Taggart (1959) (16 page)

Rifle ready, Taggart watched him there. He could see the man was bleeding, so h
e
held his fire. A wounded Apache was doubly dangerous, but there was no use wastin
g
fire if the man was dead.

The Indian started to get up, then slumped to the ground again.

And over the wide slope of the mountain there was no further sound, no movement.

Taggart shifted position, working his way through the brush and farther up the mountain.

When he had found a good spot he settled down to wait.

Nothing happened. The sunlight was hot upon the hill's broad face. A bee buzzed aroun
d
some sage nearby. Overhead a bird lit in a mesquite tree that grew where water ha
d
run down the mountainside. The sky was an empty silence, and below the desert an
d
mountains lay still. Here and there rocks were acquiring shadows, but the sun wa
s
still high. A lizzard stirred among some flat rocks. Taggart mopped the sweat fro
m
his brow and squinted his eyes against the sun.

They were out there. Not one of them, but at least two dozen ... if his first coun
t
had been right, at least twentyeight.

Two warriors had been slain, and as yet they had not seen any enemy. This was Apach
e
work turned against Apaches. But Swante Taggart knew well enough that the odds wer
e
all against them. At this kind of fighting the Apache was clearly the greatest o
f
them all, perhaps the greatest guerilla fighter the world had ever seen.

Only Taggart had learned from them, and so had Shoyer. Grimly, he suddenly realize
d
he was pleased that Pete Shoyer had found him. Whatever else he was, the man-hunte
r
was a first-class fighting man.

A slow hour passed. Nothing stirred. The Apache horses stood in the wash near Mu
d
Springs, clearly visible. Suddenly
,
he was aware that there were now fewer horses than there had been. One by one the
y
were being spirited away.

. Yard by yard he searched the terrain. From the far slope of Rockinstraw he worke
d
his eyes back and forth along the slope, and on down to Mud Springs. Then he searche
d
around him and above him. When he looked toward the horses again, another was gone.

A line-back dun stood near some brush at the edge of the wash, and he set himsel
f
to watching that horse. He sighted his rifle at the horse, then eased it down an
d
took a quick look around. Then he waited.

He had been looking at the object for several minutes before he realized that i
t
was a bush that had not been there a few minutes before. While he watched he sa
w
the bush inch closer to the dun.

Lifting his rifle he cradled it in his hands, waited an instant, and then squeeze
d
off his shot. It was an easy shot, and the Indian sprang forward in a lunge, hi
s
leg buckling under him. Even so he grabbed the dun and jerked him back into the brus
h
before Taggart could get off another shot.

Instantly, Taggart was moving, working his way up hill, drawing closer to a plac
e
where he could, if it became necessary, get back into the canyon of the chapel. Ther
e
had been no more firing from the canyon mouth.

The sun declined a little, the shadows pushed out toward the east, and nothing happened.

He glanced toward the place where the first Apache had fallen across the prickl
y
pear. The body was gone, slipped away while he was busy with the other. It was th
e
Indian custom to remove their dead whenever possible.

It must be that the Apaches did not know of the canyon of the chapel, for had the
y
known the attack would have begun before this. At this moment they were undoubtedl
y
scouting the area trying to find out where their enemy was and how many there were.

The first shot from the canyon opening and then the other from up the slope evidentl
y
had them puzzled. Obviously the
y
had been trailing Shoyer, and probably they did not know now whether they fough
t
one man or more than one.

This gave Taggart an idea. Picking up a small rock, he shied it into a clump of brus
h
some distance away, throwing it into the leafy top of the brush where the fallin
g
stone would rustle. A few minutes later he tossed one into a small gravel slide farthe
r
south along the slope. A few bits of gravel rattled over stones and were still. I
f
it did nothing else, it would puzzle them and make them wary, and the hour was alread
y
well along. But Apaches were wary of night fighting, and they might not attack unti
l
daybreak. The stretching shadows would offer even more cover for attackers.

Taggart fed a couple of cartridges into his Winchester, and searched the terrai
n
around him. His present position bottled him close against the edge of the canyon
,
with thick brush and rocks all around. At the very edge of the brush the field o
f
vision was good, but he had to move to look up slope, and that bothered him. To mov
e
was to expose himself to danger, and so far he had made his moves with the greates
t
care and under almost perfect concealment. The stillness, too, was disturbing.

Two Apaches dead, one wounded, out of two dozen or more. Swante Taggart knew the
y
had been lucky in taking first blood from the Indians, but he also knew what tha
t
number of Apaches could do, and they could not expect to be so lucky from this tim
e
forward.

There were two alternatives. Stay and fight it out, or try to make a run for it.

Either meant risk, either meant the odds would all be against survival. Nobody outsid
e
knew they were here, nobody was in a way to discover their presence and send relief
,
so whatever was done they must do themselves.

The shadows were growing longer. The sun cast its final red lances into the sky
,
and the clouds lined themselves with gold. With darkness the Apaches might withdra
w
to their camp near Mud Spring ... but they might not.

Miriam had mentioned a back way out to which she could bring a horse, a route tha
t
led over the mountains and down toward Globe. He thought about that now.

Taggart got to his knees and worked his way around behind a cedar that clung to th
e
canyon's rim. From there he studied the situation and liked none of it. Yet the tim
e
had come to get back into the canyon . . . if he intended to. Of course, he nee
d
not return at all. He could take his own chances, moving at night, hiding by day.

His strength was built up again, and he knew what he could stand. It was no distanc
e
to Globe.

He crouched, then ran in a crouching run for a clump of boulders ahead of him. H
e
was almost there when an Apache raised up from the rocks and aimed a rifle at hi
s
chest, and another one started over the rocks toward him. He fired his rifle fro
m
the hip, but in the instant before he fired the Indian seemed to be struck from behin
d
and he fell face forward, sliding down the rocks, and the report of a rifle thudde
d
hard at close range.

The other Apache was coming and Taggart jammed him in the belly with the muzzle
,
then jerked it up under the Apache's chin. The Indian staggered back, clawing an
d
gasping, and Taggart hit him a wicked butt stroke with his rifle, knocking him sprawling.

From somewhere behind him a shot whiffe
d
by his ears, and at the same moment a rifle ahead of him opened fire on the brus
h
behind him.

Ducking and running, he made toward that covering fire. It was Miriam. She was standin
g
in a notch where two boulders left a slit between them and she was handling her rifl
e
like a veteran.

For a moment then, as he leaped and lit rolling, there flashed into his mind a pictur
e
of her there that reminded him of his mother, of his aunt ... of all the pionee
r
women who had come west with their men. He sat up, and got slowly to his feet, shake
n
by the tumble he had taken.

She was perfectly calm. Her cheeks were a little whiter and there was a wisp of red-brow
n
hair hanging over her cheekbone. He brushed himself off, thinking about her as sh
e
stood there. This was a woman fit to mother a race of men ... completely and entirel
y
a woman, and with courage and coolness that won his amazed respect.

"Are you all right?"

He chuckled. "Now is that a fit question to be asking a man? I should be asking you."

They looked at each other, and then they both laughed. As one person, they turne
d
to study the slope below and around them, but there was nothing in sight. An evenin
g
breeze moved over the slope with gentle fingers and rustled the dry leaves, but ther
e
was no other sound. Whatever Apaches were out there were lying quiet.

"You're like the ironwood," she said suddenly. "You were bred for this country."

Then they were silent. The last gold was fading from the rims of the distant clouds.

The Four Peaks loomed somber in the far distance, and Rockinstraw bulked hugely agains
t
the sky.

Nothing stirred out there, and he lowered his rifle to wipe away the dust from th
e
mechanism, and to check his guns. He fed a couple of shells into the Winchester
,
and waited. They could go ... he was sure the Indians had drawn back for the moment
,
but neither was disposed to leave.

"I like the desert plants," she said suddenly. "They hold themselves back ... s
o
many of them have no leaves, no flowers, and then there is a rain and they leaf ou
t
and blossom. It's as if they knew they needed just that much rain to make a go o
f
it, and when they have it they blossom and seed, and then they retire within themselve
s
very quickly."

"In the California deserts, along the washes," he said, "they have smoke trees ...
t
hey call them that because at a distance they look like the smoke of a campfir
e
. . . and the only way their seeds can be made to sprout is after they have bee
n
battered and bruised and worn down by being carried down a rocky wash, because the
y
need the occasional water to grow."

The flat top of Rockinstraw now had a crest of dull red from the fading sun. Somewher
e
a quail called into the night, trying its stillness for a response. A nighthawk flippe
d
and dived overhead, and a lone star hung like a lantern in the blue-black sky.

"We'd better go," he said, but still they did not move.

The desert was quiet . . . only the faint wind rustled among the juniper, hummin
g
a little, and a stone rattled in a rocky crevice somewhere beyond their range o
f
sight.

"I like this," she said. "I'd really never want to live anywhere else. Not any more
,
I wouldn't."

"If you look for them," Taggart said, "and know them when you see them, there ar
e
old trails . . . they must be thousands of years old, for even the rocks in the trai
l
are covered with desert varnish from the years of exposure to the sun. I've followe
d
some of them for miles.

"Sometimes when a man is right on top of one of those trails he can't see it unles
s
he has a feeling for them, but from across a canyon they're visible."