Stand to Horse

by Andre Norton

  "Guess a picket pin clipped me."

  "Hmm." Tuttle caught Ritchie's chin in one hand and turned his face to the light. " 'Bout an inch or so down 'n we'd be gittin' us a 'nother horse guard—which would be a pity, seein' as how yo' ain't such a bad one! Sergeant, here's 'nother bit of patchwork for yo'—"

  Herndon glanced over his shoulder. At the sight of Ritchie's bloodstained face a trace of concern sketched a little frown between his eyes. But after he had inspected the blood-caked skin around the shallow cut he said with relief, "You'll have a headache. But this'll mend, quick enough. You're lucky."

  "As everybody has managed to tell me so far this morning!" snapped the patient. "I may not have been brained, but neither do I relish having mining operations carried on inside my skull—"

  "Here." Tuttle came up and thrust a steaming tin cup into Ritchie's grasp. "Git this down under yore belt 'n hush yore big mouth, boy. Yo' miscall yore luck, 'n it's apt to git up on its two legs 'n go marchin' off from yo'. That's for sure. Sergeant, the Cap'n's lookin' for yo'—"

  Ritchie took little sips of coffee. The red band in the sky was wider; he could see all of the camp. The corpse of the raider sprawled beyond the dying fire. And farther along some horses still stamped to drive off awakening flies. Ritchie counted—seven horses left and no mules at all. The entire baggage train had high-tailed it into freedom. What about the camels?

  He squirmed around to face the space a little distance away where the big beasts had knelt placidly last night chewing their cuds and watching the mules with tolerant eyes. No snake necks bobbed there now—the camels were gone, too!

  Marooned here in half-desert country with a limited amount of supplies and only seven horses! And where there was one Apache, there were probably a great many more. The prospect was not one anybody liked to think about-only everyone had to.

  "Looks as if seven of us does a leetle trackin'," Tuttle cut in across his own gloomy reflections. "Lucky thar was mules in that gang. Mules is right accommodatin' critters. They may go slam-bangin' off jus' like them fool hosses when they has a mind to—but they stop runnin' a mite sooner. 'N when they stops runnin', maybe some of them hosses will do likewise. We can always hope so. So it's up to us to hit trail 'n hunt—"

  It was as if Tuttle was in telepathic contact with Captain Sharpe's mind—for after a hasty breakfast, eaten mostly in gulped bites between inventory of equipment and supplies, the commander called together the men whose horses were still there. It was an odd gathering: Sergeants Woldemar and Herndon, Lieutenant Gilmore, Ritchie, Sturgis, and— to Ritchie's surprise—Birke. Tuttle lounged nearby, the reins of Captain Sharpe's own mount hooked between his fingers.

  "This is 'break' country, and in the narrow canyons you may be lucky enough to find the stock holed up. They certainly can't disappear for miles as they do after a stampede on the plains. So it's up to you men not to neglect any side turns. If the Apaches ran them off—"

  "I was wonderin' 'bout that, Cap'n," Tuttle drawled. "Seein' as how that thar wolf was a two-legged one, we might as well be prepared to find 'em butchered for a feast—"

  "That may be. Apaches don't steal horses to ride. They drive a mule or horse until it drops and then eat it. If a party has raided us, then they weren't mounted to begin with, and the majority of the animals may have gotten away—"

  "Thar's this here to make yo' feel better, Cap'n." Tuttle held out a short length of hollow cane. "I found this tucked into that young buck's gee-string. Means he was on his furst war trail. They can't drink then 'ceptin' through one of these—somethin' to do with one of their gods or such. Maybe he was on this alone—tryin' to show off a leetle—"

  "If I could believe that, Tuttle, it would mean a lot. But this is Apache country, and we'll prepare for the worst. Take provisions for forty-eight hours, but don't stay out longer than twenty-four. Don't overlook a trail, and, for Heaven's sake, don't be ambushed!"

  Ritchie threw his saddle on Bess, adding to his usual equipment the small sack of extra cartridges, a packet of provisions, and a full canteen.

  "We ought to come up with the camels quickly," he suggested to Sturgis. "They can't run very fast—"

  "Maybe they can fly," grunted the other. "And if we do find them, who's going to be camel-herder? Not one of us knows how to manage the blamed critters. Stop that puffing, Blackie, you're a lazy old cuss and you know it!" He gave his horse an admonitory slap as he settled into the saddle.

  The path taken by the stampeding animals led downstream, plainly marked by the tracks of shod hooves. They rode along it at a good pace. Unless the herd broke and dribbled away in threes and fours into the small side canyons, the job ought to be a fairly easy one—always providing, of course, that Indian raiders had not been awaiting the freed animals.

  "Somtthin' daid!" Tuttle jerked a finger skyward.

  Black wings circled there, slowly and ominously.

  "Yeah," Birke spoke for the first time. " 'N thar it is."

  A gray dog raised a dripping muzzle, snarled, and faded away into the bushes before Ritchie realized that it was no dog but a lobo wolf they had interrupted at its feasting.

  The birds, which made a black cover for the thing on the ground, were less wary. They clung to their banquet until the horsemen almost rode them down.

  It was a mule on the ground, its head snapped back and held at an impossible angle by the taut picket rope.

  "Caught the picket pin in between those rocks," Tuttle sized up the scene, " 'n broke its neck. Wal, that's one off our list. Git off, yo'!" He waved an arm at the circling birds. "I hate to see a good, long-sufferin' mule go down yore gullets. But thar ain't nothin' we can do 'bout that."

  The tracks were still thick in the sand and gravel, and they could follow them without dismounting to read trail. Before noon they found two live mules contentedly grazing in a small side canyon. When Bess whinnied, both crowded up to her eagerly, in spite of her open disdain for their company, and showed no distrust of the men who were examining them for injuries.

  "Old hands these." Woldemar slapped their rumps. "They lost their skittishness early. If we leave them here, they won't wander far. There's water in that pool and good feed. We can pick them up on the way back."

  Lieutenant Gilmore considered the point. "Most of the mules were seasoned stock. Maybe they'll all drop out of the race quickly. It's the horses we'll have to worry about. What do you think, Tuttle?"

  "Leave 'em free, Lootenant. They've taken a likin' t' that thar mare—may try to follow her along. But their runnin' is over."

  "Tuttle!" Herndon had wandered off to the side of the pool. "What do you make of this?"

  They all crowded around to study the small depression he had found in the mud.

  Tuttle squinted at the mark. "Too small for wolf—even for coyote. If we weren't out here a good hundred miles from nowhere, I'd say that thar was the print of a leetle dog's forepaw."

  ''Dog!" The Lieutenant's head snapped up. "Apaches keep dogs?"

  "Sometimes. Only their dogs are close to wolf. 'N that ain't large enough fer that. I sure would like to set eye on that critter. Ain't a cold mark neither—made maybe last night. Think I'll do a leetle smellin' 'round, Lootenant— might be wise."

  They ate sparingly of the provisions they carried. Nowhere else was a second paw mark, although the pool was one well known and much used by the wild life of the district, as the slender claw marks of birds, interlaced with the tracks of wolf, lion, skunk, lizard and rat, testified.

  As Tuttle had predicted, the rescued mules refused to be separated from Bess and followed her without urging, much to her disgust. And during the afternoon six more were added to this train. There had been no more fatalities, which Tuttle thought remarkable.

  "No sign of the camels."

  "For which I continue to be glad," Sturgis answered Ritchie's comment. "Those plagued mules are bad enough, but if we had to pull along those desert schooners, too, I’d

  give up! How long, d'you
suppose, are we going to march along with this train of lop-eared wonders?"

  He glanced back at the line of mules. Birke brought up the rear of the procession, riding heavily, slouched in his saddle as if his temper was several degrees worse than Sturgis'.

  "More trouble!" This time Ritchie had been the first to sight those drifting black shadows overhead. "Something else must have gone down with a broken leg or neck."

  This time no wolf fed, but when the sluggish birds were driven away from their feast, the men stood staring. Ritchie blinked. Those remnants of white hide were smooth and glossy as if the animal had been well cared for. He said aloud what they all thought.

  "But we didn't have any white mules!"

  Tuttle, using the barrel of his rifle, tried to roll the head over. ''Broke a leg, clip 'n clean."

  "And then was shot through the head." Lieutenant Gil-more squatted down to look, though he did not attempt to touch the battered thing.

  "Dead maybe two-three hours," Tuttle went on. "Blood still sticky."

  "It ain't our'n." Birke kicked at the carcass. "The Cap'n, he wouldn't have no whites when he was choosin' up the mulada."

  "Only one mule like this in these parts," Herndon said slowly.

  And Ritchie remembered where he had seen that mule walking delicately along the trail, a small, rough-coated dog barking from the pack saddle on its back.

  "Diego's!"

  "Where is the saddle?" Woldemar looked about him as if he expected it to appear magic-wise from the sand and stunted bushes.

  "A question we would all like to have answered," Gil-more said dryly. "That saddle must have been shifted—"

  "To one of our'n!" Birke broke in. "He picked one of our'n, Lootenant, 'n marched off with it! But what's he doin' 'way out here? This ain't the road to Abiqui—'n that's where he said he was goin'."

  "No, it is not!" Gilmore's lips made a thin line under his trimmed mustache. "Sefior Diego seems to carry his pose of insanity a little too far. Tuttle, if we turned these mules into that small box canyon we saw back there and did a little stone-rolling to close it up, would they stay safe until we returned?"

  "Guess so, Lootenant. Thar's grass 'n water in thar. 'N we'd travel a right smart faster if they weren't hangin' on to our coattails."

  "Doesn't that black of Waterford's favor his off front leg?" asked Gilmore of the world at large a few minutes later.

  "Bin doin' that for 'bout a week, Lootenant. Yeah, that thar looks mighty like his track. 'N this is as good as his name in writinM"

  The scout leaned from the saddle and pulled two long black hairs from the jealous grip of a thorny stem. "Let's mosey up this break a piece. Seems like the black favors side trips. Here's 'nother piece of his hide flappin' in the breeze—"

  "In there?" Gilmore had pulled rein at the narrow red and yellow walled cut. It was a narrow slash in the lichen-stained mountain, as sharply dug as if it had been laid open by a giant dragoon sabre. There was no suggestion of water or vegetation within, but Tuttle was waving a second black hair.

  "Don't look likely, I'll admit," agreed the scout. "But critters do queer things. Them bosses started runnin' from a combination of devil smells last night—wolf 'n Injun. 'N they might have had their brains riled up for a time after. The black musta gone this way, 'n a boss ain't likely to break outa the herd 'n go off on his own."

  But they were reluctant to enter that gap. The sun heat, reflected back by the bare rock, was of furnace quality, and it was hard to believe that any horse had chosen to go this way over the bad footing they found within the slash.

  Sturgis had swung his carbine to ready, and the rest echoed his gesture. The pinch of rock about them had taken on the appearance of a trap. Their advance was more of a crawl, which, without orders, they had made as soundless as possible.

  That was why, when the scream came, it almost shook them from their saddles. They crowded together, a handful of men and nervous, sweating horses caught in a pocket of blood-red rock.

  There was only one of those long tortured cries. Ritchie tried to believe it a lion's squall or even the protest of a hunting eagle. But Tuttle put an end to that flight of imagination.

  ''Hoss!"

  Somewhere up ahead a horse had died—died, because that cry had surely only been torn out of the laboring lungs of a mortally wounded creature.

  "Can't climb here!" Herndon measured the sheer walls around them with an expert eye. "Might be some footholds farther on."

  "Maybe a cat got the critter." Tuttle mouthed a square of his strong black tobacco. "Shall we keep goin', Lootenant?"

  "We should know more about what we're heading into."

  "Can do, Lootenant. Scott—?"

  Herndon was already out of his saddle and had tossed his reins to Ritchie as the scout gave his to Woldemar. Together they crawled forward.

  "I smell smoke!" Sturgis sniffed down the break. "Just once in a while—there! Smell that?"

  But no one answered because somewhere ahead a rifle cracked, and the discharge of a carbine rang and re-echoed from the stone.

  "Lordy!" Sturgis was already kneeing his horse on. "What did they run into—the whole Apache army?"

  But when they burst out into the small valley the break led into, the fight was over, or almost so. Flames sputtered, and the stench of burning meat was strong. Brown skin, red headcloths, high white moccasins—Ritchie had seen those all before. Only then the ground under them had been white instead of green.

  "Dismount! Birke get back with the horses! The rest of you fan out!" Gilmore's snapped orders brought them into action.

  "Take it easy, Lootenant," advised Tuttle's drawl from out of a bush clump. "Them what was havin' lunch might not be all of the varmints. They hazed the black in here 'n had steaks offen him quicker than yo' could say Colonel Gibson—"

  "Say—look there!" Sturgis arose to his knees behind an aloe.

  A small white animal trotted purposefully out of the bushes and came to the fire, stopping twice to nose the dead warriors.

  "That's Perro—Diego's dog! Here, boy, here—"

  Perro faced about at the sound of his name. His pink tongue lolled out of his jaws as if he were laughing at all of them.

  "Come on, boy—here!"

  "Stay down, yo' doggoned fool!" Tuttle's voice was whiplash sharp.

  Perro came forward a step or two. If he had been an Apache captive, he had been a well-treated one. He was still a sleek little beast, and the light flashed from the silver knobs on the collar he still wore.

  Apparently he decided that they were worth investigating. He started for the aloe behind which Sturgis crouched. And he was almost into its shade when a piercing whistle brought him about and sent him running back beyond the fire down the slope of the valley and out of sight into a clump of dwarfed cottonwood.

  ''So we didn't git all of 'em after all." Tuttle pulled himself out of hiding, and Herndon appeared just beyond him.

  "That's torn it wide open," said the Sergeant bitterly. *'If we'd only been able to cut behind the fire before that dog-"

  "That thar's a pile of ifs." Tuttle had already reloaded, and now he carried his rifle at an angle ready for use. "Sure, 'n if we was the hull army, we could go gallopin' along like Napoleon. But now—"

  Gilmore waved up Birke and the horses. "Better back-trail?"

  The old scout nodded. "If Diego's alive 'n ridin' with 'em, he ain't goin' to leave us alive to talk. That crowd will jump up some dust on our trail right away. He'll ride spur on 'em until they do. 'N if we still want to be eatin' 'n breathin' tomorrow, we better lift foot mighty fast tonight!"

  "Hosses ain't so bright 'bout that," commented Birke sourly.

  "Let's hope then some of those mules we left back yonder have been ridden before. 'Cause if they haven't, they're going to be!" Sturgis burst out.

  For the first time Herndon favored him with a glance that had a shade of real approval in it. But Sturgis did not see that; he was already urging his tired horse toward
the narrow opening of the break.

  ''Take it easy, son," called Tuttle. "If those friends of our'n have ambush in their heads—why, this bottleneck will be the proper place for it."

  The Lieutenant was frowning. "I don't know this country—we're off all the maps. If we go down the valley, we may get into something worse. I can't see anything to do but head back—"

  "Sure. Ain't sayin' no thin' 'bout that, Lootenant. We head back—only a leetle less impatient-like 'n doin' a bit of scoutin' as we go—"

  "Holla!"

  That cry jerked all their heads up, brought their eyes to the cliff top.

  "Holla!" Again that challenging cry rang down.

  "You ride to your funerals, soldados!'' That was a crow of triumph—from a voice they had heard before!

  And then the narrow mouth of the break breathed out upon them a blast of smoke and flame and death.

  12

  “Mort a Cheval a Galop”

  There was a moment of wild confusion, of plunging horses and shouting men, and then Ritchie found himself pounding back along the valley. That was the instinctive reaction to that sudden blast which had leaped at them. But almost as suddenly he pulled rein savagely, bringing Bess under control by force.

  One blue-shirted rider crowded by him, and after him ran a riderless horse, its eyes white-rimmed arcs of terror as it came. Ritchie grabbed for the dangling reins of the runaway. He brought it up short against Bess and recognized it for Woldemar's mount.

  "Woldemar!"

  Ritchie looked back. He saw Tuttle fire, once with his rifle, the second time with his Colt. And he heard the thin scream which answered at least one of those shots. Beyond the scout a long blue figure lay still on the ground. With a kick of his heels Ritchie brought Bess around and rode back, bringing Woldemar's horse with him.

  "Yo' blasted young fool!"

  At first Ritchie thought Tuttle was shouting at him, and then he saw that all the scout's attention was for the smoky mouth of the break. A horse struggled on the ground there trying vainly to get to its feet. Beside it a man crouched behind the frail shelter of a very small rock, a rock that already was patterned with white bullet scars.