McDonald returned to directing the fight. He had but six unwounded men. Another had just fallen, and Yuma Bill, that invaluable man, had gone down after apparently getting off scot-free.
The Apaches were coming down among the rocks, closing in. The red-faced corporal, one of the best shots in the battalion, had dropped to one knee and was firing methodically as if on a rifle range.
Quickly as the attack began, it broke off. Four of his men gone, he awaited the next attack. They were in a nest of boulders atop the hill, and without any word from him the men went about making their position more secure.
Piling loose stones into gaps among the rocks, digging out the sand here, making a better firing position else where. They had a little water, ammunition enough for a good fight, and a fair field of fire.
“Take your time,” the lieutenant said. “Let’s make them buy it.”
An arm showed and a scout fired. Lieutenant Mc Donald believed it was a hit.
Two of the fleeing scouts had caught up ammunition pouches from the fallen men, and another had recovered a rifle. They had two extra weapons, which increased their immediate fire power.
Sixteen miles to go and sixteen to return, a brutal ride in horse-killing heat. Squatted on his heels behind a boulder, Lieutenant McDonald was glad it was Colonel Forsyth out there, for the colonel’s memory of the Beecher Island fight would be fresh in his mind and he would understand the situation as only one can who has lived through it.
Riding with him would be four hundred veteran Indian fighters who would understand it, too.
The hilltop was an oven. McDonald shifted his grip on the gun long enough to dry his palm on his pants. “They’ll be coming soon,” he said. “Let’s leave a couple of them on the sand.”
Somewhere out upon the hot, dusty desert to the north and east a rider was killing a good horse getting to Colonel Forsyth and the 4th Cavalry.
The Apaches came again, and again the Cavalry detachment broke the attack, with no casualties on either side.
The Yuma scout beside Lieutenant McDonald was gasping from the heat as he fumbled cartridges into his pistol.
It was going to be a long afternoon.
The sound of distant firing came to the ears of Shalako Carlin. He drew up, listening.
That would be the Army and Chato. He sat his horse near the crest of the divide where Wolf Canyon started down the mountain to meet the Double Adobe Trail, considering the situation and weighing it against their own chances.
Chato had gone north with roughly forty Indians, some of whom had turned off for the attack on the hunting party. The rest had continued on to meet with the restless young warriors at San Carlos, but by now all the bodies should have joined forces, which would add up to nearly eighty Indians. It must be that force or a part of it now in battle off somewhere toward Stein’s Peak.
The Apaches would make a fight of it, but if the Army was out in force they would pull out of the fight and run for the border. Whenever possible they would travel the high routes, and that meant they might easily take the Double Adobe Trail down which he now rode. They would be striking at anything they could hit and they would want horses.
The Army would be behind them. Hence, what remained for the hunting party was a fierce and desperate fight until the Army caught up with the Indians.
How much chance would the hunting party have against eighty Indians?
Seated astride his horse in the shade of a boulder, the roan close behind him, Shalako tried to view the situation as it would appear to one of the high circling buzzards.
That buzzard would see a wide skein of trails that were slowly being drawn tighter and tighter, and the center of the skein was held by the hunting party.
Four women, seven men active, and an eighth wounded.
Well-armed, however, with ammunition enough for a reasonably long fight. Water, and a fairly good position to defend, but short of food.
There was a chance the Apaches might retreat down the valley, bypassing the mountains and the hunting party. However, two of the men, Dagget and Mako the cook, knew nothing of fighting, and the two who were good fighting men had never fought Indians. If they lasted thirty minutes against an all-out Apache attack they would be playing in luck.
“We don’t have a chance,” Shalako said aloud, “not a Chinaman’s chance.”
A bee buzzed idly in the brush alongside the trail, and the stallion stamped impatiently, wondering at the delay, but Shalako waited, building a smoke while he studied the terrain.
Off on his right lay Animas Valley, and a considerable plume of dust that indicated a fast-traveling party of horse men, riding southwest by west and away from him.
The Army, more than likely, for Apaches did not like to raise dust and usually scattered out to keep down the dust and so give less indication of their direction of travel.
The trail he followed was rarely used. It had been first used, perhaps, when the mysterious Mimbres people lived in the area, perhaps even earlier. A white man traveling usually keeps to low ground, but an Indian or other primitive man keeps to the high country.
Shalako rode cautiously along the dim trail. The peaks around him arose eight to fifteen hundred feet above him. It was a rugged, lonely country where gnarled cedars clung to the raw lips of canyons and each cliff was banked by the shattered rock remaining from the ruin of itself.
A road-runner poised on a rock beside the trail, flicking his long tail in a challenge to race, despite the heat. The road-runner took off, gliding a few yards, then running on swift feet along the trail.
When Shalako had nearly reached the turn-off for the Park hideout, he went off the trail and into the rocks. Taking his Winchester, he left the horses in the shade and mounted the rocks, careful to give himself a background where he would not be outlined against the sky.
He could see almost two miles along the trail ahead from the vantage point he had chosen, and he was no more than two miles from the hideout itself. He had paused here for two reasons. He wanted to approach the camp at sun down, and he wanted to see if he was followed, and if anyone came along the trail.
He had seen no tracks. From all appearances that trail had not been used in months, perhaps not for years. Moreover, the trail from here toward the hideout was, for the first mile, relatively exposed. He did not want to enter that trail until he was quite sure he would not be seen.
It was very hot. Overhead the inevitable buzzard soared with that timeless patience that comes from knowing that sooner or later all things that live in the desert become food for buzzards, and they had only to wait.
A tiny lizard raced on tiptoe across a hot rock and paused in the shade, tail up, its little throat pulsing as it gasped for air. After a moment the tail relaxed, the lizard quieted, and Shalako made no move.
He was tired and the sun was warm. Slowly, because a sudden move attracts attention, he turned his head and looked down at the horses. Both were browsing absently at the brush.
A dust devil danced in the trail below, then lost itself among the rocks. The lizard’s lower lids crept drowsily over its eyes. Just a minute or two more, Shalako decided, and he would move along. The mountains were still, and they might be empty. His head lowered, and he settled to a more comfortable position. His head lowered again, bobbed, as he half-awakened, and then his eyes came all the way open.
There was a rider in the trail below, a rider wearing a wide hat and riding a sorrel horse. And he recognized the mount. It was Damper, one of Irina Carnarvon’s mares.
He studied the rider, trying to place him, and then he remembered the black vest.
It was Bosky Fulton, the man who had accompanied Rio Hockett. Shalako knew him.
The Arab’s head was up, and he was scenting the wind. “It’s all right, Mohammet,”
Shalako said softly. “Everything is all right.”
Shalako watched the rider. When he reached the fork of the trail, what would he do?
And where were the others? Where w
as Hockett and the stolen wagon?
Suddenly the rider below drew up sharply, and seemed to be listening. Shalako listened also, and distinctly heard the sound of pounding hoofs. Fulton crossed the trail swiftly and went into the rocks, shucking his rifle as he did so.
Suddenly, around the bend of the trail came a riderless horse, a saddled horse with stirrups flapping.
It was Tally, Irina Carnarvon’s other mare. The mare slowed, sniffed at the dust like a hound, and then came on. Many times Shalako had seen wild horses follow a trail like that, and follow it as skillfully as any wolf, and Tally was obviously following the trail of Damper.
Shalako’s expression changed. Suppose the Apaches had had the mare? Suppose they were following her now? It would be like an Apache to let the mare loose and follow her back to the other horses.
Tally paused in the trail and Shalako could see from his position how Fulton watched the mare, suspicious of her arrival, unaware that the horse he now rode and Tally had grown up together.
Suddenly Tally turned her head and lifted her nose to the wind. Despite the distance he could almost see her nostrils flare and, with a shock, Shalako realized the mare had caught the scent of the stallion! Even as he realized it, Tally turned from the trail and started up through the rocks toward him.
Fulton half-rose from his position, surprised by the mare’s action. Undoubtedly Tally assumed that Damper would be where the stallion was, and was finding a way up through the maze of boulders.
Hurriedly, Shalako left his observation post and, re turning to the stallion, he stepped into the saddle. Leading the roan, he started away, keeping the pyramid of rocks between himself and Fulton, and keeping to soft ground wherever possible. Behind him he could hear the mare, and he swore softly.
There was nothing for it now but to ride on to camp and hope that no Apache was trailing the mare.
Would Fulton add things up and come looking? It was doubtful. This was no time to be wasting around in the mountains, and Fulton undoubtedly had places he wanted to go … and judging by the direction he was headed he was going no farther than the nearest lot of Apaches.
When he had ridden a couple of hundred yards he concealed himself in the brush and waited for the mare to catch up. Mohammet could see her coming and started to whinny, but Shalako talked him out of it.
Watching beyond her, he saw she was not followed. Unless Fulton was a complete fool he would hole up some where and wait out the raid.
After a while, he continued on, and had gone scarcely half a mile when he saw Indian sign. It was a portion of the track of an unshod pony, and made that very morning.
He waited, studying the terrain again. To a man who had seen an Apache wrapped in a dusty blanket appear as an other boulder among the many lying about, there was no question of taking anything for granted.
Once, Shalako recalled, he had seen an Apache stand upright among a scattering of yucca trees, a few clusters of yucca blades stuck to his blanket, while an entire Army command rode past without seeing him.
Now, scouting the area with care, he found where two horses had been tied to a clump of brush. He found where the horses had cropped leaves from the brush, and, studying the branch ends to determine their freshness, he decided that the Apaches, riding unshod ponies and not captured stock, had been drawn to the hideout, probably by the smell of smoke, sometime during the previous night.
Studying the droppings left by the two horses to see what they had been eating, he saw the remains of plants that only grew well below the border. These two then were not part of the main band, but had probably followed Chato up from Mexico, leaving well after he had, and coming to this point by a long, hard ride.
They might have gone on to join Chato, perhaps to lead him back to this place. Nevertheless, they might still be lurking in the vicinity.
For some time, he scouted on foot, always keeping his horses in sight, for he well knew what an Indian could do when it came to stealing horses. More than once he had seen them stolen right from under a watcher’s eyes. Yet he wished to know if they still remained nearby, and if others had been here.
Evening was near. Shadows grew longer at this hour, and the world became more quiet.
The slightest sound traveled easily in the clear air of the desert and the mountains.
This was the land of the sky … to know the sky, to feel the sky, to appreciate the sky one must be alone with it, somewhere along the hard-boned ridges or peaks at any time during the hours of light.
With darkness a change comes and distance is lost. The night brings all things near, although the desert by night is haunted by specters, with the silent standing columns of the cacti, the close-to-the-earth desert shrubs, or the black mystery of the mountains.
The desert and the sky both demand aloneness … to know them completely one must be alone with them in the midst of their emptiness.
At such a time the body grows still, the mind becomes empty, a vast reservoir for the receiving of impressions. The slightest sound is heard or felt. Around one at such a time the desert spreads in all its mystery and strangeness, its timelessness, and overhead the sky is enormous.
The desert, too, seems to be listening, expecting. Shalako waited and listened. And after a while he made his way back to the horses. The moccasins made moving with stillness a simple thing. No wild animal will break a twig or branch, nor will an Indian. Even in darkness he can sense the branch under his foot before his weight comes upon it, and places it elsewhere. This is one of the advantages of the moccasin.
Mounting up, he started along a bald ridge, keeping off the sky line, working his way toward the hideout. He had tied Tally’s reins to the roan, so the horses could follow close behind him.
After a moment he saw the thin column of blue smoke mounting like an offering to the still evening sky. He was very wary now, not wanting to be shot by some trigger happy member of the hunting party. When he had located the position guarded by Buffalo Harris, he called to him, knowing he would never fire a blind shot.
“All right,” Harris replied conversationally, “come on in.
Shalako walked his horse along a cedar-clad slope and into the corner where Buffalo waited.
“Man, am I glad to see you!” Buffalo said. “I feel like a lone shepherd dog with a flock of sheep and the wolves closin’ in.”
“You got some coffee?”
“Coffee’s all we do have. You got most of the grub.” “The Army’s out.” Shalako indicated the Springfield in the saddle boot. “Some good soldier died before he gave that up.”
“Injun?” “Uh-huh. Sneaked up on me last night. He was making a try for my horses.”
“Kreuger’s still alive. I don’t see how he does it.” Irina was standing by the fire and her whole face lit up when she saw the mare. “Oh! You found Tally!”
“She found me.” He did not tell her about Damper. There was time enough for that.
While Buffalo stripped the packs from the roan, Irina got him a blackened cup with coffee, and he brought them briefly up to date. He could tell them nothing except that the Army was in the field, that there was fighting to the northwest, which they already knew, and that within a matter of hours they might be in the path of the fleeing Apaches.
At the end he mentioned Bosky Fulton. “He was alone?” Buffalo asked quickly. “Are you making the guess I did?”
“That the rest of them were wiped out? I’d say that’s a mighty good guess, unless he had trouble and cut loose from them, and Fulton wouldn’t he likely to do that unless they came up with more than his share of the loot.”
As he talked and drank coffee, he surveyed the situation. They had done pretty well, yet the area they were trying to defend was too large, there was too much chance of infiltration.
“If the Army is to the northwest”-von Hallstatt had come up to the fire-“why don’t we move out and join them? After all, we have three horses now, and we should be able to move faster.”
“The Army has it
s own troubles. You got in here on your own and you’d better figure to get out that way. Any way, if you start for the Army you’ll run head-on into Chato.
He’ll be coming this way on the run.”
“That’s supposition.”
“Right. And if you want to figure it any other way, you go ahead.”
“You would come with us if we started, would you not?” Julia asked.
“I would not.”
“You are not very gallant.”
“No, ma’am, I’m not. Neither is a bullet.” He got to his feet. “You folks do what you want. If you want to make a stand here, I’m with you, but if you pull out you pull out on your own.
“You’d stay here alone?”
“Why not? To track a man even an Apache has to find tracks. I’d just stay right still and make no tracks at all. I’d go hungry four or five days if necessary, but I’d stay right here and sit it out.”
He threw the dregs of his coffee into the fire and placed the cup on a rock, then he walked away to see to the horses.
Buffalo returned to his post and, after a little while, von Hallstatt did also.
The feed within the circle was almost gone, yet the horses could survive for a couple of days longer. And there was water.
Little enough had been done to strengthen the position, but it was just as well.
What they must do now was pull back. The fire stood on low ground, in a sort of shallow basin, and no flames would be visible away from the circle of cedars, boulders, and brush that rimmed it.
The perimeter of defense was outside that circle, and should be drawn back. The cliff trail could be held by one man, and otherwise they seemed to have a good field of fire, and the best thing might be to make the first defense from the outer line, then fall back to the inner circle, for their force was too small.
He rubbed Mohammet down with a handful of sage, cleaned a few burrs from his tail, then did the same for Tally. He checked their shoes with care, then went to work on the roan. The mustang was in fine shape again, and nipped at his sleeve to prove it.
Irina joined him.
Shalako (1962) Page 11
