Pete Britton had lived fifty hard years, forty of them in Indian country. He did not stop, nor did he look toward Lyndon and Breen, but walked on by to where Davis sat.
Davis glanced up. “Yes?”
“No use to ride by the MacLaughlins.”
Davis felt something inside him go sick and empty. He had liked the MacLaughlins, had sat at meals with them more than a dozen times. Three stalwart men and two women, four youngsters.
“You sure?”
Pete Britton’s irritation sounded in his reply. “Sure? Ah’m almighty sure.” He jerked his head to the north. “Smoke. Too much for a small fire. That barn an’ house, most like, sometime this afternoon.”
Lieutenant Creyton C. Davis sat very still, the trial of command before him. If he moved out now, one or more might still be alive. He might affect a rescue. On the other hand, he would be riding off into darkness with tired men against a relentless and ruthless enemy that would know he was coming. And if they were gone, the tracks could not be followed before daybreak.
If he led out his command and men were lost, he would be asked why. If he did not lead them out and some of the family could be saved, he would also be asked why. He sat very still, then said quickly, “Thanks, Pete. Anything more you can tell me?”
Pete Britton shook his head. “Daylight, mebbe.”
The old man turned and walked away to join Breen and Lyndon, who had listened. Britton jerked his head. “Ain’t no fool. Afeerd he’d want to go traipsin’ after them in the dark.”
Breen shook out his bed and pulled off his boots. He sat for a minute, looking off toward the first faint stars, then he rolled in his blankets. When he finally dropped off to sleep he could still hear the faint scratching of the Lieutenant’s pen.
In the first clear light of dawn Davis stood over the campfire with a cup of coffee. He glanced around for Britton.
“Pulled out before sunup,” Lyndon said.
Horses were led out and saddled and mounted, and the company moved out. Dust lifted, sun glinted on rifles. Davis swung his horse into the trail toward the MacLaughlins’.
Lieutenant Davis did not doubt that Britton had been correct, but it was his duty to check, and to bury the bodies if they were to be found. It was, he reflected, no pleasant task for such an early morning.
With a lift of his hand, Cotton Lyndon moved out to the flank and angled up the slope. Davis watched him, frowning slightly then turned in his saddle. “Sergeant?”
“Yes sir?”
“We’re riding into trouble. I don’t know where it will come from or when. Pass the word along. No lounging in the saddle, no carelessness. I want every man alert. This is no routine patrol.”
Breen dropped back, and Davis let his eyes go again to Lyndon. The man was riding quietly, keeping his mount to the crest of the ridge and in such a position that he could see over without exposing more man his hat and eyes.
Dust climbed, the sun grew warm. Through a notch in the trees Davis saw a fleck of bright green. That would be the cottonwoods at the MacLaughlin ranch.
As they came out of the draw into the wide valley, all was still in the morning sun. Where the ranch house had stood they could see blackened ruins and a slow lift of smoke. Davis tightened his lips. His eyes swung around the valley.
“Sergeant?”
When Breen moved up, he said quickly, “As we move in I want a perimeter defense. Detail a burial party. There’ll be bodies down there. Have Corporal Patton take six men and sweep those woods.”
“You think they’re still here, sir?” Breen was dubious. “It ain’t like them, sir.”
“They’re Apaches, Breen.”
“Yes, sir. Of course, sir.”
Breen dropped back. The Lieutenant was right, of course. There was no telling what an Apache might do, except that it would be the most unexpected thing. Breen had heard it said that Davis was too careful. With Apaches a man could not be too careful.
The company moved into the ranch yard and swung down. The bodies were there. After a quick glance, Lieutenant Davis turned aside. MacLaughlin, his two sons, and the women. They had all died here. It was better than being prisoners, except, perhaps, for the children. The Apache, a cruel and vicious fighter, was kind to children, often adopted them into the tribes and treated them gently. With women it was otherwise.
He glanced around. Patton was moving out with six men toward the small grove of trees, the burial party was working, other men had moved out, and the perimeter defense was set up. Suddenly Davis glanced around. There was no sign of Lyndon. Anxiously he walked to the edge of the yard and glanced around the hills. No rider, no dust.
Breen walked toward him, hat in hand, mopping his face. “Nasty job sir. They’re hacked up mighty bad.”
“How many do you think?”
“Maybe a dozen. Not more’n twenty,” Breen put on his hat. “Nothing we could have done, sir. It was earlier than Britton thought. Yesterday morning, I reckon.” He indicated the corral. “Horses didn’t eat all the hay they were fed.”
Davis nodded. It fitted with what he himself had observed. The Indians must have been waiting out there at daybreak, lying perfectly still, probably scattered around the ranch.
MacLaughlin had died at the corral, struck down by three arrows. Jim MacLaughlin, the older of the boys, had evidently received some warning, for he had rushed to the door, gun in hand. There was a spot of blood at the barn that could mean a dead or wounded Indian. And Alex MacLaughlin lay sprawled and dead with an overturned bucket beside him.
“Must’ve been comin’ from the spring,” Sergeant Breen said, “an’ he saw something and yelled. Then they got him. Jim rushed to the door, an’ he stood ‘em off a spell. One of the women had her hands blackened like she’d been firin’ that old muzzle-loader.”
Davis tightened his lips. Corporal Patton stopped before him and saluted sharply. “Woods clear, sir. Found where several Indians had bedded down, sir. Looks like they’d remained some time.”
The burial party was returning, their faces gray and sick.
“All right, Sergeant. Mount up.”
They were in their saddles and moving out when they saw the rider. A horse was coming down toward them at a dead run and on the back was the bobbing figure of a man. It was Cotton Lyndon.
But it was such a Cotton Lyndon as they had never seen. The proud white mane of hair was stained red with blood. Strips had been peeled from his hide. Blood streamed from his wounds and stained the sides of the paint pony on which he was tied.
Patton raced out and caught up the horse and men surrounded the dying man. For an instant, as his body was lowered to the ground. Lyndon’s eyes rolled up to Davis.
“Vittoro. Must have seventy … men.” Lyndon caught at Davis’ sleeve. “Get out! Get out, Davis, while you can!” He choked, but clung with agonized grip to the sleeve. “Stalkin’ you! Mescaleros, Mimbrenos, Chiricahaus, an’ Tontos … all up! More comin’! Get to … fort.”
The scout’s body sagged back to the grass. Lieutenant Davis straightened. “All right, Sergeant. Bury him here, where he lies.”
He swung back into the saddle. No sign of Pete Britton. No sign of an Indian. And he had not met Hondo Lane.
Lane was out there somewhere, and his dispatches were important. His thoughts leaped ahead, placing the few outlying homes. The decision was his, and it might mean life or death for the poor unwarned devils who were at their ranches or in camp. It might also mean the end to his command.
He glanced around at them, his face expressionless. He knew every man of the company. Knew something of their troubles, trials, and tribulations. Clanahan, who drank too much, Nabors, who was surly and hard to get along with, and Sandoval, who wore a knife scar he had picked up from a senorita in Tucson.
They moved on into the desert and the morning. Lieutenant Creyton C. Davis rode beside the guidon now. His eyes reached out to the hills, and he thought of Vittoro.
Cunning as a wolf, the old chief was a fierce and vindi
ctive fighter. His treatment of Lyndon had been a warning of what he intended for them all, if they were caught alive. And how had he caught Lyndon alive? Cotton Lyndon, who knew so well all the Apache tricks? And where was old Pete?
The command moved on, trotting now, and swung around a group of low hills. They passed another burned-out ranch, and buried the dead. Davis hesitated, then made his decision. “Sergeant, have the men refill their canteens here. We’ll swing south toward Mescal Springs. When we reach the open country we’ll dismount and walk the horses.”
“Dismount?”
“Yes, Sergeant.” Davis hesitated, then said quietly, “We’re going back, Sergeant. These ranches are answer enough. There’s no reason to go on. If anyone is alive up ahead, they know more about the Indians than we do.” He paused. “We’ll dismount in the open country where they can’t ambush us. That will rest the horses. We’ll make camp early, as we did last night. When the men have rested we’ll mount up and move out slowly. I dislike to leave a good fight, but if the tribes are out, the General should be informed.
“Moreover,” he smiled, “we may get a chance to trap the old boy himself. He’s waiting for something, you can bank on that. For more warriors, possibly. I think he’s waiting to get us in rougher country, where he can use an ambush. If he thinks we’ll go on south of Mescal, he’ll probably wait. There isn’t better ambush country in the world.”
Breen nodded, waiting. Lieutenant Davis had always let him know just what he was thinking. There was nothing of the martinet in the man and he believed that if the men knew the score, each could carry on in better fashion.
“Once he knows we’ve started back, we’ll have a fight.”
“Does the Lieutenant hope to lead him back?”
Davis hesitated. “If we can, Sergeant. If we can.”
The plain opened before them, and once they were well into it, he slowed the column and dismounted the men to save their horses. Apparently they were moving into rugged country where by tomorrow every mile would offer a new trap. Would Vittoro wait? Or would he attack at the first opportunity?
Vittoro might be waiting for a contingent of Apaches from another tribe. A successful battle and much loot would do much to cement the allegiance of his allies. Nobody would realize this better than Vittoro.
They walked slowly. It was very hot. Dust arose. A road runner darted away ahead of them, a streak of dull brown against the desert. A rattler buzzed from under a mesquite bush. They walked on.
A mile, three miles. The hills were dawning nearer now. No sign of Pete Britton.
The Lieutenant mounted the column and they moved out at a walk, and they came up to Mescal Springs at four in the afternoon. Under doubled guards, they bedded down for a rest.
The sun dropped behind the hills, long shadows reached out, the mesquite clumps turned to blobs of blackness against the gray of the desert. Horses had been rubbed down and watered, a few fires were lighted, coffee was made.
Against the boulder where he sat, Lieutenant Davis waited. He was a slender young man with a face darkened by desert suns, a pleasant face, composed and still now.
He signaled Breen and Patton. They drew near and then dropped to their knees as he motioned to them.
“We’ll move out at midnight,” he told them, “keeping downslope in the sand. If we get away, when we’re a mile out well mount up. Then we’ll move at a trot.”
When they had gone, he turned to his blankets and stretched out. He would not sleep, he knew. He might rest a little…
A hand was shaking him. It was Breen. “Time, Lieutenant. Midnight.”
Davis sat up, amazed. He had slept for hours. Quickly he was on his feet, straightening his uniform, checking his gun. His horse was saddled and waiting.
All was dark and silent. Taking the lead, he moved out. The slope was soft sand and stoneless, as was much of the valley bottom. The small column moved without sound.
For ten minutes they walked. Corporal Patton moved up from the rear. “Seems quiet, sir.”
“All right.” He turned. “Sergeant, pass the word along. Mount up. Walk the horses another ten minutes.”
After ten minutes he lifted the column into a trot. Holding the pace, they held on down the valley. If they had escaped the Indians, there would be no following them until morning. It would give them a safe lead. He was already thinking ahead, checking over the country in his mind, and he knew the place.
It was not a good place for an ambush, hence was sure to be unexpected by Vittoro. There was a place among low hills … He rode on, heading directly for the fort, yet his plan was made. It was a chance to trap Vittoro and he meant to take it. The defeat of the Apache war chief might easily end the outbreak. Certainly it would end the trouble for a time. Until another chief was selected.
He held the horses to a trot for an hour, then slowed to a walk. All night they moved steadily, taking only two short breaks. At daybreak the country was opening out and by noon they would be less than forty miles from the post.
Suddenly he saw the hills. It would be here. He halted the column and quickly gave his orders. On the spot, the situation looked even better than he had remembered.
The valley down which they had been riding had ended, leaving them in a country of rolling hills. Two low hills lay on each side of the meadow, and he rode down this meadow, then moved to the right and concealed his horses in a draw. On the far slope of the hill there were several hollows ideal for concealment.
“Corporal,” Davis looked at Patton, “take Silvers and Shoemaker and get behind that hill opposite. When the enemy are well into the meadow, fire on them. I want three Indians down with those three first shots. Then fire again, get into your saddles, and swing wide and get back here. Understand?”
“Yes, sir.” Patton hesitated. “You’re going to be here?”
Davis nodded. “When you fire, I think they’ll run to this hill for shelter.”
“Yes, sir.”
Silence fell, the little dust settled. The sun rose well into the sky, the earth smelled faintly. A few flies buzzed. An hour passed slowly. Men drank from their filled canteens. They waited.
Clanahan saw them first. Davis felt his scalp tighten. They had been strengthened. There were more than seventy. There were ninety or more.
No matter.
They seemed to have no fear, no realization of what lay ahead. They rode steadily down the meadow. Two Indians were well ahead, and suddenly one of them drew up sharply. Instantly Davis knew the man had seen the bent grass where the horses had turned. The Indian wheeled his pony and yelled sharply.
From across the meadow there was a crash of shots. The Indian fell headfirst off his racing pony and turned head over heels in the grass. Two more fell, the other lead warrior and one man in the column.
It worked perfectly. Instantly the Indians broke for shelter, charging the hill behind which lay Davis and the company.
They came on a dead run, and Davis let them come. At point-blank range he fired. A crashing volley hit the charging Indians and those in the lead went down in a wild melee of screaming, wounded horses and yelling Indians. Firing coolly, Company C poured lead into the mass below. And then the Indians were out and running.
Scattered shots, then silence. Corporal Patton came up at a dead run and swung down. He saluted swiftly. “Silvers gone, sir. Tangled with a ‘Pache and both of ‘em gone, sir.”
“Thanks, Corporal. Get set. They’ll be back.”
There was sporadic firing, and Davis studied the meadow and the slope. The ambush had taken seventeen Indians and half again that many horses. A number of wounded had been carried away.
He studied the grassy plain where the Indians had disappeared. There was a faint stirring of the grass. He fired into the grass and saw an Indian half rise, then sink back.
He studied the situation. Nothing more to be gained here by sniping fire. In any event, they had taught Vittoro a lesson.
“Sergeant?”
“Yes, sir
?”
“Get the horses. We’ll move on.”
Clanahan’s voice boomed. “Lieutenant! Look!”
Davis wheeled and saw the rider. At first he thought it was an Apache, and then he knew no Indian ever rode like that. The man was hunkered down low and riding hard, but he had stirrups and there was a flash of sunlight on polished leather, and then he recognized the horse.
The rider was coming at a dead run and he did not slow up until he had plunged into the very circle of soldiers. Then he drew up sharply, his horse rearing high, and he slid to the ground. It was Pete Britton.
His hard old face was gray and there was blood on his shirt. “Lieutenant,” his voice was calm, “you got more’n a hundred Mimbrenos comin’ up behind you.”
Lieutenant Creyton C. Davis stood very still. He had his hat in his hand and he felt the wind stirring his hair. “What chance of getting through to the fort, Pete?”
“Not none a-tall.” Pete Britton hesitated, then he said quietly, “I caught me a brave. He wasn’t so brave an’ he talked. He said forty Mescaleros left the reservation last night. There’s more Mimbrenos comin’, too. You’re boxed in, Lieutenant. My guess is what we know ain’t but part of it. I figure half the Apache nation is betwixt us an’ the fort.”
“Could you get through?”
“Might.”
“I want a message taken.”
Old Pete spat into the dust, then he grinned slowly. “Lieutenant, git yo’self another boy. I got a crease in my hide back yonder. I ain’t fixed for ridin’. Anyway, I’ve took a lot of ‘Pache hair in my time. I’ll give ‘em a chance at mine.”
Davis put on his hat. “All right, Pete. Glad to have you.”
“They’ll know soon enough,” Pete said dryly. “Anyways, I’m agittin’ rheumatic these days. Figure I’d like it better thisaway.”
Lieutenant Davis turned to Breen. “All right, Sergeant. Have the boys dig in and get settled. We’ll wait for them.”
Wind stirred the grass. Sweat trickled down his face. He shook his canteen. It was over half full. They moved back to the rim of the hills around the tiny basin where the horses were held.
Hondo (1953) Page 5
