by Jory Sherman
“Let’s hope they’re chasin’ them Navajos we got camped on our doorstep.”
“Well, if John ever sends smoke up that chimney, they might see it and come ridin’ this way. That’ll sure drive off them Injuns.”
But there was no sign of smoke from the lab’s chimney and the quail calling had begun again, loud and piercing, from two or more Navajo throats.
“Damn,” Ben said. “Maybe I better go down there and see what’s happened to Johnny. It’s been too long.”
He started to rise and Gale put a hand on his arm.
“You stay right here, Ben,” she said. “I don’t want to be left here all by my lonesome.”
“But John ...”
“John Savage looks like a man who can take care of himself. If the Navajos had killed him, they’d be all over us like a nest of hornets.”
Ben sank back down.
The piping calls stopped and there was a silence once again.
“I wonder what it means,” Ben muttered.
“What?”
“All that callin’.”
“Probably a warning,” she said.
“Warning who?”
Gale didn’t answer. She didn’t like it. The Navajos were talking to one another about something. And whatever it was, it wasn’t good for them or for John Savage.
She tensed up, drew a breath, and held it. She felt as if something was going to happen at any minute.
Something terrible.
She thought of John and wondered why he hadn’t gotten inside the lab. Was he dead? He might be lying on the other side of the building, his throat cut, his head scalped down to raw meat. She shuddered at the thought.
The clouds were rolling in and the wind was picking up. It blew at her hat and hair and whistled in the rocks on the mountainside and the pile of tailings.
She bit her lip and tightened her grip on the stock of her rifle.
She was trying her best not to scream.
18
JOHN’S HEART SEEMED TO STOP IN HIS CHEST. IT WAS ONLY HIS breathing that had stopped, but he felt as if time had ceased to be in that instant of decision. He looked down at the pistol in his hand, wondering if it carried a curse. He was so close to killing a man. All it would take would be a tick of his trigger finger and the Navajo would be rubbed off the page of life forever.
The pistol weighed heavy in his hand. The grip burned through his palm as if it was on fire. His trigger finger stiffened and froze as if paralyzed. He looked at the face of the Navajo. The Indian’s eyes were closed, his mouth partially opened, the fierceness in his visage vanished. He was a young man, no more than fifteen or sixteen, John figured. Nearly his own age. Could he kill such a man so easily? Could he shorten a life with a simple pull of the trigger? He could, but something in him rebelled against his own ferocious instinct.
The two had fought, each trying to kill the other in the heat of combat. But now, there was a winner and a loser. Was chivalry a thing of the distant past, forgotten in a modern age where the pistol replaced the sword and the lance? Did a man lose all compassion when his blood ran hot? Did the power to kill mean a man had to kill?
His father’s words came back to him in those fateful seconds.
“When you take a man’s life, son,” Dan Savage had said to him one day when they were hunting deer high in the Rockies, “you’d better have a damned good reason. And if you kill a man for no good reason, you kill part of your own soul. You don’t just kill the man, you kill yourself. You kill what made you a man in the first place.”
He had killed men, that was true. But he had had good reason. Those men had done him harm, had murdered his family. What had this Navajo done? He had fought, and fought bravely. He had tried to kill a white man, his natural enemy, but he hadn’t succeeded. Did that justify killing him? Maybe. At that moment, John did not know. He stood on the edge of a high cliff, the wind blowing at his back. If he fired his pistol, the wind would blow him off and he would plunge a thousand feet into an abyss. He would live with that Navajo’s sleeping face in his thoughts and dreams for the rest of his life.
His father’s message was written on the barrel of the pistol in his hand. Written in Spanish. But he knew its meaning and his father’s words came back to him now, in English. Neither draw me without reason, nor keep me without honor.
John eased the hammer back down to half cock and stepped away from the unconscious Navajo. He looked around the room for a piece of rope. There were plenty of ropes here and there. He found a piece of manila rope that was the right length. He holstered his pistol and picked up the rope, carrying it to the fallen man. He knelt down, turned the man over, and tied his wrists together behind his back. He picked up the man’s knife and stuck it in his belt. It was a large imitation of a bowie knife, with sharp edges on both sides of the blade, a brass guard, and an antler handle that was worn down to the outlines of the ridges.
He dragged the man to the wall and propped him up in a sitting position near the stove. There was a welt on the man’s temple and it was swelling to the size of a darning egg. Satisfied, John put sticks of kindling in the stove, stacked them in the shape of a pyramid. He found wood chips and scattered those beneath the sticks of wood. He struck a match, held the flame to a pair of chips until they caught fire. He dropped the match onto the other chips and gently fanned the flame until it spread. As soon as the kindling caught, he closed the door and made sure the damper was open.
“You, white man. Why you tie me?”
“You speak English,” John said.
“I speak.”
“Are you Red Hand?”
The man shook his head.
“I am called Coyote.”
“My name is John. John Savage.”
“You do not kill me.”
“No. I have no reason.”
“I kill you, John Savage.”
“You didn’t.”
Coyote smiled.
“You tie me,” he said. “You kill now?”
“Not if you tell me why you tried to kill me.”
“Red Hand say kill.”
“Why?”
“White man bad.”
“We mean you no harm, Coyote.”
“You shoot. You want kill boy.”
“You know why we shot at that boy. He was trying to kill us.”
Coyote smiled again. He nodded. “That is true,” he said.
He struggled with his bonds and John shook a finger at him.
“Don’t try to get away, Coyote. Or I will shoot you.”
“Coyote no run.”
“How many Navajos are with you? Tell me the truth now.”
“Three.”
“Just three?”
“Red Hand come when sun go to sleep. He say take the horses of the white man.”
“So there’s just you, that boy, and one other. Is that right?”
“Three only. We wait for Red Hand.”
“Where is Red Hand?”
“He go. Not know where.”
John was relieved to know that they were not outnumbered. But there were still two Navajos outside. He wondered why they hadn’t come after Coyote. Maybe they were ordered to stay put. A boy and probably another man. Now he had a prisoner and didn’t know what to do with him. Coyote spoke only a little English. Perhaps he could find out more if he spoke Spanish. But his Spanish was not perfect. There were a lot of words he didn’t know. Still, he might be able to find out how many men were with Red Hand. If he was returning at sunset, they’d have to get away or risk a bloody fight with the Navajos.
John tended to the fire. He made sure it was smoky, and added more kindling. He closed the damper for a few seconds on the chimney, then opened it. Gale and Ben ought to be able to see more than one puff of smoke.
“Will the two men outside come after you, Coyote?” John closed the door to the stove and walked over to his prisoner.
“They will wait for Mano Rojo.”
“You cannot stay in the mine anym
ore.”
“No?”
“No. I am trying to catch a bad white man and I need the mine. Will you and Mano Rojo go away and leave us alone?”
“You tell Mano Rojo.”
“Will he listen?”
“He will listen.”
“Will you tell him if I let you go?”
“I will tell him.”
John didn’t know if he could trust Coyote. He would be taking a big chance if he let his prisoner go. Now he held the advantage.
“How many men with Red Hand?” John asked.
“Two more.”
“Is that all?”
“Yes. No more. We are few. We are hungry. We live like the rabbit. We hide. We look for food. We hide.”
John was getting a picture of the life these runaway Navajos were leading. They were refugees from some Indian reservation, wanting to live free but having no means. And they were probably being hunted by the U.S. Army. Or, worse, by a posse of civilians who would probably shoot the Navajos on sight.
A pounding on the door interrupted John’s thoughts.
“John, open up. It’s me, Ben.”
John walked to the door, lifted the latch. Gale and Ben rushed inside the lab. John closed the door, then dropped the latch. Both were breathless; neither saw Coyote at first. They were still adjusting their eyes to the dim light in the lab.
“You took your sweet time, Johnny,” Ben said, “lettin’ us in.”
“I was busy.”
“Now, now, boys,” Gale said, “let’s not quarrel. John, there’s a small troop of soldiers ridin’ this way. Maybe a dozen.”
“A patrol?” John said.
“Looks like,” Ben told him. “That’s why we ran down here. They’re headin’ straight for us. Them Navajos light a shuck?”
John hiked a thumb toward Coyote.
Ben looked over at the wall. Gale twisted her head in that same direction.
“You got one,” Ben exclaimed.
The three walked over to Coyote.
“Recognize him, Gale?” John said. “He’s one of Red Hand’s band.”
She shook her head.
“Nope, never seen this one before. Where’s the others? Where’s that young ’un you run off?”
“There are two more,” John said. “Waiting for Red Hand and this one.”
“Where are they?” Ben asked. “You got ’em tied up outside?”
John shook his head. “No, they’re probably running from the soldiers by now. This one calls himself Coyote.”
“Well, he sure looks moth-eaten,” Ben said.
John noticed Coyote’s ragged clothing for the first time. He had been studying his face, a face that was hard to decipher, round and dark, with a small pinched nose, sensuous lips, high prominent cheekbones, black hair. His shirt was thin and threadbare, a pale blue, as if it had been washed out in lye soap a thousand times. His sash was faded black, the thread unraveling in several places. His pants were old, too, grimy and dusty, tan, and his moccasins were without beads or ornaments, just scuffed and patched and holey.
“Bedraggled as hell,” Gale said.
“He speaks a little English and some Spanish,” John said.
“What’re you goin’ to do with him, John?” Ben asked.
“I don’t know.”
“How’d you get him?” Gale asked.
“He came after me with this knife.” John pointed to the knife in his belt. “I knocked him cold with the barrel of my Colt.”
Gale and Ben looked at each other.
Both were silent for a few seconds.
“You tie him up real good?” Ben said, a trace of trepidation in his voice.
“Good enough,” John said.
“I think the soldiers saw your smoke, John,” Gale said. “They turned right afterward. They might have seen us run down here from behind those tailings. If they were lookin’ through their glasses.”
“Well, let’s go out and wave them up here,” John said.
“What about him—Coyote there?” Ben asked.
“He’ll keep,” John said. “I don’t want the soldiers to get him.”
“You don’t?” Gale said. “Why not?”
“I think we might make a friend out of him.”
“Friends with a Navajo renegade? I don’t think so.”
“Ever try?” John asked.
Gale looked at him with flinty eyes, her head cocked like a bird eying a bug.
“They don’t tame,” she said, and John detected the bitterness in her voice. “I was brought up knowin’ the only good Injun was a dead Injun.”
“Maybe that ought to change,” John said.
He lifted the crossbar and opened the door. The three of them stepped out into the sunlight.
Gale and Ben held their rifles at the ready as they walked to the edge of the flat and gazed down at the approaching soldiers. There was no sign of the other two Navajos. They seemed to have vanished among the rocks. John wondered if they had horses or were on foot.
“They’ve broken up,” Ben said. “About half of them are ridin’ south.”
It was true. Six soldiers were just now climbing the road up the slope toward the laboratory. Seven others were probing to the south, guidon flying. The wind blew at their faces and John saw the giant thunderheads floating toward them. The small clouds were gone from the sky, swallowed up by the big white ones.
“They’re hunting the other two,” John said, a trace of sadness in his voice.
“Good riddance, I say,” Gale said.
John wished he had the other two inside the lab. He felt sorry for the two that got away. He felt sorry for Coyote. The Navajos were being hunted down like animals. Kept like animals on reservations. Prisons. It didn’t seem right. They were people, human beings like himself.
“I hope they get away,” he said softly.
And Gale glared at him, her lips pursed tight. The hatred in her went deep, he thought. But then, a Navajo had killed her husband.
Red Hand.
It was too bad that one bad apple had to ruin the barrel, he thought.
19
THE ARMY LIEUTENANT HELD A GLOVED HAND UP TO SIGNAL A HALT upon reaching the top of the shelf.
“Sergeant Pierson,” he said, “post two sentries at our flanks.”
“Yes, sir,” Pierson said and ordered two men to take up positions on either side of the dwindling column.
John could see the look of distaste on the sergeant’s face, but the young lieutenant was unaware of the older man’s feelings about the asinine order.
“Hello,” Gale said. “What brings the army out this way?”
The lieutenant rode up on top of the shelf, leaving his men behind on the slope. He was a trim, slight man, with neatly cut hair, sideburns, a wire-thin moustache. His uniform was covered with dust, which he patted with a gloved hand.
“Ma’am, I’m Second Lieutenant Clive Bellaugh,” he said, “and we’re looking for some bandits.”
“Bandits?” Gale said.
“Yes, ma’am. You see any ride this way?”
“Why, no, officer. There’s just the three of us. I’m Gale Gill and I’m the owner of this mine.” She cocked a thumb and pointed to the adit, which the lieutenant could plainly see from where he sat his horse.
“What kind of mine?” Bellaugh asked.
“Gold,” she said.
“Well, you’d better be careful, ma’am. There was a gold mine robbed yesterday south of Tucson. Every man jack of them killed except one, who escaped to tell us about it. He was badly wounded, but he might pull through.”
“Why, that’s awful, Lieutenant,” Gale said. “Do you know who the robbers were?”
“We have a couple of names. First, though, I’d like to know who these two gentlemen with you are.”
“I’m John Savage,” John said.
“And I’m Ben Russell.”
The lieutenant moved his lips, saying the names to himself.
“Anybody else her
e working the mine?” Bellaugh said.
Gale shook her head.
“Just us three,” she said. “We’re not working it yet. It was my husband’s, and he was killed. But there’s gold in it and we’re going to get it out. We were just looking it over, kind of figuring out what to do.”
“Yes’m. I guess we’ll be on our way, then.”
“What about the robbers? You said you might know who they are?”
“The man who got away said he heard two of the names, maybe three. He was in pretty bad shape. But he was pretty sure one of the men was called Cruddy and the other one was named Harley or Arlie, something like that.”
John stiffened slightly at the mention of the names, but he didn’t betray the flash of recognition that burst through his mind. Ben swallowed hard, but kept silent.
“Names don’t ring a bell with me,” Gale said quickly. “Hope you catch ’em.”
John thought that the soldiers would leave then, but the lieutenant didn’t move. He seemed eager to talk.
“It’s not only white men we’re after, Mrs. Gill. This fellow who got away said they saw some Navajos skulking around the mine. One of them shot his partner and the others came after them with rifles. It was a kind of trap, we think. Because once they all left the mine, the white men were waiting in ambush, started gunning them down.”
“Did they get any gold?” Gale asked.
“They got some bars that had been smelted in Tucson. Worth a heap of money, the man said.”
“Maybe they should have kept those bars in a bank,” she said.
“People around here don’t trust banks too much.”
“Too bad,” she said.
“Well, ma’am, we’ll be on our way. You see anything suspicious, you come to Tucson, report it to the sheriff. He’ll get word to me.”
“I surely will, Lieutenant. Good-bye.”
“Good-bye, ma’am.”
The lieutenant turned his horse and rode down to his men. He said something and they all moved out. The two flankers fell in behind the column, which headed down the slope single file.
Gale waited until the soldiers were out of earshot before she spoke.
“You hear what he said, John? About Harley or Arlie?”
“Ollie,” John said.
