Apache canyon

by Garfield, Brian, 1939-

  Rubio took a drink from his canteen and said, in brittle tones, "Yes, sir, Captain." He capped the canteen and replaced it on his saddle and swept away from the column, again taking the point far ahead.

  Sutherland sat stiff in the uncomfortable saddle as the horse carried him over Rubio's tracks. In the cavalry blues he made a narrow shadow against the bright noon. His eyes looked out hollowly from the round moon face; and his hands constantly fingered the reins as he rode.

  In two hours he allowed the men a five-minute rest, during which he paced restively, fitfully working his hands together; in the saddle again, they moved north, cutting into higher and more jagged country, with Pete Rubio keeping them to the track. Presently Sergeant Brophy rejoined the patrol with his two men and Rubio led them deeper into the mountains, with Sutherland making a forced march of it. They made the best of the dayhght hours and rode on more than an hour into the night before Sutherland reluctantly called the halt. He stepped stiffly from the saddle and handed his reins to Trooper Barnett.

  His call was husky: "Three hours. We move on at midnight. Get some sleep." He turned to Brophy: "Post a double guard, Sergeant." And when Rubio came up to him, he said, "Have we gained on them?"

  Rubio spat. "You'll never see the day when a pony soldier can catch up to an Apache, Captain—unless the Apache wants you to catch up."

  "You didn't answer me, Rubio."

  "No, sir. They've stayed steady ahead of us. Which means one thing—they know we're behind them. I expect they'll try to set a trap. You aim to ride into it. Captain?"

  "I don't tolerate impertinence, Rubio."

  "Sorry, Captain," the scout murmured with dry sarcasm. "Just remember, I ain't one of your boys in uniform. I'll tell you this much, for your own good— if those Apaches didn't have something up their sleeves, they'd have split up and faded into these rocks where nobody alive could ever find them. They're leadin' you on, Captain."

  "Let them. I beheve I can show them which is the superior fighting force, Rubio."

  "Sure you can, Captain," Rubio said, very softly. The reflected moon glinted off the surfaces of his dark eyes; he swung away.

  The men of the patrol ate their cold rations, rolled stiffly into blankets and were immediately asleep. Sutherland told Brophy, "Keep your sentries awake," and dropped to the ground. He uttered a quiet sigh and sank into dreamless sleep; without strain on it, his face turned cherub-like.

  At black midnight, knowing the Apache predisposition to avoid night combat, he led the patrol out of camp. The column climbed snakelike over the timbered ridgetops, following Rubio's unerring nose. The black clouds that had collected in the afternoon now obscured half the night sky. Sutherland said to Brophy, "Slickers, Brophy--pass the word back. We're in for some rain."

  The temperature had dropped sharply. In the mountain reaches ahead of them, thunder crackled. Sutherland called a halt at two o'clock under a beginning drizzle, and another at four, with the full blades of slashing rain cutting down upon them. They were beyond the timberline by now, entering the land of big rocks and wave-topped cliffs. It was almost impossible to see a hand at arm's length in front of his face; Sutherland found amazement in the way Rubio stuck to the Apache trail. Driving rain puddled the ground. No sHcker could keep it out; by dawn, which was bleak and gray, Sutherland was soaked to the skin. When he got down during the rest period, his feet made squishing sounds in his boots. The horses cropped at sparse grass, and then again the tired men were asaddle and away quickly, covering the chilled damp country of the morning at a lope.

  At eight they fell across the scalped body of a trapper and Sutherland left a detail with it; at nine the detail caught up at a ford and they had not yet sighted the Apache raiders, though Rubio estimated them to be not more than a half hour ahead.

  "They're holding back for us, Captain. They'll make a play pretty soon. We better turn back."

  "There are six dead whites behind us." Sutherland rephed. "I intend to exact payment, Rubio. Keep on." His clothes were a soggy misery. Rain funneled down the trough of his hatbrim and poured in a steady stream before his eyes. Under the slicker his hand folded back the flap of his holster.

  Eleven brought them to an opening of a flat-sided canyon that cut into a high northern slope. The rain was slackening; the gray-red walls of the canyon rose to dizzy altitudes before them. Sutherland pulled up; Rubio came back to meet him and Brophy gigged his horse forward to his flank.

  Brophy said, "Rifle Gap, Captain. This is as far as we can go. The major's orders . . ."

  "Shut up, Sergeant." Sutherland was quite aware of the orders. They expressly forbade him from advancing beyond Rifle Gap. "Rubio."

  "Captain?"

  "How much of a lead do those Indians have on us?"

  "Not much," Rubio said, grunting. "Not much at all, Captain. I reckon if you went in there you'd find 'em quick enough—or maybe they'd find you."

  "I want facts, not sermons, Rubio."

  Rubio shrugged. "They went in there, all right. But was I you I wouldn't follow them."

  Sutherland's fist softly pounded the saddle pommel. "It would take a half-day's ride to go around that mountain."

  Rubio shrugged and waited quietly. Sutherland stared into the maw of the canyon for a long interval. Rubio said, "With a lot of luck, a cavalry outfit like this one can cover maybe forty-five miles in twenty-four hours. In the same period of time, an Apache can cover a hundied miles. He can go as fast on foot as you can go on a horse. It's something to think about, Captain. I wasn't fooHn when I said they could lose us in ten minutes flat if they wanted to."

  "I know that as well as you do, Rubio."

  Rubio's answering glance was skeptical. The drizzle continued, turning the air gray, turning the men's faces to a bleak pale shade. Sutherland said, "Damned few times you can get a band of Indians to stand and fight. When you can do it, you've got to figure that you've got a good break. I don't intend to give this one up. Next time, they may not be willing to fight it out."

  "Give them an advantage like this one," Rubio argued, "and they'll fight every time. Captain, we've got no way of knowing how many are in there. They might have joined up with a hundred more bucks for all we know."

  "I've seen no evidence of a larger party," Sutherland said stiffly. "Brophy, tell the men to bring out their rifles."

  "But, Captain—"

  "That's an order, Sergeant," Sutherland said tightly. "Carry it out."

  "Yes, sir." Brophy wheeled his horse and trotted back to the head of the column.

  "You see," Sutherland said, "I command loyalty."

  "Any good soldier will give you that. Captain." Rubio's eyes were bitterly bright. "But what are you givin' them in return?"

  Sutherland looked at the scout with what was almost a sneer. "You don't have to come with us if you don't want to, Rubio. I can do without you now."

  Rubio considered him across the dismal silence.

  "Why," he muttered, "at this point Tin better oflF with you than without you, I reckon. Alone in these hills, my scalp ain't worth a hill of dried beans. I'll go along. Captain—if nothing's going to change your stubborn damned mind. I'd like to have it on the record that I'm callin' you a fool, though."

  A vast contempt rose in Sutherland's eyes. "That J will be all, Rubio." He turned his face straight ahead, and brought down his arm flatly. "Column of twos, forward at the trot!"

  And so they rode into the canyon, sixteen long-legged men on horseback, rifles balanced across their pommels and muscles set on fine triggers. Rivulets of rainwater flowed in miniature cascades down the cliff-walls and formed a stream that wandered back and forth down the floor of the gap. Boulders, fallen from the far high rims, lined the floor. Rubio rode beside Sutherland at the head of the column, the bugler and Brophy behind them. Sutherland's eyes searched the fallen boulders. Their horses splashed and clip-clopped, steadily trotting.

  Rubio spat on the rocks and said, "Don't lift your eyes. Captain. They're up there, on the rim
s."

  Sutherland kept his face expressionless, maintaining the trot. There was no sound other than the noise of their own progress. "What are they waiting for, then?"

  "They ain't scared," Rubio said dryly. "I can tell you that much."

  "How far to the other end of this notch?"

  "Maybe a mile," Rubio said. "Maybe there ain't enough of them and they're waiting for more to show up. Or maybe they want us to ride out of the other end of the canyon right into the main party."

  Rubio spat again with his sharply sweeping eyes covering the turns ahead. "Play it easy, Captain--you may get out of this yet, with enough fool's luck."

  "Shut up, Rubio."

  The first warning arrow—a part of the ageless Apache game-the first arrow fell, clattering along the rocks, dropping among them. Sutherland shouted back, "Gallop!" and thundered through the canyon.

  Echos lifted around them, pounding hoofs and flat gunshots through the sky, rebounding as if in a great empty tunnel; bullets screamed off the rocks. Sutherland's horse, tight on Rubio's tail, wheeled in and out of rocks while Sutherland lifted his pistol and thumbed off shots toward the high rims. The drum of hoofbeats and the steady rattle of gimfire deafened him; the plunging run of the horse almost unseated him, coming around a stiff turning, and then they were racing out onto a downslope with the bugler reeling on his saddle behind Sutherland. Sutherland's lips were clamped together, turned white by pressure; he led the column at reckless speed down that hill into the brush at its bottom. And just as he and Rubio splashed into the creek there the Apaches rose up from the bushes beyond, thrusting volleys of arrows and bullets forward.

  The horse went out from under Sutherland and he felt himself flung from the saddle into the icy water. He ducked under, pistol still locked in his grip, and wheeled back to the bank, plunging ahead into the brush, with Apache gunfire whipping overhead from front and back in a wicked, relentless crossfire.

  Savagely he turned about, crouching on one knee, squinting through the tangled brush to seek out targets. With calm precision he squeezed off the three remaining shells in his pistol, and knelt to reload. The sudden realization came over him like a delayed reaction in that it was his duty to look after his men. He wheeled back into the brush of this narrow no-man s land and found Rubio, belly to the ground, rifle at his cheek, picking his targets with calm care. "Rubio, find Brophy and tell him to report to me on the double."

  Rubio looked up bleakly. "Tell him yourself."

  "Damn it, Rubio—"

  "I don't take orders from murderers," Rubio said mildly, and dropped his eyes to the sights. Cursing, Sutherland crashed on, heedless of the metal that sizzled through the air taking little bites out of bnish and wind and rain. A drop of water whipped into his eye and he blinked desperately; a protruding branch cut a deep red scratch in the back of his hand; his running feet got tangled in the undergrowth and he fell flat, the pistol flying from his grasp. He lost precious moments retrieving the gun; and ran on through the shoulder-high brush.

  When he found the sergeant, Brophy already had the troopers behind rocks and mesquite. Off in a shallow gully he glimpsed the horses with their horse holders.

  An arrow came in from behind and fell quivering into the trunk of a mesquite beside him; he swimming and saw a dozen howling Apaches coming downhill at the troop's rear. When he lifted his pistol to fire on them he heard Brophy's practiced even tones: "Barnett, Holly—cover the flanks. Corporal Frank, take a man up those rocks and hold the rear." The gun was empty in Sutherland's fist; he let his arm drop. Brophy's voice cut forward sharply: "Captain —get down. You re a target, standin up that way."

  Sutherland wheeled and dropped to a crouch beside Brophy, thumbing shells with aggravating slowness into the gate of his revolver. On the slope behind, the running Indians had dropped to earth, immediately fading from sight. With his gun reloaded and his breath subsiding in his chest, Sutherland said, "Head count, Brophy."

  "Near as I can tell, sir," Brophy said, and paused to fire a shot forward through the brush "we've got six dead and two wounded. There's seven of us left in a piece—and maybe Rubio, if he's around here."

  "He's in front of the line," Sutherland said. The Apaches in the brush followed with a ragged volley, and then a sudden quiet descended on the area. Drizzling rain continued to dampen everything. Brush rattled to his left and he wheeled, lifting his pistol. Pete Rubio snaked through the brush on his belly and rolled over, getting to his haunches, peering forward.

  Sutherland said, "Are they coming toward us, Rubio?"

  "Not yet."

  "Then what's keeping them?" Rubio looked around and spat.

  "You tell me, Captain. You're the Indian-fighting expert."

  A blaze of red filmed Sutherland's eyes. In that quick moment he had an almost uncontrollable urge to shoot Rubio down; the pistol came up and his thumb eared the big hammer back to full cock, and with the muzzle trained point-blank on Rubio he said, "Answer my question."

  Rubio shrugged contemptuously. "You ain't going to shoot me—you got few enough guns as it is. But I'll tell you what you want to know. They've fallen back to regroup and most likely wait for reinforcements. They figure they've got plenty of time—we ain't going anywhere, not now."

  Sutherland cursed and turned around. His face was livid. One buck, more ambitious than the rest, splashed into the creek forty yards downstream and came plunging halfway across the water before Sutherland's slug took him in the ribs, spun him completely around and dropped him into the mud. Scattered shots sounded at irregular intervals. Sutherland punched the empty shell-case out of his gun and plugged a fresh cartridge into its place.

  "Brophy."

  "Sir?"

  "We'll have to consoHdate. Draw the men back slowly to the rocks on either side of that gully where the the horses are. I believe we can hold them from there."

  "Yes, sir," Brophy said. His voice was as blank as the gray sky. He turned away through the bushes. Sutherland grunted and began to walk crouched toward the gully. "Come on, Rubio," he said disgustedly.

  He didn't bother to see if Rubio was with him; he threaded a path through the brush and rocks and after a half-hour he found himself on the rim of the gully overlooking the horses. Some of his men were already here. He saw one man with his arm hanging useless, another limping badly, a third crooked strangely on one side; men straggled in, all of them trying to watch all four compass points at once; and when Brophy came, last to arrive, Sutherland said, "You counted wrong, Brophy. There are nine of us, counting the horse holders."

  "Yes sir," Brophy said.

  "Post your men around the perimeter. Sergeant. Get ready for another attack—and pay special attention to the horses. We need them."

  Brophy turned away. Sutherland put his back to a high rock and allowed himself to slump slightly. A bleak hght came up and stained his eyes. Nearby, Rubio was squatting motionless in the shadow of a great boulder.

  Rubio pulled a straw from the ground and stuck it into his mouth, letting it hang from his lip corner. He said, "Might be three or four of us could make it. We could stampede some of the horses, come dark, and go out the other way, while the Apaches go chasing after the horses. I reckon," he added drily, "we've got enough spare horses now to turn the trick."

  "Perhaps," Sutherland said coldly. "I dislike the notion of retreating."

  "You figure it's better to get your scalp lifted, hey? I made a mistake, then-I always figured you for a few brains, at least."

  Sutherland cursed under his breath and called out: "Brophy."

  Brophy did not answer. He lay flat on the ground, fifteen yards away, with a crimson shaft rising from his throat and blood pulsing thickly out to stain the rocks. Sutherland swore fervently and lifted his pistol; but no targets presented themselves to his gun. Then he saw Rubio dart past him, scoot across the intervening open ground, and coolly strip the sergeant's pistol and shells from the body, after which Rubio moved on into the rocks, disappearing, taking up a positi
on.

  Alone on this face of the hill, Sutherland allowed his body to go more slack, while he made his mind work. Presently he pushed away from the rock, crawled uphill through the brush, and by a roundabout concealed course finally came up beside Rubio. "All right," he said. "We'll pull back."

  Rubio grunted. "A fine time to show some sense, ain t it?"

  "Be quiet. I want you to pass the word along—unsaddle all the horses but those we'll need to ride out."

  "What about the wounded?"

  "We'll have to take them with us."

  The drizzle spattered the backs of their hands. "That's mighty kind of you," Rubio said huskily, and moved off.

  The apaches had walked into Brady's camp at dawn and roused him and his companions. All of them carried arms, but none of them had brandished their weapons or even pointed them. Now, three hours later, Brady sat beside Harris while their horses moved along the floor of a long canyon under a drizzling gray sky; Tucker brought up the rear with his pack horse; and all around them rode the silent Indians. Once in a while one of the Apaches would make a joke, and the others would laugh; but by and large, it was a quiet journey. The Indians had not taken the guns from the soldiers. Harris's wry glance came around and struck Brady. "I didn't know I was buying into this kind of thing when I accepted my commission. Maybe I'd have thought twice."

  "What are you complaining for?" Brady said. "I'm not even getting paid for it. My contract ran out, remember?"

  Harris chuckled softly in his throat. "Well, if we don't get back, maybe somebody will write it all up for the newspapers, and we'll be the heroes. I hope Inyo's in a good mood."

  "Yeah," Brady breathed by way of answer. They broke out of the canyon, trotting at an easy pace and soon, on the side of a mountain that commanded a good-sized district, their Apache guides brought them into the rancheria.

  This was a big, pattemless scatter of Indian wickiups, spread out over the humps and hollows of the hillside without apparent plan. Water ran by at the foot of the slope, the volume of the stream increased by the night-long rain and the continuing drizzle.