He was very conscious of her presence, but said nothing, working swiftly and silently.
A little light remained in the sky, although the first stars had appeared.
“Mohammet likes you,” she said, watching the Arab nuzzling him, “and he does not like many people.”
“He’s a good horse. He takes to this country like he was born to it.”
“What are they like? The Apaches, I mean. Are they terribly savage?”
“Depends on how you look at it. Folks back East try to attribute Christian virtues and principles to the noble red man. They’re wrong as can be. The red man is noble enough but his principles and way of life are completely different from ours.
“You can’t say a man is good or bad because he thinks or doesn’t think like you.
They respect members of the tribe for altogether different reasons. The best thief among them is the one they admire most, and a killing from am bush is more to be desired than one in open combat.
“The best thief is the one who will be able to give most to his family, so all the Indian girls want a good thief for a husband. Stealing horses and fighting are not only their means to live, but their greatest pleasure. And they have none of our feeling about torture. Theirs is a hard, cruel life and men are valued for their courage, so they torture a man to see if he is brave, and also for fun.
“When they mutilate a body, sometimes it is from hatred or contempt, but just as often it is to cripple him so he won’t be able to attack them if they meet in the after life.”
“I had never thought much about such things, but I remember Father telling me about some of the customs of the people in Africa.”
“Each tribe is different, but the Apaches were always fighters. But that’s true of their kind everywhere. All the predatory peoples came from lands of sparse, unfertile soil, and their only wealth came from raiding and looting. The Vikings, the Prussians, the Mongols, the corsairs of Brittany … all of them made piracy and warfare a way of life, and it is the same with the Apache.
“You can’t buy his friendship. If you are friendly he will believe it is because you are weak, and afraid of him. He may watch you for many days before he decides to attack, and he will never attack a party stronger than his own. He has none of our feeling about attacking a weaker or helpless enemy, and he respects only strength and courage.”
“You are a puzzling man, Mr. Carlin. I wonder who you really are?” She searched his face, but his features showed nothing, nothing at all. “Who were you before you became Shalako?”
He straightened up, arching his back against the kink from bending. “Don’t get any foolish notions. I am not a cashiered Army officer, nor a foreign nobleman, nor a man escaping from a busted heart. The fact is, I’m a saddle tramp.”
“I do not believe that.” “Your privilege.”
“What do you want to do, Mr. Carlin? What do you want to be?”
“What I am. Did you ever top out on a ridge in wild country and look off across miles where nobody had ever been before? Did you ever ride for a month across country without ever seeing another human being? Or even the track of one? I have … and I want to again.”
“And women? Have you never been in love, Mr. Carlin?”
“Sure, who hasn’t? Matter of fact, I’m in love right now.”
“Now?” she was startled.. . And dismayed.
“Sure … I’m in love with the smell of woodsmoke from that campfire over there, with the wind in the far-off pines, even with those Apaches out there.”
“The Apaches? In love with them?”
“Sure … because they make me know I’m alive and if I slack off one second in their country they’ll lift my hair. Say what you want about them, they are first-class fighting men.”
The firelight flickered on the flanks of the horses. Somewhere in the outer darkness a pine cone dropped, but nothing else moved. She was very conscious of his nearness, but there was something exasperatingly elusive about him. He was beside her, and yet somehow he would fit into no category, no easy explanation, and he worried her, disturbed her deeply.
Her own exasperation led her on. “And have you no desire for a home? A family of your own?”
He listened into the darkness for a moment before replying. It was too quiet.
“Maybe … with the right woman. Or women.” “Women?”
“Sure,” he said, straight-faced, “there’s no reason why a good provider shouldn’t have two, three, maybe even four women. Seems almost indecent, a man shutting other women out of his life like that. You never saw a rooster with only one hen, did you?”
“That’s different!” She glanced at him quickly. “You’re joking, of course.”
“Now why would I joke? I’ve known several Indians who had more than one squaw, and they all seemed perfectly content. Makes it easier on them. They share the work, and there’s always somebody to talk to.”
He took up his rifle. “Better get some sleep. There may not be another chance.”
Shalako strolled away, and she stared after him for a moment, then laughed. As he walked away, he smiled a little. She was quite a woman, too good a woman to be wasted on von Hallstatt.
He scouted from post to post, checking the positions of the defenders. When he reached von Hallstatt the Ger man commented, “It is quiet out there.”
“Too quiet. We will get an attack about daybreak.” “I hear nothing. I think there is nothing out there.” “Just watch yourself. If you slack off you will never live to see morning.”
Shalako was distinctly uneasy, and he shifted his position, squatting on his heels beside von Hallstatt. “It’s too damned quiet,” he said after a moment, “I don’t like the feel of it.”
“Yes,” von Hallstatt admitted, “there is something in the air. I feel it, too.”
Shalako returned to the fire and his blankets. He spread them back at one edge, out of the firelight, and was asleep almost instantly.
Long since he had learned to sleep in snatches, and to catch a bit of sleep whenever possible. He had been asleep a little over two hours when he suddenly awakened. It was still dark, yet day could not be far away.
He went to the trickle of water that ran away from the spring and dipped his fingers into the clear, cold water, splashing his face with it and combing his hair with his fingers. Then he put on his hat and walked to the fire.
Henri was there, his face drawn with weariness, nursing a cup of black coffee.
Shalako filled his own cup and squatted on his heels. “They’ll be coming just before sunup … with the first light.” Henri nodded. “How many do you think?”
“Anybody’s guess. Six or seven can be as dangerous as twice that many. They have more cover here than they had down below.”
One by one the men who had slept moved into position. Mako returned to watch the cliff trail, Dagget took a position where he could look down into and along both sides of Elephant Butte Canyon. Roy Harding was to cover the area between Park Canyon and the edge of the cliff they had mounted. Henri covered the head of Park Canyon itself.
“Buffalo,” Shalako said, “you, von Hallstatt, and I will cover the trail and the area between the two canyons.” Von Hallstatt had returned to the fire for the planning.
Now he put his pipe between his teeth and glanced quizzically at Shalako. He indicated the peak that reared up nearly four hundred feet behind them, Elephant Butte it self.
“What about that? A good rifleman up there could make our position untenable.”
“We’ve got to gamble. Their only way up there is from the canyon side, a much steeper cliff than here, and we don’t have a man to put up there.”
It was still dark, but as they moved into position the isolated trees and boulders were beginning to stand out. High in the heavens overhead there was a faint tinge of pink on a cloud, nothing more.
The coolness of night lay upon the land. Nothing stirred. Shalako settled into position, studying the terrain before him. He swept it
with a quick, searching glance, then starting far out at the limit of his range of vision, he searched the ground methodically in side-to-side sweeps until close in to his position.
Each rock, each tree, each shrub he studied with particular care, making allowances for the growing light, studying the contours, the length of the shadows.
The first shot was unexpected and it came from Harding’s position. A second shot followed the first, and then a shadow stirred in front of his position, but before he could bring his rifle to bear, it was gone.
He waited, his rifle ready, but there was no further movement, and no sound.
Now the Apaches knew they were prepared. Was this an actual attack? Or was it merely a few exploratory advances?
There was a stir of movement beside him, and Irina moved up into position, rifle in hand.
“This is no place for you,” he whispered.
She settled into position. “Why not? I can shoot, can’t I?” It was full light, but the sun was not yet above the horizon. There was no movement, no shooting from any where. The very silence worried him, for the Apaches must know their weakness … and they also knew about the women.
Several times he thought he heard distant rifle fire, but he could not be sure.
Shalako shifted his rifle in his hands and started to speak, then broke off sharply.
From off on their right there was a faint cry, then a shot.
Henri leaped up and suddenly dashed forward and, dropping into a new position, he fired almost as he touched the ground.
And then the cry came again. It was from Roy Harding, and he was hurt.
Shalako left the ground running. A bullet spat gravel just ahead of him as he made a rolling dive for shelter behind some rocks, another bullet splintering rock fragments as he landed safely.
Rolling over, he came up running, then dove for shelter again just within sight of Harding.
The teamster was crawling back, dragging a bloody leg behind him, but even as Shalako sighted him, an Apache lunged from the brush, knife in hand.
Rolling to a sitting position, Shalako fired without bringing the rifle to his shoulder, and the bullet stopped the leaping Indian in mid-air. A hoarse scream tore the Apache’s throat, but he fell near Harding, slapping and stabbing wildly with his knife.
Harding kicked out with his good leg and his heel caught the Indian full in the face.
Blood splattered from a broken nose, but despite the bullet and the kick the Apache reared up to his knees and threw himself at Harding.
Harding caught the Indian’s knife wrist and wrenched the arm back, falling atop the Indian. There was a moment of brief, fierce struggle on the bloody gravel, and then Harding fell away as Shalako reached his side.
Harding’s leg had been torn wickedly by a ricocheting bullet, and he had lost a lot of blood.
Swiftly, Shalako gathered him up, crouched, and then left the ground in a plunging, staggering run. A bullet whapped the air close to his ear, and then he was out of range and down in the hollow where the fire was.
Gently, he put the young teamster down. “Take care of him, Laura,” he said, and ducked back to the firing line. Picking his rifle from the ground where he had left it in going after Harding, he dropped flat and peered out between the rocks.
He was gasping from his exertions and when he glimpsed an Apache he fired … and missed.
Desperately he tried to steady his breathing, but nothing showed except for dancing heat waves. The coolness of the morning had fled. Suddenly he heard the sound of horses’ hoofs. They were coming, the rest of the Indians were coming.
Far below on the trail, a good five hundred yards off, he saw a rider pass, an Apache.
He sighted at the gap between the rocks. Maybe … just maybe. He took a careful sight, gathered some slack on the trigger, and waited. Carefully, he took in a breath and let it slowly out, and then a horse’s head came into sight and he squeezed off his shot.
Even as the rifle leaped in his hands, the rider came into his sights, then vanished.
The report of the shot racketed among the rocks.
He drew back and mopped the sweat from his brow to keep the salt from blinding him.
He fed another shell into his Winchester, and waited.
It was time to draw back. They were too spread out and if the Apaches ever got behind them they would have no chance, none whatever.
A slight whisper of sound reached him, and listening he heard it no more, yet he knew that sound. It was the rubbing of coarse cloth on rock.
The canyon….
With infinite care he inched along on his belly to a position where he could look into the canyon. It was no more than sixty feet deep at that point, and he could see three Apaches working their way up the steep side.
He was starting to lift the rifle when he noticed the wedge of rock. It was a huge, piano-sized rock poised on the lip of the canyon.
Working his way over to it, he put his back against another rock, doubled his knees back almost to his chest, and put his moccasined feet against the wedge of rock.
The rock teetered, but did not fall.
Carefully, he teetered it once again, and when it started to teeter forward, he shoved with all his strength. The stone leaned far out, and then toppled over. From below there came a hoarse scream, ending in the tremendous crash of the falling boulder, then the rattle of pursuing rocks.
Taking up his rifle he worked his way along the line of defense, calling them all back. Henri had a cut over his eye caused by a flying rock splinter, but there were no other injuries.
Once more they took up their positions, but this time at the edge of the circle that surrounded the campfire and backed up against the cliff wall and the tower of Elephant Butte.
Hans Kreuger was still alive, still silent, rarely asking for attention, offering no evidence of the pain he was feeling. Harding was weak from loss of blood, but his leg had been bandaged.
“If we only knew what was happening!” Laura ex claimed. “If we only knew whether the Army was coming or not.”
“They may not even know we exist,” Dagget said. “They will know,” Buffalo replied.
“By now they know. They may have cut our trail somewhere, and they will know.”
He returned to his new position, and settled down for a long wait. He could hear the murmur of voices around the fire, occasionally see them moving there, although he was well back among the rocks and trees. One thing he knew: when this was over he was quitting. He was going to get a stake and a ranch somewhere away from Indians … in some safe, sane, reasonable country.
He had been there for some time when he began to feel uneasy. He shifted his position, studied all the terrain about him, but nothing had changed.
Far off, softened by distance, he heard the hammer of gunfire. Somebody was having one hell of a fight. Maybe if the Army gave Chato a whipping he would be running so fast there would be no time to stop.
He yawned and shifted his position. Suddenly his breath stilled. That rock out there, no larger than a man’s fist … was turned over.
Now the heavy side of a rock is always down in a place where wind and water can reach it, so something had passed that way, moving very fast, and had inadvertently overturned the rock. Something coming toward him!
And there was nothing….
Really worried now, he got to his feet and checked the area again. Could he have overlooked that rock when he took the position first? He was a man who always noticed such things for such things were his life. But could he, this time at least, have made a mistake?
It was very quiet.
He should move away. This place had good cover and he was well hidden, but nevertheless, he should move. If something was that close to him … ?
But nothing was there.
He listened, and heard no sound. He studied again every tree, every rock. He dropped back to his knees finally, and put his Winchester on the ground. He reached back to shift his knife into a better po
sition, and when he did a rock that was not a rock moved behind him, a muscular forearm slid around his neck and across his throat.
He was jerked cruelly back, his breath shut off, and he was fighting with his hands to tear the enclosing arm free when the knife went into his ribs.
His big body heaved powerfully, and he almost broke free, and then the knife slid between his ribs again, and then again. Slowly his muscles relaxed and the idea of the ranch was gone from his mind, the idea of survival was gone, and then life was gone. In that big body, so filled with strength and energy and that mind with plans … there was nothing, nothing at all.
A brown hand reached over and took up his rifle, un buckled his cartridge belt, took his tobacco and pistol. Tats-ah-das-ay-go slid back among the rocks, crossed a narrow space and crouched in the brush where his brown body merged easily with the sandstone and lava.
When he moved again he was well back in the rocks on the rim of Elephant Butte Canyon where he could watch Louis the camp. Tats-ah-das-ay-go was a patient man. He had killed once and safely, soon he would kill again, but he was in no hurry. These people weren’t going anywhere. He had already chosen his next victim.
On that hot afternoon of April 23, Lieutenant Colonel Sandy Forsyth was seated on a low knoll studying the terrain about him. There had been no word from Lieutenant Hall, but that worried him less than the fact that he had not heard from Lieutenant McDonald, who had a mere handful of scouts.
His glasses swept the country, caught a flicker of movement, and reversed their field.
A rider … coming like hell after him.
His glasses brought the rider closer. An Indian by the way he rode … Jumping Jack!
That horse was jumping Jack, McDonald’s mount, and the company race horse, the fastest horse in the regiment. Trouble….
The colonel moved the command down the slope on a course to intercept the rider, and then drew up to await the man as he came nearer.
The Mohave scout leaped to the ground as the horse broke under him and rolled over on the hot sand. The message was quick, concise, definite. McDonald was under heavy attack by a large force. Three or four of his men had been killed.
It was sixteen miles of riding in a blistering hot country. It might kill every horse in the command but there was no choice. There had been another time, away back, when Sandy Forsyth had waited, stretched out on his back in the grass of Beecher’s Island, suffering from an ugly wound, and praying for relief.
Shalako (1962) Page 12
