Hondo (1953)

by L'amour, Louis

  “If I were you I’d believe him. There’s a lot of dead men that didn’t believe what Vittoro said.”

  “He seems to love the baby.”

  “Baby? That kid’s no baby. He must be five or maybe six.”

  “He’s six. But he’s still a baby.”

  “Time there was a man around here. Treat him like a baby and he’ll be one. Spoils a boy to be protected. How’ll he ever learn to care for himself?”

  It was cool beside the stream. Hondo put his back against the trunk of a huge old cottonwood and watched the water. The clothes were drying in the sun, and Angie sat on a stone at the water’s edge, her hair a little disarranged, lovely in the morning sun. Hondo Lane squinted his eyes at her, seeing her clear, poised beauty, yet uneasy at what lay between them.

  The boy sat upstream, watching the line that hung into the water, slow-moving at that point. Before Hondo it rippled over stones, chuckled into hollows, and slid silkily past the weathered trunk of a blown-down cottonwood, long dead.

  He glanced at the lineback, lazily cropping grass in the shade, and then past him at the hills. A man could get used to this. He grinned when he thought of Major Sherry. He was probably throwing a fit by now, thinking him dead, his scalp hanging in some Apache wickiup. “Mommy! Mommy! I caught one!”

  Johnny came running across the rocks toward them with a fish flopping at the end of his hook. Hondo was unimpressed. He slashed a thong from his buckskin shirt. “You can gill him on this, if you want to.”

  “Thanks, Emberato.”

  Angie turned on Hondo. “He calls you Emberato all the time.”

  “My Apache name. I told him.”

  “What does it mean?”

  Hondo shrugged, turning his shoulder against the tree. “You can’t put Apache words into English. It means Bad Temper.”

  Angie looked at him again, studying the line of his profile. Bad Temper? How could he get such a name as that? Or had they taken him seriously with his growling? He was as gentle as his ugly brute of a dog had been. All Sam had needed was a chance. And a little petting. The thought made her flush, but it amused her, too, and she looked at him quickly. He was watching the boy with his fish.

  Another thought occurred to her. “You cut that thong from your jacket. Aren’t you afraid you’ll have no ornamentation left if you cut off all that fringe?”

  “Isn’t for ornament. Not only. The fringe helps the buckskin to shed water. That’s why it’s there.”

  Johnny tied his fish to a stick and let it hang in the water, then he came back to Hondo and Angie.

  “You say he can’t swim?” Hondo sat up. “You do what you want to, but if it was me, I’d see the kid could swim.” He reached out suddenly and picked Johnny up by the seat of the pants and threw him into the deepest part of the pool.

  Angie sprang to her feet, crying out. She started to the pool and Hondo came to his feet quickly and put a hand on her shoulder.

  Johnny surfaced, spluttering and floundering. Angie was furious. She struggled to pull way, but he held her, while Johnny, floundering but clumsily swimming, made his way to a rock. Clutching the rock, he turned to Hondo. “Emberato! I did it!”

  “Just reach out your hand and grab a handful of water and pull it toward you, not too fast. Keep your fingers together so it won’t get away. That’s how I learned, if you want to know.”

  He released Angie, and she looked up at him, her anger dying. “Sometimes you’re cruel.”

  “Am I? The kid can swim, can’t he?”

  He gathered the reins of his horse and picked the fish from the water. “I’ll go clean the fish for him. Right he should eat it tonight, eat his own game himself.”

  “But how will he get back?”

  “Swim.”

  “He may drown!” she protested, staring anxiously at Johnny, cheerfully kicking at the cool water.

  “I don’t think so.”

  He turned and walked off, leading the horse. Johnny yelled after him, then slid into the water and paddled awkwardly to the bank and climbed out. He was swelling with childish pride. “I swam, Mommy!” he said.

  Hondo Lane had vanished toward the stable, and Angie took Johnny’s hand and started toward the house. She was still not over her anger at his sudden and to her unbelievably brutal action. She mentally told herself he was cruel. He was rough. He was no fit man to be around a child. But the fact remained that now Johnny could swim.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The wind talked among the junipers and brushed cheeks with the skeleton face of the cactus and along the hills walked two horses and two riders. Hondo Lane, the killer from the Brazos, and a boy of six, riding Old Gray.

  They rode in silence through the morning, but Hondo’s eyes were careful on the desert. It was a gamble, taking the child out this way, for there were other Apaches than those of Vittoro, yet the boy must learn, and there was no better time than now.

  A bird flew up, sailed away a few yards, then vanished into the brush. “See that bird? We’ll ride his way. Want you to get a good look at him.”

  The bird flew up again several minutes later. “It’s a Gambel’s quail, Johnny. Drinks a lot, so you never find him too far from water. Thing to remember.”

  They rode on. The sun was up and hot. They had brought no lunch, deliberately.

  As they rode on, Hondo pointed out plants used by the Indians for food, for medicine, or for making fire. He had the boy stop to examine the leaves, to learn how each one grew, and whether on low ground or high mountain slopes. There were other plants that the Indians gathered for making dyes or soap, or for their strong fibers.

  “See the other fellow first,” Hondo said. “Then you can let him see you or not, as you like. Never make a fire with smoke, even in good times.”

  He turned his horse wide around a boulder. “Best thing is a small fire, maybe under a tree. If there’s any smoke at all, the branches and leaves will spread it out. There won’t be no column.

  “Use dry wood. Curl-leaf is good, never makes smoke. Look out for that rubber brush I showed you. Makes heavy, black smoke.”

  He drew up. “That there,” he pointed at a broomlike shrub about four feet tall, “is yerba del pasmo. ‘Paches chew the twigs for toothache.”

  They drew up a moment later at another plant. “Arrowweed. ‘Paches make arrows from the straight stems. Use ‘em for makin’ cages an’ baskets, too. Stuff smells good. Night, sometimes you can smell it quite a ways.” They rode on, and after a bit he said, “Pimas use that arrowweed for makin’ a tea for an eyewash.”

  On a hillside they saw some bones and part of an old hide. Hondo Lane drew up and rolled a smoke. “Deer,” he said, nodding. “Dead a long time. See those tracks near it?”

  “Yes.” Johnny straightened in his saddle and peered at the tracks. “What are they?”

  “Wolf. Bigger than a coyote.”

  “Maybe it was a dog.”

  “No. Dog walks right up to something. A wolf is suspicious. He circles around, stops, smells, smells the air. Wolfs more careful.”

  They rode alongside the dead animal. Only the bone and hide remained. “Cat now, cougar or tigre, you don’t see claw tracks. Dog or wolf you do. Cat draws his claws back inside. Puma or cougar, no diffrence in ‘em, sometimes they don’t leave tracks. Mighty light on their feet. If they got reason to, they can jump thirty feet.”

  They mounted a long slope, and Hondo talked on, forgetting time and distance, yet keeping his eyes always roving, always alert to point out something of interest. “Nobody but a fool or a tenderfoot wears bright, shiny stuff on his clothes. Only a fool would ride a white horse. See it too far off. That bright, shiny stuff is for sissies, townfolk. You wear it out here an some Injun see you ten mile off by sun reflectin’. You’d lose your hair mighty quick.”

  Suddenly Johnny pointed. “There’s one of those birds! The quail you showed me!”

  “Sure is. You got a quick eye, son.” He drew up. “Now it’s gettin’ nigh to noont
ime. Should be water not far off.”

  He studied the country carefully, and finally he turned the lineback down a long slope toward an upthrust of rock. “Could be down there. Water falls in rain an’ sinks down. Sometimes underground water forms a sort of a pool above clay and along a layer of sandstone. If that’s busted, there’s liable to be a spring. Up ahead there, that ground is faulted. May be water there.”

  “I’m hungry,” Johnny said suddenly.

  “Me too. Hondo glanced at the boy. “Noticed any insects lately?”

  “Bees. There was a bee on a flower back there. One flew off, too.”

  “Which way’d he go?”

  Johnny scowled. Finally he pointed. “Thataway, I think.”

  “That’s right. But don’t have to think. You notice hereafter. Bees can take you to water. Need water, an’ they go often. So you watch where they go.”

  He stopped his horse suddenly. Johnny drew up, looking at him curiously. Then, aware that something was expected of him, he looked around carefully. Suddenly he saw the rounded, ugly body of a golden and brown lizard lying near a rock. It was fat-tailed and repulsive. The boy instinctively drew his horse away from it.

  “Gila monster, son. Mighty poisonous. You leave him alone, he’ll leave you alone. No wild animal wants no truck with a man. Up to you to keep away from him, or give him a chance to get away from you. That there lizard, now, you watch out for him. Mostly he don’t aim to move. He likes it where he is.”

  A broken ledge of rock tilted sharply against the sky, a ledge broken off in some bygone upheaval of the earth and thrust up like a broken bone, splintered and ragged on edge. The wind, blown sand, and rain had tapered those edges but little, yet on the underside they found a hollow of water, a few desert willows,and one cottonwood, still young.

  Hondo swung down and helped the boy to the ground, then led the horses into the shade to cool off. With Johnny helping, he gathered dry sticks for a fire. A bee buzzed near them, then another.

  Hondo caught Johnny’s arm and pointed. A small swarm of bees hovered around a crack in the rock above them. “Hive up there. Lots of honey, too.”

  “Can we get some?” Johnny was eager. “Can we get some away from them?”

  Hondo studied the situation. “Hard to get it, but maybe later.”

  Earlier he had killed a rabbit, skinned and cleaned it, then sprinkled it with salt. Now he broiled the rabbit over the fire, then led the horses to water. He walked out away from the rocks, keeping among the brush, and studied the terrain. Twice that morning he had seen unshod hoofprints. There were Apaches around.

  He walked back to the boy and ate his share of the rabbit while Johnny was brushing the spines from a tuna the way he had shown him earlier. As the boy ate the desert fruit, he thought about how fast the morning had gone, how much he had enjoyed it. And this was the son of the man he had killed.

  How could a man have left a boy like this alone? To say nothing of Angie. What possessed a man with everything in the world to live for to go to a post and spend his time gambling and cheating passing strangers and soldiers from the post?

  “We’ll start back,” he said suddenly. “Your mother may get worried.”

  He thought of those unshod ponies. This boy had learned enough for one morning. There was no sense in taking a chance. While Johnny filled his canteen again, he walked back among the rocks to look in the opposite direction. Then he squatted suddenly.

  Four Indians had come out of the wash along which they had ridden earlier. Even at this distance he could tell they were mountain Apaches, strange to this area. They were studying the ground, apparently puzzled.

  If they had followed him far they would have occasion to be curious, for the horses had wandered from one point of interest to another, studying plants, tracks, and rocks. Now they were looking toward the serrated rock where lay the spring.

  Hondo Lane turned and walked swiftly back. There was a hollow among the rocks. “Johnny,” he said in a quiet voice, “we’re in trouble. Mountain Apaches … not from Vittoro.”

  The boy, he thought suddenly, looked eager rather than frightened. He chuckled a little, and Johnny looked up at him and smiled. “Will we fight?” he said quickly.

  “Not if we can help it,” Hondo said. “An’ don^t be so durned eager, youngster. People get hurt fightin’.”

  He led the horses into the hollow of rock and they waited. Suddenly he heard a hoof strike rock, then he saw the slim brown bodies of the Indians, White Mountain Apaches, by their look. They were studying the tracks at the spring.

  Hondo slid the thong from the butt of his six-shooter. “Trouble starts,” he said, and his voice was flat and harsh, “get behind the rocks and stay there, you hear me?”

  He stood up slowly, and almost at once the Apaches saw him. His rifle was in his hand. The distance was no more than forty yards.

  “Hola, brothers!” He spoke clearly. He was aware that Johnny, unable to restrain his curiosity, had appeared beside him.

  The Apaches stared, uncertain what to make of the strange pair. Yet soon he was puzzled himself, for they kept staring, and then they walked forward hesitantly. It was not Hondo himself at whom they stared, but at Johnny. Suddenly Hondo realized the boy was wearing Vittoro’s headband. The opal had caught the light and reflected into their eyes. A white boy with an Apache headband puzzled them.

  “The boy is Apache?”

  The Indian sounded doubtful, for despite Johnny’s deep tan, he was obviously a white boy.

  “Blood brother to Vittoro!” Hondo made the name ring against the crags. “He is Small Warrior!”

  Hesitantly, still wary of a trap, the Indians came forward. One of them hung back. His face was narrow and mean, with a cross-grained look about it. Hondo looked at this one, then never let the corners of his eyes stray away from him.

  The Apaches stopped a dozen yards off, staring from the boy to Hondo. Rifles were hard to come by, and Hondo’s was a new Winchester 73, firing seventeen shots without reloading. He wore a pistol also, and there were horses. Yet the name of Vittoro carried a large sound to Apache ears.

  “What do you here?”

  “The boy learns the way of the desert.”

  They accepted this and considered it. The wandering tracks were now explained. “It is the wish of Vittoro,” he added. “Small Warrior is to be as an Apache on the desert.”

  Three of the braves were obviously interested, and as Johnny stood there beside Hondo Lane, he carried a certain indomitable look that amused and interested them.

  “The Small Warrior takes scalps?” the nearest Apache asked, grinning.

  Only the tall Indian who hung back disturbed Hondo. The others were fascinated by the stalwart youngster. The carriage and manner of Johnny was Apache, and it made them chuckle.

  “The Small Warrior takes scalps?” the Indian repeated.

  “Not of dogs or women!” Johnny had not listened to Vittoro for nothing. “Go in peace!”

  One of the Indians shouted with laughter, and the three started to turn away.

  The fourth Indian stood his ground, looking at Hondo. “This one I know,” he said suddenly. “He was scout for the pony soldiers.”

  There was sudden tension, and the other three turned quickly, looking from Hondo to their companion.

  “I was scout for the pony soldiers,” Hondo agreed. “I have lived among the Mimbrenos also. This you do not like?”

  There was challenge in his tone. It did no good to draw back or show hesitation.

  “I have killed pony soldiers,” the brave boasted.

  “And I have killed Apaches.”

  They stared at each other. One of the others said something about Vittoro, but the tall Indian merely sneered. It was partly the rifle, partly the horses, but mostly it was that the Indian was a trouble-hunter. Hondo knew white men like him.

  “I wear the scalp of a pony soldier on the mane of my horse!”

  “An old pony soldier,” Hondo said with cont
empt, “with white in his hair and age in his back.”

  “You are friend of Vittoro?” The Apache sneered. “I say you lie!”

  Hondo ignored him. He spoke to the others. “The Small Warrior is the brother of Vittoro. Harm to him would mean blood feud. He is protected by Vittoro. I protect myself!”

  He turned suddenly and struck the tall Indian across the mouth. It was a wicked, powerful blow, and the Indian staggered and fell in a heap.

  An instant he lay there, eyes blazing, blood trickling from a smashed lip. Then like a cat he sprang to his feet and the rifle muzzle started to swing up. It was exactly what Hondo had wanted him to do. Deliberately he let the muzzle lift. Then he palmed his Colt and fired.

  His rifle had been held by the barrel with his left hand. His right hand was free to grasp its trigger guard as it lifted if he elected to use it. The Colt came as a complete surprise.

  The bullet struck the tall Indian over the heart and he grunted. His rifle’s bullet dug earth at Hondo’s feet, and then he fell face downward upon the ground.

  To the unsuspecting Indians, who had never seen a fighter in action, the appearance of the Colt smacked of sheer magic. They stared at him, stared at the gun, and then they turned the Indian over and looked at the wound. Awed, they stared at Hondo.

  Suddenly there was a clatter of hoofs and a dozen horsemen raced into the basin near the spring and ringed the small group. First among them was Vittoro. His hard old eyes looked first at Johnny, who stood close beside Hondo, his face white and still, but without tears or fear.

  Then he looked at the other Indians, and Hondo spoke quickly. “Only one among them looked for war,” he said. “That one is dead. These others are true men.”

  Vittoro stared at them and one Apache stepped forward. He held himself proudly. “We spoke in admiration of Small Warrior,” he said. This one wanted the scalp of that one.” He pointed at Hondo.

  Vittoro looked at them, then at Johnny. The Apache who had spoken then repeated what Johnny had said about not taking scalps of dogs and women, and Vittoro’s hard old eyes glinted and the others chuckled. Nobody seemed much upset by the death of the tall Indian. Hondo bolstered his gun. One of the others said something of that to Vittoro, speaking of the gun of magic. Vittoro looked at Hondo, then nodded. “The watcher of my brother is well chosen,” he said. Then he lifted his coup stick and pointed at Johnny.