"So Sharpe is thinking of heading into the 'Tower' country." Woldemar had fallen back to join them. The hounds were running in questing circles out over the plains, disappearing now and again into the dry arroyos which nature had cut to trap the unwary.
"The 'Tower' country," repeated the German. "Do you believe that story they tell about it—of castle towers mounting up into the sky? No one has ever confessed to seeing them with his own eyes—he is only repeating stories he himself heard."
"Someday"—Herndon tugged at the tight collar of his jacket—"we may be able to learn more about these ruins. Maybe there are sky towers back in the mountain canyons. We have all seen the cities in the cliff caves. What kind of people built and left them—"
"The Old Ones?" Tuttle had come up in time to hear that. "I wonder now—could they be them old 'Gyptians what were in the Bible, them what held the Jews in bondage?"
"What about those Indians down in Mexico?" ventured Ritchie. "Didn't they build regular cities of stone?"
"No." Tuttle shook his head decisively. "No Injuns ever built them cliff places—they ain't no Apache livin' what could put two stones together 'n make them stick!"
"The Pueblos do," pointed out Woldemar. "Anyway, these towers of which Velasco has spoken—those of the Gallina country—they are not even like the cliff houses."
"This must have been a great country before the water went," commented Herndon. And then he straightened in the saddle. "Hello! Boru has started something!"
The hound had given tongue and was lengthening out in the chase, a gray shadow joined by his mate. All four of the riders set spur and were off, Ritchie only delayed by the responsibility of the pack mule, which saw no reason to gallop over the countryside. Whatever the hounds pursued was heading straight for the dark line which marked timber.
Their prey was a coyote and an old and wily one. It made the timber and freedom before Boru could come up with it. But in the scent of the pinon and juniper the hunters reined up good-naturedly without too much disappointment.
Tuttle squinted up at the sun. " 'Bout make Charlie Black's place by mess call," he observed. "If he's at home, he can put us onto a good hot trail. Charlie's master at huntin'."
They rode on with loose reins, easy in the saddle. Woldemar began Ritchie's woodcraft instruction under a running chorus of chaff from the scout.
But with the aid of the German sergeant's keen eye, a dry tangle of leaves and twigs stuck helter-skelter like a handful of drift in a greasewood bush became a prairie mouse nest.
"Apaches eat 'em," was Tuttle's footnote to that. "Hunt 'em out with switches 'n broil 'em. T'ain't nothin' in this country Apaches can't eat 'n nothin' he won't!"
"Except fish," struck in Herndon, steadying a notebook on his saddle horn as he made some of his constant entries.
" 'Cept fish," conceded Tuttle. "They think fish is deadly poison. Fish 'n owls—they can't stand neither."
Charlie Black's place duly appeared on the bank of a dry stream bed, but it had a small spring in attendance. They accepted the hospitality of the small red-bearded man who came bouncing out at Tuttle's hail and jabbered at them joyfully.
"I sure like company!" he spluttered as he hacked a steak off the deer carcass he had hanging in the lean-to. "Ain’t seed nobody else in a month o' Sundays, fellas. Huntin', eh? What you want—deer, lion, bear—? Bear ain't good—jus' outta winter sleep—"
“Charlie Black!" Tuttle swelled. "I ain't no greenhorn. Sure bear's no good. 'N how's the Apaches bin lately?"
The small man flung back his head and gave vent to a laugh which appeared likely to split his scraggly throat.
"Not a bit friendly-like, Jesse, not a bit. Don't know why, I'm sure."
"Yo' ol' horned toad!" There was honest admiration in Tuttle's voice. "They ain't caught on yet, eh?"
"Still got my hair, ain't I? No, they ain't." The little man suddenly dropped on all fours and rocked back on his haunches. His posture suggested the dog or wolf, and from between his lips came the nerve-shattering howl Ritchie had last heard in the snow wilderness of the mountains—the cry of the hunting wolf. As quickly again his stance changed; by some magic the angular lines of his body faded into the sinuous grace of a cat. And now the scream of a demented and tortured woman arose, sending the hounds outside into a frenzy of wild barking. Then Charlie was himself again, back at the fire and busy with his cooking.
"Yeah." Tuttle nodded critically. "Yo’ ain't lost yore touch—ner yore voice neither, Charlie. Yo' see"—he turned to Ritchie—"the Apaches they caught Charlie 'bout five-six years ago. Got him stripped fur the torture 'n all. Then Charlie, he jus' up 'n went mad on 'em. He barked like a coyote, howled like a wolf, 'n let off steam like a lion. Then they let him go—pore ol' locoed fella."
Charlie chuckled. " 'N I sat me down right here at their favorite spring, so I did. They jumped me here, 'n here I'm gonna stay. Makes 'em mad, but they can't do nothin'. Kinda fun—'noyin' them thisaway—keeps me from goin' hill-nutty sometimes. Wal, boys, eat up good 'n heavy 'n then tell me what yo' lookin' fer. Good lion huntin' in these parts now. Fresh trace all over the hills out back."
Lion, it was decided by Tuttle and not objected to by the rest, should be their quarry. And when the meal was done, the mule and the horses were saddled and packed, and they went on, Charlie jogging along on foot at a pace which matched the mounts'.
"Put yo' on the trail of Big Gray. He's smart, learned hisself how to skin porcupines. Yessiree, kin git ol' porky outta his hide as easy as peelin' a grape. I've bin chasin' ol' Big Gray two years 'n ain't seed more'n a tail-tip flirtin' away whar I can't git to him. Seein' as how yo' is an ol' Mountain Man, Tuttle, yo' kin have the runnin' down of Big Gray. Looky here—his sign right enough!"
The hounds were sniffing cautiously at a queer little bundle on the ground. It was a porcupine skin turned neatly inside out—the deadly quills still intact. Woldemar greeted this sign of the lion's skill with open amazement.
''But it—it is impossible! The quills—they would fill the mouth—"
Black shook his head. "Not Big Gray's. He likes the critters. Found four in one day oncet—peeled right outta their hides. 'N he's bin doin' it 'bout two years. I'd give a full poke of the right kinda dust to catch him doin' it 'n see how he works it!"
It was almost as if the big cat, knowing that its trail would be followed, had decided to make it as difficult for pursuers as possible. Either the tracks led down almost perpendicular slopes, where the horses had to put their feet forward and slide eight or ten feet down smooth rock before they could get proper footing again, or else they led up cliffs where there seemed to be no holds at all.
"Maybe he grows hisself wings when he has to—" suggested Tuttle at last.
But Charlie Black motioned them forward. There were traces in the gravelly sand which they could read and which Herndon translated for Ritchie's enlightenment.
"Deer stalk. See, there're the marks of the lion's tail—that fan shaped imprint—he twitched it back and forth just before he jumped—and that trough in the middle was made by his dragging belly fur."
"Got his deer, too!" broke in Charlie. The signs of the kill were so clear that not even Ritchie could misread them.
" 'N cached the rest away right here." Several hundred yards further on Tuttle raked aside branches and sand to disclose the stiffened, bloody remains of a carcass.
"Ain't bin back for a second feed—which means he ain't gonna be. If Big Gray don't come back within the day, he never does. He's funny that way—"
"Nice haunch here." Tuttle eyed the kill professionally.
"Ain't more'n clawed a bit. If we'd come up to it sooner, might have had us a good feed, too. Man could eat pretty well jus' followin' one of the big cats around 'n stuffin' at the same table. Ha—Boru has the trail again—"
The greyhound was giving tongue at the far end of the canyon, and they hurried to join him. He was pawing at the end of an almost straight wall of rock.
"
Silly dog," panted Woldemar. "It is lion we hunt, not birds!"
"Maybe so. But Big Gray went up here." Charlie pointed to some deep scratches in the rock. "That thar's his sign."
"Well, we can't follow him!" Herndon measured the slope with a calculating eye. "This gray devil of yours, Charlie, must have suction pads on his feet!"
"Yessiree! He's a smart oF devil!"
"Smart enough to have hisself a good laugh now 'n then. Look thar!" Tuttle stabbed his finger in the direction of the cliff above them. "Leetle to the right of that thar scrubby bush. Thar's a ledge 'n on it—"
"Big Gray!" Herndon was the first to follow directions.
For a long moment Ritchie saw nothing at all. And then a slight movement of the big furry head gave it away. Crouched on what must have been a very small ledge was a long sinuous body. And looking down at them from a snarling mask of cat rage were two slits of green eyes. The lips curled back showing fangs too sharply pointed to be pleasant. And then, as might a ripple of water, the whole long body flowed up and was gone with a last contemptuous flirt of the black tipped tail as it disappeared over the sky line.
"Ate hisself a big dinner 'n holed up for a leetle snooze," Charlie deducted. "We woke him up, 'n he ain't very pleased 'bout that. Mighty mad tomcat jus' went over that thar ridge—"
"Whar we ain't goin' to follow him," Tuttle observed. "Guess we'll go back to deer—they ain't goin' to fly away on us. Big Gray will be halfway over the next mountain by now."
Woldemar swung back into the saddle. *lt is true what they say of this land—only the Apaches and the rock lions can live soft here. We dragoons—we have to work for what we get."
"Which will now be deer." Herndon patted the rifle he held. "And shall we get to that business now, gentlemen?"
9
“Rather Have Me a Mule!”
The number of mounted passes which Herndon and Woldemar managed to obtain during the next weeks seemed unlimited, and Ritchie found himself—to his own secret surprise—included in the majority of them. On the other hand, when they were at the fort neither of the sergeants were particularly friendly, so he was puzzled as to why they asked him to join those hunting and mapping expeditions for which there was always a crowd of eager applicants. He finally decided that it was Tuttle who brought him into this select group and was increasingly grateful to the scout for it.
Because, away from the environs of the fort and town, he rode into a new world. And while they always came home with game strapped on the pack mule or mules, hunting itself was not the prime reason for their travels. Herndon and Woldemar were both map makers, and the German in addition gathered seeds, roots, and pressed leaves and flowers in his attempt to compile some sort of botanical guide to the region.
"Last time to kick up yore heels, son," Tuttle said one morning as their party came away from a spring where they had camped. "We're goin' back to work—"
"A raid?" Ritchie's hand almost unconsciously dropped to the light shotgun he carried across his saddle.
"Nope! Sharpe's comin' in to join us."
Ritchie remembered. "He's the camel man!"
Tuttle aimed a bomb of tobacco juice at the head of a polka-dotted ocellated lizard sunning itself on a nearby rock.
"I don't hold with camels. Rather have me a mule any-day. Now a mule, yo' can tell how he's thinkin', even if it is contrary. But them camels—a man can't ever git hisself inside one of their heads!"
"They can pack from five hundred to over a thousand pounds and live off the country," Herndon pointed out, "which is more than any mule can do. They don't need much water, and their feet never give out. Don't have to carry extra shoes for them."
"Hosses 'n mules hate 'em. 'N they make mighty good targets for Injuns. Goin' to try to git yo' that bull today, Scott?"
Herndon laughed. "That bull's more likely to get me someday, Jesse. But it won't do any harm to trail along in his territory a while. He's a monster, isn't he?"
"Biggest critter I ever seed. Like to match him up to a buffalo bull 'n see which'd come out of that a-flyin' with his tail up!"
"Where did he come from in the first place?" The tracks of the wild bull had been pointed out to Ritchie the night before, but the story of how he had come into this bush country had not been told.
"Apaches raided out some ranches down here two-three years ago. What stock they didn't butcher went wild. This bull, he's smart, he has been livin' out here ever since."
"That bull—he thinks like a man," Woldemar cut in. "It is the truth—he thinks. I would not want him on my trail!"
"Well, no one has collected his hide yet. Let's see if we can, gents." Tuttle led off on a trail which even a greenhorn such as Ritchie could follow.
Yucca in dingy white flower began to stand out among the greasewood. The Spanish daggers pointed menacingly to the cloudless sky, and the tall branched stocks of God's candles made avenues down which they threaded their way, avoiding the spiky, thorned arms of the plants as best they could.
''There he is!" Woldemar pointed.
Sure enough, a large white animal was moving slowly, grazing on a few scattered clumps of buffalo grass. Tuttle gathered into his hand the loops of the lariat that had hung by his saddle horn.
Almost as if he had heard the German's exclamation, the bull raised his head and turned to look back at them. The wide spread of his heavy horns made a threatening triangle of his head. He stood with his front feet planted deep, and now that head went down.
Ritchie tightened rein. He had seen that stance before and he knew what it meant. As the head swung a fraction of an inch lower, he used his spurs.
The bull charged straight at them. For all his bulk he was as quick as a snake in dodging the lariat loop, making a skidding turn. The knot of horsemen broke up, and now they circled him at a distance. The bull's heavy snorts of rage were loud as he hooked his horns into the turf and pawed deep holes with nervous hooves.
For the second time he charged, this time straight at Tuttle. The scout's horse was away, skimming fleetly between two giant Yucca. Then a shot snapped out. The bull stood still for a long moment before he plunged forward in a second raging rush. But this time he was not sure on his feet. He tossed his head, and Ritchie saw a rope of bloody foam break from his muzzle. At the foot of a tall cactus tree he keeled over to his knees and then fell on his side.
"Got him!" There was boyish exultation in Herndon's voice.
He rode up and slipped from the saddle, dropping reins for his mount to stand. As he drew a skinning knife from his belt, he walked toward the white body on the ground.
"Scott!"
"Gott, man!"
The warning cries blotted each other out. That white body was heaving up to its feet again. Herndon jumped back. But the horse he was heading for was already gone. One look at that rising shape had sent it running wildly away, snorting in terror. Ritchie's shotgun was at his shoulder. He was able to snap out a single shot as the bull charged.
Herndon flung himself to one side, right into the torturous embrace of a cactus. There he clung in spite of the thorns while the bull pulled up, bellowing harshly.
Ritchie fumbled at reloading. But before he could get the cartridge in, Woldemar's shotgun and Tuttle's rifle both spoke. There was an answering cry of pain and fear, and for the second time the bull fell to his knees and then rolled over on the trampled ground. But this time they stayed at a safe distance until the round side stopped heaving and the snorting breath faded away.
It was then that Ritchie became aware of a monotonous sound at his left. Herndon was singsonging a few choice words as he pulled himself, with a maximum of rips, bloody scratches, and inches of torn skin, out of his refuge. He stood there dripping blood and nursing torn hands. As his companions came up to render aid, he glared at them.
"Go on—say it!" he spat out. "I'm the greenest fool that ever forked a horse. All right—I am! But get these unmentionable spikes out of me before I go crazy!"
Tuttle walked ar
ound him. "Big job—this," he observed with a professional air. "Picked yoreself up a right smart lot of prickles that trip, boy—"
Herndon exploded, and his words smoked.
"All right, all right." The scout made soothing motions with his hands. Woldemar was laughing openly, and Ritchie bit the corners of his lips to keep them sympathetically straight. "Git yore knives out, fellas." Tuttle turned to them. "Might even be a skinnin' job 'fore we're through."
The extraction of the cactus thorns was a painful job both for the extractors and their victim. But at the end of an hour Herndon said briefly, between set teeth and with a very dangerous gleam in his eyes, that he now thought he could survive without their further ministrations and would they please go attend to the bull so that they could all get out of there and start back for civilization.
He stayed spread out on the blanket where they left him, gathering his strength for the return trip, while they skinned the bull. Woldemar regarded the horned skull regretfully.
"Such horns you do not often see. They would look good over the barracks door—"
"We can maybe pick them up later," Tuttle consoled him. " 'N the ants and birds'll have the skull cleaned up for us too. Huh—what's that?"
That was the sound of an army bugle, sharp and clear across the level ground. Ritchie was on his feet and snatching for the reins almost before the last notes broke. Herndon hobbled up, his face a thundercloud of pain and disgust but his hand out for the bridle. The Sergeant reached the saddle and gave a little screech of real agony, but he spurred forward through the thicket of cactus in the right direction. And the others were not slow in following.
A queer caravan was winding across the plain. The guidon slapping at its head and the predominance of dark blue shirts marking its length identified it as an army one, but the odd, lumbering, brown-gray beasts at its tail were not so easy to recognize.
Norton, Andre - Novel 15 Page 10
