Apache canyon (8 page)

Sutherland saluted, about-faced, and left. Shaking his head, the major put his chair down and went into the front office. "McCracken."

The sergeant-major's jowls shook when his face moved. "Sir?"

"Any word of Brady?"

"No, sir. He ain't come back yet."

The major nodded. "Damn it, I wonder where he went?"

"He's a loner, sir. Likes to ride off by himself now and then. I wouldn't be worryin' about him. Major."

"No," the major said, "I suppose not." He nodded again, thoughtfully, and went back into his office.

Twihght eddied in violet sweeps over the land pockets; the crescent moon lay at a low angle over the horizon. Brady lay on the rock shelf and squinted down the hill into a rapidly oncoming darkness. The Apaches had made forays twice, feelng him out; he had wounded one man and, he thought, killed one with his rifle. He expected the main attack to come before the last of daylight seeped from the sky. After dark, the warrior's spirit if he was killed could not find its way to heaven.

His eyes grew narrow. Down the slope, the rocks were dark and their shadows might conceal anything. Farther off, beyond the base of the hill he could see the browsing shapes of the hobbled ponies. Three or four of the Apaches sat complacently around a tiny campfire, roasting a rabbit. There was no telling where the rest of the Indians might be. Brady dropped flat again, woimed to the edge of the chff, removed his hat and looked dovm.

As he had suspected, one patient sentry sat cross-legged out in the desert, some distance from the base of the cliff, watching that exit. There were no men attempting to climb the sheer face.

His own horse the Indians had picked up, led away, and staked out wdth their horses.

There must be nine or ten Coyotero bucks in the rocks below, in addition to the four by the campfire. Were they simply starving him out or did they intend to attack him? He couldn t know.

To let them know he wasn't asleep, he aimed his rifle at the distant campfire, lifted the sights and pulled off a shot.

By a lucky accident the bullet plowed deadcenter into the campfire, scattering sparks. The four braves around the fire moved like staitled antelopes, scut-tling swiftly away into the brush, leaving the carcass of the half-cooked rabbit to char and burn in the flames. Brady grinned tightly. He took off his hat again and swept a sleeve across his face, wiping away beads of sweat. Westward, the clouds turned indigo. He fought down the urge to smoke.

Some distance away, he saw dark shapes filter out of the brush, gathering together. A conference. He frowned. The sky darkened by several perceptible degrees more, after which the council broke up and eight or nine Apaches went to their horses, made ready to leave, and mounted. Then, in the last faint of dying dusk, one of the mounted bucks lifted his rifle, shook it in Brady's direction, spoke a quick command and wheeled his horse. The others followed, drumming away across the desert; and presently all sound and sight of their travel died away.

Brady's frown had deepened. The Coyoteros obviously had bigger game than him in mind for the night-and he was suspicious of their goal. They had ridden off in the direction of the Smoke River. It suggested something to him, and he knew he had to get out of this trap.

He put his mind on it. It shouldn't be impossible. Behind the mountain, watching the cliff, was one brave. Down below in the rocks, keeping him down, were four, or at most five, others. One of them would be the wounded one. He slid back once more and crawled to the edge of the chff, dragging his rifle with him.

The sentry was perhaps five hundred yards away--a long, long way for a rifle shot. But it was not absolutely essential that he hit the sentry; all he had to do was raise a ruckus. He lifted the Winchester to his cheek, made a rough calculation for distance trajectory, and pulled the trigger.

The bullet missed the sentry. He levered a new cartridge into the chamber and peered off into the

The sentry was up and moving, heading for the cover of a brush clump. He settled the rifle butt into the hollow of his shoulder, and methodically emptied the rifle's five remaining cartridges toward the sentry.

He punched fresh .44-40 shells out of his belt, thumbing them one by one into the side loading gate of the rifle and settled down to spray the sentry's position with another burst.

He could see two shapes—one at either side of the hill-flitting through the rocks and scrubs, running on a course that would take each of them around one side of the hill to investigate the racket on the other face.

It was hardly a free ticket home, but it was the best break he could hope to make for himself. He tightened his fist around the balance of the rifle. He gathered his muscles and pushed himself forward, over the rim of the hilltop, sliding on his belly.

Going downhill over pebbles and fist-sized rocks was no easy job, especially since he had to maintain absolute silence. Steadily he crawled. The waiting Indians might be within ten feet of him, for all he could tell.

That was when a strange, rising-and-falling call floated dimly across the desert. The call undulated against his ears, dying slowly: the Apache death cry.

It was a piece of luck he hadn't counted on. He must have hit the sentry with one of the many bullets he had fired. He clamped his mouth shut and stayed put, hoping the cry would draw the other Apaches ofiF the slope to go around the hill.

He allowed himself a moment to get air into his lungs, then held his breath again. He had heard the muffled short roll of a pebble dislodged. His hands tightened on the rifle. Then he heard the quiet, stealthy progress of muffled footfalls. The faint sounds of travel—sounds that an untrained ear would have missed entirely-grew steadily louder. The Indian was coming straight at him, going up the slope, perhaps intending to come up and catch him unawares, or shoot down from the hilltop, blasting him off the face of the cliff.

Brady held the rifle in sure hands, ready to club the Indian, shoot him, or freeze and let him pass if the Indian did not spot him. But it didn t work out that way. The Indian's thick, square shape came easing around the end of the rock shelf and dimly across the four feet of night Brady saw the Indian's rffle muzzle start to swing toward him.

With a faint inward touch of regret, Brady brought the rifle barrel down with full energy against the Indian's head-and reached swiftly forward to catch the faHing body. Gently he let the motionless form down, and swimg away, moving rapidly downslope, bent double and hoping the other Apaches were too far away to spot him.

Taking his chances, Brady made haste as best he could. A twig snapped underfoot; he froze in the shadow of an upthrusting boulder. He moved away from the rock and found the earth leveling out. He had achieved the bottom of the hill.

Holding the rifle, his hand was damp with sweat. He switched the rifle to his left hand and wiped his moist pahn on his breeches. The four or five remaining hobbled Indian ponies were not far ahead now; he heard the clack of a hoof against a rock, and the faint tear of tough desert grass being ripped up by a horse's jaws.

Finally he came to a halt sheltered by a four-foot mesquite, and stood regarding the dark shapes of the horses. His own horse was there, but it was far too worn out to be of use tonight. His best bet, he decided, was a tall dark gelding standing not fifteen feet from him. The horse had not shied away from his white-man smell and that was a good sign. It was a larger animal than most Indian ponies. He suspected it had probably been stolen from a ranch during a raid. He took a long breath and moved forward.

The horse's big head lifted; the animal inspected him boldly. Brady lifted the knife from his belt. He approached the horse silently and knelt by its feet, reaching forward to cut the rope hobbles. The gelding's head jerked up and its nostrils blew softly; thus warned, Brady wheeled, lifting the rifle.

He saw the lean face of an Apache not ten feet distant. The Indian was prone on the ground, crawling—the one he had wounded back by the river. He saw a revolver lifting in the Apache's fist.

Instinct guided Brady's actions. He rolled aside. The Apache's bullet struck the ground a hard blow where he had been an instant before; he landed hard on his shoulder, dimly aware of the horse jumping away behind him, and pulled the rifle trigger.

The bullet took the Apache somewhere in the chest; the man flipped backward and lay facing the sky. Brady whirled; his eyes found the tall horse not far off. The horse stood restively, moving on its feet. He spoke a few soothing words and caught the rope halter. He pulled the geldings head down and turned to mount. But the gelding, startled by the sudden shooting, jumped around, and he had to drop the rifle and use both hands on the horse's mane to swing aboard.

The horse settled down the instant Brady was upon its long back. Brady's head lifted, scanning the hill behind him. That was when a gun opened up about halfway up the slope, spitting yellow flashes toward him. Brady put pressure on his knees, and the horse wheeled fast and bolted forward at a hard gallop toward the trees that Hned the Smoke. Brady clamped his legs around the horse's barrel and buried his left hand in the knotted mane. The big shoulders lunged; the long legs covered ground at a dead run.

He kept up that pace for a half mile, then slowed down to save the animal. It was a long ride to Fort Dragoon, and he had to make it in the best possible time. There were eight or nine Apaches headed there tonight and they had an hour's lead on him. The only fact in his favor was that the Apaches had to exercise care to avoid being seen, and they would have to make a pretty wide detour around the little settlement at Tilghley's Ford. Their horses, too, were tired out by the day's nmning. Brady planned to pick up a fresh mount at Tilghley's Ford. He just might beat them to the fort; he had to try.

Caked with dust and sweat, bone-tired and hungry, he spoke irritably to the sentry at the post gate, and cantered into the compound. He rode directly to the guardhouse, swung from the saddle and walked with long-legged strides to the door.

The guard lifted his rifle. "Brady?"

"Yes," Brady said. "He all right in there?"

"I guess so," the trooper said. Brady stmck a match against his thumbnail and held it up to the small barred opening in the door.

Tonio was curled up on the floor in the far corner, scorning the cot. Tonio's head lifted and his eyes regarded Brady sleepily. Brady shook the match out, expelling a long breath; he was in time.

He went back to the cowpony, climbed into the saddle, and said to the trooper on guard, "Keep your eyes open, soldier. They may try to break him out tonight."

"Sm-e," the trooper said.

Brady wheeled the horse across the compound and dismounted at the door of Harris's quarters, and went to the door.

After a moment of poimding, Harris's sleepy voice came forward: "What the hell?"

"Open up, Justin. It's Brady."

He heard Harris grumble something; presently feet trod the floor and the dim light of a match wavered through the window. Then a lantern came on, slowly brightening. Presently the door opened, re-vealing Hams in his nightshirt, squinting and sleepy-eyed.

"What's wrong?"

"I'm about two jumps ahead of a bunch of Inyo's bucks. I think they headed here to bust Tonio out."

It brought Harris awake quickly enough. He wheeled back into the room, catching up his trousers. "How big a bunch?"

"Eight or nine." Brady stepped inside and closed the door. "I spotted them about five miles back. They were walking their horses. It'll take them a while to get in position and start crawling up on us. But we'd better get ready for them." "How much time?" "Maybe a half hour."

"All right," Harris said. He had his pants on and was buckling his shirt-clasps; he reached for his pistol belt, ran fingers through his hair, and grabbed his hat. Then he blew out the lamp and followed Brady out the door. "I'll get the major up-you roust out Tucker and have him put a squad on the roofs of the buildings around the guardhouse. Did you warn the guard?"

"Sure. Had a look in on Tonio, too. There's no telling whether he knows they're going to try and spring him tonight."

"He probably does," Harris said. "On the run now.

Brady nodded and turned away. Harris said, "I guess Inyo wants his kid back pretty bad."

"I guess he does," Brady answered, and went on.

According to the hastily designed plan, no lamps were left burning except those that would ordinarily be lit at this hour of the early morning. Brady stood with Major Cole and Justin Harris, looking out through the window of the major's front office. Behind them, Sergeant-Major McCracken rubbed his eyes and ran a hand over a scratchy stubble of beard. The office was pitch dark. Harris said softly, "You didn't just happen on that bunch in the middle of the night. Will."

"No," Brady admitted. "A few of them kept me pinned down on top of a hill about eight miles the other side of Tilghley's Ford. I broke loose, stole a horse, and ran like hell."

Breath whistled softly through Harris's teeth. "Remind me to keep you on my side, Will. You're a beter Indian than most of those bucks."

Brady chuckled. "I guess maybe we'd better shut up." 

Silence settled in the room. The trap was set. Slowly the moon sHd down past the western rim. Three o'clock. And suddenly the door burst open. "Anybody here?"

Brady recognized Sutherland's voice. A frown crossed his face. "Be quiet," was all he said.

Major Cole said softly, "We expect a few of Inyo's men to try and get Tonio out of the guardhouse. We've set a trap for them."

Sutherland said, "This is a rotten way to fight a battle. It's the way an Indian would do it."

"Be quiet, Captain," the Major said. "Stand still and keep quiet."

The night stretched along; Brady could see only the flat rooftops of the buildings against the night sky, and the pale dust of the parade ground. But he knew men waited on top of each building. Pete Rubio, the breed scout whose ears were twice as good as any other man's, had replaced the guard outside the guardhouse.