Hondo (Louis L'Amour's Lost Treasures)

by Louis L'Amour

  “No. Dog walks right up to something. A wolf is suspicious. He circles around, stops, smells, smells the air. Wolf’s more careful.”

  They rode alongside the dead animal. Only the bone and hide remained. “Cat now, cougar or tigre, you don’t see claw tracks. Dog or wolf you do. Cat draws his claws back inside. Puma or cougar, no dif’rence in ’em, sometimes they don’t leave tracks. Mighty light on their feet. If they got reason to, they can jump thirty feet.”

  They mounted a long slope, and Hondo talked on, forgetting time and distance, yet keeping his eyes always roving, always alert to point out something of interest. “Nobody but a fool or a tenderfoot wears bright, shiny stuff on his clothes. Only a fool would ride a white horse. See it too far off. That bright, shiny stuff is for sissies, townfolk. You wear it out here an’ some Injun see you ten mile off by sun reflectin’. You’d lose your hair mighty quick.”

  Suddenly Johnny pointed. “There’s one of those birds! The quail you showed me!”

  “Sure is. You got a quick eye, son.” He drew up. “Now it’s gettin’ nigh to noontime. Should be water not far off.”

  He studied the country carefully, and finally he turned the lineback down a long slope toward an upthrust of rock. “Could be down there. Water falls in rain an’ sinks down. Sometimes underground water forms a sort of a pool above clay and along a layer of sandstone. If that’s busted, there’s liable to be a spring. Up ahead there, that ground is faulted. May be water there.”

  “I’m hungry,” Johnny said suddenly.

  “Me too.” Hondo glanced at the boy. “Noticed any insects lately?”

  “Bees. There was a bee on a flower back there. One flew off, too.”

  “Which way’d he go?”

  Johnny scowled. Finally he pointed. “Thataway, I think.”

  “That’s right. But don’t have to think. You notice hereafter. Bees can take you to water. Need water, an’ they go often. So you watch where they go.”

  He stopped his horse suddenly. Johnny drew up, looking at him curiously. Then, aware that something was expected of him, he looked around carefully. Suddenly he saw the rounded, ugly body of a golden and brown lizard lying near a rock. It was fat-tailed and repulsive. The boy instinctively drew his horse away from it.

  “Gila monster, son. Mighty poisonous. You leave him alone, he’ll leave you alone. No wild animal wants no truck with a man. Up to you to keep away from him, or give him a chance to get away from you. That there lizard, now, you watch out for him. Mostly he don’t aim to move. He likes it where he is.”

  A broken ledge of rock tilted sharply against the sky, a ledge broken off in some bygone upheaval of the earth and thrust up like a broken bone, splintered and ragged on edge. The wind, blown sand, and rain had tapered those edges but little, yet on the underside they found a hollow of water, a few desert willows, and one cottonwood, still young.

  Hondo swung down and helped the boy to the ground, then led the horses into the shade to cool off. With Johnny helping, he gathered dry sticks for a fire. A bee buzzed near them, then another.

  Hondo caught Johnny’s arm and pointed. A small swarm of bees hovered around a crack in the rock above them. “Hive up there. Lots of honey, too.”

  “Can we get some?” Johnny was eager. “Can we get some away from them?”

  Hondo studied the situation. “Hard to get it, but maybe later.”

  Earlier he had killed a rabbit, skinned and cleaned it, then sprinkled it with salt. Now he broiled the rabbit over the fire, then led the horses to water. He walked out away from the rocks, keeping among the brush, and studied the terrain. Twice that morning he had seen unshod hoofprints. There were Apaches around.

  He walked back to the boy and ate his share of the rabbit while Johnny was brushing the spines from a tuna the way he had shown him earlier. As the boy ate the desert fruit, he thought about how fast the morning had gone, how much he had enjoyed it. And this was the son of the man he had killed.

  How could a man have left a boy like this alone? To say nothing of Angie. What possessed a man with everything in the world to live for to go to a post and spend his time gambling and cheating passing strangers and soldiers from the post?

  “We’ll start back,” he said suddenly. “Your mother may get worried.”

  He thought of those unshod ponies. This boy had learned enough for one morning. There was no sense in taking a chance. While Johnny filled his canteen again, he walked back among the rocks to look in the opposite direction. Then he squatted suddenly.

  Four Indians had come out of the wash along which they had ridden earlier. Even at this distance he could tell they were mountain Apaches, strange to this area. They were studying the ground, apparently puzzled.

  If they had followed him far they would have occasion to be curious, for the horses had wandered from one point of interest to another, studying plants, tracks, and rocks. Now they were looking toward the serrated rock where lay the spring.

  Hondo Lane turned and walked swiftly back. There was a hollow among the rocks. “Johnny,” he said in a quiet voice, “we’re in trouble. Mountain Apaches…not from Vittoro.”

  The boy, he thought suddenly, looked eager rather than frightened. He chuckled a little, and Johnny looked up at him and smiled. “Will we fight?” he said quickly.

  “Not if we can help it,” Hondo said. “An’ don’t be so durned eager, youngster. People get hurt fightin’.”

  He led the horses into the hollow of rock and they waited. Suddenly he heard a hoof strike rock, then he saw the slim brown bodies of the Indians. White Mountain Apaches, by their look. They were studying the tracks at the spring.

  Hondo slid the thong from the butt of his six-shooter. “Trouble starts,” he said, and his voice was flat and harsh, “get behind the rocks and stay there, you hear me?”

  He stood up slowly, and almost at once the Apaches saw him. His rifle was in his hand. The distance was no more than forty yards.

  “Hola, brothers!” He spoke clearly. He was aware that Johnny, unable to restrain his curiosity, had appeared beside him.

  The Apaches stared, uncertain what to make of the strange pair. Yet soon he was puzzled himself, for they kept staring, and then they walked forward hesitantly. It was not Hondo himself at whom they stared, but at Johnny. Suddenly Hondo realized the boy was wearing Vittoro’s headband. The opal had caught the light and reflected into their eyes. A white boy with an Apache headband puzzled them.

  “The boy is Apache?”

  The Indian sounded doubtful, for despite Johnny’s deep tan, he was obviously a white boy.

  “Blood brother to Vittoro!” Hondo made the name ring against the crags. “He is Small Warrior!”

  Hesitantly, still wary of a trap, the Indians came forward. One of them hung back. His face was narrow and mean, with a cross-grained look about it. Hondo looked at this one, then never let the corners of his eyes stray away from him.

  The Apaches stopped a dozen yards off, staring from the boy to Hondo. Rifles were hard to come by, and Hondo’s was a new Winchester ’73, firing seventeen shots without reloading. He wore a pistol also, and there were horses. Yet the name of Vittoro carried a large sound to Apache ears.

  “What do you here?”

  “The boy learns the way of the desert.”

  They accepted this and considered it. The wandering tracks were now explained. “It is the wish of Vittoro,” he added. “Small Warrior is to be as an Apache on the desert.”

  Three of the braves were obviously interested, and as Johnny stood there beside Hondo Lane, he carried a certain indomitable look that amused and interested them.

  “The Small Warrior takes scalps?” the nearest Apache asked, grinning.

  Only the tall Indian who hung back disturbed Hondo. The others were fascinated by the stalwart youngster. The carriage and manner of Johnn
y was Apache, and it made them chuckle.

  “The Small Warrior takes scalps?” the Indian repeated.

  “Not of dogs or women!” Johnny had not listened to Vittoro for nothing. “Go in peace!”

  One of the Indians shouted with laughter, and the three started to turn away.

  The fourth Indian stood his ground, looking at Hondo. “This one I know,” he said suddenly. “He was scout for the pony soldiers.”

  There was sudden tension, and the other three turned quickly, looking from Hondo to their companion.

  “I was scout for the pony soldiers,” Hondo agreed. “I have lived among the Mimbreños also. This you do not like?”

  There was challenge in his tone. It did no good to draw back or show hesitation.

  “I have killed pony soldiers,” the brave boasted.

  “And I have killed Apaches.”

  They stared at each other. One of the others said something about Vittoro, but the tall Indian merely sneered. It was partly the rifle, partly the horses, but mostly it was that the Indian was a trouble-hunter. Hondo knew white men like him.

  “I wear the scalp of a pony soldier on the mane of my horse!”

  “An old pony soldier,” Hondo said with contempt, “with white in his hair and age in his back.”

  “You are friend of Vittoro?” the Apache sneered. “I say you lie!”

  Hondo ignored him. He spoke to the others. “The Small Warrior is the brother of Vittoro. Harm to him would mean blood feud. He is protected by Vittoro. I protect myself!”

  He turned suddenly and struck the tall Indian across the mouth. It was a wicked, powerful blow, and the Indian staggered and fell in a heap.

  An instant he lay there, eyes blazing, blood trickling from a smashed lip. Then like a cat he sprang to his feet and the rifle muzzle started to swing up. It was exactly what Hondo had wanted him to do. Deliberately he let the muzzle lift. Then he palmed his Colt and fired.

  His rifle had been held by the barrel with his left hand. His right hand was free to grasp its trigger guard as it lifted if he elected to use it. The Colt came as a complete surprise.

  The bullet struck the tall Indian over the heart and he grunted. His rifle’s bullet dug earth at Hondo’s feet, and then he fell face downward upon the ground.

  To the unsuspecting Indians, who had never seen a fighter in action, the appearance of the Colt smacked of sheer magic. They stared at him, stared at the gun, and then they turned the Indian over and looked at the wound. Awed, they stared at Hondo.

  Suddenly there was a clatter of hoofs and a dozen horsemen raced into the basin near the spring and ringed the small group. First among them was Vittoro. His hard old eyes looked first at Johnny, who stood close beside Hondo, his face white and still, but without tears or fear.

  Then he looked at the other Indians, and Hondo spoke quickly. “Only one among them looked for war,” he said. “That one is dead. These others are true men.”

  Vittoro stared at them and one Apache stepped forward. He held himself proudly. “We spoke in admiration of Small Warrior,” he said. “This one wanted the scalp of that one.” He pointed at Hondo.

  Vittoro looked at them, then at Johnny. The Apache who had spoken then repeated what Johnny had said about not taking scalps of dogs and women, and Vittoro’s hard old eyes glinted and the others chuckled. Nobody seemed much upset by the death of the tall Indian. Hondo holstered his gun. One of the others said something of that to Vittoro, speaking of the gun of magic. Vittoro looked at Hondo, then nodded. “The watcher of my brother is well chosen,” he said. Then he lifted his coup stick and pointed at Johnny.

  “Take the stick!” he commanded. “Count coup!”

  Johnny hesitated. Hondo was suddenly glad that Angie was not present. “Johnny,” he said distinctly, “you must do as Vittoro says. Take the stick he offers you and tap the Indian with it.”

  The boy’s eyes were round and frightened. Yet he walked forward, his steps like those of an automaton, and, taking the stick, he tapped the dead Indian. Then he returned the stick and walked back to Hondo. His face was stiff and white but not a tear showed.

  “Good!” Vittoro grunted. “Small Warrior soon be Big Warrior!”

  Hondo took the boy and put him into his saddle, then he stepped into the leather. He glanced over at the chief. “It has been a long day. Small Warrior has learned the tracks of the wolf and the tigre. He has learned the yerba del pasmo and the mescal, and many other things besides. He has caught game and cooked it, and he has counted coup. It is enough.”

  Vittoro nodded, and the two rode from the hollow of the spring, and scarcely were they on the desert when Johnny’s face began to twist. With sudden instinct Hondo lifted him from the saddle, and then Johnny was crying. Startled to find himself holding a crying child, Hondo merely held him and said nothing.

  After a long time, Johnny looked up at Hondo, but Hondo appeared not to notice. Then he leaned back against Hondo’s arm and watched the desert.

  Not until they were almost home did he get back into his own saddle.

  “It was a hard thing,” Hondo said. “You did well, Johnny.”

  “Look!” Johnny pointed. “There’s some arrowweed!”

  CHAPTER 18

  THE SHOCK OF seeing a man killed and being forced to count coup upon his body was a severe test for Johnny, yet Hondo noticed that he bounced back the next morning. He was a little more quiet, ready to remain at home for a day, but apparently no worse off for his experience. Hondo hesitated, then decided to tell Angie nothing about it for the time being. But she guessed something had happened, and finally he told her.

  “Without the headband of Vittoro,” Hondo told her, “we might have had a bad time of it.”

  “Or if you had not killed that man.”

  That silenced him. The killing of another man was very much in his thoughts. It seemed somehow wrong to have killed a woman’s husband and to be here with her, not to have explained. Yet no matter how many times he tried to tell her, the words of explanation would not come. She sensed he was worried about something, and it bothered her.

  He had returned to the house to replace his coffee cup and left her sitting beside the stream. Johnny was asleep. The tintype was on a shelf above his head. Hondo Lane stood and studied it, gnawing at his lip and thinking.

  There was nothing else he could have done. It was a treacherous thing Lowe had attempted, and the man had been no good, not any way you looked at him. Still, he had to explain. He had to tell Angie, and he would tell her now.

  It was late evening, not yet dark. The cottonwoods were at their endless whispering and the stream seemed unusually noisy tonight. Not loud, but with no other sound it was more obvious.

  All day he had worked around the ranch, finding the little things to do that a handy man with tools can find on any such place. He had worked, always conscious of the woman up there at the house. This was as it should be…a man and a woman working toward something, for something. Not apart, but a team.

  Leaving the house now, he walked across the yard toward where she sat alone by the stream. She turned to look up at him. In repose her face had a quality of true beauty that disturbed him. He knew she liked him, probably more….But why should she? To him she was a woman, but a rare and wonderful thing, too.

  “Angie, I’ve got something to tell you, and it’s not gonna be easy.”

  “Then don’t tell me yet.” She lifted her face to the moon. The cottonwood leaves were like tiny silver mirrors, catching the light. “Just look. How odd the moon looks in this quarter! When I was a child my mother used to tell me it was a teeter-totter. You know, the tilted plank a child plays on. Do the Apaches have a name for it?”

  “Bermaga, the planting moon…like they call the first rain the planting rain. Won’t plant their corn until the moon’s like that.”

 
“You liked living with the Apaches, didn’t you?”

  He did not reply. The stream rustled against the banks, chuckled around the rocks as water does, and shimmered in the moonlight farther down. A horse stomped and blew in the corral.

  “Don’t have locks.”

  “I don’t believe I understand.”

  “White man locks his cabin. No way to lock a wickiup. But you can be gone a whole season and your gear will still be there. Nobody steals. The old women with no men to provide for them…the chiefs drop half their kill at the old women’s lodge before they take the rest home to feed their women and kids. Nothing selfish about an Apache. Yeah, I liked living with them.”

  She liked listening to his voice. It was slow, somehow restful, and underlying his words there was understanding, compassion. There was none of this you-get-along-on-your-own-or-die feeling. She had seen too much of that. The more people had, the more they felt that way. But this man had known loneliness and hardship.

  “I think I would like that part of it, too. The way you speak of it.”

  “I know you would.”

  She tried to see his face in the deepening shadows, but outlines were gone, and she could only see where he was, not details or expression.

  “Why did you decide that?”

  Hondo shifted his boots, searching for the right words. “Because you’re a warm woman. Because you can sit and watch a little boy doing something like drawing in the mud at the creek bank and the corners of your mouth wrinkle up and a man can see that what you’re looking at makes you happy. Your hands are nice and clean when you put cooked meat down in front of a man, and your face is happy while he eats it.”

  Angie was surprised. She had not realized he had noticed these things. She felt a sudden desire to reach out in the darkness and touch him. Instead she said, “You notice everything. And thank you. Thank you very much.”

  A faint, far-off sound caught at his attention. He listened. There was nothing more.

  She was close to him now. It was dark. He listened a moment longer.