Trail of the Apache and Other Stories

by Elmore Leonard

  Two of the warriors pulled him to his feet and

  half-dragged him to the center of the rancheria.

  Most of the Apaches were stripped to breechcloths,

  streaks of paint on their chests contrasting with the

  dinginess of their dirt-smudged bodies. They stood

  about him, silent now, their dark eyes burning with

  anticipation of what was to come. Asesino, Pillo’s

  son-in-law, walked up to within a foot of the captain, stared at him momentarily and then spat full

  in his face. Asesino’s lips were curling into laughter

  when Travisin punched him in the mouth and sent

  him sprawling at the feet of the warriors.

  ✯ ✯ ✯

  He rose slowly, reaching for his knife, but Pillo

  again intervened, speaking harshly to his son-inlaw. Pillo was the statesman, the general, not a

  rowdy guerrilla leader. There would be time for

  blood, but now he must tell this upstart white

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  47

  soldier what the situation was. That it was the

  Apache’s turn.

  He began with the usual formality of explaining

  the Apache position, but went back farther than

  Cochise and Mangas Coloradas, both in his own

  lifetime, to list his complaints against the white

  man. The Apache has no traditional history to fall

  back on, but Pillo spoke long enough about the last

  ten years to compare with any plains Indian’s war

  chant covering generations. As he spoke, the other

  Apaches would grumble or howl, but did not take

  their eyes from Travisin. The captain stared back

  at them insolently, his gaze going from one to the

  next, never dropping his eyes. But he noted more

  than scowling faces. He saw that though lookouts

  were posted on the eastern edge of the mesa, the

  direction from which he and Ningun had come

  hours before, the western side, was empty of any

  Apaches.

  Pillo was finishing with background now, and

  becoming more personal. He spoke in a mixture of

  Spanish and English, relying on Apache when an

  emphatic point had to be made. He spoke of promises made and broken by the white man. He spoke

  of Crook, whom the Apache trusted, but who was

  gone now.

  “Look around, white soldier, you see many Tin-

  neh here, but you will not live to see the many more

  that will come. Soon will come Jicarillas, Tontos

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  and many Mescaleros, and the white men will be

  driven to the north.” As he spoke he pushed his

  open shirt aside and scratched his stomach.

  Travisin saw the two animal teeth hanging from

  his neck by a leather string. It was then that the idea

  started to form in his mind. It was rash, something

  he would have laughed at in a cooler moment; but

  he glanced at the fire that meant torture. He looked

  across it and saw Gatito. There was the answer!

  The animal teeth and Gatito.

  “Pillo speaks with large mouth, but only wind

  comes out,” Travisin said suddenly, feeling confidence rise at the boldness of his words. “You speak

  of many things that will happen, but they are all

  lies, for before any Tinneh come I shall drag you

  and your people back to the reservation, where you

  will all be punished.”

  ✯ ✯ ✯

  Pillo started to howl with laughter, but was cut

  short by Travisin. “Hold your tongue, old man! I

  do not speak with the wind. U-sen Himself sent me.

  He knows what your medicine is.” Travisin paused

  for emphasis. “And I am that medicine!”

  Pillo’s lips formed laughter, but the sound was

  not there. The white soldier spoke of his medicine.

  “All your people know that your medicine is the

  gray wolf who protects you, because U-sen has always made Himself known through the gray wolf

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  49

  to guard you from evil. I tell you, old man, if you or

  any warrior lays a hand on me as I leave here, you

  will be struck dead by U-sen’s arrow, the lightning

  stroke. If you do not believe me, touch me!”

  Pillo was unnerved. An Apache’s medicine is the

  most important part of his existence. Not something to be tampered with. Travisin addressed Pillo

  again, turning toward Gatito.

  “If Pillo does not believe, let him ask Gatito if I

  do not have power from U-sen. Ask Gatito, who

  was the best stalker in the Army, if he was ever able

  to even touch me, though he tried many times. Ask

  him if I am not the wolf.”

  The renegade scout looked at Travisin wide-eyed.

  He had never thought of this before, but it must be

  true! He remembered the dozens of times he had

  tried to win his bet with the captain. Each time he

  had been but a few feet away, when the captain had

  laughed and turned on him. The thought swept

  through his mind and was given support by his

  primitive superstitions and instincts. Pillo and the

  others watched him and they saw that he believed.

  Travisin saw, and exhaled slowly through clenched

  teeth.

  He turned from Pillo and walked toward the

  western rim of the mesa without another word. It

  had to be bold or not at all. Apaches in his way fell

  back quickly as he walked through the circle and out

  of the rancheria. His strides were long but unhur- 50

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  ried as he made his way through the tall grass, looking straight ahead of him and never once behind.

  The flesh on the back of his neck tingled and he

  hunched his shoulders slightly as if expecting at any

  moment to feel the smash of a bullet or an arrow.

  For the hundred yards he walked with this uncertainty, the spring in him winding, tightening to catapult him forward into a driving sprint. But he

  paced off the yards calmly, fighting back the urge

  to bolt. Nearing the mesa rim his neck muscles uncoiled, and he took a deep breath of the thin air.

  There on the western side, the mesa edge slanted,

  without an abrupt drop, into the irregular fall of

  the mountainside. A path stretched from the mesa

  diagonally down the side to be lost among rocks

  and small rises that twisted the path right and left

  down the long slope.

  Travisin was only a few feet from the path when

  the Apache loomed in front of him coming up the

  trail. Though many things raced through his mind,

  he stopped dead only a split second before throwing himself at the Apache. They closed, chest to

  chest, and Travisin could smell the rankness of his

  body as they went over the rim and rolled down the

  path to land heavily against a tree stump. Travisin

  lost his hold on the Indian but landed on top clawing for his throat. A saber-sharp pain cut through

  his back and his nostrils filled with dust and sweat-Trail of the Apache

  51

  smell. The Apache’s face was a straining blur below

  him, the neck muscles stretching like steel cords.

  He pulled one hand from the Apache’s throat,

  clawed u
p a rock the size of his fist and brought it

  down in the Indian’s face in one sweeping motion,

  grinding through bone and flesh to drive the Indian’s scream back down his throat.

  As he rose to run down the path, the carbine shot

  ricocheted off the mesa rim above him. His medicine was broken.

  ✯

  Chapter Seven

  An hour before dawn Fry had finished spotting

  his scouts along one side of the narrow canyon that

  gouged into the shoulder of Pillo’s mountain

  stronghold. One scout was a mile behind with the

  mounts; the others, concealed among the rocks and

  brush that climbed the canyon wall, were playing

  their favorite game. An Apache will squat behind a

  bush motionless all day to take just one shot at an

  enemy. Here was the promise of a bountiful harvest. Each man was his own troop, his own company, each knowing how to fight the Apache best,

  for he is an Apache.

  They were to meet Travisin and Ningun there at

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  dawn and wait. Wait and watch, under the assumption that sooner or later Pillo would lead his band

  down from the mountain. The logical trail was

  through the canyon. And the logical place for a jackpot was here where the canyon narrowed to a defile

  before erupting out to the base of the mountain.

  De Both crouched near Fry, watching him

  closely, studying his easy calm, hoping that the contagion of his indifference would sweep over him

  and throttle the gnawing fear in his belly. But de

  Both was an honest man, and his fear was an honest fear. He was just young. His knees trembled not

  so much at the thought of the coming engagement,

  his first, but at the question: Would he do the right

  thing? What would his reaction be? He knew it

  would make or break him.

  And then, before he could prepare himself, it had

  begun. Two, three, four carbine shots screamed

  through the canyon, up beyond their sight. At the

  same time, there was a blur of motion on the opposite canyon wall not a hundred yards away and the

  Apache came into sight. He leaped from boulder to

  rock down the steep wall of the canyon until he

  was on level ground. He gazed for a few seconds in

  the direction from which the shots had come, then

  crossed the canyon floor at a trot and started to

  scale the other wall from which he would have a

  better command of the extending defile. He stopped

  and crouched behind a rock not twenty feet below

  Trail of the Apache

  53

  de Both’s position. Then he turned and began to

  climb again.

  ✯ ✯ ✯

  Often when you haven’t time to think, you’re

  better off, your instinct takes over and your body

  follows through. De Both pressed against the boulder in front of him feeling the coolness of it on his

  cheek, pushing his knees tight against the ground.

  He heard the loose earth crumble under the

  Apache’s moccasins as he neared the rock. He

  heard the Indian’s hand pat against the smooth surface of it as he reached for support. And as his

  heart hammered in his chest the urge to run made

  his knees quiver and his boot moved with a spasmodic scrape. It cut the stillness like a knife

  dragged across an emery stone, and it shot de Both

  to his feet to look full into the face of the Apache.

  Asesino tried to bring his carbine up, but he was

  too late. De Both’s arms shot across the narrow

  rock between them and his fingers dug into the

  Apache’s neck. Asesino fell back, pushing his carbine lengthwise against the blue jacket with a force

  that dragged the officer over the rock on top of

  him, and they writhed on the slope, their heads

  pointing to the canyon floor. The Indian tried to

  yell, but fingers, bone-white with pressure, gouged

  vocal cords and only a gurgling squeak passed agonized lips. His arms thrashed wildly, tore at the

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  back of the blue jacket and a hand crawled downward to unexpectedly clutch the bone handle of the

  knife. Light flashed on the blade as it rose in the air

  and plunged into the straining blue cloth.

  ✯ ✯ ✯

  There was a gasp, an air-sucking moan. De Both

  rolled from the Apache with his eyes stretched open

  to see Fry’s boot crush against the Indian’s cheekbone. His eyes closed then and he felt the burning

  between his shoulder blades. He felt Fry’s hands

  tighten at his armpits to pull him back up the slope

  behind the rock. The same hands tore shirt and tunic to the collar and then gently untied the grimy

  neckerchief to pad it against the wound.

  “You ain’t bad hurt, mister. You didn’t leave

  enough strength in him to do a good job.” And his

  heavy tobacco breath brushed against the officer’s

  cheek and made him turn his head.

  “I feel all right. But . . . what about the blood?”

  “I’ll fix you up later, mister. No time now. The

  captain’s put in an appearance.” He jerked a thumb

  over his shoulder.

  Far down the canyon a lone figure ran, his arms

  pumping, his head thrown back, mouth sucking in

  air. It was a long, easy lope paced to last miles without let-up. It was the pace of a man who ran, but

  knew what he was doing. Death was behind, but

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  55

  the trail was long. As he came nearer to the scouts’

  positions, Fry raised slightly and gave a low, shrill

  whistle, then cut it off abruptly. Travisin glanced

  up the canyon slope without slacking his pace and

  passed into the shadows of the defile just as the

  Apaches trickled from the rocks three hundred

  yards up the canyon. They saw him pass into the

  narrowness as they swept onto the canyon floor,

  over fifty strong, screaming down the passage like a

  cloud of vampires beating from a cavern. Their

  yells screeched against the canyon walls and

  whiplashed back and forth in the narrowness.

  Fry sighted down his Remington-Hepburn waiting for the hostiles to come abreast. He turned his

  head slightly and cut a stream of tobacco into the

  sand. “Captain was sure right about their sign.

  They was pavin’ us a road clean to hell. Have to

  find out sometime where they all come from.” He

  squinted down the short barrel, his finger taking in

  the slack on the trigger. “In about one second you

  can make all the noise you want.” The barrel lifted

  slightly with the explosion and a racing Apache

  was knocked from his feet. A split second later,

  nine more carbines blasted into the canyon bottom.

  Fry was on his feet after the first shot, pumping

  bullets into the milling mass of brown bodies as

  fast as he could squeeze the trigger. The hostiles

  had floundered at the first shot, tripping, knocking

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  each other down in an effort to reach safety, but

  they didn’t know where to turn. They were caught

  in their own kind of trap. They screamed, a
nd

  danced about frantically. A few tried to rush up the

  slope into the mouth of the murderous fire from the

  scouts, but they were cut down at once. Others

  tried to scale the opposite wall, but the steep slope

  was slow going and they were picked off easily.

  They dashed about in a circle firing wildly at the

  canyon wall, wasting their ammunition on small

  puffs of smoke that rose above the rocks and brush

  clumps. And they kept dropping, one at a time.

  Five shots in succession, two, then one. The last

  bullet scream died away up-canyon. There was the

  beginning of silence, but almost immediately the air

  was pierced with a new sound. Throats shrieked

  again, but with a vigor, with a lust. It was not the

  agonized scream of the terrified Chiricahua, but

  the battle yell of the Coyotero scout as he hurled

  himself down the slope into the enemy. They had

  earned their army pay; now it was time for personal

  vengeance.

  Half of the hostiles threw their arms into the air

  as the scouts swarmed into the open, but they came

  on with knives and gun stocks raised. Savage closed

  with savage in a grinding melee of thrashing arms

  and legs in thick dust, the cornered animal, made

  more ferocious by his fear, battling the hunter who

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  had tasted blood. They came back with their knives

  dripping, their carbine stocks shattered.

  ✯ ✯ ✯

  It took two days longer to return to the little subagency on the banks of the Gila, because it is

  slower travel with wounded men and sixteen Chiricahua hostiles whose legs are roped under the

  horses’ bellies by day and whose hands are lashed

  to trees by night. Travisin led and was silent.

  De Both held himself tense against the searing

  pain that shot up between his shoulder blades. But

  oddly enough, he did not really mind the ride

  home. He looked at the line of sixteen hostiles and

  felt nothing. No hate. No pity. Slowly it came upon

  him that it was indifference, and he moved his

  stained hat to a cockier angle. Boston could be a

  million miles away and he could be at the end of the

  earth, but de Both didn’t particularly give a damn.

  He knew he was a man.

  Fry chewed tobacco while his listless eyes swept