Norton, Andre - Novel 15

by Stand to Horse (v1. 0)

  “Sharpe 'n his camels!" Tuttle broke out.

  “Let us join them," Woldemar suggested. ''It won't take us long to load that hide, and we shall be able to catch up easily."

  Herndon shrugged, winced all through his body, and made a scorching comment. He stayed mounted, waiting for the rest to gather up the hide and load it. And the pace he set to join the caravan was anything but a wild one.

  So it was that they came into the fort riding with Captain Sharpe. The mules and horses in the corrals scented the four camels. Heads up, snorting in wild alarm, they dashed around and around the enclosures like mad things and kept it up until the camels had been picketed on a line of their own some distance beyond the stables.

  There was a lot of excited talk in the barracks as Ritchie came in, his saddlebags across his arm.

  "Bite, don't they?" one dragoon was demanding hotly. ''Got teeth like sabres. Bet they could take a man's arm clean off en him! I ain't messin' 'round with none of them babies—that I tell yo'!"

  "Mules aren't too comfortable," Sturgis observed.

  "Yeah, I know. Mules can swop ends quicker'n a woman can change her mind, 'n they're as ornery as all git out. But they ain't got necks like snakes, 'n they ain't 'bout eleven feet tall. I'm a dragoon—but I ain't enlisted to be no camel dragoon!"

  "What kind of luck did you have this time?" Sturgis asked Ritchie under cover of the continuing camel discussion. "How did our mighty Nimrods conduct themselves?"

  Ritchie remembering several moments of the past morning snickered and then laughed outright.

  "We got that big white bull the boys have been talking about. Tuttle took his hide over to town for tanning. Big enough to make a real rug."

  Sturgis rolled over on his bunk and lit a cigarrillo, puffing the acrid smoke out into the room.

  "Turning you into a regular scout, aren't they?"

  Ritchie distrusted Sturgis in this mood. "Tuttle knows a lot," he answered warily. "You can pick up quite a bit about this country from him—"

  "Sure. Sure." The Southerner allowed the smoke to curl out of his nostrils.

  "I don't know why they want to be bothered with a greenhorn like me," Ritchie was goaded into saying by the other's tone. "I suppose I'm a pest—and Woldemar and Herndon are almost as good as Tuttle."

  "So you don't know why they do it?" Sturgis' voice held that light mocking inflection which could get under a listener's skin. "You, m'boy, are the brand being snatched from the fire. Catch 'em young and train them up in the way they should go. That's what's happening to you. You're being hand-raised and milk-fed now. They want to make you into a perfect little dragoon, a credit to the company— a living example of their schooling—"

  Ritchie threw his belt across the bunk.

  "Did I hurt your feelings now?" That hateful voice went on, low pitched so that it did not carry beyond their own comer. "But it's about time someone opened your innocent eyes for you. You're going to be a lily white lamb—a credit to this blasted regiment. I know the whole process —I went through it once." Sturgis sat up; his eyes were on the brown roll of tobacco he was turning between his fingers.

  ''When I first hit this post, I had some quaint ideas about starting all over, my slate clean and so forth. How incredibly young one can be!" His face was suddenly pinched and old. ''They all gathered round. Then came payday, and I made a misstep—several of them all together. After that I was allowed to proceed to the Devil in my own warped fashion. It's entertaining at times—watching the righteous at work." He got up and stretched. "Some tame Apaches set them up a little trading post outside limits. Want to look over their stock?"

  The mocking note was gone. He was again the Sturgis whom Ritchie could not resist. With eager assent he piled away the rest of his hunting gear and joined the Southerner.

  Beyond the sentry's beat was spread out the meager stock in trade of the desert men. An iguana in a crude cage-Apaches considered them good eating was Sturgis' contribution to Ritchie's store of knowledge—some skilfully made bows and, at the end of the line, a sword. It was very old and the blade notched and worn, but the guarded hilt gleamed.

  "Where did he get that, I wonder?" Ritchie looked from the blade to the wrinkle-seamed face of the oldster who squatted there holding it.

  To his surprise Sturgis made a stream of guttural sounds and flipped a cigarrillo to the old warrior. Through the yellow stubs of his remaining teeth the Apache lisped back an answer.

  "Looks like you've latched onto a real relic, Rich. This old fella says his father found it out in the desert alongside the skeleton of a man. Might be a Spanish piece—even belonging to one of Coronado's gold hunters. He says that he is now too old for the war trail"—Sturgis jerked a thumb at the Apache—"and has come in to make peace. He will trade the sword—"

  “For what?" Ritchie forgot to disguise his eagerness.

  The old man grunted and pointed. Ritchie's hand went to his own throat where the silk of the girls' gift lay in folds.

  "I guess not!" he snapped.

  Sturgis shrugged. "No use offering him anything else now that he has seen that."

  "Hey, Sturgis!" Kristland pounded up behind them. "Here's a chance to get back some of that cash you dropped to the gang. Ant fight!"

  Sturgis' tongue swept over his lips. There were little eager lights in his eyes.

  "Where?" he demanded.

  Kristland was already on his way. "Back of the barracks."

  Sturgis' hand closed in a viselike grip above Ritchie's elbow. "Come on, boy. This is a chance to get some spare cash. Maybe you can win enough to tempt that old devil out of his sword after all. Only, don't bet on the blacks 'less they're about three to one. They haven't got the guts of the reds!"

  The fighting arena was a large basin, and the warriors were just being emptied into it as Ritchie and Sturgis plowed through the crowd to where they could see passably well by standing almost on tiptoe and holding their heads at a neck-cracking angle. Some enterprising promoter had hacked in halves a can of fruit, extracting the contents but leaving in the bottom of each half a thin film of sweet syrup. Each part was then partially buried in the side of one of the three-foot anthills to be found all about the fort. As soon as the sweet-seeking ants had been attracted in large enough numbers, the cans had been hurriedly brought in. However, one was dotted with black and the other with red ants, mortal enemies who fought to the death upon meeting, so a good show could be expected. The betting ran high as the combatants were dumped in, and Ritchie heard Sturgis feverishly offering three to one on the reds. He had several takers, since the black forces seemed to be numerically greater. But, as he had told Ritchie, the red fighters were more ferocious, one of them daring to tackle two or even three of the blacks at once.

  But the red warriors, in spite of their fighting spirit, appeared unable to make up for their lack in numbers and at last were worn down until their full fighting strength became a few bitter duelists at bay around the basin. Sturgis thrust his hands far down in his pockets, pockets which Ritchie could guess were empty.

  "What filthy luck!" he muttered.

  ''Wait a minute," Ritchie cautioned. ''Watch that ball over there."

  Even as he spoke the ball broke, and from its center staggered three red ants, crawling over pieces of their dying enemies to head back into the fray. As if the coming of these heroes was a signal, the few remaining reds struck into battle with renewed ardor. And when the corporal with the watch called time, there were five reds to four blacks still on their feet.

  Sturgis grinned at Ritchie. "Luck's turned!" he crowed. "First good break I've had in months! I'm going to go places now—I know it!" His face seemed hardly older than Ritchie's as he stood there accepting his winnings and exchanging chaff with the disgruntled losers.

  "How did you do?" he asked as they left.

  Ritchie laughed. "Broke even. I didn't bet."

  "You are a lamb in wolves' clothing." But there was no taunt in that, and Ritchie did not lose his gri
n.

  "Guess it's just my cautious New England blood coming out in me. I can't enjoy—"

  "Sinning?" queried Sturgis vastly amused. "Very well, now that I have drawn you into the depths and we have escaped, it's your turn to call the amusement. Hey, where are we going?"

  "Camel lines," Ritchie returned. "Didn't get a good look at them this morning. My horse wouldn't get within ten feet of them. Say—they are big brutes, aren't they?"

  "Regular elephants," agreed Sturgis, "especially that monster on the end. Wonder what it consiunes for breakfast—about four fields of hay, I would judge—"

  "They eat greasewood—some of them anyway." Ritchie looked at the one Sturgis mentioned. The animal did seem larger than the rest and was of a dusty grayish color.

  "Greasewood, cactus, anything, soljer," a man in nondescript civilian clothing said. "This here's Babu—he's a mule —cross between a camel 'n a dromedary. Sure pays his way —can carry over two-thousand poimds if he has a mind to."

  The "mule" continued to chew its cud and gaze into the middle distance disdainfully aloof from the affairs of mere humans. A large bell hung around its neck, and the cumbersome pack saddle sat a short distance away.

  "Good critters fer this country," continued the camel enthusiast, glad of an audience. "Don't git sore feet, don't need shoein'."

  “Why not?" asked Sturgis with interest.

  " 'Cause they don't shuffle none when they walk, jus' picks their feet straight up from the ground 'n puts 'em back without no slidin'. Bottom of the foot spreads out a mite, doesn't rub the skin off on tough ground. 'N they can live offen the country without water 'n eatin' greasewood 'n screw beans 'n such. They really relish that trash, I tell yo'!"

  Sturgis regarded the "mule" critically. "This fellow has a meanish eye. I wouldn't care to have him clump those teeth at me. I'll stick to horses and mules awhile yet—"

  The camel man shook his head. "This country needs camels, soljer. That's why the army brought 'em in. They can carry heavy 'n travel twenty-five to thirty miles a day. Show me a mule as can do that!"

  "You have a point there," Sturgis conceded, rocking back on his heels. "Only some Apache is going to begin wondering how camel steak tastes. And between wondering and tasting is mighty small distance for Apaches. An animal as big as this one will make a mighty good target."

  "Jus' let 'em try!" The camel man was fierce. "I ain't leavin' all the guardin' to yo' soljer boys."

  And he wasn't, as Ritchie discovered when he went on duty as picket guard that night—for the four hours he walked his post the camel herder spent as wakefully only a few feet away. That is, that was the situation for three hours and forty minutes. The last twenty minutes of Ritchie's tour were crowded with incident.

  It all started with the appearance of a shadow a foot too long. He had heard a good many stories of the Apaches who could strip down, roll in 'dobe mud and reeds, and do a snake progress into the fort itself to carry out successfully either a project of private murder or make away with some treasure they coveted. So ground shadows a foot too long were made to arouse suspicion.

  And he was sure—in spite of all evidence to the contrary produced later—that the shadow had detached itself from the blackness and had flowed across to join another dusky spot. That was when he challenged. The camel man echoed his challenge, and being a nervous man, accented his demand by firing into the air. The post came to life at once.

  When the excitement simmered down somewhat, Ritchie came up before an extra inquisitive group consisting of the Captain, the Colonel, Lieutenant Gilmore, and Captain Sharpe, backed by a disapproving chorus of sergeants. His story sounded thinner every time he told it. And it was a very deflated sentry who turned in at last, the comments of his aroused barracks mates adding nothing to his self-esteem.

  Comments were still being made in the morning, and it was hard to overlook all of them. Even Sturgis crossed to the mess hall with eyes on the hard-packed ground vowing he was looking for moccasin prints. But it was also Sturgis who spoke out of the corner of a cautious mouth at drill.

  "Told you Lady Luck has turned her smiles on me. My name's down for Sharpens party in the mountains. And do you know something else?"

  "No, what?"

  "Yours is too, Rich, yours is too!"

  10

  Never Stick a Picket in an Anthill

  The Sharpe expedition set off at dawn after some days of feverish last-minute preparation. Being given an hour's start, the camels were out of sight before the main body got to horse and out of the fort. Although the midsummer heat had already closed in upon them even at that hour in the morning, there was a welcome freshness in the air, and some of the horses were skittish, inclined to resent work on such a day.

  Sturgis rode almost knee to knee with Ritchie. He was in wild spirits, a constant babble of talk flowing out of him. Almost like Boru, Ritchie thought, when the big hound had been loosed and was running free on a hot scent.

  "From ten feet of snow to roses and rattlesnakes," the Southerner was saying. "That's this country for you! And we'll be seeing all three before we're very far along—Velasco's mysterious towers in the bargain! I wouldn't be surprised to come up with a giant or an ogre back in those hills-!"

  "How come Velasco isn't along?"

  "The Colonel has a southern trip planned, too. Velasco knows that country better than Tuttle. Yes, maybe we'll find something new in the hills."

  "Aren't Apaches enough?"

  "Apaches, Utes, Navahoes! What do I care? Let's see 'em all! This morning S'George Sturgis is ready to stand up to the whole world!"

  "Let us hope that you are able to keep that spirit, young man."

  Their heads swung almost as one. Captain Sharpe, his fawnskin hunting shirt tight across his shoulders and his heavy shotgun under his hand was trotting past. But Sturgis was not to be daunted by authority today.

  "I will, sir," he promised confidently. "My luck's turned for good."

  But Sharpe had probably not heard that, for he was already beyond them. Sturgis pulled at his neckerchief. "Now if we can just manage to keep out of High-n-mighty's range we're sure of a grand outing. Maybe we'll prance all the way up to the Mormon country. Shuck off that sober face of yours, Rich, this is the life!"

  And even the heat, the dust which arose to choke them, and a tour with the mulada did nothing to dampen his infectious good humor.

  Having no duty to spur their pace, they moved leisurely, taking time to map and survey possible roadways as they went. Twice they stayed over half a day in small valleys to build up and improve springs they had discovered. But the route they followed was bringing them into an arid country of sun-baked red rocks from which the water had withdrawn long ago. And the ancient crumbling remains of forgotten towns lined irrigation ditches that had not carried moisture in the memory of living man.

  The camels lived up to the claims made for them. They waxed fat on the produce of this desert. No corn had to be carried for them. In fact, Ritchie had seen them turn away from corn to chew the unpleasant greasewood branches or actually swallow screw beans, leaves, briers, and all. Patient and uncomplaining, they did a steady day's travel without slacking the mile-eating quality of their deliberate pace.

  Where horses had to be nursed and reshod and mules expressed their opinion of the whole affair by outbursts of devilish contrariness, the camels made no trouble at alL And yet few of the men warmed to the big beasts. There was something alien and unearthly about their very stolid-ness. To nostrils which accepted horse-sweat rankness and the odor of working mules as necessary and even rather pleasant, the camels still stank. And the suggested menace of their yellow teeth kept most of the dragoons at some distance.

  "Mules ain't got the sense they was borned with." Private Harkness looked out over the bunched mulada. "There's the water hole, but will these pesky, long-eared devils drink so we can mosey along? Naw, they have to be broiled good furst—and us with 'em—'fore they'll touch a drop!"

  "Oh, t
hey've sense all right," cut in Sturgis. "They're having a nice quiet rest while the horses and camels have to foot it on. No mule is going to drink until he is thirsty. And if he pretends he isn't thirsty, why then he gets to wait around 'til he is—like this." He waved his hand toward the pack mules being held out in the sun until they would drink, since reaching another water hole by evening could not be counted upon.

  "Huh." Harkness wasn't much impressed by that. He fanned himself with his hat and kept on grumbling moodily. They all had wet sponges to set in the crowns of their hats as a precaution against sunstroke. But, Ritchie thought, already the heat was just like some giant hand pressing them down into the earth.

  "Hey—looky!" Harkness was on his feet. "Somebody's comin' along our back trail."

  Sturgis shaded his eyes with his hand to look. "He's either drunk or crazy. A man traveling alone in Apache country is either or both! Why—it's Diego!"

  Metal braid made fire about the brim of the Mexican's hat and in the embroidery of his short, tight jacket. He led a mule, a finely kept, white-coated animal. And from a basket fastened to the pack saddle popped the head of his dog.

  ''Buenos dias, senores/' he hailed them as he came up. "Eet ees one fine day, ees eet not?"

  "A fine hot one!" returned Sturgis. "You taken leave of your mind, Diego?"

  The man looked perplexed. "Don' comprehend, senor. I do what?"

  "He means—yo' plum loco?" demanded Harkness. "Comin' out alone into Apache country thisaway?"

  Diego laughed. "The Apache, zey do not bother Diego. Si, to Apache, Diego ees loco. See"—he lifted his bare hands —"I carry no gun, jus' one knife weeth which to eat. I do not fight—so to Apache I am loco. Seex times have I traveled so een Apache country. I hav' wake at morning to fin' them by my fire. I do not speak. I act as eef I am alone, as eef I do not see them. They wait awhile, an' then they go. Diego ees loco, an' he can walk een the Apache country weethout fear—"