the Lonely Men (1969)

by L'amour, Louis - Sackett's 14

  Dismounting, I led the horses around it and down to a broken place in the wall, and saw something dark and shadowy through the trees. There was no sound but the water, and the rustle of the cottonwood leaves. I walked ahead to an opening among the trees, and came to an ancient ruin. It had once been a considerable structure, built right from the edge of the pool back to the cliffs where it joined the native rock.

  Only the floor remained, and a corner of a wall that reached up to six feet, slanting down to no more than three feet near the water. There was green grass all around, and a stillness that came from utter isolation.

  First off, I let the horses drink sparingly, and drank myself, and then filled Rocca's canteen. All the while I kept my ears tuned for any sound. But there were no tracks around that I could see, no signs of campfires, nothing to show anybody had been here at all in years.

  Picketing the horses, I found a corner of the wall that protected me on two sides. A pile of fallen adobe bricks mingled with chunks of rock that had been used in the walls formed a partial breastwork on the other sides.

  Tired as I was, there was no sleep in me. Places like this made a man sort of sad. Somebody had lived here, and judging by the look of the place, different people at different times. There had once been a building of native stone. It had fallen in and been rebuilt with adobe and rock, and it looked as if the last time was no more than thirty, forty years back. Indians had perhaps built the place first, and rebuilt it, too. Later white people had settled in here until driven out.

  It was a quiet place. A small garden patch had been worked at one time, and there was a meadow where hay might have been cut, but nobody could live long in such a place with the Apaches on the rampage.

  I settled down, and after a while I slept. I awoke when the morning sun began to filter through the leaves. Everything was as quiet as before. I watered the horses, saddled them, and prepared to move out, but first I had scouting to do.

  There were crude steps cut from the rocks at one side, taking advantage of natural steps left by the erosion of rock layers. Climbing these, I found a natural hollow that had been shaped by hand into a lookout of some comfort, with a view in all directions.

  For several minutes I studied the desert, but saw nothing. Back down below again, I dug into my saddlebags for the small packet of coffee I always carried for emergencies. Often I carried some jerky and flour, but now there was only the coffee.

  I built a small fire, and rinsed out an old clay jar I found. When I'd made coffee I filled a cup and prowled around, and finding some chia, I gathered a handful of the seeds and ate them. Then I went up for another look.

  Off to the north I glimpsed a buzzard. There might be a dead steer, or it might be one of my friends, and buzzards do not always wait for a man to die.

  Due north I rode, then I swung wide to the east, cutting for a sign. Whatever was up ahead must have left tracks getting there, and I wished to find out what I was up against.

  "Tell," I told myself, "you better ride easy in the saddle. I think you're headin' into trouble."

  That black nicked an ear at me as if to show he agreed. A lonely man a-horseback in wild country gets to carryin' on conversations with his horse, and some horses become right knowledgeable and understanding.

  No tracks. I rode up on the east of where the buzzard circled, and swung in closer. Standing in my stirrups I looked the country over, and at first I saw only a lot of prickly pear around, and some clumps of cholla, all white thorns on top, brown underneath.

  Then I saw the horse -- a horse down, a saddled horse.

  Circling around it, rifle in hand, I taken a chance and called out: "Spanish? Is that you?"

  A couple of buzzards roosting in a palo verde tree nearby looked mighty upset with me, and one of them dropped his wings as if to scare me off or stampede my horses.

  No answer came back. So I cut a little closer, then drew up and looked around.

  It was all just as it should be, sunlit and still.

  My black was curious, too. He could sense something I could not, and though it made him curious, it was something he shied from. Probably it was the dead horse.

  I walked him slowly forward, the hammer of my Winchester eared back for trouble.

  The shirt was what I saw first, men the boots, and the Mexican spurs with the big rowels. It was Spanish.

  I swung down and, having tied the black to a mesquite, I walked up to him.

  He was lying face down in the sand, but he had pulled his saddlebags across his kidneys, so he'd been alive and conscious when he hit the ground. He knew that buzzards went for the eyes and the kidneys first, so he'd rolled on his face and pulled those saddlebags over him. They might not help much, but getting them off him might bring him to enough to fight the buzzards off.

  Lifting the saddlebags free, I rolled him over.

  There was blood all over the front of him, dried blood that seemed to come from a shoulder wound. And there was blood lower down that came from some place in his middle. But he was breathing.

  We were right out in the open, and those buzzards could attract more than me, so, good for him or not, we had to move.

  He muttered something, so I tried to let him know who was with him. "It's all right, Spanish," I said. "You'll see that girl in Tucson yet."

  There was no time for fixing him up at all. Gathering him into my arms, I went with him to the spare horse and put him in the saddle, then I lashed his wrists to the pommel and his boots into the stirrups. I taken his saddlebags, although what was in them I didn't know. Then I checked his horse, but the animal was dead. There was a rifle in the saddle scabbard, so I took it along. There was no canteen.

  We rode out of there at a good clip. The country ahead promised nothing. We had two, three days to cross the border, but we'd not be safe until we got to Pete Kitchen's or to the settlement on the border.

  Taking advantage of every chance to mask my trail, and trying to keep down the dust, I rode north, leading Spanish on Rocca's horse. The wind was picking up a mite, which might drift enough sand to cover my tracks, but there was small chance it would be in time. Several times I slowed down, checking animal tracks, and watching for any sign that might indicate water.

  The trail behind was empty, and the trail ahead looked clear. I rode in my own small world of sunlight, the movement of horses, and the smell of dust and sweat. Ahead of me, on the right, a sawtooth range showed itself above the flatter country around us.

  I slowed my horse to a walk, for there were dark streaks of sweat along his flanks. An arroyo opened ahead of me, and I rode into it and found a way up the opposite bank. A towering butte was ahead for destination.

  The bullet smashed against the pommel of my saddle, then ricocheted away with a nasty whine, and the heavy report of the rifle followed. Slapping spurs to my horse, I started to run him as three Apaches broke from cover to my right. They had waited in ambush, but my dip into the arroyo had fooled them and now they came running.

  Turning in the saddle, I taken aim as best I might and fired ... once, twice ... three times. I saw a horse stagger and go down, spilling head over heels in the sand.

  Ahead of me three more Apaches had come from right out of the desert, it seemed.

  I turned my mount a little away from them and raced on, holding my fire. Behind me Spanish rode like a sack of grain in the saddle, his body lurching with every jump, yet somehow he remained upright.

  They came at me, and suddenly I wheeled the black and charged into them, firing my Winchester with one hand as if it was a pistol.

  The sudden switch surprised them and one of them turned so sharply his horse spilled into the sand. Another was right ahead of my rifle barrel and not thirty feet away when I shot into his chest, dusting him on both sides. He went down, and then we were through and riding for that butte.

  Behind me there was a shot and something brushed at my shoulder, but we were off and away. Sliding my Winchester into its scabbard, I drew a six-gun and fire
d, slowly and deliberately, trying for a score. The first shot missed, so did the second. Then an Apache elected to swing his horse around a small cedar just as I thumbed back the hammer. He was broadside to me and I let go, heard the slam of the shot, and saw the Apache lurch in the saddle, then swing off to one side, barely clinging to his horse.

  Suddenly, from ahead there was the hard bark of a rifle, and glancing back, I saw another Indian falling. I raced forward, scarcely daring to believe it could be help, but the Apaches, wily fighters always, were swinging away. And Spanish was still riding behind me.

  The desert fell away in a long slope ahead of us, and on the rim stood John J.

  Battles, dusty, bloody, his hat gone, his shirt torn. He got up from the ground as we approached and swung into the saddle ... and he had the pack horse.

  "She found me," he said. "Came trailing along the desert, part of her pack gone, the rest hanging under her belly."

  "Did you see anything of the youngsters?" I asked.

  "No, not a sign." He looked back at Spanish. "He hurt bad?"

  "I haven't had time to look. I think so."

  We pushed on, praying for the night to hurry, and finally it came. Our horses slowed to a walk, and Battles and me, we swung down to save them as much as we might.

  "How far d'you think to the border?" Battles asked. "Maybe sixty miles," I said. "Might be less." He stopped to work his toes around in his boots. I knew the signs, for I was doing the same thing. We were, both almighty tired. I figured I was stronger than him, and I'd been running on nerve. I seemed to have been hot, tired, and sore as long as I could remember. My muscles ached, my eyes hurt from the glare, and felt all the time as if they had sand in them. I was wanting to stop with every step, and I knew the horses didn't feel any better.

  But we kept on, because neither of us was smart enough to quit. Finally Battles stumbled and went to his knees, and he was slow getting up.

  "You better get on your horse and ride for it," he said. "Ride that horse to death if need be, but get to safety. We just ain't a-going to make it like this."

  I didn't answer, but kept on going. Every time I put one foot ahead of the other I figured I'd gained just that much. Then when I had stumbled a couple of times myself, I realized the black horse was tugging at the bridle. He wanted to go off to the east.

  "Mount up, John J.," I said. "Maybe we've found something, but you hold ready to shoot, because we may find trouble." I was so dry I had to try twice before I could make the words come.

  Once in the saddle, I just let the black have his head, and that horse started off at a good clip, considering the shape he was in. And the others came on behind, Spanish Murphy still a-setting up there like a preacher pronouncing sentence on Satan, his head bowed but his shoulders hunched as if he figured maybe Satan was aiming to get in one more blow.

  It wasn't long before we felt a coolness, and the horses lurched down into an arroyo and all of a sudden we came up to a small fire where there were four or five Apaches gathered around, eating a fresh-killed horse.

  No telling who was the most surprised, but Battles got off the first shot and he drilled one of those Injuns with meat in his teeth, and the rest of them fell away into the shadows like so many ghosts. I slammed spurs to my black and jumped him across the fire in time to see one Apache snaking into the brush, and I cut down on him. Something slammed alongside my head and I felt myself hit ground, bounce, and fall free, losing a boot in the stirrup.

  I rolled over, my Winchester gone in the brush, and I clawed for a six-shooter.

  And then I froze right where I lay, because an Apache was standing astride of me and he had the razor edge of his blade right across my throat. He was looking me right in the eyes, and I could see the firelight on his scarred face, and we knew one another at the first glance. It was Kahtenny, the Indian I hadn't been willing to kill, way back there in my fight with the Apaches.

  "You better hold back on that edge," I said. "You're liable to cut somebody."

  Chapter 16

  He still stood astride of me, that knife edge against my throat, and he never moved it one mite. He kept looking right into my eyes and I looked right back at him, and I knew all he had to do was make one quick slash to end my days.

  Then easylike, to give no false notions, I lifted my hand to his wrist and pushed the blade away, very gently.

  "That's a good knife. Got quite an edge to it," I said.

  "You are brave man. You are warrior."

  "We are warriors together," I said. "It is enough for you and for me that we know each other."

  The other Apaches were filtering back out of the darkness, and their black eyes were reaching to me in anticipation, I expect, for the torture of a strong prisoner was a pleasure not to be missed.

  Right off I recognized Toclani among them. He had served in the army under Emmet Crawford as one of his company of Apache scouts. Toclani and me, we had ridden together, shared our grub, and fought side by side against other Apaches. Now I had no idea whether that would help me any at all, for Toclani might have returned to the wild ones, the broncho Apaches who fought whoever stood in their way.

  They had me dead to rights. What lay ahead I knew full well, as any man along the border would know, but what worried me now was what had become of Spanish and Battles. Had they got clean away? Spanish was more dead than alive, anyway, and Battles was neither as good as Spanish or me when it came to desert travel.

  Nobody had made a move to tie me, but they had taken my knife and my guns, and there was not much of a chance to run for it. Moreover, I was in mighty bad shape. I needed a drink, and my stomach was growling at the smell of the meat on the fire.

  We had accounted for a couple of the Apaches, but there'd been at least a dozen out under the brush before the shooting started, and now they came up to the fire, and kindled another one close by.

  I could see my Winchester lying over yonder beside my Colt, but they were thirty feet away and I'd have no chance to go after them. Kahtenny was off to one side, beyond the fire, and he was talking to the others, but I couldn't make out a thing they were saying. All I could gather was that some kind of an argument was going on, and I had an idea it concerned my hide.

  While the Apaches ate, at least three of them kept a watch on me all the time, but seeing I wasn't going anywhere anyway, I stretched out and, using my hat for a pillow, I went to sleep.

  When I woke up it was maybe two hours later and the fire was down. Most of the Apaches lay around sleeping, and I still wasn't tied, which made no sense at all unless they figured on having some fun when I made a break for it.

  Thirst was about to strangle me and the waterhole was right beyond the edge of camp, so I got up, making no special try at keeping quiet, and I walked over to the waterhole, lay down and drank. Then I went back and stretched out again.

  I knew as well as anything that at least four or five pairs of eyes had been on me all the while, and had I jumped for a gun or a horse they'd have had me. So I just stretched out quiet, feeling a whole lot better for the drink.

  Presently Kahtenny got up and walked over to me and sat down. He rolled himself a smoke as easy as any cowpoke you ever did see, and he sat there smoking until half of it was gone before he spoke. "Somebody want to kill you."

  "Me?" I chuckled. "Maybe a lot of folks." I sized him up as having something puzzling on his mind. "You mean your boys?"

  "Other man. White man."

  "A white man wants me dead? What makes you think so?"

  "He have my squaw. He say, you dead he give her to me. I bring your body, he gives squaw."

  "So why haven't you done it?" Kahtenny looked puzzled. "Why he want you dead? I think somehow it is a trick."

  "How'd you get the news? Did Toclani bring it?" He showed no surprise that I knew Toclani. "Yes ... he bring it. My squaw ... she talk to sister at San Carlo. She go quickly in the night, but when she leave these men take her."

  "Did they hurt her?"

  "No
. Toclani say no." He looked at me. "Me fight Toclani, but Toclani good man.

  My squaw good woman. Toclani puts Apaches to watch out for my squaw."

  "Who are these white men?" "Their name is Hadden. There are several. Toclani sees them. Why they want you dead?"

  "I shot them up. Rocca ... you know Tampico Rocca? They called him greaser and were going to kill him. We fought Rocca and me, we kill one ... maybe two of them.

  He still was not satisfied. "Toclani says you good man. Great warrior."

  There wasn't much I could say to that, so I kept my mouth shut and waited, but my mind was working as fast as I could make it. I lay no claims to being a thinker or a planner. I'm just a mountain boy who grew up to be a free drifting man, but it didn't take much figuring to see I had a way out of this if I could come up with the right ideas. Trouble was, I had to play my cards almighty careful, because I surely didn't have any hole card. One thing working for me was that Kahtenny was suspicious, and feared a trap.

  To kill me of his own idea would be simple enough, and likely that's what he would have done, after some torture to see what kind of a man I was. But now somebody else wanted me dead, and he was puzzled.

  From what I gathered, Kahtenny's squaw had slipped back into the reservation to see her sister and that was when the Hadden boys caught her ... waiting until she started to leave.

  It was nothing unusual for a wild Apache to return to the reservation, stay a while, and then leave. The Army was always trying to get them to return, and often the squaws would come back first to look over the situation.

  Now they had Kahtenny's squaw and he wanted her back, but he was like a wild thing that sniffs trouble at every change, and there was a lot about this offer that he did not like.

  He sat smoking and waiting, and finally I said, "I think you can not trust them."

  He looked at me. "They will kill her?"

  "They are bad men. They would have killed Rocca for nothing. I think if you take my body to them they will kill her and you also ... if they can."