Читать книгу The Border Trumpet - Ernest Haycox - Страница 5

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HER father's long white nightshirt swayed through the curdled shadows. Benteen crossed the parade on the trot. Her father said, "Take the first twenty men you find ready and go out. You know the place?"

Benteen said, "Yes, sir. In the canyon," and wheeled around. His voice ran down the night, strong-toned against the rush of men along the parade. "Sergeant McSween—twenty men, either troop. Oldbuck, fill up some extra canteens."

Major Warren called: "Dr. Shiraz, you will accompany the detail."

Troopers were already forming in the center of the parade, hustled to it by McSween's bronze-throated urging. Phil Castleton came up to Warren. Eleanor heard excitement sing in his words, "May I be permitted to go, Major?"

"Certainly—certainly," said Warren. He walked toward quarters and swore one passionate oath when his bare feet snagged the porch boards. Howell Ford ran by, He said to nobody in particular, "That's Antone again!" Sitting upright on her cot, cold in spite of the night's heat, she saw the troopers forming line. They were mounting off.

"Prepare to mount! Mount!"

She heard them hit their saddles. Dust rose along the parade. "Right by twos, march!" The line moved by her. Benteen's voice was long and cool. "Gallop!" The detail swept out of the parade, hoofs solidly pounding the parade. Harriet Mixler was calling, "Eleanor—Eleanor," but Eleanor Warren waited another moment, following the detail with her ears as it reached the bed of the San Pedro, rushed over the gravel and struck into the southwest. Presently, when the clatter and rumble was quite gone, she went to Harriet Mixler's cot and bent down. Harriet's body shook. She seized Eleanor's arms. She breathed: "Don't leave. Stay here—right here."

Benteen led his detail southward up the dry course of the San Pedro, following the rutted freight road to Tucson. As long as the way was open he kept on at a gallop past the lights of Valley ranch and onward through this solid night, against which the tracery of paloverde and high-stalked pitahaya made a ghostly show. They dipped over the gravelly bottom of a wash and dropped to a walk. Dr. Shiraz rode at the column's rear. Castleton drew abreast Benteen.

"Who was it?"

"Two wagons freighting supplies to Summerton's ranch. It was after dark. There were four men. The wagons were burned and the mules killed. I don't know about the men."

"Don't understand how old-timers would ride into ambush," said Castleton, unfavorably. "These people grow too careless. It would be Antone again, of course. I thought you said you tracked him into the Pinals."

"Maybe I was mistaken," said Benteen.

"Maybe," Castleton answered. This was the way Benteen's presence always affected him, rousing a resentment he could not wholly conceal. The tall sandy-haired man's manner, casual to the point of indolence, affronted his own conception of an officer's demeanor. To him Benteen was loose and slipshod, neither a student nor a disciplinarian, possessing none of that hard and lonely detachment, none of that driving sense of duty Phil Castleton had set his life by. Yet this man was considered the best Indian campaigner in the regiment.

The lights of the fort died behind and the little valley swung west, sidling against the edge of the Tortillas. Eight miles onward the party entered a defile between the Santa Catalinas and the Tortillas, and sank into deeper darkness:

Benteen broke from his long riding silence to ask Castleton a question that stirred the latter's surprise. "You like this country, Phil?"

Castleton said: "I take my tour of duty at any post, like or dislike."

"No," said Benteen softly, "that wasn't what I meant."

"It is a little late at night for philosophy."

"The later the night the better the philosophy," said Benteen. "The stronger the cigar, the deeper the drink, the more beautiful the women—the better the thoughts that come. There are no nights like Arizona nights, no sound or smells or colors as sharp as these. It is a land that does everything full tilt, it burns a man black, it dries him as brittle as a bleached bone, it puts him closer to heaven than he's ever likely to get."

"Poetic fancy," said Castleton.

Benteen's chuckle was deep and loose and free. "You're missing something, Phil. You will not find it in Cooke's Cavalry Tactics."

The rooting was rocky and rough, against which the shod hoofs of the horses rattled, those sharp reports running ahead. Every sound grew larger—the squeal of leather, the faint jingle and clack of metal. When they stopped for a brief rest, silence pushed down like a weight. The canyon closed in to twice a wagon's width, its walls were smooth faces reaching five hundred feet above. Above them the sky was a glitter of distant stars.

Sergeant McSween murmured: "The Mexican said 'twould be at the first open spot. 'Tis a half a mile ahead, sor."

They went on. Benteen said, over his shoulder, "Close up." This was the heart of night, this dense two o'clock hour that blindfolded a man with the thickness of its shadows. Somewhere water spattered out of a rocky fissure and a sluggish current of air blew faint coolness against the detail; and in the air was the smell of smoke. The walls, as they progressed, fell back a little. Castleton, riding as second man in the single-file column, saw Benteen's shoulders weave and seem to rise. Benteen halted without command, the rest of the men gently bumped together. Ahead of them a fire's red eye showed dully; the smell of burnt wood and of cloth and coffee was very strong. Benteen called forward: "Hello, wagons."

The call rolled over the small clearing and re-echoed against the canyon walls. The smell of powder still clung to the air. When Benteen moved forward again, Castleton pulled out his holster flap and lifted the revolver; he came abreast Bentsen, Both of them rode toward the solitary eye of fire. Benteen murmured, "McSween," and dismounted, stumbling at his first forward step. Castleton saw his shadow sink against the earth and he heard Benteen's grumbling curse. "This is one of them—dead as sin."

Troopers moved around the clearing. Going forward, Castleton brought up against some kind of a solid box dumped from the wagon train. Supplies had been scattered around. Heat from the recent fire moved against his face and, closer to the single red eye of light, he touched a still hot metal of a wagon tire.

McSween's voice came from the far side of the clearing. "Nawthing over here, Lieutenant."

Benteen waded the warm ashes of the burnt wagons, exploring the area thoroughly. He returned to the dead man and struck a sulphur match. It was a Mexican, face upward and his arms flung out. The match struck an orange glitter across Benteen's long jaw and died, and the blackness was greater than before.

McSween said, deeper in the canyon: "The mewels are in a bunch. The damned savages led 'em here and kilt 'em."

Benteen said: "One dead. The other three got away in the dark. They were very lucky. McSween, leave five men here. We'll send an ambulance out in the morning to pick up this fellow."

"Benteen," said Castleton, "it is two hours until daylight. I should like permission to stay here and pick up the tracks of the Indians. It will save a good deal of time."

"This," said Benteen, "happened sometime after dusk. Six hours ago. By now the Indians are forty miles away."

"Do I have your permission?" insisted Castleton.

"No," said Benteen.

Castleton stamped back to his horse, boots grinding deep in the loose gravel. Benteen said, "McSween—" and quit. A voice—a woman's voice—came coolly from a corner of the night. "Will you take me to Camp Grant, Lieutenant?"

Benteen muttered an astonished, "In God's good name," and ran rapidly toward the source of that sound. "Where are you?" He lighted another match, throwing its first bright flare out from him against the suddenly rising figure of a girl in a gray dress. She had been lying on the ground, motionless and still through all this, controlled by some sort of caution that had kept her from speaking until the last moment. She had a round, dark face. Her black hair showed the streaking of dust. Her lips were tight together but, in that last sputter of matchlight, he saw no fear visible. He walked on through the dropping blackness and caught her arm.

"That Mexican said nothing of a woman in this wagon."

"No," she said.

"Were you in the wagon?"

"Yes."

"How did you escape the Indians?"

She said: "I crawled out and ran." Her voice had no lift, no excitement in it; it was passive, completely indifferent, He held her arm, returning across the gravel. She didn't seem to need his help, walking as surely as he could walk. He said: "I'll take a horse from one of the men staying behind." McSween said, "Noreen, your horse." Then Noreen came up with his mount and stood by. The girl moved away from Benteen and before he could assist her she was in the saddle, her voice coming calmly to him. "I can manage."

Benteen mounted and turned back through the canyon. The rest of the detail silently followed.

She was beside him. She bent until he felt her arm touch his shoulder; and her voice was a faint stage above a whisper, her words carrying only to him. "There was $3000 in gold in that wagon, Lieutenant. They got it."

"Antone?"

Her arm dropped from his shoulder; she didn't answer.

Beyond sunup Eleanor Warren stood in the doorway of commanding officer's house and watched the detail come across the bed of Aravaipa creek. Men gathered from the four corners of the post and Major Warren, emerging from the house, said, "Godfrey's bells, a woman!" The detail halted, Benteen left his saddle and gave the woman an arm to the ground. She stood a moment in the powerful sunlight, looking around the quadrangle with a calm indifference—and afterwards put her attention on Benteen, She was around twenty-five, Eleanor judged, with a strong body showing through the tight dress material and a smooth, dark skin and deep black hair pulled severely away from a middle part. It was her eyes that attracted Eleanor's attention. They were shadowed and obscure and reserved—as if the hardness of the land lay in them and would let nothing through. But she kept watching Benteen, this robust girl with the dust-stained dress; and Eleanor; sharp in her observations, witnessed the way Benteen looked at her and found her interesting.

Benteen said to Warren: "One man—a Mexican—is dead, sir. The others got away. The wagons were burned and the mules killed. I found this lady. I left a detail there."

Warren spoke to Howell Ford. "Take an ambulance and six men out there, Mr. Ford."

Benteen brought the girl to the ramada, He sara to her, "I do not know your name."

She seemed to think about the question a moment; and afterwards shrugged, as though it didn't matter. "Lily Marr."

"This is Miss Warren. This is Major Warren."

Eleanor took the girl's arm and led her into the commanding officer's quarters, Warren and Benteen following. There was a difference between the two women—the difference of poise, of this Lily Marr's close-mouthed silence against Eleanor Warren's light and pleasant voice.

"You will want to clean up and rest. Probably you're starved. Was it very terrible?"

"No," said Lily Marr. "It wasn't that bad. Nothing's bad, if you don't think about it."

"How can you help thinking about it?" said Eleanor Warren in an astonished voice.

The girl considered Eleanor, her eyes watchful, her expression still reserved. "You can help anything."

Benteen said: "The Mexican who brought in the alarm last night didn't mention a woman being in the wagon."

Lily Marr lifted her shoulders and let them fall. "He didn't know I was on it. Nobody knew, except Summerton. I crawled into the wagon at Tucson and hid underneath the tarpaulin, Summerton thought it safer, When the attack came it was pretty dark. The men walked out into the night, keeping up their fire. That gave me a chance to run. It didn't last long."

Major Warren said: "How did you happen to be along?"

The girl, as before, considered the question over a considerable interval. Her answer was dry and brief. "I was going to Summerton's ranch to be cook and housekeeper."

Eleanor Warren said: "Don't answer any more questions, Lily. These men are too curious. I shall get Cowen to make up breakfast for you." She went into the kitchen. Major Warren walked out of the room, saying: "Meet me at the office, Mr. Benteen."

Benteen put his back against the casing of the dobe's door. His head was dropped and his eyes held this girl's face with a considering attention. She stood in the middle of the room, meeting his glance. Her lips faintly parted and some of her gravity gently went away; suddenly she came over to him and looked up with a warm expression in her eyes. "Lieutenant," she murmured, "could I stay here awhile?"

"Yes," he said. "Was it Antone, last night?"

She let him wait for his answer, until Eleanor's returning steps sounded beyond the kitchen door. Then she came quite near him, her voice dropped: "It wasn't Antone. It wasn't Indians. Indians don't care anything for gold."

Coming into the room, Eleanor Warren saw them this close together, with the girl's head tipped up and an expression on her face easy to define. Benteen drawled, "Thanks," and left the room, ducking his head to avoid the top of the doorway.

He found Major Warren and the other officers gathered at post headquarters. Manuel Dura and Al Hazel, two of the post guides, were in the room. Al Hazel squatted on the floor, drawing a quick map across the rammed earth with the point of a stick. He was a middle-aged man with a heavy clipped beard and a pair of eyes, never fully opened, that went restlessly from point to point. He wore a faded black serge suit, a loose vest and a narrow-brimmed black hat; and he had a reputation as the best scout in Arizona.

"You go up the creek to here. Pools of water standin' in the rocks and some grass for horses, You go north by a little west, between the Pinals and the White Mountains, cross the Salt here and make a dead point on the Sierra Anchas. That's Antone's favorite country."

Benteen settled on his heels and watched the map grow. Phil Castleton said: "Antone was in the Pinals night before last. How could he get from there to Summerton's wagons so fast? My belief is that if we follow his tracks away from those wagons we'll discover him back in the Galiuros now."

The group let that remark go unanswered for the moment. Al Hazel lifted his head and gave Castleton a blank, polite survey. "It may be," he said softly. "And it may not be. An Injun's tracks don't mean nothin'. Where he was don't mean nothin' and where he will be don't mean nothin'. Only one thing means anythin' regardin' Apaches—which is where he is when you see him."

"Those tracks lead somewhere," insisted Castleton.

Al Hazel said: "I never got to the end of a breeze by followin' it, and I never caught an Apache by chasin' his tracks back from the spot he made his raid."

"Well, then," suggested Castleton, in somewhat of a temper, "how do you find them?"

Hazel rose from his haunches. He reached for his knife and plug tobacco and sheared off a comfortable chew. The snap of the knife blade, when he closed it, was sharp in the silence. "Maybe I talk too much," he snggested with a smoothness that fooled nobody. "Guess I better just listen." But his dislike for Castleton's question was apparent.

Captain Harrison said: "It might have been some of the Chiricahuas up from the South, not Antone."

"Possibly," agreed Major Warren. "But the fact remains that Antone's the source of most of these raids and the cause of most Apache disaffection in this district. I conceive it my duty to bring him in, or kill him off. When that is done I think the job of pacifying the rest of the tribes hereabouts will be a good deal easier. Nachee can command most of his people and could command more if it were not for Antone's renegade bunch."

Castleton said: "Permit me to say, sir, I do not trust these so-called peaceful Indians around the post. Nachee is an Apache and all Apaches are born to deception."

Benteen drawled from his squatted position on the floor. "Don't agree."

Castleton's voice jumped at Benteen. "Then how is it that whenever we take a detail out on the heels of Antone the news of it seems to spread before us? We never find Antone. His camps are always deserted when we come up. It is my belief that Nachee watches our details leave the post and immediately sends runners out to warn Antone."

"What would you do then?" asked Major Warren.

"A harsher remedy," said Castleton. "I should bundle up Nachee and his people and put them in a stockade, or move them completely away from this post. I should treat any Indian who shows himself around this post as a hostile. Bullet for bullet—trick for trick."

Major Warren touched the white ends of his mustache carefully. "In the last three years seventy-five pecple, more or less, have been killed by Apaches in this section of Arizona. Most of the cattle stock has been butchered, practically all of the ranches have been attacked and burned. There is no safe road in this quarter of the Territory. A man setting out alone from Tucson has no prospect at all of arriving here alive. Two weeks ago a herder was killed within sound of the Tucson church bells. The mines are deserted. For all purposes it is worse than during Mexican occupation."

"Just two ranches left in the whole length of the San Pedro," said Harrison.

"So far," continued Warren, "I have sent you gentlemen out on scout primarily to learn the country and break in the men to the kind of campaigning necessary. I propose now to set to work. We shall throw details after Antone steadily, keeping him on the move, breaking up his rancherias, pushing him out of his choice camp spots. I want him pushed so hard that he'll have no time to stop to bake mescal, no time to rest up. I expect we shall take our losses but I also expect we shall learn the game as the Apache plays it. We cannot hope to move as lightly or as fast as he does; but we can hope to maneuver him eventually into a bad position, and then close in. I hope somehow, during this time, to capture some of his people and gain information that will betray him. One other thing. When we set traps we must also expect to have traps set for us. That is the constant danger. We are dealing with the craftiest fighters in the world. These are the things I want you all to remember. So far this has been a schooling period. The men are toughened up, our horses are in good shape. Now we shall go to work."

Castleton stepped from the corner of the room. He said in his quick, suppressed voice: "Major, I should like permission to take a detail out on the trail from the Summerton wagons."

"Your turn will come," said Warren. "Mr. Benteen, take out a detail of twenty men with rations for three days. Hazel goes with you. You are to cut Antone's trail and follow."

Benteen said: "If the major will let me, I'd like to let that trail go and try another. I learned something of Antone's habits on the last chase."

Major Warren studied Benteen through a considerable silence and afterwards put his glance on Al Hazel. He was a round, ruddy and easy-going man, this Warren, and deceivingly smart in his judgment of other men. Now, considering Hazel and Benteen, he formed his conclusions largely from Hazel's attitude toward Benteen. The civilian scout gave Benteen a full and grave attention. It was an interest that the guide, with his slight intolerance toward young officers, had not bothered to show Castleton.

Benteen added: "I don't believe the trail of last night's raiding party will lead toward Antone."

Al Hazel's eyes, never fully open, showed a narrower light. "In that, Lieutenant, I'd guess you was right."

Castleton spoke at once. "Maybe you have additional information, Benteen."

"Ain't always that," put in Al Hazel shrewdly. "Some men get so's they smell the right and the wrong of Indian sign."

"You have my permission;" decided Warren. "What is your plan?"

"Up Aravaipa Creek and over to the Gila, circling the Mescals. If Antone has gone into those hills we should cut his sign. I should also like to start tonight, well after dark."

"Agreed," said Major Warren, and left the room.

Benteen walked out with Al Hazel. Al Hazel pushed his hat well forward to shield his eyes from the bitter flash of the sun; his jaws worked gently on the cud of chewing tobacco and his close- shuttered eyes watched the smoky distance of the San Pedro. "Lieutenant, whut was that woman's name you picked up?"

"Lily Marr."

"Just so," murmured Al Hazel, and sauntered off, hands deep in the front pockets of his serge pants.