A shot came from the rocks, then another. Spanish was loose and running toward the Apache horses.
A lean, fierce-looking Indian started for him and I held my sight an instant on his spine, then squeezed off the shot. The Apache kept running straight into a large boulder, hit it and seemed to rebound, then fell.
One Apache warrior made a running dive and sprang at me, grasping my saddle and swinging up to my horse, striving to get behind me.
I struck out savagely, guiding my horse with my knees, and for an instant we fought desperately. But I had both feet in my stirrups and a better purchase than he, so I threw him loose.
Spanish came charging from the horses, riding his own mount, and we went into the stream-bed side by side at a dead run, while the Apaches vanished into the rocks, shooting at the surrounding hills.
As we hit the sand of the stream-bed there was a rattle of rocks and, swinging around ready to fire, we saw Tampico Rocca and Battles riding neck and neck down the slope in a cascade of gravel.
We raced our horses for half a mile, then slowed to save them, and almost at once saw a fairly wide trail run off to the north from the stream. We took it, and crossed over a low hill into what must have been another part of the same stream-bed.
Then we held our horses to a good steady pace, keeping a sharp lookout behind.
Nobody was talking. Me, I was watching the trail for some sign of Dorset and the boy, but we saw no tracks. We were riding in the lower foothills of the Sierra Madre now, and while the ridges were covered with pines, the lower slopes were a lush growth of maple, juniper, oak, and willow, with a thick underbrush of rose and hackberry. Small streams were frequent Somehow, more by chance than by skill, we had thrown them off our trail, but we knew better than to think it meant anything more than a breather. Surprise had worked for us, but the Apaches would find our trail, and they would catch up.
We lifted our horses into a trot, frequently glancing back over our shoulders, yet always watching the ridges around. We were now traversing a broken but relatively open country with trees along the streams or growing here and there in small clumps. After the heavy rains our passage raised no dust, and the hoofs of our horses made little sound in the grass.
Twice we forded streams, three times we rode upstream or downstream in the water to lose whatever trail we might leave.
Once in the shade of great arching trees, while giving our horses a breather and a chance to drink at a small stream, I told them about Dorset Binny and the boy.
"If anything happens to me," I said, "find them and get them out of here."
The other youngsters had been riding quiet, scared and hungry, no doubt. Had it been us alone we'd never have chanced stopping to fix grub, but the children needed it, and we found ourselves a likely spot. While Rocca stood watch and Spanish fixed some food, Battles and me turned in under a tree for some sleep.
It seemed like years since I'd caught more than a few catnaps.
When I woke up my mouth was dry, and I sat up, staring around, just taking stock. It was almighty quiet, a beautiful quiet such as you only find in the forest. Far off, we could hear the stir of wind in the pines, a wonderful sound.
Closer to, there was only the murmur of water around the stones of the creek, and a faint chirping of birds. It was a natural, friendly quiet Tampico Rocca and Spanish came over to me. Battles was on lookout, perched up among the rocks where he could keep out of sight and still look the country over. The youngsters were sleeping.
"Got any idea where we are?" I asked Rocca.
"I been thinking on it." With his finger he drew a wavy line in the sand. "This here is the Bavispe," he said, and he pointed west. "She lies right yonder. If we cross the river there's some ranches. I wouldn't count on there being folks about, but it could be. Mostly the Apaches have wiped 'em put, burned 'em out, or stole them out. But it would be a good place to stop. There'll be old walls, water, and grass.
"Next we head for the Santa Margaritas ... I know an old mining camp where we can hole up. Then we can head for Chinapa, on the Sonora River."
"Sounds good."
Spanish was chewing on a blade of grass. "Fact remains," he said, "that we didn't get what we come for. We didn't find your nephew."
Rocca was looking at me, watching me. "The little ones," he said, "they know nothing of such a boy ... and they would know if the Indians had him."
"I put no faith in women," Spanish said, "meanin' no offense, but did you ever ... I mean, you and your sister-in-law ... "
I looked right at him. "I'll take no offense, Spanish--you've stood by me. I never saw her before we met in Tucson. I haven't seen my brother in some time ... never did talk to him about his affairs. Little time we had together we mostly talked about the old days and what become of folks we knew." I looked around at them. "I ain't been home much. I've been drifting."
Nobody said anything for a while, and then Battles, who had come out of the brush, said, "I figure you've been lied to, Sackett."
"It don't make sense."
"Any reason she'd want you dead? You got to realize ... not many come back from here. We ain't even sure we're gettin' back."
"The children never heard of any other boy," Rocca repeated, "and they'd know.
And, Harry Brook would. He speaks the language pretty good, and there's talk around the Indian villages."
Well, there was no use studying on it now. We had miles to travel. I said as much and we saddled up and moved down the creek.
Rocca rode with his head over his shoulder. I mean he was a worried man. When you see Apaches you're worried, but when you don't see them you're maybe really in trouble. They could be all around you.
When the shadows were beginning to reach out from the hills we came up to a ranch, four tired men with some tired children. As we neared it we spread out and I rode with my Winchester up in my hands, my eyes moving under the low brim of my hat, searching each shadow, each doubtful place.
No smoke ... no movement. Somewhere a blue jay fussed, somewhere a quail called into the stillness and another made reply. Otherwise it was still.
Nobody spoke, and we rode into the yard. Battles rode through the gate, and I went through a gap in the ruined wall. Spanish circled to the right, Rocca to the left.
The ranch was deserted ... a ruin. Fire had gutted it, and some of the stone walls had toppled. The windows gapped like great, hollow eyes that stared upon nothing. The barns were a tumbled mass of burned timbers and the fallen stones of foundation walls. Mesquite trees choked up the corrals.
But trees still shaded the ranch yard. Water ran from an iron pipe into a tank.
An oak limb had grown through an open window. In the patio the blocks of stone that paved it had been thrust up by a growing sycamore, which was now several niches through.
Once this ranch had been a splendid place, once the fields had been green and men had worked here, lived here, and loved here.
We rode into the thick grass where the ranch yard had been and we drew up. We heard only the wind ... only the trickle of water into the tank. John J. Battles looked slowly around and said nothing, and Spanish Murphy sat silent for a long moment. Then he said, "This is the sort of place you dream about, when you're on a long, dusty trail, or you're in the desert and short of water."
"We'd better have a look around," I said. "Tamp, you scout to the wall yonder.
Spanish can stay with the children."
We moved out. A rabbit sprang from under my feet and went bounding away. We searched the place, but we found nothing, nothing at all.
There was a watch tower on one corner of the place, shrewdly built to observe the country around, but now partly masked by the tops of trees. While I took the first watch, Battles put some grub together for a meal.
The sun was warm and pleasant, but it bothered me for I could see too little in the open country to the west. Our enemies should come from the east, but trust an Apache to use the sun's glare if he figured on an attack. But the
sun sank behind the mountains to to westward and I studied the country all around with great care, and saw nothing.
Where were Dorset Binny and the boy? If they had ridden the way we planned they should be not too far away, for our course had veered around and we, too, had come west.
From the watch tower I could study the terrain and my eyes searched out all possible hiding places. The position of the ranch had been well chosen. The place had a good field of fire in every direction and must have been easy to defend back in the old days, yet the Indians had taken it, burned it out, and more than likely killed everybody on the ranch.
It seemed to me at least fifteen to twenty men would have been needed to defend the ranch. Maybe they were shorthanded when the attack came.
In the last minutes of daylight, I saw them coming -- two riders, not over half a mile off.
I called softly to Murphy, who was closest and knelt by one of the openings left in the wall for a firing position. But I was sure right from the start. As they drew nearer I could see them clear enough.
Standing up on the tower I called out, "Dorset! Dorset Binny! Come on in!"
Chapter 10
Laura Pritts Sackett was immaculate. She was cool, aloof, yet she managed to convey the idea that beneath that still surface there was turmoil, waiting to be exploited. A cold, emotionless young woman, she had learned very early that the appearance of deep emotion and passion beneath the quiet exterior was a tool and a weapon to be used, and so she had used it Her adoration for her father had resulted in hatred for all who in any way thwarted or opposed him.
As the days passed into weeks and she heard nothing from Mexico, she grew worried. Suppose, after all, Tell Sackett was not killed by the Apaches? Suppose he did return, and her falsehood was exposed? She was less worried, however, about being exposed -- she had no intention of remaining in Tucson anyway -- than about Sackett not being killed.
She knew enough about the Sacketts to know they had a way of getting out of corners. Suddenly, she made up her mind.
She would leave Tucson. She would go back east without waiting any longer. She might never hear what happened in Sonora, and there was no sense in staying on here, in this heat, and merely waiting. Her father had a little property in the East, and it was time she returned to settle the estate. But first she would make one final effort She was seated in the Shoo-Fly when she reached that decision. She knew, as did everyone, about the gun battle in the Quartz Rock Saloon, and she had seen the Hadden boys around town. She knew also that the Maddens had been doing some talking about what would happen when they met Tell Sackett and Tampico Rocca again.
Suddenly the door opened and Captain Lewiston came in, accompanied by Lieutenant Jack Davis, whom she remembered from the stage ride to Tucson.
They came to her table. "Mrs. Sackett," Davis said, "I want to present Captain Lewiston."
She turned her wide blue eyes on the Captain and sensed a coolness, a reserve.
This one would not be so easy as Davis to wind around her finger. "How do you do, Captain," she said. "Won't you sit down?"
The men seated themselves and ordered coffee. "I hope you will forgive the intrusion, Mrs. Sackett," Captain Lewiston said, "but we were wondering if you could tell us anything about the present location of Tell Sackett. I believe he is a relative of yours."
"He is my brother-in-law," she said, "although I had never met him until a few weeks ago. Right here in this room, in fact. He was with some other men. I don't know where they went. Is he in trouble?"
Lewiston hesitated. "Yes and no," he said finally. "If he rode into Apache country, as we have heard that he did, he may be in very serious trouble indeed."
She allowed her lip to tremble. "He ... he hasn't been killed, has he? The Sacketts are reckless, daring men, and ..." She let her words trail away.
"We have heard nothing," Lewiston said. "We are planning a strike against the Apaches that will take us deep into Mexico. We would not want them stirred up by some unauthorized foray into their country."
"I ... I did not know. If anything should happen to Mr. Sackett my husband would be very upset. They are very close."
"Mrs. Sackett, I understand you provided Mr. Sackett with a horse? Is that true?"
"Of course. His own had been killed and he was unable to purchase one. I merely helped." She smiled. "What else could I do?"
Lewiston was not satisfied, yet there was certainly nothing wrong with her story, nor had he any reason to suspect she knew Tell Sackett's whereabouts, except the fact that they were relatives, and had talked together. He could not have given any reason for his dissatisfaction, but he felt it. Moreover, he had liked Tell, and he was worried about him.
Later he said as much to Davis. "Oh, come now, Captain!" Davis said. "If Laura Sackett knew anything about Sackett she would tell you. What possible reason would she have for lying?"
"I don't know. But why is she staying on in Tucson? She has no relatives here, no friends, and this is no time of year to be here if you can be anywhere else.
I mean, I like the place, but not many eastern women such as Laura Sackett are inclined to want to stay here."
Davis had done some wondering about that himself. Tucson was a hot, dusty little desert town, and not a likely place for a lady of aristocratic background such as Laura had implied in a few carefully casual references. A stopover to recover from the rigors of a stage trip from California would be natural, but the days had stretched on, and still she remained. Had she been known in the area or had friends there, her presence would have been no cause for comment, but she kept very much to herself and indicated no desire to make acquaintances.
Laura was unconcerned as to what anyone thought. She detested Tucson and its people, and wanted nothing so much as to go on to El Paso and thence to New Orleans and the East. If she could only be sure Tell Sackett was dead she would leave.
She knew what she must do. Tell Sackett had now been gone for three weeks, and while it seemed likely that he was dead, he might even now be coming north over the trails through Sonora. So she had one more thing to do. She had to make sure that, if he had lived through the journey into the Apache stronghold, he would die before getting back to Tucson. Somehow she must manage to talk with Arch or Wolf Hadden.
They came rarely to the Shoo-Fly. There were other places to eat among their own land, and she had seen them on the streets with other toughs of ugly reputation.
By listening to talk she heard around her, she learned that the Haddens were, among other things, bronc riders and wild-horse hunters. They had come into town with several horses for sale or trade.
She spoke to Mrs. Wallen quite casually. "There is a man about town," she said, "a rough-looking man named Hadden, who has a sorrel gelding for sale. I would like to talk to him."
Mrs. Wallen hesitated, putting her hands on her hips. "Ma'am, those Haddens are not fit men for a lady to know. I will have Mr. Wallen talk to them."
"If you please," Laura Sackett answered coolly, "I would prefer to talk to them myself. I have dealt with many rough men whom my father employed. I have also had some experience in buying horses."
"Very well," Mrs. Wallen replied stiffly, "have it your own way."
Laura was amused. Mrs. Wallen did not like her, she knew, and Laura cared not at all, but it made her feel good to put her in her place, if ever so gently.
She finished her tea and, getting to her feet, she gathered her skirt in one dainty gloved hand and went out on the boardwalk. The heat struck her face like heat from the open door of a furnace. She stood an instant, looking up and down the street, and then she went on to her rooming house.
Arch Hadden was seated on the steps. He got to his feet as she approached.
"Wallen said you wanted to see me about a horse."
She studied him for a moment. "About a horse," she said, "and some other matters. If you will saddle that sorrel you have and bring him around in the morning I shall ride out with you. If the horse is satisfactor
y, I will buy him." The next morning in the early coolness they rode out beyond the mission.
The little sorrel moved well, but Laura was not interested in the horse. In a thick grove of cactus and brush, she drew up and Arch Hadden rode up close beside her.
He looked at her with a knowing leer. "Ma'am, I reckon you come to the right man. Now I'll just get down an' help you off that horse ..."
In her hand she held a two-barreled derringer. "Stay right where you are, Hadden," she said. "I brought you out here to talk to you. Do you know what my name is?"
He stared at her, puzzled but wary. "Can't say as I do. At the livery stable Wallen just told me to come and see the blonde lady at that roomin' house. I reckon evertrody in town has seen you, ma'am."
"I am Laura Pritts Sackett."
His face sharpened suddenly as if the skin had drawn tight. He was very still, and with amusement she could see what was happening in his mind. She was a woman, and she had a gun on him. She could kill him and say he had attacked her, and she would not be blamed, but if he drew on her and killed her, he would be hung for murder.
"Don't be frightened, Hadden. I am not going to kill you. In fact, I want you to kill somebody for me -- for both of us."
"What's that mean?"
"There is a man who has gone down into Mexico and I think the Apaches may have killed him, but if he should be coming back I want him killed before he reaches Tucson."
Hadden shook his head. "I've killed a few men," he said, "but only in fights. I ain't no paid killer, ma'am."
"Not even if the man is Tell Sackett?"
He was still wary, but interested. "You askin' me that? And you a Sackett?"
"I am not a Sackett, Hadden. I had the misfortune to marry one. I married him to help my father, but they turned on him anyway. Tell Sackett is my brother-in-law, and I want him killed, Hadden.
"There are men in this town, Hadden, who would kill a man for fifty dollars, and there are others all along the border. I will give you two hundred dollars if you will bring me evidence that Tell Sackett is dead. I don't care whether you kill him or somebody else does. All I want is proof."
the Lonely Men (1969) Page 8
