The old man rubbed his chin, chewed, spat. He looked at his burro, Pansy, grazing peacefully among the cavalry mounts.
"For a thousand dollars?" Jack prodded.
"God damn it, Mr. Drumm, it ain't the money! You took me in when I was sick, bled me, fed me, emptied my slop jar! I ain't never paid you back for that, and I guess there ain't any amount of money that'd settle my bill proper. But what in Tophet you aim to do onct you get up there?"
Jack took a deep breath. "I don't know," he confessed. "But if Phoebe Larkin is alive, I will do whatever I can to rescue her. Maybe I can ransom her. Maybe I can—"
"Not to speak blunt," the old man snorted, "but you're a God damned fool, Mr. Drumm! You're askin' to be kilt, maybe roasted over a slow fire! You started up Rancho Terco here, along the river, in the middle of what's holy ground to Agustín and his people. You fit 'em right down to the ground, tooth and nail—scragged a few, too. When they catch you up there in Gu Nakya—"
"What's that?"
"Gu Nakya? That's where Agustín used to hole up in the old days. That's where some of his folks is buried, only they don't bury 'em, of course—they just burn down the brush hut the feller lived in. Gu Nakya is over the top of the mountain, looking down that steep drop to the other side."
"Will you take me to Gu Nakya?"
Uncle Roscoe sighed. "All right, if you're so damned anxious to lose your liver and lights! Soon's I pack up a few more supplies, I intended to head up that way anyhow. This time I got the Gypsy Dancer dead in my sights. But you sure you don't want to change your mind?"
"Dead sure! I am firm in my decision."
Borrowing dried meat, hard cheese, and some tea and biscuits from the Sprankles, Jack told George Dunaway what he planned to do. Dunaway pushed back his hat and stared.
"You mean it?"
"I do indeed."
"Only yesterday I was thinking 'What if Drumm went up there, tried to find Phoebe?' It was a wild hare of an idea—I said so at the time—but now—" Dunaway fumbled for Jack's hand, gripped it hard. "Once," he muttered, "I beat the tar out of you in a fight. Remember?"
"I do."
"I used a few Arizona tricks on you, things you never saw before, and I flattened you. But I'm bound to admit you're a better man, Jack. While I sit here on my butt, scared of a court-martial, you—you—" Dunaway took a pad of paper from his pocket, scribbled quickly. "Here," he said. "You'll need this."
"What is it?"
"A pass through our pickets." Dunaway gestured toward the foothills of the Mazatzals. "They'll stop you when you get up there. No civilians allowed." He grinned wryly. "When Major Trimble finds out, it'll be my butt in small pieces! But it's the least I can do." He shook hands with Jack Drumm. "If—if you ever see Phoebe again, tell her I—I—" He broke off. "I guess I loved her," he said awkwardly. "Hard to tell, in a way, since I never had experience with the real thing. But—" He turned on his heel, walking rapidly away.
On the flanks of the Mazatzals, far above the river, they paused for breath and to rest Jack's roan mount and the heavily laden Pansy. Though it was still winter, the sun bore heavily down. The playa below shimmered in the heat. Uncle Roscoe sat in the shade of a rocky ledge and drank from a canteen. His face was flushed with effort, and the dirty shirt was black with sweat under the armpits and across his meager chest.
"Hard going," Jack wheezed, squatting beside him.
Uncle Roscoe hooted. "You ain't seen any hard going yet!" He nodded skyward. "Wait till we get up there!"
Below them, the new M-7 heliographs winked in the sun. They were stationed, as the major had said, all up and down the river, a chain of rapid communication, making Agustín's situation difficult. If he risked a raid at one point, it was likely that troops quickly summoned from another would cut off his retreat into Gu Nakya.
Still winded, Jack clambered onto Tom. Uncle Roscoe prodded Pansy with a stick and they moved forward again, forward and upward. A rattler sunning on a flat rock watched them with dusty hooded eyes. The old prospector glanced at the snake, moved slightly aside, estimating the serpent's striking range, and said, "He don't mean us no harm, and I don't mean him none. That's the way to get along in the Territory. Wisht the gov'mint and the Apaches had the same policy."
At noon they stopped for a quick meal of dried meat and iron-hard biscuits. Uncle Roscoe, tattered hat over his face, took a nap. Jack Drumm was whittling with the Apache knife when a corporal, followed by two soldiers, stepped from the bushes. The soldiers trained Springfield rifles; the corporal waved a revolver menacingly.
"What you people doing up here?"
Uncle Roscoe sat bolt upright.
"What in hell you mean, what are us people doing up here? This is a free country, ain't it? What in Tophet you yellowlegs doing up here so God damn far from your mammy? Why, I—"
"Be quiet," Jack said. Under the watchful eye of the corporal he took the paper from his pocket. "We have a pass," he explained.
The corporal examined the paper. "I didn't hear nothing about any passes being issued."
"Do you recognize Lieutenant Dunaway's signature?"
The man scratched his stubbled chin. "That's his signature all right—he give me a three-day pass last week at Fort Whipple. But—"
Jack took the pass and put it again in his shirt pocket. "Then let us go on. We have a long way to travel."
"I ain't sure!" the corporal protested. "Where you two going, anyway?"
"That's for us to know and you to find out," Uncle Roscoe snapped. "Come on, Pansy."
"All right, then! I was only intending to give you some good advice." The corporal gestured toward the mountaintop. "Up there the Apaches are swarming like bees! They say Agustín's been joined by more hostiles that's bolted the reservation. I don't know what your business is, you fellers, but don't say I didn't warn you!"
"Thank you," Jack said. "If you'll tell your men to put down those rifles, we'll pass on through."
Late in the afternoon, several thousand feet above the playa, they paused, winded and staggering with fatigue. Pansy, sides heaving, stood stiff-legged under her burden as if fearing relaxation of her legs would result in complete collapse. Tom, the roan, limped badly with a stone-bruised foot. Uncle Roscoe took off his hat and fanned himself; a blue vein in his temple pumped. Voice hoarse but exultant, he pointed to the twin crags above them. "There's where she lies, the Gypsy Dancer! God, I spent most of my life lookin' for her! Now I can practically spit on her!"
The sun was sliding down the western wall of the sky and the air was cooler. Above them Jack could see scattered patches of snow. The flora, too, had changed. There were junipers, and an occasional pine tree. Different birds fluttered about in the undergrowth; chickadees and nuthatches, they were called.
"I'm glad you're near the Gypsy Dancer," he panted, "but you're going to take me to Gu Nakya—remember?"
Roscoe swallowed a long draft of water; the knob of Adam's apple bobbed up and down in his lean throat.
"That's right," he agreed, corking the flask. "I ain't one to forget a promise! Now this here is the plan." He pointed upward. "Behind that peak, sloping down to the other side, lies Gu Nakya. I don't doubt but what some scout seen us already, and wonders what in hell we're up to. We best hunker down right here for the night, get a little rest. When the moon comes up so's we can see a little, we'll go on up. Mebbe they won't ketch sight of us till we're pretty well up on 'em. By sunup we'll be on top, and then—"
He broke off, the words slurring oddly.
"And then—" he repeated.
Again he broke off, looking at Jack Drumm with a worried expression. "I—I feel kind of queer," he muttered.
Concerned, Jack squatted beside him. "Are you ill?"
The old prospector shook his head. "Dunno! It don't seem like sick, exactly, but—" With Jack's help he got to his feet, swaying, fumbling with a gnarled hand at his throat. "A little dizzy, seems like, but—"
Suddenly he collapsed, bandy legs folding
under him. Alarmed, Jack let him gently down, pillowing Roscoe's head with his coat. When the old man struggled, Jack forced him to lie still.
"Don't exert yourself!" he urged. "Lie quietly for a few minutes and you'll feel better! It's—it's probably the altitude."
Even in the fading light he could see that the old man's face was red and perspiring; even more than red, the wattled cheeks took on a purplish tinge. Roscoe's lips moved clumsily.
"Dizzy—it's just a little—dizzy—"
"That's all it is," Jack soothed. "And it will pass."
A wind rose, a chill wind laced with the breath of the upper snows. The sun, a red ball veiled in smoky haze, balanced on the ragged western ridges, then sank. In a nearby bush an owl hooted, something rustled.
"There she is," Roscoe said suddenly, with great clarity.
"What?" Jack asked. "What do you mean?"
The old man's skinny chest heaved with the effort of breathing. He made an effort to raise a withered arm to point. The muscles only trembled a little; his hand fell back to his side.
"There. Up there! See, in the sun?"
Jack looked toward the twin crags. Caught by the rays of the setting sun, they glowed like fine gold.
"I—I see her," he murmured.
"She's there!" Roscoe insisted. "She's there, waiting!" He tried to sit up. "I'm coming!" he cried. "God damn it, wait for me! I'm coming!"
The fit climaxed, the old man stopped, frozen into immobility by the bursting of some great blood vessel. When Jack caught him in his arms, Uncle Roscoe was already dead.
He laid the old prospector down, drawing his coat over the waxen face, now drained of blood. Pansy ambled up and stared at the still form. She looked questioningly at Jack Drumm, made a small whickering sound.
"He's dead," Jack told her. "Uncle Roscoe is dead, Pansy."
Without his coat, he was cold. He shivered in the chilling air. The sun was well gone, now. Over the Gypsy Dancer shone a faint silver glow. Soon the moon would rise.
He muttered a few remembered words over the still form, then piled rocks over the body. Tearing off branches of juniper, he fashioned a rude cross, laced together with vines, and propped it at the head of the grave.
"Requiescat" he muttered, "in pace, amicus meus."
Cold, weary, and apprehensive, he took Tom's reins and started again up the rocky slope, slipping and falling in the rubble, bruising his knees and his hand. He had hardly started, however, when strong arms pinioned him from behind. He was thrown violently to the ground. The roan whinnied in fear as shadowy forms surrounded them, pulling at the bridle. Dazed by the fall, Jack lay flat, staring at the lean form bending over him.
There was not much light but there could be no mistaking the savage visage. His captor was the sobrino, Agustín's nephew. His captor was the youth who had been captured at the Second Battle of the Agua Fria, and whom Jack Drumm had freed to carry a defiant message to his uncle.
Chapter Twelve
For days they kept him in a brush hut. It was dark and cold, though winter sun filtered through. Twice a day a guard brought a tin plate filled with stew—from the faintly sweetish taste Jack guessed the meat was horseflesh. At night he slept under captured cavalry blankets, and was warm enough. Though they did not bind his hands, always there were guards lounging about the hut, bandy-legged silent little men with repeating rifles and sullen stares.
When one brought in his food, Jack tried to speak to him.
"I came here to talk to Agustín," he said, speaking slowly and carefully. "Will you take me to him?"
The man sat cross-legged near the low door of the hut, watching him eat. A Springfield rifle, probably captured also from the cavalry, lay across his knees.
"Do you speak English?"
Only the sullen stare; the eyes were flat and opaque, like those of a snake.
"Do you speak Spanish, then?" Jack tried hard to remember. "Let me see! ¿Que va usted a hacer con—well, conmigo?"
Still no response, only the heavy-lidded stare.
"Is there a white woman here? A woman with red hair—cabello rojo, como cobre—like copper?"
Seeing the plate empty, the man rose and snatched it away. When Jack shouted at him, he paused for a moment, silhouetted in the light through the doorway.
"Damn it all, I'm tired of sitting here in this hut like a rabbit in a hutch!" Frustrated, he rubbed his limbs. "Can't you let me out of here for a bit? I won't try to get away! I just want to walk a little—stretch my arms and legs!"
The man did not appear to understand. But that afternoon one of the other guards stuck his head in and motioned.
"Thank you," Jack said. "Gracias! That's very thoughtful of you."
A watchful captor on each side, he was allowed to stroll through Gu Nakya, Agustín's stronghold. First reports had indicated that only about fifty Apaches had run away from the Verde River reservation. Yet there were many more here, including women and children. Other bands had joined the rebellious chieftain.
Though the sun shone brightly in the thin atmosphere, the air was cold and biting. A chill wind tossed the branches of junipers and stunted pines, and drifts of snow lay about. In a sun-warmed depression among the rocks women ground something between flat rocks—probably mesquite beans or sunflower seeds—to make Apache bread. A small boy left his mother and followed Jack about, eating a fruit of the nopal, the "Indian fig." The fruit was spiny with thorns; not for a moment taking his black eyes from the prisoner, the child picked off the needles and continued to eat.
In the middle of Gu Nakya was a brush hut larger than the others, with a pennon of some sort floating over it. Apparently it was a ceremonial structure, perhaps Agustín's headquarters. Warriors gathered about it, playing cards with a greasy deck. As Jack watched, a band of horsemen, riding awkwardly as Dunaway said the Apaches did, cantered toward the flag and dismounted as if reporting. It was then that he saw the pennon was his own Union Jack, the glorious old red flag, hanging over an Apache jacal.
Furious, he started toward the hut. One of his captors struck him on the shoulder with the barrel of his rifle and motioned him back.
"That's my flag!" Jack protested. He scowled at the man. "Bandera! Mine! Do you understand?"
Roughly they pushed him back into his hut. The next day he was not allowed out. Sullen, he sat cross-legged all day, marking the passage of time by the tracery of sunlight crawling across the dirt floor. When they let him out again, he was more circumspect. As he walked, feeling the juices flow in his cramped limbs, he stared hungrily about, trying to find some sign, some bit of evidence, that Phoebe Larkin was in the hostile camp. Men came and went, parleys were held in the big hut, his flag snapped in the breeze as if not knowing its disgrace. People watched him shamble about with little interest, though the small boy eating figs still dogged his heels.
"A woman," he said to his guards. "A pretty woman—" Was Phoebe pretty by Apache standards? Probably not. "A tall lady, taller than you—" He gestured. "With red hair." Searching, he found in his pocket a few bits of horehound candy he kept for the Sloat children. He handed some to the guards. "Have you seen her?"
They held the candy in leathery palms, sniffed. One touched his tongue to it, nodded with satisfaction. The others sucked on theirs, and appeared more favorably disposed toward him. But still they would not speak, though by now he was sure some of them understood English.
It was frustrating, as well as nerve-racking, to be kept like a prize capon in a pen, fed, exercised, maintained in prime condition for—what? He did not know. If they wanted his death, surely the sobrino would have slain him when the scouting party first stumbled on him. Perhaps the only thing that now maintained a semblance of his sanity was the possibility of Phoebe Larkin still existing somewhere in the rabbit warren of brush huts dotting the rocky bowl of Gu Nakya. As time went on, even that small possibility dwindled.
One night he awoke trembling and perspiring from a bad dream. Usually, in spite of captivity, he slept wel
l enough. This night, however, he tossed and rolled and muttered strange words. The camp was silent; over the hut floated a shadowy thing with a soft feathery flutter. An owl, undoubtedly—a great owl. That, he remembered from Uncle Roscoe's reminiscences, meant death; at least, to an Apache it meant death. Suddenly, bitterly, he knew Phoebe Larkin had perished. No doubt about it—the consciousness fastened an iron hand over his heart. They had killed her, of course. A white woman had been seized; that was enough to show Agustín's defiance of the Army. Phoebe Larkin would be an inconvenience in this rude camp. He hoped she had died quickly, mercifully. But why was he still alive? He fell into a troubled sleep, waking late and then only when a stolid-faced guard shook him by the shoulder.
"You—come."
Stumbling into the winter sunshine, rubbing his eyes, he saw the youth who had captured him—Agustín's nephew—waiting. In spite of the chill, the sobrino wore only a thin cotton shirt and a breechcloth. He carried a ceremonial lance, and regarded Jack Drumm with an obsidian stare.
"I am Nacho," he murmured.
Jack pulled the remnants of his best woolen suit about him. "Nacho, eh?"
"I am Nacho. You come with me."
"As I remember it, you didn't speak any English when you were tied to that chair down at my ranch along the Agua Fria. As a matter of fact you didn't say anything—just sat there like a carved Buddha!"
Nacho shook his head. "I not know Buddha." He pointed toward the great hut. "You go there. He—mi tio—wait."
Inside, the hut was dark and smoky. A fire burned low. In the corners of the structure lay earthenware ollas, scattered furs and blankets, boxes of Springfield ammunition from a looted wagon train. As Jack's eyes became accustomed to the smoky darkness, he saw warriors with painted faces sitting in a ring. A man dropped wood on the fire, kicked it into flame. Fiery tongues leaped up. Sitting on a dais was Agustín himself, Agustín the renegade, the scourge of the Agua Fria. The chieftain wore the high leather hat; twinkling flames reflected from the bits of glass and tin adorning the crown.
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