This book made available by the Internet Archive.
The sun dropped almost to the rim of the canyon, then seemed to go no farther. It just hung there, and the animals in the rocks rustled impatiently.
The man waited too, in a clump of sagebrush halfway up the canyon wall. He'd lain there for days, hardly moving, each day watching the sun creep imperceptibly across the sky. Until at last it dropped behind the rimrock, the shadows took over, and it was time for the night's hunting. He was like most of the creatures of the Malpais now; a creature of the dark.
He stirred a little, with impatience, and a rabbit in the same brush sat up and peered at him with wide and startled eyes. He peered back at the rabbit. He hadn't eaten since yesterday, except for a few piiion nuts. If he could just reach out, quickly....
But he didn't move, and the rabbit finally hopped off to the next clump of brush, exposing himself momentarily to a passing hawk. The hawk struck, and the rabbit screamed, and the man said to himself: "Remember that." The same thing could happen to him. One movement and... Apaches were just like hawks.
Still, it was hard to lie there, not moving at all, waiting. The sun seemed to taunt him. It just hung there, over the canyon rim ... looking for all the world like a big ball of gold.
Farther to the north, the darkness took even longer to come. The land had begun to flatten out, and Logan thought perhaps he was out of the Malpais at last. He wasn't sure. In the last day or two (or was it three or four?) he had learned not to trust his eyes. Or his mind, either, for that matter. It was untrustworthy, full of tricks. For example: that butte where the sun was touching. Hadn't he seen that same landmark yesterday ... and the day before? That was the trouble with this country; there were plenty of landmarks ... hundreds of them... and they all looked the same. He couldn't even depend on the sun any more. He was heading north; he was positive of that. Yet yesterday the sun had gone down to his right, and today it was sinking to his left.
Was he going crazy?. His legs gave out, and he sat down and thought it over. The old man had said: "If you got enough sense to wonder if you're going crazy, then you ain't." And it made sense.
Or did it?
He got up, his legs wavering. Goddamn that gelding. Goddamn that castrated son of a bitch, wandering off and leaving him to walk. He looked around. Had he staked out the gelding, or just hobbled it? He couldn't remember. Then he did remember, and it frightened him; maybe the old man was wrong after all.
He hadn't staked out the roan gelding, or hobbled it
either. They had let all the horses run loose in the canyon... they wouldn't leave good grass and good water... and the last time he had seen the gelding it was lying in moonlight, with an Apache arrow in its neck and an Apache lance just behind its shoulder. He had even used it as a shield for awhile and he could remember the warmth he had felt, huddled down against its belly.
Yes, it was all clear enough: the darkness, the dead horse, the cries of the Apaches ... and the final silence of his companions. It just showed how much you could remember, if you put your mind to it. It just showed that the old man was right: he wasn't going crazy. Now if he could just remember the last few days since the massacre...
It got dark finally, but it only made things worse. It was the stars that bothered him. The ones down near the horizon looked like lights, and he would stumble toward them, thinking there was a town not far ahead. Or he would pick out one particularly bright star, and think it was the light from Angela's house, and think of all the good things he would feel when he saw her again. God, how good it would be to be home again, to fall into her arms, to lie down with her beside him, with his face against her breasts. It seemed a long time since that had happened to him. It seemed years and years and years.
But he gave up on the stars after a while. They were just stars; he was too smart to be fooled for long. Besides, he had to keep his eyes on the ground. He was stumbling all the time now, and each time it was harder to get up.
But why get up at all, he thought after a while. Why not just lie there? The ground was soft enough. It wouldn't be any softer... he wouldn't be any less
thirsty ... another mile ahead. Or a hundred miles. It was better to just take a nice long sleep (and who cared how long it was) and not bother about getting anywhere. There wasn't anywhere to get.
He rolled off his back and got up on his elbows. There was that damned star again, and it looked more than ever like a light now. But he told himself: don't be a fool, Logan. Keep ahold of yourself. It's just a star, a goddamned worthless star, a million miles away.
He put his head down on the grass and closed his eyes, but lying there wasn't as comfortable as he had thought it would be. He was thirsty, and the high-desert air hadn't begun to cool off yet. He got up on his elbows again and stared out at the darkness, and for a long time he was unaware that something had changed. Then he got up on his hands and knees. He couldn't be mistaken. The big star had been on the horizon directly north. Now it was gone, and he began to laugh. Stars didn't go out, but lights did. There was a ranch out there somewhere; his ranch, probably. Sure, he recognized the lay of the land now, and even the grass under his hands smelled familiar. He got up and started to run, and immediately fell down again. But this time it didn't matter. As he struggled to his feet, he kept watching the place where the light had been, and it was easy to imagine Angela still standing in the darkness, in her nightgown, perhaps giving him a last thought before she went to bed. It was enough to sustain him. Let him fall down a thousand times, each time he'd get up again.
He lay on the bed with his head against her breast and when she tried to leave him, he slipped an arm around her waist and held her tightly.
"Don't, Logan," she said, but he was too tired...
and too happy... to wonder what she meant. He only pressed his face closer, and finally she relented. He felt her body relax. Her hand stroked and pressed the back of his head.
"Tell me what happened.'*
He didn't want to talk about it, or think about it. But he didn't want to refuse her anything, either. Not now. If he did, he was afraid she might leave him.
"I'm not sure," he said. And it was true; it seemed as though it had all happened years ago. Or hadn't happened at all. But once he began to talk, he began to remember.
The old man had told the truth: he had seen the lost diggings ... and given enough time and liquor... he had remembered the way back to them. There was a needle-shaped rock far up in the Malpais, and just beyond it a high, solid rock wall. Or so it seemed until you got right up to it. Then there was a gate (Hell-gate, the old man called it) and a trail that wound through the rocks and you came to a little canyon, all green and peaceful, with a clear-water stream running down the middle of it. There had been no mistaking the place; it was exactly as the old man had described it... up to and including the gold.
The gold was everywhere. For a month they sluiced and panned, and filled sacks that they hid under the hearthstones of their cabin. Then one day a band of Mescaleros came down from the back of the canyon. They had a tiswin camp just above, and they were a little drunk, but not looking for trouble. The chief's name was Pablo, and he teetered around in the saddle and announced that he liked white men... as long as they left him alone. He pointed out that they were on the Apache Reservation, but that didn't bother him either. White man stay in Place in the Rocks, Apache
friendly. White man go above Place in the Rocks, Apache tell Agent. Or... maybeso... hang by heels over fire.
It sounded fair enough. Though a little risky. Apaches were unpredictable, no matter what they said ... and the old chief was probably no exception. What if he developed a particularly bad hangover some morning?
"We decided to p
ull out with what gold we had," Logan said, and for a moment hesitated. He was coming to the bad part now, and he wasn't sure how she would take it. He rolled away from her and put his head on the pillow, but still holding her waist, and watched the shadows from the lamp move on the ceiling. Through the nightgown he could feel the soft, slight pad of flesh.
"There was enough gold for everybody," he said. "And everybody agreed: we'd spend one more day, and then pack up and get off the Reservation."
But one more day turned out to be one day too many. He'd awakened sometime toward midnight, he thought, and heard the horses nickering. And then the Apaches came down on them. It was too dark to see very much; just vague forms and flashes of gunfire. He went mostly by sound. And after awhile by silence.
"It was over almost before it started," he said. "The gunfire quit, and all I could hear was the Apaches whooping and clattering around the rocks. I stayed where I was. They couldn't see me. Pretty soon they went away, and I found the trail out of the canyon. There was nothing I could do. I'd lost my gun. It must have been three or four days before I..."
She stiffened. The flesh', once so warm under his hand, seemed cold now. She got up and backed away from him, staring at him, and he lay on the bed as she
had left him, coiled like a snake.
Or so it must have seemed to her. She kept staring at him, her mouth hardening, then softening in disbelief, then hardening again.
"Jeffrey?"
"He's dead."
She had only looked ugly to him once before (eight years ago, when she had told him she loved his brother and he had told her she was lying). Her face turned grayish in the lamplight, and her upper lip curled as she fought back the tears. He got up and went to her.
"Don't touch me," she said, and he saw her fist clench.
He didn't understand. "I'm sorry," he said. "There was nothing I could do. Something happened. Something made those Apaches ..."
"You did enough," she said. She sat down at the table, aimlessly pushed the dirty dishes away from her, and stared vacantly at the lamp.
"No, it's my fault. I was a fool. I trusted you.'*
Logan felt weak. He wanted to go back to the bed and lie down again, but anger kept him on his feet. "Go on," he said. "You haven't made it quite plain. Not yet."
"Its plain enough. This crazy gold hunt of yours. You knew Jeffrey couldn't take care of himself. You knew something would happen." She brushed the hair back from her forehead, let her hand rest there and said dismally, "And maybe I knew it too."
"You are a fool," he said, and went over to her. "Blame it on me, if you have to. Don't blame it on yourself. You were right, it was my idea; but I wasn't thinking of Jeffrey, I was thinking of you. I couldn't stand to see you wasting away on this starve-out homestead. I thought if we found the gold, you could go back east someplace. And I'd be rid of you."
*'Or Jeffrey," she said, looking up at him.
He hated her at that moment, and for a moment he meant to hit her. Instead, he went back and slumped onto the bed. He couldn't blame her. None of what she said was true, but she had struck closer to the truth than he cared to admit. Hadn't he thought. What if something happened to Jeffrey? She must have seen the question in his eyes a thousand times; he had never made a secret of it.
He wanted a cigarette. There were makings on the little table by the bed, but they were Jeffrey's makings and he drew his hands back and folded them in his lap. She noticed.
**Go ahead. Why be particular? Or do you intend to wait a decent period before you start taking what is his? You'll have a hard time, Logan. I loved you once. Maybe I even loved you yesterday. Not any more."
He looked at her. "You're lying," he said. "I told you^ a little while ago, blame me if you have to, but don't blame yourself. But you're doing it anyway. You never loved Jeff. And now you think that it had something to do with his getting killed. It didn't. It was an accident. Or the next best thing: some crazy Mesca-leros, drunk on tiswin."
She didn't answer, and he rolled a cigarette. His fingers were trembling. Outside an owl hooted, and his fingers steadied as he listened. He heard a dull, muffled sound of hoofbeats and got to his feet. Horses were coming across the creek.
"Blow out that lamp," he said.
"What is it?"
"I don't know." He went to the window. There was a thin moon, too thin. The horsemen were just vague shapes as they came up out of the creek and milled in
the yard by the hitching post. Logan reached down and felt the empty holster, then remembered. The gun was lost back in the rocks of the Malpais. He started to turn toward Angela, and the voice from outside stopped him.
*'You in house. No be afraid."
He recognized it. Old Pablo. The Mescalero from The Place in the Rocks.
"Get me a gun, Angela," he said.
"Who is it?"
"Apaches. The same bunch that jumped us."
In the darkness he couldn't see her, and he didn't hear her move. What the hell was she waiting for? Was she trying to make up her mind whether to let them take him or not? Well, he wouldn't ask her again.
"There's a rifle in the lean-to," she whispered finally. "Don't use it unless you have to, though. I'll talk to them. I've nothing to be afraid of."
It was plain and pointed, and it made him angry. He felt along the wall, took down the Winchester, and thought for a moment of knocking the old Apache out of the saddle. He'd had enough of them; of her. But when she opened the door they had spread out, and he could count them. Almost a dozen, cold-sober this time ... including Old Pablo.
"Old Pablo good friend," the Apache said. His voice was high and singsong and carried to the back of the lean-to. "Old Pablo not bad like white man. No bother squaw. Just talk."
"Then talk," Angela said. If she was afraid, she didn't show it... except perhaps to draw the wool shawl more tightly around her shoulders.
"Look for bad man," Old Pablo said, and drew himself up as tall in the saddle as he could. "Bad white man, back in Place in the Rocks, do bad thing to son's
woman." He gestured to the crowd behind him and a buck rode forward. In the shadows he looked twice as big as the old chief. Old Pablo pointed proudly. "This son, Mule Ears. Have good woman. Bad man do bad thing. You understand?"
"Yes," Angela said. "But the man you're looking for isn't here."
Old Pablo ignored her; he hadn't finished his speech yet. "Bad white man come up to Apache camp, do bad thing," he repeated in a monotone. *'Por Dios, Old Pablo come down to Place in Rocks, kill all white man. Go back to camp, get Mule Ears' woman, bring back to cut off bad man's cajones. In rising sun, see one man is gone. Must be bad man; Old Pablo plenty smart. Follow him. He go like crazy lizard. Lose tracks. Find. Lose again ... back there."
He paused and pointed vaguely into the darkness. Then he hung his head. "Old Pablo plenty angry," he said. "And two-times sad."
He was finished. He sat waiting, with head dangling from his shoulders, expecting some word of sympathy. Angela gave it to him.
"I'm sorry. I hope you find this man. But you won't find him here. I'm alone."
Old Pablo shook himself out of his stupor of sorrow. "Me look," he said, and started to get down. Logan raised the Winchester and sighted past Angela's shoulder.
"No," Angela said. "You can't come in. I told you, there's no one here."
The old man hesitated. His son lowered his lance, and Logan switched targets. Angela stood without moving, but with both hands gripping the neck of the shawl. Finally Old Pablo pulled his creaking body back into the saddle.
*'Okay," he said. "Maybeso woman tell truth. May-beso lie. No matter. By-'n-by Old Pablo find white man. Then cut off cajones, hang over fire."
He made a slashing motion, and he must have grinned; something flashed white in the darkness. "Vamos/" he said, and the band of Mescaleros rode out of the yard and down through the creek again. Logan listened to the hoofbeats going off. When he could no longer hear them, he got up and went out into the ya
rd.
Angela was standing with her back to him. She didn't turn. The moon had climbed higher and he could see Jeffrey's melon patch; and somewhere beyond it there was a sound like an owl calling.
"You heard?"
"An owl," he said. "Or a Mescalero."
"No, I meant the old man's story."
"I caught most of it."
She turned then, trying to see his face. "But of course. How foolish of me. None of it could have been news to you, could it, Logan? Even the part about the girl."
He was silent. The whole idea was so incredible that he could only stand there, not saying anything, not even thinking. There was a rabbit in the garden now, a big jack with long ears that showed above whatever was growing there. The owl hooted again. Logan waited to see what would happen. Something should. Nothing did.
"You can't stay here, Logan."
"I know that," Logan said.
Two owls were calling now, to each other, but Logan hardly noticed. Except to touch the butt of the Winchester. One of his going-away presents, he thought, along with a horse and saddle. It was decent of her. Decent of her... considering how she thought of him. Old Pablo's bad white man.
He was tired, too sick and tired to care. He rode with one hand on the rifle butt and the other on the saddle horn and listened to the owls hooting back and forth. And ignoring the rabbit. That rabbit was safe enough.
He kept riding, going away from the sounds. Had they seen him leaving the house? Probably. But probably, too, they were just a few of Pablo's younger bucks, sneaking around and hoping to find a stray horse they could steal. The way seemed clear ahead. He knew he ought to lean forward in the saddle (then they might not see him above the greasewood) but once down against the horse's neck he might not have the strength to get up again. Angela's soup... like Angela ... had only momentarily revived him.
The hooting stopped, and he reined up. The mare he was riding was fidgety. Did she know Apaches? She kept blowing through her nostrils and swinging one ear back toward where the sounds had come from. Then both ears swung forward, pointing. Logan slipped the Winchester from the scabbard.
Secret of the Malpais Page 1
