Norton, Andre - Novel 15 (28 page)

 
          
 
Herndon, with a stone for a desk and a stub of
pencil, was writing in the pages of the small book that always rode within his
shirt while on patrol. Tuttle watched him lazily.

 
          
 
“Puttin' us into history," the scout said
to Ritchie. "Git-tin'
all this
writ down. Someday
maybe we'll be in a book —explorin', that's what we're doin'. Only this time
he'd better bribe some coyote to deliver it back to the post—"

 
          
 
The Sergeant almost grinned.
"All right.
Then I'll get a coyote to ride mail for me
if I have to. Sharpe'll want to know about this side road, and it doesn't do
any harm to put it all down. Somebody else might want to come this way—"

 
          
 
"Anyone who does is a plain durned
fool!" observed the scout. "But thar's plain durned fools enough in
this world. Write it down, boy. If they find the book with yore bones, it'll
make yo' a name—maybe." Only a trace of the old zest lingered in his
voice.

 
          
 
Through the wave of fatigue that made Ritchie
heavy-eyed, he sensed that. He had accepted Sturgis' fate—no friend could wish
St. George to suffer any longer. And now he was even able to accept the fact
that Tuttle did not believe they had a future. But Herndon still wrote, the
small crisp lines of words marching across the page like dragoons at drill.
Herndon had not given up. And he wouldn't.

 
          
 
While there was life in him, he would go on
and on-just as he had through the drifts of snow on that winter raid. And he
would keep his mind and heart alive by just such devices as that book. Ritchie
stared fixedly at the Sergeant, trying to puzzle out what made Herndon what he
was. And now Herndon lifted his eyes and looked back at him.

 
          
 
When the Sergeant's attention returned to the
book, which he now had to hold at an awkward angle to catch the firelight,
Ritchie sighed unconsciously. Perhaps there was a shell about the real Herndon,
enclosing the man and making of him a levelheaded, efficient, fighting machine,
the only machine which could stand up to this land and its native people—a machine
without fear or weakness, which could save the man inside from feeling anything
too deeply.

 
          
 
The barracks and Santa Fe he could remember
now only as a series of shadowy scenes that had once contained him for a space.
And when he tried to go back to his life in the East—why, even his memory
failed to make it true. Ritchie Peters must be growing a shell, too, layer on layer
as the pearl was fashioned. He tried to focus on Laura's face and saw only a
pink and white blur without any expression or meaning. Then he yawned.

 
          
 
Herndon wrapped his journal in a twisted
handkerchief, cleaner than his shirt. ''Roll in. I'll take first guard."

 
          
 
The stars were bright overhead when the
Sergeant prodded Ritchie out of sodden sleep. There was a chill wind blowing
down canyon, and the horses stirred restlessly. He spread his beat in a wider
circle about the camp, pulling his protesting, sleep-drugged body from rock to
cactus grove, to the side of the tainted spring.

 
          
 
"Rich-"

 
          
 
That came hardly above a whisper, as strained
and cracked as the lips which shaped it. He hurried across to Sturgis.

 
          
 
"Water-Rich?"

 
          
 
"Sure!" Relief ran through him at
the sound of that rational question. He reached gladly for the nearest canteen
and lifted up the tousled head. But the first swallow brought on a fit of
coughing, and wet spray was on his hand. Hurriedly he lowered Sturgis.

 
          
 
"Rich-?"

 
          
 
"Right here, Sturgis. Want to try another
drink?"

 
          
 
"Why waste water?" The faint ghost
of gay humor clung to that. "I'm going. Rich. If you get out—"

           
 
"Yes?" He forced his voice to remain
steady.

 
          
 
"Good luck! Didn't I tell you
once"—the blurred tones sharpened into almost their old-time strength and
clarity— "that it's darn hard work, this snatching the laurels from the
brow of fame?"

 
          
 
A strangled sound, which might have been a
laugh, followed the words. And then there was nothing more. Ritchie got to his
feet. With the carbine across his arm he walked along the boundary of the guard
post he had set for himself. He walked steadily and at an even pace, and he did
not look back.

 
          
 
They buried Sturgis in the morning, scooping
out with hands and knives a shallow hole under an overhanging rock. Before they
moved the blanket-wrapped body to its last resting place, Ritchie pulled away
the harsh woolen stuff to spread over the quiet face the smooth silk of the
scarf Sturgis had envied him. Then it was
a quick business to
put in place
the rocks and thorny branches of cactus that would keep
inviolate the best grave they could make. They avoided each other's eyes as
they worked, and Ritchie fought to keep his hands from shaking betrayingly.

 
          
 
Now they could move on. Ritchie packed their
meager belongings while Herndon paid a last visit to the mesa for food and
water. They shared out a last blanket-load of grass among the horses, gave them
water, and filled every canteen to the brim, all without speech. Tuttle mounted
Herndon's horse, and the Sergeant started out, Ritchie bringing up the rear.

 
          
 
Birke's trail was still to be read. Ritchie
wondered dully what would happen to the deserter. His only hope would be to
find water, and their luck on the mesa top might not be repeated within several
hundred miles.

           
 
Tuttle slumped in the saddle, and he rode with
one hand on the horn as if to steady himself. As the day wore on and the heat,
reflected back by the rocks, grew worse, the old scout shriveled as if he were
withering away from his own bony frame. But he made no complaint, nor did he
ever urge that the rest periods Herndon observed scrupulously be prolonged by
as much as a minute.

 
          
 
They chewed on bits of cooked rabbit and rat
they had brought with them. There was forage of a sort—sun-withered grass which
the horses grazed with no show of relish. As they started on again, Ritchie did
as his companions and picked up a smooth pebble to hold under his tongue in the
fight against thirst.

 
          
 
"Blisterin' country—hotter 'n the hinges
of hell," Tuttle remarked.

 
          
 
"Wonder what a thermometer would read
here?" Ritchie worked the words around the pebble.

 
          
 
"Any thermometer as was fool enough to
git brought here would blow up."

 
          
 
The horse Herndon was leading shied, jumping
side-wise with a quick jerk of the reins, which pulled the Sergeant off balance
and so saved his life. He swung Tuttle's rifle, bringing it down twice with
vicious force. Still threshing, a whip-shaped body disappeared into a crack
between stones.

 
          
 
"That's one rattler what ain't goin' to
sound off no more." Tuttle greeted the happening with satisfaction.
"Best keep yore eyes peeled, boys. Whar's thar's one of them devils,
thar's like to be more. This is jus' the country for 'em."

 
          
 
They had some difliculty forcing the horses
past the stone the rattler had died upon. Beyond that they passed under a
natural arch of burnished red rock, as bright and metallic as copper, into a
seamed land where they could see down slope into a maze of breaks and sharply
cut mesas ringed with pinnacles of painted rock.

 
          
 
"Green sign!"
Tuttle's eyes were still keen enough. He had sighted that telltale bit of
coolness among the red ridges.

 
          
 
To them green meant only one thing now—the
hope of water. They headed for it without question. It had been so long since
they had seen Indian signs that they had almost forgotten the menace which
might lie in wait.

 
          
 
The slip of green arose out of a cut small
enough to be almost termed an arroyo. But as they hurried toward it, Tuttle
snapped out a single word which stopped them short.

 
          
 
"Smoke!"
He
sniffed the air hound-fashion, his head up, his beaky nose pointing straight
for the green slash. “That's fire-"

 
          
 
Ritchie could smell nothing, but he unslung
his carbine, checking its loading. Herndon was doing the same with the rifle.

 
          
 
"Take cover—over there!" The
Sergeant indicated a pinnacle which was almost mushroom-shaped.

 
          
 
Tuttle, herding the loose horses before him,
was already in motion. Ritchie tagged along behind, trying to keep the whole
countryside under observation, suspicious of any move from the patch of green.
Herndon had melted into the rough ground. They reached the shelter of the
outcrop without any shots or arrows to speed them. The scout was shaving an
infinitesimal bit from his palm-sized block of trade tobacco as Ritchie threw
himself belly-down between two rocks that gave him command of the only path
Herndon could have taken.

 
          
 
Then out of that green a black bird arose
sluggishly with a croaking scream of rage—to be followed by two more. They lit
on a shelf, reluctant to venture farther away. And Herndon appeared on his
feet, waving his companions on to join him.

 
          
 
Ritchie clung to the twisted trunk of the
desert-warped cedar and retched violently. He had managed to hold out as long
as he was needed, but now he had crept away to lose the scanty meal he had
eaten a few hours before. He would probably never be able to forget the grisly
business he had just been engaged in. He had heard all the horrible barracks
stories of Apache handiwork, but this was the first time he had actually
witnessed its result. And he had discovered that his most vivid imaginings
could not measure up to actuality. His stomach muscles knotted, and he swayed
against the rough bark of the tree.

 
          
 
"Peters!"

 
          
 
He lifted his head but did not dare to turn it
as he answered, "Yes—"

 
          
 
"We'll have to move on."

 
          
 
He wiped his shaking hands down his thighs. He
hadn't actually touched anything, of course, but—
Resolutely
he tried to put it out of his mind. He stood away from the tree and walked
back.

 
          
 
"It was Diego's men, all right,"
Tuttle said as he came up.
"Dog hairs on that piece of
blanket."

 
          
 
"How long—"

 
          
 
"Wal, that watch was still tickin',
warn't it? Beats me how they came to overlook that! 'N them birds hadn't been
here long enough to clean up any. Say maybe an hour— maybe a mite more. They
must've jumped him early this mornin'. 'N they had their fun with him for quite
a spell."

 
          
 
Ritchie fumbled with his carbine. He had never
liked Birke; the man had been a stupid bully and coward. But he hadn't deserved
to end like this—no human being did.

 
          
 
"We know one thing," Tuttle
continued. "They ain't hangin' round here. If they were, we'd be laid out
right now. Either they don't know we're about, or they're back-trackin' to find
our camp—"

 
          
 
"Birke might have told them about
us," Herndon agreed. "They'll be on our trail if they cross our
sign—"

 
          
 
" 'N
that leaves
us one thing to do." The scout scratched at the roughness of beard on his
forward-thrusting chin. "We got to skedaddle along 'n find us a good place
to hole in. Git fixed up proper 'fore they catch up with us."

 
          
 
So they headed away from that gruesome slash
of greenery, back into the sun-baked reds and blues and purples of the
rocklands. The breaks closed about them, and they trudged again through stone
that echoed back the ghostly sound of their passing.

 
          
 
Ritchie, scouting ahead, found the first sign
of other life, a track stamped heavily into soft earth.
Mountain
lion— and a big one, too.
It was fresh—even as he found it a bit of
earth toppled from the edge into the center of the deepest depression. Surely
the big cat would not range far from water. He pointed out his find to the
others.

 
          
 
Tuttle studied it from the saddle.
"Cat—'n a big one.
Yeah," he answered Ritchie's
hopeful suggestion. "It might jus' lead us to water if it don't take it
into its head to go straight up the wall someplace like that Big Gray of Charlie's.
Anyway, it's goin' our way, so we can follow it easy-like."

 
          
 
What the cat did lead them to in time was its
kill. Under the edge of a rock, with dirt and stones scratched over it, they
found the carcass of a small deer. Herndon hacked off what he could, and they
tried to pack it on the horses, only to find the animals made unmanageable by
the combined scent of lion and blood. At last Tuttle took up the major portion
before him, and they traveled on to shelter in a rock pocket and, not daring to
light a fire, fed on raw meat.

 
          
 
Tuttle had been unable to dismount without
help. And when they had lowered him to the ground, he had doubled up in a fit
of coughing that seemed to tear him apart. Tears of pain ran from the corners
of his faded blue eyes, and even when the worst was over, he still crouched as
if he were afraid to straighten up. He did no more than taste his portion of
the meat, but he drank too eagerly when Herndon passed one of the canteens.

 
          
 
That night was made up of
sodden, nightmare-ridden sleep and then guard
duty, with the added
torture of memory to goad the mind. It was so easy to be mistaken about the
shape of a shadow in the moonlight, so easy to see things move when they did
not. So it might be just as easy to overlook real danger crawling belly-down
toward them through the night. And they dared not waste a single cartridge or
bullet. The extra supplies and guns which Birke had stolen now armed their
enemies.

 
          
 
Of all the hallucinations born of the night
the worst, Ritchie decided, was the one that he could hear, somewhere not too
far away, the constant drip of water. He tried not to listen to that regular rhythm,
but he found himself straining to catch the faint sound. And once he almost
woke the Sergeant to suggest that they try to trace it down. Only the fact that
Herndon must have heard it while taking his tour and had not thought it worth
investigating kept him from doing so.

 
          
 
There was the lion. Had the creature returned
to its cache to find the deer gone? And would it trail them in return? He had
never heard of the lions attacking men. But a beast as big and wily as Big Gray
would make a formidable opponent if it decided to hunt men as carefully and
guilefully as it hunted deer. There was that one which had killed Tuttle's mule
on the winter march—it had taken fire to drive that one away. And tonight they
had no fire.

 
          
 
Tuttle was mumbling, a steady sound, too low
for listeners to distinguish words—yet it rasped the nerves. The scout had
never allowed Herndon to examine his injuries. And the knock over the head
Birke had given him after that smashup on the rocks hadn't done him any good—

 
          
 
Birke! Ritchie's mind shied frantically away
from any thought of Birke. He was afraid that he would never remember him
except as he had seen him last. And to think of that was madness!

 
          
 
It must be time to inspect their improvised
picket line. He walked softly to the semi-corral they had thrown up of stones
and cactus. It was safe. Neither cat nor Apache was near if he knew horses. The
scent of either enemy would have made them restless. The harsh brilliant light
of the moon was cold. He shivered as he shuffled back to their cave.

 
          
 
Something was wrong. For a moment he didn't
realize what was missing, and then he knew! Tuttle no longer lay there, and the
faint sound of his mumble was still. Ritchie shook Herndon into wakefulness.

           
 
"Went out to see the horses,"
Ritchie sputtered. "Came back—found Tuttle gone!"

 
          
 
The Sergeant's hand was already on the rifle.

 
          
 
"All right.
If
you didn't see him, then he went up, not down past you. And he can't have gone
far. Probably he's off his head and hunting water."

 
          
 
As they started along the only path Tuttle
could have taken, Ritchie wondered if the scout had been aware of that odd
dripping noise and had gone off to trace its source. Tuttle was trail-wise
enough to do that even when he was half out of his head.

 
          
 
At almost the same instant they sighted him
and their exclamations of relief came as one. He was on his hands and knees,
like some sort of shaggy animal, clawing his way over the ground.

 
          
 
But before either of the others could move, a
sinuous black shadow detached itself from a ledge, flowed across a rock, drew
together for a second, and sprang, striking Tuttle crushingly on the shoulders.
The scream of the man was echoed by a snarl from the cat as it lashed out vicious
claws. Afraid to shoot, Ritchie clubbed his carbine and ran, but Herndon used
the rifle.

 
          
 
A second scream of rage and pain burst as
Ritchie reached the thrashing tangle of man and beast. He saw the outline of a
flat-skulled feline head and brought the butt of his carbine down on it,
feeling bone crunch under the force of the blow. Herndon's knife flashed in the
moon as he struck twice. Then Ritchie hooked his fingers in the coarse fur and
yanked the heavy body off its victim.

 
          
 
They had to have a fire now. Ritchie got a few
sticks lighted while the Sergeant straightened the limp figure they had carried
back. When the thin flames blazed up, they saw the worst. Great raking red
wounds laced white flesh. They worked feverishly to stop the pumping blood. But
they had already lost the battle; Ritchie could guess that without being told.
They could only make Tuttle as easy as possible and hope that for him the end
would come soon.

 
          
 
During what was left of the night he talked,
but not to them. He was at old fur rendezvous smoking pipes with Sioux
warriors, sweating out battles of the Mexican War, walking again the valleys of
the smoking spring country, marveling at what he saw, bathing in the Pacific
where he had gone to spend the gold he had found in unknown mountain streams—

 
          
 
“Flour gold—" His words rippled on.
"That's what the boys called it. Fine as dust—but, Lordy, a man could
spend it—same as money. I had me ten days in Frisco as I won't ever fergit.
Busted me, but it was worth it—sure—" His poor ripped face was smiling.

 
          
 
For a while he was quiet, and when he spoke
again, he was back to here and now.

 
          
 
"What got me, son?"

 
          
 
"Lion.
You were
crawling along—"

 
          
 
"Yeah.
Guess the
critter thought I was a deer. Lion—" His voice trailed off, but he was
making a visible effort to hold to consciousness and them. "Watch out for
Injuns, sons—"

 
          
 
"We will, Jesse!"

 
          
 
But he was already lost to them again.
"Boys"—his tone was stronger, almost happy—"thar's the river
now; see it, fellers? 'N it's beautiful over thar, ain't it?
That
thar grass so green 'n all.
Water—cool—
jus' ripplin'
'long easy like. I'm tired of marchin'. I reckon I'll cross over 'n go into
camp—"

 
          
 
Herndon pulled away abruptly as if the hand he
had been holding had turned red hot. He was gone into the dark, but Ritchie sat
where he was. The fire sputtered out, and wind swept down the canyon with a
faint, far-off sobbing note.

 
          
 
At the first break of gray dawn they buried
Tuttle as they had Sturgis, walling up his shrunken body with the stoutest
rocks they could pick. But when they came to the horses, only Bess was still on
her feet. Herndon's face was a stone mask, and neither he nor Ritchie spoke
through that morning.

 
          
 
But when everything was done and they broke
camp, having to pull Bess by main force past the stiff body of the lion, he
stooped and picked up something from between two stones.

 
          
 
"A legacy which we can
use."
His words were bitter and as chipped as ice. In his hand was
the piece of tobacco Tuttle had treasured. He shaved off two pieces. One he
forced upon Ritchie, and the other he mouthed himself.