Our rifles could command the slope down to the canyon where the Apaches now were. With no trouble, one or two men could prevent them from reaching us. On the other hand, if they reached the top of the mesa above us, we could be picked off at their leisure.
My eyes searched the rim. It was cracked and broken, and there were places where a man might be able to reach the top, but no place where a horse could go up.
Dorset was working over Rocca, she had him resting as easy as he could, and she was stopping the blood. Harry Brook, needing nobody to tell him, had bunched our horses at the back of the hollow, out of rifle shot from below. The children were huddled together, watching with wide eyes. Nobody was saying anything, but our situation looked bad. We had water enough for a day, perhaps two.
Slowly, I got to my feet. I said, pointing to the rim, "I'm going to find a way out of this hole."
"Wings." Rocca spoke around the cigarette Dorset had lighted for him. "You would need wings."
"Spanish," I said, "you an' Battles stand 'em off. I'm going up yonder."
They studied the wall. "That's more of a climb than it looks," Spanish said.
"But we'd better have somebody up there to hold them back."
I started up the slope, angling across it for easier going. It took all of ten minutes to get to the foot of the escarpment.
On the rock wall I came to one of the cracks I'd seen from below. It was a foot wide at the bottom, widening above to maybe three feet. Here and there a few broken slabs of rock had fallen into it and become wedged. A man could climb out of it all right, but he surely couldn't take a wounded man up that way, so I worked my way along the face.
First thing I saw was a lion track, or maybe it was a jaguar's. There were a lot of those big spotted cats in Sonora, you even saw one in Arizona or California time to time.
The tracks, which were several days old, led right along the face and I followed them, studying every break in the rock that I came to. When I'd gone almost around the basin, the tracks suddenly disappeared.
Now, even a cat, tricky as they may be, can not vanish into thin air, so I contemplated the problem.
That cat had come up from the canyon below, and he surely wasn't going back down. The last set of tracks showed the hind feet dug in a mite, and it looked as if the cat had taken a jump. Then I saw a rock where he might have landed.
From where I stood the rock's face was sheer, but the edge, about six feet above my head, was broken, and the cracks were filled with talus.
I realized I couldn't, even by jumping, reach the edge, but when I climbed up on a small rock I could see scratches on the big one I wanted to reach, and there were so many scratches that it looked as if that cat had used this trail a good many times.
Hunting for foot-holds, I found a couple and managed to scramble onto the big rock. There was a crack in the rock that led to the rim in a steep slide, filled with broken rock. In a few minutes I was up on top of the mesa, which stretched away for miles. Here there was thin grass, a few clumps of prickly pear, and the cat tracks, fading away to the northwest.
From where I now stood I could not see the hollow, but only the further rim of the canyon and some of the bottom. There were no Apaches in view, and it was likely none of them could see me.
I went back down into the crack and studied it. It would be a steep scramble, but I'd taken horses up worse places. If I could just get them over that first rock ...
As I was easing down bit by bit so as to keep out of sight of the Apaches, I heard a rifle shot from below. That worried me none at all. No Apache was going to climb up that slope with a rifle up there, no Apache was fool enough to try.
Chances were some Indian showed himself to test us out and Spanish or Battles let him have one to know we weren't asleep.
What I needed now was to be able to figure out a way to get the folks out of that hole. And it was surely up to me. Dorset and the children aside, the boys with me had come just because they were my friends and knew I needed some help.
That big rock was the thing. There were cracks in it, but none very deep that I'd noticed, so I worked my way back for a closer look. On one side it was cracked and broken, and I began digging at it, hoping to dig out enough so that a couple of horses might scramble up or be hauled up.
First, I pulled out several chunks of rock that were in the crack, big pieces of fifty or sixty pounds. With a call to look out below, I tumbled them over. For almost an hour I worked at it.
The Apaches had taken no action against us, and that gave me hope. None of them had taken off to ride around and get up above us, and as they knew the country, maybe they knew it was miles before there was a way out of that barranca.
Down below me occasional shots sounded, and the Apaches fired a time or two. The way I was fixed they couldn't see me, nor what I was doing. They knew better than anybody that there was no help I could can on, and no matter what I did they'd have my scalp sooner or later. But I planned to make them work for it. If they wanted my hair they'd have to get it the hard way.
So I kept on at the rock, and unloaded a good many chunks of it.
A long, thin slab formed one side of the crack I was digging into. It was all of six or eight feet long, and must have weighed a ton or more, but as I dug down around it I could see it was a free slab, broken clean off the main rock.
There were a few loose rocks at the base, and I climbed down and pulled them free. I had me an idea now, and I didn't figure to give up on it. In a time and place like that, you gamble on any wild-haired chance. We were boxed in, the Apaches were down below, and they were willing to wait. We had water enough for a while, and ammunition enough for quite a fight, but that wasn't going to get us out of here.
The sun beat down on my back and my shirt was wet with sweat, but I'd never done anything much in my life but work hard, and didn't know any different. Besides, we Sacketts were a right stubborn folk. We just didn't have much give-up in us.
We always kept plugging away, and that's what I was doing this time.
Finally, when I'd done what I could in the hole, I climbed up and did what I'd been figuring on. I got into the top of that crack, put my back against one side, and my feet against the other, which bowed up my knees. Then with my hands braced against the rock behind me, I began to push.
The sweat broke out on my face and rolled down me in streams. Nothing happened -- nothing at all. I rested a mite and then I tried again. It was on the third try that I felt her give a mite. So I buckled down and tried still another time, and she gave a bit more.
Rocks and gravel trickled down into the hollow below, and then Battles climbed up there to help.
He studied the layout and shook his head. "I don't believe it. Even if you can do it, what then?"
"I figure our number's up," I said. "Not that I don't figure to make them earn it with blood, but that girl now -- she's got to have a running chance. She's got to get out, and those children."
He squatted on his heels and looked at me. "So?"
"That little buckskin, now. That's a mountain horse, a mountain mustang, and I figure she could climb a tree if need be. The girl's horse is another. Both of them are small, both are quick and smart. I think we might, if we can make any sort of a way to, get the girl and those youngsters out of here. Might even be a chance for us."
He studied the layout again. If that slab toppled over, it would leave a steep slide of gravel and broken rock. With a couple of husky men pulling and a horse scrambling, it might work. With one horse on top and a rope around the pommel, we might get another out.
Battles got down into the crack and scraped some good footing for himself, and then put his shoulder against the slab. Together we pushed, we strained. Of a sudden she gave. I slid lower to get a better purchase, and we tried it again.
She tilted a bit, then stuck. Try as we might, we couldn't push that slab any further.
We backed off and studied the situation, and John J. kept looking at that crack.
He looked at the crack, and then he looked at me again. "Shall we try it?" he asked.
Well, now. It was almighty steep, but it was all we had. I'd seen wild horses scramble up some steep slopes, but none as bad as this -- but with a little help ...
We went back down into the hollow below where the others waited, and I took a long pull at a canteen. When I looked up to where we'd been it fairly turned my stomach. What we needed was a set of wings.
I saw that they had rigged a little shade for Rocca -- a poncho over a couple of rocks, propped up with a stick. I went over and squatted down beside him. "I'm hit pretty hard, amigo," he said.
"You'll make it."
He looked up to the rock where I'd been. "What you got in mind?"
"That's the only way out for the two little horses, the girl and the youngsters.
That girl's got savvy. Get them out of here, and she's a good bet to make the border."
"I keep thinkin' of that ranch back yonder," Rocca said, "of those trees, an' the grass."
"It was quite a place."
"If a man had to die, that would be the best he'd be likely to find. I figure heaven must be like that. Not that I'm likely to make it." He looked at me.
"When you going to try it?"
"It's coming on for evenin'. I think we'll try then."
He closed his eyes. "Wish I could help."
Dorset came over and I laid it out for her. We were going to try to get them out, and she was to light a shuck for the border, hiding out by day, riding in the evening or early morning. But she already knew what she needed to do.
She didn't ask any foolish questions, either. She knew what was likely to happen here, and she knew what we needed was a miracle.
"When you get back," I told her, "you might write a letter to Tyrel Sackett, up in Mora. You tell him about it. Tell him about Laura, too -- how she sent me down here on a wild-goose chase."
"I'll do that," Dorset said quietly. "When it comes to that, I may go to see her myself."
"Leave her be. She's poison." It was no trouble for Dorset, Harry Brook, and the other youngsters to get to the top. Children are good at scrambling in rough places, and they took it as a lark. While Battles stood guard after, it was up to Spanish and me to get the horses up.
The little buckskin was quick and nimble. She climbed the gravel slope with me leading on the bridle, and though she went to her knees once, she made it. But when I looked up at that crack in the rock, I had my doubts.
Knowing the route, I went ahead, leading the buckskin. Spanish came along behind, but when I climbed into the crack the mustang pulled back and just wasn't having any part of it.
Spanish, he was right behind her, and he took off his sombrero and hit her a lick across the behind. She was almighty startled and gave a big jump, and before she knew what had happened she had her front feet on the crack and her hind feet scrambling for a grip on the slope.
Me, I tugged at the bridle. Spanish hit her another lick with his hat and she scrambled into the crack. There we held up for a mite, to catch our wind.
It was the cool of evening now, with the sky still pale blue in the far-off place where the sun had gone down, but overhead there were a few stars. Sitting back there on a rock, holding the bridle, I took long, deep breaths of that cool air.
All of a sudden the mare decided she wasn't too almighty comfortable standing spread out on the steep side of a hill, so of her own notion she scrambled a few steps higher, then stopped, and we let her be. It was still a far piece to the top.
After we'd all caught our breath we started on, and it was a struggle. But little by little we scrambled up until at last we got on top. By that time it was full dark and we still had the other horse to bring up.
Battles was down there alone, or as good as. Rocca was in no shape to lend a hand, and might be asleep. The Apaches didn't attack at night as a rule, for they had the notion that if a man was killed in the darkness his soul would wander forever in darkness. But if they did try coming up that slope in the dark, Battles could never hold them.
Leaving Dorset with the mare and the youngsters, Spanish and me made our way back into the basin. By the time we reached the bottom we were so almighty tired we were staggering, and we just naturally caved in. John J. reported no movement as far as he knew of. Rocca was sleeping. He had lost a lot of blood, and we had no way of treating a wound. Up on the mesa we might find one of the herbs the Indians used, but down here there was nothing.
Spanish worked a hollow for his hip in the sand and went to sleep. After I took John J.'s place, he did the same.
It was still, and overhead the stars were bright as they can only be in a desert sky. A coolness came up from the barranca below, and I listened for any whisper of sound, struggling against my own weariness and the need for sleep. But a few minutes of sleep might mean death for all of us. Only my wariness stood guard, and the thought of them trusting me.
A long while later, Spanish came to me. "You better get a little sleep," he said, "but if we're figuring on getting that horse up the mountain, it won't be much."
There was no need for me to move. I just let go and closed my eyes, and when I woke up it was with a hand on my shoulder.
"They're stirrin' around down there," Spanish said, "and it's gettin' on toward dawn."
"You two hold 'em," I said, getting up. "I'll take that other horse up the mountain."
"Alone? It can't be done."
"It's got to be," I said. "The Apaches will figure it out if we wait. Maybe they already have."
John J. was on his feet, his gun belted on and his Winchester in his hand, a spare cartridge belt draped over his shoulder.
"If it gets bad, pull back to Rocca here, and make a stand," I said. "I'll get back as soon as I can."
He indicated the horses. "Do you think we could make a break for it? Down the slope and right into them, shooting all the while?"
It was a thought, and I said so, but I told him no, not yet. Then I went and caught up the other mustang and headed for the slope. Oddly enough, Dorset's horse took to it as if it was home country. More than likely she could smell the other horse, and knew it had gone this way. Maybe she could also smell Dorset.
Wild horses can follow a trail as good as any wolf -- I've seen them do it many a time. And the other horse, with us working to help, had maybe made the trail a little better.
The horse had to struggle, and I tugged and braced myself and pulled, and that game little horse stayed right with it. With daybreak tinting the sky, we made it to the rim.
And then we heard the shots. Somebody down there was using a Winchester.
We heard the chatter of the rifle, then a few slower, paced shots. There was silence, then another shot.
The children were wide-eyed and scared, but they were pioneer youngsters, and no telling the trouble they'd seen before this. Dorset stepped into the saddle and I taken her hand.
"Ride," I said, "and stay with it. Hide out by day, ride by night," I told her again. "Don't shoot unless they get close, and then shoot to kill. I figure you're going to make it. We can hold them a day or two."
She put her hand on mine. "Tell, thank them for me, will you? All of them?"
"Sure."
The shooting down there was steady now. They needed me down there. I knew how Apaches could come up a slope. Nothing to shoot at but a few bobbing, flashing figures, you scarce saw them when they vanished, appeared again elsewhere, and came on.
Dorset knew it, too. She turned her horse, lifted a hand, and they rode off into the coming morning. I taken one look and then I hit the slope a-sliding. Far below I could see the Indians.
Battles was on the rim, bellied down behind rock slabs. Far off, near the stream, I could see the Apache ponies, but nothing was moving on the slope.
Behind Battles I could see Spanish, and he was rolling some rocks into place, lif
ting others, making a sort of rough wall from where John J. was firing to where Rocca was lying. He was getting set for a last-ditch fight, and the lay of the land sort of favored our position by being a mite lower than the rest of the hollow.
Of a sudden an Apache came up from behind a rock and started to move forward, and my Winchester came up as if it moved of its own will, and I taken a quick sight and let go.
High on the slope the way I was, right under the rim, I had a good view of what lay below. That Apache was a good three hundred yards off and lower down, but I held low a-purpose and that bullet caught him full in the chest.
He stopped in his tracks and Battles shot into him, getting off two fast shots before he could drop, but when he did drop he just rolled over and lay sprawled out, face up to the sun.
A number of shots were fired at me, but all of them hit the slope a good fifty feet below me, and I decided right then I was going to stay where I was.
It stayed quiet then, and slowly the afternoon drew on. Our horses had been bunched by Spanish so that they were close to Rocca, and the position seemed pretty good unless the Apaches decided to attack by night. But I kept on thinking about what we might do. There had to be a way out.
Now, my pappy was always one for figuring things. He told me time and again that when in a difficulty a body should always take time to contemplate. "The only way folks got to where they are," he'd say, "was by thinkin' things out. No man ever had the claws of a grizzly nor the speed of a deer -- what he had was a brain."
Right now we had here a stalemate, but it worked in favor of the Apache. It worked for him because he had access to plenty of water and grass, which we did not have.
And I knew the Apache would no longer wait. He'd be scaling that rimrock himself, and without horses he could get up there all right, although it would take some doing. We could figure on having them above us by the next daybreak, and then that hollow would be nothing but a place to die in.
We had to make it out of there, and right now. Nobody expects to live forever, but nobody wishes to shorten his time. Of course, a body never knows which turn will shorten it. Like when a bunch of us boys went off to the war we left a friend behind who paid a substitute. We all came back, safe and sound, but the one who stayed home was dead -- thrown from a horse he'd ridden for three years ... scared by a rabbit, it jumped, and he lit on his head. So a man never knows.
the Lonely Men (1969) Page 11
