Atop the knoll where Lieutenant McDonald was making his fight, his canteen gave off only an empty sound. Two of his men were down, wounded and gasping under the broiling sun, for there was no shade.
Checking the loads on the three rifles he was now using, he glanced around at his small command. The red faced corporal, redder of face now, was still willing and able. One of the Mohaves had a livid gash across his cheek from a bullet, and one of the wounded men was delirious and raving of mountain lakes, of shadows, and of fish splashing in the cool water. Occasionally he whimpered with an almost animal sound. The other wounded man had dragged himself to the rocks and was ready with his rifle.
The Apaches were confident. They moved forward in a short, quick dash. McDonald, a dead shot with a rifle, picked up the first weapon. An Apache moved and the lieutenant fired, then fired again, taking the Apache in mid stride. The Indian fell, then scrambled to safety among the rocks.
Miles away, riding under the blazing sun, Forsyth heard the shots. He might be in time then … he might still be in time.
There were seventy-five Indians along the cliffs of Horseshoe Canyon who had taken no part in the attack on the patrol. They awaited bigger game. The trouble was, they did not expect the number that came.
Loco, who directed the fighting, put up a stubborn battle against superior forces and superior arms, fighting a wary rear-guard action, and retreated slowly into the depths of the canyon.
It was not the sort of fighting to be relished by either side. Targets were few and elusive despite the number of men engaged, and there were not many bodies falling.
Despite the number of deaths in combat there are never so many as one would expect from the amount of shooting done.
The Apache was always cautious in his fighting, and the soldiers had fought Apaches before and learned from them things no War Department manual could teach, so it was a careful, relentless struggle where every shot was meant to kill but targets were few. There were no amateurs in the battle of Horseshoe Canyon.
The battle lasted until darkness before the soldiers withdrew. They had driven the Indians into the rocks and into the night, and from there on no commander with an ounce of sense would risk his men.
Nor did Forsyth have any doubts that the Apaches were on the run. Detaching Captain Gordon and Lieutenant Gatewood to the pursuit, Forsyth turned to interrogating the prisoners. They had taken but two, one a wounded warrior, the other an ancient squaw. Neither admitted knowing of the hunting party, yet one of the dead Apaches carried a rifle on which was carved the name of Pete Wells.
“It doesn’t mean they’ve been wiped out,” McDonald decided, “only that they got Wells, or got his rifle some how.”
“Chato wasn’t with this bunch. He must have found them. The rifle could have been carried by a messenger.” Night was upon them and they had no choice but to remain where they were. The brutal charge across the desert in the blazing sun had left the horses in no shape for further travel, so whatever was to be done must be done the following day.
“I wish,” Forsyth said, “that we could hear from Hall.”
Hans Kreuger died as the sun went down, going quietly. He asked for a drink of water and Laura brought it to him, and when he thanked her he put his head back on the doubled-up coat that was his pillow and looked up at the sky where the first stars had appeared. He did not move again, nor did he speak.
His passing brought deep depression to the group. Pete Wells had been killed, but he had not been well known to any of them but Buffalo Harris, and he had been killed far from them. Kreuger was of their own group, and he had been a well-liked, quiet, and sincere young man.
Roy Harding lay wounded, their food supply was dwindling, and then Shalako Carlin found the body of Buffalo Harris.
The big hunter had been dead but a few minutes, and the manner of his death was apparent, even in the gathering dusk. The slight smudges of toes digging into the sand, the indications of a brief, hopeless struggle were there. One thing was immediately apparent to Shalako-Buffalo Harris had been killed by no ordinary Apache.
The buffalo hunter had been familiar with all the tricks and devices of the Indian, and was a veteran of many a skirmish. Yet there had been slight struggle, and no sound. No wolf or mountain lion could have killed more swiftly, silently, and efficiently.
The killer could have taken the weapons and slipped back among his own people, but Shalako had an uneasy feeling this was not so. He might still be among them, waiting for the chance to kill again.
The world of the Apache was not a large one. From the Tucson area to somewhat east of El Paso, from deep in Sonora and the Sierra Madre to central New Mexico … they raided beyond that area, and the White Mountain Apaches were farther north … this land was theirs.
Within that area among the Apaches and those aware of them, there were names that worked magic. Names of men alive today, names of a few but recently dead. Mangas Colorado, Cochise, Nana, Geronimo, Vittorio, Chato … and a dozen others. These were their warriors and their chieftains.
Among them also there were tales of other warriors, warriors who were not leaders.
It was the name of one of these that came to Shalako’s mind now.
The manner of the kill, the silence, the skill … it had all the earmarks.
The present area of their camp was no more than an acre. Except for that space immediately surrounding the fire, it consisted of brush, broken rock, deep gashes into the base rock along the lips of the canyons, scattered trees, and behind them, Elephant Butte.
Kreuger was dead, Harris was dead, and Harding was wounded. Only five men remained on their feet and able to fight, and there were the four women. Von Halstatt and Henri were both good men, Dagget and Mako untried and inexperienced. He walked back to the fire.
“What is it, Shalako?” Irina was on her feet looking at him.
“Stay close to the fire,” he said, “and stay together through the night. There’s an Indian inside the circle.”
“How could there be?” Julia demanded. “We’ve been watching.”
“He killed Buffalo.” Shalako turned back to Irina. “Let Julia take over the cooking.
From now on I want you and Laura to stand guard with rifles. If you see an Indian, kill him.”
“Suppose we hunt him down?” Henri suggested. “He hasn’t much room in which to maneuver.”
“It would be like going out in the night to feel around in the grass for a rattlesnake.
You’d find him, all right.” Henri relieved Mako at the cliff’s edge, and the cook returned to the fire.
Shalako prowled restlessly, then he, too, returned to the fire.
“That’s Tats-ah-das-ay-go out there,” he said. “I am sure of it.”
“How can you be sure?” Mako asked.
“The way he killed, and the fact that he came into the camp area instead of leaving it.”
“How can you be sure he did?”
“Call it a feeling. He’s here, all right, and I’m sure that’s who he is. He’s a great warrior, perhaps the greatest in the Apache nation, and he’s a lone wolf. Even the other Apaches are afraid of him. Stays to himself, usually travels alone. I’d say he was downright unsocial.”
He had stalked big horn sheep in the mountains and deer and antelope upon the low ground. He would understand the use of every shadow, every crevice, every bush.
He would know how to hide where it seemed impossible anything could hide, and he would be more deadly than any rattler for he would offer no warning.
It was the waiting that worried them. It worried him, too, but Shalako was a patient man. These others were not patient. All of them, even von Hallstatt, were undisciplined. They wanted what they wanted without waiting. They had never learned to cope with time.
The West taught one how to cope with time, for time measured all things. One did not say it was so many miles from here to yonder, but it was so many days ride. Every thing was measured by time and time measured every
thing.
“Why have you stayed?” Irina said.
“A lady loaned me a horse. Let’s just say I was grateful.”
“You needn’t have been. To be perfectly honest I was worried about my horse. I couldn’t bear the thought of his being eaten.”
“It adds up to the same thing. Anyway, you could have come with me.”
“And leave the others? You knew I would not do that.” He was following the conversation with only half his attention, the rest of it was out there in the rocks, trying to understand the thinking of an Indian who was planning to kill one or all of them.
She had been silent for several minutes, evidently thinking along the same lines, for she said, “How could you know who he is? The Indian, I mean.”
“Every person identifies himself by his habits, his mannerisms. Sometimes you know them by the tracks they leave, sometimes by the tracks they do not leave. Little things add up to make a picture….”
“Will knowing who he is help?”
“It might. It makes him easier to understand, and sometimes you can outguess a man you know.”
Roy Harding overheard them. “Who did you say?” “Tats-ah-das-ay-go, the Quick Killer.”
“I’ve heard of him.”
Among the rocks the Apache heard his name spoken and was frightened. An Apache’s name is a closely guarded secret in most cases, and to possess a man’s name is to possess a power over him.
His eyes fixed apprehensively on the big man who had spoken his name. By what medicine had this man learned who he was?
This was the one he heard called Shalako. He was the man with whom the rains came.
Tats-ah-das-ay-go watched the big man closely. He was a man to be avoided … a great warrior … a man with whom the Apache would have risked anything to meet in battle. But Shalako knew his name … there was big medicine in this. Nobody had seen him, but Shalako spoke of him.
He remained where he was. The man on the cliff, he was to be the next one.
Shalako glanced around at those whom he could see, and the tension was obvious. Edna Dagget looked drawn and haggard, starting at the least sound, on the ragged edge of hysteria.
Julia Paige seemed all eyes. The dark circles beneath them indicating lack of sleep and worry. Count Henri had lost weight, but he was cool, competent, and ready.
“You’ll have to watch, Roy,” Shalako said. “Don’t rely on the girls. They aren’t up to it. Keep your gun handy … they may try to finish you off.”
“I’m wondering what became of Bosky Fulton. You said you saw him out there, and there’s been no shooting.” “Holed up. That’s if he’s smart. If he tried to run for it now he’d be sure to be killed.”
Shalako knew that Forsyth would have his own problems. By the sound of the firing they had heard, a battle had taken place between two considerable forces. He could only surmise the results, but he imagined the Army would have won. On the other hand they might have suffered, might have lost horses, and either might slow them up.
He glanced around the circle. Their small supply of food would not go much further.
The food would give out before the ammunition, and how disciplined were these people?
Could they hold out two days? Three?
Forsyth might be within a dozen miles of them now, but Forsyth could not know where they were. Tomorrow, if an attack was made, he might hear the gunfire. If he were in battle himself, he would not.
Yet by this time Forsyth’s scouts would certainly have told him the hunting party had headed south … if they didn’t leap to the conclusion that it had been wiped out or taken prisoner.
Laura Davis was the daughter of a United States Senator and by now the wire from Washington would be hot with demands that something be done.
Say three days longer. They must hold out three days longer.
There would surely be an attack tomorrow, which would mean that superstition or not Tats-ah-das-ay-go would kill tonight. He was a lone warrior, and he would want to count coup again before the final attack.
Getting to his feet he circled the line of defense. By day each man could be seen from the central point where the fire was, but by night the positions of several of the men on guard were lost in darkness. It was these about whom he worried.
Von Hallstatt looked up as Shalako squatted beside him. “Don’t remain in any position very long,” Shalako warned. “Keep moving, watch the shadows. I think he will try to kill at least one more tonight.”
Dagget was eager, rather than frightened. For the first time in his life he was actually in the field. He looked around at Shalako. “I’m a fool,” he said. “But do you want to know something? I like this.”
“It puts a man on edge, all right.”
“It’s living! Really living! I always wanted to be a soldier, but Father advised diplomacy and, of course, Edna would hear of nothing else. I never had a chance to even try it.”
“You’ll have to get some sleep. After a bit we will manage to sleep, two at a time.”
“I don’t mind. I’ll stay here.” Henri was settled down with his back against a towering boulder. He had chosen a good, concealed and relatively protected position that offered a good field of fire. The position was so good that it was unlikely he would be attacked.
Shalako went back to the fire, which had been allowed to die down. The fuel they had close by must now be sufficient, for there was no possibility of leaving the circle for more.
Irina was near the fire, and Laura also. Julia Paige was lighting a cigarette for Harding, who lay stretched on a pallet just back from the edge of the firelight.
“It’s getting cooler,” Laura said. “I can never get used to how cool the nights become after such hot days.” “When I was a little-girl in India,” Irina commented, “I used to lie awake at night … the heat was stifling … and listen to the tigers out in the jungle. I could lie there and imagine them slinking through the jungle, their great black and gold bodies moving as soundlessly as a snake.”
“We’re all going to be killed,” Edna Dagget said. “We’re all going to be killed, and you just sit there, talking.” “Ain’t much else to do,” Harding said mildly. “Nobody’s going out in that jungle after no Apache. Nobody in his right mind.”
He glanced at Irina. “I’d sure admire to hear more about that tiger country, ma’am.
I heard somebody say you’d hunted them with your pa.”
“Yes, I did.”
“Hunted mountain lions a few times,” Harding said. “No fun to that, once you get the hang of it. Lion’s a mighty mean animal, but they sure ain’t got any brains.
I’ve trapped two lions in the same trap on the same day … with the smell of lion and blood all over the place. You’d never do that with a wolf, nor most any other animal.”
Irina’s hands lay in her lap. They were beautiful hands, but capable hands, too, the hands a woman should have.
It had been a long time since Shalako had thought of himself in connection with any woman as beautiful as Irina, and he was a fool to begin now. He had nothing to offer, and no doubt she would be astonished and then amused if she realized he had even thought of such a thing.
He was a saddle tramp, a drifter with a pistol and a Winchester, a man who rode wild country with wilder men, and to that he had best keep himself. He was Shalako, the man who brought the rains with him … and she was Lady Irina Carnarvon, daughter of an ancient Welsh-Irish family. Two people could not be farther apart … and the fact that for a few brief years he had known a life not unlike hers was of no importance, and all that was forgotten now. Or was it?
At best, those years had been an interlude, for he was a Western man, and only a Western man… nor did he wish to be anything else.
Shalako threw the dregs of his coffee into the fire. “I’m going out there,” he said, “and find that Indian.” They looked at him as if he were mad, and perhaps he was, but, after all, this was the thing he did best, and why should he shrink from trying?
He knew enough about that Apache out there to know that hunting a rattlesnake in the grass with your hands might be far safer than hunting that Indian at night among the rocks.
“If I don’t find him,” he said, “somebody will die before daylight.”
“And what if something happens to you?” Irina asked. “What shall we do then?”
He looked at her with sudden bitterness. “You know how much of ‘a hole a man leaves when he dies? The same hole you leave in the water when you pull your finger out. I’ll leave no more than that, nor be missed more than an hour or two … If anybody here can find that Indian without having him find them first, it’s me. I’ve got a chance.” “Don’t go,” Irina said.
“We could all come in close to the fire,” Laura suggested, “and each could watch the others.”
“And by daylight you’d be surrounded and helpless. No, I’ve got to try.” He paused a moment, thinking of what lay out there.
Laura added a stick to the fire and the firelight that blazed up caught Harding’s face. “Better wait,” he said, “somebody’s coming.”
He was lying on the ground, and caught the sound before any of them. And then they could all hear it, the pounding of hoofs … a wild, shrill cry in the night, and the racing hoofs coming closer and closer.
Shalako sprang back from the fire and lifted his gun. They heard the sharp challenge from von Hallstatt, then a more distant shot, and then they heard a voice say, “Hold your fire, Fritz. I’m coming in.”
And the rider came on into the circle and into the firelight. It was Bosky Fulton.
He slid from the saddle, grinning. It was a taunting grin, yet Shalako could see the wariness in it, the animal like watchfulness.
“There’s a passel of Indians out there an’ come morning I figured you’d need help.
And I ain’t sayin’ I wouldn’t be glad of it my ownself.”
Shalako (1962) Page 13
