Apache Squaw

by John J. McLaglen

  Or herself.

  ‘The time of slavery might have regrettably left us, Mister Herne, but our politicians do not yet presume to decide for us what a man may do with his wife in the privacy of his own home. I can promise you that Emmie-Lou will never run away from me again.’

  There wasn’t anything that Herne could do at the house. One of the women told him what the girl had been wearing. A pale blue shirt, over a black skirt. Riding boots. And, he supposed, some kind of under-pinnings. Probably made of horsehair, if her husband had any say in the matter.

  Tanner, the ramrod, had disappeared with Emmie-Lou, and Herne wondered for a few minutes if the pair had skipped together. Until he heard how long Tanner and Parsons had known each other, and the total loyalty that the foreman had for his boss. It was still a remote possibility, but the Mescaleros seemed the best bet.

  That meant going along to the local fort, and talking to the officers there about the tribe that were on the move. Parsons had paid him his openers, and then simply left him to it. Apart from saying he expected either his wife or proof of her death within ten days.

  Walking from the big house, Herne breathed deep of the hot afternoon air, glancing up at the sun. Looking back at the vault with its shuttered, blank windows. Checking that he still held the brown-tinted picture of the fresh young girl. Wrinkling his nose as he wondered if she was already dead. And if she wasn’t, then what kind of a favor would he be doing her by returning her to her — he almost thought ‘owner’. To her husband?

  The nearest fort would be Fort Gilman, forty miles from the longer established Fort McLane. The Commanding Officer was Major Corwin. That was where he’d go and that would be the man to ask. Then all he needed to do was find where the Mescaleros had taken Emmie-Lou Parsons, rescue her and deliver her back to her husband, collect the balance of the money and ride on. Another job.

  He wished that he had Whitey Coburn with him, but the albino was dead. Buried beneath rock and snow high up in the Sierras.

  Whitey had always said being a top gun was like living in a huge house with hundreds of doors. So many doors that you can’t believe that you’ll ever reach the end. Every time you faced another man, you shut a door. Never seemed an end to those doors. Until one day you looked around the house, and they were all shut.

  And that was the end.

  Chapter Four

  Fort Gilman was like a dozen other forts in the South-West, holding together the fragile strands of white civilization through Arizona and New Mexico. Set way in the middle of nothing, with no hills or draws for hostiles to creep up under cover and burn them out. There were still soldiers serving in the Cavalry who remembered the stories of the great Apache warrior, Cuchillo Oro, of the golden knife, who had used cover to destroy a fort not two hundred miles from Fort Gilman.

  The flag fluttered proudly in the late afternoon breeze, high over the parade-ground. The massive stockade of logs stood firm and four-square, though the days of Cuchillo Oro, himself the grandson of the mighty Mangas Colorado, and of hundreds of warriors in raiding parties were long gone. Now the worst that the settlers in the South-West had to fear was a sneak attack by a couple of dozen braves, out for glory or guns. Precisely the sort of attack that had taken Emmie-Lou Parsons and the ramrod, Tanner.

  The news of the raiders had reached the Fort. Sentries had carried the word of an approaching rider minutes before Jed reached the closed gates, and the challenge was briskly delivered from over the barrel of a rifle. One white man might not be a threat, but it was a scant six years since George Custer had vanished along the snake-infested hills of the Little Big Horn River away to the north. And his command had died with him. No serving soldier would ever forget that.

  ‘Halt. What’s your name and business at Fort Gilman?’

  ‘Name’s Jedediah Herne, and I have business with your Major Corwin.’

  A brief pause, and then the one gate swung open far enough for him to heel his mount forwards, closing immediately behind him. He whistled under his breath at the picture of neatness that met his eyes. The parade-ground was a perfect square of raked sand, surrounded by small white-painted blocks of stone.

  Whoever Major Corwin was, he ran a tight fort. Herne was impressed. He’d visited a lot of Army camps, and never seen one that smelled so much of polish and discipline. A young officer came marching smartly out of one of the huts, and saluted him.

  ‘I’m Lieutenant Cyrus Pinner, Sir. Can I be of any service to you?’

  ‘Pinner?’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘Ridin’ in here I got to thinkin’ about Apaches, and about old Golden Knife. My memory serves me right, but wasn’t he also known as “Pinner’s Indian”?’

  The young officer flushed. ‘My father, sir, was the officer who pursued a feud with the Mimbreños Apache named Cuchillo Oro. Now if you’ll follow me?’

  It wasn’t a subject to follow up, thought Herne, swinging down out of the saddle of his horse. The long-drawn out hatred between Cavalryman and Apache had been the talk of the frontier twenty or so years back, around the time of the Great War.

  It was cool in the office, and Herne blinked at the sudden darkness, seeing that Pinner had seated himself behind a desk. Looking up at him, waiting to know his business.

  ‘Lieutenant. ‘Fore I start, I’m sorry if I was tactless in mentioning your father and…’

  There was a flash of a brief smile. ‘I was always told that I should never apologize and that it was a...’

  ‘Sign of weakness. Old Brittles may have joined his wife, but his words sure linger on after him.’

  ‘I never knew my father, you see, what with him…’

  ‘Sure. Let’s forget it. The dead aren’t interested in what we say about them, and I’m not that interested in the dead. Seen too many of them.’

  ‘You’re here because of the bucks taking the Parsons woman and the ramrod.’

  ‘That’s right. You’re well informed.’

  ‘The Major runs things in a tight way.’

  ‘All ways?’

  ‘What does that mean, Mister Herne?’

  ‘Means that a nice raked parade-ground and splashes of white paint here and there don’t mean that the men are what you need when your back’s to the wall.’

  Pinner didn’t reply immediately. ‘You saw the parade-ground? Guess you couldn’t have failed to see it. That’s Major Corwin’s pride and joy. Some folks say he spends more time making sure it’s clean and unspoilt than he does on finding out where the Mescalero men have gone and what they’re doing. The previous Commanding Officer here was a good man. Kept a messy parade-ground, but the scouts were good and the patrols went out regular. Some of that still works, but some of it’s gone.’

  ‘You don’t like it?’

  ‘I like an Army that either fights or works hard at keeping the peace. Not just painting stones and putting them in damned little lines. I’m waiting for a transfer. Shouldn’t run off at the mouth like this about my superior officer, but I’ve had it up to here, Mister Herne. Since the Apaches took the girl and the man, the scouts have told us where they are. And Corwin’s done sweet damn-all about it. Says we wait and maybe they’ll return her.’

  ‘I see. So it’s hardly likely I’ll get a whole lot of help if I want to go in.’

  The young officer shook his head. ‘The Major will tell you how brave you are in attempting a rescue, and that he admires you and how much he wishes he had men like you under his command. In between asking if you saw his parade-ground, of course. He’ll tell you that One Eye and his boys are…’

  ‘One Eye?’

  Pinner nodded. ‘Right. Not the sort of Indian that you can introduce to a visiting Congressman.’

  ‘Don’t know much about him. Has he really only got one eye?’

  ‘No. One eye brown like the rest of the tribe, and the other eye’s blue. He and about forty braves are holed up in West Wind Canyon. It’s on the far side of the foothills, and there’s only one trail into it. You
can get up to the head of it, but the cliffs down to where they’re camped are sheer and close to a hundred feet high. And they guard that back trail too well for a surprise.’

  ‘Box canyon. Sort of place where a couple of men with repeaters could hold off the whole of the Cavalry.’

  ‘Right. I figure you’ll get an escort there. And maybe one back if you make it. But the Major won’t risk a frontal attack in case he loses too many men. One Eye doesn’t do that much harm.’

  ‘Taking a white girl, and killing white men! What the Hell kind of trouble does the Major want!’

  The door swung open, and an irritable voice answered him. ‘My officers being disloyal behind my back? Not what I want, Mister Pinner. Shame you’re not the man your father was. I’m Corwin, and you’re Herne the Hunter. The bounty-seeking gunman.’

  Herne faced the senior officer, seeing the sort of man that he’d expected from Lieutenant Pinner’s description.

  Short, barely touching five feet four inches tall. Narrow in the shoulder and broad in the hip. With a spreading gut that told of too much of the soft life. An immaculate uniform that must have come from a very expensive military tailor, with highly-polished brass and silver. The collar supported two or three chins more than the average man, and the cheeks glowed with the kind of rude good health that only comes out of the bottom of shot glasses. The eyes were close together, half-buried in layers of soft pink fat, like black marbles. At his unexpected entrance, Lieutenant Pinner sprang to his feet, cracking off a salute that snapped the air with its violence. He made no attempt to reply to the charge of disloyalty, clearly knowing from experience that Major Corwin was not a man to listen to argument.

  ‘I would say that the Lieutenant was being most helpful. Far from speaking in a disloyal manner, Major Corwin, he was telling me of your exploits in a manner that would have set your ears burning had you overheard them.’

  ‘Was he?’

  ‘Indeed, and he was paying special attention to that magnificent stretch of smooth ground over there, alongside the flagpole. It must take you hours of personal attention.’

  Corwin was so subject to flattery that he failed to recognize the sarcasm. ‘My parade-ground is the one great pride of my life. All my military career, Mister Herne, it has been my ambition to have a parade-ground that would be perfection. No more and no less. Finally, I have it here at Fort Gilman, after nearly two years of hard work for all of us.’ Herne saw Pinner unable to check the elevation of an eyebrow. ‘But we have made the square here the finest in the South-West. I would go further. The finest in the whole damn country. And we all know that means just about the best in the world. If anything tarnished or spoilt its surface, I believe it would destroy me.’

  ‘How do the men get to the flagpole to raise and lower the flag?’

  ‘They cross wearing special soft shoes, and return with a party of men whose sole function at the Fort is to dust and smooth that ground. Pretty damned impressive. Bet you’ve never seen anything like that before?’

  Herne shook his head solemnly. ‘Hand on heart, Major Corwin, and I can swear I have never even heard of anything like that before.’

  The private meeting with Major Alexander Corwin was more or less as young Lieutenant Pinner had predicted. Filled to overflowing with self-importance and caution, he was very sorry to hear about the kidnapping of the wife of such an important man as Elisha Parsons, but what could he do?

  ‘Ride in and bring her and the ramrod back out,’ was Herne’s suggestion.

  ‘Not enough men trained in fighting hostile Indians,’ was Corwin’s reply.

  ‘What about any trained in fighting with friendly ones?’ said Herne, beginning to lose his patience.

  ‘Good one that, Mister Herne. Must remember it. No, the Mescaleros trapped in West Wind Canyon can do little harm and in due time they will surrender to us and the girl will probably be spared.’

  ‘Damn it, Major!’ Jed’s anger finally boiled to the surface. ‘Have you no idea at all what Apaches can do to a white woman? By now the man Tanner will almost certainly be dead. Tortured by the women of the tribe. And Mrs. Parsons is not likely to have had an easy time at their hands.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ shrugged Corwin, his face giving the lie to his words. ‘I’ve been trying to get them out of that box canyon for months, but I’m not prepared to lose another patrol trying to charge in with flags flying and bugles blowing.’

  The word ‘another’ registered on Herne, but he made no comment. Pinner was standing quietly at the back of the office, and the two men’s eyes met. It was easy to understand why the young Lieutenant was so anxious to get a transfer away from the spick and span Fort Gilman.

  ‘But you can help me, Mister Herne. Indeed you can. I’ll hold the front and stage a diversion. Give you time to sneak in round the back. Then you can do the same for me. I’ll feint a withdrawal. You fire a few wigwams and they’ll come back inside leaving the entrance without a guard.’

  ‘Wickiups, sir.’

  ‘What was that, Lieutenant?’

  ‘Wickiups, sir. The Apache tribes do not live in wigwams. They live in wickiups. Earth and…’

  Corwin flushed, banging his chubby fist pettishly on his desk. ‘I know what a wickiup is. And that was what I said. You, Lieutenant Pinner, may go and superintend the evening patrol of the parade-ground. This wind that’s getting up will mean a double raking for it tonight.’

  Saluting, his face a mask of self-control, Pinner marched from the room. Corwin enlarged on his plan, obviously seeing Herne as manna from heaven in giving him an easy entry to the canyon and a simple victory over One Eye and the rest of his band.

  Jed didn’t see it that way. Apart from having to stalk his way into a guarded camp, and bring out the girl and possibly the man, he wasn’t minded to waste time on starting fires. But it was better not to tell Corwin that. A diversion at the mouth of West Wind Canyon might be of some use in helping him to get in, but the Mescaleros were hardly likely to rush about with panic and leave their front door gaping open just because of a little smoke. It was a ridiculous plan.

  ‘You like the idea, Mister Herne?’

  He grinned and stood up. ‘Like it about as much as I do your parade-ground and your Fort, Major. And that’s really saying something.’

  Corwin beamed at him. ‘Then we’ll do it.’

  ‘Right. Tomorrow, we’ll do it. First light.’

  ‘Well.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Always like to check before doing anything else in the morning that all’s well with...’

  ‘The parade-ground!’

  ‘Right, Mister Herne. Habit of a lifetime is a hard one to break.’

  ‘For Mrs. Parsons, the only habit that she’s going to find important is the one of living.’

  ‘I guess I could make an exception.’

  Herne stood closer to the small man, leaning over him so that his shadow blotted out most of the light from the gleaming window.

  ‘Guess you could, at that, Major. Be right neighborly of you.’

  ‘We’ll have "Boots and Saddles" at two. Means we’ll get there just before sun-up.’

  ‘That’s fine. I’ll snatch some sleep. Hope to be on the back trail to West Wind Canyon by around four tomorrow.’

  He was within sight of the sentries by eight minutes after four.

  Chapter Five

  It was still dark.

  The Cavalry patrol that Corwin had sent out had ridden with all the inconspicuous skill of a rattlesnake in a bowl of cranberry sauce. Herne would have been the first to recognize the problems of a largish body of men on horseback travelling quietly and without being seen by Mescalero scouts. But he didn’t feel it was necessary for the patrol to have left the Fort with the whole regimental trimmings. Turning out the band at a little after midnight, playing ‘Garryowen’ so that everyone for miles would know the Cavalry were moving out.

  There were twenty-eight troopers, with an experienced sergeant, a
nd young Lieutenant Pinner in command. Major Corwin had finally decided that he wouldn’t lead the patrol himself, having more pressing business back at the Fort. Jed had no doubt that the business would be concerned with repainting the window-frame the right shade of brown, or ensuring that every man still had the regulation knife, fork and spoon. Important things like that. Or maybe checking nobody had accidentally trodden on the hallowed square of the parade-ground.

  Herne had left his horse the best part of a mile back, having the disadvantage of not being able to check out the lay of the ground for himself, though Pinner had been a lot of help, making a rough map and a sketch plan for him of the way into West Wind Canyon.

  It led a long way around the rear of the box canyon, through an area known as the Devil’s Playground. It was a common name in Arizona and New Mexico for that type of terrain. A great jumbled mass of fiery boulders, scattered willfully about in tortuous shapes and random patterns. With a narrow trail winding in among them, rising gradually towards the looming top of the arroyo.

  From there on in, Pinner was more hazy. ‘Nobody ever gotten in that way and out again, far as I know. It’s a tough climb to the top, and you’ll have to get by the Mescalero guards. Then it’s an even steeper climb down into the camp. We’ll be here,’ pointing to the clear area around the opening to the steep-sided draw. ‘I’ll ring it, and when we see the smoke from the fire, we’ll all come a’running. Try and give you cover to get out with whoever’s still alive.’

  ‘And cover to take them away after first light?’

  ‘Right. Mister Herne?’ There was a questioning note of doubt in the young man’s voice.