Norton, Andre - Novel 15 (16 page)

 
          
 
"Is it Taos Lightning you are drinking,
Jesse?"

 
          
 
"Better'n that, Fred.
That's mountain wind; comes roarin' down from the high ranges. Ain't no thin'
like it no’.”

           
 
Where's else in the world! This is gonna be a fine
day—a fine day 'n a fine trip."

 
          
 
"Old buck swinging his antlers,"
scoffed Woldemar. "The spring is running in your veins, Jesse. If we don't
watch out, Scott, he will be shelling the town—like a dragoon on pay day-"

 
          
 
"No." Tuttle shook his head. "Ain't
no dragoon born can stand up to a Mountain Man. Me, I was with Bridger, 'n went
with Cutler into the bilin' spring country. I was runnin' buffalo on the plains
'n keepin' my scalp on my head 'fore yo' were britched, sonny."

 
          
 
Ritchie urged the pack mule to a brisker pace
and wondered for about the tenth time why he had been included in this outing.
Certainly none of the three had ever given him reason to believe that they had
very much esteem for him. And he knew very well that any man in the fort would
be only too glad to be asked to ride with them.

 
          
 
They left the fort road for the open country,
and Woldemar and Tuttle, still engaged in their mock dispute, forged a little
ahead. Herndon dropped back to ride with Ritchie.

 
          
 
"This isn't just a hunting
expedition," he said abruptly. "We're to do some mapping to the
northwest—"

 
          
 
"Why?" Ritchie asked before he
thought, but this time the Sergeant didn't seem to resent questions.

 
          
 
"For Sharpe.
He's intending to travel up the Chama this summer to survey a possible road
north into the
Utah
country. Roads to tie the posts together, to give us speed of movement,
are what we need now more than ever."

 
          
 
"Do you think there could be war—in the
east I mean?" Ritchie asked the question which had plagued him since that
talk with Sturgis.

 
          
 
"There might well be. It will depend upon
the election. If a southern sympathizer wins, maybe there could be some sort of
compromise—patch things up for a bit."

 
          
 
"And if it doesn't go that way?"

 
          
 
Herndon's face was bleak. ''We can look
forward to as bitter a war as the world has ever seen. And God help
New Mexico
!"

 
          
 
"What would happen to us?"

 
          
 
"Ordered east maybe.
And this land would be left with only token garrisons. That would mean the
beginning of continual raiding. I give us a year—with luck a little more. And
that is not much time in which to consolidate out here. That is why Sharpe's
expedition and the others like it will be so important this summer. A few
roads—even if they are only mapped—can mean the difference between disaster and
the thin margin of safety—"

 
          
 
"So Sharpe is thinking
of heading into the 'Tower' country."
Woldemar had fallen back to
join them. The hounds were running in questing circles out over the plains,
disappearing now and again into the dry arroyos which nature had cut to trap
the unwary.

 
          
 
"The 'Tower' country," repeated the
German. "Do you believe that story they tell about it—of castle towers
mounting up into the sky? No one has ever confessed to seeing them with his own
eyes—he is only repeating stories he himself heard."

 
          
 
"Someday"—Herndon tugged at the
tight collar of his jacket—"we may be able to learn more about these
ruins. Maybe there are sky towers back in the mountain canyons. We have all
seen the cities in the cliff caves. What kind of people built and left
them—"

 
          
 
"The Old Ones?"
Tuttle had come up in time to hear that. "I wonder now—could they be them
old 'Gyptians what were in the Bible, them what held the Jews in bondage?"

           
 
"What about those Indians down in
Mexico
?" ventured
Ritchie.
"Didn't they build regular cities of stone?"

 
          
 
"No." Tuttle shook his head
decisively. "No Injuns ever built them cliff places—they ain't
no
Apache livin' what could put two stones together 'n make
them stick!"

 
          
 
"The
Pueblos
do," pointed out Woldemar.
"Anyway, these towers of which Velasco has spoken—those of the Gallina
country—they are not even like the cliff houses."

 
          
 
"This must have been a great country
before the water went," commented Herndon. And then he straightened in the
saddle. "Hello! Boru has started something!"

 
          
 
The hound had given tongue and was lengthening
out in the chase, a gray shadow joined by his mate. All four of the riders set
spur and were off, Ritchie only delayed by the responsibility of the pack mule,
which saw no reason to gallop over the countryside. Whatever the hounds pursued
was heading straight for the dark line which marked timber.

 
          
 
Their prey was a coyote and an old and wily
one. It made the timber and freedom before Boru could come up with it. But in
the scent of the pinon and juniper the hunters reined up good-naturedly without
too much disappointment.

 
          
 
Tuttle squinted up at the sun.
" 'Bout
make Charlie Black's place by mess call,"
he observed. "If he's at home, he can put us onto a good hot trail.
Charlie's master at huntin'."

 
          
 
They rode on with loose reins, easy in the
saddle. Woldemar began Ritchie's woodcraft instruction under a running chorus
of chaff from the scout.

 
          
 
But with the aid of the German sergeant's keen
eye, a dry tangle of leaves and twigs stuck helter-skelter like a handful of
drift in a greasewood bush became a prairie mouse nest.

 
          
 
"Apaches eat 'em," was Tuttle's
footnote to that. "Hunt 'em out with switches 'n broil 'em. T'ain't
nothin' in this country Apaches can't eat 'n nothin' he won't!"

 
          
 
"Except fish," struck in Herndon,
steadying a notebook on his saddle horn as he made some of his constant
entries.

 
          
 
" 'Cept
fish," conceded Tuttle. "They think fish is deadly poison.
Fish 'n owls—they can't stand neither."

 
          
 
Charlie Black's place duly appeared on the
bank of a dry stream bed, but it had a small spring in attendance. They
accepted the hospitality of the small red-bearded man who came bouncing out at
Tuttle's hail and jabbered at them joyfully.

 
          
 
"I sure like company!" he spluttered
as he hacked a steak off the deer carcass he had hanging in the lean-to.
"Ain’t seed nobody else in a month o' Sundays, fellas. Huntin', eh? What
you want—deer, lion, bear—? Bear ain't good—jus' outta
winter
sleep
—"

 
          
 
“Charlie Black!" Tuttle swelled. "I
ain't
no
greenhorn. Sure bear's no good. 'N how's the
Apaches bin lately?"

 
          
 
The small
man flung back
his head and gave vent to a laugh which appeared likely to split his scraggly
throat.

 
          
 
"Not a bit friendly-like, Jesse, not a
bit. Don't know why, I'm sure."

 
          
 
"Yo' ol' horned
toad!"
There was honest admiration in Tuttle's voice. "They
ain't caught on yet, eh?"

 
          
 
"Still got my hair, ain't I? No, they
ain't." The little man suddenly dropped on all fours and rocked back on
his haunches. His posture suggested the dog or wolf, and from between his lips
came the nerve-shattering howl Ritchie had last heard in the snow wilderness of
the mountains—the cry of the hunting wolf. As quickly again his stance changed;
by some magic the angular lines of his body faded into the sinuous grace of a
cat. And now the scream of a demented and tortured woman arose, sending the
hounds outside into a frenzy of wild barking. Then Charlie was himself again,
back at the fire and busy with his cooking.

 
          
 
"Yeah."
Tuttle nodded critically. "Yo’ ain't lost yore touch—ner yore voice
neither, Charlie. Yo' see"—he turned to Ritchie—"the Apaches they
caught Charlie 'bout five-six years ago.
Got him stripped fur
the torture 'n all.
Then Charlie, he jus' up 'n went mad on 'em. He
barked like a coyote, howled like a wolf, 'n let off steam like a lion. Then
they let him go—pore ol' locoed fella."

 
          
 
Charlie chuckled.
" 'N
I sat me down right here at their favorite spring, so I did. They jumped me
here, 'n here I'm gonna stay. Makes 'em mad, but they can't do nothin'. Kinda
fun—'noyin' them thisaway—keeps me from goin' hill-nutty sometimes. Wal, boys,
eat up good 'n heavy 'n then tell me what yo' lookin' fer. Good lion huntin' in
these parts now.
Fresh trace all over the hills out
back."

 
          
 
Lion, it was decided by Tuttle and not
objected to by the rest, should be their quarry. And when the meal was done,
the mule and the horses were saddled and packed, and they went on, Charlie
jogging along on foot at a pace which matched the mounts'.

 
          
 
"Put yo' on the trail of Big Gray. He's
smart, learned hisself how to skin porcupines. Yessiree, kin git ol' porky
outta his hide as easy as peelin' a grape. I've bin chasin' ol' Big Gray two
years 'n ain't seed more'n a tail-tip flirtin' away whar I can't git to him.
Seein' as how yo' is an ol' Mountain Man, Tuttle, yo' kin have the
runnin' down of Big Gray.
Looky here—his sign right enough!"

 
          
 
The hounds were sniffing cautiously at a queer
little bundle on the ground. It was a porcupine skin turned neatly inside
out—the deadly quills still intact. Woldemar greeted this sign of the lion's
skill with open amazement.

           
 
''But it—it is impossible! The quills—they
would fill the mouth—"

 
          
 
Black shook his head. "Not Big Gray's. He
likes the critters. Found four in one day oncet—peeled right outta their hides.
'N he's bin doin' it 'bout two years. I'd give a full poke of the right kinda
dust to catch him doin' it 'n see how he works it!"

 
          
 
It was almost as if the big cat, knowing that
its trail would be followed, had decided to make it as difficult for pursuers
as possible. Either the tracks led down almost perpendicular slopes, where the
horses had to put their feet forward and slide eight or ten feet down smooth
rock before they could get proper footing again, or else they led up cliffs
where there seemed to be no holds at all.

 
          
 
"Maybe he grows hisself wings when he has
to—" suggested Tuttle at last.

 
          
 
But Charlie Black motioned them forward. There
were traces in the gravelly sand which they could read and which Herndon
translated for Ritchie's enlightenment.