Trail Of the Apache and Other Stories (1951) (3 page)

A full moon pointed its light through the window frame over de Both's bed, carpeted the plank n1/4eooring with a delicate sheen, and reached as far as the gleaming upper portion of Travisin's body, motionless on the cot. One arm was beneath the gray blanket that reached just above his waist, the other was folded across his bare chest.

A n1/4eoorboard creaked somewhere near. His eyes opened at once and closed just as suddenly. Beneath the blanket his hand groped near his thigh and quietly covered the grip of his pistol. He opened his eyes slightly and glanced across the room. De Both was dead asleep. The latch on the door leading to the front office rattled faintly, and then hinges creaked as the door began to open. Travisin quietly drew his arm from beneath the blanket and leveled the pistol at the doorway. His thumb closed on the hammer and drew it back, and the click of the cocking action was a sharp, metallic sound. The opening-door motion stopped.

Nantan, do not shoot. The words were just above a whisper.

Travisin threw the blanket from his legs, swung them to the n1/4eoor and moved to the doorway without a sound. Peaches backed into the office as he approached.

Chiricahua leave.

How long?

They go maybe five mile now. Gatito go with them.

Travisin stepped back to the doorway and slammed the butt of his pistol against the wooden door. Hey, mister, roll out! De Both sat bolt upright. Be ready to ride in a few minutes, Travisin said, and ran out of the office toward Barney Fry's adobe across the quadrangle.

In less than twenty minutes, thirteen riders Trail of the Apache streaked out of the quadrangle westward. Behind them, orange light was just beginning to show above the irregular outline of the Pinals. The morning was cool, but still, and the stillness held the promise of the blistering heat of the day to come.

The sun was only a little higher when Travisin and his scouts rode up to four wickiups along the bank of the Gila. Travisin halted the detail, but did not dismount. He sat motionless in the saddle, his senses alert to the quiet. He said something in Apache and one of the scouts threw off and cautiously entered the first wickiup. He reappeared in an instant, shaking his head from side to side. In the third hut, the scout remained longer than usual.

When he reappeared he was dragging an unconscious Indian by the legs.

Travisin said, That one of them, Barney?

Fry swung down from his pony and leaned over the prostrate Indian, saying a few words in Apache to the scout still holding the Indian's legs. He's a Chiricahua, Captain. Dead drunk. Must have been drinking for at least two days. He nodded his head toward the Apache scout. Ningun says there's a jug inside with a little tizwin in it.

Travisin pointed to two of the scouts and then swept his arm in the direction of the fourth wickiup. They kicked their ponies to a leaping start, dashed to the hut and gave it a quick inspection. In a minute they were back.

The scouts watched Travisin intently as he studied the situation. They knew what the signs meant.

They sat their ponies now with restless anticipation, fingering their carbines, checking ammunition belts, holding in the small, wiry horses that also seemed to be charged with the excitement of the moment for there is no love lost between the Coyotero and the Chiricahua. Eric Travisin knew as well as any of them what the sign meant: sixteen drunken Apaches screaming through the countryside with blood in their eyes and a bad taste in their mouths. It was something that had to be stopped before the Indians regained their senses. Now they were loco Apaches, bloodthirsty, but a bit careless.

By the next day, unless stopped, they would again be cold, patient guerrilla fighters led by the master strategist, Pillo.

From the direction of the agency a scout rode into sight beating his pony to a whirlwind pace. He reined in abruptly and shouted something to Fry through the dust cloud.

We been sleepin', Captain. He says Gatito made off with a dozen carbines and two hundred rounds of forty-fours. Must have sneaked them out sometime last night.

In Travisin, the excitement of what lay ahead was building up continually. Now it was beginning Trail of the Apache to break through his calm surface. We're awake now, Barney. I figure they'll either streak south for the Madres right away, or contact their people up near Apache by dodging through the Basin and then heading east for the reservation. I know if I
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as going to hide out for a while, I'd sure want my wife along. Let's find out which it is.

Chapter
Four: The Rustlers.

By midmorning Travisin's scouts had followed the tracks of the hostiles to an elevated stretch of pines wedged tightly among bare, rolling hills.

They halted a few hundred yards from the wooded area, in the open. Before them the land, dotted with mesquite and catclaw, climbed gradually to the pine plateau; and the sun-glare made shimmering waves, hazy and filmy white, as they looked ahead to the contrasting black of the pines. A shallow arroyo cut its way down from the ridge past where the detail stood, finally ending at the banks of the Gila, twelve miles behind them. On both sides of the crusted edges of the arroyo, the unshod tracks they had been following all morning moved straight ahead.

Ningun, the Apache scout, rode up the arroyo a hundred yards, circled and returned. He mumbled only a few words to Fry, who glanced at the pine ridge again before speaking.

He says the tracks go all the way up. Ain't no other place they could go.

Does he think they're still up there? Travisin asked the question without taking his eyes from the ridge.

He didn't say, but I know he don't think so.

Barney Fry pulled out a tobacco plug and bit off a generous chew, mumbling, And I don't either. He moved the front of his open vest aside with a thumb and dropped the plug into the pocket of his shirt. I
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igure it this way, Captain, he said. They know who's followin' 'em, and they know we ain't about to get caught in a simple jackpot like that one up yonder without n1/4eushin' it out first. So they ain't goin' to waste their time settin' a trap that we won't fall right into.

Sounds good, Barney, only there's one thing that's been troubling me, Travisin said. Notice how clean the sign's been all the way? Not once have they tried to throw us off the track and they've had more than one opportunity to at least make it pretty tough. No Apache, no matter if he's drunker than seven hundred dollars, is going to leave a trail that plain that is, unless he wants to.

He looked at the scout, suggesting a reply with his expression, and added, Now why do you suppose old Pillo would want us to follow him?

Trail of the Apache Fry pushed his hat from his forehead and passed the back of his hand across his mouth. It was plain that the captain's words gave him something to think about, but he had been riding with Travisin too long to show surprise with the officer's uncanny familiarity with what an Apache would do at a given time. He was never absolutely sure himself, but for some unexplainable reason Travisin's judgment was almost always right. And when dealing with an unknown quantity, the Apache, this judgment sometimes seemed to reach a superhuman level.

Fry was quiet, busy putting himself in Pillo's place, but de Both spoke up at once. I take it you're suggesting that the Indians are not really drunk. But what about that unconscious Indian back at the reservation? He asked the question as if he were purposely trying to shoot holes in the captain's theory.

No, Lieutenant. I'm only saying what if, Travisin agreed, with a faint smile. Could be one way or the other. I just want to impress you that we're not chasing Harvard sophomores across the Boston Common. If you ever come up against a better general than Pillo, you can be sure of one thing he'll be another Apache.

Though he was sure of Fry's and Ningun's judgment, Travisin sent scouts ahead to n1/4eank the pine woods before taking his command through.

In another hour they were over the ridge, in the open, descending noisily over the loose gravel that was strewn down the gradual slope that led to the valley below. On level ground again, they followed the tracks to the north, up the raw, rolling valley, n1/4eat and straight from a distance; but as they traveled, the sandrock ground buckled and heaved into shallow crevices and ditches every few hundred feet. The monotony of the bleak scene was interrupted only by the grotesque outlines of giant saguaro and low, thick mesquite clumps.

Even in this comparatively open ground, de Both noticed that Travisin and all of the scouts rode halftensed in their saddles, their eyes sweeping the area to the front and to both sides, studying every rock or shrub clump large enough to conceal a man. It was a vigilance that he himself was slowly acquiring just from noticing the others. Still he was more than willing to let the scouts do the watching. The damned stin1/4eing heat and the dazzling glare were enough for a white man to worry about. He mopped his face continually, and every once in a while pulled the white bandanna around his throat up over his nose and mouth. But that caused the heat to be even more smothering. He could feel the Apache scouts laughing at him. How could they remain so damned cool-looking in this heat! With every step of the horses, the dust rose around him and seemed to cling to his lungs until he would Trail of the Apache cough and cover his nose again with the kerchief.

Ahead, but slightly to the east, he studied the jagged, blue outline of a mountain range. The Sierra Apaches. The purplish blue of the mountains and the soft blue of the cloudless sky were the only pleasant tones to redeem the ragged, wild look of the valley.

He pressed his heels into his horse's n1/4eanks and rode up abreast of Travisin. The climate and the unyielding country were grinding de Both's nerves raw; he wanted to scream at somebody, anybody.

I sincerely hope you know where you're going, Captain.

Travisin ignored the sarcasm. You'll feel better after we camp this evening. First day's always the toughest. He was silent for a few minutes, his head swinging in an arc studying the signs that did not even exist to de Both, and then he added, Those mountains up ahead are the Sierra Apaches. Lot farther than they look. Before we pass them we're going to camp at a rancher's place. His name's Solomon, a really fine old gentleman. I think you'll like him, Bill. It was the first time Travisin had used de Both's first name. The lieutenant looked at him strangely.

It was close to six o'clock when they reached the road leading to Solomon's place. The road cut an arc through the brush n1/4eat and then passed through a grove of cottonwoods. From where they stood, they could see the roof of the ranch house through the clearing in the trees made by the road. The house stood a few hundred yards the other side of the cottonwoods, and just to the right of it a few acres of pines edged toward the house from the foothills of the Sierra Apaches towering to the east. Fry pointed to the wide path of trampled brush a hundred feet to the left of the road they were following.

There's one I wouldn't care to try to figure out.

Why didn't they take the road?

Travisin was watching Ningun circle the cottonwoods and head back. They're making it a bit too easy now, he replied idly.

Ningun made his report to Fry and pointed above the cottonwoods in the direction of the pines. A
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aint wisp of dark smoke curled skyward in a thin line. Against the glare it was hardly noticeable.

Know what that means? Travisin asked. He looked at no one in particular.

Fry answered, I got an idea.

They dismounted in the cottonwoods and approached the clearing on foot. The ranch house, barn and corral behind it seemed deserted.

Travisin said, Go take a look, Barney. Fry beckoned to four of the Apache scouts and they followed him into the clearing. They walked across the open space toward the house slowly, all abreast.

Trail of the Apache They made no attempt to conceal themselves by crouching or hunching their shoulders a natural instinct, but futile precaution with no cover in sight. They walked perfectly erect with their carbines out in front. Suddenly they all stopped and one of the scouts dropped to his hands and knees and put his ear to the earth. He arose slowly, and the others back at the cottonwoods saw them watching the pines more closely as they approached the house. Fry walked up to the log wall next to the front door and placed his ear to it. He made a motion with his right hand and three of the scouts disappeared around the corner of the house. Without hesitating, Fry approached the front door, kicked it open and darted into the dimness of the interior, the fourth Apache scout behind him. In a few moments, Fry reappeared in the doorway and waved to the rest in the cottonwoods.

He was still in the doorway when Travisin brought the others up. Just the missus is inside
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as all he said.

Travisin, with de Both behind him, walked past the scout into the dimly lit ranch house. The room was a shambles, every piece of furniture and china broken. But what checked their gaze was Mrs.

Solomon lying in the middle of the n1/4eoor. Her clothes had been almost entirely ripped from her body and the n1/4eesh showing was gouged and slashed with knife wounds. Her scalp had been torn from her head.

De Both stared at the dead woman with a frozen gaze. Then the revulsion of it overcame him and he half turned to escape into the fresh air outside. He checked himself, thinking then of Travisin, and turned back to the room. The captain and the scout studied the scene stoically; but beneath their impassive eyes, almost any kind of emotion could be present. He tried to show the same calm. A cavalry officer should be used to the sight of death. But this was a form of death de Both had not counted on.