Norton, Andre - Novel 15 (18 page)

 
          
 
Ritchie remembering several moments of the
past morning snickered and then laughed outright.

 
          
 
"We got that big white bull the boys have
been talking about. Tuttle took his hide over to town for tanning.
Big enough to make a real rug."

 
          
 
Sturgis rolled over on his bunk and lit a
cigarrillo, puffing the acrid smoke out into the room.

 
          
 
"Turning you into a regular scout, aren't
they?"

 
          
 
Ritchie distrusted Sturgis in this mood.
"Tuttle knows a lot," he answered warily. "You can pick up quite
a bit about this country from him—"

 
          
 
"Sure. Sure." The Southerner allowed
the smoke to curl out of his nostrils.

 
          
 
"I don't know why they want to be
bothered with a greenhorn like me," Ritchie was goaded into saying by the
other's tone. "I suppose I'm a pest—and Woldemar and Herndon are almost as
good as Tuttle."

 
          
 
"So you don't know why they do it?"
Sturgis' voice held that light mocking inflection which could get under a
listener's skin. "You, m'boy, are the brand being snatched from the fire.
Catch 'em young and train them up in the way they should go. That's what's
happening to you. You're being hand-raised and milk-fed now. They want to make
you into a perfect little dragoon, a credit to the company— a living example of
their schooling—"

 
          
 
Ritchie threw his belt across the bunk.

 
          
 
"Did I hurt your feelings now?" That
hateful voice went on, low pitched so that it did not carry beyond
their own
comer. "But it's about time someone opened
your innocent eyes for you. You're going to be a lily white lamb—a credit to
this blasted regiment. I know the whole process —I went through it once."
Sturgis sat up; his eyes were on the brown roll of tobacco he was turning
between his fingers.

 
          
 
''When I first hit this post, I had some
quaint ideas about starting all over, my slate clean and so forth. How
incredibly young one can be!" His face was suddenly pinched and old.
''They all gathered round. Then came payday, and I made a misstep—several of
them all together. After that I was allowed to proceed to the Devil in my own warped
fashion. It's entertaining at times—watching the righteous at work." He
got up and stretched. "Some tame Apaches set them up a little trading post
outside limits. Want to look over their stock?"

 
          
 
The mocking note was gone. He was again the
Sturgis whom Ritchie could not resist. With eager assent he piled away the rest
of his hunting gear and joined the Southerner.

 
          
 
Beyond the sentry's beat was spread out the
meager stock in trade of the desert men. An iguana
in a
crude cage-Apaches considered them good eating was Sturgis' contribution to
Ritchie's store of knowledge—some skilfully made bows and, at the end of the
line, a sword. It was very old and the blade notched and worn, but the guarded
hilt gleamed.

 
          
 
"Where did he get that, I wonder?"
Ritchie looked from the blade to the wrinkle-seamed face of the oldster who
squatted there holding it.

 
          
 
To his surprise Sturgis made a stream of
guttural sounds and flipped a cigarrillo to the old warrior. Through the yellow
stubs of his remaining teeth the Apache lisped back an answer.

 
          
 
"Looks like you've latched onto a real
relic, Rich. This old fella says his father found it out in the desert
alongside the skeleton of a man.
Might be a Spanish
piece—even belonging to one of
Coronado
's gold hunters.
He says that he is now too old for the war
trail"—Sturgis jerked a thumb at the Apache—"and has come in to make
peace. He will trade the sword—"

 
          
 
“For what?"
Ritchie forgot to disguise his eagerness.

 
          
 
The old man grunted and pointed. Ritchie's
hand went to his own throat where the silk of the girls' gift lay in folds.

 
          
 
"I guess not!" he snapped.

 
          
 
Sturgis shrugged. "No use offering him
anything else now that he has seen that."

 
          
 
"Hey, Sturgis!"
Kristland pounded up behind them. "Here's a chance to get back some of
that cash you dropped to the gang. Ant
fight
!"

 
          
 
Sturgis' tongue swept over his lips. There
were little eager lights in his eyes.

 
          
 
"Where?" he
demanded.

 
          
 
Kristland was already on his way.
"Back of the barracks."

 
          
 
Sturgis' hand closed in a viselike grip above
Ritchie's elbow. "Come on, boy. This is a chance to get some spare cash.
Maybe you can win enough to tempt that old devil out of his sword after all.
Only, don't bet on the blacks 'less
they're
about
three to one. They haven't got the guts of the reds!"

 
          
 
The fighting arena was a large basin, and the
warriors were just being emptied into it as Ritchie and Sturgis plowed through
the crowd to where they could see passably well by standing almost on tiptoe
and holding their heads at a neck-cracking angle. Some enterprising promoter
had hacked in halves a can of fruit, extracting the contents but leaving in the
bottom of each half a thin film of sweet syrup. Each part was then partially
buried in the side of one of the three-foot anthills to be found all about the
fort. As soon as the sweet-seeking ants had been attracted in large enough
numbers, the cans had been hurriedly brought in. However, one was dotted with
black and the other with red ants, mortal enemies who fought to the death upon
meeting, so a good show could be expected. The betting ran high as the
combatants were dumped in, and Ritchie heard Sturgis feverishly offering three
to one on the reds. He had several takers, since the black forces seemed to be
numerically greater. But, as he had told Ritchie, the red fighters were more
ferocious, one of them daring to tackle two or even three of the blacks at
once.

 
          
 
But the red warriors, in spite of their
fighting spirit, appeared unable to make up for their lack in numbers and at
last were worn down until their full fighting strength became a few bitter
duelists at bay around the basin. Sturgis thrust his hands far down in his
pockets,
pockets which Ritchie could guess were empty.

 
          
 
"What filthy luck!" he muttered.

 
          
 
''Wait a minute," Ritchie cautioned.
''Watch that ball over there."

 
          
 
Even as he spoke the ball broke, and from its
center staggered three red ants, crawling over pieces of their dying enemies to
head back into the fray. As if the coming of these heroes was a signal, the few
remaining reds struck into battle with renewed ardor. And when the corporal
with the watch called time, there were five reds to four blacks still on their
feet.

           
 
Sturgis grinned at Ritchie. "Luck's
turned!" he crowed. "First good break I've had in months! I'm going
to go places now—I know it!" His face seemed hardly older than Ritchie's
as he stood there accepting his winnings and exchanging chaff with the
disgruntled losers.

 
          
 
"How did you do?" he asked as they
left.

 
          
 
Ritchie laughed.
"Broke
even.
I didn't bet."

 
          
 
"You are a lamb in wolves'
clothing." But there was no taunt in that, and Ritchie did not lose his
grin.

 
          
 
"Guess it's just my cautious
New England
blood coming out in me. I can't
enjoy—"

 
          
 
"Sinning?" queried Sturgis vastly
amused. "Very well, now that I have drawn you into the depths and we have
escaped, it's your turn to call the amusement. Hey, where are we going?"

 
          
 
"Camel lines," Ritchie returned.
"Didn't get a good look at them this morning.
My horse
wouldn't get within ten feet of them. Say—they are big brutes, aren't
they?"

 
          
 
"Regular elephants," agreed Sturgis,
"especially that monster on the end. Wonder what it consiunes for
breakfast—about four fields of hay, I would judge—"

 
          
 
"They eat greasewood—some of them
anyway." Ritchie looked at the one Sturgis mentioned. The animal did seem
larger than the rest and was of a dusty grayish color.

 
          
 
"Greasewood, cactus, anything,
soljer," a man in nondescript civilian clothing said. "This here's
Babu—he's a mule —cross between a camel
'n
a
dromedary. Sure pays his way —can carry over two-thousand poimds if he has a
mind to."

 
          
 
The "mule" continued to chew its cud
and gaze into the middle distance disdainfully aloof from the affairs of mere
humans. A large bell hung around its neck, and the cumbersome pack saddle sat a
short distance away.

 
          
 
"Good critters fer this country,"
continued the camel enthusiast, glad of an audience. "Don't git sore feet,
don't need shoein'."

 
          
 
“Why not?" asked Sturgis with interest.

 
          
 
" 'Cause
they
don't shuffle none when they walk, jus' picks their feet straight up from the
ground 'n puts 'em back without no slidin'. Bottom of the foot spreads out a
mite, doesn't rub the skin off on tough ground. 'N they can live offen the
country without water 'n eatin' greasewood 'n screw beans 'n such. They really
relish that trash, I tell yo'!"

 
          
 
Sturgis regarded the "mule"
critically. "This fellow has a meanish eye. I wouldn't care to have him
clump those teeth at me. I'll stick to horses and mules awhile yet—"

 
          
 
The camel man shook his head. "This
country needs camels, soljer. That's why the army brought 'em in. They can
carry heavy 'n travel twenty-five to thirty miles a day. Show me a mule as can
do that!"

 
          
 
"You have a point there," Sturgis
conceded, rocking back on his heels. "Only some Apache is going to begin
wondering how camel steak tastes. And between wondering and tasting is mighty
small distance for Apaches.
An animal as big as this one will
make a mighty good target."

 
          
 
"Jus' let 'em try!" The camel man
was fierce. "I ain't leavin' all the guardin' to yo' soljer boys."

 
          
 
And he wasn't, as Ritchie discovered when he
went on duty as picket guard that night—for the four hours he walked his post
the camel herder spent as wakefully only a few feet away. That is, that was the
situation for three hours and forty minutes. The last twenty minutes of
Ritchie's tour were crowded with incident.

 
          
 
It all started with the appearance of a shadow
a foot too long. He had heard a good many stories of the Apaches who could
strip down, roll in 'dobe mud and reeds, and do a snake progress into the fort
itself to carry out successfully either a project of private murder or make
away with some treasure they coveted. So ground shadows a foot too long were
made to arouse suspicion.