“I’m a scout sometimes but mostly a mule packer. Hunted Apaches with the army for a good while now, and I’ve covered a fair bit of country down in Mexico.”
“You speak their language.”
“A bit. You’ll find that many of them speak Spanish, and I savvy that, too. I can ride and shoot and track some, and I can pack a mule like nobody’s business. When things get hard you won’t have to look around for me, ’cause I’ll be right there with you.”
“You say you’ve been to Mexico. Been there once myself. What did you think about it?”
Horn shrugged. “It can be a hard place to get back from. I don’t necessarily care for it.”
Newt nodded agreement. “If you had said anything else I would have known you were lying. I swore I wasn’t ever going back there, but here I am.”
“Man ought to be careful what he swears to.”
“You’re hired. You and this Apache, and any of his buddies that will come along that we can trust.”
Horn rocked back on his heels and shook his head. “You’re going to have to pay me three hundred dollars.”
“You think highly of yourself.”
“I speak their language and you don’t. Might be that I can get us by the army if they give us flack, and you can’t,” Horn said. “I make a hundred dollars a month working for the army as it is, and you’re going to have to bid higher if you want me to risk my neck with you.”
“What about him?” Newt pointed at Pretty Buck. “Is he as proud of himself as you are?”
“A hundred will be just fine for him.”
“What about his friends. The more the merrier, I say.”
“You aren’t getting any more Apache scouts. Him and me are both taking a big risk sneaking off the rez with you. The army might fire me for taking this little leave of absence, and they’ll brand him a renegade if they find out he’s slipped off from San Carlos. You try and take your own war party of scouts off the reservation and you’ll have the whole army after us and treating it like an Apache outbreak.”
“What about those Apache policemen I hear out there? Won’t they tell?”
“No, they’re good at keeping secrets. They would have shot you if the lieutenant had told them to. That’s their sense of honor, but that don’t mean they like the lieutenant better than one of their own. They’ll cover for Pretty Buck as long as they can.”
Newt got to his feet. “Well then, best I get saddled up.”
“You aim to ride tonight?”
“The longer we wait, the less chance we have of finding that boy.”
Horn cleared his throat and made a point to make sure Newt heard him.
“What is it now?” Newt asked.
“We want paid in advance.”
“Like hell. You’ll get paid when we’re through.”
“How do we know you’ve got the money?”
“You don’t. You’ll have to take my word on it, just like I’m taking you at your word.”
“Pay us fifty dollars in advance so we know you’re on the square.”
“I’ll pay you twenty dollars when we’re in Mexico and you put me on the trail of the renegades we’re after.”
“You’re a real hardass, Mister Jones.”
“That’s what they tell me.”
“Well, you better be. Do you know what those Chiricahuas will do to us if they catch us snooping around after them?”
“No worse than I aim to do to them if they won’t give the boy up.”
“You honestly think you’re going to pull this off?”
“Got to try. That’s what matters.”
“I’ll stick with you, Jones, but first time you play the fool and do something stupid that might get us killed, you can count me out. We’ve got to play it smart. I talked things over with Sieber the other day, and he thought there was a chance the army could trade for the boy if he’s still alive. A slim chance, but maybe it will work.”
Newt went to his horse and began saddling it.
“You hear me?” Horn asked. “We play it smart and try and trade for the boy. If that doesn’t work we turn around and come back. Come back alive.”
“Go get your horses.” Newt was already throwing the packsaddle on the mule.
Horn and Pretty Buck left and soon returned mounted on their horses. Horn watched closely as Newt got in the saddle and gathered the lead rope of the pack mule.
“What worries me some, Jones, is that I’m beginning to think you don’t believe you’ll survive this trip.”
“Wouldn’t doubt it.” Newt rode past them and started down the draw.
“Worries me more that you admit it and don’t seem to give a damn either way.” Horn turned his horse around to follow and called after Newt.
“Worries like that is why I’m paying you three hundred dollars.” From the sound of Newt’s horse’s hoof falls, he was already down on the flat and traveling at a trot.
Chapter Five
The trio rode southward, traveling fast and light. They skirted around Fort Grant, lest the soldiers there see them, and then pushed on to Hooker’s ranch in Sulphur Springs Valley where they left Pretty Buck in the mountains while they rode down to purchase supplies. When they rejoined their Apache scout the pack mule’s saddle panniers were loaded with a ten-pound sack of beans, three smoked hams, a dozen eggs, and a little coffee and flour and some other what-nots that the ranch was willing to spare.
They crossed the Southern Pacific tracks, camped at Dragoon Springs, and stayed east of Tombstone. The mining towns’ denizens had always been a rough and ready bunch with no love for Indians, and the Apache wars and the summer’s reservation outbreak had the rumor mill churning about supposed Apache raids and massacres. The last thing Newt wanted was to try to save Pretty Buck from a lynch mob, so they avoided the main roads where they could.
The morning of the sixth day they left the San Simon Valley and passed through the big dry wash called Skeleton Canyon, having come over two hundred miles as the crow flies. Pretty Buck said little on their journey, but Horn talked the whole way.
The mule packer had shaken his rope down when they left camp that morning, and although it was nearing noon, he hadn’t once quit playing with it yet. He rode at the back of their procession and roped bushes and rocks, anything that provided a target. He spent the rest of his time twirling and flipping that thirty-foot-long grass rope and doing fancy rope tricks. All the while, he never stopped talking, chattering to himself about one thing for half an hour, and then moving abruptly to another subject without any prompting from either of his traveling companions, as if his mind was a grasshopper leaping from one thought to another in an erratic fashion that was hard to follow.
“Who gave you that mashed-up ear?” he asked once, calling ahead to Newt and pointing at the misshapen cauliflower ear that adorned one side of Newt’s head.
Newt glanced briefly over his shoulder and scowled at Horn. “Nobody gave it to me. Fought some good, tough men, and they fought hard to mark me with it.”
“That make it easier to wear an ear like that . . . knowing they were tough?”
Newt stared straight ahead. “I admit I wish I had a better ear, but at least I fought for the one I’ve got.”
“You like fighting?”
“Puts some money in my pockets time to time when I’m between jobs.”
“Who’s the toughest man you ever fought? Boxing, I mean. Bet you wouldn’t step in the ring with Sullivan or Ryan.” Horn trotted closer and cast a heel loop and roped one of the pack mule’s hind legs. He didn’t take up his slack and let the loop fall, but the animal still shied and plunged past Newt, almost jerking the lead rope out of his hand.
“Put that rope away, you’re scaring the mule.”
Horn looked a little ashamed, but he grinned anyway. “That’s a fancy pistol you’re wearing. Where’d you get it?”
“Dead man gave it to me.” Newt kicked up to a trot, hoping to avoid more conversation.
“H
ow come him to give it to you?”
“He didn’t say. He was dead.”
Horn caught up to him. “My, but you’re a dreary cuss. Makes the time pass easier if we talk some.”
“Go talk to Pretty Buck.”
“I’ve heard all his stories, and he’s heard mine.”
Newt looked to make sure the Apache was still with them. The young brave was three horse lengths behind them, taking the whole thing in with a grin of his own, as if he understood more English than he liked to let on. The first day on the trail he had packed away his pants and wore nothing but a heavy brown corduroy shirt and his breechcloth. His brown legs and moccasined heels thumped his pony’s ribs with every stride, as if he feared the animal would stop if he quit urging it on.
“You prefer a short gun, or that big-bore Winchester you’re carrying?” Horn asked.
“Kid, I’d prefer you to quit talking. Last time I went to Mexico I was weighted down with a chattering judge, and here I am stuck with you. Swore I was going to do better about the company I kept after that.”
Horn seemed oblivious to what Newt had said and patted the buttstock of the rifle protruding out of its scabbard next to his saddle swells. He continued his former line of thought, as if Newt weren’t still scowling at him. “Me, I prefer to keep any disagreements at a distance. Apaches got that right. Get you some high ground or good cover, and wait until they come in your rifle sights.”
Newt gave an uninterested glance at Horn’s rifle. It was a ’76 Winchester like his own, but a plainer variation of the model. The only extra feature to it was a flip-up, tang-mounted peep sight behind the hammer.
“You hit a man with a pistol and he’s liable to keep coming.” Horn patted the rifle’s buttstock again before he continued. “But put a .45-60 round in their brisket and you’ll stop ’em in their tracks.”
Newt didn’t answer, and Horn took that as he disagreed. Horn straightened a little in the saddle and talked a little louder at the prospect of an argument. “Man with a name like yours probably favors a pistol, but if we have the bad luck to get cross with some of those bronco Apaches down there in Mexico you better forget that belly gun and lay hand to your rifle. The last thing you want is to let an Apache work close to you.”
Once again, Newt didn’t answer him.
It was Horn who scowled this time. “How’d you get that name? Widowmaker.”
“Wasn’t something I chose to pick up like you pick up a rock or any old thing. Some fool puts something like that on you, and there’s nothing you can do about it if it sticks.”
“You ought to take more of a shine to it. You know, wear it,” Horn said. “I’ll think on how you say it in Apache. That’s a big medicine name. Might impress them.”
“I’ll wear my given name. Suits me well enough.”
“No need to act all mad.” Horn made an attempt to look put out, but he was too restless to try it long. “I was only trying to help you. That’s what you’re paying me for. Best you learn something about Apaches before we get any closer to those we’re after.”
“You and Pretty Buck do the tracking, and I’ll do without the lessons.”
“You ever ran across any wild Apaches? I bet you’d sing a different tune if you had.”
“I did, once.”
“What kind of Apaches were they?”
“They didn’t say.”
Horn snorted. “Let me guess, they were dead like the man that gave you that pistol.”
“No they were plenty alive, but their horses were dead.”
Horn studied Newt to try to tell if he was joking. “Dead horses, huh? Seems like things have a habit of dying when you’re around.”
Newt scoffed. “I like to think of myself as a friendly man, but Old Judge Roy said I had a talent for mayhem. You put it that way, maybe he was right.”
“You, friendly? Man with a face like yours and a horse-killing disposition has got to put a little more effort into his friendliness. You know, talk a little and smile once in a while.”
Newt turned his head to Horn, and a slow, strained smile spread across his mouth, showing too much of his teeth, and the muscles of his face moving so slow they should have creaked.
Horn gave a mock shiver and laughed. “That’s damn right scary. Forget I said to do that. Reminds me of a corpse’s grin. You just keep scowling and squinting and looking mean like you always do.”
Newt pulled his horse up and took a deep breath before he spoke, as if gathering some patience. “Do you have to talk so much?”
Pretty Buck laughed and said something in his native language. All Newt could tell was that the words were aimed at Horn.
“What did he say?” Newt asked.
Horn gave Pretty Buck a displeased look. “He thinks he’s funny.”
Pretty Buck repeated the Apache phrase, followed by two English words he struggled with but managed to say clearly enough, “Talking Boy.”
“That’s because I’m an interpreter,” Horn said while Newt and Pretty Buck laughed.
“Sounds like the Apaches knew you well when they gave you that name,” Newt said.
“Laugh all you want to, but I’m the only man with the guts and the know-how to go on this fool trip with you,” Horn replied.
Even Newt’s spirits seemed to have been lifted by Pretty Buck’s revelation, and he picked at Horn more. “Well for a man that claims to be such an Indian scout, it sure puzzles me how much noise you make and about why you’d wear a white shirt into Apache country.”
Horn looked down at himself, as if noticing what he wore for the first time. The white shirt looked new, stainless and unblemished except for trail dust, and it was the second one he’d pulled from his saddlebags during their journey. A red silk neckerchief was draped around his neck. His brown, cotton ducking pants were equally new, although less clean, and they were tucked into a pair of tall-topped cowboy boots. A pair of Mexican spurs were attached at the heels with rowels the size of your palm, and they rattled and clanked with every step he or his horse took. He looked more like a cowboy than a scout.
For the first time, Horn looked seriously put out by something Newt had said, but he recovered quickly and sharpened one end of his mustache and straightened himself in the saddle. “Just because we’re on the trail don’t mean a man has to forgo his appearance.”
“Well, maybe they’ll see you first and shoot you while me and Pretty Buck are taking cover,” Newt replied.
Newt rode on, and Horn decided to ride back beside Pretty Buck. It wasn’t long before Newt could hear the young scout talking nonstop to the Apache scout. Pretty Buck replied rarely and usually with only a word or two.
No matter how much Newt scowled at Horn or poked fun of his attire, he saw that the young man knew how to handle himself on the trail. Horn knew wild country, he knew horses and mules, and if he was half as good with that rifle he was so proud of as he was with a rope, then there were far worse men Newt could have hired. And Horn had eyes like an eagle. Twice he spotted deer and other game animals moving in the distance that Newt or even Pretty Buck couldn’t make out.
They had turned south out of Skeleton Canyon before it crossed into New Mexico Territory, and the way to the border lay through a maze of more canyons and wind-scoured passes that led into the San Bernardino Valley. That kind of terrain provided all kinds of ambush points, and the knowledge that they were in Apache country made Newt nervous traveling through it.
They rode some five miles, going no faster than a walk with Pretty Buck scouting well ahead of Newt and Horn. Often the Apache scout stopped, listening for sounds ahead, examining tracks, or sniffing the wind like a hunting hound, as if it, too, could tell him something about what lay ahead. Each time Pretty Buck stopped to decipher things, the two white men followed suit and waited until it was safe to move on.
Once, after a long stop, Pretty Buck called something back to them before he moved on down the trail.
“What did he say?” Newt asked.
&n
bsp; “He said enjuh.”
“What’s that mean?”
“Can mean a couple of things, near as I can tell. Can mean it’s good or it’s done. I reckon he’s telling us to ride on.”
They passed out of the worst of the canyons an hour before sunup.
“Enjuh,” Newt said when they hit the more open country.
Horn turned in the saddle and looked back at the way they had come. “Yeah, enjuh.”
Come daylight, they stopped on a hillside within a mile of the old presidio and ranch at San Bernardino. The area was a popular campground for smugglers, raiding Indians, and other travelers passing through the country. Horn had a set of binoculars in his saddlebags, and they took turns glassing the area. No army camp was in sight.
When they rode down off the hill they did find the sign that the army had been there—the ashpits of their fires and beaten shapes in the grass where their tents and horse pickets had stood. But according to Pretty Buck and Horn, the army had been gone for days, moving east into the Animas Valley. Not a single track showed that the soldiers had gone south of the border.
Newt squinted into the sun and studied the desert that ran south into Mexico, and then he started them toward it.
It was another day’s journey through the canyon lands, weaving around islands of isolated mountains and tumbled country. They watered their horses and filled their canteens and waterbags at the numerous spring-fed tanks and basins dotting the drainages toward the Chihuahuan Desert to the southeast and the Bavispe River to the south. When nightfall came they avoided pitching their bedrolls near one of the waterholes, instead going on a little farther before making dry camp on a high mesa well off the trail and with a good view of the surrounding country. Any waterhole was bound to draw other travelers, and it was their wish to see such travelers before they were seen themselves. A cautious man lived longer in Apacheria, and all three were cautious men.
Coming to more open country, there was some argument as to whether to continue south or to veer eastward into Chihuahua. Pretty Buck insisted on the later.
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