And most of all he watched the man who sat asleep against the rocks.
Was he actually asleep? Or was he only seeming to be asleep? This was the man who brought the rain … all the Indians had heard the story. He was also the man who had known the name of Tats-ah-das-ay-go, which was a kind of magic.
Finally, he moved from his position, went back into the rocks and circled around to watch the girl at the spring.
She was bathing her hands and face, then she began combing out her hair. It was very long hair, and very beautiful. The Apache moved closer, making no sound.
He would kill her now, and when someone came to find her, he would kill another with his bow.
Yet Tats-ah-das-ay-go was uneasy. He wished he could see the man sleeping near the rocks. He waited an instant and moved nearer.
He had killed the big man with the beard. He had killed the man on guard on the cliff edge, and he had killed the man with the guns, the one who had fallen into the rocks.
Following the man down he had found him trapped there, and he had spent hours with him, gagging him with a handful of rough grass torn from a tiny ledge among the rocks.
The man had died very hard, and very long. In the end all his courage was gone and he was whimpering as a child would whimper.
Now he would kill the girl, and then one other. After that he would go, for the pony soldiers were coming. He had been watching from the rocks when they sent a man up to get the one he had just killed.
It had been a temptation to kill the man climbing the rocks right before the eyes of the soldiers. Only they had rifles which shot very far, and the red-faced man was there, the one who rode with McDonald. That man was a very good shot, and the risk was too great. It was not worth it.
He crept nearer. The girl was close now, and she was brushing her hair over and over again and was engrossed in that. She looked like a girl who thought of a man.
Shalako opened his eyes suddenly and from long training he did not move until his eyes had searched the terrain about him, and then he turned his head to look toward the fire.
Von Hallstatt was drinking tea. Dagget was searching for brush and sticks to add to the signal fire. Julia sat very still, hunched over and face down on her arms, while Laura was still painstakingly brushing her clothes.
He could have been asleep only a few minutes.
Irina was nowhere in sight.
He got to his feet and walked to the fire, and he was frightened. He looked carefully around before he spoke, not wishing to alarm them needlessly. “Where’s Irina?” he asked, after a minute.
“Combing her hair,” Laura said, “at the spring.”
He glanced toward the pile of rocks that concealed the spring from their eyes. Would these people never learn that for one to be out of sight of the others was dangerous, that danger was ever-present? Yet he had himself relaxed, so the fault was his as well. He started around the rock, then halted and circled in the other direction.
No one at the fire seemed to be paying any attention to him, or to notice anything odd about his actions.
He climbed among the rocks, then lay still, straining his ears to hear.
Water falling … the click of something placed upon a rock … perhaps a hair brush.
Ahead of him lay several large loose stones on top of the rock over which he was crawling. Using them as partial cover, he lifted his head slowly.
At first he saw only the spring, a trickle of water from among the rocks into a basin, after which it ran off down a shallow watercourse toward Park Canyon, some distance off.
Irina was seated on a flat rock near the spring, and she was brushing her hair. Her reflection could be seen in the small pool where the water fell … a more peaceful scene could not be imagined.
He started to speak, but something held him back. And then he saw the Indian.
He was taller than most Apaches, yet broad in the shoulders and amazingly thick through the chest. His arms and legs were powerfully muscled, and he moved now like a cat, his eyes riveted on the unsuspecting girl.
He was directly opposite the girl, and there was no way to get a good shot at him.
Tats-ah-das-ay-go was intent only upon the girl by the spring. Knife in hand he moved down over the rocks and poised for an instant, and in that instant, two things happened.
Warned by some instinct, Irina turned suddenly, and a flicker of movement from Shalako caught the Indian’s eye.
Tats-ah-das-ay-go’s eyes switched to Shalako, and in that moment the latter dove from the top of his rock. The Indian tried to turn, but his feet were among the rocks and, in turning, he lost balance.
Shalako landed before him even as Irina sprang back. She did not scream. Her eyes went quickly around and she saw men, circling warily.
“Tats-ah-das-ay-go!” Shalako said softly. He held his knife low, cutting edge up.
“I shall kill you now!”
The Apache moved in suddenly, his blade darting with a stabbing thrust like the strike of a rattler, and the point ripped a gash in the buckskin of Shalako’s breeches at the hip. A little low, a little wide.
They closed suddenly, and rolled over on the sand, stabbing and thrusting; then they came up, facing each other. There was a fleck of blood on Shalako’s shirt front.
He sprang suddenly, and the Indian leaped back to escape his thrust, and they fell into the brush and cacti, then were out on the rocks.
Irina, her face white and strained, could not cry out, she could not scream, she could only stare as if hypnotized by the men before her.
Circling, thrusting … another fleck of blood showed on Shalako, on his arm. The Apache was incredibly swift, incredibly agile. His flat, hard face, with its thick cheek bones and flat black eyes, was like a mask, showing no emotion.
Shalako moved, seemed to slip, and the Indian sprang in. Instantly Shalako turned and swung with his left fist, catching the Indian on the side of the neck and knocking him sprawling.
Yet the Apache came up swiftly, lunged low for the soft parts of the body, and Shalako slapped the blade aside and lunged. His blade went into the Indian’s side, but Tats-ah-das-ay-go swung around, striking swiftly with his blade.
The blade went into Shalako, but Shalako struck again with his fist and they both fell. Shalako lost his grip on the knife when his fist slammed against a rock with brutal force. The Indian sprang at him and Shalako rolled over and came to his feet, empty-handed. The Indian lunged to get close and Shalako side-stepped, caught the Indian’s wrist and threw him into a heap of brush.
From beyond the rocks there was a sudden shout of alarm, and Dagget cried out, “Irina!
What’s the matter? What’s happening!”
There was a flurry of feet, and, for an instant, the Apache hesitated, then wheeled and ran into the rocks, and vanished.
Shalako went after him.
From somewhere down the valley came the sound of a bugle. Dagget, von Hallstatt, and the women came around the boulder.
In that instant, the Quick-Killer came suddenly into view, racing over the rocks like a goat, heading for Elephant Butte Canyon. And then he stopped, for suddenly Shalako appeared, almost in front of him.
The Indian wheeled and raced up the side of the butte itself, with Shalako behind him. The Indian turned, toppled a rock toward Shalako, then went on up.
Down below, von Hallstatt stood, rifle in hand, so engrossed in the scene before him that he forgot the rifle and did not think to fire.
The two men vanished, appeared again, and suddenly they were facing each other atop the butte.
The sun was hot, and there was no wind. Atop the butte the rock was flat, here and there the thin sheet of surface rock had broken down and the fragments had been blown away by wind. There were no plants here, no growth of any kind except one gnarled dwarf cedar that clung to the far lip, a few feet below the edge.
Behind Shalako, who had circled somewhat in climbing, the cliff fell steeply away for more than a thousand feet. His s
hirt, torn before, ripped more in scrambling up the rocks, was now in shreds. Shalako ripped the rags from his back so as not to impede his arms in their movements.
The Indian stood, legs apart, one foot forward, staring at him.
Around them was the vast bowl of the sun-hot sky, below them the awful jumble of broken, jagged rock and desert, mountain, and canyon. They were alone, under the sky, a buzzard the only spectator.
Each understood what was to happen now, each knew that a man would die … perhaps two men. Each knew it would be settled here.
The Indian was supremely confident. He had fought many times with members of his tribe or other Apache tribes, and with Mexicans and Yaquis. Yet he was wary of the American, for the man had thrown him into the rocks. He had proved a puzzling, dangerous fighter.
Tats-ah-das-ay-go gripped his knife tighter and moved toward Shalako.
Remote sounds could be heard from below. But on the butte it was very still. Shalako’s mouth was dry and he gripped and ungripped his fists, watching every move of the Apache.
The man had a knife, which he was skilled at using. Shalako circled to the right, causing the Indian to turn to keep in front of him. He feinted a move, but the Indian merely watched him and was not fooled.
The heat was frightful. Sweat began to trickle down Shalako’s chest. His lips tasted salt from the sweat of his face.
Shalako moved his left foot forward, gaining a few inches, crouching a little. The Apache feinted, then came in fast. Unable to knock the knife blow aside, Shalako struck it down, catching the Apache’s elbow in the grip of his hand.
Closing his powerful grip on the man’s elbow, he dug his fingers, seeking the funny bone, to find it and paralyze the Indian’s arm. For a moment then they fought, straining every muscle, and then Shalako, retaining his grip on the arm, suddenly yielded and stepped back, throwing the Apache off balance.
Shalako hooked a short, vicious blow to the face as the Indian fell into him, and then another. The Indian fought to bring the knife up, but then Shalako’s seeking fingers found the nerve he wanted and began to grind upon it.
The Apache cried out and tried to break free, but Shalako crowded upon him, forcing the Indian to move back to keep from falling, and no matter how desperately the Indian struggled, he stayed with him.
Suddenly the Indian cried out and, opening his hand, let go of the knife.
It fell, rattling upon the rocks. Wheeling, the Apache sprang for it, but Shalako was first and kicked the knife, sending it spinning off into space. It caught the sunlight, winked brightly, then fell down among the rocks far below.
Shalako slugged the Indian as they closed and he felt the clawlike hands creeping toward his eyes. Wildly, bitterly, desperately they fought, their bodies greasy with sweat and blood, their faces straining only inches apart.
Again Shalako yielded suddenly, falling back and throwing the Indian over him to the rock. Swiftly, he came up as the Indian sprang on him. The powerful hands grasped his throat, his head was pushed back, he felt the brutal thumbs sinking into the flesh of his throat, and then he jerked his two arms up inside the Indian’s arms smashing them apart and away from his throat. The Indian fell forward, and Shalako rolled over and came to his knees as the Indian leaped at him, swinging a vicious kick at Shalako’s head.
Throwing himself against the Indian’s anchor leg, he threw the Quick-Killer violently to the rock, and Shalako staggered to his feet.
Under the blazing sun, he waited for the Indian to get up. His lungs heaved at the thin air, gasping for breath. The advantage was momentarily his, but he lacked the breath to go forward, and the Apache got to his feet.
For an instant, they stood staring at each other across the rock of the small butte.
Lungs heaving, they began to circle. The Quick-Killer sprang, and Shalako grabbed his wrist, swinging the arm back and under, then forcing it up the Apache’s back in a hammer lock.
Shalako pushed the Apache’s wrist higher across his back, then began with all his strength to force the Indian’s right wrist over to his right shoulder. Once the Indian grunted, his face went bloodless and he tried to turn to relieve the pressure, but Shalako blocked the turning and, bending suddenly at the knees, he heaved upward with all his strength and both felt and heard the bone crack.
The Indian cried out, his face went white with pain and he swung free, staggered, and tried to grasp Shalako with his left hand. Shalako swung and hit him, and the Indian lost his footing and fell back. He hit the edge of the cliff above the desert in a sitting position, his broken arm still grotesquely behind him, and then he toppled back, his black eyes still upon those of Shalako, and then he fell slowly over backward into space.
The last thing Shalako saw was the eyes of the Indian, the eyes of Tats-ah-das-ay-go, the Quick-Killer, fastened upon his.
As the Apache fell, Shalako cried out suddenly, almost in anguish, in admiration:
“Warrior! Brother!”
And he spoke in Apache.
Shalako heard Tats-ah-das-ay-go’s wild cry as he struck, somewhere far below, before the body bounded out again, to fall sheer for hundreds of feet.
And then he was alone upon the mountaintop, and there was only the heat, the sweat, and his lungs gasping, crying for air.
Shalako stood alone there, looking off across the hills, then he lifted his eyes toward the sun-blazing sky, almost as if in prayer.
They were waiting below, he could see them standing there, staring up at him, shading their eyes against the sun’s glare.
He could see Irina, von Hallstatt, Dagget, Laura, and Julia. The Army was there, too, the sun glinting on the glossy shoulders of their horses, reflecting from their rifles. They stood there in a long, winding column, several hundred of them, and he was glad to see them.
He climbed down slowly, the sweat streaming into his eyes and causing them to smart from the salt, and when he reached the bottom he walked to where his guns were and picked them up.
They stood watching him, none of them coming up to him, and he walked toward them.
He looked up at Colonel Forsyth. “Howdy,” he said. “I guess we can go now.”
The colonel started to speak … desperately he wanted to know what had happened up there atop the butte, but that this man lived was evidence enough.
“All right, then. We shall go.”
Von Hallstatt started to speak, but Shalako walked past him and held Tally’s stirrup for Irina. She hesitated an instant, then allowed him to help her into the saddle.
Her eyes searched his face and, as the rest of them mounted, he swung his leg over Mohammet and pulled up beside her.
“This is my country,” he said. “This and California.” She did not speak, but listened, looking down at her nails. They were broken, no longer perfectly manicured, but they were a woman’s hands, strong hands, capable hands. They were hands of beauty, but hands of more than beauty, they were hands with which to do.
“It will be different for you.”
“I know.”
They rode on, and when they reached the road that turned eastward toward Fort Cummings, they drew up. Colonel Forsyth rode back to them, von Hallstatt beside him. The colonel’s eyes went from Shalako’s to Irina’s. “You are stopping?” Forsyth asked.
“Our way lies westward.”
Forsyth started to speak, then was silent. Von Hallstatt hesitated, his face stiff and cold. Then he said, “It is a good way, my friend, a good way.” He held out his hand, and Shalako took it.
“Irina”-his eyes held upon hers for a moment” Irina … good-by.”
“Good-by, Frederick.”
Von Hallstatt turned his eyes again upon Shalako. Then the Prussian saluted, snapping the salute in the approved military fashion, and Shalako returned it.
As they rode off, Forsyth said, “I did not know he was a soldier.”
“He was,” von Hallstatt said dryly. “And he is!” When they had gone a few miles Irina said, “I do not look like a
bride.”
Shalako shifted his grip on the lead ropes of Damper and the roan. “You will,” he said. “You will!”
Shalako (1962) Page 16
