by Jeff Guinn
From hiding, they watched the white men get up, and chuckled when the big one howled with fury about the missing mule. Tawhatela farted and whispered, “Listen, your mule is braying,” and the other Apache laughed so hard Goyathlay was worried the big man might hear them even though he was several bowshots away.
There was more entertainment in the treatment of the small white man by the big one, who tied him with ropes like an animal. Then the whites began moving toward the mountains, the small one walking ahead of the big one, who rode their remaining horse. Their pace was slow enough for Goyathlay to believe they didn’t realize any Apache were near. How could they not know? The theft of the mule should have made that clear. It was part of his strategy that the whites should panic and make bad decisions. Any Apache, even a woman or child, would have known better than to take the small trail between the mountains, because, once in it, there was no other way to go. If the white men did the sensible thing, going around the smaller mountain instead, they’d still be captured and killed, of course. That was never in doubt from the time the Apache first saw them. But out in the open, the men they trailed could fight back better.
But the whites obviously had no idea that they were being stalked. All right—Goyathlay would adjust his strategy a little. That was what wise war leaders did.
“Nantee and I are going to ride ahead now,” he told the others. “You others stay behind the white men. For now, don’t let them see you. We need time to ride around the mountain and get to the other side of that path. After we do, the three of you can let the white men know you’re there. Fire some shots, give battle cries. Chase them toward the path between the mountains, but don’t catch them. Let them run in. Wait outside there. Nantee and I will meet the white men on the other end. We’ll have them caught between us. Then we catch them, but we don’t kill them yet. The big one is probably a good fighter. We may have to hurt him a lot before he falls. But even if he dies there, we can still do things with the smaller one. Does everyone understand?”
John Tiapah said, “How will we know when you’re ready on the other side?”
Goyathlay had already thought of this. During the day, Apache measured increments of time by the sun’s movement across the sky.
“Give us three fingers of sun, then come ahead.” By white men’s timekeeping, three fingers’ movement would total about forty-five minutes. “John Tiapah, you will judge that. I rely on you.” The young man beamed—the additional responsibility was an honor.
“Now, you three know what to do?” Goyathlay asked. They nodded. Without another word, he and Nantee wheeled their horses and galloped away.
—
NANTEE WAS SURPRISED when Goyathlay didn’t ride very far north before turning back east toward the mountains. He didn’t use the swales and gullies for cover either. Nantee waved at him to stop and said, “Those two white men are going to see us.”
“I want them to,” Goyathlay said. “They were too stupid to realize we were there last night to take their mule. I want them already afraid when the others ride at them. So you and I will ride just close enough for them to see us now. But we won’t be riding at them, we won’t even look at them. It will scare them, though, and they’ll hurry toward the little path between the mountains. That’s what we want.”
“If they hurry too much, they could get through before we’re waiting on the other side.”
Goyathlay sighed. This was why the Apache on the San Carlos agency so badly needed a new leader. Senses dulled by too much peace, the warriors could no longer see obvious things.
“The smaller white man is bound and walking. He can’t go very fast that way. If the big one lets him ride behind on the horse, that will make the horse go slower. Our ponies are fast and well rested. Let’s ride, and, remember, when we pass the white men don’t even look at them.”
They kicked their ponies in the ribs and resumed their gallop. As they did, a great wave of shade swept across the land. Even without looking up, Goyathlay knew that the rains were about to come again, even harder than the storms of previous days. Floods were possible—the terrain around them practically invited them. But to Goyathlay, as to all the Apache, nature was always to be accommodated. If the rain was troublesome for him and his warriors, it would be worse for the foolish white men. He and Nantee kept riding, and soon Goyathlay glimpsed the white men from the corner of his right eye. They were maybe a dozen bowshots away, far enough to be well out of rifle range but still so close that the whites had to see them.
“Ride for the mountain now,” he called to Nantee, and they swung slightly north to begin circumventing its gently rounded slope. The going was slightly slippery from previous rains, but the impending deluge still hadn’t begun. Hopefully it wouldn’t until they were in place on the other side. There was some cactus on the ground along the slope but not much, easy enough to avoid. A few deer scampered in the distance, looking for high ground before the rain. The instincts of animals were superior to those of man.
They were about two-thirds around the mountain, making good time, when Goyathlay thought about the heavy, near-instant cloud cover, which made it impossible to tell time by the sun. Well, surely any Apache warrior could estimate time in such an instance. Then Goyathlay remembered—he had given timekeeping responsibility to young John Tiapah, barely weaned from his mother’s breast. What if the boy didn’t wait long enough? The whites might get away after all, and how foolish would Goyathlay seem then? Maybe John Tiapah would get it right. That was what Goyathlay would have to hope.
“Ride faster,” he shouted at Nantee, his voice muffled by a sudden strong, howling wind.
—
JOHN TIAPAH GAVE another worried glance at the sky. All these dark clouds—the sun was completely hidden. There was no way to tell, none, how much it was moving. He asked Datchshaw and Tawhatela for their opinions, but neither would give one. Goyathlay was well known for his hot temper. None of them wanted to face his wrath if the attack on the white men was spoiled because of a poor decision. The white men were perhaps six bowshots in front and still, apparently, oblivious to the trio of Apache trailing them. At one point they even stopped so the big one could hit the other one some more.
“Do you think it’s been three fingers?” John Tiapah asked again. “It must be, don’t you think?”
“Goyathlay told you to decide,” Tawhatela said. “All I know is that those two white men are getting close to the path between the mountains.”
“If we’re going to do something, we should,” Datchshaw added. “Unless it’s not three fingers yet.”
John Tiapah suddenly wished he’d never left the agency, where his mother and sisters took good care of him and his uncles kept him entertained with tales of battle exploits. What would they say if he returned as a failure, one whose mistake brought shame on his whole family? Goyathlay and the others would make certain no one thought it was their fault. Better to be too early than too late, John Tiapah decided. Goyathlay and Nantee were good riders. It had been a long time. They were surely around the smallish mountain by now.
“It’s time,” he told the others, hoping he sounded more decisive than he felt. “Let’s get the whites running.”
The three Apache whooped, fired shots in the air, and raced their ponies toward the men ahead of them.
30
The gathering storm clouds mirrored Joe Saint’s mood. He was unhappy with everything, himself most of all. No matter how much he hated Cash McLendon, it was wrong to wish death on him, as Saint had from the moment he’d learned of Gabrielle’s abduction by Brautigan. Saint had hoped, on this long, hard trail from Mountain View to Devil’s Valley to here in these godforsaken mountains, that at some point Gabrielle would give up her impossible hope of rescuing McLendon. Normally the most sensible of women, she now couldn’t be reasoned with. McLendon had fooled her, seduced her, so much so that she was willing to throw away her own life, and his,
and the Major’s, in a senseless attempt to save the only man whom Joe Saint had ever come to completely despise. That they were all about to die was obvious. Saint had known it ever since they spotted the Apache. This attempted ambush would be futile. Brautigan himself could have undoubtedly killed them easily and now there were Indians added to the mix. Saint had done his best to make Gabrielle understand, but she wouldn’t be deterred. Now the inevitable end was at hand.
And yet Saint found himself being self-critical. Beyond his raging hatred of McLendon, he was at heart an analytical man, and honest enough to acknowledge responsibility for his own decisions. It had been his choice to stay with Gabrielle and the Major. Further sulking, arguing—what would that accomplish? Now the choice was between dying badly and decently. Saint knew that he was a physical coward. He always had been. But if, as Saint expected, these proved to be his last few minutes of life, he wanted to spend them in a way that made Gabrielle feel proud of him. Should she and Saint somehow come through it alive, well, that was a possibility worth dwelling on. But what if McLendon survived too? Then McLendon and Gabrielle would surely . . . better not think about that. Saint took a deep breath; time to do the right thing, time to change his attitude.
“That ledge looks like a promising place,” Saint said, and his tone was so different, so unexpectedly positive, that Mulkins looked startled and Gabrielle smiled. “Here, I’ll get the horses tied out of the way while the two of you climb up.” He secured the three animals behind some boulders, checking to ensure they wouldn’t be immediately visible from the end of the cut that opened into the canyon. Then Saint made his own way to the ledge, which was about fifteen feet up a steep slope and fifty yards to the right of the cut. Some large rocks provided cover. Gabrielle sat with her back against one. Her face was pale.
“My leg is still sore,” she explained. “But I’m up here now, and going down will be easier.”
“Let’s formulate strategy,” Saint suggested. “Major, you’re the experienced military man. How do you see it?”
“The first thing is, remember that battle plans are only perfect until the fighting starts,” Mulkins said. “Something unexpected always happens. What we ought to do is figure how to set up so we can react to whatever transpires. We know we’ve got C.M. and Brautigan coming through the cut into the canyon. The Apache are going to be behind them. We’re figuring the Indians will hold off jumping them until they’re in the canyon too. So we take Brautigan, get C.M. away from him, before the Apache get going.”
“What if the Apache are right behind them?” Gabrielle asked. “Maybe one of us should watch for that while the other two attend to Brautigan?”
“It becomes a matter of concentrated attack,” Mulkins said. “Unless I can drop him with a lucky shot from some distance, it’s going to take all three of us to deal with Brautigan. We can’t hand-fight him. As long as the Indians hold off until C.M. and Brautigan are through the cut, our best hope is to finish the big man, get C.M. clear, then worry about the Apache. Who, I admit, are considerably worth worrying about. But one scrap at a time is best.”
“You say we’ll finish Brautigan,” Saint said. “You mean kill him.”
“If we don’t, he’ll kill C.M. and, probably, us,” Mulkins said. “I know for a peaceable man like you it’s hard to think of killing someone.”
“We can’t be squeamish, Joe,” Gabrielle added.
“I’m not. I just want to make sure I understand what we’re going to do.”
“Well, then,” Mulkins said. “Now to divvying available weaponry. First is the Winchester. I’m not the finest shot, but in all likelihood I’m probably the most skilled among the three of us. That would give me the best chance of potting Brautigan when he comes into the canyon. Agreed? Joe, you might hang on to the shotgun. It kicks hard. As to the two pistols, I’ve got C.M.’s on my belt. Gabrielle, you’ve hung on to Ike Clanton’s. Check to see it’s fully loaded.”
Gabrielle spun the cylinder and nodded.
“One of the keys will be getting C.M. away and moving as soon as possible,” Mulkins said. “Lord willing, he’ll be in sufficient condition to fight some himself. What I’d suggest, if we have to close with Brautigan, Joe and I will handle that, perhaps with C.M. pitching in.”
“Brautigan sometimes ties his prisoners,” Gabrielle said. “Only at night, based on my experience, but there’s still that chance.”
Mulkins fished in a pocket. “I’ve got this clasp knife. Here, Gabrielle. Should that be the case, once things commence, make it your job to cut C.M.’s bonds. We’ll need him wading in with both fists flying. All right, I guess that’s our plan, such as it is.” Mulkins pivoted and sighted his Winchester at the cut fifty yards away. He fiddled with the gunsight and held up a finger to gauge the wind. “Who knows? I might just get in a lucky shot, and then we’re home free.”
“Except for the Apache,” Saint said.
“Like I told you, one fight at a time.”
They settled in to wait. It was uncomfortable sitting on the ledge. It was all rock, with plenty of sharp edges. They had blankets from their saddlebags but these didn’t provide sufficient cushion. Still, it was better than riding or walking. All three of them were physically exhausted. They were hungry too. Saint wondered, if they did kill Brautigan, and if they somehow fought off the Apache, whether the big man might have some canned food or biscuits in his pack. Anything would taste better than undercooked horse; though, if he got any hungrier, horse meat would suit him just fine.
Saint glanced at Gabrielle, who sat slumped against a rock a few feet away. Her eyes were closed and her lips moved slightly. He guessed she was praying. Saint took in her hair springing out in dust-covered curls from under the bandanna wrapped around her head, and the torn man’s shirt and tattered trousers that she wore. Poor Gabrielle, who always favored dresses and pretty hair ribbons. Now she was a ragamuffin with a Colt stuffed in her waistband. She still looked beautiful to Joe Saint. What could he have done differently, to keep her from being taken away from him by Cash McLendon? Should he have been more assertive, more commanding? Well, he was who he was, and it was too late to change anything now.
Exhaustion overcame Saint. Despite the dire circumstances in which he found himself, he dozed.
An instant later, at most only a few minutes, he was awakened by several sharp noises, and a long, moaning, “Noooo,” from Gabrielle. Even fuddled with sleep, Saint immediately recognized the noises as gunshots, coming from the opposite side of the cut where they waited on the ledge. The Indians hadn’t waited until they were into the canyon to attack.
“Goddamned Apache,” Mulkins said and snarled.
Gabrielle asked plaintively, “What do we do now?”
“Get out there to C.M. and try to help,” Mulkins said. He snatched up the Winchester and slid down the slope. Gabrielle jumped to her feet and her injured leg buckled. Saint took her arm and helped her down. Their progress was slow. Mulkins sprinted toward the cut. More shots rang out on the other side, a cacophony of gunfire.
31
The acoustics in and around the mountains were strange. Some sounds were muffled, others amplified. Goyathlay estimated that he and Nantee were almost around the base of the left mountain. Surely the canyon and valley beyond would come into sight any moment. Then it would be a simple matter of placing themselves at the far end of the narrow pathway, to close it up against the fleeing white men. Goyathlay began imagining how he and his warriors would torture their victims. Perhaps the small one should go first, let the big one watch him suffer and imagine the pain to come. The big one ought to last awhile, maybe the whole rest of the day and into the evening. There was music in the screams of victims.
Then, above the wind, Goyathlay thought he heard brief brisk noises that cut off sharply without lingering reverberation. These sounds could have been any number of things—the snapping of tree branches, for instance, but there
were no trees this low on the mountain slope. Heart sinking, Goyathlay guessed he was hearing the faint sound of gunshots. Yes—here were more.
The Apache language contained no specific obscenities. Goyathlay fell back on an epithet he’d often heard used by white soldiers and traders at San Carlos agency: “Shit!”
He and Nantee were already riding full out. Goyathlay now hoped that the fight wouldn’t be over before he arrived. It was vital that he receive credit for leading it. John Tiapah, Datchshaw, Tawhatela—those three fools were likely to shoot the two white men dead on the spot. There would be hardly any glory in that, and none for Goyathlay himself. Unbearable! Those whites were his victims, he had to get to them while they still lived.
32
Brautigan and McLendon were perhaps a hundred yards from the opening of the cut when they heard shots and whoops behind them. Looking back, they saw three Apache racing forward on horseback, brandishing rifles and howling.
Brautigan said, “What?”
“Apache, like I told you. We’ve got to run.”
“Like hell,” Brautigan said. He pulled the Winchester out of its scabbard, twisted in the saddle, and took aim. He fired several shots; the Apache momentarily paused, then resumed their charge. Instead of fleeing, Brautigan shifted his weight to get down off his horse. He meant to fight them on the spot.
“Run,” McLendon yelled.
“No,” Brautigan said. He attempted to dismount while keeping hold of both the rifle and the rope looped around McLendon’s neck and momentarily fumbled with both, dropping the rifle. More out of fear of the Apache than any specific thought of escaping Brautigan, McLendon threw his body weight forward and tugged the end of the rope from Brautigan’s grasp. Hands still bound behind him, neck rope trailing after him like the long tail of a lizard, he stumbled toward the cut. It was the likeliest way to get away from the Indians.
