Norton, Andre - Novel 15 (21 page)

 
          
 
But something did. It was close to dawn when
Ritchie became sure of the menace of certain shadows—he was sure of them this
time—sure and deadly. The crack of his carbine was swallowed up by the wild
howl of a wolf. And then all hell itself broke loose in the canyon as the
horses and mules stampeded and ran before an enemy they dreaded of old.

 
          
 
A loose picket pin whizzed through the dark
and caught Ritchie a sharp crack above the ear. The blow sent him sprawling
back between two rocks and so saved his life, as a minute later the rush of
maddened horses swept across the spot where he had stood.

 
          
 
Ritchie clawed himself to his knees beside the
rock over which he had fallen. Someone had built up the fire, and the wavering
lights of improvised torches shuttled here and there. He raised one hand to his
splitting head.

 
          
 
"Here's the wolf!
Got
him right through the center.
But he's still kickin'!"

 
          
 
Ritchie hitched his way around the supporting
rock. There was a knot of men gathered several yards away. He shook his head
and then wished that he had not tried that method of clearing it.

 
          
 
"Apache!"
The same voice which had identified the wolf now shrilled out the warning.
Ritchie's carbine went up automatically. But where, in that darkness pinpointed
only by the fire, was the enemy?

 
          
 
A bugle call broke across the camp, echoing
from one canyon wall to the other. The crowd in the reaches of the firelight
melted away. From behind his rock Ritchie looked out at a deserted camp site.
Then, from out of the fringes of the half shadow a horse nickered. So all of
their mounts had not been swept away in that wild stampede! Why, that sound had
come from about where he had picketed Bess— slightly off from the regular line
because the soil on the bank of the dried stream had seemed a little too loose
to hold a picket pin secure.

 
          
 
"Huh!" A dark shape loomed up,
rounded the rock, and stumbled on Ritchie. "Who's thar?"

 
          
 
"Peters. Who are you?"

 
          
 
"Birke," the other growled and edged
away.

 
          
 
For a second or two Ritchie was almost sorry
to see him go. He disliked Birke more than any other man he had ever known, but
in the uncertainty of the night he would have welcomed any company of his own
kind.

 
          
 
That crouching in the dark, trying to forget
his pounding headache and wondering what minute an Apache would materialize
within knifing
distance,
seemed to have no end. After
what appeared hours of such employment Ritchie fancied he could see a lighter
band in the sky.

 
          
 
And that band had turned a faint pink before
they were given the signal to come in. He stumbled out of his cramped position,
stamping circulation back into a foot which had gone numb. Now he was able to
see what had been shot.

 
          
 
From under the matted, grayish fur of a badly
tanned wolf pelt protruded brown legs knotted with muscles which had tightened
in the last agony of death. And within the hood of the hide was a contorted
face, a wild mask of dried blood and powdered copper-ore paint.

 
          
 
"That was a right smart shot, son."
Tuttle had come up behind him.
" 'N
what happened
to yo'—try to stop the stampede with yore head?"

 
          
 
"Guess a picket pin clipped me."

 
          
 
"Hmm."
Tuttle caught Ritchie's chin in one hand and turned his face to the light.
" 'Bout
an inch or so down 'n we'd be gittin' us a
'nother horse guard—which would be a pity, seein' as how yo' ain't such a bad
one! Sergeant, here's 'nother bit of patchwork for yo'—"

           
 
Herndon glanced over his shoulder. At the
sight of Ritchie's bloodstained face a trace of concern sketched a little frown
between his eyes. But after he had inspected the blood-caked skin around the
shallow cut he said with relief, "You'll have a headache. But this'll
mend,
quick
enough. You're lucky."

 
          
 
"As everybody has managed to tell me so
far this morning!" snapped the patient. "I may not have been brained,
but neither do I relish having mining operations carried on inside my
skull—"

 
          
 
"Here." Tuttle came up and thrust a
steaming tin cup into Ritchie's grasp. "Git this down under yore belt 'n
hush yore big mouth, boy. Yo' miscall yore luck, 'n it's apt to git up on its
two legs 'n go marchin' off from yo'. That's for sure. Sergeant, the Cap'n's lookin'
for yo'—"

 
          
 
Ritchie took little sips of coffee. The red
band in the sky was wider; he could see all of the camp. The corpse of the
raider sprawled beyond the dying fire.
And farther along some
horses still stamped to drive off awakening flies.
Ritchie counted—seven
horses left and no mules at all. The entire baggage train had high-tailed it
into freedom. What about the camels?

 
          
 
He squirmed around to face the space a little
distance away where the big beasts had knelt placidly last night chewing their
cuds and watching the mules with tolerant eyes. No snake necks bobbed there
now—the camels were gone, too!

 
          
 
Marooned here in half-desert country with a
limited amount of supplies and only seven horses! And where there was one
Apache, there were probably a great many more. The prospect was not one anybody
liked to think about-only everyone had to.

 
          
 
"Looks as if seven of us does a leetle
trackin'," Tuttle cut in across his own gloomy reflections. "Lucky
thar was mules in that gang.
Mules is
right
accommodatin' critters. They may go slam-bangin' off jus' like them fool hosses
when they has a mind to—but they stop runnin' a mite sooner. 'N when they stops
runnin', maybe some of them hosses will do likewise. We can always hope so. So
it's up to us to hit trail 'n hunt—"

 
          
 
It was as if Tuttle was in telepathic contact
with Captain Sharpe's mind—for after a hasty breakfast, eaten mostly in gulped
bites between inventory of equipment and supplies, the commander called
together the men whose horses were still there. It was an odd gathering:
Sergeants Woldemar and Herndon, Lieutenant Gilmore, Ritchie, Sturgis, and— to
Ritchie's surprise—Birke. Tuttle lounged nearby, the reins of Captain Sharpe's
own mount hooked between his fingers.

 
          
 
"This is 'break' country, and in the
narrow canyons you may be lucky enough to find the stock holed up. They
certainly can't disappear for miles as they do after a stampede on the plains.
So it's up to you men not to neglect any side turns. If the Apaches ran them off—"

 
          
 
"I was wonderin' 'bout that, Cap'n,"
Tuttle drawled. "Seein' as how that thar wolf was a two-legged one, we
might as well be prepared to find 'em butchered for a feast—"

 
          
 
"That may be. Apaches don't steal horses
to ride. They drive a mule or horse until it drops and then eat it. If a party
has raided us, then they weren't mounted to begin with, and the majority of the
animals may have gotten away—"

 
          
 
"Thar's this here to make yo' feel
better, Cap'n." Tuttle held out a short length of hollow cane. "I
found this tucked into that young buck's gee-string. Means he was on his furst
war trail. They can't drink then 'ceptin' through one of these—somethin' to do
with one of their gods or such. Maybe he was on this alone—tryin' to show off a
leetle—"

 
          
 
"If I could believe that, Tuttle, it
would mean a lot. But this is Apache country, and we'll prepare for the worst.
Take provisions for forty-eight hours, but don't stay out longer than
twenty-four. Don't overlook a trail, and, for Heaven's sake, don't be
ambushed!"

 
          
 
Ritchie threw his saddle on Bess, adding to
his usual equipment the small sack of extra cartridges, a packet of provisions,
and a full canteen.

 
          
 
"We ought to come up with the camels
quickly," he suggested to Sturgis. "They can't run very fast—"

 
          
 
"Maybe they can fly," grunted the
other. "And if we do find them,
who's
going to be
camel-herder? Not one of us knows how to manage the blamed critters.
Stop that puffing, Blackie, you're a lazy old cuss and you know
it!"
He gave his horse an admonitory slap as he settled into the
saddle.

 
          
 
The path taken by the stampeding animals led
downstream, plainly marked by the tracks of shod hooves. They rode along it at
a good pace. Unless the herd broke and dribbled away in threes and fours into
the small side canyons, the job ought to be a fairly easy one—always providing,
of course, that Indian raiders had not been awaiting the freed animals.

 
          
 
"Somtthin' daid!"
Tuttle jerked a finger skyward.

 
          
 
Black wings circled there, slowly and
ominously.

 
          
 
"Yeah," Birke spoke for the first
time.
" 'N
thar it is."

 
          
 
A gray dog raised a dripping muzzle, snarled,
and faded away into the bushes before Ritchie realized that it was no dog but a
lobo wolf they had interrupted at its feasting.

           
 
The birds, which made a black cover for the
thing on the ground, were less wary. They clung to their banquet until the
horsemen almost rode them down.

 
          
 
It was a mule on the ground, its head snapped
back and held at an impossible angle by the taut picket rope.

 
          
 
"Caught the picket pin in between those
rocks," Tuttle sized up the scene
, "
'n
broke its neck. Wal, that's one off our list.
Git off,
yo'!"
He waved an arm at the circling birds. "I hate to see a
good, long-sufferin' mule go down yore gullets. But
thar
ain't nothin' we can do 'bout that
."

 
          
 
The tracks were still thick in the sand and
gravel, and they could follow them without dismounting to read trail. Before
noon
they found two live mules contentedly
grazing in a small side canyon. When Bess whinnied, both crowded up to her
eagerly, in spite of her open disdain for their company, and showed no distrust
of the men who were examining them for injuries.

 
          
 
"Old hands these." Woldemar slapped
their rumps. "They lost their skittishness early. If we leave them here,
they won't wander far. There's water in that pool and good feed. We can pick
them up on the way back."

 
          
 
Lieutenant Gilmore considered the point.
"Most of the mules were seasoned stock. Maybe they'll all drop out of the
race quickly. It's the horses we'll have to worry about. What do you think,
Tuttle?"

 
          
 
"Leave 'em free, Lootenant. They've taken
a likin' t' that thar mare—may try to follow her along. But their runnin' is
over."

 
          
 
"Tuttle!"
Herndon had wandered off to the side of the pool. "What do you make of
this?"

 
          
 
They all crowded around to study the small
depression he had found in the mud.

 
          
 
Tuttle squinted at the mark.
"Too small for wolf—even for coyote.
If we weren't out
here a good hundred miles from nowhere, I'd say that thar was the print of a
leetle dog's forepaw."

 
          
 
''Dog!"
The
Lieutenant's head snapped up. "Apaches keep dogs?"

 
          
 
"Sometimes.
Only
their dogs are close to wolf. 'N that ain't large enough fer that. I sure would
like to set eye on that critter. Ain't a cold mark neither—made maybe last
night.
Think I'll do a leetle smellin' 'round, Lootenant—
might be wise."