In the dim corner beyond, Sutherland stood with his back straight and his arms folded recalcitrantly over his chest. His eyes avoided meeting anyone's glance. Harris was leaning in a dejected pose against one wall, head propped on his hand and elbow to the wall; Rubio and Yeager and two of the younger boys were on guard and the two other boys were in the kitchen with their mother. It was, Brady thought idly, an odd conglomeration of people, to say the least. His belly was heavy, satisfied; laconic as she was, Yeager's wife was a fine cook.
With no particular apparent interest, Harris said, "What does the weather look like, Rubio?"
"Clearing up. Won't be as, dark a night as we'd like."
Harris nodded with a certain reservation. Brady was working on his tenth cigarette of the afternoon. Waiting made him edgy. He poked a twig into the fireplace and used its burning tip to Hght his smoke, and tossed the twig into the fire.
Suddenly George Sutherland pushed himself out from the corner. Brady looked at him. Sutherland had been working himself up to something all afternoon; that much had been easy to see. Now it was coming. Sutherland walked across the room with de-hberate strides toward Harris, and came to a halt within arm's length of him. "I want to talk to you."
"We've got nothing to talk about," Harris told him levelly.
"You've wrong," Sutherland said flatly. "None of this changes anything."
"Are you talking about your wife?" lam. "IVe told you before. I had nothing to do with her." "He's telling the truth," Brady said. "Go back to your comer and shut up."
Sutherland wheeled. "How do you know so much about this? For a two-bit buckskin scout, you seem pretty well informed."
Brady stood up, uncoiling his length without hurry. "Sure," he said. "Eleanor's not interested in Captain Harris." He watched the recoil of Sutherland's face against his use of the woman's first name; he showed Sutherland his savage grin and used his words like a whip to punish Sutherland: "I'm the man you've been looking for, Sutherland. I'm the one who almost talked your wife into running away with me. And maybe I still will, after this. Life's too good for you— Captain. You don't deserve it."
"Of course," Sutherland breathed. "I should have known. If she was to turn to anyone, it would have been somebody like you—an irresponsible, footloose tough. I should have knovm," he growled-and Brady saw his hand clawing at the holster flap.
Brady's gun was half-drawn when Harris's hand swept forward, batting the lifting revolver away from Sutherland's fist. The gun clattered to the floor out of reach. Sutherland whirled; HaiTis said mildly, "That's the kmd of thing we might expect from you. I think you're sick, George. I don't think there's any room in the army for you."
Sutherland glared at him in helpless rage; he wheeled again, facing Brady across the distance between them. His voice sounded half-choked: "You— you!"
Brady let his gun fall back into leather; he unbuckled his gunbelt and let it drop. "Come ahead, if you've a mind to." His own voice sounded weary.
Sutherland chewed on his rage a moment longer, then broke into a clattering nm, charging. As he came past blindly, his heavy boot almost rammed into Tucker's head. That uncaring action broke the last of Brady's self-control, so that he stood finally as fully angry as Sutherland. His Ups peeled back from his teeth and instead of dodging Sutherland's charging rush, he stood his ground and measured the distance. Choosing the moment carefully, he rammed his fist straight-aim into Sutherland's face.
It was a cruel blow; it flattened Sutherland's nose, making blood spurt from it; Brady felt the cartilege - crush under his fist.
Sutherland wheeled back. Looking down at Tucker, Brady knew this would not do. In spite of his hot raging temper, he backed away from Sutherland, thus leading the man across the length of the ; room until they were both safely away from Tucker. Then set his feet and lifted his guard and stood awaiting Sutherland's attack.
The savagery of Sutherland's contorted face was heightened by the blood that matted his nose and hps and dripped from his chin. He roared incoherently and plowed ahead until Brady once more struck him a blow that set him back on his heels, jarring his entire body. The shock of it must have warned Sutherland, for he grew abruptly calm and lifted his fists cautiously, and began to circle around Brady, moving on the balls of his feet, slightly bent forward. Brady waited for him, heat glaring in his eyes.
He had fleetiag glimpses of the others—Harris, Yeager, Rubio, and the two boys, even Tucker--watching them and holding their distance; he kept his attention on Sutherland, and as Sutherland gradually circled closer, he began a duel of jabbing blows with Sutherland. The officer outweighed him by a few pounds, but they were both big-boned men and evenly matched.
This, though, was the first fist fight Brady had ever entered when he felt a driving desire to maim and kill his opponent.
His anger had settled, into a cool and calculating shrewdness by now; he aimed each blow with care and made effective use of his guard and felt for a while that he was gradually getting the better of Sutherland, until Sutherland suddenly changed his method of attack and rushed in, ignoilng Brady's blows, locking him in a viselike hug and dancing him around. Brady shifted his hips to avoid Sutherland's lifting knee; he felt the powerful arms restricting his breath, and he stamped his foot down against Sutherland's instep.
It broke the man's hold, bent him over, and made of him a target that no one could miss. Brady's fist came up from hip-level and pounded like a hammer into Sutherland's lowered face. Punishing an aheady crushed area, it rocked Sutherland back and made him howl. Brady pressed him relentlessly, pounding a quick rataplan of hard-knuckled fists against Sutherland's midriff. Sutherland's guard was ineffective; with fierce anger Brady kept bringing the fight to him, so that Sutherland could not escape him. His fists became twin pistons, battering Sutherland with wicked regularity; with each blow he made a little restitution for McQuade, for Brophy, for Barnett.
A red haze swirled before his eyes; he reaUzed in a foggy way that they had him in a grip, that Harris and Rubio were holding his arms, and tliat Harris was shouting in his ear: "For God's sake, that's enough, Will! Let him alone!"
His body sagged. "All right," he said in a broken voice. The haze drifted away from his vision and he saw Sutherland against the wall, his mouth open and his eyes closed, a broken tootli and blood oozing out of a mass of cuts and bruises; Sutherland shd slowly down the wall and rolled onto his side and brought his knees up against the pain. Little mmmuring cries came steadily from the man's chest.
"Did I do that?" Brady asked weakly. His knuckles burned and throbbed.
"I think it's enough, for a while," Rubio said dryly. "Funny—I had the same thing in mind myself. Then they put a hole in my wing. But that's all right. I guess you did him enough damage for the two of us."
"Are you all right now?" Harris said in a worried tone.
"Yeah," he said bitingly. "I'm fine." And when Harris turned to kneel by Sutherland, he wheeled angrily and went back across the room to pick up his gunbelt.
Tucker grinned up at him. "Nice job. Will." "Sure," he said, and felt self-disgust rise in him.
"Sure it was."
Dusk. Harris was speaking to Yeager; Brady listened while he sat by Tucker. Harris said, "You can t be serious, Yeager."
"Ah, but I am. Captain. Nobody budges me until I'm ready to be budged."
"Don't be a fool. You know what they plan to do to this place after dark."
"They won t do it," Yeager said cahnly. "Not after they see you and your crowd ride away. They don't have any fight with me, nor me with them."
Exasperated, Harris turned away. "Will, talk to him."
Brady looked up. Yeager shook his head; and Brady said to Hams, "You can't force him, Justin."
"All right," Harris said disgustedly. "Maybe you're right at that, Yeager. But you can do one thing for us. Take care of Tucker until he's able to ride."
Yeager considered Tucker. His glance revealed nothing of his feelings; his expression was eflPectiv
ely concealed behind the thickness of his beard. Presently he shook his head. "Them Apaches ain't fools, Captain. You can bet they've counted noses. They know exactly who's in here. If all of you don't leave, I'm done. He'll have to go with you."
"In that case." Harris said flatly, "we'll all go. If you won t give shelter to a wounded man, Yeager, then You've got no right to shelter yourself. And we can use the firepower you and your boys will add to the party."
Yeager's mouth opened but Harris had his gim out by then. "I don't want to use this, Yeager. I don't even want to think about using it. But I will if I have to. You understand me?"
"Captain-do you know how long I've spent building this place up?"
"Don't look for pity from me, Yeager. I've spent too long watching you play both sides against the middle."
Brady murmured, "I warned you the day would come when you'd have to climb down off the fence on one side or the other. That day's come, Yeager. Make your choice."
Yeager's glance moved back and forth between the two of them. "Aagh," he said, giving up in disgust, and turned away. Harris bolstered his gun. "All right, everybody. Get ready to move."
Brady looked around the room. His glance passed the four boys, Rubio, Harris, Sutherland-one of Sutherland's eyes was closed, the other only half open; his face was a bloody mess, even after Yeager's squaw had done her best to clean him up; he had to support himself by leaning slumped against the wall. All the stiffness had gone out of his back.
And Tucker. Tucker looked up, smiling, his hand loosely draped around the neck of the two-thirds-empty whisky bottle, as though jealously guarding it. "Emmett?" Brady said softly.
"All set." Tucker said, "whenever you are."
But Brady wasn't so sure, looking at the pale shade of Tucker's lips and the fever-brightness of his eyes.
"Don't worry about me, hey?" Tucker breathed. If I fall off my horse, don't let anybody stop on my account."
"I never make that kind of promise," Brady said and stood up. "Pete?"
"Another five minutes," Rubio said. "Then it will be dark enough. When we go, we go fast."
And it was fast.
They managed to get mounted without discovery. Brady flung the corral gate open and spoke a quick, soft command; and then it was all hoofbeats drumming, pounding across the valley, charging into the trees with a few scattered, startled bullets seeking them but falling short or flying wide; and they were into the trees, all of them, and pummeling through the forest. It wouldn't be long, Brady knew, before the Apaches got to their horses and gave chase; but the margin might be just wide enough to let them make good the escape.
They poimded on at a dangerous pace through the darkness. The moon was fattening up, about one-third full. It flickered down through the branches. In the lead, Brady was first to reach the top of the ridge where the fork lay; he made his choice without hesitation and pounded down the left trail, toward the narrow head of Apache Canyon—the most direct, but the most rugged route down to the desert floor. One man posted in the thin split that was the canyon s rocky head could hold off an advancing army. Brady had spoken to no one about it, but he intended to be that man. He hoped that once he had given his companions enough of a lead, he could make good his own escape down the ti'eacherous canyon trail. It was not much of a hope, but he had to gamble on it.
They drummed through the night with no sign of pursuit yet, but it was only a matter of minutes before he heard the first of the gunshots behind them. The Indians would follow them closely, sniping at them; they would not, however, make a battle of it. Not at night; their superstitions forbade it. Brady was gambling on that superstition. There had been times, he knew, when Apaches had ignored it.
Rubio, arm in sling, rode forward at breakneck pace to catch up and spoke across the hoof-pounding distance between them: "I'll drop back and hold the head of the canyon."
"The hell you will," Brady said. "I picked that job for myself. You know the trail down through the canyon better than I do. It's up to you to guide therest of them down safely."
He wasn't sure, but he thought he heard Rubio grumble. Then Rubio's voice lifted again: "Tucker's not doing too good—I think he's started bleedin again."
Brady cursed under his breath but there was no slowing the pace now. He could only pray for Tucker.
The trees gave way to a long barren plateau across which they thundered on straining, panting horses. It was only a part of a mile to the head of the canyon now. Brady said, "Keep going, Pete," and fell out to the side of the column, slowing his pace, letting the others sweep past—eerie shadow-shapes on horseback, careening wildly tlirough the crying night. Behind, he could see the distant flashes of Apache gunfire. At that range, and from the backs, of running horses, they could not hope to hit anyone except through blind luck. Still, they were burning up a good bit of ammunition, and it was not easy to expect them to miss everyone. His horse loped along under him; the column swept past and he had a glimpse of Sutherland's slumped shape rocking on the saddle. Yeager's bearded silhouette was hunched, and so was his wife's, like a flour sack.
The Yeager boys went by, four in a row, and in the darkness Brady couldn't tell them apart. And then came Harris, bringing up the rear, Brady let him go by and then fell in behind. A bullet, half spent at this range, whipped audibly past. The Apaches knew full well what was going on up here; their fire increased savagely so that the horizon immediately behind him became like a far-off mountain in an electrical storm. He swung out to the side a little to keep his eye on the column ahead. And that was when he saw a man halfway down the column throw up his arms, utter a brief cry and pitch from the saddle, tumbling in awkward somersaults.
"Keep going," Brady shouted.
He swept forward and when Harris went by, not pausing, he reined in savagely and jumped from the saddle, holding the reins, kneeling over the dovmed man.
"Sutherland," he breathed and touched Sutherland's pulse. There was none. "Maybe you're better off," Brady murmured, and stood up.
Forward, the first of the column was already clattering into the narrow, rocky defile that was the head of Apache Canyon. Brady for this moment stood quite alone on the plateau wdth only Sutherland's corpse for companionship. But behind him the Indians were gaining swiftly. Their bullets thudded into the ground about him. He gathered the reins and swung into the saddle with practiced speed. The horse, sensing the oncoming danger, plunged ahead at an immediate dead run, almost slipping out from under him; he clamped his legs around the horse's barrel and sought the stirrups and leaned forward while Apache gims kept up a fierce running banage behind him. In front the last of the column disappeared, dropping abruptly from the level plain into the steep descending notch of the canyon.
Behind him lay George Sutherland, dead from an anonymous bullet. It was, he thought, probably the best Sutherland could have hoped for—at least now he would not have to stand before the military tribunal and face the consequences of his acts.
Something struck him a blow, half-turning him in the saddle, and he realized that he had been hit. For a moment he did not know where; it was a frightening interval. The horse bounded ahead, rapidly closing the distance to the canyon, and when he felt the beginning sharp burn of the buUet slice across his arm, he experienced a strong wave of relief. It was no more than a cut.
Leaning forward to make a smaller target, he rammed through the night, crossing the last hundred yards, beginning to slow the horse's pace before he reached the abrupt drop at the canyon head.
Big twdn boulders, simk mto the top of the notch, made of it a single-file fissure, through which everyone must pass who wished to enter the canyon. It, was a perfect spot from which to block entrance and hold off pursuers. Brady yanked the reins back, ready' to jump out of the saddle with his rifle, when something caught his eye. A riderless horse wandered aimlessly in search of grass. "Who's here?"
''Keep going, Will." The voice was hoarse but strong. Emmett Tucker's voice. "Don t be a fool, Emmett."
Tucker came out of the rock's shadow and stood with his rifle lifted and trained on Brady s chest. Tucker was bent over a little to one side, favoring the arrow wound. In the night Brady could not make out his expression.
Tucker said, "I wouldn't make it all the way down anyway. Will. You go on."
"You re crazy," Brady said, lifting his leg over the saddle to dismount.
"Stay put." Something in the shading of Tucker's voice stayed Brady. Tucker said, "I'm not foolin', Will. I'll put a bullet in you if you don't keep going. And two of us, wounded, can't do any better a job than one of us. Move on. Will, and hurry it up. I'll shoot if you don't."
"To hell with you."
"I mean it. Will."
Brady's eyes narrowed. "I believe you do," he said in a quieter tone. Behind him the onrushing thunder of horses was a growing racket. "Emmett—when you get through, remember that horse ranch." "Yeah," Tucker said huskily. "So long, Will." "So long," Brady replied, "partner." And under the unwavering muzzle of Tucker's cocked rifle, he wheeled reluctantly away and put his horse down the treacherous switchbacks of the canyon trail. The walls rose swiftly so that the world grew even blacker and his eyes became useless except for affording him a look at the narrow strip of sky winding overhead.
Then he heard the first of the gunshots behind him.
He reined in and turned the horse aroimd, and sat the saddle uncertainly. Tucker's rifle barked again. Brady heard the muffled echoes of the column down below him, somewhere in the black depths of the canyon. He cursed hvidly; he slammed a fist into his open palm and glared defiantly against the night; and turned around again, pointing the horse downward through the canyon. The night was complete; he had to trust the horse's head since he could not see the trail. Behind him the firing settled down to a steady rate and slowly grew faint with distance.
At the moment when Brady disappeared into the canyon, Tucker's chief emotion was a sudden, vast loneliness. It sank into his belly, almost overpowering him. He took his carbine, canteen, and ammunition, and dragged himself mainly by wall power across the narrow opening, dropping behind a low rock that would shield most of his body from anvthing except a chance ricochet. Out on the plain, the Apaches had quit shooting and were probably off-horsing to come up on the canyon afoot. He sighed, poked the carbine forward, and fired in the direction of a vague movement. His bullet drew no response, but he suspected it had served to caution the Apaches and slow them down. And that, in the end, was all he could expect to do—slow them down, hold them off for a limited time.
Apache canyon Page 12
