Shalako (1962) (3 page)

The sun was gone when they reached the last rocky point of the Hatchets. About a mile away a tall peak thrust up from the desert and beyond were a couple of lesser peaks, and still farther the distant bulk of the Little Hatchets. West of the nearest peak was a dark blotch of ranch buildings, and among them some spots of white that could be wagon covers. And in their midst blazed a fire, too large a fire.

Smelling water, the roan tugged at the bit, but there was a feeling in the air that Shalako did not like.

They sat still, while he listened into the night, feeling its uneasiness. It was not quite dark, although the stars were out. The desert was visible, the dark spots of brush and cacti plainly seen.

Into the silence she said, "I am Irina Carnarvon." She said it as one says a name that should be known, but he did not for the time place the name, for he was a man to whom names had ceased to matter.

"My name is Carlin ... they call me Shalako."

He started the roan down the gentle slope. The roan was too good a horse to lose and in no shape to run, but the ranch was safety and the ranch was two miles off.

He slid his rifle from its scabbard.

"Get ready to run. We'll walk our horses as far as we can, but once we start running, pay me no mind. You just ride the hell out of here."

"Your horse is in no shape to run." "My problem."

The roan quickened his pace. There was a lot of stuff in that roan, a lot of stuff.

"You actually believe we are in danger?"

"You people are a pack of idiots. Right now you and that tin-braided general of yours are in more trouble than you ever saw before."

"You are not polite." "I've no time for fools."

Anger kept her silent, yet she sensed the uneasiness of her horse and it made her wary. A fine horsewoman, she knew the feeling at once and it frightened her far more than the warnings of the stranger.

Silence, and the distant fire ... the hoof falls of the horses ... the stars against the soft darkness of the sky, the loom of mountains ... a coolness in the air, balm after the day's fierce heat. The quickening pace of the horses, the faint gleam along the rifle barrel. A slight breeze touched her cheek.

"Shalako ... it is a strange name."

"Name of the Zuni rain god. Seemed like every time I showed up in their country it rained, so they called me that for a joke."

"I did not realize Indians had a sense of humor." "The greatest. Nobody has more humor than an Indian, and I know. I've lived among them."

"I heard they were so stoical."

"Indians act that way around white men they don't know because they don't want to answer a lot of fool questions."

They were out of the flat now, at least a quarter of a mile gained.

The Apache, in distinction from many other Indians, preferred not to fight at night, believing the soul of a warrior killed at such a time must wander forever in darkness.

That did not mean that on occasion an Apache would not take a chance.

When the camp was less than a mile away and they could hear faint sounds, an Apache suddenly raised up from behind a greasewood bush with a bowstring drawn back ... but he had stood up directly in front of the muzzle of Shalako's rifle and less than thirty feet off.

He heard the thud of the bullet into flesh in the instant the arrow whizzed past his ear.

Startled by the explosion of the gunshot, both horses leaped into a run. Behind them there was another shot and Shalako felt the bullet when it struck the cantle of his saddle and carromed off into the night.

The roan ran proudly, desperately, determined not to lose the race to the fresher horse. A wave of fierce pride swept over Shalako and he realized again the unconquerable spirit of the roan mustang.

Neck and neck they raced for the ranch, and Shalako let go with a wild Texas yell to warn those ahead that he was not a charging Indian.

On a dead run they swept into the ranch yard and drew up in a cloud of swirling dust.

Several people started toward them, and Shalako glanced sharply around, taking in the camp and those who peopled it with that one sweeping glance.

The man who walked up to them first was tall. He was lean and strong, with blond hair and handsome, if some what cold, features. His eyes were white-gray, his boots polished and immaculate, his white shirt crisp and clean.

"What happened? Did you see a coyote?" His eyes went from Irina to Shalako, taking in his dusty, travel-worn clothing, his battered hat, and unshaved face.

"Better circle your wagons into the gaps between the buildings," Shalako suggested.

"Get your stock inside the circle. That was an Apache, not a coyote."

The gray eyes turned again to Shalako, cool, attentive. "There are no Indians off the reservations," the blond man said. "Our man Wells told us-"

"Your man Wells is dead. If you want him you'll find him all spraddled out in a dry lake southeast of here, as full of holes as a prairie dog town ... and it wasn't any reservation Indian that shot him."

"Who is this man, Irina?"

"Mr. Carlin, the Baron Frederick von Hallstatt."

"If you want to live," Shalako said, "forget the formalities."

Von Hallstatt ignored the remark. "Thank you for bringing Lady Carnarvon back to camp, Carlin. Now if you want something to eat, just go to the cook and tell him I sent you."

"Thanks, but I'm not staying that long. This outfit doesn't have a prayer and I'm not going down the chute with it. I'm riding out."

"Your pleasure," von Hallstatt replied coolly, and lifted a hand to help Irina from the saddle.

Two of the men who had come forward were standing by, and one of them said, "Forget it, General. This fellow was scared by a shadow."

The roan gelding swung as of its own volition and faced the speaker. Shalako's face was half-hidden by the pulled-down brim of his hat, but what the man could see he did not like. "Mister"-Shalako's voice was utterly cold-"I saw Apaches out there.

What I shot was an Apache. Do you want to call me a liar?"

The man backed off a step. Desperately, he wanted to call the name and draw his gun, but something about the man on the roan horse made him hesitate.

"None of that!" Von Hallstatt's voice rang with the harshness of command. "Carlin, we thank you for escorting Lady Carnarvon back to camp. Eat if you wish. Sleep here if you wish, but I suggest you be gone by daybreak."

"By daybreak you'll be fighting for your lives. I'll be gone within the hour."

Turning away from them he rode the roan to the water tank. An ambitious settler had built this tank before the Apaches canceled out his faith in humanity by putting a half-dozen arrows in his belly.

He had been a sincere man, a good man. He believed that he who planted a tree or dug a well was closest to God, and would be blessed by all who needed water, or needed shade.

He also believed, good trusting man, that if he was himself peaceful others would be peaceful toward him. He did not realize that others operate by a different philosophy and to those peace is unrealistic. Nor did he know that to an Apache all who are not of his tribe are enemies, that kindness was to them a sign of weakness.

He was, nevertheless, a man of stamina as well as faith, and he lasted for three days, the arrows in his belly, tied head down to a wagon wheel, close to water but unable to reach it... and all this under a blazing summer sun.

He left no record of his philosophy at the end of that time.

Shalako allowed the roan to drink sparingly, then drew him back from the water and, stripping off the saddle, rubbed the horse down with a handful of dry grass, and as he worked his eyes took in the disposition of the camp.

He had never seen anything like it. The wagons were scattered haphazardly about, the teamsters loafing around a smaller fire, von Hallstatt's companions dressed as if for a hunt in England or Virginia, served by a chef in a white apron and chef's hat.

No effort had been made to prepare for attack, all was elaborately casual, with much conversation and laughter. The stable was the sturdiest-looking building, close to the water tank, and with a lower story of adobe, an upper story of hewn logs.

There were several narrow ports for firing. The stable was built much like an old-fashioned blockhouse.

The house had been built at a much later date and by the peace-loving settler, and offered no practical defenses. Nor did the sheds and outbuildings. Yet they did form a rough rectangle with the house at the east end and the stable on the south. By drawing wagons into the gaps between the buildings the area could be made a fortress against any ordinary attack, with a final retreat to the stable in a last emergency.

Suddenly a sound of approaching steps made him look up. "Shalako!

I'll be damned! Where'd you blow in from?" Shalako straightened wearily, dropping the grass.

"Buffalo? This is a long way from Fort Griffin." He dusted fragments of dry grass from his fingers. "Me? From the Sierra Madre, riding neck and neck with Chato and about forty Apaches. At least, there'll be forty of them by now." "You ain't foolin'?"

"I'm riding out tonight."

Buffalo Harris swore bitterly. "An' the Army doesn't even know we're in the Territory!

Was that you who shot out there awhile back?"

Shalako indicated the cantle of his saddle. "Feel of that... fired from off at the side or it might have taken me right out of the saddle."

Buffalo laid a finger in the groove and whistled softly. "They don't come much closer."

"How'd you ever tie up with a haywire outfit like this?"

"Haywire? Are you crazy? This here is the most fixed up outfit I ever seen! They got champagne, crab, oysters ... everything: She's a mighty plush setup, Shalako, an' don't you forget it... and the best grub I ever eat."

"So you lose your hair. Saddle up and come with me." "Can't do it. I told them I stay the route."

Von Hallstatt strode up and, seeing Buffalo, stopped. "Harris, do you know this man?"

Buffalo spat. "I know him: He was scoutin' for the Army when he was sixteen. Knows more about this country than the Apaches do."

"Then you should go to work for me, Carlin. I can use a good man."

"If you don't pull those wagons into position you won't be in shape to hire anybody.

Chato started eating his spare horses two, three days ago, which means they planned to steal yours before they crossed the border."

"That's impossible. They could not have known we were here."

"They knew ... they knew you have four women with you, how many horses and mules you have, and how many men. No, I'm riding out of here."

Yet, even as he said it, he knew the roan was in no shape for an all-night ride ... or a ride anywhere, for that matter. The mustang needed rest, food, and water.

Nevertheless, he was getting out. These people had come there under their own power, they could get out the same way.

Von Hallstatt measured Shalako with cool eyes. He disliked the man, this he admitted.

On the other hand, someone who knew the country as well as Buffalo said he did might be useful. Especially with Wells dead, if, of course, he was dead.

"If you would name your price, Carlin, we would like to have you with us." He took his pipe from between his teeth. "You might at least stay and see the fun."

"You're not going to be having any fun." Shalako was brusque. "Unless you're shot with luck every man-jack of you will be dead within forty-eight hours."

Von Hallstatt laughed. "Oh, come now! Naked savages against modern weapons?"

On a beat-up horse his chances of survival were slight, but this camp had the mark of death upon it, and realization that he had no choice but to make a run for it made Shalako increasingly irritable.

"Mister, let me tell you a little story about a West Pointer we had named Fetterman.

He used to make his brag that given eighty men he could ride through the whole Sioux nation. Fetterman was well trained, he was efficient, and he was bulging at the seams with all those fancy European tactics, and he was confident.

"One day they sent him out with eighty men to rescue some wagons that were under attack, and they warned him if the Indians ran, not to chase them.

"He had his eighty men and his chance, and he chased them. His eighty men lasted less than twenty minutes, less time than you'd take to drink a cup of hot coffee, actually."

Shalako began to build a smoke. "Do you know how they did it? Like Hannibal at the Battle of Cannae ... the center fell back and, when Fetterman followed them in, the flanks closed around him and wiped him out."

"You would have me believe these savages under stand tactics?"

"Unless I miss the breed, you'll be from one of the old Junker families of Prussia.

War has been a way of life to you for centuries, yet I doubt if you have seen more than ten battles, or that your oldest general has seen more than thirty."

Shalako folded the paper over his cigarette. "Mister, out there in the dark there are forty or fifty Apaches and the chances are there isn't one of them who isn't a veteran of fifty to a hundred battles. They fight Americans, Mexicans, other Indians. War is a way of life for the Apache, too, and every child learns his tactics by listening to the warriors talk of their battles.