Ambush

by Short, Luke;

  He put his horse west now, and rode loosely, slack in the saddle, and he speculated on what the morning would bring. There seemed little that could go wrong, because Linus would fight his detail skillfully, and with Loring and Storrow in his support, they would have their fight. Probably, it wouldn’t be a finish fight; Diablito, with the knowledge that Wolverton was coming, would fall back to his horses and disperse the band. Mary Carlyle would never be seen, and the band would form again in Mexico.

  His horse, crossing a patch of shale, was wary of the uneasy footing, and once across it, Ward cast back in his memory for the nearest trail to pick up. But he was aware at the same time of an obscure feeling of guilt that was riding with him, and he did not have to reach for the reason. He had guided the troop into a strange country at night and then left them, by request it was true.

  It was an odd circumstance and it held its dangers, which he considered now. No man was foreordained to know the mind of an Apache; suppose a single scout for the band, with no stomach for a fight, scouted past the detail and turned up the main body of the troop? Loring would be in for a very different fight then, with no knowledge of the terrain. The fact that he had ordered this ignorance didn’t alter the degree of danger, and Ward reined up, a stirring of alarm mingled with his guilt now. He caught himself looking back toward the east, as if he could see into the night, and he thought, Turn around. Go back with your tail between your legs. And trailing this thought was the unwelcome memory of a dozen things that he should have told Loring or Linus if his disgust and pride hadn’t won out over simple caution.

  He put his horse down the slope ahead, and when he had reached the floor of this shallow canyon, his mind was made up. Turning down canyon, he rode a few minutes longer, then reined in and stepped out of the saddle. He unsaddled, picketed his horse, and then took off his shell belt. From it, he drew a dozen cartridges which he scattered in the folds of his neckerchief before putting it in his pocket. From his holster he drew his pistol, opened the loading gate, and rammed the pistol in the waistband of his trousers down to the open loading gate, which held it in place. After taking a long drink from his canteen, he put it beside his saddle and moved off noiselessly into the night, back up the slope.

  When he saw the campfire of the detail below him from the ridge, he paused only a moment. The troopers were scattered around the fire sleeping, and the picket line was set up away from the mouth of the canyon; while he watched, a sentry crossed between him and the fire.

  Ward moved off the ridge down the slope, heading for the trail above the camp. He knew the Apache scouts would travel the ridges, but when they picked up the detail they would come down close to count the numbers. Taking up his position behind the pooled blackness of a rock, he lay down to wait.

  It could have been an hour he waited, fighting the desire to sleep when, from somewhere behind him, a pebble rolled a few feet in a faint clatter. He lay motionless, stilling his breath, and presently there moved into his view, between him and the dying fire, the form of an Apache. He faded in behind a rock that was man-high, and presently Ward saw his erect figure edge around it for a full, bold look. The figure disappeared then, and while he was watching for it to appear closer to the fire, he heard the dim call of a far coyote. Too far away to be one of them, Ward thought; They won’t risk a call now.

  He never saw the scout again, but he waited another half-hour, then drifted quietly down toward the trail. He did not cross it, but traveled parallel to it among the rocks of the gentle slope, heading north. Now that their quarry was spotted he judged the Apaches would use the easier trail in their travel.

  Another long half-hour passed, and he traveled slowly, halting often and long. Once, in his halt, he heard the barely audible murmur of a runner on the trail below him, also headed back for the band.

  It was where the valley widened for a broad off-shoot canyon to the west that he heard the low murmur of voices. He did not move closer, but sank to the ground, listening, trying to read the meaning of this meeting. Presently, he heard the voices cease, and the sound of a man again at a run heading up the feeder canyon. Considering this, and the faint smell of dust still in the night air, he knew that he had already missed the main band which had been diverted up the canyon. Had they camped or would they jump a few ridges and keep south? The guard posted at the junction was there to direct the scouts who had Wolverton inevitably under surveillance, he judged.

  He drew further back from the junction and peered up the west canyon, weighing his judgment against what he knew of the fighting habits of the Apaches. If they aimed to attack, they would first move their women to a safe camp. They would leave the horse herd there, too, since if they attacked they would have to fight on foot. The question was, Had Wolverton crowded them so they would feel it safer to keep moving? It seemed unlikely, since Wolverton’s troopers and their mounts, lugging all the gear the Army thought was essential, had taken two punishing days of fighting and traveling, and would need rest.

  Quietly, then, Ward pulled away and turned up the feeder canyon. He kept just below the line of the ridge and traveled carefully. He knew that the Apaches, once a fight was in prospect, would be pulled from their defensive alertness by the excitement, and yet he took no chances.

  There was a soft and secret coming and going on the trail below him, and he could not read its meaning. The canyon presently elbowed north, its floor abruptly lifting to break out into a bench directly under the line of a ridge. When he saw the first campfire pinpointing the night, he knew that the band was far enough ahead of Wolverton and could safely halt.

  He struck straight west now, crossing this ridge and its valley and the climbing height beyond, dropping down into a steep canyon. Holding to this for a half-mile, he presently pulled out of his circle half completed, and now his climb was careful. Twice he halted, and waited for the faint stirring of a fitful breeze to die, lest his scent alert their horses. Once, he revised his judgment and moved further north along the slope, and at last, the dim sounds of the camp came to him. Just under the ridge, he waited longest, and then moved on, to it, his every sense sharpened wire thin and alert. The camp came into view below him and to the south, and he was content to watch it from here. His first thought, seeing its entirety, was that Holly had miscounted. It was a smaller band than reported. There were four or five small fires built. At first glance, the camp seemed utterly disorganized, but he knew that was deceptive; it could move in a matter of minutes. The horse herd lay closest him in a makeshift corral of rope and brush, and was policed by the adolescent boys. There were forms on the ground resting, and women moved from one fire to the next. Was one of them Mary Carlyle? Ward wondered. He was too far distant to tell.

  The warriors stood or lounged around two of the fires, and now Ward set himself the task of counting them. At this distance, he could count only twenty-seven or eight men, and allowing for another eight, on scout or watching the detail, it was about half the number Holly reported.

  Ward considered this, watching the activities of the camp. A pair of warriors left camp at a dead run, and presently three more drifted in, but the number never lessened or gained appreciably. Many of the men were going over their arms, checking their guns, bows, and spears. One of the warriors, wearing a ragged shirttail out over his breechclout and carrying his bow and a handful of arrows, came up to a woman. From her, he took the animal intestine which was the Apache’s water bag, had his drink, looked now at his arrows, found a faulty one, and set it in his bow. Someone called to him and pointed to a target, and warrior drew on it swiftly. The defective arrow started true, then yawed and was lost in darkness; the men laughed.

  From their actions, Ward knew, this fight would be classified as a raid. There was no time for the dance, which always went with war. They had stumbled on an enemy they could annihilate while they paused for rest and food.

  Looking closely now, Ward thought it was Diablito who was sitting by the fire, his back to the ridge, for he was the one spok
en to most often. Presently, this man rose and threw something in the fire, then turned to speak to one of the women, and seeing him now, Ward was sure. He was undersize, with a great wide and long chest that made his legs seem short and stubby. His leggings were folded down, and to a man unfamiliar with his history, he would seem only a mildly comic figure, unimportant.

  Now Ward, knowing what he must do, pulled slowly back off the ridge. His descent was as careful as his ascent had been until, in the narrow canyon, he turned south at a trot.

  Here, then, was what Loring had wanted, the body of the band itself, with its women and perhaps Mary Carlyle. But the fact that the band was only half the size Holly had estimated puzzled him. Had the band, refusing altogether to fight, split up in two parts, hoping to divert pursuit? Or had part of it lagged, hoping for an ambush of Wolverton’s troop? He did not know.

  Guided now only by the stars and his sense of direction, Ward kept south, widely skirting the ground between the Apache camp and the detail, and when he judged they were behind him he cut east again, and on the canyon rim, was presently picked up by the challenge of a soft Irish voice.

  “Kinsman,” Ward identified himself, and waited until the trooper appeared cautiously in the night. “Take me to Captain Loring, soldier,” he requested.

  “Lieutenant Storrow is on this side of the canyon, lad. Loring is on the far bank of this damned gully. Come along.”

  Ward descended the precipitous slope to the canyon and was immediately challenged by the sentry on the other side, who turned him over to another trooper. They climbed the tight curving wash, which was only an eroded runoff from the rim, and the trooper turned to his left at the head of it, threading his cautious way between troopers resting among the boulders until he hauled up and said, “Mr. Kinsman to see you, sir.”

  “Kinsman?” Loring’s voice from the ground was startled. “Where?”

  “Right here, sir.”

  “Very well.” The trooper vanished, and Ward now heard the movement of Loring rising, and saw his thick bulk halt in front of him. “I thought I told you to go,” Loring said bluntly.

  “I’ve found your Indian camp, Captain,” Ward said. He told Loring of his discovery, and as he talked, he noted Loring’s silence, his sparse questions and he tried to cover all that Loring should know, yet he wondered, Is the man too proud to receive information he needs?

  When Ward was finished, Loring asked, “You say you couldn’t see Mary Carlyle?”

  “I was too far away to recognize her if I had.”

  “That’s a pity,” Loring said, disappointment in his tone.

  “Maybe she’s not with them. The whole band isn’t there.”

  “Whose judgment are you quoting?” Loring asked impatiently, sharply. “Holly’s? Is it likely he saw them all on the peak? Would they stop to be counted?” Loring snorted softly. “I’m familiar with Holly’s judgments, which are right not quite half the time. How would he estimate the number in the camp?”

  “The size of it and the number of jacals.”

  “Precisely. Guesswork. If you were unsure of a count of hostiles yourself, what would you do, Kinsman? Underestimate or overestimate in your report to the Army?” Loring’s dry voice was truculent.

  “Over.”

  “To be on the safe side, yes, which is what Holly had done. No, there’s the band, all of it, headed by Diablito, and Mary Carlyle must be with him. Nothing else makes sense. There may be a handful of men watching Wolverton, perhaps intending to delay him, but the band we’re after is there. We should—” He ceased talking, and then he said sharply, “Sergeant Mack!”

  “Yes, sir.” The voice came from Ward’s right.

  “Someone’s smoking. Find him and take his name.”

  Loring resumed, and now there was a distinct exultation in his voice. “All right, Kinsman, what’s your judgment? That we—”

  “That the band isn’t all there,” Ward said mildly, stubbornly.

  There was a long, onrunning silence, and finally Loring said with a bitter patience, “I have tried to indicate in every way short of arresting you, Kinsman, that I am not interested in your guesses, hunches, suspicions, or the fruits of your intuition. You were hired to guide us. You were dismissed because you did more. If you’re not willing to come back on that basis, go now.”

  “And let you find the camp?” Ward asked dryly.

  “You have me at a disadvantage there,” Loring admitted. “What’s the price of your leading Storrow and his detail to the camp—that I hear more of your opinions?”

  “Yes.”

  “All right. Opine,” Loring said sarcastically.

  Ward said levelly, “I’ll take Holly’s word that the band was twice as big as the one I saw. That means they’ve split—and since the sun went down, or Wolverton would have signaled you.”

  “Foresighted of them,” Loring remarked dryly.

  “Why they split, I don’t know,” Ward went on doggedly. “Maybe to divide Wolverton’s command so they’ll only have half of it to fight, maybe to delay Wolverton, or maybe they are just running.” He paused, and Loring said nothing, and Ward went on stubbornly talking against this wall of dislike that might as well have been deafness. “In other words, there’s another band roughly the size of this one loose—close or far, I don’t know. But just remember it.”

  “That’s all?” Loring asked patiently.

  “Yes.”

  “Very well. I should like you to guide Storrow and his detail to the Apache camp. Agreeable?”

  “That’s why I came back,” Ward said tiredly.

  Loring called Sergeant Mack, who came up quietly beside them, and Loring told him to bring Lieutenant Storrow to him. Waiting now in the night, Ward knew that when Storrow returned Loring’s first move would be to seek counsel under the pretense of open-mindedness. His jealousy of the Army prerogatives would be handily forgotten now; it was the old pattern of Loring’s life, the bold plan and the inner retreat, the imperceptible shifting of the burden of facing the risk and the unknown onto someone else, the self-doubt stilled by the returning wash of his polite arrogance and guaranteed authority.

  Ward sank down on his heels now, content with the silence between them. Should he tell Storrow of his belief that the band was split, and that the unknown half was a possible danger that Loring refused to recognize? He’ll be with me, Ward thought, and he knew he had done what he could, what he should.

  Loring said now, “It was generous of you to return, Kinsman. I’m grateful to you.”

  Ward scrubbed his hand wearily over his mouth and peered into the darkness that was the source of Loring’s voice, a sudden and vast irritability washing over him.

  “Now,” he said dryly, sardonically, “I’m happy, Captain.”

  Chapter VII

  Linus wasn’t really asleep when he felt the hand on his shoulder and heard Sergeant Isaacs’ voice murmuring, “It’s gettin’ about that time, sir.”

  “Are the sentries in, Sergeant?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Seen or heard anything?”

  Sergeant Isaacs’ voice was soft and wry. “No sir, that’s the trouble. It’s too damn quiet.”

  The detail was already awake. In the east was the faintest graying of the pre-dawn flush. The fire was dead and would remain so. Now Linus moved quietly among the detail whom he had disposed last night behind the cover of protecting boulders in a rough circle. He knew the first attack would be the heavy one, with the Apaches throwing all their numbers into it. If that were driven off, the detail’s chances of holding out for hours seemed a likely bet. Linus had already written off the horses on the picket line, which would be the first to go. Once Diablito thought he had them cornered, encircled, and afoot, he would be sure of his victory.

  Linus spoke to each man, telling each the same thing, to hold his fire until he could see, and to expect the all-out first attack which would erupt out of the rocks in front of them at the first light of dawn; he moved back then
to his own position, exchanged his pistol for a carbine, placed the pistol beside him, and waited.

  A horse on the picket line snorted now. It was a safe guess that the mounts were quietly being cut loose, to be stampeded away from camp at the first shot. Linus felt an impulse to anger, and checked it; this was part of their job as the decoy, to pretend to be stupid and asleep.

  Dawn came with an agonizing slowness, and as first light seemed to rise out of the earth, the camp was utterly silent. Linus heard a sound behind and turned to see trooper Isbel crawling toward him.

  When he was close Isbel said, “Sir, one’s in plain sight of me. Is it time?”

  “Shoot him,” Linus said impatiently.

  Isbel turned, started to crawl back. The stillness then was broken by the whang of a bowstring. The whump of the arrow in Isbel’s body was a continuing noise. Isbel simply folded on his face.

  Linus rolled over and saw a diminishing shape against a close rock and fired.

  The whole morning exploded in a racket of yelling. From the same rock, the bowman leaped out, already in a run, and Linus’ shot knocked him down.

  The horses stampeded now, and Linus moved and saw the frightened animals aiming straight for the camp. Trailing them, holding to their tails, were three Apaches. He held his fire as the lead horse pounded into the camp, across the dead fire, swerved, stepped over a trooper who was firing belly down and oblivious to him, and took out for the west slope.

  Linus bellowed, “Isaacs!” and saw Sergeant Isaacs turn. Immediately, Isaacs understood. As the last of the horses, running neck and neck, stampeded through the camp, the three Apaches broke and scattered, and Linus raised his pistol and shot and missed. His man lunged for the nearest trooper, his brown body, naked save for the breechclout, wiry and lean as he raised his spear. Linus shot; the Apache went over, stumbling on the trooper’s legs. The trooper raised and brought down the butt of his carbine on the bare back of the Apache and then again on his head, smashing again and again in a passion of rage.