Novel 1957 - Last Stand At Papago Wells (v5.0)

by Louis L'Amour

  Nobody had said anything for a long time. Zimmerman walked over to Cates finally. “What are they doing to him?” he whispered hoarsely. His face was gray with horror and sweat beaded his brow. “He—he sounds like an animal.”

  “He is,” Cates said dryly, “he’s just a hurt animal, in pain. By now he doesn’t even remember he was a man. I don’t know what they’re doing, maybe skinning him little by little, maybe sticking cholla thorns into him and setting fire to them. An Apache has a sight of imagination when it comes to that sort of thing.”

  Zimmerman mopped a big hand over his face. “You—you think we’ve got a chance, Cates?”

  “We’re alive, aren’t we? Sure, we’ve got a chance.”

  The planned attack on the Indian camp had been given up, yet he knew it was still the thing to do, and might be their only chance to cut the odds between them. They had a man less now.

  Taylor was staring at the saddlebags. “What’s in them?” he asked.

  “None of your business!” Big Maria flared.

  Zimmerman squatted on his haunches. “I’ll tell you what’s in ’em,” he said. “It’s gold. Maybe sixty, seventy thousand dollars. And it’s stolen gold, too.”

  “Stolen?”

  “Yeah. My guess is from the mines at Quitovac. All that stuff about Tucson is a cock-an’-bull story. She was there, sure. But my guess is she an’ her man went down to Quitovac after that gold. Prob’ly murdered old Adam down there.”

  “Ma’am,” Taylor spoke sharply, “you’ll have to turn that gold over to me. I am an officer of the law.”

  Big Maria’s fat face was sweaty and dust-streaked. One stocking was down and her clothes were all awry, but there was no nonsense about the shotgun. “All right,” she said, “you want it, you come an’ get it.”

  Taylor wet his lips with his tongue. He stared greedily at the sack, but he made no move to get it at that particular moment.

  “You don’t have to go after it now,” Zimmerman scoffed. “Just wait … whoever lives through this can ride out of here a rich man.”

  “That’s enough of that talk!” Cates interrupted. “You have enough trouble without stirring it up among you. Zimmerman, you start any more of that talk and I’ll send you out there after Webb.”

  Big Maria held her shotgun and stared defiantly at them, but Logan Cates ignored her. They were in trouble now. Webb would be tortured until he could stand no more, but once he was dead they would be liable to attack.

  Sheehan came to him. He looked gray and old. “Sorry, Logan; sorry Webb went haywire on you. That comes from taking men into the Army who don’t want to soldier. Zimmerman’s the same … he was in trouble back East, joined up to get away from the law.”

  Taylor stalked over to them. “Cates, you order that woman to turn that gold over to me. I’m an officer of the law.”

  Logan Cates turned sharply around. “Taylor, you’re a businessman who was deputized to join a posse, that’s all. Out here you’re not even that, you’re a man who’s fighting for his life. How she got that gold or what she does with it is none of my affair. My only concern is getting us out of here alive, if I can.”

  “When we get out of this,” Taylor said maliciously, “I’m going to have the law check your background, Cates. You ride with the wrong herd.”

  “Oh, shut up!” Cates was disgusted. “Go on back and get your rifle. You’ll be lucky if you don’t wind up head down over a fire, like Webb probably did.”

  Chapter 14

  A HOT WIND blew dust across the clearing and sifted a thin film of it over the water in the pools. The water was low now; only a little remained. The sun was high, and from up in the rocks Beaupre watched the desert with eyes weary from staring over the hot sand. He felt worn out and tired, and for the first time he felt old. His had been the tireless strength built of long use, accustomed to hardship, scarce food and little water, and in the past he had never known what weariness could mean. Now he was bone-tired.

  Logan Cates checked his Winchester. He looked across at Jennifer. She was strangely silent this morning, had gone about helping with the little food there was left, but said almost nothing. Junie sat close to Lonnie, and they were talking together. Grant Kimbrough sat alone.

  Since the events of the previous night had become common knowledge, Cates had said nothing to Kimbrough. He had never liked the man, but he had believed he would stay put and fight; now he knew this was not so. Yet Grant Kimbrough was no coward, he was simply a selfish man—and such a man can be dangerous.

  Taylor was greedy. He was more concerned with the gold Big Maria had than with defending the rocks. He could not be depended upon.

  Jennifer brought Cates a cup of coffee. “It’s almost the last,” she said, “and more than half mesquite bean, but it’s all we have.”

  He grinned as he accepted it, and she thought again how tireless he seemed. “You’ve done nothing but think of us,” she said, “you’re the only one who has, unless it’s the sergeant here.”

  “I want to get out alive.”

  “It’s more than that.”

  “You know it is, ma’am.” Sheehan glanced at her. “You stick with him, no matter what comes. If anybody can take care of you, he can.”

  “You probably think I’m a fool,” she said, after Sheehan had gone. “I’m beginning to see what you meant about the kind of men it takes for this country.”

  “That boy your father killed,” Cates said. “I know all about that. They called him Rio, didn’t they?”

  “Yes.”

  “He was a gunman … a killer for pay. They sent him to kill your father.”

  Her eyes searched his. “You’re not just saying that to make it easier for me?”

  “A man’s worse than a fool who’ll lie at a time like this,” he said, “but you can ask Beaupre or even Taylor. Everybody on the border knows that story. Rio was from El Paso, and a bad man to tangle with. Friends tried to get your father to hire a gunfighter, but he told them he had always scotched his own snakes, and he was too old to change.”

  “I’ve been an awful fool.”

  “Who hasn’t? A lot of people have to learn that a laughing boy isn’t always a nice boy. I’ve seen Rio, he looked very gay and debonair in the saddle or afoot, and he had no more heart than a rattler.”

  She was silent. “Logan, I want to go back. I want to go back to my father.”

  “He’d like that.”

  “Will you take me back?”

  His eyes searched hers. “If we get out of here,” he promised, “I’ll take you back.”

  A boot grated on gravel. “Running out on me, Jen?” Grant Kimbrough stood facing them. She thought again, in that moment, how the desert had a way of stripping the tinsel off things, it took rawhide and iron to stand up in the desert. “You won’t get away with it, Jen. And Logan isn’t taking you anywhere.”

  “We can talk about it later,” Cates said mildly. “We’ve trouble enough.”

  Kimbrough laughed sarcastically. “Is that always the way you dodge trouble, Cates? I’ve heard you say that to Taylor, Zimmerman and Maria. Always the same thing. You knew that I planned to leave last night; why didn’t you come to me and speak your piece? Were you afraid, Cates?”

  “Afraid?”

  “I’ve shot a crow on the wing, Cates.” Kimbrough was smiling. “With one shot.”

  “Did the crow have a gun?” Cates asked gently. Kimbrough’s smile vanished and Cates added, “I’ll not be on the wing, Kimbrough, but I’ll have a gun.”

  Sheehan had walked up silently, and now he glanced at Cates. “You’re in the middle, boy, right in the middle of a target.”

  It was very hot. Dust blew across the clearing and stirred the sand on the desert. Logan Cates climbed back into the rocks and sat very still, trying to steady himself. It was getting him, too. The heat, the eternal watchfulness, the trouble within and without. Grant Kimbrough was very sure of himself with a gun … surer than any man would be who had not been
successful. Kimbrough was positive he could beat Cates, and probably equally positive about anyone else.

  He was a dangerous man, and especially dangerous now that he was close to the end of the tether. Out here, away from the eyes of the public, a lot could happen. Logan Cates had not missed the comment that the gold belonged to anyone who survived, nor had Kimbrough missed it. He would be thinking of that now, and he could no longer count on Jennifer Fair.

  Taylor, Zimmerman and Kimbrough all felt themselves his enemies. Nobody knew where Beaupre or Lugo stood.

  They moved out to the edge of the rocks and settled in place. It was going to be a long day, and the last of the food was gone. Only a little water was left. And out there in the desert, Webb had died screaming, his screams still ringing in the ears of those who defended the little circle of rocks.

  Logan Cates searched the horizon, but a veil of dust and heat was drawn across the distance. Nothing was visible, but the sand, the sky, and the hard-boned ridges that thrust their serrated combs against the heat-misted horizon. The horses stood with heads down. Jim Beaupre got down from his place in the rocks and paced restlessly, his eyes searched the rocks as if looking for some escape.

  Big Maria hunched over her saddlebags, half crazed by heat, greed, and the fear that somebody would deprive her of her wealth. Zimmerman scarcely looked at her. He had lost weight, looked thinner and somehow meaner and more vicious.

  Only Lugo remained unchanged. He squatted among the rocks and wet the edge of the cigarette with his tongue. He glanced from time to time at Beaupre.

  Sheehan was high in the rocks, searching for something at which to shoot. Suddenly, Cates saw him lift his rifle, a repressed eagerness in his manner. The muzzle eased forward between two rocks, the stock nestled against his cheek.

  When the shot sounded, Cates thought for an instant that the sergeant had fired. Then Sheehan turned slowly around and let go his rifle. He fell then, fell from the rocks to the edge of the pool. He got up and took two staggering steps forward, then fell face down on the sand.

  Cates ran to him, and when he turned him over there was no question. Sergeant Sheehan was dead.

  “That’s one less, Cates,” Kimbrough said. “Brings you a little closer to the end.”

  “It brings us all closer.”

  Cates gathered up the rifle, then checked Sheehan’s pockets for ammunition.

  “Logan!” It was Lonnie Foreman. “They’re comin’!”

  They scrambled into position, yet the desert was empty. Suddenly as Foreman pointed, indicating a mesquite, Cates saw the brush move with a movement not of the wind. He swung his Winchester and fired three times, rapid fire, searching the bush with carefully spaced shots.

  Lugo fired once, then again. On the far end, overlooking the arroyo, both Kimbrough and Taylor fired. There was a momentary silence brought to an end by Beaupre. The old skinner was suddenly on his feet, emptying his Winchester ’73 into the brush. He fired rapidly, all seventeen bullets, smashing his shots into every bit of cover. Then he shifted position, loading swiftly. Leaping to the rocks, he smashed bullets at the edge of the dunes, running from place to place and firing as he ran and from each pause. He fired into every available bit of cover, his shots ricocheting off rocks into concealed places or smashing into the brush.

  “Jim!” Cates yelled at him above the sound of firing. “Get down! Down!”

  Beaupre was up on the rocks. He fired; then, seeming to detect a movement, he swung swiftly about and fired at the base of a saguaro cactus. A burst of firing came from out front and Beaupre’s body jerked, turned half around and fell back inside.

  Cates ran to him. Beaupre’s eyes flickered. “I had to do it, Logan,” he said hoarsely. “I couldn’t take it any longer. You—you take care of Tony. He’s a good Indian.”

  “Jim!” Cates begged. “Hang on, man!”

  Beaupre’s eyes seemed to veil over. “Sorry—sorry, boy. Watch your back. You just watch your back.”

  Cates looked up to find Jennifer standing beside him. Cates got up slowly. “What did he mean by that?” she asked.

  Whatever else Jim Beaupre had done, he had broken the attack. As though his death had brought death to the Apaches, silence descended upon the desert. Nothing moved, nothing made a sound, only the sun remained the same. It was hot, hot.

  “Think he hit anything?” Lonnie asked.

  “Maybe. I think so. It was good fire, right into all the cover there was. We’ll never know.”

  Lonnie looked at him. “You don’t think we’ll get out?”

  Cates shook his head. “No … suddenly I’ve a hunch we’ll make it, or some of us will. Only you never know about Apaches. They carry their dead away. You never know if you’ve killed one or not, unless you kill them all.”

  “Six gone,” Lonnie said. “Six good men.”

  Jennifer came over beside Cates and crouched down beside him. He turned to look at her. “Do you have a mirror?”

  “A mirror?” Her eyes searched his. “Do you mean I should look at myself? I know I must be—”

  “No, I want a mirror, the larger the better.”

  “There’s one among my things, but—”

  “Get it. Then you and Junie take turns. I want you to flash that mirror toward that peak over there”—he pointed toward the northeast—“and in that direction”—he indicated the northwest—“and I want you to travel the reflection between the two places. I want you to start now, relieve each other, and continue all through the daylight hours. Understand?”

  “You mean to signal? We’re signaling?”

  “We hope you are,” he pushed his hat back. “By this time there should be an armed force out. Maybe your father, maybe the Army, maybe a bunch of civilians and soldiers out of Yuma. They won’t be expecting us to be this far south, and maybe there won’t be anyone close enough to see your mirror, but I know a mirror can be seen for miles, even the sunlight on a bright concha. We’ll try, and we’ll hope.”

  “My mirror is not small,” Jennifer said. “I have a special pocket in my saddlebag for it. Father had it made for me, and the mirror, too. It’s a steel mirror, and is six-by-eight.”

  “Good! That’s better than I’d hoped.”

  “Logan.” She waited beside him. “Why couldn’t we have done this before? We may be too late.”

  “Maybe, but I don’t think so. Look, the way I’ve had it figured it would take several days for them to realize there’s been trouble over this way. Maybe it was sooner, but probably several days. The same is true of Yuma. At first they wouldn’t be worried when the posse didn’t come back, or the soldiers. But as the days went by, they would be.

  “It would take a while for them to agree that something should be done. Some are always for delaying, believing the people would come in, but by now they’re sure something is wrong. Allow them two to three days out of either place to get here, and allowing for all that would have to happen before they get started and I think the time is now, and from now on.”

  “All right.”

  When she left him he studied the desert. He let his eyes sweep across it from close up to far out, then began searching the area with painstaking sweeps of his eyes across the terrain. When that was over he began to search the hills with his field glasses. Yet when half an hour had passed, he gave up.

  Several times during the day haphazard arrows were fired into the camp, and twice there were shots, but no harm was done.

  IT WAS MIDAFTERNOON when Kimbrough, Zimmerman and Taylor approached him. He had shifted back from his position to stretch his legs and have a drink of water. They walked up, Kimbrough in the lead.

  “Cates, we want to make a run for it. We’ve horses enough now, and we think we can get through. At least some of us can.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Look, Cates,” Kimbrough said roughly, “we’ve had enough of this. If we stay here they’ll pick us off one by one. We’d rather make a fight of it.”

  “Kimbrough,” Ca
tes said slowly, “that route north out of here is called the Camino del Diablo—the Devil’s Highway, if you prefer English. The only water on it is at Tinajas Altas, some tanks in the rocks of a ridge above the trail. Hundreds of men have died there, some of them within a few feet of the water. If you’re lucky you’d find water when you get there, covered with green scum, maybe, but water. Only sometimes the tanks are empty. What do you do then?”

  “We can make it.”

  “Sorry. Besides,” Cates added, “we’re still one horse shy. We have eight horses and nine riders.”

  Zimmerman swung his rifle. “I’ll fix that, an’ quick!” He lined his sights on Lugo, who was watching out across the desert.

  “You drop that gun.” Lonnie Foreman was sitting among the rocks, the Winchester in his hands trained on Zimmerman. “You drop it or I’ll kill you!”

  Zimmerman dropped his gun to the ground, swearing bitterly.

  Grant Kimbrough had his hand negligently near his pistol. “Does somebody else always do your shooting for you, Cates? Seems to me the last time it was a girl.”

  “I knew Lonnie would take care of Zimmerman,” Cates said mildly. “I was waiting for you.”

  Grant Kimbrough’s face grew very still. His eyes widened just a little. His hand was very near the gun, and he had only to draw.

  Logan Cates waited for him, the same mild expression on his face, his eyes smiling a little.

  Kimbrough dropped his hand and turned away, and Cates looked after him. Kimbrough was not afraid, that Cates knew. The man was no coward, but Foreman was up there with a rifle and Cates was sure that Kimbrough believed that if he shot Cates, Lonnie would in turn kill him.

  From the rocks nothing was visible. Shots kept coming, and the Indians were out there. Taylor tried two shots during the afternoon, but his eyes kept swinging to where Big Maria sat with her gold. Nobody had gone near her, nobody had spoken to her. Her heavy features looked dull, only her eyes seemed alive. She had not left the money even for a drink. Whenever anyone moved, the shotgun followed.