Hondo (Louis L'Amour's Lost Treasures)

by Louis L'Amour

  And it was not so easy to die well. He had seen other men die, and he had seen the remains of men who had died well. It had never seemed possible that what they had endured could be endured by any man. Could he do as well?

  A squaw brought him food, and he thanked her in her own tongue, and she glanced at him from the corners of her eyes, astonished. Then she went away, but later she returned with a gourd and cool water from the spring.

  Was it kindness or because they wanted him strong for dying?

  In the woman he decided it was kindness, yet the others did not object, and they missed nothing. The woman was the squaw of one called Emiliano.

  It was good to live. How could a man prepare himself for death with the smell of the desert in his nostrils? What he wanted was not to die, but to live, to return again to Angie…and to Johnny.

  He had always wanted a son. But what man does not want a son? What man wishes to die and leave no man to carry on, to continue the strain, the bloodline? Who wishes to waste what he has learned? Who wishes to see it die with him?

  Old as life is the desire for sons. Old as all life upon the planet. It is this that carries on the species, and it is necessary for each man and woman to breed. That was the will of nature. All else came after. The species must continue, it must go on.

  So there is deeply seated this desire, this wish. And he, Hondo Lane, what did he have to pass on? His skill with a gun? His ability to kill? To destroy?

  No…but there were the desert and the mountains and the love of strong things, man things. The creak of saddle leather in the sun, the taste of cold, clear water, the ways of wild game and of horses, the little tricks of working…all these were ancient instincts, basic in the blood of man, built upon the ancient drive to carry on the race, the blood, the species.

  And he sat here ready to die…for what? He left behind him nothing. A few people who would remember for a day or an hour. A man needed something on which to build. A man without a woman, without a home, and without a child was no man at all.

  Johnny. If there had been no son of his own, he could at least have given Johnny what he had learned, the way of the desert and mountains, the thousand tiny things he had learned for himself, in bitterness and struggle, and the philosophy, too.

  The things he had learned that were right and good, the things that living taught him—must these die?

  He stared across the rancheria at the lonely squalor of the Apache camp, and knew that he must live. He must go on. He was not ready to die. He had done nothing, nothing at all.

  And these people—how could he blame them? They were the People. That was what their name meant. They had believed they were meant to be the People. Yet when the first Americans came they had greeted them with friendship, and had been met with war. Then fiercely they had fought back. Not one but knew he fought in vain. They saw the white men endlessly coming, their many soldiers, their many ponies, their food supply that was endless, and their many cartridges of brass.

  The Apache knew his hour was past. He knew the white men would take even his last land, but it was not in him to knuckle under. He would fight, sing his death song, and die. And he, Hondo Lane, was only a small part of the much vaster picture, and it mattered not at all to that picture that he was not through living, that he had left things undone, that he wanted a son, that a woman waited for him. Or did she?

  Yet there was no doubt even as his mind framed the question.

  He had kissed her because a woman should not die unkissed, unloved. Yet after the kiss it had not been the same. He had gone away, yet even as he rode he knew he would return. And here he was, a prisoner beside the fire, awaiting the death by torture of the most fiendishly skillful of all savage torturers.

  Vittoro got to his feet, and as upon a signal the others arose also, and then they moved toward him, and he sat quietly upon the ground and watched them come.

  Here it was.

  They grabbed him then and threw him back upon the sand and staked his arms out. Then with a piece of bark Silva scooped glowing coals from the fire and poured them into Hondo’s open palm.

  He felt the pain shoot through him, smelled the burning of his own flesh, but he stared at Silva and said bitterly, “Silva is a scalper of children, a runner after rabbits!”

  “This only begins. We Apaches are patient.” Silva looked his hatred and his triumph.

  Beyond Vittoro a couple of braves had found Hondo’s saddlebags and were going through them. Suddenly one straightened, grunting. He had found the tintype of Johnny, and he walked swiftly to Vittoro and thrust the picture before him.

  Hondo saw the action, his teeth shut tight against the awful pain of his burning flesh.

  Vittoro came suddenly to his feet and kicked the embers from Hondo’s palm. “Loose him!”

  A couple of Indians moved to obey, and Silva sprang between them and the prisoner, his face dark with angry blood. “It shall not be so!”

  Vittoro’s voice was even, cold. “I have need of this man.”

  “It shall not be!”

  Vittoro glared at him, then snapped at the others, “Obey!”

  As they slashed Hondo’s bonds and released him, Silva shouted, “I claim the blood right!” He was beside himself with fury. “It is my privilege. It is so written.”

  Hondo looked down at his charred hand. Huge blisters were already beginning to shape, yet the hand was not so badly burned as he had believed, or so deeply. It was a hard hand, calloused by much work and much handling of guns. Now it was burned and crippled for a time, but a hand still, with fingers to move and to grip.

  The medicine man had come forward with knives. Hondo was scarcely aware of what they did. He clutched the wrist of the burned hand and looked down at it, his face twisted with agony.

  Then he heard, through his pain, the muttering words of the medicine man, blessing the knives, and he looked up suddenly.

  “That life may ebb cleanly.”

  “That life may ebb cleanly,” Vittoro repeated. “It is so written.”

  Silva stripped off his jacket, a lithe, powerful warrior in the prime of his young manhood. Vittoro stepped to a quickly drawn circle and flipped a knife into the ground on each side.

  “White man, do you understand?”

  “I lived with the Mimbreños many winters.”

  He came swiftly to his feet, only to stagger from the clumsiness of his recently released feet. Silva swooped for a knife, and Hondo caught his in his burned palm, then threw it, as one would a gun doing the border shift, to his left hand. He caught the knife deftly, and Silva sprang close, his eyes glowing with eagerness.

  Hondo circled, knowing the danger of the man. He was strong, uninjured, and filled with hatred. Under any circumstances he would be dangerous. Silva extended his left hand, but was bothered by the knife in the wrong hand. It should have been in the right, so he could seize the wrist. Circling to study this, he lunged suddenly. Hondo felt the sharp point of the knife rip his shirt, then he stomped down hard with his boot on Silva’s bare foot and slashed with his knife edge. The Indian twisted away but the knife left a red line that rapidly turned red with blood along a shoulder.

  They circled, and around them the sweaty faces stared eagerly. Hondo could hear the breathing of the warriors. He could see the glow of firelight, he could see the eagerness in their eyes, for this to them was the great moment, the greatest of sport. Fighting men all, they could know and respect a fighting man, and not one there but knew the odds each man faced.

  Silva came in low, his point flicking. Hondo sprang back, then lunged. The knife of Silva stabbed and the blade sank into Hondo’s shoulder.

  Before it could be withdrawn, Hondo pressed forward against the haft, holding the knife in the wound to prevent its withdrawal. They went to the ground and Hondo caught Silva’s hair and forced his head back, exposing the br
own throat, then he put the edge of his knife against the throat of the Indian and looked up at Vittoro.

  Vittoro stood above them and he said, unhurried, “The white man permits you to choose, Silva.”

  Silva hesitated, his hatred a living, fighting thing. Yet there was only the one choice, to yield or to die. And he was not ready to die. If he lived he might yet kill the white man and take his hair.

  “I choose,” he muttered.

  Vittoro gestured, and Hondo released Silva and stepped back. But he still held the knife.

  Silva stared at Hondo, then turned abruptly and stalked away to his wickiup.

  “White man,” Vittoro said, “is it in your thoughts you have purchased life?”

  “It is my thought that the one called Vittoro is a great chief, and a chief considers all that happens in this world.”

  “It is possible you may live. Or you may die. We shall see what is written.”

  CHAPTER 15

  ACROSS THE VAST sweep of the sky there were clouds, darkening clouds pressing ominously down toward the far hills. Flat upon the earth, skyward they lowered in huge, unbelievable masses.

  A low wind caught the breath of their coolness and moved across the desert, moving down the arroyos and canyons, creeping across the face of a land scarred by canyons and ridged by the backbones of ancient ridges. And the cool wind came swiftly and crossed the land and dipped into the basin and the ranch.

  The wind stirred the curtain and Angie looked up from her ironing and glanced outside. A few leaves skittered across the hard-baked clay of the yard, the horses’ tails streamed past their hocks, and a wisp of hay blew to a corral post, then hung there, still and quiet.

  Angie walked to the stove and exchanged her iron for one freshly heated, testing it with a dampened finger. At the window Johnny stared at the towering battlements of cloud, looming now above the basin’s edge.

  “Mommy, big clouds are coming up.”

  “It feels like rain.” She drew the apron over the end of the board and sprinkled it lightly.

  “Why is rain, Mommy?”

  “God’s way of making the earth green. This is what the Indians call the planting rain.”

  The planting rain…She looked quickly past the trees at the sky.

  Black, threatening clouds piled high. Quickly she put down the iron and went to the door, apprehension written large upon her face.

  There could be no doubt. There would be rain, the planting rain, and then there was no time. When the storm began it would rain hard, then it might settle down for a long, hard rain. They must leave before it ended, while it would still wipe out their tracks.

  She folded her clothing and put it away, then went quickly to the cupboard. She packed swiftly, according to plan. She was sure, definite in her movements. There was no choice, no further decision to be made. Before the Indians could come, she must be gone.

  Going to the bed, she took blankets and the old ground sheet and wrapped them in a tight roll. Johnny turned from the window. She caught his glance. “Would you like to go on a picnic, Johnny? In the rain?”

  He looked doubtful. “In the rain?”

  “It would be fun in the rain. We’ve got to ride a long way, and you’ll have to take good care of Mommy.”

  “You mean I can ride a horse? All my own?”

  “Yes, all your own. You can ride Old Gray.”

  Instantly he was all eagerness. She gave him several small tasks to do, then went to the barn and after some trouble lured the horses to the corral bars and got a rope on them. Leading them to the barn, she turned to the saddles. Hearing Johnny call out, she turned.

  It was too late. A small cavalcade of Indians was coming down the slope.

  Her heart pounding heavily, she walked to the house. “Johnny, you stay inside. They want to see Mommy.”

  There were a dozen Indians in the little group, and they had a prisoner. She saw that at once, only seeing the hanging head of a man, the dim shape of a haggard face beneath the hat. Vittoro dismounted and came to her. Behind him the man was dragged from the saddle.

  “Is this your man?”

  Angie looked beyond him. The man had lifted his head and he stared into her eyes. His own were glazed with suffering and weariness. She could see that something was terribly wrong with his hand. But she noticed nothing, only that it was Hondo Lane, and that he had come back.

  “Speak!”

  At a gesture from Vittoro, an Indian threw a pail of water into Lane’s face. He blinked, then shook his head, straightening a little. Their eyes met and held.

  “Is this your man?”

  She understood suddenly, and she smiled quickly at Vittoro, coming down from the steps. “Yes. This is my husband.”

  She went to him quickly, taking his arm. Vittoro stared at her, then at Hondo Lane.

  “White man,” he said sternly, “you have lived with the Apache. That is good. You know how the Small Warrior should be taught so that he will be the honored son of Vittoro.

  “Watch like the hawk, be patient as the beaver and courageous as the puma that he may learn well. Know it, then, or your dying will be long before you welcome death.”

  He turned away and mounted. Without looking back, the Indians rode from the valley.

  Holding tight to his arm, for she sensed his weakness, she led him toward the house. In the distance thunder rumbled and there were scattered drops of rain, large drops striking hard on the baked clay.

  She took him to the bed and he sat down, then fell loosely into sleep. She looked down at the blistered and swollen hand, the lacerated wrists, the bloody shirt. Turning quickly, she went outside with the pail to get fresh water.

  Sam was coming down the slope, making slow time on three legs. She started to call, then saw Silva. The Apache came over the slope and started for the dog on a gallop. Sam turned, trying to run, but with a shrill yell Silva dropped his lance and ran the dog through the body. In a wild, despairing effort, the dog snapped at the lance, then fell free. Silva rode on over the slope.

  Leaving the pail, Angie ran up the slope to the dying dog. His body was horribly torn; blood was flowing from him. Nothing could be done. She touched his head gently. “Good boy, Sam,” she said softly. Feebly he tried to lick her hand.

  She straightened then and looked in the direction Silva had taken. She knew then how a man could kill.

  Rain was falling fast when she reached the house with her bucket. Once inside, she closed and barred the door. Quickly she got water on the fire to heat, got out the bandages she had made for emergencies. She had turned the horses back into the corral, and there was shelter for them under the overhang of the lean-to.

  With a needle she ran a bit of colorless yarn previously soaked with antiseptic through each blister to allow it to drain. Then she put grease over the burned hand and wrapped it, not tightly. She was taking off his shirt when he sat up groggily.

  “I’m all right.”

  “You will be when I fix your shoulder. The cut on your chest is only a scratch.”

  “It’s not that. I’ve other things to keep me awake.”

  She looked at him quickly, thinking he had seen Silva’s killing of Sam. “You saw it, then?”

  “Saw what?”

  “Silva. He finished Sam. Sam is dead. I’m sorry.”

  He held himself still, looking down at the clumsy-looking hand and its loose bandage. Sam…a man’s dog.

  “He was gettin’ old….Been with me goin’ on eleven years. Old for a dog.”

  She was furious. “That beast Silva killed him. For no reason.”

  “Silva’s scalp lock should be dryin’ from a ridgepole.”

  “I know how you feel. That loyal dog, and…and…”

  Hondo turned the bandage, looking at it. She could not see his expression, only hear his voic
e. He was keeping his eyes down.

  “Wasn’t he an ugly cuss, that Sam? Mean as a catamount in the breeding season. I almost ate him once. Up on the Powder. Quick freeze caught us, and after I’d been three days without rations, I took to looking at Sam.

  “Lucky for him I found us a snowbound moose. Didn’t look forward to eatin’ Sam. Probably been tougher than a trail-shiny moccasin.”

  Angie turned down the light and moved away. She could sense the man’s grief, and she was feeling it herself. That brutal, ugly-looking mongrel…and there at the last, dying, he tried to lick her hand.

  A fighting dog, so strangely gentle. The thought moved her and she looked quickly at the man who lay face to the wall.

  So strangely gentle…

  Did the dog take on the qualities of the man? Or under the hard exterior were they much the same?

  She turned to her work and saw the rolled-up blankets she had meant to take away. Now she need not go.

  But what had she done? Her face turned crimson. She had told Vittoro this man was her husband! And he dared not leave now.

  Yet what else could she have done? Had she not accepted him as her husband, he would have been killed, and she would have no choice but to become a squaw to one of Vittoro’s braves. Still, what must he think of her?

  Outside thunder rumbled and rain was falling, falling steadily, without the fury of the storm that had come those long days ago after he had ridden away before. She added fuel to the fire. A gust of wind sent a little smoke into the room. Then a big drop fell down the chimney and hissed upon the coals.

  Johnny had already gone to bed, sleeping contentedly. The man was back.

  And outside the rain was no longer a threatening thing, but suddenly it made the house seem even cozy, very warm. She listened to the heavy breathing of Hondo. Was this what she wanted? A man in the house?

  No, not a man. This man…and no other.

  He turned, muttering in his sleep, and something fell to the floor with a tinny sound. Glancing down, she saw it was a tintype. She picked it up. Johnny. But the tintype was scarred. Instinctively she knew what that scar meant.