Hondo (1953)

by L'amour, Louis

  Hondo rubbed his cigarette into the sand. “Want to tell you. While back a man came at me with a gun. Killed him.”

  “Good! Indian?”

  “No. He was a white man. I didn’t have any choice. This man I killed—”

  “No!” Angie put her hand across his mouth. “Your ranch in California … California’s far. Too far for gossip to travel.”

  Hondo got up slowly, relieved. Johnny wandered off, trailing the badger.

  “California’s far. He needs a father. He likes you, Hondo.”

  “Easy to say California’s far, that he’ll not hear. Could happen.” He looked at her. “What then?”

  “We’ll face it then. Nobody lives their life without having to face things from time to time. It will work out, I know.”

  The cottonwood rustled its leaves and Hondo looked at the hills. She was right, of course. Face that issue when it came. By that time he would have been a father to the boy, and they would understand each other.

  “The Apache don’t have a word for love,” he said. “Know what they both say at the marriage? The squaw-taking ceremony?”

  “Tell me.”

  “Varlehena. It means forever. That’s all they say.”

  Angie put her hand on his sleeve. “Forever,” she said quietly.

  “Forever.”

  They stood together in silence, his arm about her waist. The lineback looked around impatiently, stomping a hoof at a fly. Johnny came trudging back from upstream. He looked at Hondo and his mother. “You going to stay?”

  “Yes.”

  “Saw a hole that ol’ badger dug.”

  He wandered off toward the corrals, and Angie looked up suddenly. “I’d hate to leave this place. Can the Lieutenant make us?”

  “Guess so.” They turned toward the house. “Better, anyway,” he said. “No trouble around my place. Vittoro can’t live forever.”

  “I planned to leave once, before you came back.”

  “Might have to. Anyway,” he glanced around, “more grass and trees on my place. When I left they talked some of building a school not far off. We got to think of that.”

  “All right.”

  She looked up at him. “Hondo, I … It’s Father. He’s buried back there in the trees. He—he liked the cottonwoods so much. I hate to leave him.”

  “You won’t.”

  She looked up, and he said, “He left you. He lives in you and Johnny. I reckon no man ever dies who leaves a son or a daughter.”

  “We’ll go, then?”

  “We’ll wait.”

  They heard the rush of hoofs and the rattle of wheels over stones before anything came into view, and then Johnny came running, and over the rim of the basin came a racing wagon. The horses lunged down the trail and drew up in a cloud of dust that overtook and settled around and over the wagon. Buffalo Baker was driving, and he sprang down and lifted the unconscious Lieutenant McKay from the wagon. The movement seemed to bring him out of it.

  “We caught Vittoro,” Buffalo said.

  “Can’t understand,” McKay muttered, only half aware. “They had us surrounded. Could have cut us to pieces. Then they withdrew.”

  Hondo picked up a headband that had fallen from the wagon when the Lieutenant was lifted clear.

  “Vittoro’s.”

  “Killed him,” Buffalo said, “on the last charge.”

  “Then that’s it. That’s why they pulled out. Any time the leader is killed, that means the medicine is bad.”

  He turned to Angie. “We’ll go out with the squadron. Vittoro’s dead.”

  Buffalo walked past them, carrying the Lieutenant through the door Angie held open.

  “Now Silva’s the leader. Get your things together.”

  “Wait. I’ve some medicines. Maybe I can do something for Lieutenant McKay.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Lowe. I’d be grateful if you’d pass among the men and see what you can do for them.”

  “But you’re bleeding, and—”

  “Yes, ma’am, and many of the men are bleeding. I dislike to ask a lady to perform such a disagreeable task, but—”

  When she had gone, McKay lay back on the bunk, breathing heavily. His eyes rolled toward Hondo. “You were right. Vittoro was just luring us on. Will you see that my troops get out.”

  He fainted then, and Hondo opened his shirt and went to work. He had that rough skill men acquired on a frontier where doctors were rare, and medicines even rarer.

  “He didn’t know much,” Buffalo said. “He led us into an ambush. But I ain’t ashamed of him, nohow. All his bullet holes is in the front part of him.”

  Hondo had taken warm water from the stove and was gently sponging away the blood from the wounds. “All them youngsters from West Point is like that.”

  “They got to learn.”

  “Partly they learn, partly they die. I got to float my stick same as you. I never saw one of them I had to be ashamed of.”

  He worked on, sponging off the wounds, then binding them with Indian remedies. They were methods he had used on himself, and they worked.

  Finally he straightened up. “Better get them started out there. Take the wagon here, harness the horses, and load the wounded. There’s a good deal of bedding. We won’t have much time.”

  “You think Silva will come here?”

  “Yes.” Hondo Lane turned and glanced out the door to Angie, coming toward the house. “It’ll be first on his list.”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Westward the land was light. The moving column wound like a gray-blue snake across the beige-gray hills. Sweat streaked the faces of the troopers and dust settled on the blue of their uniforms. Many were stained with the blood of their enemies, and not a few with the blood of their own veins. The wagons rolled and rumbled, jolting over the stones, and in one of the wagons a man cursed in a high, hard, monotonous voice.

  Saddles creaked; men watched the hills. Sweat darkened the hides of the horses. The sun was hot. The uniforms of the men were stiff with ancient sweat and dust, and their lips cracked. Occasionally a low wind moved among them, cooling and fresh like a draught of cold clear water.

  Sergeant Young mopped his face and looked over at Hondo “You think he’s coming?”

  “I know he is.”

  “How much time we got?”

  “Three-four hours.”

  “Wished the Lieutenant was up.”

  Hondo Lane said nothing. He knew how the Sergeant felt. They were pitifully short of officers all along the frontier.

  Lane dropped back along the column, then swept the hills behind them. No sign of anything yet, but it was too soon. But once the medicine was made, Silva would not wait long. He was dangerous, but too impatient. He would be relentless and ruthless, but less shrewd than old Vittoro had been.

  Behind the column the dust settled and there were only the tracks, a plain trail that nothing could remove. Not even a bad storm would wipe out that trail and behind them would be the Mescaleros and their allies.

  He looked around at the parched and lonely country, then swung the lineback. There was yet time, but to hole up and make a stand would be worse than useless. They must keep going, get near enough for a relief column to reach them.

  He rode after the moving train, and they plodded on wearily, pushing toward the afternoon and the rim of distant hills beyond the post, still so far, far away.

  There was a brief noon halt near a water hole whose waters swiftly dwindled and died as the horses drank. No man touched any water but that from his canteen, and sparingly. The horses were all-important now, and each horse drank.

  Lieutenant McKay was delirious, talking of Richmond, of the Point, and of a girl somewhere who had said no, when she could not have found a better man.

  The sun was high and hot. Fifteen minutes of halt, then the column moved out. Men slumped in the saddle, weary after miles, yet knowing what was yet to come. In the wagons the cursing man had lost consciousness, and a man with a broken collarbone and
a bandaged skull was singing to a mandolin the good songs, the old songs…

  In the hot stillness of the afternoon they came down from the hills, their dark bodies dusty with the trail and the column swung its few wagons into a tight circle and the rifles spoke. The Indians vanished, then came again, swiftly, some on horseback, but more upon foot. The Apache was a daring runner, and he trusted his feet.

  Cold eyes looked down the barrels of rifles and then men fired. Dust leaped from the hillside. An Apache stopped in mid-stride as though he had run headlong into some obstruction, and then he fell, his shrill dying cry hanging in the stillness of the afternoon long after the man was dead.

  The charge ended, the rush was gone, the hillside was a barren and empty thing, alive with death. Like ghosts, somebody said. Vanished, melted into the landscape, as was the Apache way. A rifle spoke. A trooper cried out and died. Hondo rode swiftly around the inner circle. He called his orders in a low, hard voice, Sergeant Young making the other loop. The rush came suddenly, and as it did the column sprang into life and went hurtling forward, wagons three abreast, horses racing, surrounded by cavalry.

  It caught the Apaches by surprise. Most of them were dismounted, moving forward among the rocks. It caught them unprepared and the tight knot of wagons and men rolled out and over the crest and down the long sweep of the valley. A mile fell behind … two miles. Whooping Indians came up behind, firing and missing, yet racing forward.

  Hondo yelled at Young and the Sergeant gave a quick command. Ten troopers swung their horses into line and dropped to the ground, to their knees. An instant they waited as the Apaches charged nearer. The volley was a solid sound, a sound that struck, and melted the advancing Indians. Swiftly the kneeling men fired again.

  Leaving chaos behind them, they swung into their saddles and were off after the train.

  “We’ll try that again!” Young yelled.

  “Won’t work again,” Hondo said. “They’ll be scattered out now.”

  But some of the attackers had gone on ahead, cutting across the hills, and now they came down, pouring over the crest like a dark flood, lit by flashes of color and flame The wagons rounded again into a circle and the troopers swung down from their horses. Hondo put the butt of his Winchester against his shoulder and fired, his shots seeking out the Apaches, firing carefully, squeezing off every shot.

  Attacks began and ended. The Apache was never one to trust a wild charge. He was a shrewd and careful fighter, knowing the value of cover, moving with care, never wasting time or shots. They moved in closer, then closer.

  They were elusive, targets scarcely seen. A flash of brown against the desert, then no sign of life, no movement. Worming their way closer, they used scant inches of cover for their movements. When they came again it would be from close up, their charge only a few yards. Hondo worked his way around, warning the troopers to be ready. He scattered the few men with pistols in positions to cover every yard of space.

  A half hour passed. The sun beat down from a wide and brassy sky. Sweat trickled down the faces and necks of the waiting troopers. Its salt made them blink. Their rifles were hot from the desert sun.

  The Apaches knew the value of waiting, and as they waited, they drew nearer. A single rifle shot sounded. A trooper had seen a flashing brown leg and fired. His shot ripped the heel from the vanishing Indian.

  Silence lay heavily upon the circle. Heat waves shimmered. A man coughed, a horse stamped at a fly. There was no other sound. Hondo shifted his Colt, drying a sweaty palm. They waited, hugging their sparce cover.

  Suddenly fifty horsemen charged over the hill. Eyes lifted to them and rifles … and in that instant, the nearer Indians charged also. It was perfect—except for Hondo’s pistol men.

  There were six of them in all, but their fire was point-blank. It broke the force of the charge, and the Indians that reached the barricades were clubbed down by battering rifle butts. And then the horsemen came.

  Some had gone down, but a dozen leaped their horses into the circle. One big brave lunged his horse at Hondo, his lance poised. Hondo’s side step saved him and his quick grasp of the lance wrenched the Indian from the saddle. The Indian hit on the small of his neck, and as he tried to roll over, Hondo kicked him under the chin, then shot him.

  A horse was down, screaming. The inner circle was a whirl of fighting men. From the outer circle came the heavy bark of rifles to prove that Indians were still coming. Lieutenant McKay was on one elbow, firing his pistol.

  Hondo swung his pistol barrel at a head, heard it crunch, saw a lance aimed for him and swung aside. And then in the swirl of dust and smoke he saw Silva.

  The big Indian’s face was a twisted mask of fury and he leaped his horse at Hondo. The animal’s shoulder hit Hondo and he was knocked rolling. Silva swung down from his horse and sprang, knife in hand. Hondo came up from the ground and his kick caught Silva below the knee. The Indian stopped in mid-stride and another Apache swept by. Hondo struck out at him and saw the man fall, then caught up his broken lance in time to meet Silva’s lance. He parried the blow, then gutted the Indian as the Indian had gutted the dog.

  Silva went down, the lance ripping him up, and Hondo said, “Like my dog … you die!”

  As suddenly as it had begun, the attack broke. A swarm of Apaches swept round him, and then they were gone, carrying Silva among them.

  And then there was only settling dust and the moans of the wounded and the dying.

  Again the wagons rolled, only now there were more wounded, now there were empty saddles, now there were more bandaged heads.

  Sergeant Young dropped back beside the wagon where Hondo rode. “That hurt ‘em!” he said. “We hurt ‘em bad!”

  “They won’t bother us.”

  “You don’t think they’ll attack again?”

  “Another chief’s dead. We’ll make the fort before they have another leader.”

  Angie started to bandage a wound on Hondo’s arm. He handed the reins to Johnny, who accepted them eagerly.

  “He’s never learned to drive!” Angie protested.

  “By the time we make California, he’ll be top teamster.” He yelled shrilly at the horses, and they moved out.

  Angie finished with the arm, and held it, and all up and down the column there was only the movement of wagons rolling, the sound of horses’ hoofs, and an occasional low moan from a wagon.

  From far back in the column a mandolin sounded and a rolling bass started the words of “Sweet Betsy from Pike.”

  A long time later, when the column rolled over the long hill and headed for the parade ground, Hondo looked up from the reins he now held. He could see the flap fluttering in the wind, the troops marching onto the field for retreat, and westward the land was bright with a setting sun, and a dull rose shaded the clouds and faded away against the higher heavens, and from the parade ground he heard a bugle, its notes bright and clear.

  He heard Sergeant Young’s command, saw the men form up, and saw them, battered and wounded and bloody, riding proudly to the parade ground.

  He saw them go, and knew their fierce pride, and their glory. But he was remembering a long meadow fresh with new-cut hay, a house where smoke would soon again rise from the chimney, and where shadows would gather in the darkness under the trees, quiet shadows. And beside him a woman held in her arms a sleeping child … a woman who would be there with him, in that house, before that hearth.

  About the Author

  “I think of myself in the oral tradition — of a troubadour, a village taleteller, the man in the shadows of the campfire. That’s the way I’d like to be remembered — as a storyteller. A good storyteller.”

  It is doubtful that any author could be as at home in the world recreated in his novels as Louis Dearborn L’Amour. Not only could he physically fill the boots of the rugged characters he wrote about, but he literally “walked the land my characters walk.” His personal experiences as well as his lifelong devotion to historical research combined to give Mr. L
’Amour the unique knowledge and understanding of people, events, and the challenge of the American frontier that became the hallmarks of his popularity.

  Of French-Irish descent, Mr. L’Amour could trace his own family in North America back to the early 1600s and follow their steady progression westward, “always on the frontier.” As a boy growing up in Jamestown, North Dakota, he absorbed all he could about his family’s frontier heritage, including the story of his great-grandfather who was scalped by Sioux warriors.

  Spurred by an eager curiosity and desire to broaden his horizons, Mr. L’Amour left home at the age of fifteen and enjoyed a wide variety of jobs including seaman, lumberjack, elephant handler, skinner of dead cattle, assessment miner, and officer on tank destroyers during World War II. During his “yondering” days he also circled the world on a freighter, sailed a dhow on the Red Sea, was shipwrecked in the West Indies and stranded in the Mojave Desert. He won fifty-one of fifty-nine fights as a professional boxer and worked as a journalist and lecturer. He was a voracious reader and collector of rare books. His personal library contained 17,000 volumes.

  Mr. L’Amour “wanted to write almost from the time I could talk.” After developing a widespread following for his many frontier and adventure stories written for fiction magazines, Mr. L’Amour published his first full-length novel, Hondo, in the United States in 1953. Every one of his more than 100 books is in print; there are nearly 230 million copies of his books in print worldwide, making him one of the bestselling authors in modern literary history. His books have been translated into twenty languages, and more than forty-five of his novels and stories have been made into feature films and television movies.

  His hardcover bestsellers include The Lonesome Gods, The Walking Drum (his twelfth-century historical novel) Jubal Sackett, Last of the Breed, and The Haunted Mesa. His memoir, Education of a Wandering Man, was a leading bestseller in 1989. Audio dramatizations and adaptations of many L’Amour stories are available on cassette tapes from Bantam Audio Publishing.