Apache canyon

by Garfield, Brian, 1939-

  The sun moved steadily across the far quarter of sky, striking against his left shoulder, making him tilt his head to the side to shade his eyes with the brim of his hat. The desert was quiet and vast; its loneliness was a threatening kind. A low pall of yellow dust followed in the wake of the column, held listlessly above the ground; ahead the white unfriendly glare of powder-sand and mica particles and glossy rocks beat against his eyes. Just the same, Sutherland's hat made a flat, precise line across his view; his back was straight and his shoulders squared. He had lived a good part of his hfe according to the strict rules of Cooke's Cavahy Tactics, and there seemed to be no reason for change in sight. An eager, restless, impatient energy thrust out of him at all times, even when he was still. Now he viewed the hard blazing sky with resolute, level eyes. He glanced at the raw-boned, sun-blackened features of Brophy.

  Brophy rode with the ease of long habit, slouched as comfortably as possible on the spht-fork Mc-Clellan saddle. Sutherland's glance filled with intolerance and contempt; he turned straight forward once more.

  On the horizon lifted the ragged edges of high, serrated mountains, blue-gray in the distance. Heat condensed breathless around them; behind him were the voices of the troopers in idle conversation, the soft rise and fall of one man's voice softly singing an old song, the tramp of hoofs and creak of leather. Sutherland's Hps were pinched together.

  They neared the second day of patrolling, and there was nothing but the wide desert. His hand slowly moved, forming a tight fist, smacking gently into the other palm. Ahead was a rise of ground, and beyond it the lift of the Yellows. This would be near the northern end of the swing; soon they would turn about, ride down parallel with the high Mogul Rim, and pick up the Smoke again at the near end of the Arrowhead range. Was this all it was to be—an empty ride across the burning plain? Rubio's squat shape appeared on horseback atop yonder rise; Rubio lifted one hand in lazy signal and trotted forward, finally swinging into line at his right side and talking calmly: "Three more miles into Spanish Flat. You figure to spend the night there?"

  "No," Sutherland said, glancing back along the column. "I don't want to have to roimd up a dozen scattered drunks in the morning. We'll move on past the town and make camp at Willow Creek."

  He glimpsed the half-angry turn of Sergeant Brophy's head; he ignored it. "See anything out of the ordinary, Rubio?"

  "Nope," Rubio replied laconically. He spat a brown stream of tobacco juice, swinging with loose comfort in the swaying saddle. "Not a thing. Captain," he murmured, and lifted his reins, sweeping away from the column at a canter.

  Brophy's voice brought Sutherland's attention around: "Captain?"

  "What is it?"

  "Beggin' your pardon, sir—I don't mean to get out of line. But it's a long, dusty trail, and the men could do with an evenin's relaxing, sir."

  Sutherland's answer was quick and sm:e: "Would you be willing personally to guarantee the good conduct of every man, Brophy?"

  Brophy's answer was a long time coming.

  Sutherland nodded grimly. "I thought not. Neither would I. We'll camp at Willow Creek."

  Plainly holding back a great many tilings, Brophy only said, "Yes, sir," in a reluctant tone.

  Sutherland paid the sergeant no more attention; on purpose, he remained insensitive to Brophy's feelings, whatever they might be.

  Major Cole dropped into the sutler's store just after suppertime to pick up a can of pipe tobacco. It would have been impossible to miss the preoccupation with which Sadie Rand greeted him and waited upon him; and so, with more than an idle interest, the major inquired how she was getting along.

  ''All right, I suppose," was her lackluster answer. Her glance wandered around the place as though seeking a place to hght, a handle to hold. The major picked up the tobacco can, tossed it a foot in the air and caught it, and began to turn away, disincHned to press the girl.

  "Major."

  "Yes?"

  "This mission that Justin's gone on—how dangerous is it. Major?"

  He nodded, understanding; still, it was not in him to reassure her if it would require a falsehood and so he said, "There's no way of telling. It depends entirely on Inyo's mood."

  "I see," she said quietly.

  "You're an army girl," he added. "I wouldn't fool you about this, Sadie. When a man rides into a lion's den he's got to face the possibility that the lion may be hungry."

  "I know. Thank you. Major."

  "What for?" he said, with a slight sour feeling in his belly. His expression was gravely wooden. "I'm sorry. Should I have lied to you?"

  "No," she said. But just the same, she turned from him, putting her back to the counter, gripping its edge with her hands—and he saw the knuckles whiten. He regarded the tobacco can gloomily. "He'll be all ri^t-rm sure of it. I've never known Inyo to fail to honor a flag of truce."

  Her answer was quick and perceptive: "Inyo isn't the only Indian in that camp, Major."

  "That's true," he admitted. "He's not" He grimaced and stirred. "I guess I'm not doing a very good job of this," he said.

  "That's all right. Major." She turned about, meeting his eyes, looking away, locking her hands together. Her eyes were wide. "I guess you're worried, too."

  "I guess I am," he confessed, touching his hat-brim. "Good night, then."

  "Good night, Major."

  The soft echoes of her voice followed him out into the twilight. Dull heat smothered the land; there was no wind.

  Yeager's Indian wife had a tough, raddled face that stared at Brady in a discomforting, unfriendly manner. After breakfast, Brady dropped a pair of silver dollars in Yeager's calloused palm, said "Obliged for the loan of the horse," and went across Yeager s ranch yard to mount up.

  Harris and Tucker sat their saddles in dusty blue shirts; the Apache prisoner wore a cheap flannel shirt, tails flying, and a bandage startling white on his head where Rubio had clubbed him with a rifle. Around them, tall timber marched upward and away in all direction, giving Brady the feeling that they stood at the bottom of a dark, imprisoning funnel. He regarded the Apache brave, who made a point of ignoring him. Over the past thirty-six hours the Indian had maintained a stony distance, silent and withdrawn; now, too, his copper-colored face bore a look of strong aloofness. Harris said, "Tell him if he'll give us his word not to try an escape, we'll untie his hands."

  Brady relayed the message to the prisoner, speaking in guttural Apache, using his hands to aid his talk. The Apache only glared back at him. Brady commenced to glower, after which the Indian nodded his head slowly. Brady rode across the intervening few yards, leaned far out of the saddle to untie the Indian's hands and sat back.

  Tucker gigged his horse forward. "You think we can trust him?"

  "Why not? He's got nothing to lose."

  "He's already lost considerable face by getting captured. It might not look too good for him to guide us in."

  Brady shrugged. Considering the Apache's enigmatic face, he said, "I guess we can chance it. He knows we'd shoot him down before we'd let him escape."

  Tucker loosened his holster flap. "You think he understands English?"

  "No telling," Brady said, and looked at Harris. "Want to get going?"

  "Nothing's keeping us here," Harris answered. His eyes were narrowed, concealing whatever might have been on his mind. "Did you talk to Yeager? If Inyo doesn't accept our offer, I doubt Yeager's place will last long. Inyo's pretty hungry by now."

  "I talked to him," Brady said, sending his glance across the length of the sunlit yard. Yeager stood by the big door, rifle in hand, slowly chewing on something; his long black beard moved up and down. "He's pretty set in his ways, I reckon."

  "Then he trusts those bucks more than I do," Harris observed. "Let's go."

  Harris's eyes were deep-set and brooding. Brady nodded, lifted an arm in signal to Yeager and loped out of the yard with HaiTis at one shoulder and the Apache at the other. Tucker came along behind them, leading their pack horse. Brady's full canteen
banged softly against the saddle, in rhythm with the horse's long-legged gait. They quickly left the dusty yard and penetrated the cool dark corridors of the vast forest. Brady motioned the Apache out ahead; from here on, the choice of routes would be up to the Indian. Trees closed in on them so that Brady dropped behind Harris in single file, trailed by Tucker and the pack animal; and in that manner they crossed the morning's first three hours, steadily climbing along the sides of heavily wooded canyons into the deeper reaches of the Arrowheads.

  They were close to timberline now, well above the eight-thousand-foot-level, and the timber was thinning out. Long, bald faces of juniper shrubs and glistening rocks spread before them in humping, jagged patterns, buckUng all around. The Indian kept up a steady pace.

  Tucker, rawboned and long-faced, gigged his pony forward alongside Brady's and rode with the leadrope of the pack animal idly draped through the fingers of his right hand. "How far you figure it from here?"

  "We wont get there today," Brady said. "Maybe in the morning."

  "Big mountains," Tucker observed. He reached up to adjust his hat, and closed the collar of his shirt. "Maybe the air's cold up here and then again, maybe it's just that this is Inyo's country—and we're trespassin'."

  "They won't jump us," Brady said. "Not till they find out what we're up to."

  "You figure they've spotted us already?"

  "I reckon," Brady said. He saw the darkness of Tucker's expression, the heavy roll of his lips. Tucker was looking northward, toward the bowels of the mountain range, toward the advancing breastwork of heavy gray clouds that had been marching steadily forward all morning. "Guess it'll rain before morning," Tucker said. All his tones seemed edged with gloom. "Something else to add to our exquisite comfort." His dry voice accentuated the Alabama drawl. He kept watching the oncoming cloud-front with hangdog eyes.

  "Easy," Brady droned.

  Tucker's glance flicked him and passed on. Tucker was plainly troubled, but then he always looked troubled—it was almost a characteristic of his facial structure.

  Brady gave him a further brief study and said thoughtfully, "My hitch is up today."

  "Congratulations." Tucker's reply was hollow. He added, "In a couple of weeks I'll be finishing up my fourth enlistment."

  Brady's head turned to watch him, but Tucker's thoughts were effecively concealed behind the blandness of his cheeks. Brady said, "You plan to sign up again?"

  "Why," Tucker said. "I hadn't thought on it. I expect I will." But in that moment, Brady saw a shadow of uncertainty pass across the sergeant's face.

  They went along the top of a ridge from which they could look down and command a vast district of land. A vague silver ribbon some distance away was Peacock Creek, flowing down through successive notches to meet the Smoke out in the far valley. They cut away from the ridge and dropped into a shallow rocky bowl, going across and descending thereafter into a maze of canyons that defied any kind of mental untangling. The country grew steadily more arid, less vegetation and great cliffs and mounds of red and yellow rock, seamed and weathered smooth by the ages. Here they rode through a land of timeless temples, sixty miles deep in roadless wilderness—the air was clear and cool; it was a magnificent country. But a single furtive movement far off, picked up by a corner of Brady's shrewd and wary vision, warned him of the unceasing hostile nature of yonder cliffs. The beast of danger growled silently through these echoing halls of monumental rock.

  Beside him. Tucker was inspecting his revolver, emptying the bullets into his hand and squinting down the bore, and feeding the shells back into the chamber. "Soldier or not," Tucker drawled, "I hope I don't get a chance to use this thing. Not this trip, anyway. I get the feeling we're likely to be a bit outnumbered, if it comes to shooting."

  Brady grunted. Tucker reversed the gun in his hand, lifted the holster flap and dropped the Colt into leather. He said, "I guess about all any of us can do is survive as long as we can."

  "You sound jaded," Brady said.

  "Well, I guess I am. Maybe I've seen too many doors close in my face to think anything different."

  Brady said, "I get the feeling you re a little too busy feeling sorry for yourself. Self-pity never helped anybody, Emmett."

  "Probably not," Tucker conceded, and showed a sudden brash grin. Brady could not tell whether it was forced. Tucker said, "And faint heart never filled a flush. I reckon I'll go out in a blaze of glory, vyhen it comes. Don't worry none about me, Will— I'm the toughest damned soldier you ever met."

  Brady chuckled but there were troubled overtones both in Tucker's bravado and in Brady's own mind. Still, he allowed himself to go ahead and say what he had been working up to all the while: "As soon as we get this mess with Inyo cleared up, I'm taking off for the Santa Catahnas. There's a nice little valley up there I know of-plenty of grass and water, and not too hot in summer—and nobody's yet been able to count all the wild horses up in that country. I aim to start myself a little horse ranch."

  "Good for you," Tucker applauded with a faintly perceptive hollowness.

  "I could use a good wrangler to go partners in the place," Brady said tentatively. "One man can't run a horse outfit all by himself."

  "I'm a soldier, Will," Tucker answered immediately. "Just the same, I'm obHged for the offer." He tilted his hat back and rumpled up his red hair, letting the cool high-country air slip through it. After a while he said in a more thoughtful voice, "Maybe I'll think about it some, at that."

  A slow smile erased some of the rough edges from Brady's face. "Good enough," he said.

  That was when Harris up ahead, lifted his rein5 and dropped back. "I just had a ghmpse of something moving, up on that ridge over there." He pointed forward and slightly to the right of their direction of travel. "I don't think it was an animal."

  "They've been watching us for quite a while," Brady rephed. "I've seen them trailing us, off and on, for the last two hours."

  "No call for worryin'. Captain," Tucker said softly. "Not so long as we can see them, anyway."

  A cool current of air riffled across the slope, chilling them. Up ahead, the Indian guide's bandaged head bobbed steadily forward, a white dot against the brilliant colors of the land. Brady's face, wide at the cheekbones,was brittle from high winds and hot suns; his jowls were blue and his eyes lazy, not wholly open at any time. He flicked ashes from his smoke and watched Harris trot forward ahead of him, and surveyed the surrounding hilltops. In silence, then, they taveled foi-ward through the endless turns of the high land until presently twilight ran red over the hills and the wind hummed a steady monotone through the acoustic chambers of the tall rock slabs that dwarfed them. And all the time, Brady kept seeing, like ghosts in the distance, the flitting shapes of squat brown men with steady eyes and hair bound tight with strips of cloth. Northward, the marching mass of black clouds continued its invincible advance.

  Two days before, the immigrants came into a valley at the top of the cooling day and rolled their wagons down into it. Hillsides dropped them by easy stages into the bottoms, where a creek ran thin and trees guarded the snake-turning banks, and at sundown the heavy wagons had let out their tailgates by the stream. A boy picketed the six horses and made a quick rope corral around the oxen. The men cut wood and built fires, and the boy drew water from the stream for the night's meal; afterward, under full dark with a quarter moon rising, the boy drew out his harmonica and played for a time. Presently he sought his blankets and slept.

  At dawn the Apaches came down out of the hills. They killed the wagon people and ran back into the hills, driving their plunder ahead of them—six Ohio draft horses.

  The soldiers nosed over the hill at nine in the morning and rode forward cantering, advancing to the scene of carnage.

  Sutherland turned away from the mutilated bodies, five of them, and replaced his hat on his head, softly swearing; he called out in a harsh voice for Sergeant Brophy.

  "Sir," called the sergeant, turning away from the burned wagons.

&n
bsp; ''Burial-detail—and be quick. I'm moving out now. Catch up within two hours."

  "This soil makes hard digging, Captain," Brophy murmured.

  "Do as you're told, damn it."

  "Yes, sir." Brophy raised his arm in a half-salute and called out in his roughened voice; "You—Barnett, McQuade. Picket your horses and come with me."

  Sutherland mounted and neckreined savagely aroimd and ran up beside Pete Rubio. Rubio was studying the evidence of prior horse travel in the ground. "They got a few horses, Captain. Butchered one ox—over there—and spent a while gorging themselves this morning, I reckon. I don't figure they took any prisoners. Headed north."

  Sutherland turned to watch Brophy and his two men taking shovel to sod. "A few horses for three white men, a woman and a boy. Is that a fair bargain? And Harris thinks he can make deal with these savages."

  Rubio said nothing. His enigmatic cheeks were smooth. Sutherland hipped farther around in his saddle and called out his crisp orders: "We're moving out. Prepare to mount. . . Mount!"

  The cry rang defiantly through the hot and dusty morning. There were the scattered sounds of men's weary bodies hitting saddles, of horses coming into hne. Sutherland raised a hand. "Forward."

  The patrol moved out at a trot. Sutherland spoke to Rubio: "How many of them?"

  Rubio spat out a stream of brown juice. "Fifteen —maybe twenty. No tellin' how many was hid out in the trees and didn't come in to make tracks."

  "All right," Sutherland said. "We'll stick to them."

  The column moved wide of the curling stream then ran along northward, keeping the line of ti'ees a hundred yards on the left flank. Soon they bunched up into a tighter unit as they passed into the higher hills. Sutherland signaled Rubio back to him and said, "How far ahead now?"

  Rubio rubbed a dust-grimed hand across his jaw and sm-mised, "Three hours, maybe less. Captain—"

  "What is it, Rubio?"

  "They might take a notion to swing back on us."

  "Let them," Sutherland said harshly. He turned in the saddle and shaded his eyes, and saw nothing on the hills. "Get going, Rubio."