Trail Of the Apache and Other Stories (1951) (7 page)

Now they were in the foothills of the Mogollons You Never See Apaches . . .
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nd it was no better. Angsman had thought that as soon as they climbed from the dust of the plains the tension would ease and the boy would be easier to handle, but Billy Guay continued to grumble with his thumbs in his gun belts and disagree with everything that was said. And Ed Hyde continued to say nothing unless turning back was mentioned.

Since early morning their trail had followed this pine-covered crest that angled irregularly between the massive rock peaks to the south and east and the white-gold plain to the west. Most of the ways the trail had held to the shoulder, turning, twisting, and falling with the contour of the hillcrest. And from the west the openness of the plains continued to cling in glaring monotony.

Most of the time Angsman's eyes scanned the openness, and the small black specks continued to crawl along in his vision.

The trail dipped abruptly into a dry creek basin that slanted down from between rocky humps looming close to the right. Angsman reined his mount diagonally down the bank, then at the bottom kicked hard to send the mare into a fast start up the opposite bank. The gravel loosened and fell away as hooves dug through the dry crust to clink against the sandy rock. Momentarily the horse began to fall back, but Angsman spurred again and grunted something close to her ear to make the mare heave and kick up over the bank.

He rode on a few yards before turning to wait for the others.

Billy Guay reached the creek bank and yelled across, without hesitating, Hey, Angsman, you tryin' to pick the roughest damn trail you can find?

The scout winced as the voice slammed against the towering rock walls and drifted over the n1/4eats, vibrating and repeating far off in the distance. He threw off and ran to the creek bank. Billy Guay began to laugh as the echo came back to him. Damn, Ed. You hear that! His voice carried clear and loud across the arroyo. Angsman put a finger to his mouth and shook his head repeatedly when he saw Ed Hyde looking his way. Then Hyde leaned close and said something to the boy. He heard Billy Guay swear, but not so loud, and then there was silence.

Now, ten days from the time the message had brought him to the hotel in Willcox, he wasn't so sure it was worth it.

In the hotel room Hyde had come to the point immediately. Anxiety showed on his face, but he smiled when he asked the point-blank question How'd you like to be worth half a hundred thousand dollars? With that he waved the piece of dirty paper in front of Angsman's face. It's right here. Find us the picture of a Spanish sombrero and we're rich. That simply.

Angsman had all the time in the world. He You Never See Apaches . . .
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moked a cigarette and thought. Then he asked, Why me? There're a lot of prospectors around here.

Hyde did something with his eye that resembled a wink. You're well recommended here in Willcox. They say you know the country better than most. And the Apaches better than anybody,

Hyde said with a hint of self-pride for knowing so much about the scout. Billy here and I'll give you an equal share of everything we find if you can guide us to one little X on a piece of paper.

Billy Guay had said little that first meeting. He half-sat on the small window ledge trying to stare Angsman down when the scout looked at him. And Angsman smiled when he noticed the boy's two lowslung pistols, thinking a man must be a pretty poor shot with one pistol that he'd have to carry another.

And when Billy Guay tried to stare him down, he stared back with the half smile and it made the boy all the madder; so mad that often, then, he interrupted Hyde to let somebody know that he had something to say about the business at hand.

Ed Hyde told a story of a lost mine and a prospector who had found the mine, but was unable to take any gold out because of Indians, and who was lucky to get out with just his skin. He referred to the prospector always as my friend, and finally it turned out that my friend was buffalo hunting out of Tascosa in the Panhandle, along with Ed Hyde, raising a stake to try the mine again, when he took sick and died. The two of them were out on a hunt when it happened and he left the map to Hyde, since I saw him through his sickness. Ed Hyde remained silent for a considerable length of time after telling of the death of his friend.

Then he added, I met Billy here later on and took to him 'cause he's got the nerve for this kind of business. He looked at Billy Guay as a man looks at a younger man and sees his own youth.

Just one thing more, mister, he added. If you say yes and look at the map, you don't leave our sight.

In the Southwest, lost-mine stories are common.

Angsman had heard many, and knew even more prospectors who chased the legends. He had seen a few become rich. But it wasn't so much the desire for gold that finally prompted him to go along.

Cochise had promised peace and Geronimo had scurried south to the Sierra Madres. All was quiet in his territory. Too quiet. He had told himself he would go merely as an escape from boredom. Still, it was hard to keep the wealth aspect from cropping into the thought. Angsman saw the years slipping by with nothing to show for them but a scarred Spanish saddle and an old-model Winchester. All he had to do was lead them to a canyon and a rock formation that looked like a Spanish hat.

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Two days to collect the equipment and round up a mozo who wasn't afraid to drive mules into that part of Apacheria where there was no peace. For cigarettes and a full belly Ygenio Baca would drive his mules to the gates of hell.

It was almost a mile past the arroyo crossing that Angsman noticed his black specks had disappeared from the open n1/4eats. For the past few hundred yards his vision to the left had been blocked by dense pines. Now the plains yawned wide again, and his glasses inched over the vastness in all directions, then stopped where a spur jutted out from the hillside ahead to cut his vision. The Indian women had vanished.

Hyde and Billy Guay sat their mounts next to Angsman, who, afoot, swept his glasses once more over the n1/4eat. Finally he lowered them and said, more to himself than to the others, Those Indian women aren't nowhere in sight. They could have moved out in the other direction, or they might be so close we can't see them.

He nodded ahead to where the trail stopped at thick scrub brush and pine and then dipped abruptly to the right to drop to a bench that slanted toward the deepness of the valley. From where they stood, the men saw the trail disappear far below into a denseness of trees and rock.

Pretty soon the country'll be hugging us tight;
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nd we won't see anything, Angsman said. I
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on't like it. Not with a hunting party in the neighborhood.

Billy Guay laughed out. I'll be go to hell! Ed, this old woman's afraid of two squaws! Ed, you hear

Ed Hyde wasn't listening. He was staring off in the distance, past the treetops in the valley to a towering, sand-colored cliff with n1/4eying rock buttresses that walled the valley on the other side. He slid from his mount hurriedly, catching his coat on the saddle horn and ripping it where a button held fast.

But now he was too excited to heed the ripped coat.

Look! Yonder to that cliff. His voice broke with excitement. See that gash near the top, like where there was a rock slide? And look past to the mountains behind! Angsman and Billy Guay squinted at the distance, but remained silent.

Dammit! Hyde screamed. Don't you see it!

He grabbed his horse's reins and ran, stumbling, down the trail to where it leveled again at the bench. When the others reached him, the map was in his hand and he was laughing a high laugh that didn't seem to belong to the grizzled face. His extended hand held the dirty piece of paper . . . and he kept jabbing at it with a finger of the other hand.

Right there, dammit! Right there! His pointing finger swept from the map. Now look at that You Never See Apaches . . .
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old-lovin' rock slide! His laughter subsided to a self-confident chuckle.

From where they stood on the bench, the towering cliff was now above them and perhaps a mile away over the tops of the trees. A chunk of sandrock as large as a two-story building was gouged from along the smooth surface of the cliff top, with a gravel slide trailing into the valley below; but massive boulders along the cliff top lodged over the depression, forming a four-sided opening. It was a gigantic frame through which they could see sky and the n1/4eat surface of a mesa in the distance. On both sides the mesa top fell away to shoulders cutting sharp right angles from the straight vertical lines, then to be cut off there, in their vision, by the rock border of the cliff frame. And before their eyes the mesa turned into a n1/4eat-topped Spanish sombrero.

Billy Guay's jaw dropped open. Damn! It's one of those hats like the Mex dancers wear! Ed, you see it?

Ed Hyde was busy studying the map. He pointed to it again. Right on course, Angsman. The n1/4eats, the ridge, the valley, the hat. His black-crusted fingernail followed wavy lines and circles over the stained paper. Now we just drop to the valley and follow her up to the end. He shoved the map into his coat pocket and reached up to the saddle horn to mount. Come on, boys, we're good as rich, he called, and swung up into the saddle.

Angsman looked down the slant to the darkness of the trees. Ed, we got to go slow down there,
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e tried to caution, but Hyde was urging his mount down the grade and Billy Guay's paint was kicking the loose rock after him. His face tightened as he turned quickly to his horse, and then he saw Ygenio Baca leaning against his lead mule vacantly smoking his cigarette. Angsman's face relaxed.

Ygenio, he said. Tell your mules to be very quiet.

Ygenio Baca nodded and unhurriedly n1/4eicked the cigarette stub down the grade.

They caught up with Hyde and Billy Guay a little way into the timber. The trail had disappeared into a hazy gloom of tangled brush and tree trunks with the cliff on one side and the piney hill on the other to keep out the light.

Angsman rode past them and they stopped and turned in the saddle. Hyde looked a little sheepish because he didn't know where the trail was, but Billy Guay stared back defiantly and tried to look hard.

Ed, you saw some bones out there on the n1/4eats a while back, Angsman said. Likely they were men who had gold fever. That was all he said. He turned the head of the mare and continued on.

Angsman moved slowly, more cautiously now than before, and every so often he would rein in gently and sit in the saddle without moving, and listen. And there was something about the deep si-You Never See Apaches . . .
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ence that made even Billy Guay strain his eyes into the dimness and not say anything. It was a loud quietness that rang in their ears and seemed unnatural. Moving at this pace, it was almost dusk when they reached the edge of the timber.

The pine hill was still on their left, but higher and steeper. To the right, two spurs reached out from the cliff wall that had gradually dropped until now it was just a hump, but with a confusion of rocky angles in the near distance beyond. And ahead was a canyon mouth, narrow at first, but then appearing to open into a wider area.

As they rode on, Angsman could see it in Ed Hyde's eyes. The map was in his hand and he kept glancing at it and then looking around. When they passed through the canyon mouth into the open, Hyde called, Angsman, look! Just like it says!

But Angsman wasn't looking at Ed Hyde. A hundred feet ahead, where a narrow side canyon cut into the arena, the two Indian women sat their ponies and watched the white men approach.

Angsman reined in and waited, looking at them the way you look at deer that you have come across unexpectedly in a forest, waiting for them to bolt.

But the women made no move to run. Hyde and Billy Guay drew up next to Angsman, then continued on as Angsman nudged the mare into a walk.

They stopped within a few feet of the women, who had still neither moved nor uttered a sound.

Angsman dismounted. Hyde stirred restlessly in his saddle before putting his hands on the horn to swing down, but stopped when Billy Guay's hand tightened on his arm.

Damn, Ed, look at that young one! His voice was loud and excited, but as impersonal as if he were making a comment at a girlie show. She'd even look good in town, he added, and threw off to stand in front of her pony.

Angsman looked at Billy Guay and back to the girl, who was sliding easily from the bare back of her pony. He greeted her in English, pleasantly, and tipped his hat to the older woman, still mounted, who giggled in a high, thin voice. The girl said nothing, but looked at Angsman.

He said, -+C+|mo se llama? and spoke a few more words in Spanish.

The girl's face relaxed slightly and she said, Sonkadeya, pronouncing each syllable distinctly.

What the hell's that mean? Billy Guay said, walking up to her.

That's her name, Angsman told him, then spoke to the girl again in Spanish.

She replied with a few Spanish phrases, but most of her words were in a dialect of the Apache tongue. She was having trouble combining the two languages so that the white men could understand You Never See Apaches . . .
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er. Her face would frown and she would wipe her hands nervously over the hips of her greasy deerskin dress as she groped for the right words. She was plump and her hair and dress had long gone unwashed, but her face was softly attractive, contrasting oddly with her primitive dress and speech.