He sat with the sack of gold in his lap and looked around. Perhaps, after all, he should stay right here. They'd never find him here. And pretty soon, maybe, a rabbit would come by. Or a ground squirrel. Why, there's a hole right over there
He started to go over and look into it, then heard something. What was it? Just the wind rattling the brush? No, horses... he could make them out now, they were coming closer... and he froze in terror.
Horses meant Apaches. And Apaches meant...
He knelt clutching the sack to his chest and not moving. Only his eyes moved, flicking here and there, straining to penetrate the brush. Only a little dust was visible. But he knew they were coming this way; the sound was growing louder, louder. He could hear the crunch of the ponies' feet on gravel, the creak of leather, the clanking of sabers, the ... Suddenly all the other sounds seemed to fade; only that one remained. The clanking of sabers. Apaches didn't carry sabers. Soldiers did. Was it possible?
He crawled to the edge of the brush, and he was sure now; there was no mistake. Blue coats, saber scabbards flashing in the sunlight. Soldiers! Tears came to his eyes, hung there, and he thought: Thank God, thank God, you've found me. And then another thought paralyzed him again. What if they didn't see him? He felt too weak to stand. In another moment they would pass him by. He crawled out of the brush and shouted, and though no sound seemed to come out of his mouth, they must have heard him all right. They came down on him, and the lance pierced the sack of gold on its way to his chest.
Ramsey Moon watched the scene from a ridge. He had just come up, and he thought at first that one of the Mescaleros had been lucky enough to kill a coyote. Except that a coyote didn't have enough weight to keep a lance standing that way. He motioned to the Apache beside him, took the telescope and adjusted it. Old Pablo's squat body blocked his view. But finally the old chief took out his scalp knife and eased himself down from his horse, and Moon could see that the carcass was the carcass of a man. Logan's brother. Well, that was one way to catch him. Chase him for three days, and then have him stumble right into the middle of Old Pablo's band. He wouldn't be doing much running any more.
He watched the old man peel the scalp back, and that was all right. But a few of the squaws had come dragging up, and one of them started gesturing wildly... her voice drifted up to him only faintly, unintelligible ... and he knew what it meant. She was Mule Ears' woman, and Old Pablo gestured back at her... then handed over the knife. Moon couldn't watch that. There were some Apache customs you never got used to, even after eight years.
He signaled to his police, and they spread out and followed him down the slope. Some of the Apaches started back to their horses when they saw them coming, but they were already in the floor of the canyon
by then, and it was too late. They mostly just stood around looking sheepish... though one of them did try to sneak o£E and get rid of his blue coat without being seen. Moon gave the sign of peace. ,
Old Pablo heaved himself back into the saddle and waited for Moon to ride up. Mule Ears' woman had finished her handiwork. She displayed the results to the rest of the squaws. Then she saw Moon and hid it behind her back. Old Pablo grinned broadly.
"Hyah," he said, and pointed to the ground. "Find bad man. Come out of brush, like rabbit."
Moon looked down at the body. There was something bright-colored sprinkled over Jeffrey's chest. "You've killed him," Moon said, adopting the old chief's step-by-step mode of conversation. "He's dead."
"Yes. Dead. He bad man. Squaw knows."
"He's a lunatic. Crazy. Loco. If you'd waited a minute, you'd have found out."
"Loco?" Old Pablo said. His face fell; killing a lunatic went against the grain of Apache superstition. But after a moment he brightened. "No loco. Bad/'
It was as simple as that: you couldn't be both at once. Moon shrugged impatiently. "All right. Forget it." He wanted to ask for the gold, but it wasn't time for that yet. First things first. The more crimes he piled on the old man's head now, the easier he'd be to handle later.
"Those uniforms. Where'd you find them?"
"Find? Yes, find. Ride along and see by... ines-peradamente. See little bunch of sojer, all dead. By-'n-by winter come and Apaches cold. Take coats."
"So they were all just lying around dead. And you found them by accident."
"Si, muerto."
"And you took their horses, too. And their sabers.
^^^ Richard Ferber SECRET OF THE MALPAIS
And that bugle that kid's fiddling with "
*'To keep warm."
Old Pablo looked like he didn't understand. "You're a liar," Moon said.
"Liar? No lie." His face took on an expression of unbearable pain, and he would have liked to show it off for awhile. Moon didn't give him a chance. "Where'd you get that gold?"
The old man was holding Jeffrey's scalp and his bag of gold dust in the same hand. He lifted them both and peered at them. Dust sifted through the hole the lance had made.
"Get both from bad man."
"Where's the rest of it?"
"No rest. One sack, that's all."
"You're a liar," Moon said again, tonelessly.
"No lie." ^
"He had a pack horse, loaded. A dozen sacks, maybe more."
"No lie."
Moon looked at the sack in the old man's hand. Gold was still spilling out of it, and it was hard to hold back his anger. His police were lined up behind him. He spoke to them without turning around.
"Busca. There were twelve sacks, maybe more. This old son of a bitch is hiding them. Busca. Cut open the packs if you have to."
The Apache police lowered their carbines and started to spread out. Old Pablo studied them keenly, and made up his mind. He held out the sack of gold.
"Here. You take gold. Old Pablo no want. No good. Too small to make things. Take scalp, too."
Moon lost his temjper. He knocked the sack from the old man's hand. "Listen, you old bastard. You killed
a squad of soldiers. I could have you hanged for it. I could do worse. I could turn those police loose on your women, and let you watch. That's just what I'll do if you don't fork up that gold. Every last sack."
Old Pablo looked at the gold lying spilled on the ground. And the scalp. Then at the policemen. Then at Moon. At his own people. At the mountains around him. At the sun. He heaved a long sigh that seemed to take all the wind out of him, and his voice was broken when he finally spoke.
"Old Pablo know agent. Big man. Plenty powerful. Do much hurt to people if no get gold. But Old Pablo no got gold. And Old Pablo plenty tired. Big agent treat Old Pablo like dog for many suns and longer. Muchos afios. But no more. Many soljers die. Maybeso big agent die too. You listen? ComprendeV*
Moon understood. This was just another of Old Pablo's speeches; a little more forceful than usual maybe, but just as meaningless. In another moment he'd back down. In another moment... He saw his mistake when he saw the gun. It was a long-barreled dragoon pistol and it appeared suddenly and mysteriously, in the old man's hand. "ComprendeV*
It was a surprise, but the effect of it didn't last long. Moon noticed that the pistol wasn't cocked, and decided he could probably drill the old bastard out of the saddle before he could get the hammer to fall. But that wouldn't be the end of it, apparently. The Mes-caleros must have taken some encouragement from the old man's words. They were restless. They kept trying to edge around the line of policemen, and the policemen had to keep reining back their horses to prevent them from doing it. Well, there was more than one way to skin a cat. There were better ways, safer ways.
He looked Old Pablo in the eye.
"Tell those men to stand still," he said. "All right. I hope you know what you're doing. You're defying the authority of the United States Government, but you've made up your mind. I just hope you don't get hurt, that's all."
He made the sign of peace again, then turned the big apaloosa and rode off toward the slope he'd just come down. The Apache police fell in, but reluctant
ly; they were spoiling for a fight. He waited until they were lined up in an orderly group behind him, until Old Pablo's view was blocked. Then he slipped out his Colt, stood up in the stirrups and fired.
Old Pablo sprawled out of the saddle and hit the ground with a thud. The bunch of squaws stared at him awe-struck for a moment, waiting to see if he moved. By the time they got over to him, he was on his feet pushing them away with one hand and blazing away with the old dragoon pistol with the other. He sagged down again almost immediately, and a squaw sagged down with him, but he'd done some damage. One of the horses was hit. One of the policemen had slipped forward against the neck of his pony.
Moon sat and watched as his policemen opened up. The Mescaleros were heading for the rocks, some of them on foot, some of them riding, but all of them making poor targets. The squaws were easier to hit. Most of them were still bunched around the old man, wailing and trying to get in a hand to help him, and another one of them went down before a couple of bucks came dashing back and dragged the chief to safety. He must still be alive. Moon thought; the wails were more of anxiety than of mourning.
The police stopped firing and watched Moon to see what he wanted them to do. They were ready for a
charge, or anything else that was equally reckless. The one that Old Pablo had shot had slid from his horse and was lying dead, and that made their blood bad. It was bad enough to begin with. They held the Mesca-leros in contempt... they were all squaws, men and squaws included ... and they considered themselves the best fighters in Apacheria. They said so now, and yelled across the canyon, calling Old Pablo's men dogs, gophers, rats, and explaining in detail what was going to happen to them.
Moon was half-tempted to let them go. He kept thinking about the gold, and he was afraid that Old Pablo might somehow get away with it. But that was foolish, he decided finally. Old Pablo was too sick to run. He was going to die, probably. He was going to die or live to come to his senses, and neither way would take too long. He could wait. He'd waited eight years, and another day or two wouldn't matter.
He took his men back up the slope and spread them out along the top of the ridge. Then he found a place where he could sit without running the risk of being hit by a stray bullet, and lighted his pipe. The Mesca-leros below were just barely hidden behind their rocks. They couldn't fire without exposing themselves, and it took them awhile to realize it. One got a splash of lead in his face. And another seemed to duck so quickly that Moon marked him down as a possible. After that they held their fire and the Apache police took to sending in bullets at odd angles, trying to make them ricochet. There was no telling how much damage was done, if any. The Mescaleros were silent. The sun climbed higher, and Moon kept smoking and staring down into the canyon. At the scattered dust. There must be some nuggets mixed in with it, he thought; something was glinting.
Daylight was even worse than the small dark hours of the night had been. It made the world seem even bleaker, more empty and unrelenting. For awhile it was good just to be warm, but then the air got hot and there would be no shade again until the sun climbed far past noon. It was taking its time. It seemed to move only imperceptibly, and everything else that moved moved the same way. Even Logan's eyes. Until finally they dragged to a stop and fixed sightlessly on some meaningless object miles and miles away.
The javelinas had gone sometime during the night, and for awhile he thought of following them again, hoping to get some edible meat. But it would take more agility than he'd shown before, and he had less now. He had ev^ thought of trying to eat one of the dead pigs, but he knew, in the end, that he could never keep the rank meat down.
Angela had thought otherwise, and he had been too weak to do anything but protest. She'd taken the knife and climbed down from the ledge and started to work on one of the smaller animals. She had her back to him, and he couldn't see what she was doing. But he didn't have to see. After awhile she started to gag, and then threw up, and he was too far away to be of any help to her. He had to sit there and listen to her convulsions, and it was then that he had thought of the gun in the holster.
He still thought o£ it. She had turned around and started to climb back up to the ledge, and he had to put the gun away in order to help her. But another chance would come. It never for a moment occurred to him that he couldn't do it. You did what you had to, the old saying went, and it had always seemed foolish, inane, an old man's blatherings ... until now.
Now he understood it. You went through life thinking you had a choice, thinking that thinking was useful, worthwhile. It wasn't. And there was no choice. He was going to kill Angela; the moment the idea had popped into his head it was all settled for him. Just having the idea was enough, and no amount of thinking, pondering, deciding, turning it over in his mind would make any difference.
She moved beside him and he took his eyes off the distant butte, but didn't swing them quite far enough to see her. He didn't want to. They had both sat there for an hour like that, not quite looking at each other, not quite speaking. The thought of death had brought them closer together than they had ever been, and now it was shoving them farther apart. And there was nothing he could do about it. Doing something took will, and he didn't have much left. Just a little. And he decided he'd better use it while he could. He let his hand slide down to the holster, slide across it to the butt of the Colt
The sound of the shot came drifting lazily up through the canyons, echoing here and there. Then another shot followed it, then a fusillade. Logan let his hand slip away from the Colt and listened. His mind was numb and the sounds came from far away, but they were unmistakable. He struggled to his feet. "What is it, Logan?" *'Can't you hear it? Gunfire, big as hell."
**I wasn't sure. It wasn't believable." She took his carelessly offered hand and pulled herself up. "Where?"
"Off to the south. A mile, maybe less. Maybe a lot more. There's no telling. Not so far, though, that we can't walk to it."
She was silent for a moment, listening to the echoes of gunfire. Then she said: "Walk to what, Logan?"
It forced him back to reality, and the pain came coursing through his legs again, and his hand went limp within hers. He had taken the gunfire as the heralding of salvation and, of course, it wasn't. He wasn't sure what it meant, but nothing good probably. Still.
"I don't know," he said. "It sounds like somebody's having a fight, and I don't know who it is, but there's only one way to find out. It might nqt be worth the trouble; it probably won't be. But it's better than just sitting here, waiting "
"Anything's better than that," she said.
"Can you walk that far?"
"It's you that I'm worried about." '[^,.
It would be painful, but he could do it. He lowartd himself from the ledge, helped her down, and took one last look at the place where they had spent the night. It wasn't much, just a wide slab with the charred remains of a fire, but it was all they'd had, and it was like leaving home in a way. And for a moment he was reluctant to go. They wouldn't be coming back. Not ever. But finally the sound of gunfire pulled him away, and he took Angela's hand and went stumbling down the trail.
The firing stopped after awhile and the trail ran out, and they just went staggering along, from rock to rock, directionless. They had gone hardly a mile, Logan figured, when they found the spring and sank down on their stomachs to drink from it. The water
( was icy cold... it probably came from some ice cave deep in the side of the mountain... and so clear that Logan could see the color of his eyes in it. He saw something else when he finally lifted his head. The ripples spread out and the water steadied to just a gentle wavering, and two figures took shape in it. Two men. Two Apaches.
Logan reached back for his gun, and one of the Apaches pointed a carbine directly at his head. Logan let his hand rest against the butt of the Colt and waited to see what was going to happen next. The Apaches seemed more confused than hostile, despite the carbine. One of them was carrying an olla, and he kept looking at his companion an
d talking to him too fast for Logan to understand. Finally he stepped down to the edge of the water to fill the base of the olla, and the other Apache jiggled the rifle to indicate that Logan should take his hand away from the gun. Logan did. The two of them chattered some more, then s ,med to come to some decision.
"Comprende el EspanoU" the one with the carbine said.
"Un poco."
"Estoy Mescalero de Viejo Pablo/* the Apache said; though it was unnecessary. The blue coat had already given him away. "Vengo para agua. Viejo Pablo esta enfermo. Ayuda? AliviaV
It was hard to make out, the way he said it. Most Apaches spoke a sort of bastard Spanish, and Logan's knowledge of the language was scanty at best. "No comprende enfermo.'*
^'Enfermo/* the Apache said. *'Enfermo. Malo. He-rido."
He was giving Logan a choice, and finally something came through. Herido meant wound. So Old Pablo
was wounded. Shot probably, and that explained the gunfire ... or part of it.
''Ayudaf* the Apache said.
Logan shrugged. He probably could help the old man no more than one of his own squaws could. Not that the Apache would believe him.
He didn't. Ayuda," he said, not questioning any more, and jiggled the rifle again. "Ayuda, ayuda.'*
Logan got up and helped Angela to her feet. "They're Old Pablo's men," he told her. "They came down to get water. Old Pablo's sick... shot, probably ... and they think I can help. It looks like they've been in some kind of fight... maybe with Moon. We'll find out more from the old man. Maybe we'll get some food, too.'*
There was a narrow trail that went up through the
^ rocks. The Apache with the olla went ahead and the
one with the carbine brought up the rear. They climbed
all the way to the top of the ridge before either one of
Secret of the Malpais Page 11
