Norton, Andre - Novel 15 (17 page)

 
          
 
"Deer stalk. See, there're the marks of
the lion's tail—that fan shaped imprint—he twitched it back and forth just
before he jumped—and that trough in the middle was made by his dragging belly
fur."

 
          
 
"Got his deer, too!" broke in
Charlie. The signs of the kill were so clear that not even Ritchie could
misread them.

 
          
 
" 'N
cached the
rest away right here." Several hundred yards further on Tuttle raked aside
branches and sand to disclose the stiffened, bloody remains of a carcass.

 
          
 
"Ain't bin back for a second feed—which
means he ain't gonna be. If Big Gray
don't
come back
within the day, he never does. He's funny that way—"

 
          
 
"Nice haunch here." Tuttle eyed the
kill professionally.

           
 
"Ain't more'n clawed a
bit.
If we'd come up to it sooner, might have had us a good feed, too. Man could eat
pretty well jus' followin' one of the big cats around 'n stuffin' at the same
table. Ha—Boru has the trail again—"

 
          
 
The greyhound was giving tongue at the far end
of the canyon, and they hurried to join him. He was pawing at the end of an
almost straight wall of rock.

 
          
 
"Silly dog," panted Woldemar.
"It is lion we hunt, not birds!"

 
          
 
"Maybe so.
But
Big Gray went up here." Charlie pointed to some deep scratches in the
rock. "That thar's his sign."

 
          
 
"Well, we can't follow him!" Herndon
measured the slope with a calculating eye. "This gray devil of yours,
Charlie, must have suction pads on his feet!"

 
          
 
"Yessiree!
He's
a smart oF devil!"

 
          
 
"Smart enough to have
hisself a good laugh now 'n then.
Look thar!" Tuttle stabbed his
finger in the direction of the cliff above them.
"Leetle
to the right of that thar scrubby bush.
Thar's a ledge 'n on it—"

 
          
 
"Big Gray!"
Herndon was the first to follow directions.

 
          
 
For a long moment Ritchie saw nothing at all.
And then a slight movement of the big furry head gave it away. Crouched on what
must have been a very small ledge was a long sinuous body. And looking down at
them from a snarling mask of cat rage were two slits of green eyes. The lips
curled back showing fangs too sharply pointed to be pleasant. And then, as
might a ripple of water, the whole long body flowed up and was gone with a last
contemptuous flirt of the black tipped tail as it disappeared over the sky
line.

 
          
 
"Ate hisself a big dinner 'n holed up for
a leetle snooze," Charlie deducted. "We woke him up, 'n he ain't very
pleased 'bout that. Mighty mad tomcat jus' went over that thar ridge—"

           
 
"Whar we ain't goin' to follow him,"
Tuttle observed. "Guess we'll go back to deer—they ain't goin' to fly away
on us. Big Gray will be halfway over the next mountain by now."

 
          
 
Woldemar swung back into the saddle. *lt is
true what they say of this land—only the Apaches and the rock lions can live
soft here. We
dragoons—
we have to work for what we
get."

 
          
 
"
Which will now be
deer.
" Herndon patted the rifle he held. "And shall we get to
that business now, gentlemen?"

 
          
 
The number of mounted passes which Herndon and
Woldemar managed to obtain during the next weeks seemed unlimited, and Ritchie
found himself—to his own secret surprise—included in the majority of them. On
the other hand, when they were at the fort neither of the sergeants
were
particularly friendly, so he was puzzled as to why they
asked him to join those hunting and mapping expeditions for which there was
always a crowd of eager applicants. He finally decided that it was Tuttle who
brought him into this select group and was increasingly grateful to the scout
for it.

 
          
 
Because, away from the
environs of the fort and town, he rode into a new world.
And while they
always came home with game strapped on the pack mule or mules, hunting itself
was not the prime reason for their travels. Herndon and Woldemar were
both map
makers, and the German in addition gathered seeds,
roots, and pressed leaves and flowers in his attempt to compile some sort of
botanical guide to the region.

 
          
 
"Last time to kick up yore heels,
son," Tuttle said one morning as their party came away from a spring where
they had camped. "We're goin' back to work—"

 
          
 
"A raid?"
Ritchie's hand almost unconsciously dropped to the light shotgun he carried
across his saddle.

           
 
"Nope!
Sharpe's
comin' in to join us."

 
          
 
Ritchie remembered. "He's the camel
man!"

 
          
 
Tuttle aimed a bomb of tobacco juice at the
head of a polka-dotted ocellated lizard sunning itself on a nearby rock.

 
          
 
"I don't hold with camels. Rather have me
a mule any-day. Now a mule, yo' can tell how he's thinkin', even if it is
contrary. But them camels—a man can't ever git hisself inside one of their
heads!"

 
          
 
"They can pack from five hundred to over
a thousand pounds and live off the country," Herndon pointed out,
"which is more than any mule can do. They don't need much water, and their
feet never give out. Don't have to carry extra shoes for them."

 
          
 
"Hosses 'n mules hate 'em
. '
N they make mighty good targets for Injuns. Goin' to try
to git yo' that bull today, Scott?"

 
          
 
Herndon laughed. "That bull's more likely
to get me someday, Jesse. But it won't do any harm to trail along in his
territory a while. He's a monster, isn't he?"

 
          
 
"Biggest critter I ever seed. Like to
match him up to a buffalo bull 'n see which'd come out of that a-flyin' with
his tail up!"

 
          
 
"Where did he come from in the first
place?" The tracks of the wild bull had been pointed out to Ritchie the
night before, but the story of how he had come into this bush country had not
been told.

 
          
 
"Apaches raided out some ranches down
here two-three years ago. What stock they didn't butcher went wild. This bull,
he's smart, he has been livin' out here ever since."

 
          
 
"That bull—he thinks like a man,"
Woldemar cut in. "It is the truth—he thinks. I would not want him on my
trail!"

           
 
"Well, no one has collected his hide yet.
Let's see if we
can,
gents." Tuttle led off on
a trail which even
a greenhorn such as Ritchie could follow.

 
          
 
Yucca in dingy white flower began to stand out
among the greasewood. The Spanish daggers pointed menacingly to the cloudless
sky, and the tall branched stocks of God's candles made avenues down which they
threaded their way, avoiding the spiky, thorned arms of the plants as best they
could.

 
          
 
''There he is!" Woldemar pointed.

 
          
 
Sure enough, a large white animal was moving
slowly, grazing on a few scattered clumps of buffalo grass. Tuttle gathered
into his hand the loops of the lariat that had hung by his saddle horn.

 
          
 
Almost as if he had heard the German's
exclamation, the bull raised his head and turned to look back at them. The wide
spread of his heavy horns made a threatening triangle of his head. He stood
with his front feet planted deep, and now that head went down.

 
          
 
Ritchie tightened rein. He had seen that
stance before and he knew what it meant. As the head swung a fraction of an
inch lower, he used his spurs.

 
          
 
The bull charged straight at them. For all his
bulk he was as quick as a snake in dodging the lariat loop, making a skidding
turn. The knot of horsemen broke up, and now they circled him at a distance.
The bull's heavy snorts of rage were loud as he hooked his horns into the turf
and pawed deep holes with nervous hooves.

 
          
 
For the second time he charged, this time
straight at Tuttle. The scout's horse was away, skimming fleetly between two
giant
Yucca
. Then a shot snapped out. The bull stood
still for a long moment before he plunged forward in a second raging rush. But
this time he was not sure on his feet. He tossed his head, and Ritchie saw a
rope of bloody foam break from his muzzle. At the foot of a tall cactus tree he
keeled over to his knees and then fell on his side.

 
          
 
"Got him!"
There was boyish exultation in Herndon's voice.

 
          
 
He rode up and slipped from the saddle,
dropping reins for his mount to stand. As he drew a skinning knife from his
belt, he walked toward the white body on the ground.

 
          
 
"Scott!"

 
          
 
"Gott, man!"

 
          
 
The warning cries blotted each other out. That
white body was heaving up to its feet again. Herndon jumped back. But the horse
he was heading for was already gone. One look at that rising shape had sent it
running wildly away, snorting in terror. Ritchie's shotgun was at his shoulder.
He was able to snap out a single shot as the bull charged.

 
          
 
Herndon flung himself to one side, right into
the torturous embrace of a cactus. There he clung in spite of the thorns while
the bull pulled up, bellowing harshly.

 
          
 
Ritchie fumbled at reloading. But before he
could get the cartridge in, Woldemar's shotgun and Tuttle's rifle both spoke.
There was an answering cry of pain and fear, and for the second time the bull
fell to his knees and then rolled over on the trampled ground. But this time
they stayed at a safe distance until the round side stopped heaving and the
snorting breath faded away.

 
          
 
It was then that Ritchie became aware of a
monotonous sound at his left. Herndon was singsonging a few choice words as he
pulled himself, with a maximum of rips, bloody scratches, and inches of torn
skin, out of his refuge. He stood there dripping blood and nursing torn hands.
As his companions came up to render aid, he glared at them.

           
 
"Go on—say it!" he spat out.
"I'm the greenest fool that ever forked a horse. All right—I am! But get
these unmentionable spikes out of me before I go crazy!"

 
          
 
Tuttle walked around him. "Big
job—this," he observed with a professional air. "Picked yoreself up a
right smart lot of prickles that trip, boy—"

 
          
 
Herndon exploded, and his words smoked.

 
          
 
"All right, all
right."
The scout made soothing motions with his hands. Woldemar
was laughing openly, and Ritchie bit the corners of his lips to keep them
sympathetically straight.
"Git yore knives out,
fellas."
Tuttle turned to them. "Might even be a skinnin' job
'fore we're through."

 
          
 
The extraction of the cactus thorns was a
painful job both for the extractors and their victim. But at the end of an hour
Herndon said briefly, between set teeth and with a very dangerous gleam in his
eyes, that he now thought he could survive without their further ministrations
and would they please go attend to the bull so that they could all get out of
there and start back for civilization.

 
          
 
He stayed spread out on the blanket where they
left him, gathering his strength for the return trip, while they skinned the
bull. Woldemar regarded the horned skull regretfully.

 
          
 
"Such horns you do not often see. They
would look good over the barracks door—"

 
          
 
"We can maybe pick them up later,"
Tuttle consoled him.
" 'N
the ants and birds'll
have the skull cleaned up for us too. Huh—what's that?"

 
          
 
That was the sound of an
army bugle, sharp and clear
across the level ground. Ritchie was on his
feet and snatching for the reins almost before the last notes broke. Herndon
hobbled up, his face a thundercloud of pain and disgust but his hand out for
the bridle. The Sergeant reached the saddle and gave a little screech of real
agony, but he spurred forward through the thicket of cactus in the right
direction. And the others were not slow in following.

 
          
 
A queer caravan was winding across the plain.
The guidon slapping at its head and the predominance of dark blue shirts
marking its length identified it as an army one, but the odd, lumbering,
brown-gray beasts at its tail were not so easy to recognize.

 
          
 
“Sharpe 'n his camels!"
Tuttle broke out.

 
          
 
“Let us join them," Woldemar suggested.
''It won't take us long to load that hide, and we shall be able to catch up easily."

 
          
 
Herndon shrugged, winced all through his body,
and made a scorching comment. He stayed mounted, waiting for the rest to gather
up the hide and load it. And the pace he set to join the caravan was anything
but a wild one.

 
          
 
So it was that they came into the fort riding
with Captain Sharpe. The mules and horses in the corrals scented the four
camels. Heads up, snorting in wild alarm, they dashed around and around the
enclosures like mad things and kept it up until the camels had been picketed on
a line of their own some distance beyond the stables.

 
          
 
There was a lot of excited talk in the
barracks as Ritchie came in, his saddlebags across his arm.

 
          
 
"Bite, don't they?" one dragoon was
demanding hotly. ''Got teeth like sabres. Bet they could take a man's arm clean
off en him! I ain't messin' 'round with none of them babies—that I tell
yo'!"

 
          
 
"Mules aren't too comfortable,"
Sturgis observed.

 
          
 
"Yeah, I know. Mules can swop ends
quicker'n a woman can change her mind, 'n they're as ornery as all git out. But
they ain't got necks like snakes, 'n they ain't 'bout eleven feet tall. I'm a
dragoon—but I ain't enlisted to be no camel dragoon!"

 
          
 
"What kind of luck did you have this
time?" Sturgis asked Ritchie under cover of the continuing camel
discussion. "How did our mighty Nimrods conduct themselves?"