old. A word to Sam and the dog moved out warily, scouting ahead. Hondo moved up to a place among some rocks where he looked over the approaches to the water hole. There was nothing in sight. And then he saw Sam.
The big mongrel was moving closer, belly down among the rocks. Only the faintest of movements rendered him visible. Hondo waited, his rifle ready to cover the dog if need be, but suddenly the dog lifted himself to his legs, seemed to hesitate, sniffing the wind, and then trotted toward the hole. Relieved, Hondo Lane got a foot into the stirrup and swung his leg over. The lineback, sensing the water, walked eagerly forward.
Deadman was a seep. The water was still but fresh, and Hondo drank, then allowed the horse to drink. Sam’s muzzle was already wet. The Apaches had been here, but had not remained long. Hondo mounted again and they moved on. Twice he paused before darkness to study his backtrail. He saw nothing.
* * *
—
FAR BEHIND HIM two horsemen rode out of a gully. Ed Lowe was in the lead, Phalinger close behind. Phalinger was a lean, dark man. He stared at the darkening hills.
“I don’t like it, Ed.”
Lowe said nothing. He had already come farther than he had intended, but turning back was not part of his plan. He was a good man on a trail, but Phalinger was better. It had taken all their skill to follow Hondo Lane, although the big rider was making no undue effort to conceal his passing.
“He’s gettin’ deep in Injun territory, and so are we,” Phalinger added.
“What you squawkin’ for? He’s carryin’ plenty, and you know it. Besides, he ain’t goin’ much farther without makin’ camp.”
Phalinger shrugged. “We never found his camp last night.”
“We’ll find it this time.”
They pushed on, finding an occasional track of the shod horse. Lowe had the added advantage of knowing where Lane was headed. He had said he was returning to the ranch, and Lowe believed him. It was an added reason for continuing. No one at the post must ever learn he had abandoned Angie and his child at the ranch. He would not be allowed to stay around for one minute.
That had been one advantage. At the Pass they knew he was married. At the post they knew nothing of him except that he had a ranch and cattle. He had never mentioned Angie.
At first he had intended to return. It was not Indians that worried him, but the long days at the ranch without company. Nor did he want to work. No sense in that. It was easier to play cards and win money from those that did work. So why be a fool? Besides, he had the ranch and cattle. When the Apaches settled down he’d hire a couple of men to round up the steers and sell them to the Army. The rest he would let run, and in time there would be more cattle. Not being there, he’d lose a few, but longhorns knew how to get along. A longhorn bull would tackle anything that walked. They had been known to whip grizzlies.
He tried to avoid thinking of Angie. The thought of her accusing eyes made him uncomfortable. She was all right, only she had such notions about staying with the ranch. As if they wouldn’t be better off in town. And she didn’t want him to gamble. He won, didn’t he? He grinned a little, thinking of how he won. But she didn’t know that, and it was none of her business. Besides, he had worked hard enough for two men while her old man was alive.
“Lots of ’Paches movin’,” Phalinger said. “If we don’t come up with him tonight, I’m goin’ back.”
Ed Lowe felt rising anger, but stifled it. Phalinger was no man to fool with, and besides, he wanted his company and his help. Ed Lowe was shrewd enough to know that he would get nowhere tackling Hondo Lane alone. The man’s reputation had been acquired the hard way.
“Must be packin’ a thousand dollars,” Lowe said, urging Phalinger’s greed. “Where else we goin’ to get that much? Take us to Frisco.”
“If we live.”
They moved on as evening gathered, more slowly now. They were only a few miles behind Hondo at
Deadman. They found the tracks of his horse there overlying those of the Indians.
“All right,” Lowe agreed. “It’s tonight or we both go back.”
They pushed on. Lowe mopped sweat from his face. He had the feeling they were close, and now that they were drawing near his mouth was growing dry, and he was tense.
Long shadows stretched from the hills, the sun died beyond the mountains behind them, and the air grew cool. Lowe’s shirt felt sticky and uncomfortable. Phalinger moved closer. From time to time they paused, listening.
“Ed.”
Lowe turned to Phalinger. The gambler’s face was white and set.
“I got a hunch, Ed. I got a gambler’s hunch. We’ve had it.”
Irritation mounted within Lowe, stifling his own doubt. “Don’t be a damn fool!” He kept his voice down. “Hour from now we’ll have him right where we want him. It’s him ain’t goin’ to get back.”
Their horses walked in sand. Ahead leaves rustled. Leaves meant a cottonwood, and a cottonwood meant water. Ed Lowe’s hatred mounted within him. He loosened his gun, urged his horse forward, then stopped.
A faint sound reached him: a hoof on stone, the creak of saddle leather.
Lowe drew back, triumph choking him. “We got him!” he breathed. “Let’s move back a bit. We got him right where we want him!”
CHAPTER 11
WHEN ANGIE HAD collected a double handful of the tender stalks of the squaw cabbage she put them in a basket and straightened to look at the hills. They were brown now, the grass fading under the blazing summer heat.
The days had passed slowly, each filled with its quota of work, but days that found her going more and more often to look from her doorstep at the surrounding hills. Hondo had said nothing of returning, and yet within her she was sure he had intended to come back.
Had she really read that intention in him, or was it only that the wish was father to the thought?
And her time was growing short. At any time Vittoro might return and say that she must choose now. Perhaps she should have gone with Hondo when he wanted to take her. She might be with him now. Yet she could not bear to leave all this, this place to which she had given the labor of her hands, and where she had seen her father rebuild the house, and lay the poles for the corral.
A man might drift, but a woman must belong somewhere, if it was no more than a hovel on a hillside. A woman must have a home, and this belonged to her. To herself and to Johnny.
There had been a great battle fought. That she knew from the scalps she had seen and the cavalry horses ridden by the Apaches. They had slaughtered one and eaten it not a half mile down the arroyo. Why the Apaches preferred horse and mule meat to good beef she did not know, but so they did, preferring mule meat to all else.
Her father had told her once that the early-day mountain men had liked the meat of the panther best, preferring it to the most tender venison. And they had their choice of game in a country where only Indians had hunted and there was much game.
Picking up her basket, she walked back, going a little out of her way to look at the bushes along the creek. There would be berries later in the season. Maybe enough to preserve some for the winter. This year would be the first when Johnny could help, and anxious as he was to appear a man, she knew he would do more than his share.
She had reached the house and was washing the cabbage stalks when she heard the rush of hoofs. At one moment the ranch was silent and the next it was a circle of rushing horses, a half-dozen hard-riding Indians sweeping by at a dead run, picking objects from the ground, leaping on and off their horses, performing like a circus gone mad.
Rifle in hand, she stopped at the door, staring in consternation at the yelling, charging Indians. Then she saw Vittoro, standing calmly beside the door.
“I thought the Apache were always silent.”
“Except during the squaw-seeking ceremony.”
Angie felt her heart miss a beat. For an instant she held herself still. “The what?”
“Ceremony of seeking new squaw. Then the braves show off their skill that the squaw may choose.”
He took a step forward and lifted a hand. “Hola!”
The Indians swung into a charging line and rode up, rearing their horses, then quieting them to sit waiting.
“You will pick one. It is not good for Small Warrior to grow up without a father to teach him how to perform a man’s duty.”
Fascinated, she stared at Vittoro, and then at the Indians. Physically, they were magnificent specimens. Two were tall, the others the barrel-chested men of medium height typical of the Apaches. All were dressed in their fanciest regalia, but at least two wore parts of uniforms taken from dead soldiers.
Vittoro gestured at the one on the left. “This is the one called Emiliano. Very brave, and has six horses. Two squaws, but one is old and will soon be gone. He is a good hunter. It is never hungry where he sits.
“This one is Kloori. Ten horses, only one squaw. He is…”
Turning swiftly, Angie ran into the house, her heart throbbing painfully, too frightened almost to breathe. As she fought to regain control, tears came into her eyes. She heard Vittoro come into the house behind her, and turned quickly to face him.
Turning to Johnny, he said, “Go stand by my horse.”
“Yes, Vittoro.”
When the boy had gone the old Indian said sternly, “Small Warrior is never to see tears. The Apache does not weep.”
Angie drew herself up. Desperation gave her strength. “Chief, you can’t make me…I’m married.”
“Married? Oh, the white man’s word for it. You are a fool. Your man is dead.”
“No. I do not know he is dead. Among my people it is not so easy. I…I must be sure. But even if it were true, I don’t know…I…”
Vittoro did not seem to be listening. He gestured toward the waiting braves. “Sachito. Brave warrior. Many horses, does not beat squaws much. Sings very loud.”
Desperately she searched for an argument that might move him, some common ground. Suddenly she believed she had it. “You don’t understand. It would be against my religion. You Apaches have your own religion, and live up to it. I know that. Can’t you understand? Can’t you see that if mine tells me—”
Vittoro was impatient. He spoke quickly now, and more sharply. He was not accustomed to arguing with women, and the warriors who waited outside were the pride of his people, not to be lightly disdained by any woman.
“When religion makes you act like a fool, it is a wrong religion.” He hesitated, then said brusquely, “Very well! I have decided. We will wait.” He pointed toward the mountains. “Soon will come the planting rain. If your man comes by then, good. If not, you take Apache brave. It is spoken.”
He walked out of the house without a backward glance, mounted his pony, and, followed by the braves, rode from the basin. Angie, her heart pounding, watched them go.
Again, for a little while, she was safe. And after that there would be no choice. For a few minutes she thought of flight, suddenly, and in the night. Then she knew the absurdity of the idea, for by daylight they would be upon her trail and then there would be no more waiting…if they did not kill her out of hand. And one among them, at least, would do just that. She remembered the hatred in the eyes of Silva.
There would be no chance to get away, for she knew what an Apache on a trail was like, and she knew nothing of hiding a trail, and with Johnny they could not travel fast. She was not even sure exactly where the Army post lay. And even there she might not find security. Who knew if there was even an Army post left? Many soldiers had been killed, perhaps all of them.
Yet from that moment she began to plan. There was no definite knowledge of what Hondo planned to do. She was foolish to think he might return, and the chance that Ed might return was even smaller. She must now, as always, rely upon herse
lf.
The thing to do was to remain quiet, yet to plan and make preparations. She would need two horses, she would need food and ammunition. She did not know exactly where the post lay, yet she did know where the Pass was, and the Pass was large enough to be safe from any Indian attack. There was an Army post there, also, and there were rangers there.
Somewhere among her father’s things there was a map—she remembered seeing him make it—and if she could find it, she might be able to plan a way out. And he had taught her, while she was only a little girl, to use the stars to guide her travel. There would be a time when the braves of Vittoro would be far away at battle, raiding in Mexico or elsewhere. She had learned to know those times, and often the parties went through her basin on their way out.
The next time they went, she would take her horses and go at once, within the hour.
That night, after Johnny was asleep, she packed the saddlebags with ammunition and filled two canteens. If she had to wait she could always refill them. She prepared some jerky, placed it and some hardtack where they could be reached and packed in an instant.
Searching through her father’s trunk, she found the map. It was a square of some twenty inches of hide, the lines drawn and notations made in his painstaking hand. The map itself was not crude, but a small work of art. She located the ranch, then searched out a way among the buttes and canyons by which they could travel.
Only one of the horses was fit to ride, so she must break the other. Fortunately, she believed, there would be time. If there was not, she could always take Johnny on the same horse. Yet she went at once to the corral and remained beside the horses until it was completely dark, talking to them and feeding them.
She could not conquer them as Hondo had done, but the horse she needed was a much less dangerous animal, and she had seen both her father and Hondo make friends with a horse until the battle was half won. Those were the tactics she would use; they were all that remained to her.
Hondo (Louis L'Amour's Lost Treasures) Page 10