Across the still and silent land the lone rider moved, antlike against the barren jumble of rock and sand and sky. The big black horse, its glossy pelt shining with sweat, cantered easily onwards, the pack mule following docilely behind; upwards towards the mountains, hardly visible in the wilderness, its rider slouched in the saddle, sombrero tilted forward. But there were eyes as keen as those of the mountain eagle in this land, and they saw the man, knew he was alien; and the messages moved across the land. White man coming. Alone. No man crossed Apacheria whom the Apache did not see.
Green eased his seat in the saddle and wiped the dust and sweat out of his eyes. “Reckon I know what a boiled aig feels like now,” he muttered aloud, pulling the horse to a stop. Dismounting, he made a small fire, piling branches from a creosote bush upon it and laying a blanket loosely over the smoking pile. After a moment he swept the blanket aside, and a balloon of grey smoke soared up. Twice Green repeated this procedure, and then kicking sand over the fire to extinguish it, he remounted and pushed his horse forward once again.
“I’m shore hopin’ that smoke makes ’em curious,” he told his horse. “I’m guessin’ folks crossin’ this country don’t usually announce their presence.”
The stallion snorted as if in reply, and cantered on. They were moving now into a long, rocky defile and on both sides the beetling walls rose stark towards the burning sky. The chuckling sound of a wild turkey came from the shadowed gorge ahead, and the stallion’s ears flicked forward. “Easy, Night,” Green told his mount. Guiding the animal with his knees, he ostentatiously lifted his hands so that the absence of his gunbelt could be clearly seen.
“Mighty early in the day for a turkey to be gobblin’,” he said aloud. “Wouldn’t mind bettin’ he’s got mighty funny-lookin’ feathers.”
Keeping his hands up high, Green urged the black on into the defile. Midnight stepped cautiously, edgily; the pack mule dragged a little on its lead rope.
Again the turkey gobbled, and this time an answering call came from higher up the canyon wall. Green sat tense in the saddle, his keen eyes flickering across the faceless stone cliffs. No movement caught his eye, no tiny stone slide or dust puff betrayed the presence of anyone but himself in the canyon.
“They’re shore there, all the same,” he said to himself. “I’m playin’ in luck so far: they ain’t gunned me down. Mebbe I’ve got ’em curious.” Eyes moving alertly, ready for the first sign of a hostile move, he headed on up the canyon. Further along, the floor of the defile opened into a wide, oval-shaped clearing with a brackish pool of water formed by seepage from the rocks at one side. Green kneed his animals over to it, and swung down from the saddle.He began unhurriedly to unfasten the pack on the mule’s back, swinging it down to the ground and unrolling it in one sweeping gesture. On the blanket lay trade goods: beads, mirrors, some knives, and one thing more: a slim, graceful, deadly looking Winchester carbine, the sun picking a dull shine from its barrel even in this gloomy place. Green stood by the spread blanket, his eyes scanning the edge of the rim above him. Nothing moved.
Then without warning there was a warrior on a ledge not thirty feet above his head, an old Springfield rifle trained unwaveringly upon the man below. The Apache yelled something and his voice echoed from the enclosing canyon walls, causing the horses to toss their heads and move nervously. “Easy, there,” Sudden told the animals, “Easy now. He’s just callin’ his sidekicks.” His soft tone quieted the animals and he turned, moving very slowly, and showed both his hands held high and well away from the body to the Apache on the ledge.
Unarmed the movement said. He made another sign. Come, see. The right hand touched the heart and then opened out palm forward. Friend. And a sign again: Come, see.
The Apache on the ledge made the shrill, high, shouting noise again, and it was echoed in a different tone and then Green saw them all. They rose from the earth as if some sorcerer had conjured them from the very dust. Their oiled bodies were grey where they had rolled in the dirt to camouflage themselves, rendering them practically invisible until they moved. Eight of them, he counted silently, all armed with bows, arrows half-pulled, ready to be released instantly at the slightest sign of hostility. The black paint on their faces showed that they were a war party. Green made the sign of friendship again. Knowing that many Apaches understood Spanish, he called out to them. “Estoy amigo,” he shouted. “Tengo cosas finas. Mira!”
The Apache on the ledge motioned with the rifle. His gesture was as plain as a spoken command: stand away! Green shrugged. He had told them he was a friend, that he had fine things. Come and look, he had invited them. Now it was in the lap of the gods; all he could do was hope that they would be intrigued, come down and talk. They could just as easily kill him and take them anyway; he was gambling on their wondering why he would have come so deep into their stronghold, announcing himself on the way, with so little to trade.
If they ain’t, he told himself. I’ll be shakin’ hands with Saint Peter any minnit.
“Or Old Nick,” he added silently.
The Apache on the ledge was arguing with the others; Green could hear the angry, guttural sounds. You didn’t need to be Apache to know an argument when you heard one. The man on the ledge seemed to be the leader of the war party. He was heavily built, but tall, albeit with the barrel chest typical of the race. A greasy red rag held the long, loose hair out of the Apache’s eyes, which gleamed like coals above the high, prominent cheekbones. Finally, the man made an impatient gesture and then led the way down the side of the hill. He moved in long, easy, loping strides, as graceful as a mountain lion.
“An’ about as friendly,” Green murmured.
The other warriors followed, bringing in their wake a small slide of stones and dust. They came warily forward, ready for any movement, their bows fully drawn and the deadly arrows trained upon the white man. Green stood as still as stone. The sharp animal smell of the Apaches assailed his nostrils as they clustered around him, and then fell jabbering upon the goods lying on the blanket, passing the Winchester from hand to hand, cocking and uncocking the weapon. Only the leader stood aloof, his deep dark eyes fixed like a snake upon the white man.
“Why have you come into our land?” he asked suddenly in English. “What you want here?”
“To trade,” Green told him.
“Worthless trash!” the Apache snapped. “White man does not come into stronghold to make trade with trash. Why you make smoke first to tell you come?”
“I didn’t want to get killed afore I talked trade with yore people.” Green replied.
“Trade!” the Apache scoffed. “Nothing worth trading except gun. Manolito take gun and kill you anyway.”
“I got some other things,” Green told him.
“Where?” snarled the Apache. “I not see. You got nothing. Maybe you scalphunter, think to find one, two Apache and kill them for scalp.”
“I’m no scalphunter,’ Green told him levelly. “I come to trade. I got no guns; how could I kill any o’ yore people?”
“Maybe with trick?” the Indian said, but Green saw that the biggest risk of all had paid off. He had no guns, and this impressed the Apache, who now said: “What you want trade for? Yellow metal for which white-eyes fight like coyotes?”
Green shook his head. “Not gold. I’m lookin’ for a white girl stolen by yore people.”
Manolito’s eyes flashed for a moment with cunning, and then he laughed harshly. “You will not find her,” he gloated. “She is far from here.”
“How far?”
“Many suns travel,” the Apache replied, but Green knew somehow that the man was lying. The girl was somewhere in this stronghold, perhaps very near; she might even be in the camp from which this party had come. Green shrugged. “That’s too bad,” he said. “I could’ve made a good trade for her.”
“You have nothing to trade but your life,” grated the Apache, “and we take that anyway.”
“Be a pity,” shrugged the cowboy. Somethi
ng about his very air puzzled the Apache. The heavy brows knitted, and again Manolito made an impatient gesture. Green knew his only chance was to keep the Apache puzzled; the moment the initiative passed out of his hands, the Indians would kill him as thoughtlessly as if he were an insect.
“Take me to where the girl is,” he demanded. “Then you’ll find out what I got to trade.”
One of the warriors spoke impatiently in Spanish. “Kill him and let us go from here.”
“Take me to the girl,” insisted Green. “What yu scared of?”
The Apache drew himself upright, fierce pride on his face. “Manolito fears no man!” he screeched.
“So he says,” sneered Green. “Go ahead, then, kill me. What kind of bravery is that – the bravery of squaws? Does Manolito do women’s work?”
The Apache stared at him. This slow-speaking white man was like no other he had ever encountered. There was no sign of fear, none of the begging, abject terror which Apaches aroused in the pitiful white captives they took. Green watched their faces. The other warriors, their craggy visages alight with curiosity, were intrigued by the exchange, and clustered around their leader and the white man.
“You speak brave,” Manolito said eventually. “Do you die as bravely?”
“I’ll make yu a fair offer,” Green said. “Give me a chance to fight for my life.”
Again the Indian frowned. Green smiled to himself; the gambit might just work, although it was fraught with the most deadly peril to himself.
“Still, that’s the name o’ the game,” he mused to himself.
“You wish to fight with Manolito?” the Apache frowned.
Green nodded grimly. “For a bargain.”
“What bargain is this?”
“Yu kill me, that’s the end of it,” Green said. “How about if yu don’t?”
“It is unlikely.”
“But if yu don’t?” Green persisted. “Will yu take me to the place where the girl is?”
The warrior who had spoken before made an impatient sound. “Kill him and be done,” he grumbled.
Manolito held up a hand. “Wait!” he snapped. “Maybe this white-eye will give us sport. We will see if he fights as well as he boasts!” He held up a wicked-looking knife. “With the knife?” he said. It was a question, and Green nodded his confirmation. “Is it a bargain?” he asked.
Manolito’s face went dark, and cunning touched the flat eyes. “We will talk of it – afterwards.” There was a cold and eager smile upon his thin lips.
“The promise of Manolito is good enough for me,” Green said, gravely. “I know he will honor it.”
“Manolito will not need to honor it,” the Apache snarled.
He turned and uttered a sharp command. The other warriors moved back from the two men, squatting down on the rocks, their faces impassive but their eyes alight with interest. Fighting with the knife was a skill held in high esteem by the Apaches, and they were interested to see how the white man would fare against their leader. They had seen Manolito fight, and were in no doubt about the outcome of this affray, but they would watch him toy with this pale-skinned madman, and destroy him slowly. It would be a good story to tell around the fires tonight; they would tell the women and the young boys how the Americano who had challenged the leader of the Fox Lodge of the Chiricahuas had been taunted, teased, reduced to shambling helplessness as Manolito had taken away from him first the use of his right hand, then his right leg, and then his left hand, his left leg, and finally…
Manolito made a sign and one of the warriors tossed him a knife, the twin of the one Manolito had earlier brandished. It was a Bowie knife, with a blade nearly eight inches long, razor-honed and glinting wickedly in the sunlight. Souvenirs from some raid into Texas or Mexico, no doubt; the thought of the settlers killed to obtain these weapons lit a fire of cold wrath in Green which flamed beneath his cool exterior. These were raiding Apaches. They fell like the wrath of Satan upon defenseless ranches, killing like senseless animals. Bleke had described the slaughter at the Davis spread; maybe some of these warriors had been there. The thought hardened Green’s resolve, and his lips tightened into a thin line.
Manolito stuck the two knives into the ground, side by side, with only the hafts protruding upwards. Then he paced six steps from them and drew a line in the dust with his heel. He repeated the procedure on the opposite side and motioned Green at the mark he had made for him. “Do you understand what must be done?” he asked harshly.
“I know the Apache way,” was the quiet reply.
Green readied himself even as Manolito took his position and turned crouching, poised for the first fast dangerous diving snatch for the knives. Green knew how the Apaches fought; Manolito would move hard and fast. He recalled the way that the Apache had come down the side of the arroyo, poised, flawless, as arrogant as a young stag. Manolito’s move would come without a hint of warning; he must be ready for it. The Indian’s eyes never left those of his opponent. The two men circled warily, never moving forward from the perimeter of the invisible circle, edging crabwise around the center-point marked by the two knife hafts. Manolito swooped like a hawk for the knives and his hand was on the haft of one in a fraction of a second, his left foot sweeping across to kick the other knife out of the ground away from his opponent’s grasp. But Green had allowed the Apache that moment’s start, relying upon his own superb reflexes; even as Manolito’s hand closed upon the knife-haft, Green’s left hand was clubbing downwards. It caught the Apache as he bent, his left foot still moving, truly off balance, smashing Manolito face down in the dust as Green, his hold firm and sure upon the haft of the second knife, sprang lithely backwards and flicked the knife blade upwards and across as Manolito rolled desperately clear. A gasp escaped the watching Apaches as the two men parted. The white man had drawn first blood! Across the Apache’s chest ran a knife-thin dark line which slowly thickened and oozed red. A frown darkened Manolito’s haughty face, and then he tossed his head proudly, edging once more around the perimeter of the undrawn circle. The haft of the knife lay in his palm, his thumb lying loosely along it, controlling the movement of the blade, weaving it in and out. The glittering blade flickered and dipped and constantly shifted; Green’s, held in identical fashion, moved with no less liquid fluidity. Parrying, testing, probing the other’s defense, the two men awaited an opening, their breath rasping in the silence. A slashing stroke on the part of Green; a quick leap back by the Apache, then a counter thrust, parried. Then back to the weaving, watchful circle. Both men held their left hands high, fingers loosely spread. If the other came in, this hand would clamp down upon the opponent’s knife wrist and then a test of sheer brute strength would ensue. Again Manolito lunged forward without warning, wheeling in mid-jump on his right foot, slashing wickedly across Green’s guard and then back again, his razor-keen blade slicing through the material of the Texan’s shirt, drawing a slim finger of pain across the tensed muscles of his left arm. Green felt a cold chill; Manolito had tried to render his left arm useless and had missed by only a hair’s breadth.
Again the Apache lunged, and again Green parried. His eyes narrowed. Manolito was trying to cut him down slowly rather than going for a quick kill. The fact gave Green an edge, a superiority which he could use to his own advantage. He circled, waiting for the lunge he knew would come again. Once more the Apache came whipping in, but this time instead of springing back from the thrusting blade, Green swerved like an eel, twisting his body so that the murderous blade slid harmlessly under his left arm. Green immediately clamped his arm rigidly against his side, trapping Manolito for a brief moment in his grinding grip. In that same brief moment, he stamped down with all his strength upon the Apache’s bare foot. The high heel of his boot ground into the Indian’s instep and Manolito tore himself away, howling with anguish, his face contorted with hatred and pain.
“Now you die, white-eye!” he screamed. “Now you die quick!” He came in low and hard, the knifepoint moving in a short vicious arc
designed to disembowel the white man. Green saw the move coming; he had deliberately enraged the Indian to make him once abandon caution. He parried Manolito’s thrust with his own blade, which shivered into spanging fragments from the jarring contact. In that half second of contact, Green was moving. His left arm went around the Indian’s neck, his left leg firmly behind the Apache’s left thigh. A bending, sweeping, half-turn and Manolito went up and over in a flailing welter of arms and legs, the wicked Bowie knife bouncing from his hand as he hit the baked earth with a bone breaking thud. Green had followed through, moving forward, diving to scoop up the fallen weapon and to pin the stunned Manolito to the ground, Green’s left forearm across the Apache’s throat, the right pressing the gleaming blade flat against Manolito’s jugular vein. The watching warriors had started to their feet, weapons ready. Green pulled Manolito’s head back viciously, his fist bunched in the greasy hair.
“Will yu live or die?” he gritted. “Speak!”
Manolito’s black eyes blazed with impotent rage, and he heaved his body in an attempt to loosen the iron grip, but to no avail. Green saw the decision form in the Apache’s eyes; Manolito spat out the words: “Manolito yields.” Green tossed the knife aside and stood upright, allowing the Indian to rise to his feet. He ignored the weapons pointed at him and the threatening sounds the warriors made: they would not kill unless Manolito told them to. These next ten seconds were fraught with more danger than any which had passed: how would Manolito take his defeat? Green made a big show of slapping the dust from his clothes and not looking at Manolito, allowing time for the Apache to assimilate and adjust to what had happened. He looked up at a touch on his shoulder to see the Apache regarding him with a strange look in his eyes, something as akin to admiration as any Apache could feel for one of the alien race he had been taught all his life to hate.
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