Last Stand at Papago Wells (1957) (4 page)

They were good men, Cates was thinking, Beaupre, Lugo, Foreman and Kimbrough ... every one a fighting man. If they had to make a fight for it the place was right and the company was right. He went to the upper tank and filled his canteens, then went to a shadowed place to lie down. If he had learned one thing from life it was to keep his guns loaded, his canteen full, to eat when there was food and sleep when there was time. A man never knew what would happen; it was best to be ready.

There was a moment before he closed his eyes when he thought of Jennifer Fair. Kimbrough was a fortunate man, a fortunate man, indeed. But Kimbrough had the look of success about him, that easy manner, the polish ... yet something did not fit, and it was something in the man himself, not the sense of the threadbare about him.

And then he was asleep while the day drew on, the rocks gathered heat, and out upon the desert the heat waves drew a veil across the distance, shimmering like a far-off lake. A fly buzzing around awakened him and Cates slapped it away. It fell on the sand, walked a few uncertain steps, then buzzed off in search of easier game. Cates sat up and mopped the sweat from his face.

Beaupre came down from the rocks after two hours. "A little dust east of here. I figure several men, four to eight, I'd guess."

"How far?"

"More'n an hour ... could be twice that. They are movin' slow, looks like, and this light is deceivin'."

Cates went down into the arroyo to water his horse, and drank beside him. When he got up and drew his hand across his mouth he saw Jennifer watching him. In silence they measured each other, then looked away as if by agreement.

Jennifer felt upset and vaguely resentful. She got up and began to make more coffee. This, at least, she had learned on the ranch, that horse-riding men are always ready for coffee. She watched Cates lead his horse to a shaded place in the arroyo where there was grass. He moved easily ... somehow he reminded her of a big cat. She decided he was not a mere cowhand, for there was something about him that possessed an assurance, a certainty and boldness that set him apart. She had noticed, too, that Beaupre spoke to him with deference.

Cates ... it was not a familiar name ... Logan Cates. The name had a certain rhythm, but she could not remember where she had heard it or if she ever had.

Kimbrough came and sat down beside her. "I wish we could have gone on," he said. "I don't like any of this. I'm sorry I got you into it."

"It's all right."

"Maybe we should try it. In the morning the horses should be ready, and I think we'd have a chance."

"What about the Indians, Grant?"

"They're east of here. They may not even come this far, and I'm sure they wouldn't want to get any nearer the fort than this. Anyway," he added, "the Indian outbreak will stop your father."

"You don't know him."

"Even him," Kimbrough insisted. "It will stop even him."

"Grant, we can't be sure the Indians won't go west. Father has told me of cases where they killed men right outside the walls of a fort. They aren't afraid of the Army, Grant."

Logan Cates came down from the rocks and joined them at the fireside for coffee. "They're out there," he commented, "but they seem to be waiting for something. Or somebody."

"Who would be out there?" Kimbrough asked impatiently. "Who would be in this infernal desert?"

Cates glanced at him. "A few hours ago," he said, "we were out there."

Chapter
Four

Sergeant Timothy Sheehan called a halt in the bottom of a dry wash, and the men dropped to the sand right in their tracks. Alone, he walked on a few paces and climbed to the lip of the wash and looked across the desert.

Timothy Sheehan had come to the States as a boy of ten and had gone to work at once. At sixteen he joined the Army. At forty-two he was a veteran soldier, leather-hard and leather-tough. Nine years of his service had been at desert outposts and he knew the country well enough to fear it.

An hour earlier they had cut the trail of a small party of Indians headed south, but he was not tracker enough to judge their number accurately. There had been at least six, however, and he was positive they were not of the group who previously attacked them. And this tended to confirm his opinion that something was stirring along the border, and increased his anxiety to report at Yuma.

He lay on the sand, grateful for even this brief respite from the endless plodding. His lips were cracked and his eyes red-rimmed, and he wanted to quit. He wanted to, but knew he could not and would not. He lay there, working out the course they would follow, hating the stale sweaty smell of his unbathed body, of his dusty uniform, and the odor of horse and gunpowder that clung to him.

Including himself there were six men in the group and they had just three horses; until now these had been utilized for transportation of extra rifles, ammunition and canteens. Papago Wells lay at least thirty miles westward of the place where they had been attacked, and despite the long trek already behind them it seemed almost a lifetime away.

Stationed at Fort Yuma only a brief time, he knew little of this country west of Tucson. Water was the first consideration, but Bates Well was dry. Taylor, the last man of the sheriff's posse, told him there was another shallow tank called Cipriano Well ... uncertain at best. Yet it was their only chance to get water enough to reach Papago Wells.

The low hills on the horizon ahead of him were the Agua Dulces, and Cipriano Well was reported to lie among them. Actually, these so-called wells or tanks were merely catch basins for the runoff from infrequent rains, all highly unreliable. Sheehan knew the water they possessed now was barely sufficient to reach Cipriano, if that tank even existed. There, if there was no water, they must draw lots for three men to take the horses and strike west for Papago.

The sergeant knew the men were near the limit of exhaustion from heat, dehydration and the long march, and he allowed them thirty minutes of rest. At his command they got clumsily to their feet and moved out.

"Keep it closed up," he said, "there's more Indians around."

He let them march for two miles, then halted them. "Conley, Webb and Zimmerman, mount up."

Grinning with cracked lips at the stunned faces of the others, he added, "You'll get your turn. It'll be turn and turn about for the rest of the way."

Taylor hesitated, seemed about to speak, then said nothing. One of the horses was his own and he was subject to no orders, but whatevever objection he might have had was stifled by realization that all were in it together. He was a short, stocky, taciturn man, hardheaded and self-righteous, one of the first to settle at Yuma Crossing after the Army post was established and the ferry resumed.

The sand in the middle of the wash was loose and deep, but that around the edges was mixed with rocks, was firm and made for better walking. It would have been still easier out of the wash but they would have been visible for some distance and Sheehan wanted to invite no trouble.

Dust shifted over their, faces and uniforms, but the men plodded on, sodden with weariness, caught up in an almost hypnotic stumbling walk whose very monotony dulled their realization of distance, heat, and dust.

As they walked, Sheehan tried to envisage the situation as it must be, for without doubt Churupati was gathering his forces and a serious outbreak was in prospect. Yet it was unlikely that more than fifty hostiles were in the area, and if they could be pinned down and destroyed the outbreak would be over. His duty was obvious. He must return to Yuma and report to the commanding officer.

Those poor devils caught at isolated ranches or mines were almost sure to be wiped out before help could reach them, if they were not already dead. The few who escaped might make a successful run for it to Yuma or Tucson.

It was sundown when Sheehan's small command reached Cipriano Well.

Taylor had scouted ahead, and as the soldiers drew near he lifted a hand to stop them, then knelt and began to study the tracks. "They've been here, Sergeant, and they have a prisoner."

Sheehan looked at the indicated tracks. Although merged by Indian tracks they were obviously those of a woman ... a white woman.

Conley had gone on to the well and now he returned. "There's water enough to fill our canteens and water the horses, that's all."

"I'd say five, six Indians." Taylor indicated the stinking carcass of the mule. "Stopped here to butcher the mule and feed up."

Sheehan prowled restlessly. There was nothing they could do about that girl. Without enough horses, without food and more ammunition it would be foolish. "What do you make of this, Taylor?"

For several minutes Taylor studied the tracks indicated by Sheehan, then he said, "Sergeant, that girl got away. She must have waited until they got their bellies full of mule meat and when they dozed off, she walked away."

"Couldn't she take a horse?" Conley asked.

"Afraid she'd spook 'em, I guess. So she just walked off into the desert."

The Indians had followed her. Unless she was crazy with luck they would have recaptured her by now. Sheehan searched the desert, using his glass, but the shimmering heat waves cut him off from the distance and the desert told him nothing. Whatever had happened must have been hours ago.

"Last night, some time," Taylor said. "She couldn't have gone far before they caught up."

"Maybe." Sheehan studied the tracks. "She was moving right out, Taylor. Smart, too. Notice she didn't try to run? She knew it would kill her off too soon ... I'd say she has a chance." He looked up. "All right, men. When the canteens are full, we move out."

"Sarge," Conley suggested, "how's about two, three of us pushin' on a-horseback? We might come up in time to save that girl."

"No. We stick together."

Sweat trickled down his face and neck. How far could a young girl walk in a night? He watched his small column form up, and then he moved them out. If that girl had only had sense enough to hole up somewhere and wait them out, she might still be safe. It was a mighty small chance, yet a chance.

He started west, walking toward the setting sun. It would soon be dark and the men were all in, or they should have been, yet for the first time since the march began they moved out as if eager to be going. Even big Zimmerman, sullen and hard-eyed, seemed anxious to be moving.

Twice during the long night he halted his men and allowed them an hour of sleep, and then moved them out again. There was little more that human strength could endure, but he had his command to consider as well as the girl. Despite the additional water they now had, he knew the sun took as much strength from his men as did the walking, and they needed distance behind them. Despite the brutal pace, nobody complained. Everyone understood that he was leading them in a struggle for survival.

The sky was faintly gray but the sun had not yet risen when the first break came in their chain of bad luck. Emerging from a nest of scattered boulders they saw, not many yards away, an Indian on a paint pony. He was sitting absolutely motionless, all his attention on something in the rocks ahead of them. At Sheehan's upthrown hand, the men stopped.

Whatever it was the Indian watched was further ahead in the same jumble of gigantic boulders, and as they watched another Indian appeared, stalking something they could not see.

Sheehan gestured for Conley, Webb and Zimmerman to move toward the outer edge of the field of rocks, a point from which they would have outflanked the Indian on the pony. The rest he waved into position near him.

He waited. If the Indians found the girl first it would complicate matters, for if attacked she would be instantly killed. Nevertheless he wanted at least two Indians in plain sight before--

"Fire!"

The crashing volley cut short his command, and the Indian on the horse jerked from the impact of bullets and tumbled to the ground. Higher on the slope the second Indian took two running steps, then pitched headlong into the sand, sliding a little way and smearing blood.

Conley, on the extreme right, fired suddenly, then fired again.

Sheehan hated to expose his men but there was the girl to consider. "As skirmishers!" he yelled. "Yo-ho-o-o!"

They moved out on the double. There was a shot from the rocks that missed, and then the soldiers were weaving among the rocks. Zimmerman moved in, clubbed his rifle, and Styles fired. From beyond the rocks there was a rush of hoofs and then silence.

The soldiers moved on through the rocks. Three Indians were riding away, one swaying in the saddle, obviously in bad shape. Three Indians lay dead, and Sergeant Sheehan felt grim satisfaction at getting a little of their own back.

Among the rocks, from a crevice that seemed too narrow to hold even a child, the girl stood up. She was very thin and her flimsy dress blew in the wind, flapping around her childish figure.

"I'm Junie Hatchett," she said, "and I'm most awful glad to see you!"

Chapter
Five

Logan Cates was again on lookout when he saw distant dust against the blue morning, but knowing how many illusions the desert offered, he waited. There had been, a little earlier, a faint sound of rifle fire in the east, but he might have been mistaken.

Undoubtedly the marchers he saw had been on the trail all night to have arrived at this place at such an hour. This made it doubtful they were Indians.