Hondo (1953) (7 page)

They moved on into the desert and the morning. Lieutenant Creyton C. Davis rode beside the guidon now. His eyes reached out to the hills, and he thought of Vittoro.

Cunning as a wolf, the old chief was a fierce and vindictive fighter. His treatment of Lyndon had been a warning of what he intended for them all, if they were caught alive. And how had he caught Lyndon alive? Cotton Lyndon, who knew so well all the Apache tricks? And where was old Pete?

The command moved on, trotting now, and swung around a group of low hills. They passed another burned-out ranch, and buried the dead. Davis hesitated, then made his decision. "Sergeant, have the men refill their canteens here. We'll swing south toward Mescal Springs. When we reach the open country we'll dismount and walk the horses."

"Dismount?"

"Yes, Sergeant." Davis hesitated, then said quietly, "We're going back, Sergeant. These ranches are answer enough. There's no reason to go on. If anyone is alive up ahead, they know more about the Indians than we do." He paused. "We'll dismount in the open country where they can't ambush us. That will rest the horses. We'll make camp early, as we did last night. When the men have rested we'll mount up and move out slowly. I dislike to leave a good fight, but if the tribes are out, the General should be informed.

"Moreover," he smiled, "we may get a chance to trap the old boy himself. He's waiting for something, you can bank on that. For more warriors, possibly. I think he's waiting to get us in rougher country, where he can use an ambush. If he thinks we'll go on south of Mescal, he'll probably wait. There isn't better ambush country in the world."

Breen nodded, waiting. Lieutenant Davis had always let him know just what he was thinking. There was nothing of the martinet in the man and he believed that if the men knew the score, each could carry on in better fashion.

"Once he knows we've started back, we'll have a fight."

"Does the Lieutenant hope to lead him back?"

Davis hesitated. "If we can, Sergeant. If we can."

The plain opened before them, and once they were well into it, he slowed the column and dismounted the men to save their horses. Apparently they were moving into rugged country where by tomorrow every mile would offer a new trap. Would Vittoro wait? Or would he attack at the first opportunity?

Vittoro might be waiting for a contingent of Apaches from another tribe. A successful battle and much loot would do much to cement the allegiance of his allies. Nobody would realize this better than Vittoro.

They walked slowly. It was very hot. Dust arose. A road runner darted away ahead of them, a streak of dull brown against the desert. A rattler buzzed from under a mesquite bush. They walked on.

A mile, three miles. The hills were dawning nearer now. No sign of Pete Britton.

The Lieutenant mounted the column and they moved out at a walk, and they came up to Mescal Springs at four in the afternoon. Under doubled guards, they bedded down for a rest.

The sun dropped behind the hills, long shadows reached out, the mesquite clumps turned to blobs of blackness against the gray of the desert. Horses had been rubbed down and watered, a few fires were lighted, coffee was made.

Against the boulder where he sat, Lieutenant Davis waited. He was a slender young man with a face darkened by desert suns, a pleasant face, composed and still now.

He signaled Breen and Patton. They drew near and then dropped to their knees as he motioned to them.

"We'll move out at midnight," he told them, "keeping downslope in the sand. If we get away, when we're a mile out well mount up. Then we'll move at a trot."

When they had gone, he turned to his blankets and stretched out. He would not sleep, he knew. He might rest a little...

A hand was shaking him. It was Breen. "Time, Lieutenant. Midnight."

Davis sat up, amazed. He had slept for hours. Quickly he was on his feet, straightening his uniform, checking his gun. His horse was saddled and waiting.

All was dark and silent. Taking the lead, he moved out. The slope was soft sand and stoneless, as was much of the valley bottom. The small column moved without sound.

For ten minutes they walked. Corporal Patton moved up from the rear. "Seems quiet, sir."

"All right." He turned. "Sergeant, pass the word along. Mount up. Walk the horses another ten minutes."

After ten minutes he lifted the column into a trot. Holding the pace, they held on down the valley. If they had escaped the Indians, there would be no following them until morning. It would give them a safe lead. He was already thinking ahead, checking over the country in his mind, and he knew the place.

It was not a good place for an ambush, hence was sure to be unexpected by Vittoro. There was a place among low hills ... He rode on, heading directly for the fort, yet his plan was made. It was a chance to trap Vittoro and he meant to take it. The defeat of the Apache war chief might easily end the outbreak. Certainly it would end the trouble for a time. Until another chief was selected.

He held the horses to a trot for an hour, then slowed to a walk. All night they moved steadily, taking only two short breaks. At daybreak the country was opening out and by noon they would be less than forty miles from the post.

Suddenly he saw the hills. It would be here. He halted the column and quickly gave his orders. On the spot, the situation looked even better than he had remembered.

The valley down which they had been riding had ended, leaving them in a country of rolling hills. Two low hills lay on each side of the meadow, and he rode down this meadow, then moved to the right and concealed his horses in a draw. On the far slope of the hill there were several hollows ideal for concealment.

"Corporal," Davis looked at Patton, "take Silvers and Shoemaker and get behind that hill opposite. When the enemy are well into the meadow, fire on them. I want three Indians down with those three first shots. Then fire again, get into your saddles, and swing wide and get back here. Understand?"

"Yes, sir." Patton hesitated. "You're going to be here?"

Davis nodded. "When you fire, I think they'll run to this hill for shelter."

"Yes, sir."

Silence fell, the little dust settled. The sun rose well into the sky, the earth smelled faintly. A few flies buzzed. An hour passed slowly. Men drank from their filled canteens. They waited.

Clanahan saw them first. Davis felt his scalp tighten. They had been strengthened. There were more than seventy. There were ninety or more.

No matter.

They seemed to have no fear, no realization of what lay ahead. They rode steadily down the meadow. Two Indians were well ahead, and suddenly one of them drew up sharply. Instantly Davis knew the man had seen the bent grass where the horses had turned. The Indian wheeled his pony and yelled sharply.

From across the meadow there was a crash of shots. The Indian fell headfirst off his racing pony and turned head over heels in the grass. Two more fell, the other lead warrior and one man in the column.

It worked perfectly. Instantly the Indians broke for shelter, charging the hill behind which lay Davis and the company.

They came on a dead run, and Davis let them come. At point-blank range he fired. A crashing volley hit the charging Indians and those in the lead went down in a wild melee of screaming, wounded horses and yelling Indians. Firing coolly, Company C poured lead into the mass below. And then the Indians were out and running.

Scattered shots, then silence. Corporal Patton came up at a dead run and swung down. He saluted swiftly. "Silvers gone, sir. Tangled with a 'Pache and both of 'em gone, sir."

"Thanks, Corporal. Get set. They'll be back."

There was sporadic firing, and Davis studied the meadow and the slope. The ambush had taken seventeen Indians and half again that many horses. A number of wounded had been carried away.

He studied the grassy plain where the Indians had disappeared. There was a faint stirring of the grass. He fired into the grass and saw an Indian half rise, then sink back.

He studied the situation. Nothing more to be gained here by sniping fire. In any event, they had taught Vittoro a lesson.

"Sergeant?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Get the horses. We'll move on."

Clanahan's voice boomed. "Lieutenant! Look!"

Davis wheeled and saw the rider. At first he thought it was an Apache, and then he knew no Indian ever rode like that. The man was hunkered down low and riding hard, but he had stirrups and there was a flash of sunlight on polished leather, and then he recognized the horse.

The rider was coming at a dead run and he did not slow up until he had plunged into the very circle of soldiers. Then he drew up sharply, his horse rearing high, and he slid to the ground. It was Pete Britton.

His hard old face was gray and there was blood on his shirt. "Lieutenant," his voice was calm, "you got more'n a hundred Mimbrenos comin' up behind you."

Lieutenant Creyton C. Davis stood very still. He had his hat in his hand and he felt the wind stirring his hair. "What chance of getting through to the fort, Pete?"

"Not none a-tall." Pete Britton hesitated, then he said quietly, "I caught me a brave. He wasn't so brave an' he talked. He said forty Mescaleros left the reservation last night. There's more Mimbrenos comin', too. You're boxed in, Lieutenant. My guess is what we know ain't but part of it. I figure half the Apache nation is betwixt us an' the fort."

"Could you get through?"

"Might."

"I want a message taken."

Old Pete spat into the dust, then he grinned slowly. "Lieutenant, git yo'self another boy. I got a crease in my hide back yonder. I ain't fixed for ridin'. Anyway, I've took a lot of 'Pache hair in my time. I'll give 'em a chance at mine."

Davis put on his hat. "All right, Pete. Glad to have you."

"They'll know soon enough," Pete said dryly. "Anyways, I'm agittin' rheumatic these days. Figure I'd like it better thisaway."

Lieutenant Davis turned to Breen. "All right, Sergeant. Have the boys dig in and get settled. We'll wait for them."

Wind stirred the grass. Sweat trickled down his face. He shook his canteen. It was over half full. They moved back to the rim of the hills around the tiny basin where the horses were held.

There was dust to the south, and away there to the east there was dust. He mopped his brow and waited. He took the letter to his wife from his pocket and thrust it conspicuously over a spear of bear grass.

He settled down and lighted a smoke. Clanahan was squatted on his heels and he grinned at the Lieutenant. "Wished I had a drink," he said. "I could get drunk without makin' the guardhouse."

Davis turned and reached into his saddlebag. He drew out a flat bottle and tossed it to the burly Irishman. Clanahan grinned and caught the bottle in his big palm. The pulled cork made a comfortable sound. He tilted back his head and drank.

There was no sound but the wind, no movement but the bending grass.

Chapter
Five

Hondo Lane walked the lineback into the willows and let the horse plunge his dark muzzle into the cold, clear water of the stream. Day had come but the sun was obscured behind towering masses of thunderheads. The morning was cool. There was no wind.

Two days out of Angie Lowe's ranch and he had just reached the bank of Little Dutch Creek. At this rate he would be four days getting to the post. If he got there at all.

Twice on the first day he had cut the trail sign of small Apache bands. Yesterday, after swinging wide to try to avoid further meetings, he had narrowly escaped being seen on a grassy hillside. Luckily he had left the lineback in an arroyo over the ridge, so he flattened out in the grass and lay unmoving, and so unseen.

Thunder rumbled like the booming of far-off guns. The cumulus had darkened. Hondo flattened beside the stream, drank, then filled his canteen. Sam had crossed the stream and was drinking there. His head came up sharply, muzzle dripping water.

Hondo caught the lineback's nostrils and held them.

Two Mescaleros came up the creek, one of them riding a big chestnut horse with a U.S. brand. The other wore a lieutenant's blue coat, now dusty and darkly stained.

Not twelve feet away they stopped. Hondo slid his bowie knife into his hand. A gun would be more certain, but how far away were other Indians? He took a quick, sure step.

The Mescaleros turned like cats and he lunged. The nearest Indian struck down barehanded at the knife blade ... too late. The blade went in hard and Lane jerked it across and free. The Mescalero grabbed his wrist and pulled Hondo down, dying under him.

Jerking free, Hondo rolled over, and then he saw that the other Indian was down. Over him, humped in awful fury, was Sam. The big dog had sprung from close up, and the startled Apache had no chance with ninety pounds of snarling, driving fury on top of him.

Lane scrambled to his feet and put a hand on the dog. "All right, Sam."

Reluctantly the dog let go. There was a long scratch on his ribs. Ears pricked, still growling, he walked stiff-legged around the dying Indian, then at another word from Hondo he turned and went into the cold water, lying down. Lane peeled bridle and blanket from the horse with the Army brand and turned it loose. There was a bloody scratch on the flank not yet a day old.