Once her decision was made, she planned every move with it in mind. There was an old lock….Perhaps the Indians would break it, but she could at least try to protect her house until she returned.
She would wait until every other chance was gone. Perhaps she might escape during the rain. With the rain to wipe out her tracks, their chances would be greater. Yet that meant exposing Johnny to the fury of the storm…for storm it would be when the planting rain came.
It was almost midnight before Angie finally retired. During most of that time she had tried to plan her course of action. At the last moment she might have to act entirely opposite to her decided course, but she would have a plan. What to do would depend upon the events of the moment, but the very fact that she had a plan gave her confidence and a feeling of greater security.
Yet even as her eyes closed, her last conscious thought was that Hondo Lane might return. And the question remained in her mind: What had happened between them that she should feel so sure of how he felt? So little had been said, so little done. Yet the knowledge was there, and a deep inner realization that this was the man with whom she could be happy, this was the man with whom she wanted to live out her years.
And it could never be. Even if she escaped the Indians, if she survived all the fighting, and if Hondo felt about her as she felt about him, there was still no chance for happiness for either of them. There was always Ed Lowe. He might be dead, but Angie was not prepared to believe that. And he was her husband, the father of her child.
At daybreak an idea came to her. The Apaches would know how many horses were in the corral, and when two were missing they would immediately know she had fled. But for that she could plan. That very morning she led out two of the horses and picketed them on the grass in the trees and out of sight of any passing Indians. She would do this occasionally, while still remaining in sight herself. In that way the Indians would not be suspicious when they noticed the missing horses. There were several places they could be picketed out of sight, and where they could not be found without a search. Thus their disappearance would not be sudden, and not a cause for investigation.
Yet even as she worked and planned, Angie knew that her chances of escape were small. Only one thing made her decision to make the attempt one from which she could not retreat. There was no other way.
She was hanging out her wash when she heard approaching horses. Turning quickly, she saw that three Indians had ridden their ponies into the ranch yard. Scarcely two hours after the horses had been moved, and the Indians were here!
One of them was Silva.
They rode around the corral, noting the tracks. One of them rode in the direction the horses had gone, then returned, saying something to Silva. He shrugged, then walked his pony toward Angie.
She faced him, standing very straight, her face composed. To show terror could mean death, and she knew that of them all, Silva feared Vittoro less than the rest. He was, she knew, some sort of subchief.
“What do you want?”
He looked at her insolently. “Maybe soon you be my squaw.”
“You?” Her contempt was plain. “Of all the braves in the lodges of the Apache, you would be the last, Fighter of Women!”
Silva’s nostrils flared and temper quickened his eyes. It would not do to tempt this man too far, she realized. His was a hair-trigger temper, and he was naturally vindictive. Nor had he forgotten his defeat by her child. The story must have aroused many a chuckle in the wickiups.
One of the two braves riding with him was Emiliano. She remembered him instantly as one of those who had come with Vittoro to the squaw-seeking ceremony. He was a lean and powerful Indian, not the sort to be intimidated.
“I no fight women!” Silva’s temper lashed at her. “I kill soldier! I count plenty coups!”
Sensing sympathy from the other Indians, she answered him. “And my child counted coup over you, Brave Warrior! And he is but six summers! Think, Brave Warrior!” Her contempt was thick. “What if he had been twelve?”
Silva started forward as if prodded with a lance, but Emiliano’s voice rang sharply.
Silva whirled his horse and the two Indians faced each other, tempers flaring. The third Apache looked at her and she thought she detected a faint smile on his face. Whatever was said between Silva and Emiliano, the former suddenly wheeled his horse, and moved away.
The others hesitated a moment, and then Angie said quietly, “Thank you, Emiliano. I shall speak of this to Vittoro.”
His eyes held her briefly, then the two wheeled their ponies and followed after Silva. It was only then that reaction set in. What if Emiliano had not been there? What if Silva had with him some braves more of his own nature?
He would never, she knew instinctively, make this mistake again.
Suddenly her knees began to tremble, and the muscles in her legs shook uncontrollably. She got to the house and sat down on the steps, and it was a long time before she could move.
She had been a fool to stay on. She had been a silly fool. What good would she be to her son if they were taken to an Indian village? What good would the ranch be to either of them?
She would think no more of Hondo Lane. She would not think of Ed. Neither of them would come. The latter was faithless and vacillating, the former had no reason to return. No real reason. She was a lonely woman and her loneliness had magnified his respect and a chance kiss into something that was not there.
She would think of one thing only: escape. When the planting rain came, she would go. And if the rains were hard, they would wash out her tracks, and she would take a direction where they would never expect her. Then she might escape.
In the night she was awakened suddenly. A waiting moment of silence, then a sudden rush of hoofs across the hard-packed yard, then a hoarse cry. A long moment when there was no sound, then a shot and after it a long-drawn, wailing scream as of a mortal soul in pain.
Crouching by the window, rifle in hand, she peered out, and she could see nothing, only the moonlight on the cottonwood leaves, only the white-seeming roof of the stable, only the empty hills.
A dream? No. Johnny was crouching beside her, trembling, partly from cold and partly fear. He tugged at her arm. “Mommy! Mommy, what was that? What happened? Did the man come back?”
Did the man come back?
She felt something like horror mounting within her. Had he come back and been killed at her door?
There was no more sleep. When Johnny was safely in bed she wrapped a blanket about her and sat by the window, the rifle at her hand.
Slowly, with a quiet chill, the night passed. A faint yellow faded the eastern sky, the tips of the cottonwoods turned gold, like the sun-tipped lances of a moving army. The shadows in the yard drew back, hiding in the barn and under the brush along the stream, crouching there. A quail sent out an inquiring call, and somewhere across the basin another quail responded.
It was morning.
CHAPTER 12
WHEN PHALINGER AND Ed Lowe had ridden back a quarter of a mile from Hondo’s place of stopping, Lowe drew up. “Look,” he said quietly. “We’ve got him. Right now he’s makin’ camp. He’ll be mighty cautious. So we let him be. Come daylight, either before he’s up or when he’s gettin’ up, we’ll take him.”
The gambler shrugged. “Your party.” He studied the hills.
“His fingers will be stiff then.”
Phalinger looked at Lowe with a faint shadowing of contempt. “Don’t take many chances, do you?”
“Why be a sucker?”
From the position Lowe had chosen, the arroyo was in view. They could not see Hondo Lane, nor could he see them, but escape from his camp was impossible without alerting them.
Phalinger was quiet. The farther he had gone, the less he liked any part of it. He was a man without qualms. Lowe knew little about him aside from his utter lack of
scruples and the fact that he was a slick second-dealer who knew cards and who worked well with a partner. Phalinger had done murder in Missouri, drifted west into Kansas, then south into Texas. He was wanted in both places.
Yet he had an admiration for a brave man, and Hondo Lane was such a man. Despite the fact that he worked with Lowe, he despised him. Yet not even Phalinger knew that Lowe had deserted a woman in Indian country. Had he known, he might have killed him out of hand.
Phalinger was restless. Their camp was good. They needed no fire. They had food and whisky. Nevertheless, the premonition he had felt earlier now returned. Hondo Lane was carrying several months’ wages from the Army and a small poke of gold of his own. It would make a rich haul, and gambling had not been profitable. Too many had lost to them and the word had gone around. It was time to drift, and without money drifting was impossible.
Broodingly he watched Lowe. What drove the man? What was there in him aside from greed and hatred? Yet no man was all bad. Phalinger, who was bad in most ways, knew that he himself was not all bad. Lying on his back he looked up at the stars, thinking about Lowe. He decided that Lowe was weak…weak and jealous.
He would always, Phalinger decided, strike at what was stronger and better than himself.
The only reason that Lowe had neither left him nor struck at him, the gambler was sure, was because he considered himself smarter or braver. The thought was galling.
“It better be tomorrow.” He said the words suddenly. “I’m going back.”
“It’ll be tomorrow.”
* * *
—
HONDO LANE HAD made dry camp in the gully. It was also a camp without fire. He was drawing too near to his objective now to take any chances. Also, there had been occasional dust along his backtrail, and once his eye had caught a flash of sunlight on some moving object behind him.
He could be mistaken, of course. But somebody seemed to be trailing him—somebody not an Indian.
The bed he had chosen was in a small open space in the middle of a thicket of mountain mahogany and prickly pear. There was a little catclaw, too. In this place he could sleep without fear, for nothing human could approach his bed without making considerable noise.
On the soft sand he hollowed a place for his hips and rolled in his blankets and ground sheet. He slept, as always, gun in hand.
His saddle lay beside him, his rifle in the scabbard, and his horse was picketed a few feet away. Sam crept under the brush on his belly and put his dark muzzle down on his paws and looked at the man he loved.
The man had strange ways, but he was Sam’s friend, and they understood each other. And upon this night Sam too was restless. Twice that day his nostrils had caught a vague smell, faintly familiar, but scarcely tangible. Sam was uneasy, no more.
A quarter of a mile apart three men looked at the night sky. One was discontented with his situation, but ready to accept the profits of murder; the second was thinking first of murder and second of profit; and the third, lying on the sand among the thorns and brush, thought of a cabin, of the firelight on a woman’s face, and of her shadow on the wall as he tried to go to sleep.
The moving shadow of a woman on a wall, and the faint sounds of a woman working. It had been a long time, a long, lonely, restless time, since he had heard such sounds.
The lineback had found some grass. He pulled at it, then ate. The sound of his moving jaws was pleasantly relaxing. The man who thought of a woman went to sleep.
Twice in the night the dog awakened and looked at the man, then listened with pricked ears. Had he heard something, far off? He listened and the night listened around him, and there was no sound, and the dark muzzle lowered to the paws against the sand, and the dog’s eyes closed, and the horse, too, lay down.
A coyote moved to the arroyo’s edge and lifted his nose to the sky, but catching the scent of dog and man, it moved warily away.
Three miles to the south and west a Mescalero walked up a trail, then suddenly stopped. His feet, sensitive through the moccasins, detected something wrong in the path. He knelt, his fingers explored, and he found the indentation made by a horseshoe.
He muttered something to the others, who gathered around him, and the three stood talking in undertones and looking away to the north and east. Then they walked their horses into a hollow hand of hills and prepared to wait until morning.
There was a white man ahead of them, and possibly more than one. These were scalps to be had, coups to be counted, and they would return to their village men made stronger by the death of enemies. Their dark faces relaxed and they did not talk. And then they, too, went to sleep.
And the planet turned slowly in the vast night sky, and the stars looked down, and there was a smell of damp and coolness in the air. Far over the mountains low clouds gathered. Perhaps the planting rain?
Under a quiet sky the planet turned, and horses ate, and men slept, and death waited for morning.
* * *
—
A BRIGHT STAR HUNG like a distant lamp in the sky when Hondo opened his eyes. He did not lie still. To awaken was to rise, and he did so now, getting swiftly to his feet, buckling on his gun belt, holstering the gun, and drawing on his boots.
Sam came to his feet with one swift, unnoticed motion as Hondo rolled his bed. The dog growled low, and Hondo looked up at him, watching.
The Indians were near, and their moving disturbed a rattler, which coiled and sent out a short, sharp warning. Hondo relaxed, but Sam growled.
“Cut it out, Sam! I can hear him.”
Yet in that instant, his perceptions sharpened by danger, he sensed something else. The dog was disturbed as he had not seen him before, and the dog was not directing his attention toward the sound of the rattler.
There was a frozen instant when Hondo’s ears caught at sound, when with the instincts of a wild thing he dropped suddenly and rolled over the bank beneath its added protection, backed by the deeper portion of the brush-choked gully. As he moved, one swift grab slid the Winchester into his hands.
And after that single, violent, animal-like dive for safety, all was still, unmoving. And the movement itself had been relatively soundless.
Now Hondo lay still, listening, scarcely able to breathe. A bee buzzed near, landed on a bush. Hondo could see the texture of the wings, the flexing of the tiny muscles of the body. Sam was quiet. The lineback, seemingly aware of the sudden tension, was still. Not a sound disturbed the clear, bell-like beauty of the morning. There was nothing.
And then there was.
Two riders showed up suddenly on the canyon rim, rifles ready, starkly outlined against the morning.
Lowe and Phalinger had ridden their horses forward through soft sand. At first they considered crawling to the rim, but Lowe was aware of the dog’s danger, and had no desire to come upon the big mongrel suddenly. It would be a simple matter to ride right up to the rim, keeping a spacing of about twenty yards, then fire. Hondo Lane would be offered two shots, which was sure to make him hesitate an instant if he saw them at all, and they could cut him down.
The plan was perfect—up to a point. They had not counted on the alertness of Hondo Lane or the hearing of Sam.
Nor did they know about the Apaches.
Phalinger liked no part of it. His heart was pounding and his mouth was dry. He had no breakfast, and he desperately wanted coffee. They had killed their whisky during the long night and his nerves were jumpy. It was too quiet. Moreover, he was moved by the beauty of the morning. Something deep within him seemed urging him to stop, to breathe, to enjoy. This was something one could not buy in bottles. It was bright, clear, all too beautiful.
Phalinger had killed. He had shot men in the back, and he would not hesitate to do so again. Yet he loved life and loved it dearly, and in that awful moment of realization he saw in the clear, sharp beauty of the morning what waste
d years he had left behind. He looked over at Lowe, started to speak.
And he hesitated. Lowe was alert, tense. His rifle was ready. Lowe was a killer, as are many cowardly things, and he could not accept that there should live things and persons superior to him. Angie’s father had always been a better man, but wanting the ranch, Ed Lowe had played a game, fooling the father more successfully than he could ever fool the daughter.
Their horses walked in the soft earth. They moved forward, step by step. Before them their view of the arroyo widened, the morning grew brighter. The sun lay against the far bank and at their backs, for they had circled for this advantage, so that Hondo would have to fire into the glare of the sun.
Phalinger heard a bird call. He heard the soft fall of his horse’s hoofs. A leaf brushed his face, and off across the far hills there were low clouds. The very canyons, moraines, and hanging valleys showed sharply clear in the bright air. He liked the feel of the horse moving under him, liked the smell of it. He liked the smell of sage, and of crushed cedar….Why had he waited so long to realize this?
Lowe caught his eye with a signal. Phalinger’s rifle came up. It was live or die now. They breasted the slope.
They saw the rolled blankets, the open space in the brush, the linebacked horse…and nothing else!
In that single, awful moment of awareness, both men were caught, suspended, in the moment. Both had expected a target, were ready for it…and there was nothing.
Then from Phalinger’s far right a flash of sunlight on a rifle barrel turned his head. For one swift, stark moment he saw the Apache, saw the dark, slim body, saw the rifle muzzle not forty yards away, and knew he looked upon death.
He lifted his rifle, and heard soft, gasping words torn from him. “Oh, God!” And then the rifle bullet smashed into his jaw, tearing through his throat, and he fell.
His horse sprang from under him. Vaguely he heard other shots, but they were not for him, nor was he for them. He lay flat on his face with the taste of blood and earth in his mouth and he was choking and he was seeing again the bright morning he had left, and with his last muscular effort he rolled over to look at the sky.
Hondo (Louis L'Amour's Lost Treasures) Page 11