Piccadilly Doubles 1

by Lou Cameron

  “We have stopped to butcher one of my ponies. His leg went bad and the salt and dust of this place finished him. I think, if we keep to these dry playas, the other animals will go lame, too.”

  “We will be across this bad country soon. Get back on your pony and follow me. By nightfall, we shall have crossed this playa.”

  “Hear me, my father, I mean you no insult, but I think you may be wrong. I have been watching the hills spread out as we rode north, and now we are as ants in a big, shallow bowl. I fear you lead us ever downward to the center of this bowl. I think it would be better if we turned to the east.”

  Kaya-Tenay blinked owlishly. “Why should we turn east? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Mountains are to be seen over that way. We have lost sight of the hills to our west, and there are none to the north. I think the eastern mountains must be high, and that means they must be well watered.”

  “I shall find plenty of water to the north”

  “Forgive me, but I do not think so. There may be bad water that way. We are too far from any hills for the water to be fit to drink. This land is flat. There are no washes to take cover in, and our women cannot cook our food when it gets dark. It will get cold out here when the sun goes down, and we are caught in the open, exposed to every wind and to any passing eye. If we started now for those distant hills … ”

  “Your open mouth is fit only for attracting flies!” cut in Kaya-Tenay with an angry wave of his arm that nearly made him fall from his not-too-steady seat atop his pony. He recovered his balance, and some of his dignity, to add in a more reasonable tone, “I have an understanding with the voices. If we keep going the way they have chosen, we shall come at last to the green lands of our ancestors. Do not the legends tell of such a place in the long before?”

  “My father, the legends say our people came up from a lower world through dangerous caves to the surface of this world.”

  “Yes, and the land here keeps sloping ever downward to the north! We only have to find the big cave leading down into the one-time home of our people and … You shall see, my son. I know what I am trying to say, but the words do not form on my tongue!”

  “Father, I think I understand what you are searching for, but no such land exists.”

  “What’s this you say? Do you say the legends are not true?”

  “I think, if they are true, much meaning has been lost in the many tellings. I think the old ones remember other lands from before the Beginning. I think, if these other lands had been so good, our legends would not call them dark and cold, nor rejoice in our escape out into the sunlight.”

  Kaya-Tenay shook his head and tears ran down his bronzed cheeks as he insisted, “It was a good place. Our people had no enemies before they came up through the caves to fight the bears, the Utes, the Pueblos, and now the White Eyes! The voices say, if we keep going north, we shall come to a land no enemies know about. We shall come to a land where only Nadene live, in happiness with fat ponies and much game. I have heard the voices and I believe them.”

  “Has my father spoken?”

  “I have spoken. We go north. We go north now!”

  Eskinya shrugged and walked back to where he’d left Jezebel and his pony in the care of Naiche. Jezebel and Alfrieda Unger were on foot and arguing about something in their own language. The black girl seemed flushed and angry, and the younger captive had obviously been teasing her. Eskinya nodded at Naiche and vaulted up on the saddle blanket before he turned to look down at Jezebel and ask in Spanish, “Do you wish to ride on another pony? We have many now if you would like me to give you one.”

  Jezebel hesitated. Then she held up a hand and said, “I’d feel safer up there with you. I don’t know much about horses.”

  Eskinya nodded, took her wrist, and pulled her easily from the ground as Alfrieda jeered, “Jezebel! Sweet on her old Injun boyfriend, like I just said!”

  Eskinya frowned, not sure of the joke but aware of the mockery in the young girl’s tone. He asked Jezebel, “Is that young White Eyes making fun of me?” and Jezebel said, “No, she’s making, fun of me. She seems to think I like you.”

  “Oh? Is it such a joke for you and me to be friends?”

  “It is to her, I suppose.”

  Matt Caldwell felt better about things once he’d led his patrol out on the dead flat expanse of the open playa. Mounted tactics were taught as if the world were a featureless table top, and for the first time since he’d ridden out into this harsh and dangerous country, he knew, or thought he knew, what he was doing.

  Outriders were posted just outside of rifle range on either flank. The others rode dressed in echelon in a slanting line to Caldwell’s left and rear, with Corporal Muller bringing up the rear. The naked Rabbit-Boss, on point, was not in the book. Neither was Digger Greenberg, being led by Trooper Dorfler off to Caldwell’s right. But he’d been taught to be flexible, and they weren’t exactly advancing to make contact with the usual enemy skirmish line.

  Another thing that pleased the officer was the pony tracks. For the first time since leaving the fort, Caldwell was able to read signs in the dusty surface instead of counting on his civilian scout and the Indian. The hoof-prints leading due north were clear and crisp in the ocher surface of the old lake bed, and Caldwell was able to tell those of the shod mounts taken from Diablito’s white victims from those of his Apache ponies or burros. The tracks seemed fresh, and Caldwell judged there were at least six dozen separate sets of them. He peered at the heat-hazed horizon for any sign of his quarry and reflected, as he failed to spot so much as a sign of dust, that there was simply no way the Apache could ambush them out here. His outriders were clearly visible on either side, albeit safely out a mile. Diablito would simply have to stand and fight when the patrol caught up with him. They would catch up, Caldwell knew.

  Rabbit-Boss set a slower pace than a trotting pony was capable of, but as Greenberg had pointed out, the tireless Digger could jog mile after mile without a break, whereas no pony could carry a load in this heat without being rested every hour or so. The Diggers ran down rabbit and antelope in open desert, according to the scout. It was becoming clear, watching Rabbit-Boss, why they preferred to hunt out here on foot. They weren’t too stupid to see the advantages of ponies. They’d learned from experience that no animal is as tough and determined a desert runner as a human being in good shape. A hundred species could run faster than a man, for a time, but unless the animal found a way to cover its tracks, a stubborn human hunter would sooner or later run it into the ground. To Rabbit-Boss, an Apache pony was simply another form of prey he’d follow, at that mile-eating lope of his, until he’d simply worn it down. The human prey riding the ponies was another matter, but the Apache were not the Digger’s concern. His job would be done when the two sides were within shooting range of one another.

  Caldwell swung his mount closer to that of High Jolly just to his left and said, “At the rate we’re moving, we must be gaining on them, don’t you think?”

  High Jolly nodded. “No horse can outdistance El Jamal in country such as this.” Then the Muslim swung in his saddle to stare back at the faint heart-shaped depressions their own mounts were leaving on the sun baked surface. Caldwell caught the look of concern in High Jolly’s eyes and asked, “What’s the matter? You don’t look too happy. Are you worried about those Apache up ahead?”

  High Jolly shook his head. “Though Ahriman is their brother and the scorpion their mother, I believe this time those red Infidels have overreached themselves. Observe, Effendi, how even our own tracks are visible now as we progress ever deeper into this chott!”

  “Chott?” frowned Caldwell.

  “Ah, yes, in this desert you call it a playa, but in any desert it is treacherous. The surface that we ride across is clay baked, though Allah be more merciful, by a cruel relentless sun.”

  “That’s easy enough to see. What’s the problem?”

  “A sharp knife would scratch it, Inshallah, but
the foot of a mere man should not be able to dent it, and El Jamal treads more softly than any human foot.”

  “All right, the clay is not as hard as it looks.”

  “Clay is clay, Effendi Lieutenant. It is hard when dry, and soft when … wet!”

  “Oh, come on, it hasn’t rained out here in years. That hardpan’s dry as a bone. Watch Rabbit-Boss out there. See the dust he’s stirring up as he scuffs across it?”

  “I did not say the clay is wet on its surface, Effendi. You must understand something about these low places in the desert. They are the last refuge of any water there may be. Truly, any rain that Allah may provide in this desolate valley must sink into the earth or blow away again on the desert wind. Clay is a thirsty soil. If it can possibly hold water, it does so. I think a few inches down, the lake bed must be moist. To take the footprint of El Jamal, it must be moist indeed.”

  Before he could answer, Caldwell saw Rabbit-Boss out in front stop dead in his tracks and drop to one knee. Caldwell reined in and held up his free hand to halt the column. He walked Fatima slowly forward as he watched the Indian probing the surface ahead of him with his digging stick. Rabbit-Boss stood up, pointed the stick to the east, and said, “Better we go that way.”

  Greenberg joined Caldwell as he asked the Indian. “What about you talking about? Those Apache tracks lead due north! What’s over there to the east?”

  “Mountains,” said Rabbit-Boss, apparently not caring to elaborate.

  Greenberg said, “No way they’s gonna make it across this big playa. If there’s water under the crust this close to the edges, the middle has to be worse.”

  Caldwell stared down at the apparently solid surface. “All right, why does Rabbit-Boss think they’ll swing east? Wouldn’t west do just as well?”

  “Sure, if all they aimed at was dry ground. Trouble with the desert to the west is it’s too danged dry, where it ain’t wet. Betwixt here and the Mojave Draw, there’s miles of salt marsh, alkali flats, and sech.”

  “What if they made their way through this inland delta to the north and east, Digger?”

  “Shoot, they’d be home free with clear water all the way to the San Bernardinos.” Then he spit and added, “Only, they ain’t about to make it. You see where them pony hooves has cut through the crust in spots? Them ponies need a wade through sweet water and a walk through dry, clean sand to scour the alkali out-ten their frogs afore they all wind up lame.”

  Greenberg pointed at one set of tracks. “That pony’s done fer already. They’ve took off its load and it’s still limpin’ on three laigs. They’ll likely butcher it afore it goes another thirty miles.”

  Caldwell sat quietly and stared to the north from the vantage point of Fatima’s hump. He said, “You may be right, but I’ve got a bird in the hand here. If we leave the trail on your Indian’s opinion that they’ll swing toward those Providence Ranges to the east … ”

  “Rabbit-Boss don’t have opinions!” Greenberg cut in. “He’s thinkin’ one jump ahead of them Apache, and if they has sense to pour piss outten their boots, they’ll be makin’ fer the Providence right about now!”

  “I can see that, Digger, but what if they don’t have sense? Diablito doesn’t know this country as well as Rabbit-Boss. What if he just keeps bulling ahead the way he’s going?”

  Greenberg spit. “He winds up daid, as any fool kin see. It ain’t like them Apache has a choice, goddamn it! Their ponies is leaving tracks already, an’ we ain’t a fifth of the way to the center of this durned lake. While we’uns sit here jawin’ ’bout it, them Injuns is either mired to their durned knees in washin’ soda or half ways to the mountains yonder!”

  Caldwell turned to High Jolly and asked, “What do you say, drover?”

  The Muslim looked surprised and grinned. “By the Beard Of the Prophet, I will follow you anywhere, Effendi but, though Allah be more merciful, our mounts must have solid ground to walk upon.”

  “You don’t think we can push on out to where we see the Indians have been bogging down and then decide which way to go?”

  “Forgive these poor beasts, Effendi, but they are not as willing as horses to let themselves be driven into danger. From the look of the surface and the attitude of our mounts, I would say we could perhaps persuade them to go on a few more miles. Long before the first sign of a horseman in distress, however, El Jamal will have balked. These are timid creatures of-the desert, Effendi, and they sense its treachery long before a man or horse.”

  Caldwell shrugged. “I guess I’m outvoted. Well head for those ranges to the cast and see if we can cut them off, but I hope we know what we’re doing.”

  The officer nodded to Rabbit-Boss, and as the Indian started jogging northeast, Caldwell gave the hand signal for echelon-right. He saw the outrider to his east rein in and stare across the Hat at them for a few moments before getting the new bearing, waving, and moving into the new position on the right flank. To the west, where he was now far to the rear of the column, Trooper Csonka raced his camel to take rip his new position as left flank outrider. Caldwell glanced back once or twice to make sure Csonka understood, and then ignored him, as did everyone else while they dressed their line to advance in echelon on the Providence Range. Nobody thought about the fact that Trooper Csonka had no idea why they’d changed course. He was moving fast to the north to fall in again on their flank. What could happen to an armed man in the middle of a wide-open playa?

  What happened was that Csonka’s camel balked, nearly throwing the former Czarist cavalry officer over its neck as it felt the brittle crust give just a fraction of an inch under its soft front pads.

  Csonka cursed as the cruciform pommel of the saddle dug into his belly, and he fought to recover his balance. The Pole was a good rider and considerate of his mount. He stared down to see what had spooked his camel and, seeing nothing, shouted, “Hike! Hike! What’s the matter with you, kapusta leniwaya?”

  The patrol was moving away, and Csonka began to scream and curse in a mixture of English, Polish, and Arabic to no avail. The camel simply refused to budge.

  “Swinia brudny!” The angry trooper shouted, leaping to the ground with the rein in one hand and his camel goad in the other. Csonka’s intention had been to lead the unruly beast over, around, or through whatever invisible demons seemed to be freezing it in its tracks. He was quite surprised when he found himself standing knee-deep in something warm and wet in the middle of an apparently endless desert!

  The sun-baked crust, once broken, began to give all around as the frightened camel backed away, moaning and burbling its way to firmer footing. Fortunately for Csonka, the trooper had the presence of mind to hang on tightly to the rein. The mixture of clay, water, borax and lye sucked Csonka’s boots off and slowly started to digest them as the camel pulled him out of the ever-widening maw of hungry mud. By the time the embarrassed trooper was clear and stamping around on the harder surface his mount had deposited him on, the others had noted his difficulty and stopped. Caldwell signaled Muller to keep his men dressed in position as he, High-Jolly, Greenberg, and Rabbit-Boss headed back to Csonka’s aid.

  Rabbit-Boss reached Csonka first. Without ceremony, the Indian knocked the Pole down and proceeded to tear his pants off. Csonka roared, “Have you gone crazy?” and tried to struggle free. Then Digger Greenberg called, “Get outten them duds and do it now! That’s nigh to pure lye water you been wallerin’ about in like a damn fool hog!”

  Caldwell, understanding better than his confused trooper, shouted, “Strip, Csonka! That’s an order!”

  Csonka offered no resistance as the Indian finished pulling off his clothes, but he got to his feet and stared open-mouthed at Rabbit-Boss as the Indian held the hands he’d touched the wet uniform with out in front of himself and calmly urinated into his cupped palms.

  Digger Greenberg said, “Piss all over the sojer, Rabbit-Boss.” But as the naked Csonka cowered away in open-mouthed confusion, Rabbit-Boss said, “Not enough in me to help. Maybe Spirit Horse
s piss on him good before him die.”

  The Muslim shook his head. “El Jamal does not do such a thing on command. He keeps his water in his belly, where it will do him the most good. I have a small bottle of vinegar among my stores, if the Effendi Lieutenant thinks we can spare water.”

  Caldwell stared down at the embarrassed Csonka, who aside from his nakedness seemed as good as ever, Caldwell knew, however, about chemical burns. He asked, “How much water do you think you’ll need to wash that lye away before it does permanent damage, High Jolly?”

  The Muslim shrugged. “If the waters he fell into are half as strong as those I know in another desert, much damage has been done already. If I use all my vinegar and most of your water, lnshallah, we may save his life.”

  Csonka scratched at his groin, winced, and held his fingers up to the light. Then he straightened to attention, stared soberly up at his officer, and asked, “Permission to shoot myself, sir? I seem to be losing all my skin from the waist down and, please, sir, it hurts!”

  The sun was setting and the shadows of the People were long upon the cracked surface when Eskinya did a very rude thing. He heeled his pony up beside that of Kenya-Tenay, leaned forward, and grabbed the older man’s bridle. The two mounts reared in confusion as Kaya-Tenay struck wildly at his son, hitting the black captive girl with the flat of his bow instead. Jezebel screamed more in fright than pain, and the younger Indian grabbed the bow from his father, snapping, “I do not wish to hurt you, but you will not hit my woman again and live!”

  Surprised as much by the words as the insulting behavior of his oldest son, Kaya-Tenay shook his head to clear it and muttered, “I think you must have had more tiswin than myself, Eskinya! You are so drunk your words fly in every direction like rising quail.”

  “My father, you must listen to me. The ponies keep breaking through this frail crust you’ve led us out on. The mud below is eating hair and hooves from more than seven animals, and I think we’ll have to kill them, even if we get them out of here!”