Apache canyon
Page 13
His lanky body lay cradled in the rocks. The tightly bound wound throbbed with dull heat. He felt a bit lightheaded, and knew without doubt that there was a definite hmitation placed on his time. His face was long and dour, reflecting a half-warm faraway regret. He remembered a good many things and he thought,
I guess after all a man makes his own breaks. A long time ago, at the time of his first enlistment, he had made his choice, and it had come inevitably to this. The best he could do was shrug it off: I have to die sometime.
He saw a bobbing shape and fired at it, whereupon it dropped from sight. He had no way of knowing whether he had hit the man or just warned him. His eyes were close-lidded; they swept the flats in steady arcs. A thousand memories came hard and sudden, the bitter and the sweet intermingled. He squeezed off a shot and had the satisfaction of hearing a man cry out in the night; he reloaded the carbine and saw in his mind an image of a cannon wheeling into position and firing, jerking back on its wheels from recoil. Vicksburg? He could not recall. A film seemed to be glazing his vision. He had to blink it away. He fired again and a bullet whanged off the rock above his head, leaving a long white scar. The muzzle flash echoed red in his eyes and he fired back at it, thus drawing a sudden heavy volley of bullets. They had him ranged. The bullets sang close by. His shoulder jerked back and when he laid his other hand on it, he felt the warm stickiness of blood and knew that his moment was drawing near.
He took a drink from his canteen and felt his body jerk in sudden spasm; his left arm fell to his side and he could not move it, and when he touched it he knew that a bullet had smashed the bone near his shoulder. He grunted, blinking away the haze that coated his eyes, and lifted the revolver out of his holster. It took a good deal of energy to ear back the hammer. He rested his gun-hand on the rock, waited.
"So this is what it's like," he muttered. He thought of praying, but set the idea aside. The time for praying had been a long while ago; it was too late for that now. His hfe was behind him. If he was to be judged by it, nothing he could say now would change anything.
"Well," he murmured, "good luck, everybody," and pulled the trigger.
A SHAFT of sunlight streamed in through the window slantwise, showing a sharp-comered pall of dust hanging in the room's air. Brady stood bone-weary, hipshot against McCracken s desk, slowly and mechanically building a cigarette and lifting his red-rimmed eyes toward Justin Harris.
Major Cole was talking: "I suppose it's just as well."
"Yes, sir." Harris said tiredly.
"Good or bad," Major Cole went on, "I've only had one life, and that was the army. If we'd court-martialed him and drummed him out or imprisoned him, he'd have been worse off than he is now. To tell the truth, Justin, I've known worse officers than George Sutherland. At least he had guts."
Harris nodded bleakly and Brady said with momentary fire, "So did the men who rode with him, Major."
"We can't resurrect them," the major said to him, and turned back to Harris. "For the sake of his wife, and everyone else concerned, I'm going to report nothing more than that he died in the performance of his duty."
"Yes, sir," Harris said again, and Brady, seeing how meaningless it would be now, kept his peace.
The major said, "Sherman's reply just came in. Our guess was right. It's going to be a tough campaign. Our orders are to throw troops into those mountains and keep them there, keep Inyo off balance—press him, harass him, pick his men off, wear them down and give them no chance to rest."
"That's a large assignment," Harris said, without surprise.
'To do the job," the major answered, "we're getting an additional company of cavahy from Fort Apache, and two companies of infantry from Fort Lowell. They're sending Al Sieber down as chief of scouts. Brady, you'll be his second."
"No, sir."
The major's head drew back. "What's that?"
"My contract's run out," Brady said. Fatigue dragged his shoulders down, slowed his voice and dimmed his vision. "I'm through, Major."
The major frowned and said slowly, "I see."
Harris said, "Going to build that horse ranch, Will?"
"I guess I am."
"It may not be too peaceful around those parts," Harris said. "Not until we get the Apaches rounded
"I'll take my chances," Brady said. "I doubt Inyo will get that far west."
"He will if he's pushed."
Brady's only answer was a tired shrug. Major Cole said, "What can I say to make you change your mind?"
'"Nothing," Brady said. "I'll pick up my pay at the adjutant's. So long. Major." He stepped forward to shake the major's hand, and turned away.
Halfway to the door, Harris stopped him, offering his hand. 'Well, then," he said warmly, "good luck, Will."
"Ill drop in now and then, when Tm down this way," Brady said, and met Harris's deep glance. He nodded and walked outside. As he went through the door, he heard the major's businesslike voice behind him, talking to Harris: "My plan is to release Tonio from the guardhouse and then trail him. With luck, he'll lead us right into Inyo's main camp."
So that was the major's plan; that was why Tonio was kept prisoner. Brady shrugged it ofiF; it was no longer any of his concern. He paused a moment on the major's porch to hght his cigarette, then dropped his feet into the dust of the parade ground and walked up to the adjutant's office for his pay.
When he came out, the sun burned harshly against his shoulders, and far down the compound a drill sergeant was marching Harris's troops. A tangible gloom had settled over the garrison, evidence of the grief that had come back with news of the massacre of Sutherland's command.
Harris came out of the major's office, saluted wearily and headed across the parade ground, obviously going toward the sutler's where Sadie Rand awaited him.
Brady went over to the guardhouse, nodded to the half-dozing sentry, and squinted in through the high small opening, taking a moment to accustom his eyes to the darkness of the interior.
Tonio prowled forward and looked at him blankly. Brady said, "You're a good kid, Tonio."
"Why do they keep me here, Brady? When will they let me go?"
"Soon," Brady said. "Plenty soon, kid. Take it easy." He made a vague gesture of farewell and turned away, leaving the proud youth standing in sohtary pride within the hot, dark place.
Brady stood under the sun, took off his mangled hat and turned it around in his hands, considering it thoughtfully. It was not a good time for what he had in mind, but it was the only time he had; so he turned his eyes and his steps, and walked up the line to the Sutherland quarters.
She was waiting for him. He said, "Hello, Eleanor," and she said, "Hello, Will," without much ex-pression in their voices. She wore black, and tliat was fitting; but the set of her features was more regretful than grieving.
The moment was quiet and calm. He spoke his piece briefly but without hurry; he had little enough to say. "I'm going," he told her. "Maybe one day I'll be back. Where will you be?"
"I think I'll go to Tucson for a while."
"Tucson," he said.
Her eyes met his, holding them with frank honesty. There was no longer any pretense between them. "That valley of yours," she said, "it's near Tucson, isn't it?"
"A day's ride, maybe less," he murmured.
"Look for me, then."
He nodded. "I guess it wouldn't be a good thing for you to come with me now."
"No. First, I've got to straighten out some things in my mind."
He nodded; he felt the same way. "All right," he said. "I'll see you in Tucson."
"So long, Will," she said softly.
He planted his hat on his head, touched a forefinger to its brim, and turned out of the place.
Pete Rubio was just then leaving the post hospital, his arm hanging in a fresh white sling. Brady set a course that would intersect with Rubio's, and came up beside the scout when they were halfway to the stables. He extended his hand and said, "I'm pushing on, Pete. Good luck to you."
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sp; "Sure," Rubio said, shaking hands. "Don't take any wooden Indians, Will." He turned then, walking away, his squat, compact legs hitting the ground solidly. Pete Rubio, though perhaps he didn't know it, was as army as any man on this post.
Brady shook his head; it was no longer for him; he had had his fill of it. The call of the peaceful hills was strong. A little horse ranch, a hand-hewn cabin by the waters of a spring, a fireplace for winters and the shade of tall trees for summers. There would be game in plenty for his rifle, and an end to combat.
It was four days' ride. The sun was angling westward, striking his face. He was tired, but anxious-ness kept building in him, and so he saddled his horse and rode from the post, heading for the Santa Catalinas. He never looked back.