the Lonely Men (1969) (10 page)

"Might be," I said, "we can get by. They're mighty concerned, right now."

She looked at me. She said, "What concerns an Apache so much that we might slip by his camp?"

A man couldn't look into those honest gray eyes and lie. She would guess, anyway. "They got them a prisoner," I said, "and they're tryin' to find out how much of a man they caught. If he stands up to torture and dies well, they will figure they're big men, because they caught a big man."

We moved ahead, each of us warning our horse against noise, and those horses could be warned, they were that smart. Aside from their own instincts, they had caught some of our wariness for danger, for a horse, like a dog, can become extremely sensitive to the moods of his rider.

The western man trusted to his horse's ears, its eyes, its senses. He shared with it his water, and if need be, his food.

We moved forward quietly but steadily, and soon we saw their camp on a bench near the stream, partly hidden by brush and trees. The stream was not over four feet wide and no more than four or five inches deep, and the canyon through which we had come evidently caught the overflow.

Rifle ready, I led the way, watching the camp from the corner of my eye.

Here the dry stream-bed was perhaps fifty feet wide, most of it white sand dotted with rocks, many of them half buried. The brush was mostly willow, and thick.

It was a cool morning but I could feel sweat trickling down my back between my shoulder blades, and I worried for fear a hoof would strike stone. We went steadily on, drawing close to the camp, then abreast of it.

The Indians were almighty concerned with their prisoner, and they were shooting at him with arrows, missing in as close as they could, pinning the sides of his shirt to the tree, parting his hair with arrows. There was a trickle of blood down his forehead which I glimpsed when he lifted his head, and for the first time above their yells I heard his voice, and he was singing.

It was Spanish Murphy.

Yes, sir. Spanish was tied to a cottonwood in the clearing and the Apaches were shooting arrows at him and working themselves up to more serious ways of hurting ... and he was singing!

Oh, they hated him for it, but they loved him for it, too, if I knew Indians.

For their prisoner was a man with nerve, singing his defiance right into their faces ... and it was also a means of keeping up his courage.

They would kill him, all right. They were devils when it came to inflicting pain, and they would try to make him last as long as possible, devising new tricks to give him the tortures of hell, and loving him for his strength and his guts.

Spanish was a singing man who loved the sound of the old songs, the western songs, the songs from the high-up hills. He was singing "Zebra Dun" when we caught sight of him and, raising his head, he looked right through an open space in the brush, looked right at us, and he changed his tune to "John Hardy."

"John Hardy was a desperate man, he carried his two guns every day. He killed a man on the West Virginny line, but you ought to see Tell Sackett gettin' away, I want to see Tell Sackett gettin' away!"

There he was, a-warning me. Him in all that trouble, but thinking most of us getting out of there. And me, I daren't stop, for I had a girl and a small boy depending on me. But this I did see. There weren't more than inine or ten Indians there, so far as I could see, they were all warriors.

We went on, our skins crawling with fear for Spanish Murphy, and also with fear for ourselves. We were beyond their camp now, but were expecting any moment to hear a yell behind us and to see the Apaches come streaming after us.

The thing that played into our hand was that the Indians probably had no idea there was anybody else about. They had either killed the others, or they'd taken out running.

Fifty yards beyond their camp the canyon took a bend, and when we had it behind us we felt some better. I decided we didn't have much time before those 'Paches got down to serious business with Spanish. I knew I had to get him out of there, and I had to do it before he was hurt too bad to travel.

When we had gone a little way I pulled up. "You'll have to go on alone from here," I said to Dorset Binny. "Do you know Sonora?"

"No."

"The Apaches have run most of the folks off their ranches north of here, and the few who are still there won't fight back. I'd say ride due west and watch for a trail. If you can find a ranch, ask them to take you in and hide you."

She lingered, and I said, "Whatever made you try this, anyway?"

"There was nobody else to come. I didn't want my sister growing up an Apache."

She hesitated. "Not that what we had was so much better. Since Pa died I've been trying to ranch, but we haven't done very well."

"You ride west," I repeated. "I don't need to tell you to be careful. You didn't get this far riding it blind." I swung my horse, lifting a finger to my hatbrim.

" 'Bye, Dorset."

"Good-bye, William Tell," she said, and they rode away up the canyon and I turned back.

I had no idea in my mind at all about what I was going to do. How does a body go about taking a prisoner away from blood-hungry Apaches? I couldn't just open fire. In the first place, they'd scatter out, pin me down, and surround me in no time. Also, they might just up and kill Spanish right off.

All the time there was a-nagging at me a thing I knew about Indians. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred a man who rides into an Indian camp is safe as long as he stays there -- that is, if he rides in of his own notion, and not forced.

It was a long chance, for we were already shooting-enemies. They most likely knew me by sight by this time. Yet try as I might, I just couldn't come up with any other idea. But what to do when I got into their camp? How to get Spanish out of there?

I could get along in the language. Not that I was an easy talker like Tampico Rocca, but I could make out.

Spanish Murphy was in this fix because he had chosen to ride with me to Mexico, and it was up to me to take him from those Apaches, or to die with him.

I was packing plenty of iron. My Winchester was loaded, and I carried a six-shooter in my holster, with which I'd always been considered uncommonly swift There was another six-shooter tucked into my belt.

So I swung my black horse up that bank and rode in amongst them.

For a minute there, you never saw anybody more surprised. These were Netdahee Apaches -- killer warriors -- dedicated to wiping out their enemies.

Now, as I've said, the Indian is a curious sort of man. They were bred to battle, and among the Apaches the Netdahee were the fiercest, a warrior society of chosen men. They appreciated nerve, but they were curious, and maybe they wanted to see what I was going to do. Maybe it was because I was inside their camp, but nobody lifted a hand.

My eyes took in the lot of them, methodically picking the ones at whom I would shoot first. If trouble started I'd have small time to pick targets, but if I could nail a few of them ...

"Greetings!" I spoke to them in Apache. "I have come for my friend!"

Chapter
9

They turned like tigers at bay, cornered, their black eyes staring. Of the nine of them, one was wearing an old Army coat, another a faded red shirt, and the others were naked except for breech-clouts and knee-high, Apache-style moccasins.

One held a rifle, two had pistols, and one held a bow and a handful of arrows.

The others were armed only with their knives. Their rifles and bows lay near the fire.

The Apache with the bow and the one with the rifle, those I'd take first. An Apache can shoot his arrows just as fast as a man can work the lever on a Winchester ... and they made a nastier wound.

"The man you have tied is my friend. We have come far together, and we have fought well together. He is a good man in the desert or in the mountains."

My sudden appearance had startled them, and they were unsure. Was I alone? I saw their eyes go to the rocks around their camp.

They could not believe I would ride into their camp alone. There was brush along both sides of the stream from where I had come, and the hills at this point were lower and covered with boulders.

They were all in front of me now, and I dared not ride among them. Taking my time, and lifting one hand to hold them as they were, I then lifted my rifle and pointed it at Spanish, then lowered the muzzle a trifle and fired.

My bullet cut the rope where it passed around the tree to which Spanish was tied. He tugged, the rope loosened, and he tugged again.

Suddenly one of the Apaches moved. "Kill him!" he shrieked.

And I shot the man with the bow, then spurred the black and he leaped among them. I fired again, missed, and swung the stock of my rifle against an Apache skull. My horse went through them, turned swiftly, and started back.

A shot came from the rocks, then another. Spanish was loose and running toward the Apache horses.

A lean, fierce-looking Indian started for him and I held my sight an instant on his spine, then squeezed off the shot. The Apache kept running straight into a large boulder, hit it and seemed to rebound, then fell.

One Apache warrior made a running dive and sprang at me, grasping my saddle and swinging up to my horse, striving to get behind me.

I struck out savagely, guiding my horse with my knees, and for an instant we fought desperately. But I had both feet in my stirrups and a better purchase than he, so I threw him loose.

Spanish came charging from the horses, riding his own mount, and we went into the stream-bed side by side at a dead run, while the Apaches vanished into the rocks, shooting at the surrounding hills.

As we hit the sand of the stream-bed there was a rattle of rocks and, swinging around ready to fire, we saw Tampico Rocca and Battles riding neck and neck down the slope in a cascade of gravel.

We raced our horses for half a mile, then slowed to save them, and almost at once saw a fairly wide trail run off to the north from the stream. We took it, and crossed over a low hill into what must have been another part of the same stream-bed.

Then we held our horses to a good steady pace, keeping a sharp lookout behind.

Nobody was talking. Me, I was watching the trail for some sign of Dorset and the boy, but we saw no tracks. We were riding in the lower foothills of the Sierra Madre now, and while the ridges were covered with pines, the lower slopes were a lush growth of maple, juniper, oak, and willow, with a thick underbrush of rose and hackberry. Small streams were frequent Somehow, more by chance than by skill, we had thrown them off our trail, but we knew better than to think it meant anything more than a breather. Surprise had worked for us, but the Apaches would find our trail, and they would catch up.

We lifted our horses into a trot, frequently glancing back over our shoulders, yet always watching the ridges around. We were now traversing a broken but relatively open country with trees along the streams or growing here and there in small clumps. After the heavy rains our passage raised no dust, and the hoofs of our horses made little sound in the grass.

Twice we forded streams, three times we rode upstream or downstream in the water to lose whatever trail we might leave.

Once in the shade of great arching trees, while giving our horses a breather and a chance to drink at a small stream, I told them about Dorset Binny and the boy.

"If anything happens to me," I said, "find them and get them out of here."

The other youngsters had been riding quiet, scared and hungry, no doubt. Had it been us alone we'd never have chanced stopping to fix grub, but the children needed it, and we found ourselves a likely spot. While Rocca stood watch and Spanish fixed some food, Battles and me turned in under a tree for some sleep.

It seemed like years since I'd caught more than a few catnaps.

When I woke up my mouth was dry, and I sat up, staring around, just taking stock. It was almighty quiet, a beautiful quiet such as you only find in the forest. Far off, we could hear the stir of wind in the pines, a wonderful sound.

Closer to, there was only the murmur of water around the stones of the creek, and a faint chirping of birds. It was a natural, friendly quiet Tampico Rocca and Spanish came over to me. Battles was on lookout, perched up among the rocks where he could keep out of sight and still look the country over. The youngsters were sleeping.

"Got any idea where we are?" I asked Rocca.

"I been thinking on it." With his finger he drew a wavy line in the sand. "This here is the Bavispe," he said, and he pointed west. "She lies right yonder. If we cross the river there's some ranches. I wouldn't count on there being folks about, but it could be. Mostly the Apaches have wiped 'em put, burned 'em out, or stole them out. But it would be a good place to stop. There'll be old walls, water, and grass.

"Next we head for the Santa Margaritas ... I know an old mining camp where we can hole up. Then we can head for Chinapa, on the Sonora River."

"Sounds good."

Spanish was chewing on a blade of grass. "Fact remains," he said, "that we didn't get what we come for. We didn't find your nephew."

Rocca was looking at me, watching me. "The little ones," he said, "they know nothing of such a boy ... and they would know if the Indians had him."