The dog dropped its toy gun and ran in widening circles through the crowd—the men edging out to let it through. Finally it stopped short before a man on the very outskirts of the circle and began to bark sharply.
For one amazed moment Ritchie thought that Perro had really discovered one of the enemy in their midst, for the man's black hair was pulled back by a red headband such as the desert warriors favored, a blanket was draped about his shoulders, and the feet and legs the dog was now snarling at were covered with the high, bootlike moccasins of the mesa men.
The man stood perfectly still and did not even appear to notice the dog now working itself into a frenzy of barks and growls. Diego had approached slowly, but now he took a sudden stride and grabbed at Perro's collar, jerking back with a force which half strangled the animal.
"Your pardon, Senor Scout." He touched his hand to the brim of his hat, but the mockery in that gesture was plain.
“Perro mistakes the counterfeit for the real. You weel excuse heem, please."
"Sure—" The one word came in the soft drawl of a Mountain Man as the moccasined feet turned and the red-crested figure drifted off toward the Colonel's quarters.
Perro's mistake seemed to put an end to the show because Diego refused all urging to continue and departed out of the gate. All but a few die-hards who followed the showman to the road went back to the warmth of the barracks.
"Don't know as that thar pooch was so wrong in his 'Pache huntin'," one of the men walking just before Ritchie said.
"Oh—you know Velasco—"
"Yeah. I've seen him—hangin' round the fort. But he was raised 'Pache, warn't he? Catch 'em young 'n raise 'em right 'n they stay 'Pache. He's got him blood brothers out thar in the hills. How do we know he ain't tellin' 'em things now 'n then? They're pretty cute—they savvy fightin'. 'N Velasco, he can't remember nothin' but livin' with 'em. I've heard him say that with his own mouth. His own people don't like him much. Bet Diego taught the pooch that thar trick jus' to show him up."
"Well, he'd better not show it off where the Colonel can see him or he won't get in here again. The Colonel swears by Velasco, and he won't take kindly to anyone making fun of him open that way. Hey, where's the cards? All right, your deal, Sam."
Ritchie lingered, wishing that he dared ask about this Velasco who was raised an Apache. He had heard tales of children captured young enough to conform to the Indian way of life, and tough enough to survive it, who had grown up as warriors of the tribe and, when reclaimed by their own people, had been misfits in the civilized world. But the card players were deep again in the interrupted games, and he went back to his own small section of the barracks.
But he stopped short before the rack where he had hung his newly polished equipment. Belt, carbine, sabre—all had disappeared. And in their places was another set, fouled, tarnished, and unrubbed. Ritchie let his breath out slowly through his nose. He knew very well what this meant. Sturgis had stepped in the night before and had stopped the showdown. But this time he would have to force it himself or else lose face with the whole company. Even if he took a beating and lost, he could still cling to the shreds of his self-respect.
There were eyes watching him now—he could almost feel them burning between his shoulder blades. This was it! But, as he turned abruptly and marched down the room looking carefully at each racked carbine he passed, he was thinking furiously.
Here it was. He put out his hand for the weapon he recognized as his own. Below it was his sabre. His sabre—!
Ritchie's eyes widened the least fraction, and his lips parted in a soundless whistle. He remembered a story told at Jefferson. And it might just work here, too. It would all depend upon whether Birke was really popular in the company.
"Jus' a minute, sonny." The paw of a hairy arm fell on his shoulder and half jerked him around. "We don't touch another man's tools 'les we ask furst!"
Ritchie met Birke's gap-toothed grin and too-small eyes with an outward show of placid confidence.
"That's what I thought. And so I'm wondering why you moved mine—"
Birke's grin grew tight around the edges. It was plain that he had not expected this kind of answer. He slapped down at Ritchie's reaching hand.
"Them thar's mine! Keep yore mitts offen 'em, sonny. Git back to yore own corner 'n stay thar. Babies wot do as they ain't told git paddled! Yore pants fit tight, baby. What if I heat 'em fur yo'—right now?"
Ritchie was out of range before that ham-sized fist connected. He was holding his own scabbarded sabre on guard. Now it was time to play his last card—and hope that Birke was not a popular man.
"If you want a fight, Birke, let's make it a dragoon one. Meet me with scabbarded sabres, Jefferson style!"
Birke blinked. He had lost his grin entirely, and the thick veins on his temples were swelling. His pleasant little game had gotten out of hand, and he did not like that at all. He growled and lunged but jumped back again as Ritchie swung the heavy sabre.
There was a ring of spectators about them now, almost as close packed as the one which had gathered at the dog show. But, as yet, Ritchie could not judge the temper of the men. It was with relief that he heard the small, quiet man on the far side of that circle.
"Well, Birke, d'you fight him? He's right—that's a challenge, barracks style."
A murmur answered him, a murmur of agreement. Ritchie waited. The small shred of tradition he remembered might yet save him from a bad mauling—even if he couldn't escape a fight.
"Not in here." The small man was taking command of the situation. "Out by the burying ground's best; more room and we'll be off post limits. Well, Birke, we're waiting; d'you fight?"
The big dragoon turned and grabbed at the nearest racked sabre.
''Sure I'm gonna fight! I'm gonna beat th' brains outta this jumped-up fancy boy. Let me do it!"
Escorted by all of the troop present, they moved across the parade ground to a level space below the rise of a small hill. Ritchie shucked off his tight cavalry jacket and stood shivering in his shirt sleeves, trying to make up his mind whether to discard his boots also. That was settled for him by a newcomer.
The scout Tuttle suddenly materialized by his side and held out a pair of moccasins.
“Off with them boots, son, if yo' want to keep yore footin' here. These should be 'bout yore cut, I'm thinkin'."
In the moccasins his feet felt free as he stepped up in answer to an authoritative wave from the small man. Birke loomed up, sheathed sabre in hand, a black scowl pulling his thick eyebrows into one bushy bar.
"You fight fair, and when a man is down, you don't hammer him," warned the master of ceremonies. "When I say go—you go!"
Were this a duel of bare points, Ritchie would have had little doubt of the outcome. He had spent too many hours with a fencing foil not to believe that he was the superior of most of the dragoons. But the added weight of the sheath would be a drag on the wrist which had to be allowed for. Birke, he believed, however, was of the bull type—striving to win through sheer weight and the beating down of his opponent. And the rush with which the big man greeted the "go" proved his point.
Ritchie twisted to the left, escaping the full brunt of the charge, managing to get in one counter thrust which brought a grunt out of Birke. The awkwardness of their weapons cut down Ritchie's advantage of skill, while it gave full marks to Birke's greater muscle. When he had a hard time staving off the second rush, Ritchie began to wonder if he had been so clever after all. A pounding from a sheathed sabre might be even worse to endure than one delivered by Birke's fists. No longer so confident, he began to use his wits, attempting to adapt to this fight what he had learned with the tricky foils. And on the second sally he was able to get home below Birke's short ribs with a force which drove the air out of the big man's lungs and left him gasping—but not before Ritchie had taken a slam across his shoulder which made his left arm numb.
"What's going on? Stop this!" Ritchie's sabre was swept out of his weakened grasp. B
irke stood with his hands pressed to his aching ribs.
Sergeant Herndon was between them, the stout cane he had used against Ritchie's sabre held up like the master-of-arm's governing foil at a match. Out of the tail of his eye Ritchie saw the audience thinning away. But Tuttle not only stood his ground but came up, a quirk of a smile touching his lips.
"Goin' t' be all official-like, Scott?" he drawled. "Ain't nothin' much yo' can do with these boys—they was careful t' git off limits 'fore they set 'bout tryin' t' carve each other. 'N it looks like they ain't had much chance to do real damage t' government property—meanin' themselves. Now yo've stopped it. Might as well fergit, eh?"
Ritchie stooped to grope for his jacket. His left arm was beginning to ache. And he was foreseeing a gloomy stretch of time to be spent in the guardhouse. But, to his surprise, Herndon was not ready to march them back into the clutches of law and order. Instead the Sergeant spoke to Birke who was still nursing his ribs.
"Second brawl this month you've been mixed up in, Birke." Herndon's clipped words were hard. "This means a noncom's court. As for you," he looked to Ritchie, "you seem totally unable to keep out of trouble, Peters. You may report to my quarters after retreat."
He went off as if neither of them mattered any more. Ritchie was making a hard business of putting on his jacket when Tuttle came to his aid. The young dragoon's sabre was under the scout's arm, and the older man took him by the elbow and steered him up the hill to a low adobe wall.
"At least I'm not yet in the guardhouse." He spoke his first thought aloud.
Tuttle chuckled. "Not likely, son. Herndon knows Birke 'n he's had an eye on yo'. Yo' ain't the gamecock sort—goin' outta yore way t' pick a fight. Birke's bullied new men before, 'n the Sergeant knows it. Only—mind yo' take yore wiggin' respectful-like tonight. Scott ain't an impatient man, but he don't take any sass from young 'uns neither. He ain't the sort as most likes—too keen on his job 'n bein' mostly right. But he's got more guts than most, 'n he leans hisself over backwards bein' straight with the men. That's why he's got some here as will follow him inter hell, should he take a leetle notion of patrolling down that thar way. Should be an officer by rights, but somehow he won't make the jump. Got somethin' back behind those gray eyes of hissen what hurts him bad now 'n again—makes him hold hisself up all tight 'n hard. Jus' don't yo' rile him none when he lights inter yo'. He's like to flay the skin offen yore back with his tongue—all a matter of what he considers his duty. Only them what don't take to doin' duty regular —'n some what do—mostly winds up here. If they are found at all!"
He jerked his finger over his shoulder up the rise of the hill. Ritchie looked more closely at the narrow wooden boards that stood sentry at the end of each mound. He could read the words carved on several of the nearest.
"Hiram Johnson, ist Dragoons, died of wounds inflicted by the Apaches. Lester Silvers, tortured to death by Apaches. K. Knowles, met his death at the hand of Indians. Unknown man tortured and killed by Apaches."
"Kinda intimidatin', ain't they, son?" Tuttle spat a stream of tobacco juice downhill. "That's why a man hasta keep his wits 'bout him in this here country. In the summer we fight thirst 'n Apaches. In the winter we fight snow 'n Apaches. When yo' see Apache sign, be careful, 'n when yo' don't see nary a sign, yo' gotta be more careful yet!"
But almost before the words had left his lips, Tuttle was on his feet, staring keen-eyed down the slope. Then he reached down and pulled Ritchie up.
"The signs read as how we're gonna be needed down thar, son. Gita-movin'!"
The one-time Mountain Man moved downhill at a swift pace, which made Ritchie breathe faster. He hadn't yet seen what had startled the scout into action.
There was a wagon coming up the fort road. Mules ran at a full gallop along the rutted stretch, their ears laid back, their mouths spewing foam about the bits. From the wheels came tiny puffs of whitish smoke.
"Golly—the greasin' tar's bumin'!" shouted the sentry. "That's travelin'!"
Ritchie ran for the barracks. He could guess that such speed meant bad news. He was strapping his belt about him, forgetting even the pain in his bruised shoulder, when the summons he had been waiting for rang out—the trumpet call of "Boots and Saddles."
They pounded for the stables. Anything from a short sally after a raiding party to a whole Indian war might be before them now.
3
''Ain't No Winter Fer Apaches''
The lone wagon which banged into the fort at a dead gallop, its wheels smoking from friction, proved to be the only survivor of the paymaster's cortege.
"Roast 'n fry them ‘Paches!" growled the dragoon on Ritchie's left as they swung into the saddle. "Stow away my pay under their lousy breechclouts will they! I'll double-eagle the—"
Ritchie was watching the falling snow.
"Kind of bad weather for an Indian attack, isn't it?"
The dragoon spat an expertly aimed brown stream, "Lissen here, there ain't no winter fer Apaches—no, ner no summer neither. Them dodblasted devils raid all year round. We freeze 'n then we fry, but them—they jus' laugh at the weather. This time we're gonna freeze."
To this gloomy prophecy they rode out of the fort, carbine on hip, the guidon cracking in the stiff wind at the head of the column. Breath from men and horses made blue-white streams on the air. It wouldn't be long now before dusk closed in. Up front Lieutenant Gilmore, Tuttle, Velasco, and Herndon headed the small troop.
The snow was falling steadily but in fine shifting particles that had not yet covered over the back trail of the fleeing wagon. They rode at a steady trot, the jangle of equipment providing an accompaniment to the pounding of hooves on the frozen ground. Ritchie pulled his scarf up to cover his mouth. When the wind puffed snow into his face, it was hard to catch a full breath.
Night had closed in by the time they reached the scene of the ambush, a rock-strewn, narrow slash in the foothills. The carcass of a mule lay in a pool of bloody slush, hacked so that the bare white bones protruded from the shredded flesh. Mule meat was an Apache delicacy.
As the sound of their advance echoed up the passage, black shadows drifted back into the cover of the rocks. Ritchie caught a glimpse of yellow eyes. Already the wolves were out. For the first time he was glad he rode fourth in line and was assigned as horse-holder. It was better to stamp around in the snow holding the reins of four bored and impatient mounts than to be up ahead making the necessary grim search. He kicked at a round object half-hidden by a stone. A canteen slithered across the rock, the round eye of a bullet hole in its side.
The next horse-holder edged closer, saw the nature of the find, and cleared his throat.
"Let's hope they was all lucky," he said flatly.
Ritchie glanced again at the bullet hole. "Lucky!"
"Yeah. The lucky ones git it quick, head or heart. The unlucky ones—they's still breathin' when them red devils git to 'em. Always keep one shot fer yoreself, soljer. That's what I do."
Ritchie swallowed and pulled at the reins he held bunched in his hand. Bess snorted and rolled her eyes at him warningly. The business ahead was taking a long time. He tried to keep from thinking why.
But now Herndon came tramping out of the darkness.
"Emmett, Harkness, Grimsall, Worth, and Robbins. You will escort the bodies back—under the command of Sergeant Woldemar."
There was a confused milling as the troop sorted into two parties. Ritchie was hurriedly relieved of his three charges and dropped into the single file of men and horses going on. It was too dark to see much, for which he was grateful, but he did not look around until they were out of that horrible pocket of stones and death.
Still dismounted, they went on, each blindly following the man just ahead until the order to halt was passed along. A sheltering outcrop of rocks and some pinons gave protection against the wind and driving snow. Ritchie stripped the mare and dropped his saddle beside Sturgis'. Later, numb with cold and half-blind with staring into the dark after a tour of gu
ard duty, he crept into the cave of blankets and boughs that Sturgis, an old campaigner, had designed and slept heavily but not without dreams.
Reveille brought him up at daybreak with a wildly beating heart. His hands were stiff with cold as he rubbed down the mare, putting his driest blankets next to her hide and the snow-wet one under the saddle. The crack of side arms and the sharp ping of carbine fire brought the snow sliding down branch and rock as the dragoons tested their arms against the damp and reloaded.
"What a bivouac!" Sturgis held his steaming cup of coffee under his chin to warm his face before he sipped the scalding liquid. "Let us piously hope that the scuts we are after had a worse one." His tin cup rattled against his teeth as he drank. "And—to add to all our pleasure—we may only be running about in circles now."
Ritchie struggled with a mouthful of bitter-tasting bacon and iron hardtack crumbs. He jerked toward where Gil-more, Tuttle, and Herndon made a tight little group. The more picturesque Velasco had disappeared.
"They must have something to go on—" he mumbled after a valiant swallow.
"Oh, sure. They have something. And we'll be pulled on over mountains on a trail only an eagle could comfortably follow. With that crowd in command there's no hope of anyone saying 'sign lost' and marching us back sensibly. Tuttle could smell out a kite five miles off and up, and where he leaves off, Velasco begins. He's more'n half Apache, and you know what they say about them— 'The Apache has the eye of a kite, the ear of a cat, the cunning of the desert fox, and the courage and tirelessness of the gray wolf.' That zoo, rolled up in a blamed good fighting man, is what we're going to chase in our usual flat-footed fashion." He scowled and tilted his cup for the last drops.
Ritchie had never expected pursuit on a still-warm marauders' trail to be such a dull and wearying business. They plodded on through the gray light of the morning, with frequent halts to allow the scouts time to verify the traces. Once one of the dragoons picked up an arrow with a broken shaft, its quartz point catching fire from the weak sunlight. But that was the closest they came to the elusive enemy all that long day.
Norton, Andre - Novel 15 Page 3
