Hondo (1953)

by L'amour, Louis

  He sat down in the doorway and took off his boots. He saw a soldier coming down the line of tents. It was the same trooper that had been in the headquarters building.

  “That fellow, complaining to the Major. Who was he?”

  The trooper hesitated, liking the big man and ready to talk. “Don’t know his name.”

  “Why doesn’t he go in?”

  “Same reason he walked around your dog when you told him.” He waited, wanting to talk, hesitating. “Them Indians you took that C pennant off’n. Dead Indians?”

  “Finally.”

  He got up and turned inside. The trooper stood outside in the dark, a faint shadow in the greater darkness of the night.

  The cot creaked. Almost at once there were snores. The soldier stood alone, looking into the night, thinking of a night in his own little New England village. A night like this, cool, quiet…

  There had been a girl there. He could not even remember her name, just a quiet, pretty girl. He wished he could remember. He would like to write her a letter.

  He thought of Company C, lying under the rain, and under the stars.

  A man needed somebody to think about, he needed somebody somewhere.

  Chapter Eight

  It was after ten when Hondo awakened. Accustomed to sleeping in short snatches, when and where it was possible, his body could not attune itself to long, unrestricted rest. To oversleep was dangerous, and despite his weariness, he awakened suddenly and with a start.

  He stared up into the dark, not moving until his mind knew where he was and the countless tiny sounds began to sort and adjust themselves. Slowly his muscles relaxed. He was at the post.

  Groggily he sat up and ran his fingers through his hair. His body felt heavy and his mouth tasted bad. He swore, walked to the bucket on the table, and lifted it to drink, then he spat into the street.

  It was very dark but there were stars. A coolness left by the rain still pervaded the desert night. He bathed his face, combed his hair, and then picked up his hat. From up the company street he heard the sound of an out-of-tune piano, and with it a clear Irish tenor singing “Brennan on the Moor,” an old Irish folk song of a highwayman and his love.

  Hondo Lane stepped out into the night and looked around, sensing the darkness, taking his feel of it before moving on. Far out over the hills a coyote yapped his loneliness to the listening stars. A faint breeze stirred the tent flaps. A tent not far away showed the dull glow of a lamp and he heard a murmur of voices and a slap of cards.

  Hondo Lane walked up the street toward the sutler’s store, his boots grating on the gravel and clay of the parade ground. Two men sat outside the store, smoking. One of them murmured a greeting, and Hondo replied with a short “Howdy,” not knowing the man.

  Inside the room was crowded. It was a long and dingy room without color, without light, without women. Several men leaned against the homemade bar at one end. At the other there was a counter where trade goods were dispensed, with shelves behind it.

  The Irish tenor leaned on the battered upright piano, wearing a rumpled but once fashionable gray suit and a derby hat with a dent and a badly scuffed brim. He was a young man with a dashing mustache, and he needed a shave. The man at the piano was a cow hand, bearing out the fact that in the melting pot of the West there was no estimating the hidden talents of a drifting man.

  All were roughly dressed but the soldiers. A few were still around, although most had turned in by now. The men of the crowd were cow hands, cattlemen, gamblers, prospectors, drifters, and scouts. There was a tension in the group, and nobody was talking of what they were all thinking. In the morning a burial party would go out to inter the bodies of Company C—a party that must in itself be strong. Not a man here but might be called upon to go, and not a man here who had not lost a friend or drinking companion in the massacre of Company C.

  Hondo walked to the bar and the sutler reached underneath for a bottle of Irish whisky. He winked at Hondo, filled his glass, and said quietly, “On the house.” Then the bottle vanished again, unseen by the habitues of the saloon and store.

  Hondo looked around slowly. A card game was going at the other end of the room. Buffalo was sitting in, and Hondo recognized the man with whom he had had trouble at headquarters. There was another character of whom he had seen a good deal, not only here but at the Pass, over in Texas. A sour-faced man with a snaky look to his eyes and a habit of winning in poker games, no matter how. The last of them was Pete Summervel.

  Pete was seventeen, a hard-riding youngster, cocky, overconfident. Now he was not quite drunk, but nearing it. Obviously he was in no condition to play poker, and obviously the gambler was encouraging him to drink. Hondo tossed off his own drink and watched the game. The man with whom he had had trouble earlier seemed adept with the cards. Hondo put down his glass, drew the back of his hand across his mouth, and walked over to the table.

  Ed Lowe looked up when Hondo stopped by the table, and something in him tightened. “Three sixes and two pretty fours,” he said, spreading his cards. “I win. Let’s go again.”

  Pete looked up and grinned. “Hi, Hondo! Broke my heart when I heard you made it.”

  “Your pa know when you started going against that so-called whisky, Pete?”

  Pete grinned. The whisky was already having its effect. “Ain’t seen him for a month.”

  Hondo dropped his hand to his shoulder. “I know you haven’t, an” I’ve got a message from him for you. Come on.”

  Pete got to his feet, staggering a little. “Sure Hondo.”

  “Come down to the bar where we can talk. These gents’ll excuse you.”

  “I won’t.”

  The words were low-spoken, but Hondo heard them clearly. He turned. It was the man with whom he had had trouble earlier.

  “I’m out almost a hundred simoleans.”

  “That I can figure,” Hondo replied mildly, “with Buffalo in the game. Come along, Pete.”

  Lowe came to his feet quickly and caught Hondo by the shirt front. “Wait a minute!”

  Hondo looked at the hand gripping his shirt, then lifted his cold eyes to Lowe’s. “I just bought that shirt,” he said mildly. The other men were on their feet, too.

  Hondo pushed Pete out of range as Lowe started a punch. It was the wrong thing for Lowe to do. As the punch started, Hondo’s left hand came up and knocked the grip loose from his shirt and he stepped inside of the looping left with a lifting right uppercut to the chin.

  Lowe staggered, and instantly Hondo swung a right that knocked Buffalo into a corner. Lowe had gone down hard, but as Buffalo sat up, Lowe gathered himself.

  “What did you hit me for?” Buffalo demanded in pained surprise.

  “Because you’re the most dangerous.”

  Hondo had started to turn away when Lowe went for his gun. “Not in the back!” Buffalo shouted. “Leather it!”

  Turning swiftly, Hondo kicked the gun from Lowe’s hand, then he grabbed him by the shirt front and jerked him to his feet. Hondo smashed a right into Lowe’s stomach, then shoved him away and hit him in the face with both hands. Lowe lunged, swinging, but Hondo knocked down Lowe’s right and crossed over his left. Lowe staggered and Hondo walked in, his face expressionless. He hit Lowe with a left to the body, then a right.

  Lowe backed up, not liking it, and Hondo slapped him. It was a powerful, brutal slap that jarred Lowe to his heels and turned him half around. Then Hondo dropped him with a straight right.

  Lowe sprawled on the floor and Hondo picked him up by the scuff of the neck and the seat of the pants, and when somebody opened the door, he heaved him out into the dirt Lowe landed on his face in the gravel and Hondo waited an instant in the door.

  Ed Lowe rolled over. His body was alive with vindictive hatred and he stared up at Hondo. “You ain’t heard the last of this!” he said thickly.

  “Then I’ll keep listenin’,” Hondo said, turning back into the saloon. The door closed and Ed Lowe remained on the ground, staring at
the blackness.

  The two men seated outside had not moved. One’s cigarette glowed red.

  Lowe gathered himself and got shakily to his feet. He spat blood from a cut lip. His head felt foggy and there was a raw pain in his side. “I’ll kill him!” he said into the night. “I’ll kill him for this!”

  The cigarette glowed briefly. “I was you,” the voice said mildly, “I’d figure I was lucky he wasn’t packin’ a gun. That’s Hondo Lane.”

  Inside, Hondo walked over to Buffalo. He put his hand on the big man’s shoulder. “Sorry, friend. I didn’t know who all was in that shindig an’ I figured I wanted no part of you in a brawl.”

  Buffalo chuckled. “All right. I was wishin’ the kid was out of it. Ed an’ that sidewinder from the Pass roped him in.”

  Hondo jerked his head toward the door. “This is the second time I’ve tangled with that mouthy no-good. Who is he, anyhow?”

  “Calls himself Lowe. Ed Lowe.”

  Ed Lowe … Hondo looked at the glass on the bar. Angie’s husband, and alive.

  What kind of man would leave a woman and child alone at such a time as this? And he had been lifting the roof at headquarters about his cattle. Nothing said about his wife and child.

  When F Company rode out of the post at daylight Hondo Lane was standing by to watch them go. With them was riding a company of scouts commanded by Lieutenant Crawford. These were a mixture of Apaches, Yaquis, Opatas, and Mexicans, with a scattering of Americans. All were skilled Indian fighters. It was a strong force for a burial detachment, but their orders were explicit. They were under no concern to attempt to follow Vittoro or to engage in any battle unless first attacked.

  Hondo watched them go, his face somber. There was small chance they would encounter Vittoro, although the company of scouts carried enough wild-country brains to have found him no matter where he fled, if they had been permitted. The orders of Major Sherry had been definite, however, and he did not intend to overstep them unless the situation was drastic. To send good men after those who had died with Company C would be worse than foolish. When Crook was present in force, it would be a different story.

  Hondo watched them ride out, then walked back to the jacal and began mending gear. He was thinking of Angie. It was no business of his. She had a husband. But she should not be out there alone.

  Restlessly he went to the corral and curried the surprised lineback, then fed him a couple of carrots he found in a garden patch near the end of the village.

  Buffalo wandered over and joined him. “Don’t you be careless, Hondo,” he advised. “That Lowe ain’t liable to forget what you handed him last night.”

  “I won’t forget.”

  He worked over the horse a little longer, then released him with a slap on the shoulder. As he watched the lineback cross the corral, he asked, “Lowe been around long?”

  “Month, maybe more. Plays a little poker.” Buffalo bit off a chew of tobacco. “Hangs out with that rattler Phalinger.”

  All day reports came in of moving Indians. Twenty Chiricahuas had left the reservation, all young bucks. Some Tontos had been seen crossing the Francisco River heading south. There was a gathering of the tribes.

  Twice groups of settlers came into the post, worn and tired from travel, and found shelter in the abandoned tents of a departed Army unit. Each time Hondo made inquiries among them, but they had come in from farther south and there was no report of anyone in the Basin country. Restlessly he awaited return of the burial detail. They had no orders to go beyond the scene of the massacre, but the scouts would be riding over more country, and they might have some information.

  It was unnaturally quiet at the post. There was no roistering or loud talk around the bar in the sutler’s store. Men came and went hurriedly, and the mounted patrols that left the post moved in and out like clockwork. The last patrol in before dark reported a running battle with a handful of Indians in which one Indian was slain and a trooper wounded.

  As the hours passed, tension grew. It was noon a day later before the burial detail rode in. No Indians had been seen, although they had cut the trails of several small groups.

  Shortly after the burial detail returned, Hondo Lane walked into the headquarters building. The sergeant looked up as he entered.

  “Major Sherry in?”

  “He’s in. Just a minute.”

  The sergeant returned. “Go on in. He said he wanted to see you, anyway.”

  Sherry was leaned back in his chair looking out the window at the heat-baked parade ground. He was a grim-faced, clean-cut man of forty-four, a professional soldier who knew the frontier and liked it. He knew the country, the Indians, and the men he commanded. Years of duty in face of the enemy had burned away all the spit and polish. He was a fighting man, and wanted to be nothing else. He had been close to the top of his class at the Point, but had never cared for Eastern duty. He knew the book on combat tactics, but most of what he knew had been learned by applying it in battle against enemies that could be counted the greatest guerrilla tacticians the world had ever known.

  “What’s on your mind, Lane?”

  “I want to go out there.” Lane jerked his head toward the hills. “Personal business.”

  Sherry turned to his desk and shuffled his papers. “Sorry, Lane. It can’t be done. The General wants you here for the time being.” He stacked the papers. “Personal business, you said?”

  “Yes, sir. There’s a woman out there, with a child. They wouldn’t come in then. They might come now.”

  The Major took out his pipe and stoked it with tobacco. “You lived with the Apaches, that right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Major Sherry touched a match to the pipe. “I’ve been ordered to hold all scouts in. The General has something in mind. Nevertheless, I’d like—and I know he’d like—some information on Vittoro. If anybody could get it, you could.”

  Hondo Lane shifted in his chair, waiting. The Major’s face did not change.

  “It’s mighty dangerous out there. Any man who went out alone would be a fool. And we’ve orders to stop anyone—anyone at all.”

  Hondo Lane got to his feet and turned to the door. “That all, sir?”

  “Yes.” Major Sherry drew on his pipe and looked out the window. As Hondo pulled on his hat and opened the door, Sherry turned his face toward him. “Lane,” he said quietly, “be careful.”

  Chapter Nine

  Angie came to the door to shake out her broom. She glanced around the yard, but Johnny was not in sight. A thrill of fright went through her, and she stepped out into the yard. “Johnny! Johnny!”

  There was no sound. Shading her eyes, she scanned the hills. Johnny was an obedient child. He had been told not to go to the hills, and so far he had always obeyed, going only when they went together.

  Frightened, she walked quickly around the house. He was nowhere in sight.

  “Johnny!”

  Her call sounded, and the empty hills threw back her voice. Her heart pounded heavily. She walked toward the corral. “Johnny! Johnny!”

  And then from the trees walked two horses. On one of them was Vittoro, and Johnny rode the other.

  Relief went over her like a cold shower, yet she looked uncertainly at the hard-faced old Indian.

  “Oh, I thought … I didn’t know … I heard nothing.”

  “The Apache does not make noise.”

  The old Indian lifted Johnny to the ground, and his hands were gentle, almost fatherly. A hand lingered on the boy’s shoulder.

  “Mommy, Vittoro says I’ll make a good warrior.”

  The Apache nodded, starting the child toward his mother. “He will ride well and he does not fear.”

  “Look, Mommy. I have a headband.”

  Proudly he showed her the headband. There was an opal of exceptional beauty in the center.

  She knelt to look at it. “How beautiful! And it has an opal!”

  “It is the emblem of his lodge.” Vittoro glanced at Johnny. “I speak
with your mother. Go inside the house.”

  “Yes, Vittoro.”

  Obediently Johnny turned and ran into the house. Angie watched him, a little catch at her heart. Vittoro looked at her and his eyes were serious. Mentally she stiffened, for instinctively she knew what was coming, and she knew that she must use every word with care. She had seen several parties of Indians pass, and she had seen the fresh scalps they carried. That she was alive only at the sufferance of Vittoro she knew. Whatever came, he must not be offended.

  “A lodge should have a man. Small Warrior should have a father to instruct him.”

  “My husband will be home any day.”

  Vittoro considered this. Then he shook his head. “I do not think so. I think your man is dead. I will deliberate on this.”

  She hesitated, then said quietly, “It is the way of my people for a woman to choose her own man. If my man is dead, there will be another.”

  “Many braves ride with me.”

  “They follow a strong leader,” she said, “but an Apache woman for an Apache man—a white woman for a white man.”

  Vittoro considered this. He said, “Small Warrior is blood brother to Vittoro. He must grow strong in the ways of Vittoro.”

  Her eyes looked frankly into those of the proud old man. “I would have it so. My son could have no better model than Vittoro. I had heard his greatness. Now I have known it—and he is also kind.

  “My son,” she continued slowly, “is born to this land. I would have him know it as the Apache knows it. The man I choose will teach him to know the ways of the Apache.”

  There was nothing to read in his face. He merely turned to his horse. “Of this I shall think,” he said, and he walked his horse away into the trees.

  For a long time after he was gone she stood perfectly still, forgetful of the hot sun, forgetful of the work that remained to be done.

  An issue was before her, and she knew she walked a narrow way between life for herself and her son and death for them both. Yet she had not lied. She would like her son to know how to live off the country as the Apache did, yet he must remain true to his blood, true to his God, and true to his people and his country.