Apache canyon
Page 6
"Harris won't break, George. He's not your kind of oflficer. He has the capacity to bend-that's what saves him from breaking."
"What does that mean?" He laughed shortly. And then suddenly he bent toward her and spoke with suppressed urgency: "Let me tell you something, Eleanor. There are a lot of men on this frontier like Justin Harris. They think this is a different kind of world from the world they were bom in. They think that because this country is wild and primitive and lazy, they should be that way too-wild and primitive and lazy. But I've got something to tell you about that. This is still the army and we are still civilized human beings. I don t care how far we are removed from drawing-room teas and comer newsboys-the rules are the same. You don't throw away the book when you fight the Apaches, and you don't throw away the rules when you fight for your woman. Do you understand me?"
"I'm not sure," she said, and spoke slowly: "Perhaps you had better spell it out for me, George."
He stood with his feet braced a little way apart, his body bent shghtly foward in an attitude of challenge. He said, "There is a rumor around the post that you have been seeing Justin Harris."
"I don't feel called on to apologize for rumors, or to explain them," she replied evenly.
Sutherland drew his head back. "I didn't say I believed the rumor, Eleanor. Perhaps I did at one time, but I have come to believe that Captain Harris has no particular interest in you beyond the interest that any man might show toward a pretty woman." "Then what are you so upset about?" "Do you think I'm upset, Eleanor? Not very. You'll never see the day when anything can upset me beyond the point of reason and honor."
She waved her hand vaguely. "It's all right," she said. "I didn't mean to offend you."
"You didn't let me finish what I was saying," he said stiffly.
She smiled a little. "Go on, then."
"I told you, I don't believe Harris has any designs on you. But Im not altogether convinced that the reverse is equally as untrue."
"What do you mean by that, George?" His chm lifted and he addressed her sternly. "Do you feel that you understand the kind of man I am Eleanor?"
"I think so," she said slowly. "I think I do." "I am a soldier-an ojficer." He began to pace a straight path back and forth across the room. "I'm a discipHnarian because my duty calls for it-and I do not choose to allow myself to be lax in discipline just because we are on a frontier post or because the weather happens to get hot in the summer here. I believe that the United States Cavalry is the finest body of fighting men on the face of the earth and I am proud to be a part of it. I don't beheve in appeasing Indians-because I beheve that they are savages who are born and educated for the express purpose of fighting, killing, looting and torturing their enemies. You don't make peace with people like that— you subjugate them. That's my job, and I do it as best I can. Disciphne I find is one of the most valuable means I have of insuring that my men are better fighters, under any conditions, than the Indians. I do not agree with Harris and Brady and the others that the best way to whip the Indians is to learn to fight like them. No kind of rational thinking or honorable behavior can support that kind of attitude." He stopped pacing long enough to look at her. "Do you understand what I'm talking about?" "I think so."
"Do you agree with me, Eleanor?" "I don't know," she said. "I'm not an Indian fighter, George. Why ask me questions like this? How would I know the answer?"
"I should think you wouldn't have to be a soldier to understand that laxity and sloppiness are not superior to disciphne and pride."
"Is Captain Harris lax and sloppy?" "In my opinion his methods are." "I get a different impression," she said, "when I see Sergeant Tucker drilling Hanis's company. They seem disciplined enough to me."
He shook his head in an exasperated gesture. "Marching drill and attitude are different things, Eleanor. It's the man's attitude I dislike. Can't you see that?"
"Yes," she said slowly. "I can see how you might dislike it." When she looked at him there was a strange kind of pity in her eyes.
He did not seem to notice it. He resumed his pacing. "Harris is too easy with his men-too familiar, too relaxed. It's not a soldierly attitude."
"George," she said, "haven't we gotten a bit off the subject?"
"What?" He stopped. "You were talking about rumors." "Yes." He met her glance, a bright hght in his eyes. "And you don't connect the two?" "Not yet."
"Very well," he said grimly. "Then I'll connect them for you. I have the feeling that you are impressed by Captain Harris, Eleanor. You're attracted to him. You see in him a great many things that you don't see in me—an easygoing nature, an ability to form quick friendships, a careless smile—"
She interrupted: "Aren't you forming a hasty conclusion, George?"
"No," he said. "I don't beheve I am. I beHeve you are strongly attracted to him-and I mean to put a stop to it. I mean to show him up for what he is. I mean to prove myself a better man than Justin Harris."
"You don t have to do that, George," she said quietly.
"I feel I do," he said stijffly. "One thing a man must have from his wife is respect."
"Of course," she said. Her tone was dry.
His eyes flashed toward her. "Don't mock me, Eleanorl"
Her brows lifted. "Am I mocking you?"
He stepped toward her. His arms half-lifted; he stood before her, working his Hps, plainly on the verge of breaking. His glance traveled the length of her supple body, and something powerful and bitter came into his eyes. Then he wheeled, buckled his pistol belt about him, put on his hat, and strode to the door. Holding it open, he paused long enough to say, "I'll eat out tonight-at the Officers' Kitchen." And left.
Silence became a thickness surround the woman. She moved to the window and stood with her arms folded, looking out into the dusty afternoon as the low sun cast long, sharp-edged shadows along the ground.
Major Cole stood on the porch of his office, shading his eyes against the long slanting rays of the sun, and when he saw Sutherland walk out of the house, he lifted his voice and called: "Captain-can you come over here a minute?"
Sutherland came up, saluting smartly. "Yes, sir." "Come inside," the major said, and led the way past McCracken s desk into his own office. As usual, Sutherland closed the thin, dry door behind him; and as usual, the major smiled slightly. With this ritual accompUshed, he sat down behind his desk and said, "Lieutenant Garrett should be coming in with his scouting patrol. Depending on what information he brings, and whatever word I may receive from Sherman's headquarters, I may want you to take out the next patrol."
"Yes, sir," Sutherland said. "I beheve it's my turn, sir."
"That's right." The major leaned back in his chair, tilting it on two legs. He considered the bruise on Sutherland's cheek, the cut by his mouth, and said nothing about these. He had seen Captain Harris a few hours ago, similarly bruised. What he said was, "At ease. Captain. I want to caution you about one
Sutherland straightened. "Yes, sir?
"The last time you took a patrol on scout," the major said, "you returned two days overdue. I was ready to send a large force into the field under Captain Harris, since I had had no word from you."
"I sent back a courier, sir," Sutherland said stiffly. "Unfortunately, he was cut off by the Indians. I had no way of knowing that. I was hot on Inyo's track and it was my judgment that it would be best to pursue him, on the chance he might make a stand."
"In which case," the major rephed mildly, "you'd have been wiped out. Captain. Inyo will not make a stand until he knows the circumstances are all in his favor. Until then—until he draws us into a trap—hell keep on running."
"It seems a cowardly way to fight, doesn't it, sir?"
The major shrugged. "I'd say it was more smart than cowardly. My advice to you is this: your orders are to patrol the area roundabout this post, in a radius of fifty miles. In the future, you will confine yourself to those limits. Your mission is to reconnoi-ter—not to engage the enemy. Do you understand that?"
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bsp; Sutherland flushed. "Yes, sir."
"Very well," Major Cole said. "That's all. Captain."
Sutherland saluted, about-faced, and left. Shaking his head, the major put his chair down and went into the front office. "McCracken."
The sergeant-major's jowls shook when his face moved. "Sir?"
"Any word of Brady?"
"No, sir. He ain't come back yet."
The major nodded. "Damn it, I wonder where he went?"
"He's a loner, sir. Likes to ride off by himself now and then. I wouldn't be worryin' about him. Major."
"No," the major said, "I suppose not." He nodded again, thoughtfully, and went back into his office.
Twihght eddied in violet sweeps over the land pockets; the crescent moon lay at a low angle over the horizon. Brady lay on the rock shelf and squinted down the hill into a rapidly oncoming darkness. The Apaches had made forays twice, feelng him out; he had wounded one man and, he thought, killed one with his rifle. He expected the main attack to come before the last of daylight seeped from the sky. After dark, the warrior's spirit if he was killed could not find its way to heaven.
His eyes grew narrow. Down the slope, the rocks were dark and their shadows might conceal anything. Farther off, beyond the base of the hill he could see the browsing shapes of the hobbled ponies. Three or four of the Apaches sat complacently around a tiny campfire, roasting a rabbit. There was no telling where the rest of the Indians might be. Brady dropped flat again, woimed to the edge of the chff, removed his hat and looked dovm.
As he had suspected, one patient sentry sat cross-legged out in the desert, some distance from the base of the cliff, watching that exit. There were no men attempting to climb the sheer face.
His own horse the Indians had picked up, led away, and staked out wdth their horses.
There must be nine or ten Coyotero bucks in the rocks below, in addition to the four by the campfire. Were they simply starving him out or did they intend to attack him? He couldn t know.
To let them know he wasn't asleep, he aimed his rifle at the distant campfire, lifted the sights and pulled off a shot.
By a lucky accident the bullet plowed deadcenter into the campfire, scattering sparks. The four braves around the fire moved like staitled antelopes, scut-tling swiftly away into the brush, leaving the carcass of the half-cooked rabbit to char and burn in the flames. Brady grinned tightly. He took off his hat again and swept a sleeve across his face, wiping away beads of sweat. Westward, the clouds turned indigo. He fought down the urge to smoke.
Some distance away, he saw dark shapes filter out of the brush, gathering together. A conference. He frowned. The sky darkened by several perceptible degrees more, after which the council broke up and eight or nine Apaches went to their horses, made ready to leave, and mounted. Then, in the last faint of dying dusk, one of the mounted bucks lifted his rifle, shook it in Brady's direction, spoke a quick command and wheeled his horse. The others followed, drumming away across the desert; and presently all sound and sight of their travel died away.
Brady's frown had deepened. The Coyoteros obviously had bigger game than him in mind for the night-and he was suspicious of their goal. They had ridden off in the direction of the Smoke River. It suggested something to him, and he knew he had to get out of this trap.
He put his mind on it. It shouldn't be impossible. Behind the mountain, watching the cliff, was one brave. Down below in the rocks, keeping him down, were four, or at most five, others. One of them would be the wounded one. He slid back once more and crawled to the edge of the chff, dragging his rifle with him.
The sentry was perhaps five hundred yards away--a long, long way for a rifle shot. But it was not absolutely essential that he hit the sentry; all he had to do was raise a ruckus. He lifted the Winchester to his cheek, made a rough calculation for distance trajectory, and pulled the trigger.
The bullet missed the sentry. He levered a new cartridge into the chamber and peered off into the
The sentry was up and moving, heading for the cover of a brush clump. He settled the rifle butt into the hollow of his shoulder, and methodically emptied the rifle's five remaining cartridges toward the sentry.
He punched fresh .44-40 shells out of his belt, thumbing them one by one into the side loading gate of the rifle and settled down to spray the sentry's position with another burst.
He could see two shapes—one at either side of the hill-flitting through the rocks and scrubs, running on a course that would take each of them around one side of the hill to investigate the racket on the other face.
It was hardly a free ticket home, but it was the best break he could hope to make for himself. He tightened his fist around the balance of the rifle. He gathered his muscles and pushed himself forward, over the rim of the hilltop, sliding on his belly.
Going downhill over pebbles and fist-sized rocks was no easy job, especially since he had to maintain absolute silence. Steadily he crawled. The waiting Indians might be within ten feet of him, for all he could tell.
That was when a strange, rising-and-falling call floated dimly across the desert. The call undulated against his ears, dying slowly: the Apache death cry.
It was a piece of luck he hadn't counted on. He must have hit the sentry with one of the many bullets he had fired. He clamped his mouth shut and stayed put, hoping the cry would draw the other Apaches ofiF the slope to go around the hill.
He allowed himself a moment to get air into his lungs, then held his breath again. He had heard the muffled short roll of a pebble dislodged. His hands tightened on the rifle. Then he heard the quiet, stealthy progress of muffled footfalls. The faint sounds of travel—sounds that an untrained ear would have missed entirely-grew steadily louder. The Indian was coming straight at him, going up the slope, perhaps intending to come up and catch him unawares, or shoot down from the hilltop, blasting him off the face of the cliff.
Brady held the rifle in sure hands, ready to club the Indian, shoot him, or freeze and let him pass if the Indian did not spot him. But it didn t work out that way. The Indian's thick, square shape came easing around the end of the rock shelf and dimly across the four feet of night Brady saw the Indian's rffle muzzle start to swing toward him.
With a faint inward touch of regret, Brady brought the rifle barrel down with full energy against the Indian's head-and reached swiftly forward to catch the faHing body. Gently he let the motionless form down, and swimg away, moving rapidly downslope, bent double and hoping the other Apaches were too far away to spot him.
Taking his chances, Brady made haste as best he could. A twig snapped underfoot; he froze in the shadow of an upthrusting boulder. He moved away from the rock and found the earth leveling out. He had achieved the bottom of the hill.
Holding the rifle, his hand was damp with sweat. He switched the rifle to his left hand and wiped his moist pahn on his breeches. The four or five remaining hobbled Indian ponies were not far ahead now; he heard the clack of a hoof against a rock, and the faint tear of tough desert grass being ripped up by a horse's jaws.
Finally he came to a halt sheltered by a four-foot mesquite, and stood regarding the dark shapes of the horses. His own horse was there, but it was far too worn out to be of use tonight. His best bet, he decided, was a tall dark gelding standing not fifteen feet from him. The horse had not shied away from his white-man smell and that was a good sign. It was a larger animal than most Indian ponies. He suspected it had probably been stolen from a ranch during a raid. He took a long breath and moved forward.
The horse's big head lifted; the animal inspected him boldly. Brady lifted the knife from his belt. He approached the horse silently and knelt by its feet, reaching forward to cut the rope hobbles. The gelding's head jerked up and its nostrils blew softly; thus warned, Brady wheeled, lifting the rifle.
He saw the lean face of an Apache not ten feet distant. The Indian was prone on the ground, crawling—the one he had wounded back by the river. He saw a revolver lifting in the Apache's fist.
The bullet took the Apache somewhere in the chest; the man flipped backward and lay facing the sky. Brady whirled; his eyes found the tall horse not far off. The horse stood restively, moving on its feet. He spoke a few soothing words and caught the rope halter. He pulled the geldings head down and turned to mount. But the gelding, startled by the sudden shooting, jumped around, and he had to drop the rifle and use both hands on the horse's mane to swing aboard.
The horse settled down the instant Brady was upon its long back. Brady's head lifted, scanning the hill behind him. That was when a gun opened up about halfway up the slope, spitting yellow flashes toward him. Brady put pressure on his knees, and the horse wheeled fast and bolted forward at a hard gallop toward the trees that Hned the Smoke. Brady clamped his legs around the horse's barrel and buried his left hand in the knotted mane. The big shoulders lunged; the long legs covered ground at a dead run.
He kept up that pace for a half mile, then slowed down to save the animal. It was a long ride to Fort Dragoon, and he had to make it in the best possible time. There were eight or nine Apaches headed there tonight and they had an hour's lead on him. The only fact in his favor was that the Apaches had to exercise care to avoid being seen, and they would have to make a pretty wide detour around the little settlement at Tilghley's Ford. Their horses, too, were tired out by the day's nmning. Brady planned to pick up a fresh mount at Tilghley's Ford. He just might beat them to the fort; he had to try.
Caked with dust and sweat, bone-tired and hungry, he spoke irritably to the sentry at the post gate, and cantered into the compound. He rode directly to the guardhouse, swung from the saddle and walked with long-legged strides to the door.