Secret of the Malpais

by Ferber, Richard

  them spoke. Then:

  "Bajar Down.

  He said it just in time. A bullet went whistling over their heads and a little puff of white smoke rose up from far across the canyon. They sprawled down in the gravel, the Apache with the olla clutching it to his belly and going over backwards to keep it from spilling. Some slopped out anyway, and he gave a little groan at the coldness. No other shots came, though now and then something flashed on the far ridge. Finally they started to move down the slope, the water carrier sliding along on his seat. The firing opened up again, and Old Pablo's band down below must have realized what was happening. They opened up with a barrage of their own, and the canyon became filled with rattling echoes.

  SECRET OF THE MALPAIS Richard Ferber 137

  They had dragged the old chief behind the largest boulder they could find and propped him up against it. He looked sick, all right. He had his mouth open, breathing heavily, with a little trickle of blood coming from one corner of it. His big lummox of a son was squatted next to him, and he lifted his rifle when he saw Logan. Old Pablo grunted in surprise, grunted louder at Mule Ears, and the rifle lowered again.

  "No shoot," Old Pablo said. "You bad man, once upon a time. No more. Bad man dead."

  "Dead?" Logan said. "What happened?"

  "Old Pablo kill," he said, and he seemed cheerful enough. He pulled himself up against the rock and took a drink from the olla and smiled. "Down there. Bad man come out of brush, carry little sack, and Old Pablo kill. Zing. Whoosh." He sat thinking about it, and then his face turned sad. "Then big agent come along, big Moon, and want gold. All gold. Old Pablo say no gold. Just little sack, and big agent get plenty mad and shoot. Boom. Here." He pointed a stick finger at his belly. "Old Pablo plenty mad, too. Kill police. By-'n-by kill more police. Kill White Mountain dogs. Kill Mimbreno dogs. Kill Chiracahua...."

  He had sat up. Now he sagged back and began pulling steadily for air again, with the blood trickling from his mouth. Mule Ears looked wide-eyed with concern, then looked coldly at Logan.

  "Ayuda."

  *'Si," Logan said. There was no sense in arguing with him. He motioned toward Angela and made signs in front of his mouth. "Comida. Alemento."

  Mule Ears didn't move. "Feed," Old Pablo said, and one of the squaws got down on her hands and knees and started to crawl around the rock. A shot greeted her. She got down lower, wiggling along ludicrously.

  and came back a minute later with spmething hanging in her mouth.

  They were tortillas, and they were old and dry, and discolored ... from just what there was no telling. It didn't matter. They were food.

  "Eat slowly," Logan said. "If you can't get them down, try soaking them in water." He tore off half of one, put it in his mouth, and bent down over the old man's belly.

  There was nothing he could do, he could see that at once. The slug had gone in just below the belly button, and hadn't come out anywhere. That meant it had churned around inside, tearing up several feet of gut, and come to rest someplace where he couldn't get at it. Though he could try. They expected it of him, and they might feel better about it; even Old Pablo might feel better... once the pain subsided.

  "You fix," Old Pablo said. "You fix, and you good friend."

  He's got a short memory, Logan thought. He acted as though nothing had ever happened between them, as though he hadn't cursed Logan and threatened to carve on him, as though Logan hadn't kicked up dust at his heels in exchange. He was a phony; Moon was right about that much, anyway.

  Logan built a fire of twigs to heat the tip of the hunting knife, ate a couple more tortillas soaked in water, and went to work. It was hard going, the blood running down the knife and spreading over his hand, the old man's grunts shaking his belly and all for nothing. He had guessed right about the bullet. It was lodged somewhere inside and no amount of prodding was going to get it out. He was probably going to die before Moon and his Apache police had a chance to finish the job.

  He laid the knife down and Old Pablo looked down at the blood on his belly. The grunts had been purely involuntary, and they were the only sounds he had made. Logan had to hand it to him. Blood wasn't anything new to him, probably, but he sat and watched it running as though it wasn't his own.

  "Good clean blood," Old Pablo said. "By-'n-by feel better."

  "Maybe," Logan said. "I wish we had something to clean that wound. Some whiskey, maybe."

  "No whiskey. Tiswin,'*

  Tiswin was more like beer than anything else, but it had a higher alcohol content. It was worth a try. He nodded, and Old Pablo nodded to a squaw,, and she went wriggling off again, bullets splintering the rocks over her head. By the time she had come back Logan had eaten another tortilla and gone over to sit with Angela.

  There hadn't been time before for her to react to the news of Jeffrey's death. He thought she was reacting to it now... once in a while she'd bring a tortilla to her lips and just hold it there, not eating it... but she didn't say anything. She watched Old Pablo apply the jug of tiswin to his belly, then to his lips, and afterward fall asleep. She slept too, with Logan holding her.

  The sun climbed as high as it was going to and started its long slow slide toward the western rim. A few buzzards circled under it, sometimes sailing down the canyon over the dead horses, but afraid to land. Two ravens were braver. They hopped around the carcasses, pure black and stately, pecking at the eyes. Logan hated them. Then a shot from the far ridge blew one of them all to pieces and its mate lost its look of haughty grandeur and flapped off mournfully.

  and he felt sorry. It was just one more score to settle with Ramsey Moon. And he'd settle it; just give him the chance.

  But that was the trouble; he had no more chance now than he'd had yesterday, or the day before, or the day before that. Less, maybe. Moon was only a canyon away, but it might have been a country for all the good it would do him. Still, he'd come this far... after having almost given up, after having almost forgotten the threat he'd made. He remembered it now: "I'll take you from the front, from the back, while you're sleeping. I'll take you any way I can."

  He dozed off thinking about it, and when he came awake the sun was down and there were strange sounds that he didn't recognize. Then he did. Someone had brought Old Pablo a slack drum and he was thumping it dully, and chanting. In the fading light he looked ghostly to Logan, though to no one else, apparently. Mule Ears and the squaws listened attentively, and they didn't try to stop him when he braced himself against the rock and struggled to his feet.

  Logan started to get up, but the old man waved vaguely at him and went on. He was in a trance, or fast approaching one. His eyes rolled and finally rolled to a stop, fixed on some distant point, and his gnarled old hand beat monotonously on the drum. Logan thought for awhile he was singing his death song, but it turned out otherwise. It was just a preliminary. He was building up to something else... a long-winded account of his past exploits.

  He was always a fighter, he said, giving a couple of "hyahs" and waiting for Mule Ears and the squaws to echo him. He was a fighter even as a little boy, age eleven or thereabouts, and he still had a Mexican's ears to prove it. Hyah. And when he was thirteen or so he

  had learned how to peel a scalp without tearing it and he could steal horses in the daylight, even from Co-manches, though most of the time the Comanches stole them back. If he hadn't eaten the horses already. Hyah, hyah. And when he was fifteen he was already a sub-chief, and he had three slaves in his hogan, six if you counted the Mexicans, and his name was feared and respected on both sides of the border. Hyah, hyah, hyah. And when he was still in his twenties they were already calling him Viejo Pablo because he was so kindly and wise (but dangerous). Hyah, hyah, hyah, hyah. And he'd once won an argument with Magnus Colorado. Hyah, hyah, hyah, hyah, hyah. And Apache Pass had been practically his private hunting preserve. Hyah, hyah, hyah, and so on.

  He went on and on, but none of it was the least bit boring. Just trying to sift the truth from the lies and half-lies kept L
ogan interested. He'd been a great fighter once, there was no doubt about that, even if you took other people's word for it. Settlers' kids used to do their chores and get to bed on time, not because their parents threatened them with bears and bugaboos, but with Old Pablo. Of course, that was back in the old days; the good old days, as Old Pablo pointed out:

  "Now Apache grow corn and say please to white man. Live on Reservation. Listen to lies of big agent, and say thank you. No more ..."

  It was obvious all of a sudden what he was leading up to. It had sounded a little like he was exhorting his men, but that wasn't it. He was exhorting himself, and he'd made a good job of it. He had piled up so much evidence against himself as a fighter that there was no choice left but to be one, which was probably just what he intended. He let go of the drum and hoisted himself up higher against the wall.

  "No more," he said. "For long time Old Pablo good Apache, good friend of big agent. No more. My people huddle like rata in bushes, by-'n-by die of thirst, get shot, starve. No more. Tonight Old Pablo fix big agent. Tonight Old Pablo kill, hang white hair on scalp pole for all police, all Apache dogs, to see. Hyah." ^ ^

  He let the last word out in a shout and stood waiting until it echoed back to him. Then he reached behind him for his knife, lost his balance and sank to his knees. He folded his hands over his belly, but even in the pale light Logan could see the blood coming through them. He hadn't, through the whole long ceremony, stopped bleeding.

  The squaws tugged at him, drew his legs out and got him back in a sitting position. He didn't move. Logan looked at him suspiciously. It seemed like too much ot a coincidence that the old man's strength had expired iust at the time he was going to need it; he must have known what was coming. But then Logan moved closer and saw tears hanging limply from the old Apache's cheekbones. He might be a phony, but no Apache could fake tears. No Apache would be caught shedding them if there was any way he could possibly

  ^^"Old Pablo no fight after all," he said, and he seemed to be speaking directly to Mule Ears; his white teeth showed in a smile. "Old Pablo no fight no more. Old Pablo muy viejo. Very old. And sick. Need somebody else fight his fight. Need son." ^

  Mule Ears nodded. He didn't look particularly bright, but he was willing. He had aheady started to take off his trappings: bandilleros, blouse, gun-

  belts.... . . t_

  "Listen," Logan said to Old Pablo, ignonng the son *T know what you're up to. You think if you kill ott

  SECRET OF THE MALPAIS Richard Ferber that agent his police will pull out and leave you alone. But it^on't work. This big... this son o£ you s will have two miles o£ ridges to crawl, and the^e" be a moon... not much, but enough ... and those police Ten" as dumb as you take them for. Mule Ears won t eet within a hundred yards of that agent Nobody could. Why not send out a runner? You can last a day or two, maybe more, by just staymg where you ^e. By that time you could have the army up here, and

  '^oid Pablo didn't let him finish. He smiled again, much wider than he had before, and let one of his h "nds drop from his belly. He held up a corner of Mule Ears' army blouse with one finger.

  "Comprende? Old Pablo kill many sojers. So sojers come and help Old Pablo. Eh?'' "No," Logan said. "Comprende? '■Bueno. Bueno. Pretty soon Mule Ears kill big agent and Old Pablo's people go away. Go to Mexico, and live happy. You live happy, too. And squaw.

  "Sure," ufgan said. Logan and squaw. It was something to think about all right, something to ook tor-ward to. He wished he had tobacco left. This was as good a time as any to start smoking a last cigarette...

  ^"r^^Sk and a thin moon climbed up above the ridge^ehind them, looking pale and cold. Old Pablo sat facing it. his eyes shining in the light now and then. His son la just I dark shadow, bent over, sharpenmg hi k'ife. nl didn't say anything After awhile he got up and went off somewhere into the "^"^l^''/"^ J^ paid any attention. Nobody even turned to look 1 he ^oon had climbed six fingers higher before Logan realized what had happened.

  The Apache police had built a fire just over the ridge, out of sight of Old Pablo's camp, but they'd let it burn down and go out. They were all asleep, even the outposts probably. Moon thought, and pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders.

  He couldn't sleep, and he told himself it was because of the cold ... but he knew better. It was the waiting. He wished now that he'd let the policemen have their heads. Now it was too late. Old Pablo and his bunch were denned up like bears. It might take days and days to flush them out.

  No, like hell it would, he thought, and took another pull on the bottle. He wasn't going to wait, not much longer. Another day, maybe, if he could stand it. The hard ground reminded him of nothing but a soft bed, Selina's bed, and he kept thinking of how she would act when he showed her a few nuggets of the gold. Her eyes would light up, he knew that much. What else? He wasn't sure. It would be her move then, and he'd just stand there, and she'd know what to do... if she wanted the gold. And too bad if she didn't. He could go any place ... New York, London, Paris, El Paso ... and have any woman ... Selina, Conchita, Margaret, Mabel.

  It was pleasant to think about, and at the same time, agonizing. Damn that old Apache's luck. An hour more and he would have found the gold himself and

  he wouldn't be sitting up here now, waiting for the old bastard to die, or come to his senses. He took out his watch ... it was time for the guard to change ... and turned the face to the moonlight. Half past twelve. He was sure the guard was asleep. He took one last pull at the bottle, threw ofiE the blanket and got up.

  The moon wasn't bright enough for anyone to see him, even on the ridgetop, and he moved quietly. There was no sound from the direction of the guard. He was asleep all right; he thought he could see him on the point of the ridge, a dark hunched shadow.

  A pebble rolled, and Moon stopped. Probably that shadow hadn't been the guard after all, but just a rock, and the guard was on his way in to wake up his relief. But now, whatever it was, it was moving too slowly, and too quietly; it was making almost no sound at all. Puma, maybe. Or a coyote looking for scraps.

  Moon was standing in a little grove of pifions. He took the gun from the holster and then was careful after that not to make another move. He was more curious than anything else. Lion? Coyote? El tigref Anything would do. Anything that he could think about so that he didn't have to think about...

  It came in sight, and it was no animal. It was a man, an Apache; his black hair, and his knife, shone in the moonlight. He was coming on all fours making almost no sound at all, and Moon wondered if he'd been seen. He had his back to the trees and as long as he stood still no animal would see him, but Apaches weren't animals. Not quite. His finger tightened on the trigger. The Apache crawled closer, then stopped and took the knife from his mouth. His hand, with the knife in it, rested on a rock not a foot from the toe of Moon's boot. Moon raised the boot and smashed it.

  The Apache let out a low groan of surprise. He tried to roll to one side, and Moon kicked him in the head. He had the gun, but it didn't seem appropriate to use it there in the darkness. And he didn't need it. After a few kicks the Apache couldn't get up. After a few more he groaned again and lay silent.

  Moon picked up the knife. Might as well finish the poor beggar off, he thought, and then another thought struck him. The Apache's face had looked familiar, even in the near darkness. He lifted the head, and it took him only a moment to recognize the features. Mule Ears. Well. Sometimes you could smoke a bear out of his den, and sometimes you could bait him. He'd know before long which method was best. He tightened his grip on the hair, drew a line with the knife across Mule Ears' forehead and peeled back the scalp. Then he dragged the Apache to the edge of the cliff and dropped him over. He made hardly any noise at all going down; just a crunch when he hit the talus slope, and after that there was just the gentle sound of rolling gravel. The guard didn't even wake up.

  The Apache camp came awake like a roost of birds, with tentative sounds and stealthy stirrings. The squaws were first to roll out
of their blankets. They went about pulling at the meager brush for fire material, and after awhile the acrid smell of burning grease-wood reached Logan's nostrils. He sat up. Old Pablo was already awake, though he hadn't moved, apparently; he sat in the same position against the rock, with his hands folded over his bleeding belly. Logan wondered if he had slept at all.

  One of the squaws was trying to heat water in a blackened, battered pot. It had a bullet hole in it and she'd tried to plug the opening with a stick, but the water kept leaking out and dropping into the fire. She must have decided to borrow another one from her neighbors down below, because she started to crawl around the big rock. Then she stopped. She was on her hands and knees, looking like a fat bulldog. "Chingue tu madre," she said, and let out a rattle of Mescalero, too fast and excited for Logan to understand. But he moved to where he had a view of the canyon and could follow her gaze.

  There was a breeze along the far ridgetop, too faint to be noticed from a distance... except that something stirred in it. Logan strained his eyes trying to make out what it was. Then the sun caught it, and it

  flashed red, and the mystery was solved. It was a scalp, and they hadn't taken any chances on Old Pablo's not seeing it; they'd tied it atop a long pole.

  Old Pablo's eyes darted from the squaw to Logan and back again. He made an effort to get up, couldn't, and motioned impatiently for help. Logan tried to lift him. He was too heavy.

  "There's nothing to see anyway," Logan said. "And you shouldn't be moving around. They've killed him, that's the short of it. I'm sorry."

  "Kill?" Old Pablo said. "Sure. Kill. Old Pablo know hours ago, when son not come back. No matter. Ayuda! Ayudar

  The squaw came back and they lifted him to his feet and brought him to the edge of the rock. There was a chance of his being shot at, and Logan told him so, but he didn't seem to care. He'd seen plenty of scalps before, but none like this. His own son's. Killing him was bad enough. Dangling his scalp practically under the old man's nose was worse, and should have been the ultimate in sadistic achievement. It wasn't. Old Pablo's body went suddenly stiff and hard. He'd seen something that nobody had noticed before. There was a talus slide directly below the scalp pole, and Mule Ears* body was lying halfway down it. They all took it for that: a body ... until it moved.