Shalako (1962) (17 page)

Taking up his rifle he worked his way along the line of defense, calling them all back. Henri had a cut over his eye caused by a flying rock splinter, but there were no other injuries.

Once more they took up their positions, but this time at the edge of the circle that surrounded the campfire and backed up against the cliff wall and the tower of Elephant Butte.

Hans Kreuger was still alive, still silent, rarely asking for attention, offering no evidence of the pain he was feeling. Harding was weak from loss of blood, but his leg had been bandaged.

"If we only knew what was happening!" Laura ex claimed. "If we only knew whether the Army was coming or not."

"They may not even know we exist," Dagget said. "They will know," Buffalo replied.

"By now they know. They may have cut our trail somewhere, and they will know."

He returned to his new position, and settled down for a long wait. He could hear the murmur of voices around the fire, occasionally see them moving there, although he was well back among the rocks and trees. One thing he knew: when this was over he was quitting. He was going to get a stake and a ranch somewhere away from Indians ... in some safe, sane, reasonable country.

He had been there for some time when he began to feel uneasy. He shifted his position, studied all the terrain about him, but nothing had changed.

Far off, softened by distance, he heard the hammer of gunfire. Somebody was having one hell of a fight. Maybe if the Army gave Chato a whipping he would be running so fast there would be no time to stop.

He yawned and shifted his position. Suddenly his breath stilled. That rock out there, no larger than a man's fist ... was turned over.

Now the heavy side of a rock is always down in a place where wind and water can reach it, so something had passed that way, moving very fast, and had inadvertently overturned the rock. Something coming toward him!

And there was nothing....

Really worried now, he got to his feet and checked the area again. Could he have overlooked that rock when he took the position first? He was a man who always noticed such things for such things were his life. But could he, this time at least, have made a mistake?

It was very quiet.

He should move away. This place had good cover and he was well hidden, but nevertheless, he should move. If something was that close to him ... ?

But nothing was there.

He listened, and heard no sound. He studied again every tree, every rock. He dropped back to his knees finally, and put his Winchester on the ground. He reached back to shift his knife into a better position, and when he did a rock that was not a rock moved behind him, a muscular forearm slid around his neck and across his throat.

He was jerked cruelly back, his breath shut off, and he was fighting with his hands to tear the enclosing arm free when the knife went into his ribs.

His big body heaved powerfully, and he almost broke free, and then the knife slid between his ribs again, and then again. Slowly his muscles relaxed and the idea of the ranch was gone from his mind, the idea of survival was gone, and then life was gone. In that big body, so filled with strength and energy and that mind with plans ... there was nothing, nothing at all.

A brown hand reached over and took up his rifle, un buckled his cartridge belt, took his tobacco and pistol. Tats-ah-das-ay-go slid back among the rocks, crossed a narrow space and crouched in the brush where his brown body merged easily with the sandstone and lava.

When he moved again he was well back in the rocks on the rim of Elephant Butte Canyon where he could watch Louis the camp. Tats-ah-das-ay-go was a patient man. He had killed once and safely, soon he would kill again, but he was in no hurry. These people weren't going anywhere. He had already chosen his next victim.

On that hot afternoon of April 23, Lieutenant Colonel Sandy Forsyth was seated on a low knoll studying the terrain about him. There had been no word from Lieutenant Hall, but that worried him less than the fact that he had not heard from Lieutenant McDonald, who had a mere handful of scouts.

His glasses swept the country, caught a flicker of movement, and reversed their field.

A rider ... coming like hell after him.

His glasses brought the rider closer. An Indian by the way he rode ... Jumping Jack!

That horse was jumping Jack, McDonald's mount, and the company race horse, the fastest horse in the regiment. Trouble....

The colonel moved the command down the slope on a course to intercept the rider, and then drew up to await the man as he came nearer.

The Mohave scout leaped to the ground as the horse broke under him and rolled over on the hot sand. The message was quick, concise, definite. McDonald was under heavy attack by a large force. Three or four of his men had been killed.

It was sixteen miles of riding in a blistering hot country. It might kill every horse in the command but there was no choice. There had been another time, away back, when Sandy Forsyth had waited, stretched out on his back in the grass of Beecher's Island, suffering from an ugly wound, and praying for relief.

Atop the knoll where Lieutenant McDonald was making his fight, his canteen gave off only an empty sound. Two of his men were down, wounded and gasping under the broiling sun, for there was no shade.

Checking the loads on the three rifles he was now using, he glanced around at his small command. The red faced corporal, redder of face now, was still willing and able. One of the Mohaves had a livid gash across his cheek from a bullet, and one of the wounded men was delirious and raving of mountain lakes, of shadows, and of fish splashing in the cool water. Occasionally he whimpered with an almost animal sound. The other wounded man had dragged himself to the rocks and was ready with his rifle.

The Apaches were confident. They moved forward in a short, quick dash. McDonald, a dead shot with a rifle, picked up the first weapon. An Apache moved and the lieutenant fired, then fired again, taking the Apache in mid stride. The Indian fell, then scrambled to safety among the rocks.

Miles away, riding under the blazing sun, Forsyth heard the shots. He might be in time then ... he might still be in time.

There were seventy-five Indians along the cliffs of Horseshoe Canyon who had taken no part in the attack on the patrol. They awaited bigger game. The trouble was, they did not expect the number that came.

Loco, who directed the fighting, put up a stubborn battle against superior forces and superior arms, fighting a wary rear-guard action, and retreated slowly into the depths of the canyon.

It was not the sort of fighting to be relished by either side. Targets were few and elusive despite the number of men engaged, and there were not many bodies falling.

Despite the number of deaths in combat there are never so many as one would expect from the amount of shooting done.

The Apache was always cautious in his fighting, and the soldiers had fought Apaches before and learned from them things no War Department manual could teach, so it was a careful, relentless struggle where every shot was meant to kill but targets were few. There were no amateurs in the battle of Horseshoe Canyon.

The battle lasted until darkness before the soldiers withdrew. They had driven the Indians into the rocks and into the night, and from there on no commander with an ounce of sense would risk his men.

Nor did Forsyth have any doubts that the Apaches were on the run. Detaching Captain Gordon and Lieutenant Gatewood to the pursuit, Forsyth turned to interrogating the prisoners. They had taken but two, one a wounded warrior, the other an ancient squaw. Neither admitted knowing of the hunting party, yet one of the dead Apaches carried a rifle on which was carved the name of Pete Wells.

"It doesn't mean they've been wiped out," McDonald decided, "only that they got Wells, or got his rifle some how."

"Chato wasn't with this bunch. He must have found them. The rifle could have been carried by a messenger." Night was upon them and they had no choice but to remain where they were. The brutal charge across the desert in the blazing sun had left the horses in no shape for further travel, so whatever was to be done must be done the following day.

"I wish," Forsyth said, "that we could hear from Hall."

Hans Kreuger died as the sun went down, going quietly. He asked for a drink of water and Laura brought it to him, and when he thanked her he put his head back on the doubled-up coat that was his pillow and looked up at the sky where the first stars had appeared. He did not move again, nor did he speak.

His passing brought deep depression to the group. Pete Wells had been killed, but he had not been well known to any of them but Buffalo Harris, and he had been killed far from them. Kreuger was of their own group, and he had been a well-liked, quiet, and sincere young man.

Roy Harding lay wounded, their food supply was dwindling, and then Shalako Carlin found the body of Buffalo Harris.

The big hunter had been dead but a few minutes, and the manner of his death was apparent, even in the gathering dusk. The slight smudges of toes digging into the sand, the indications of a brief, hopeless struggle were there. One thing was immediately apparent to Shalako-Buffalo Harris had been killed by no ordinary Apache.

The buffalo hunter had been familiar with all the tricks and devices of the Indian, and was a veteran of many a skirmish. Yet there had been slight struggle, and no sound. No wolf or mountain lion could have killed more swiftly, silently, and efficiently.

The killer could have taken the weapons and slipped back among his own people, but Shalako had an uneasy feeling this was not so. He might still be among them, waiting for the chance to kill again.

The world of the Apache was not a large one. From the Tucson area to somewhat east of El Paso, from deep in Sonora and the Sierra Madre to central New Mexico ... they raided beyond that area, and the White Mountain Apaches were farther north ... this land was theirs.

Within that area among the Apaches and those aware of them, there were names that worked magic. Names of men alive today, names of a few but recently dead. Mangas Colorado, Cochise, Nana, Geronimo, Vittorio, Chato ... and a dozen others. These were their warriors and their chieftains.

Among them also there were tales of other warriors, warriors who were not leaders.

It was the name of one of these that came to Shalako's mind now.

The manner of the kill, the silence, the skill ... it had all the earmarks.

The present area of their camp was no more than an acre. Except for that space immediately surrounding the fire, it consisted of brush, broken rock, deep gashes into the base rock along the lips of the canyons, scattered trees, and behind them, Elephant Butte.

Kreuger was dead, Harris was dead, and Harding was wounded. Only five men remained on their feet and able to fight, and there were the four women. Von Halstatt and Henri were both good men, Dagget and Mako untried and inexperienced. He walked back to the fire.

"What is it, Shalako?" Irina was on her feet looking at him.

"Stay close to the fire," he said, "and stay together through the night. There's an Indian inside the circle."

"How could there be?" Julia demanded. "We've been watching."

"He killed Buffalo." Shalako turned back to Irina. "Let Julia take over the cooking.

From now on I want you and Laura to stand guard with rifles. If you see an Indian, kill him."

"Suppose we hunt him down?" Henri suggested. "He hasn't much room in which to maneuver."

"It would be like going out in the night to feel around in the grass for a rattlesnake.

You'd find him, all right." Henri relieved Mako at the cliff's edge, and the cook returned to the fire.

Shalako prowled restlessly, then he, too, returned to the fire.

"That's Tats-ah-das-ay-go out there," he said. "I am sure of it."

"How can you be sure?" Mako asked.

"The way he killed, and the fact that he came into the camp area instead of leaving it."

"How can you be sure he did?"

"Call it a feeling. He's here, all right, and I'm sure that's who he is. He's a great warrior, perhaps the greatest in the Apache nation, and he's a lone wolf. Even the other Apaches are afraid of him. Stays to himself, usually travels alone. I'd say he was downright unsocial."

He had stalked big horn sheep in the mountains and deer and antelope upon the low ground. He would understand the use of every shadow, every crevice, every bush.

He would know how to hide where it seemed impossible anything could hide, and he would be more deadly than any rattler for he would offer no warning.

It was the waiting that worried them. It worried him, too, but Shalako was a patient man. These others were not patient. All of them, even von Hallstatt, were undisciplined. They wanted what they wanted without waiting. They had never learned to cope with time.

The West taught one how to cope with time, for time measured all things. One did not say it was so many miles from here to yonder, but it was so many days ride. Every thing was measured by time and time measured every thing.

"Why have you stayed?" Irina said.

"A lady loaned me a horse. Let's just say I was grateful."