Norton, Andre - Novel 15 (19 page)

 
          
 
And he was sure—in spite of all evidence to
the contrary produced later—that the shadow had detached itself from the
blackness and had flowed across to join another dusky spot. That was when he
challenged. The camel man echoed his challenge, and being a nervous man,
accented his demand by firing into the air. The post came to life at once.

 
          
 
When the excitement simmered down somewhat,
Ritchie came up before an extra inquisitive group consisting of the Captain,
the Colonel, Lieutenant Gilmore, and Captain Sharpe, backed by a disapproving
chorus of sergeants. His story sounded thinner every time he told it. And it
was a
very
deflated sentry who turned in at last, the
comments of his aroused barracks mates adding nothing to his self-esteem.

 
          
 
Comments were still being made in the morning,
and it was hard to overlook all of them. Even Sturgis crossed to the mess hall
with eyes on the hard-packed ground vowing he was looking for moccasin prints.
But it was also Sturgis who spoke out of the corner of a cautious mouth at
drill.

 
          
 
"Told you Lady Luck has
turned her smiles on me.
My name's down for Sharpens party in the
mountains. And do you know something else?"

 
          
 
"No, what?"

 
          
 
"Yours is too, Rich, yours is too!"

 
          
 
The Sharpe expedition set off at dawn after
some days of feverish last-minute
preparation
. Being
given an hour's start, the camels were out of sight before the main body got to
horse and out of the fort. Although the midsummer heat had already closed in
upon them even at that hour in the morning, there was a welcome freshness in
the air, and some of the horses were skittish, inclined to resent work on such
a day.

 
          
 
Sturgis rode almost knee to knee with Ritchie.
He was in wild spirits, a constant babble of talk flowing out of him. Almost
like Boru, Ritchie thought, when the big hound had been loosed and was running
free on a hot scent.

 
          
 
"From ten feet of snow to roses and
rattlesnakes," the Southerner was saying. "That's this country for
you! And we'll be seeing all three before we're very far along—Velasco's
mysterious towers in the bargain! I wouldn't be surprised to come up with a
giant or an ogre back in those hills-!"

 
          
 
"How come Velasco isn't along?"

 
          
 
"The Colonel has a southern trip planned,
too. Velasco knows that country better than Tuttle. Yes, maybe we'll find
something new in the hills."

           
 
"Aren't Apaches enough?"

 
          
 
"Apaches, Utes, Navahoes! What do I care?
Let's see 'em all! This morning S'George Sturgis is ready to stand up to the
whole world!"

 
          
 
"Let us hope that you are able to keep
that spirit, young man."

 
          
 
Their heads swung almost as one. Captain
Sharpe, his fawnskin hunting shirt tight across his shoulders and his heavy
shotgun under his hand was trotting past. But Sturgis was not to be daunted by
authority today.

 
          
 
"I will, sir," he promised
confidently. "My luck's turned for good."

 
          
 
But Sharpe had probably not heard that, for he
was already beyond them. Sturgis pulled at his neckerchief. "Now if we can
just manage to keep out of High-n-mighty's range we're sure of a grand outing.
Maybe we'll prance all the way up to the Mormon country. Shuck off that sober
face of yours, Rich, this is the life!"

 
          
 
And even the heat, the dust which arose to
choke
them,
and a tour with the mulada did nothing to
dampen his infectious good humor.

 
          
 
Having no duty to spur their pace, they moved
leisurely, taking time to map and survey possible roadways as they went. Twice
they stayed over half a day in small valleys to build up and improve springs
they had discovered. But the route they followed was bringing them into an arid
country of sun-baked red rocks from which the water had withdrawn long ago. And
the ancient crumbling remains of forgotten towns lined irrigation ditches that
had not carried moisture in the memory of living man.

 
          
 
The camels lived up to the claims made for
them. They waxed fat on the produce of this desert. No corn had to be carried
for them. In fact, Ritchie had seen them turn away from corn to chew the
unpleasant greasewood branches or actually swallow screw beans, leaves, briers,
and all. Patient and uncomplaining, they did a steady day's travel without
slacking the mile-eating quality of their deliberate pace.

 
          
 
Where horses had to be nursed and reshod and
mules expressed their opinion of the whole affair by outbursts of devilish
contrariness, the camels made no trouble at alL
And
yet few of the men warmed to the big beasts. There was something alien and unearthly
about their very stolid-ness. To nostrils which accepted horse-sweat rankness
and the odor of working mules as necessary and even rather pleasant, the camels
still stank. And the suggested menace of their yellow teeth kept most of the
dragoons at some distance.

 
          
 
"Mules ain't got the sense they
was
borned with." Private Harkness looked out over the
bunched mulada. "There's the water hole, but will these pesky, long-eared
devils drink so we can mosey along? Naw, they have to be broiled good furst—and
us with 'em—'fore they'll touch a drop!"

 
          
 
"Oh, they've sense all right," cut
in Sturgis. "They're having a nice quiet rest while the horses and camels
have to foot it on. No mule is going to drink until he is thirsty. And if he
pretends he isn't thirsty, why then he gets to wait around 'til he is—like
this." He waved his hand toward the pack mules being held out in the sun
until they would drink, since reaching another water hole by evening could not
be counted upon.

 
          
 
"Huh." Harkness wasn't much impressed
by that. He fanned himself with his hat and kept on grumbling moodily. They all
had wet sponges to set in the crowns of their hats as a precaution against sunstroke.
But, Ritchie thought, already the heat was just like some giant hand pressing
them down into the earth.

 
          
 
"Hey—looky!"
Harkness was on his feet. "Somebody's comin' along our back trail."

 
          
 
Sturgis shaded his eyes with his hand to look.
"He's either drunk or crazy. A man traveling alone in Apache country is
either or both! Why—it's Diego!"

 
          
 
Metal braid made fire about the brim of the
Mexican's hat and in the embroidery of his short, tight jacket. He led a mule,
a finely kept, white-coated animal. And from a basket fastened to the pack
saddle popped the head of his dog.

 
          
 
''Buenos
dias
,
senores/' he hailed them as he came up.
"Eet ees one
fine day, ees eet not?"

 
          
 
"A fine hot one!" returned Sturgis.
"You taken leave of your mind, Diego?"

 
          
 
The man looked perplexed. "Don'
comprehend, senor. I do what?"

 
          
 
"He means—yo' plum loco?" demanded
Harkness. "Comin' out alone into Apache country thisaway?"

 
          
 
Diego laughed. "The Apache, zey do not
bother Diego. Si, to Apache, Diego ees loco. See"—he lifted his bare hands
—"I carry no gun, jus' one knife weeth which to eat. I do not fight—so to
Apache I am loco. Seex times have I traveled so een Apache country.
I hav' wake at morning to fin' them by my fire.
I do not
speak. I act as eef I am alone, as eef I do not see them. They wait awhile, an'
then they go. Diego ees
loco,
an' he can walk een the
Apache country weethout fear—"

 
          
 
"Now that's plum smart." Harkness
regarded the small Mexican with open admiration. "But this time you can
travel safe with us. You'll find the main drag on up ahead."

 
          
 
Diego shook his head.
"Ah,
no, sefiores.
Should I travel weeth you an' be seen by the Apache,
then
will I lose my eenocent appearance. Maybe I shall share
food, si. An' Perro shall amuse those who care to watch heem. But I go on
alone. There are eyes een all these hills, senores. Ever do they watch what
passes.
Eef eet ees small an' weak, then death comes down
from the rocks. Eef eet ees
strong,
then are those
eyes never seen. So—buenos
dias
, senores. Diego must
march. Ha, Perro, make the manners!"

 
          
 
Perro yapped twice, and the Mexican showman
plodded along the well-marked trail of the advance guard, pausing to wave
farewell once.

 
          
 
"Y'know," Harkness commented, ''he's
got a darn clever idea there. The Apaches won't touch a crazy man, 'n if he
acts crazy—why, he's safe."

 
          
 
"Like Charlie Black," Ritchie mused.
"Only if that trick is so easy to work, why don't—"

 
          
 
"More of us do it?" asked Sturgis.
"Maybe there is an idea in that. And an army acting crazy would be nothing
new in this country. We are crazy enough when just going about the usual day's
business.
Wouldn't take much play acting to be real loco.
You might suggest it to the Colonel when we get back to
Santa Fe
. It would prove you're taking a proper
interest in your work—"

 
          
 
But Ritchie wasn't listening to that with more
than half an ear. What had Herndon once said about Diego months ago—that the
Mexican had a habit of appearing just before disaster? And here he was again.
If Diego had some relation to the Apache raids, then that, rather than his game
of insanity, would explain his immunity from attack, Herndon and Woldemar were
up front. They knew Diego and would watch for him. Just the same he wished that
they could hurry on, too, right behind that man with his well-trained dog and his
sleek white mule. Fortunately the mules were condescending to drink at last,
and soon they could start on.

           
 
That night Diego and Perro performed their act
for the amusement of the camp. But sometime before dawn the Mexican slipped away
into the maze of canyons with the same skill as the Apaches might have shown.
And after the long hours of a dry march Ritchie had half forgotten his
suspicions.

 
          
 
On the second day of that march Ritchie rode
out with Tuttle. He tried to remember all he had learned of scouting on those
hunting trips, and he followed the old Mountain Man with a dogged persistence
which sometimes brought exasperated comment from the scout. It didn't help
matters any when the first spring they found proved to be rimmed with a
telltale band of chemical stains. Tuttle teetered on a rock above it and made a
few heated remarks.

 
          
 
Ritchie looked down with longing at the first
water he had seen in two days. He touched a dry tongue to dryer lips and
swallowed what felt like a nasty selection of dirty cotton wisps.

 
          
 
" 'Course
yo'
can drink if yo' want to!" Tuttle, recovered, eyed his companion's obvious
distress with a certain sly humor. "Then, what happens after is only yore
own fault. Pure salts that stuff is. I went up to the mouth of the Virgin
once—that's whar yo' git the other sorta salt. They got a kinda mine up thar
whar they dig themselves out chunks of the stuff two-three feet thick 'n as
clear as ice! This is the dangblastedest country! Stone trees, 'n then over
California
way thar're soda lakes all spread out. Hit
one of them when my grub was runnin' low oncet, 'n got me a duck. Only, could I
eat him after I toasted him up good 'n brown? I could not—bitter'n gall. Water
tasted like dirty soap suds, 'n yo' couldn't choke it down. Yo' don't know what
it means to be uncomfortable, son. Wait 'til yo' git some of that thar soda
dust in yore nose 'n throat!
Wal, seen enough of this
disappointin spring?
Then let's vamoose—"

 
          
 
"All right.
But
what do the Apaches use for water when they live in here?"

 
          
 
"Wal, in the furst place an Apache don't
need to be a-guzzlin' down a drink maybe every five minutes or so. He's lived
in this furnace so long he's kinda dried out like the rest of the country. Then
he can stomach stuff like this —maybe not so bad—but stuff which would twist
the guts right outta a white man. 'N he has his own leetle ways—he's a desert
fox. When he runs him off a mule or horse 'n hacks out a few steaks when the
pore critter gives up, he pulls out the big gut 'n cleans it—jus' a leetle bit.
Then he fills that fulla water at the next spring 'n winds it 'round his middle
for a belt. He can keep goin' a right smart time with a canteen like that
stinkin' up his hide. 'N don't think that he doesn't know every spring that is
anywhere in these hills. He's got him a better map right here"—Tuttle
tapped his forehead—"than any the soldier boys can draw out all fancy. The
Apache, he
ain't never
a soldier, he's a warrior, 'n
he's fightin' right in his own backyard. Don't ever forgit, son, that's
important. Yo'll live longer if yo' keep it in mind. Yo' can't fight the Apache
soldier fashion—yo' gotta meet him his own way."