Norton, Andre - Novel 15 (6 page)

 
          
 
''Trail signs.
This
ought t'be a regular stoppin' place fer them red devils. Ha!" He picked up
a small brand from his tiny fire and held it close to the wall. Ritchie could
see only a series of crooked scratches.

 
          
 
"Sonny, yo' git yoreself back 'n bring
the Sergeant here pronto.
Velasco too, if he has come
in!"

 
          
 
Ritchie obeyed. And he did find the second
scout dropping off his pony just as he went to call Herndon. Not only the scout
and the Sergeant but Gilmore, also, pushed in to join Tuttle. Since no one of
them noticed Ritchie, he dared to lurk behind and listen.

 
          
 
Velasco crossed the rock pocket with his
noiseless stride and half crouched, almost rubbing the rock with his nose as he
squinted at the scratches.

 
          
 
“Fresh?" Gilmore asked the first
question.

 
          
 
Velasco grunted. Herndon touched one of the
upper ones with the tips of his ungloved fingers. He nodded at the Lieutenant.

 
          
 
The scout sat back on his heels and took out
one of the long brown cigarrillos the Mexicans smoked. Over its length he
grinned.

 
          
 
"I think, Lieutenant," he said softly,
"that in one day, maybe two, we shall have some ver' surprised Apaches,
ver' surprised!"

 
          
 
"Is that a giveaway?" Gilmore
pointed to the scratches.

           
 
Velasco nodded.
"Ver'
much the giveaway.
They have done what they always do, attacked and then
slipped away in many small parties. One party we have followed. But I think
that they were left to fool us, lead us into the mountains and
then—poof!"—he made a little gesture with his cigarrillo—'they are gone
like smoke! If we are fools, they watch us be fools and then will come another
ambush. If we are not fools—too great fools—we shall only be lost and mad and
ver' hungry before we get back to the post again. This, you understand, is how
they plan. But this"—he pounded his fist on the cave wall—"this is
what they do not plan for us. This tells plain for those who have scattered and
must pass this way where the true rancheria is, where the women and children
and the old ones wait for the victors to return."

 
          
 
"Can you find the rancheria?"
Gilmore's face was boyishly eager as he looked at the palm space of marks,
which might mean a face-saving victory for the army and a real defeat for the
always too successful Apaches.

 
          
 
A faint frown appeared between Velasco's heavy
brows. He conned the lines a second time.

 
          
 
"Lieutenant, if
a large
body of men march
to this place, then they shall betray their coming. A
small party could slip up through the canyons in surprise. Also if we all leave
this trail, they will suspect and come back to see why we go-"

 
          
 
Gilmore pulled at his lower lip. Then he
looked at the Sergeant and Tuttle.

 
          
 
"You know this country and the Apache.
Have we a chance to get to the rancheria unsuspected?"

 
          
 
Tuttle's jaws moved rhythmically on his
tobacco cud, and his eyes narrowed. "Guess not, if we go stampin' in like
a herd of buffalo bulls. They'd have us marked in a half-hour —maybe
less—"

 
          
 
"We could split up." Herndon's voice
was colorless as if he did not want to push his suggestion too much.

 
          
 
Gilmore made up his mind.
''All
right.
It's too good a chance to lose. If we can knock out just one
rancheria, we'll be striking back enough to hurt. Herndon, you know this
country better than I do. You and Velasco pick your men and take your own
trail. I'll march on with the rest of the detachment along the trail we've been
following. We'll play their game and you play ours.
Tuttle—?"

 
          
 
The Mountain Man arose from his leaning
position against the wall. ''Guess I'd better go 'long with the boys here.
Yo've got Belmore 'n Watkins, 'n they know their business. Jus' don't ride too
far into the hills. Might let yore-self git a bit disgusted with the whole
business 'bout noontime tomorrow 'n start moseyin' back, slow-like." His
eyes twinkled and Gilmore laughed. Then the Lieutenant spoke to Herndon.

 
          
 
"We'll pray luck rides with you,
Sergeant. I'm likely to be broke if this play turns out to be a foolish one
after all."

 
          
 
Herndon saluted, and Ritchie had barely time
to get out of his way before he came out, brushing shoulders with the boy. His
glance flickered over Ritchie's eager face; there was a faint frown between his
eyes.

 
          
 
Had it been Tuttle, Ritchie would have dared
to ask, but now he hesitated and Herndon started away. The Sergeant had taken a
step or two before he paused, looked over his shoulder, and said curtly,
"Come on!"

 
          
 
Ritchie followed so closely on his heels that
he almost bumped into his superior's back when Herndon stopped short a second
time to watch the men making camp.

           
 
“You're only a recruit!" The words might
have been fired from a carbine.

 
          
 
Ritchie blinked.
"Yes—yes,
sir."
He looked down at the tips of his boots. This was it—the end
of any wild hopes he might have been nursing for the past five minutes.

 
          
 
“We won't have time to urge on any
stragglers—"

 
          
 
Ritchie clamped teeth on tongue. Out of his
past experience he knew that when authority made explanations instead of giving
an out-and-out refusal, "no" sometimes became "yes" if the
speaker was allowed to argue himself to that point without interruption.

 
          
 
"You know nothing about the
mountains—"

 
          
 
"No, sir," he ventured to agree in a
whisper.

 
          
 
"It would be utter folly to accept you as
a volunteer—"

 
          
 
Ritchie struggled to control the corners of
his quirking lips.

 
          
 
"We travel light—"

 
          
 
"Yes, sir!"
Ritchie took this as permission and was away before the Sergeant could be
visited again by qualms of conscience. He made for the blanket roll which
encased his small store of personal belongings and took hasty inventory. Boots
were no good on mountain rocks; he should change into the high winter moccasins
he had bought from the Crow squaw on the march to
Santa Fe
. His prairie knife, with its deadly
six-inch blade whetted to a needle's sharpness, was already in its belt sheath.
As he made hurried choices, he became aware for the first time of a hot voice
behind him.

 
          
 
"So you're passing over me?"

 
          
 
"I haven't forgotten the
Los Gatos
affair, Sturgis. This is no expedition for
anyone who can't obey orders—"

 
          
 
"Orders!
What do
you have for blood, Herndon—orderly-room ink? I know these hills—you're not the
only one who does!"

 
          
 
Sturgis, breathing fast through his nose, his
head up and his eyes very bright, was blocking the Sergeant's path. For a long
moment he waited for an answer which didn't come, and then his mouth moved
wryly before he could shape words.

 
          
 
"You icy fish!
You don't know what it is to get excited over anything, do you? May the Lord
let me be there on the day that you
do!
"

 
          
 
He stepped aside, and the Sergeant went on.
With Sturgis directly behind him now, Ritchie did not dare to look up but
fumbled with the things he had laid out, picking them up and laying them back
as if he had never seen them before.

 
          
 
"Stand up!" There was such a whip
crack of order in the tone that he obeyed and found himself facing Sturgis eye
to eye.

 
          
 
"Yes, we're of a size. Get off those
breeches on the double!"

 
          
 
Ritchie's fingers went to the buckle of his
belt.

 
          
 
"But why?
What-?"

 
          
 
"Think army issue stuff will stand up to
clambering around on rocks? Want to come back frozen stiff? Get out of those
and into these." As he spoke, Sturgis was peeling off his trousers of
buffalo calfskin, the hair side in. He fairly pulled off Ritchie's jacket and
got him into the deerskin one he had worn, adding his wolfskin cap to finish
the exchange. When Ritchie tried to thank him, he growled and slammed away in a
black mood, refusing to watch when the party pulled out.

 
          
 
They went at dusk, heading out through the
tangle of trees that masked the cave canyon, keeping close under the protection
of the rock walls. Their mounts were the sturdiest and toughest of the troop,
Ritchie having surrendered Bess for a wise-eyed black gelding that seemed to
know more about this business than did its rider.

 
          
 
How many miles they made
that night there was no way of guessing.
And their winding track through
whatever cover the country provided was so twisted that Ritchie was hopelessly
lost within ten minutes of their setting out, though he had tried to follow the
advice given newcomers in the country—to fasten on some peak or landmark ahead
and hold to it.

 
          
 
Just ahead of him rode a black lump which was
Krist-land, the trumpeter, his instrument making a light spot against the dark
fur of his coat. For some reason Kristland's musical ability had won him a
place in this company.
And behind Ritchie Tuttle allowed his
sure-footed riding mule to pick proper footing at the steady pace set by
Velasco who led the line.

 
          
 
Before dawn they stopped for longer than the
usual breathing spell, coming out of their saddles and rubbing down the
shivering legs of the animals. A bundled-up figure came down the line shaking
something out of a bag into each man's hand. Ritchie held the palmful of gritty
stuff uncertainly until he saw Kristland lick up his portion with a long
tongue.

 
          
 
"What is it?"

 
          
 
“Penole—parched corn," the trumpeter
mumbled. "It keeps a man going, but it don't stick to the ribs
none
."

 
          
 
Ritchie ground the tasteless stuff between his
teeth. It was getting lighter now, and he could count the men who were strung
out along the dried-up stream bed. Eight—nine —ten—thirteen—fourteen—
One
was missing, but, even as he discovered that, a second
man vanished on foot among the rocks.

 
          
 
"All right, men!" That was Herndon's
whisper carrying authority. "Every fifth man—horse-holder."

 
          
 
Ritchie counted again. This time he had no
desire to remain in that noncombatant post. But, with a sigh of relief, he
found himself fourth instead of fifth.