Apache canyon (7 page)

The horse heaved forward; he had the precarious sensation of starting to fall backward, the hill was that steep. He leaned flat forward over the horn. A rearward glance flung at his pursuers told him they had gained thirty yards.

And finally, the horse lunged over the top. Brady gigged it to a canter and went across the narrow, rocky ridgetop, and began the long run down the shallow dropping slope of the other side. He knew exactly what the Apaches were doing. Two or tliree would be cutting to either side, making the long run around the end of the ridge. The rest would be following him up the slope.

His only course was straight ahead into the tortured ruggedness of the foothills, into the darkness of the Arrowheads.

Brady s mind worked swiftly. If he maintained his present direction, it would not be too long before the Apaches drove him into a box. There were very few passes into the fortress of the Arrowheads; most of the notches were dead ends, box canyons. He had to make a long swing around until he was running parallel to the base of the foothills-and then hope his winded horse would outlast the Apache's lightly loaded mounts.

The horse was already badly vmided. He could feel the shod hoofs stumble now and then. Behind him he saw the first of the Indians scrambling over the ridge top and plunging forward after him, whooping. The distance was not much more than half a mile.

A man could not outgun fourteen fighting Apaches. But to continue running, in the end, would lead to defeat. His eyes swept the hills and settled on a craggy mound of rocks. Beyond it lifted the higher masses of the foothills and then the dark fastness of the Arrowheads. He swept o£F his hat and looked at the sky, at the westering sun-two hours of full day-fight left, and another hour of dusk before night. On a fresh horse it was five hours to Fort Dragoon.

It was the nearest thing to a natural fortification this desert had to oflFer. A manzanita branch rushed by, tearing at his trouser leg. He went around the side of the hill and pointed the horse up its steep slope and let the horse rock and stagger up the hill.

Halfway up, Brady yanked the rifle from its scabbard and the canteen from the saddle and, carrying only these two things, flung himself off the horse and ran uphill.

He covered ground with pumping legs until his eyes swam with blood and his chest heaved and he could not get enough of the hot, stinging desert air into his lungs; he squeezed upward between the faces of a rock-sHce and scrambled on, demanding of his punished legs step after step. And finally, in that manner, he achieved the top of the hiU-a small round flat space, surrounded by a natural rock perimeter, and guarded on half its base by a sixty-foot sheer stone chff.

He lay flat, canteen and rifle at hand, and for a single moment let his head drop onto his arm while he brought great rasping lungfuls of scorching air into his body. His legs were numb, immediately starting to stiffen. He lifted his head and looked downhill.

They were coming.

He saw his own riderless horse standing with its feet splayed, utterly beaten, head hanging ahnost to the ground, eyes wide and bulging and glazed.

The Indians charged right up to the base of the hill and stopped, milling, holding a quick conference. The brassy sun beat down on Brady s back and sent up painful reflected heat from the surface of the flat rock on which he lay. He reached his rifle, extended it over the edge of the rock and rested his cheek against the stock. He shook his head; he bhnked; he aimed the rifle, held his breath and squeezed off a shot.

The bullet took the nearest of the Indians off his saddle and dumped him on the ground; immediately, the other Apaches scattered to the cover of the rocks. Presently, he saw two men leading all the horses to a spot out of Brady's range.

Now it would begin—the slow stalk.

He picked up the rifle again and began to search for targets in the rocks below. For a while, he knew, it would be standoff-but if they could crawl too close to him before nightfall, he was done ...

Sutherland entered his quarters late in the afternoon with the dark bruise on his cheek and a little scab of dry blood at the comer of his mouth. His look was bleak. Eleanor, at the window, did not turn when he entered. For a moment he watched the cahn outline of her profile against that light Finally she turned slowly, giving him a long look and said, "Hello, George."

He said nothing in reply. Outside the parlor, heat pulsed along the ground. Eleanor said idly, "Did Lieutenant Garrett come in with the patrol?"

"No."

"I thought I heard horses."

Sutherland maintained his stiff stance. "Perhaps it was the horse traders. They brought a bimch of stock for the major to look at"

"Yes," she said, turning into the room. "Perhaps that was it." Heat was almost stifling in the low-ceilinged room. Sutherland took off his pistol belt and hat and put them on a table. His wife looked at him. "You re bruised, George." "Yes.''

"Does it hurt?" "No."

She had been fingering the pistol belt on the table. Now she turned. "I don't mean to pry if it's army business, George. But let me ask you one question." "Go ahead, my dear." ]Was it Captain Harris?"

"As a matter of fact," he said, "it was. Are you happy?" "No."

"If you're interested, nobody won the fight. We didn't stay at it very long." He smiled. "I beheve I might have licked him," he said, and nodded. "Harris is careless, and in the long run, his carelessness would have given me the opening I wanted."

"He has a reputation for being a good fighter." His eyes flashed. "Leading troops against Indians is not the same kind of fighting, my dear. But I assure you, Jll better him at both, before I'm through with him." Hi5 tone remained calm; he added, as though it were an afterthought, "I intend to see Justin Harris break, Eleanor. It will give me a certain pleasure." All the while, he watched her carefully.

"Harris won't break, George. He's not your kind of oflficer. He has the capacity to bend-that's what saves him from breaking."

"What does that mean?" He laughed shortly. And then suddenly he bent toward her and spoke with suppressed urgency: "Let me tell you something, Eleanor. There are a lot of men on this frontier like Justin Harris. They think this is a different kind of world from the world they were bom in. They think that because this country is wild and primitive and lazy, they should be that way too-wild and primitive and lazy. But I've got something to tell you about that. This is still the army and we are still civilized human beings. I don t care how far we are removed from drawing-room teas and comer newsboys-the rules are the same. You don't throw away the book when you fight the Apaches, and you don't throw away the rules when you fight for your woman. Do you understand me?"

"I'm not sure," she said, and spoke slowly: "Perhaps you had better spell it out for me, George."

He stood with his feet braced a little way apart, his body bent shghtly foward in an attitude of challenge. He said, "There is a rumor around the post that you have been seeing Justin Harris."

"I don't feel called on to apologize for rumors, or to explain them," she replied evenly.

Sutherland drew his head back. "I didn't say I believed the rumor, Eleanor. Perhaps I did at one time, but I have come to believe that Captain Harris has no particular interest in you beyond the interest that any man might show toward a pretty woman." "Then what are you so upset about?" "Do you think I'm upset, Eleanor? Not very. You'll never see the day when anything can upset me beyond the point of reason and honor."

She waved her hand vaguely. "It's all right," she said. "I didn't mean to offend you."

"You didn't let me finish what I was saying," he said stiffly.

She smiled a little. "Go on, then."

"I told you, I don't believe Harris has any designs on you. But Im not altogether convinced that the reverse is equally as untrue."

"What do you mean by that, George?" His chm lifted and he addressed her sternly. "Do you feel that you understand the kind of man I am Eleanor?"

"I think so," she said slowly. "I think I do." "I am a soldier-an ojficer." He began to pace a straight path back and forth across the room. "I'm a discipHnarian because my duty calls for it-and I do not choose to allow myself to be lax in discipline just because we are on a frontier post or because the weather happens to get hot in the summer here. I believe that the United States Cavalry is the finest body of fighting men on the face of the earth and I am proud to be a part of it. I don't beheve in appeasing Indians-because I beheve that they are savages who are born and educated for the express purpose of fighting, killing, looting and torturing their enemies. You don't make peace with people like that— you subjugate them. That's my job, and I do it as best I can. Disciphne I find is one of the most valuable means I have of insuring that my men are better fighters, under any conditions, than the Indians. I do not agree with Harris and Brady and the others that the best way to whip the Indians is to learn to fight like them. No kind of rational thinking or honorable behavior can support that kind of attitude." He stopped pacing long enough to look at her. "Do you understand what I'm talking about?" "I think so."

"Do you agree with me, Eleanor?" "I don't know," she said. "I'm not an Indian fighter, George. Why ask me questions like this? How would I know the answer?"

"I should think you wouldn't have to be a soldier to understand that laxity and sloppiness are not superior to disciphne and pride."

"Is Captain Harris lax and sloppy?" "In my opinion his methods are." "I get a different impression," she said, "when I see Sergeant Tucker drilling Hanis's company. They seem disciplined enough to me."

He shook his head in an exasperated gesture. "Marching drill and attitude are different things, Eleanor. It's the man's attitude I dislike. Can't you see that?"

"Yes," she said slowly. "I can see how you might dislike it." When she looked at him there was a strange kind of pity in her eyes.

He did not seem to notice it. He resumed his pacing. "Harris is too easy with his men-too familiar, too relaxed. It's not a soldierly attitude."

"George," she said, "haven't we gotten a bit off the subject?"

"What?" He stopped. "You were talking about rumors." "Yes." He met her glance, a bright hght in his eyes. "And you don't connect the two?" "Not yet."

"Very well," he said grimly. "Then I'll connect them for you. I have the feeling that you are impressed by Captain Harris, Eleanor. You're attracted to him. You see in him a great many things that you don't see in me—an easygoing nature, an ability to form quick friendships, a careless smile—"

She interrupted: "Aren't you forming a hasty conclusion, George?"

"No," he said. "I don't beheve I am. I beHeve you are strongly attracted to him-and I mean to put a stop to it. I mean to show him up for what he is. I mean to prove myself a better man than Justin Harris."

"You don t have to do that, George," she said quietly.

"I feel I do," he said stijffly. "One thing a man must have from his wife is respect."

"Of course," she said. Her tone was dry.

His eyes flashed toward her. "Don't mock me, Eleanorl"

Her brows lifted. "Am I mocking you?"

He stepped toward her. His arms half-lifted; he stood before her, working his Hps, plainly on the verge of breaking. His glance traveled the length of her supple body, and something powerful and bitter came into his eyes. Then he wheeled, buckled his pistol belt about him, put on his hat, and strode to the door. Holding it open, he paused long enough to say, "I'll eat out tonight-at the Officers' Kitchen." And left.

Silence became a thickness surround the woman. She moved to the window and stood with her arms folded, looking out into the dusty afternoon as the low sun cast long, sharp-edged shadows along the ground.

Major Cole stood on the porch of his office, shading his eyes against the long slanting rays of the sun, and when he saw Sutherland walk out of the house, he lifted his voice and called: "Captain-can you come over here a minute?"

Sutherland came up, saluting smartly. "Yes, sir." "Come inside," the major said, and led the way past McCracken s desk into his own office. As usual, Sutherland closed the thin, dry door behind him; and as usual, the major smiled slightly. With this ritual accompUshed, he sat down behind his desk and said, "Lieutenant Garrett should be coming in with his scouting patrol. Depending on what information he brings, and whatever word I may receive from Sherman's headquarters, I may want you to take out the next patrol."

"Yes, sir," Sutherland said. "I beheve it's my turn, sir."

"That's right." The major leaned back in his chair, tilting it on two legs. He considered the bruise on Sutherland's cheek, the cut by his mouth, and said nothing about these. He had seen Captain Harris a few hours ago, similarly bruised. What he said was, "At ease. Captain. I want to caution you about one

Sutherland straightened. "Yes, sir?

"The last time you took a patrol on scout," the major said, "you returned two days overdue. I was ready to send a large force into the field under Captain Harris, since I had had no word from you."

"I sent back a courier, sir," Sutherland said stiffly. "Unfortunately, he was cut off by the Indians. I had no way of knowing that. I was hot on Inyo's track and it was my judgment that it would be best to pursue him, on the chance he might make a stand."

"In which case," the major rephed mildly, "you'd have been wiped out. Captain. Inyo will not make a stand until he knows the circumstances are all in his favor. Until then—until he draws us into a trap—hell keep on running."

"It seems a cowardly way to fight, doesn't it, sir?"

The major shrugged. "I'd say it was more smart than cowardly. My advice to you is this: your orders are to patrol the area roundabout this post, in a radius of fifty miles. In the future, you will confine yourself to those limits. Your mission is to reconnoi-ter—not to engage the enemy. Do you understand that?"

Sutherland flushed. "Yes, sir."

"Very well," Major Cole said. "That's all. Captain."