Nighthawk

by F. M. Parker

  “That is possible and wise on his part. We have much to learn about the land of the Cocopah and the Quechans.”

  “It is the white man’s land now,” Sun Wolf corrected, “and there are very many of them.”

  “And very few of us,” said Raven sorrowfully. “We must be very careful.”

  “We are enough to take this white man’s horses,” said Sun Wolf. He lifted up the Army musket and caressed the heavy steel barrel with his hands.

  * * *

  Russ often glanced at the main peak of the Growler Mountains some four miles distant to the east, trying to remember how it had lain the time before when he had followed the horse trail to water. In the months since he had been there, he was sure several floods had swept the wash. Each one would have reshaped the channel and filled the holes pawed out by the wild mustangs in search of life-sustaining water.

  A jackrabbit sprang from the shade at the bottom of a cholla cactus and hurtled along the top of the bank like a gray streak. Russ ignored the rabbit; it meant nothing since the animal could endure for months without water, surviving on the scant moisture in the plants it ate.

  The body of the dead horse meant much more. It rested, with its dry skin torn and its ribs bleached white, on the horse path that came down the bank into the bottom of the wash. The carcass indicated high odds there was water close in the gulch.

  Half a hundred paces downstream Russ spotted three holes where horses had dug at the sand and gravel. The largest was a yard in diameter and at least two feet deep. A gallon of water filled a small pocket in the bottom of the cavity.

  The desert-wise mustangs’ keen sense of smell had found water where some impervious obstruction forced it to rise almost to the surface. A man could have d of thirst never knowing water flowed less than an arm’s length away.

  Russ evaluated the path of the horses. All sign indicated only a small number of animals used the water hole. Even those mustangs traveling many miles to water tarried barely long enough to dig out a drink. They would find little grass on the desert.

  Feed grew on the mountain where precipitation fell in greater abundance, and especially on the northern slopes where snow accumulated in the winter and the shade lingered for longer periods of the summer day. Russ had seen these areas of more hospitable climate and knew grass could be found there in moderate quantities.

  He removed the shovel from behind the saddle and, starting at the largest hole, began to dig vigorously. An hour later he was pouring sweat. He sagged down to rest. As he sat cooling off, water began to seep into the excavation. Steadily the cool, clear liquid covered the bottom of the cavity.

  Russ lay down and drank deeply. After filling his canteen, he untied the horses and allowed them to quench their thirst. Then they were immediately retied as before. He planned always to be ready to ride out fast in case of attack.

  Again he labored on the water hole. Periodically he would stop and climb out of the wash and survey his surroundings, searching for enemies in all directions. Finally the excavation had been sunk waist deep and two horse lengths in diameter. The sides were sloped outward at a low angle so the hooves of the cattle would not trample the sand and gravel down and cut off the flow too quickly. When he stopped work, there was already a foot of water in the bottom.

  Russ changed the saddle from the gray to the less weary roan. Then he pulled off his boots, unbuckled his gun belt, laid it atop the boots, and waded into the deepest part of the water. For five minutes he luxuriated in a bath in the wonderful coolness of the newly created pool. Then he washed his stinking clothing hastily, and donned the sopping garments. He must hurry, it was not safe to be so off guard.

  Leaving all the horses in the bottom of the wash, he climbed the bank and, crouching down low, made his way a short distance to the top of a slight rise of ground covered with a dense stand of creosote bush.

  Silently seating himself, he peered out over the crowns of the brush. The valley was deserted, all life hiding from the sizzling sun. Time passed; his clothing dried and he began to sweat. He could not leave yet and go to the shade at the base of the mountain for he wanted any enemy that might be watching to think he planned to spend the night near the water.

  The sun sank and shadows engulfed the valley. Yet Russ continued to wait patiently for the light, still diffusing down from the sky to die and for full dusk to arrive. Then, with visibility only a few hundred yards, he hastened to his horses, sprang astride, and left at a fast gallop in the direction of the mountains. There was a lot of distance to cover and things to do before darkness completely obscured the land.

  He wanted to locate one particular canyon cutting into the face of the mountain. As best as he could remember, it was nearly half a mile deep, two hundred yards wide, and with nearly vertical walls except where it emptied out onto the floor of the main valley.

  Russ found the narrow cleft between tall rock walls. Anxious to get quickly hidden, he hurried his mounts into the opening and continued to the extreme upper end.

  The horses were hobbled by tying their front legs together with short lengths of leather strap. The moment Russ freed them from each other, the horses began to cast around for something to eat. Their hobbled feet made soft thuds on the hard ground as they awkwardly hopped about.

  Confident the mounts would not work their way out of the canyon before daylight, Russ rode off on his roan. He found a location away from the horses near the north wall of the canyon. Tiredly he climbed down and stood, half leaning, against his mount in the darkness.

  Russ felt nervous and edgy and wanted to be able to leave on a second’s notice, so he did not unsaddle. To provide the horse some relief, he released the saddle cinch a notch.

  He loosely tied the reins around his wrist. Not bothering to unroll his blankets, he lay down on the sandy ground. The roan nuzzled the man’s face, inspecting the strange position of his master. Russ reached out and rubbed the velvety smooth muzzle, glad for the horse’s presence, knowing the steadfast, reliable nature of the brute.

  Sorry I can’t let you loose to graze, old horse, thought Russ. Stay alert and wake me if an enemy comes.

  He scraped his hips and shoulders back and forth to shape the soft ground and better cushion his body. He relaxed his tired body. His breathing slowed and stead. Tuned to the movements of the tall horse standing watch over him, he slept.

  * * *

  Russ awoke in one swift rush of consciousness. He felt the pressure where the reins were pulled tightly on his wrist, and remained perfectly motionless.

  The dark outline of the horse’s head staring off down the canyon showed against the starlit sky. Its ears were pricked forward, listening, and it sucked gently at some odor on the warm, slow land.

  Russ strained to pick up a sound, but could hear nothing. He was completely dependent upon the sharp, primitive senses of the horse.

  Several minutes passed and neither man nor animal moved. Then the roan relaxed and dropped its head to rest. Wolf, lion, Indian, or whatever had alerted the horse, was gone.

  Russ measured the location of the stars and judged it to be one hour until dawn. He arose, slipped the bit from the horse’s mouth, and tied up the bridle reins so the animal would not trip on them. After sliding his rifle from its scabbard, he softly slapped the horse away to graze. The animal liked his company and would not stray far.

  Russ sat leaning against the rock of the canyon wall and holding the rifle across his lap. From nearby came a faint noise, a low tearing sound as the horse cropped the stunted desert grass. Russ reached out with his ears, beyond the noise of the mustang, through the distant darkness, listening for every sound.

  The remainder of the night slowly spent itself as Russ brooded, thinking about his parents and home, about the violent man Caloon who had accepted him as a partner, but most of all he thought about himself. Could a man who had killed two lawmen, even by mistake, ever return to the companionship of honest men?

  Maybe come daylight he would collect tire
horses and ride straight west to California.

  * * *

  Samantha Tamblin followed her two menfolk to the door of the cabin and stood in the opening until they rode away. Within a hundred yards the deep purple shadows of the early dawn swallowed them. Immediately after the rattle of the iron-shod hooves of the horses had d against the mountainside, she led up her bay mare and saddled her with practiced hands. A short-handled shovel, its blade quickly wrapped in a piece of old tarpaulin, was tied behind the saddle. From under the blanket of her bunk, she extracted a .32-caliber six- gun and strapped it to her waist. A woman’s gun, her father had said when he gave it to her.

  She stepped to the coal oil lamp and blew down the glass globe to extinguish the flame. Without delay, she picked up a full canteen and swung astride the mare.

  She spurred the gray into a rocking-chair lope up the valley. The animal seemed in good spirits and strongly mounted the rough ground that sloped up to the pass that cut through the topmost ridge of the Growlers.

  Samantha paid the animal little attention, letting it pick its own way toward the summit while she let her mind drift back over the months that had passed since she and her kin had arrived on the mountain. The winter had hung on cold and windy, not breaking for many days. But the spring finally came, warm and sunny, just in time for the birth of the calves.

  These frisky newcomers were growing rapidly and adding their appetite for grass to that of their mothers. That part of the Growlers within a three-mile radius of the cabin could not long sustain this increased demand and would soon be overstocked. More grass and water had to be found.

  The evening just past, her father and grandfather had discussed the most favorable direction to expand. Unused land existed in all directions except to the east, where Blackaby’s ranch lay. The Tamblins decided the west side of the mountain with its long broad slopes would offer the best new range for their cattle.

  Water was the limiting factor to opening up that land. A spring had to be found or perhaps there was water in Growler Wash. The wash would be the easiest to explore so it would be examined first. But the men were worried for they knew the farther they moved to the west, the deeper into rustler territory they would be intruding.

  Sam volunteered to make the search while the men finished filling in the gaps of rimrock to fence a summer pasture. They had, with some heat, forbidden her to leave the vicinity of the cabin on such a venture. She explained that Growler Wash was less than ten miles away and easily found. There was no way that she could get lost. Her argument did not sway them at all, but she had silently made her secret plans.

  Samantha reached out and stroked the powerful neck of the bay. It stretched its legs a little more at the attention, increasing its speed. Sam laughed at the animal’s response. Yes, she thought, today I will find a big water hole and increase the size of our ranch by many thousands of acres.

  CHAPTER 11

  Halfway to the top of the Growler Mountains, Samantha halted to give the horse an opportunity to catch its wind. As the animal pulled deep breaths, she looked east at the silent explosion of red and gold fanning out across the eastern sky as the dawn increased. Then, she dropped her view down into the valley to see, for the first time from the mountain, her new home.

  The twenty acres of irrigated meadow they had so laboriously leveled could easily be picked out of the desert brush, but the two-room cabin, its dark form squatting beside the spring, was barely visible. No cows were in sight. They had been pushed to the high range so the grass on the lower slopes could be saved for winter feed.

  East of the cabin, the valley floor broadened rapidly, growing to nearly two miles wide where it opened out onto the valley of the Ajo. The mountainsides adjacent to the valley reclined at a moderate angle, a slope a cow could climb without much effort to graze the grass and brush.

  She was pleased with her family’s accomplishments since their arrival on the mountain. But these past months had been filled with work from daylight to dark for all the Tamblins. Her grandfather had laughingly stated that was the way all worthwhile things were gotten.

  She glanced at the thick beds of lava rock rimming the valley on the far south side. Somewhere there, her father and grandfather were building a fence. She could see nothing of the men or their horses because of the long distance.

  Sam pulled the mare to face the mountain and sent her climbing upward, following the trails the wild animals had selected over thousands of years as the easiest route to get to the pass connecting Ajo Valley with Growler Valley. Off to the right a few hundred yards, a doe and fawn slowly picked their way up toward their daytime bed in the juniper thickets on the higher ridges.

  The doe stopped. The fawn nuzzled in close to its mother for comfort. They both watched Sam with sharp eyes until she was out of sight.

  Juniper clothed the saddle between the peaks of the mountain and extended onto the drier west face where the trees became stunted and less dense. Sam held to the cover of the trees as she crossed the pass and continued for a little way to the north, until she could look down and see the full length of Growler Valley. She dismounted and dropped the reins, ground tying the mare.

  On a soft bed of needles beneath a jumper, she found a seat and leaned back against the bole of the tree. She removed her hat to allow the gentle wind to cool her warm brow, and breathed deeply of the pungent scent of the juniper.

  A raucous cawing began, grew louder, and half a score of crows, their thick black wings scooping air, pressing it down to stay aloft, sailed by overhead. They disappeared south along the mountain, still arguing among themselves.

  Samantha remembered her father’s description of important landmarks located on this side of the mountain and began to pick them out. Straight west, ten miles or so, and half the size of the Growlers, lay the Granite Mountains. Northwest thirty miles, the Palomas Mountains were faintly visible on the hazy horizon. She knew the Gila River passed close to the mountain’s southern end.

  South of her, twenty miles, the Agua Dulce Mountains could be seen. And five miles beyond that, lay the border between Mexico and the United States.

  She started to shift her attention to Growler Valley when, as if by magic, a tiny hummingbird materialized in front of her.

  Not much more than two yards away, the half-ounce body hung swaying almost imperceptibly in the sunlight. Its brilliant red-orange throat patch and the iridescent brown of its back and sides rivaled the rainbow.

  The wings were a blur of movement, emitting a soft buzzing whisper of soft feathers stroking the air at sixty beats per second. As the bird hovered, its needle-billed head, designed to reach deeply into cactus flowers, flicked from side to side as first one bulbous black eye and then the other appraised his strange find.

  The hummer glided sideways to a downwind position to catch her scent. Sam’s eyes followed the small aerial acrobat as he drifted, stopped, remained suspended as if by some invisible thread, and examined her.

  Then, impossibly fast, quicker than she could blink, the bird darted in, closing two thirds of the space between them, stopping a mere arm’s length away. Frightened, afraid the hummingbird would mistake her blue eyes for a flower and plunge that long bill into them, Sam clamped her eyelids tightly closed and held them that way for a few excited heartbeats.

  Cautiously, she opened her eyes a crack and saw nothing; she widened her eyes more, and looked quickly around. The hummingbird had vanished as swiftly and silently as it had arrived.

  She felt a little foolish, sorry it was gone. And for just a moment, she felt a little lonely on the top of the tall mountain.

  She raised up to see if the mare had gotten her wind back and was ready to make the descent into the valley. The animal stood tense, attention fastened on something in the juniper.

  Sam never heard the approaching horse, until suddenly a young man on a tall roan rode into the clearing. She started hastily to rise. His horse saw her and stopped stone still.

  The man’s hand flashed down
and up and the black deadly eye of a six-gun pointed unerringly at her. The weapon threatened her for an instant, then disappeared into its holster.

  Apprehension showed on the man’s face and Sam wondered how close she had come to getting shot. His expression changed and gimlet eyes touched her horse, swept the patch of trees all around and the hillside beyond.

  Now the stranger’s attention settled on her, regarding her with a stern yet quizzical countenance. Sam straightened her body and steadily returned his look.

  He was tall, and clothed in rumpled, dusty clothing. A youthful blond beard, not many days old, covered a face burned brown.

  His left hand moved, sweeping the battered hat from his head. The skin above the demarcation line where his hat had protected him from the sun was startlingly white.

  “Hello,” said Russ. “You don’t act like you’re lost, but do you need any help?”

  “No, I’m not lost,” responded Sam and volunteered no further information. There was a tone in his voice, disapproval maybe, that she did not like. He had no right to make a judgment about her. He was not all that much older than she was.

  Russ was still partially stunned by the unexpected appearance of the girl. Primed for an attack by the Indians, he had come frighteningly close to triggering his gun at her when she had risen from under the tree. What was keeping him even more off balance was the striking beauty of her.

  He wasn’t quite sure that she wasn’t a lovely spirit teasing him with wide innocent eyes. However, spirits did not wear pistols strapped to their sides, although she seemed to have forgotten hers was there.

  “What in the hell are you doing on top of Growler Mountain?” he asked in a voice that was slightly hoarse.

  “And why shouldn’t I be on Growler? I have as much right here as you or anybody else.” She doubted that was really true. When he had come upon her, his reflex action had been to draw his gun in readiness to fight, or to kill if the need was there. While she had been greatly surprised at the sudden meeting, no thought of defense or attack had entered her mind.