Читать книгу Wolf Brother - Jim Kjelgaard - Страница 5

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Even as he ran, Jonathan realized that his chances of living in Quartz Flat were forever gone; the most superficial investigation would reveal his identity. Any reservation Apache who so much as talked back to a soldier might be given an opportunity to mull things over in jail. But anyone who hit a sergeant of cavalry had better travel fast and far.

Jonathan counted on a little confusion, which would mean a little delay, while the miners, the cowboys, and Mr. Dollarson recovered themselves and grasped exactly what had happened. But there would not be much delay. As was indicated by their sun-scorched faces, their clothing, and their manner, the cowboys and miners were frontiersmen who would think and act quickly. Jonathan would have precious little time.

Even before bursting out the door, Jonathan had decided that he must not run across the desert. At least, not by day. The only hiding places, and they contained little cover, were dry washes. Men who knew what they were doing could find him and run him down in short order. He would take a chance on flight if he could get one of the horses, but two windows overlooked the corral and all the men inside were armed.

As soon as he was through the door, Jonathan ducked low so that he could not be seen from the windows, ran to the rear of the building, and gratefully noted some old tarpaulins bleaching there. They were ragged and frayed, but at that moment no sight more pleasing could have greeted Jonathan's eyes. He ducked beneath the tarpaulins and lay still.

He breathed softly. Despite the stifling heat the sun had generated beneath the canvas, he moved no muscle. Even when he felt a scorpion crawling over his leg, he did not move. He knew from its feel that it was one of the larger scorpions, those that could inflict a painful but not fatal sting. The little, hard-to-see death scorpions, the kind that stung almost before they could be felt, were the ones to dread.

Jonathan was worried by more than the scorpion. Should he be discovered here, and killed, it would be an ignominious death. He had no weapon with which he might at least try to take one of his enemies with him, as befitted an Apache. If he were found out, he could only fight as best he could with his bare hands.

About fifteen seconds after Jonathan crawled under the tarpaulins, the men came out of the building. He could only hear them, but Jonathan knew from the sound of their voices that there was nothing hysterical in their actions. These were desert men, and would be as relentless as a hunting cougar that knows the approximate location of a newborn fawn.

"He's out thar some'res," one of the miners said. "All we got to do is find his hidey-hole."

Somebody else asked, "You goin' to fetch the sojers, Doll?"

"I'd better," Mr. Dollarson said. "The sergeant needs a doctor, and the more men we have, the better our chances of running that hellion down. All you boys got guns?"

A cowboy drawl answered, "Guess nobody's short."

"Well, if you run across him I certainly hope he doesn't try to escape."

A general laugh went up and another voice spoke. "He prob'ly will. Fact, he's sure to if prodded a mite. It'll save fetchin' him in an' hangin' him here."

There was the sound of a trotting horse, evidently Dollarson's, and it was followed by a short silence. One of the miners broke it.

"Guess I'll ketch me up a horse an' sashay out to flush that varmint."

"We'll go too," others chorused in.

"What about you, Jess?"

"I'm stayin' right here," the cowboy drawl declared. "They's a heap of things I'd as soon do as ride 'round the desert when it's so hot even the lizards are holed up."

A miner asked curiously, "You know whar he is?"

"If I did," the cowboy said irritably, "I'd go fetch him. But he's as likely to be about here as out in the desert."

"Be careful," a voice warned. "All he needed was a lick an' a shake o' time to bump the sarge down."

"I don't aim to hunt him," the cowboy laughed. "Leastwise, I don't aim to 'thout they's at least twenty feet betwixt us an' Ol' Roarer cocked an' ready. Let the sojers ketch him. That's what they're paid for."

Footsteps went toward the corral. There were sounds of saddling up and the measured beat of horses moving slowly into the desert. The cowboy who did not want to go went back into the building; there sounded the hollow beat of his boots thumping across the floor.

Still Jonathan did not move a muscle in the scorching furnace his hiding place under the tarpaulins had become. He tried to ease the heat and tension by making plans. With all except the injured sergeant and the cowboy gone to hunt him in the desert, he might attempt a break now. But exactly how far into the desert had they gone? Was someone waiting, in the hope that he would show himself? Besides, even though the sergeant was injured and supposedly helpless, the cowboy was still in the building, and he was armed. Added to these factors were a distrust of day and a liking for night that were part of Jonathan's very nature when trouble threatened. He decided to wait.

Because he had made no effort to keep track of passing time, Jonathan did not know how long he had been under the tarpaulins when he heard more horses approaching. His ears told him that there were more than ten horses and fewer than fifteen, and they were accompanied by a wagon.

"Here we are, Lieutenant," Jonathan heard Mr. Dollarson say. "I guess the others saddled up and went after the young devil."

The lieutenant's voice was sharp with reproof. "You didn't leave a wounded soldier alone with a rogue Apache in the vicinity?"

"Why no," the agent floundered. "I'm sure someone stayed. That is, they must have stayed. I'm sure—"

Mr. Dollarson was saved further embarrassing explanations by the cowboy.

"Sojers, by gum! About time, too!"

"Where is Sergeant Grimshaw?" the lieutenant demanded.

"Inside," the cowboy said truculently.

"Get him into the wagon," the lieutenant ordered.

There were sounds of men entering the building, mingled groans and grunts as they lifted the injured sergeant onto a stretcher and placed him in the wagon.

The lieutenant said, "Corporal Hagerty, take two men and escort the ambulance." Then he addressed someone else. "Are you ready, Manuelito?"

"I ready," an Indian voice answered.

Jonathan's heart sank. They had brought Manuelito to track him! Once a renowned warrior and great hunter, Manuelito would still have eyes that had not died with his spirit. An Apache could track a jack rabbit across dry desert. For the first time, Jonathan wished he had not remained hidden. He should have gone when he had only the cowboy and the sergeant to oppose him. Now there were soldiers, many more than he could fight even if he had a rifle, and there would be no escaping Manuelito. The lieutenant spoke again.

"You understand that you will receive five horses, and great honor, when you lead us to this man who struck down a soldier?"

"I know."

"Then find him!"

About to crawl from beneath the tarpaulins and make a run for it, Jonathan delayed when he heard the lieutenant speak again.

"Are you sure he went into the desert?"

"You want another tracker?" Manuelito demanded sulkily.

"Not if you're sure you're right."

"Then we go."

Jonathan felt a flood of gratitude. Beyond any doubt, if Manuelito did not already suspect where Jonathan lay hidden, he could find him in a matter of minutes. But in spite of surface appearances of a complete loss of manhood, Manuelito still had loyalty to his people. With no risk to himself, he might have gained both wealth and favor by betraying Jonathan. At definite risk, for the soldiers would punish him severely if they even suspected that he was leading them astray, Manuelito had chosen to help another Hawk Apache whose plight was desperate.

Because there was nothing else to do, Jonathan continued to wait in complete silence. After a while he heard the miners and the cowboy who had gone with them return to the corral, turn their horses loose in it, and go back into the building. Finally a chicken clucked its drowsy evening song, a cactus wren in a nearby cholla thicket chirped lazily, and Jonathan knew the sun was going down. Twenty minutes later a blessed coolness made itself felt on the sun-scorched tarpaulins, and for the first time in hours, Jonathan could breathe easily. After another half hour, he peered cautiously out.

The short-lived desert twilight had come and gone and a star-sprinkled night was here. Light from an oil lamp flickered through the building's windows, and somewhere a dog barked menacingly. Jonathan deliberated.

He had no way of knowing how many soldiers had joined the hunt, but some had stayed behind. Manuelito had assured the lieutenant that he would find Jonathan, and no great number of men were needed to capture or kill one unarmed youth. The low-pitched voices of the soldiers who had not joined the hunt, and of the miners and cowboys, drifted through the open windows.

"Ee-ow-w!" suddenly yelped the cowboy who had not gone on the hunt.

Mr. Dollarson's voice said sharply, "Be quiet!"

"Ee-ow-w!" the cowboy yelled again. "All these sojers can't ketch one lil' ol' 'Pache!"

Jonathan crawled out and started quietly away. His destination was the corral, but he stopped first at the well to quench his burning thirst and soak his clothing with water. Cautiously he resumed his journey toward the corral. When a white horse snorted softly at him, Jonathan went into action.

Taking one of the bridles that were looped over the corral posts, he bridled the white horse and held it while he opened the gate. Vaulting bareback onto his nervous mount, he hazed the rest of the horses that had been in the corral through the gate, then worked his own to the center. If anyone started shooting, as might happen very shortly, he wanted to offer the smallest possible target.

There was sudden silence in the building, then a babel of excited voices, and a knot of men burst through the open door. A shot rang out. The horses, already nervous, broke into a mad gallop and Jonathan let them go. There were more shots and more frenzied shouting, but Jonathan paid little attention. As far as he knew he had all the horses, and if he could also have a few minutes' start he was safe. No one on foot could follow him through the night, though of course they'd find his trail in the morning. But tomorrow's problems could be met when they arose.

After two miles, Jonathan let his horses draw gradually to a trot and then to a walk. He grinned cheerfully while his heart resumed a normal beat; at last he understood why his people were such famous horse thieves. There was enough excitement and danger in it to satisfy the most adventurous.

A coyote shrilled in the distance and nearby a desert owl squawked a raucous call to its mate. Other than that there were few sounds, certainly none of pursuit, and Jonathan tried to plan his best course. Where could he go? Certainly he could not return to the reservation. His only hope was to find Cross Face and his renegade band. But where was it? According to the newspaper article, Cross Face had raided Fort Belton and made off with some stock. It stood to reason that anything he had stolen would bear the brand of United States ranchers. If Cross Face tried to sell or trade his plunder, and almost certainly he would, the only logical market lay in Mexico. Jonathan rode south toward the Mexican border.

As a child, moving from place to place with his nomadic people, he had come this way more than once. But six years' absence had made his recollection of landmarks hazy, and he feared to venture near the water holes he knew because the white men would know them too and beyond any doubt pursuit had already started. With morning they would locate his tracks and satisfy themselves that he was headed for the Mexican border. The miracle of the telegraph would shortly inform soldiers along his route. Every water hole would be guarded. Jonathan kept his horses at a slow walk to husband their strength. Tomorrow, he probably would have need of all they could offer.

Heralding the birth of a new day, the stars paled and ragged outlines of the gray mountains became more distinct. Jonathan drove his stolen herd into a canyon with gently sloping walls. As he climbed the other side, the sun rolled like a huge ball of fire across the summits of the eastern mountains. Mounting the crest, Jonathan glanced behind him. For a moment he sat stupefied, unwilling and unable to believe what his eyes told him was true.

A dozen cavalrymen came into the canyon he had just crossed and rode on at a fast trot. Jonathan's head reeled. He had considered himself safe from pursuit for a day or two, but he was safe no longer. The soldiers were undoubtedly a patrol that had come across the tracks of his horses by pure chance, but that would be no help if they caught him with his stolen herd. At any rate, the soldiers were upon him and he must run for it.

Jonathan kicked his mount with both heels and shouted, "He-eee!"

The horses broke into a run, then a gallop. When two of the slower beasts fell behind, Jonathan made no attempt to recover them. Abandoning stolen horses went contrary to his very nature, but more than just escaping with his whole band of horses was at stake now. If the soldiers caught him, his life might well be forfeit. Jonathan kicked his mount again and harder. The herd thundered down the opposite side of the crest from which he had seen the soldiers, climbed the next hill, and Jonathan risked another backward glance.

Just appearing over a rise, the soldiers were closing the gap between them slowly. But they were closing it surely, and Jonathan urged his captured horses along with another shout. Threading their way among a veritable forest of shoulder-high prickly pear and towering saguaro, the herd was now strung out single file. Jonathan took his place at the rear, chivying them along. He'd already lost two horses, but was determined to keep the rest as long as possible.

The Indian who appeared before him did so so suddenly that Jonathan instinctively reined in his mount. The stranger carried a rifle, had a blanket draped over his shoulders, and an axe and knife at his belt. His long black hair was bound by a buckskin thong about his forehead. Privation and hardship had etched lines on his young face, but he differed from the Apaches at Quartz Flat only as a wild hawk differs from a tame one. His dark eyes were alert but friendly.

"You are Jon-A-Than?"

For a moment Jonathan sat speechless, and then he knew. Perhaps by smoke or fire signals, heliograph, or even usurping the white man's telegraph, Cross Face had constant and almost instantaneous communication with Quartz Flat. That accounted in part for his ability to elude soldiers; he often knew where they were and where they were going. He already knew of this young Hawk Apache who was in such trouble, and had sent help.

"Yes, I am Jonathan," he said.

"I am Pepe. Come on foot, for we go to Cross Face, and your horses are too easy to follow."

Jonathan dismounted. Pepe removed his blanket, waved it, and the already frightened horses stampeded. Calmly, as though there were no enemy within a hundred miles, Pepe draped the blanket back over his shoulders and started into the cactus.

"When we reach Cross Face," he said, "you will be given another horse. We have many."

Jonathan asked, "What will the soldiers do when they overtake these?"

"Ride hard and wildly, for they will think they have you in their grasp. So doing, they will help wipe out any tracks we may leave. It is too bad not to keep the horses, but this way is best."

Jonathan asked a question that had been troubling him. "Will Manuelito be severely punished when the soldiers find he led them astray?"

"Manuelito knows how to take care of himself. He is not as witless as he seems," Pepe added dryly.

Meantime he had been keeping them on the boulder-strewn ground. When the soldiers thundered past a few hundred yards in their rear, Pepe paused to watch. There was a difference in his manner now, a burning hatred that could be sensed, and Jonathan understood. This was the land of the Apache. The whites, and not the Indians, were the invaders and Pepe felt as any brave man who loved his home might feel when that home is invaded. Jonathan hoped his coming would not bring further trouble.

"When the soldiers overtake the horses," he said anxiously, "and find that I have escaped, the scouts will come."

"We are concealing our trail. Even should they come, they will have much trouble."

"I see."

The sun became hot, and Jonathan grew more and more thirsty. Pepe stopped, used his axe to slice the thorns from a fat barrel cactus, cut the cactus apart, and gave a piece of the juicy pulp to Jonathan and kept one for himself. They sucked the pulp, which was thirst-quenching even if not palatable. With such barrel cactus available, a man might travel the burning desert all day and never suffer from thirst.

With noon, Pepe took a handful of parched corn from a pouch at his belt, and divided it between them. Jonathan nibbled the strength-giving food as he walked, and even though they had come a long way without resting, his heart lifted and his step lightened. In the distance he saw pine-clad mountains, and in his mind he heard the pines murmuring softly as a wind passed through them. In imagination he saw snorting deer, lordly elk, an icy stream, and he felt a new understanding of his people. Not the desert alone and not mountains alone, but both, belonged to the Hawk Apaches. Jonathan felt that he had truly come home.

With night, as they entered the pines, Pepe doled out another handful of corn for each. Jonathan breathed deeply as the cool breeze fanned his cheek, and smiled when a startled deer snorted and leaped away. As they mounted higher, the breeze became colder. Presently Pepe stopped and gave the cry of a barred owl that has strayed from its hunting companion.

Farther up the mountain, the owl's partner answered. Satisfied, Pepe continued to climb. Jonathan followed, and a few minutes later his nose detected wood smoke. Topping a rise, he found himself looking down on Cross Face's band.

They were encamped in a natural bowl near the top of the mountain, where fires built could be seen only from the rim of the depression itself. There was a pond fed by seepage from the surrounding slopes, and a natural meadow in which a large herd of horses and mules grazed. Nine people sat around a fire, and various shadowy shapes indicated other members of the band here and there.

"Is this all?" Jonathan asked Pepe in astonishment.

"This is all."

Pepe told him there were nineteen warriors, of whom eleven had guns. The rest were armed with bows and arrows, lances and knives. There were also three women and five children. Aside from the band's own mounts, there were nearly a hundred horses and mules plundered from Fort Belton. Jonathan remembered the newspaper story that had placed the stolen stock at three hundred and the number of raiders at eighty.

"Come with me. I will take you to Cross Face now," Pepe said.

More than a little awed, Jonathan went forward to meet this renowned warrior who, while leading so few, could strike terror into the hearts of so many. Wearing a captured cavalry uniform and with a blanket draped over that, Cross Face looked like a figure carved from the granite that formed the core of the mountain upon which his band was camped. A scar ran from the left eye to the right cheek and another from the right eye to the left cheek. The cross that had named this man, so Jonathan understood, had been slashed by a cavalryman while Cross Face stood a prisoner in chains. But despite the hardness, the cunning, and the cruelty that were evident in his features, there was a quality of proud and defiant inner strength.

"I have found Jon-A-Than," Pepe said.

Cross Face nodded, the gesture of a warrior leader toward an unproven boy, and Jonathan was led away to find a bed in the pines. The next morning he chose a pony that suited him and, when they broke camp, took his place on the trail drive. There was no excitement and little to do. These animals knew their masters and the scouts who rode out each morning returned each night with the report that there were none to oppose them.

The white soldiers probably knew that Cross Face would try to run the stock plundered from Fort Belton into Mexico, but not even the Army's Apache scouts had guessed that he would take other than one of the short and direct routes. Instead, before even starting south, he had swung a long way to the east. Now, with only his own followers knowing his exact location, he had a clear path to the border.

On the third day they crossed into Mexico. Some hours later it was Pepe himself who came racing in on a lathered pony, shouting from the back of his weary mount.

"They come! Make ready to fight!"