Читать книгу Apache Ambush - Will Cook - Страница 4

In one glaring respect, Lieutenant Timothy O’Hagen differed from all other cavalry officers; he did not use a point, which was contrary to the manual. According to that ‘bible’ written by General Philip St. George Cooke, the point was the cavalry’s eye, and without it, the likelihood of ambush was magnified.

Mobility of the charge . . . anything that impeded the charge was faulty . . . these fragments came to O’Hagen as he rode through the slanting drizzle. Behind him, his fifteen-man patrol rode slack-bodied, poncho covered, fatigue hats funneling water.

He supposed he was different from other officers because he considered the ‘book’ too heavy for interesting reading and too stupidly written in spots to be taken seriously. Many commanders gave him the jaundiced eye whenever he presented himself at their posts. They knew how he felt about the book.

O’Hagen smiled as he thought of this.

He did not mind the pestering rain, for his poncho kept him moderately dry and turned away the spring chill. He was inured to a life of discomfort.

The column was now moving along the breast of a ridge. Below, a once-dry wash boiled with run-off water, pushing silt with it, eroding the banks as it tore around the sharp bends. Earlier O’Hagen had twice decided to turn the column back toward Fort Apache, but then he had come upon a slash in a hillside, a troughed gouge that caused him to pause. His eyes had scanned to the crest, and one part of his mind reasoned that a rain-loosened rockslide had caused this.

Or a bunch of Apache ponies had come down here to cross the wash at a shallow spot a hundred yards beyond. There were no tracks. The pelting rain took care of that.

This was the first hunch that kept O’Hagen from turning back.

Then he found the dead fire, a blackened, rain-smeared spot on the earth. Nearby was the half-butchered carcass of a horse, an Apache pony. He dismounted the column for a ten minute rest. The troopers stood in small groups, talking quietly. Snouts of carbines protruded from beneath the ankle length ponchos.

Sergeant Mike Herlihy came up, his boots sloshing in the mud. “Pretty fresh, sor. Th’ rain ain’t had time to wash it out.”

“Two-three hours,” O’Hagen agreed. “That was their sign we cut earlier this mornin’.” He raised his hand and pawed water from his angular face. The patrol had been out a week and a red beard stubble darkened his cheeks. “They must have been in a hurry, Sergeant. Horsemeat is a special dish for Apaches and unless something is pushing them, they’ll remain in one place until it’s all gone.”

At the end of ten minutes, O’Hagen mounted the troop and struck out eastward, across land that was becoming flat and less rocky. Herlihy, riding on the left, said, “Tres Alamos stage stop’s out there, sor. About twelve miles. Fella by th’ name of Lovington and his wife run it. A couple of Mexican hostlers—that’s all.”

“To an Apache, that’s enough,” O’Hagen said.

The rain stopped an hour later and ponchos were rolled and tied over the cantle roll oat issue. In the distance, mountains stood gray-veiled and chopped off at the tops by low-hanging clouds. A gray dreariness lay over the land and a chill wind searched the weave of their shirts.

Alternating the walk and the trot, O’Hagen covered the twelve miles in two hours. Lovington’s adobes were squat shadows in the distance and flitting in and out of the gutted buildings, Apaches waved fired torches.

“At the gallop!” O’Hagen snapped and unflapped his pistol holster even as he spurred his horse. The Apaches saw them and when they were yet a mile away, broke for their horses. They stormed away, screeching and shooting aimlessly. O’Hagen halted the troop by Lovington’s fired house.

Mrs. Lovington was dead, her body huddled sadly in one corner. The place was a shambles, furniture overturned, table and chairs smashed, the curtains ripped from the windows. Mrs. Lovington had been stripped of her clothes; Apaches were like packrats when it came to bright cloth. She had contested this, for a shred of torn blue polkadot was clenched tightly in her fist. O’Hagen put this in his pocket and motioned for one of the troopers to cover her.

The fire had not caught in the rain-soaked timbers and two men succeeded in extinguishing it with whipping blankets.

Lovington was in the barn, still alive, hanging by his wrists from one of the rafters. The Apaches had sliced through the calf muscles and his feet kept twitching. Another had flicked out Lovington’s eyeballs with the point of his knife. They hung on his cheeks like boiled eggs dangling from bloody strings.

The metallic clank of spurs roused Lovington and he croaked, “Shoot me! In th’ name of God—shoot me!”

Corporal Mulvaney, a huge Irishman who could whip any two men in the troop, turned away and vomited. Herlihy’s jaws were locked and a muscle jumped in his cheek. O’Hagen raised his pistol slowly and sighted. The sudden detonation made Herlihy and Mulvaney jump. Lovington jerked once, then was peacefully still.

O’Hagen jammed his cap and ball Colt into the holster and whirled in savage anger. “Mount the troop!”

“Sor, th’ buryin’ detail—” Herlihy began.

“I SAID MOUNT THE TROOP, SERGEANT!” O’Hagen was striding to his horse. He went into the saddle and sat there, his blunt face harsh and chalky in the gray light.

The troop moved out without talk. Even Sergeant Herlihy, who was all the father O’Hagen had, remained silent. O’Hagen’s hate was like a stain across them all. This never varied. O’Hagen could go for many months, an easy officer to serve; then he would see something like this, the bloody remains left by Apaches, and he changed. He would drive them hard now, without letup, without rest, sustaining himself by a hatred that was an inextinguishable fire.

The men recognized this and said nothing.

Corporals Kolwowski and Shannon rode forward as the column moved, giving their reports briefly to a man who never looked at them.

“Typical Apache raid, sir. Nothing of real value taken, just cloth, some airtights, and all the arms and ammunition.”

“We found the Mexicans behind the barn, sor. You know how they like to cut up a Mexican. Picked up a footprint, sor. Choya’s most likely. He left it plain as hell in th’ barn.”

“Thank you,” O’Hagen said and rode for a way stony-faced.

Herlihy maintained his silence for a mile, then edged close. He knew that O’Hagen did not want to talk, but talk was best when a man remembered. He said, “It’s hard for a man to understand why they’ll kill for somethin’ that’s worth nothin’.”

“They’re born thieves,” O’Hagen said, dragging his words out. “Apaches have women trouble, Sergeant. Some say they’re barren; that’s why they like female prisoners. Choya’s woman will be sporting a new dress tomorrow. Polkadots. I’d like to see what she looks like in it.”

O’Hagen did not halt the troop at nightfall, but none of the men were surprised. The rain began again and the column made for the rough country, moving rapidly. In a rocky pocket, O’Hagen gathered his men round him, speaking tersely. “O’Shead, Carmichael, stay here with the horses. We’ll go ahead on foot.”

The troopers looked at each other, but said nothing. Their association with this man had taught them that he knew what he was doing. If he wanted to look for the Apache camp afoot, then they’d walk.

High and hard to find; that was the way Apaches camped and every man in the troop knew it. They followed O’Hagen for better than an hour while he led them along the rocky spine of this short range, driving always into wilder country. The rain was a steady drum that masked the sounds of their movement. O’Hagen took advantage of this to make time. The night hid them as well as the enemy, but he did not seem to consider this. Often he paused to search the darkness without reward. Soon a nagging doubt began to form in his mind.

He knew Apaches and how completely unpredictable they could be. It didn’t take much; a quick, erratic flight of a bird could carry an omen. Or a strange, sudden sound. Their lives were governed by omens.

Then he found the camp in a flat pocket. Rock walls closed in on three sides and he placed Herlihy and three troopers near the outlet. Taking the others, he spent a difficult thirty minutes climbing around near the top. A small fire winked below. Around this, Apaches moved, blankets shrouding them from shoulder to ankle. O’Hagen watched and through the pelting rain, caught a glimpse of Contreras, who was really the leader of this band. The Apache was huge and his size gave him away.

Choya, the second in command, hunkered down across the fire. He was a runt, almost a midget compared to Contreras’ six foot plus.

Touching the bugler, O’Hagen whispered, “Sound ‘commence firing’ and make it loud, lad.”

The shocking blare of the bugle was like a bomb thrown into the Apache camp. On the heels of this, carbine fire reached down, plucking two off their feet while the rest dashed for the entrance and their horses. Bending low over the animals’ backs, the Apaches tore toward Herlihy, who raked them in volley. Two more went down, and then Choya’s horse fell, spilling him. O’Hagen saw a warrior wheel and pick up the runty leader. Streaming from Choya’s hand was a banner of cloth. Then they broke through and raced away in the rain-smeared night.

“Sound ‘cease-fire’!”

O’Hagen led his men back to Sergeant Herlihy’s position and a trooper turned one of the Apaches over. When he came up, he was parrying Mrs. Lovington’s kitchen curtains. Trooper Haliotes spat and said, “Some of Osgood Sickles’ damn reservation Apaches, sir. You see Choya with Mrs. Lovington’s dress?”

“See if you can catch up a couple of their horses. We’ll take these bucks back as a present to Sickles.”

“Sorry, sir,” Trooper McPherson said. “They stampeded as soon as the firing began.”

“Very well then,” O’Hagen said. “Sergeant, we’ll regroup with the horse holders and pursue them. I’m going to run Contreras right back to Osgood Sickles’ doorstep. I’ve got that Apache agent where I want him.”

With only a two-hour rest, the troop completed an all night march and when the dawn of another crying day broke, they were on the eastern fringes of the vast San Carlos Reservation.

This was an unfenced area, all open country, and most of it rough. Here and there it was dotted with Apache wickiups. Reservation Indians, O’Hagen thought, finding the gall bitter. Only the bad ones who could not be trusted with freedom lived here, yet there was nothing to confine them except the United States Cavalry patrols. Patrols like this one and the dozen other patrols originating at Camp Bowie and Fort Apache.

Osgood H. Sickles’ policemen; O’Hagen had been called this to his face by irate civilians. Sure, policemen working for a crooked chief, and the thing that galled O’Hagen was that he couldn’t prove it.

Contreras was in a hurry now and O’Hagen pursued him grimly, never more than an hour and a half behind. Once Contreras tried a switchback to ambush the patrol, but O’Hagen outguessed him, and killed another buck in Contreras’ band. After that the trail led straight through the reservation and ended in a filthy cluster of wickiups no more than a mile from reservation headquarters.

O’Hagen halted his dead-beat patrol near the fringe of the Apache camp. “Corporal Shannon, ride into headquarters and bring Mr. Sickles back with you. In the event he is reluctant, I authorize you to bring him back across his horse.”

“Yes, sir,” Shannon said and wheeled his horse, riding off at a gallop.

“Dismount the troop, Sergeant.”

“Troop—dissss-mount!” Men left the saddle stiffly. Weariness was dark on their faces.

“Sergeant, sling carbines to the saddles. Haliotes, Steinbauer, you had your fun in the pocket. Remain here with the horses. We’ll have a look around now.”

Contreras was a big man here, both in stature and importance. His wickiup reflected this prosperity, which, to an Apache, meant an abundance of litter no self-respecting Indian would own. O’Hagen motioned for the troop to fan out. Taking Sergeant Herlihy with him, he brushed aside the flap of Contreras’ wickiup and entered.

Seven Apaches sat around the fire. Three women, one of them Contreras’ wife, huddled against the far side, their dark eyes glittering. Contreras’ face was broad and savage. He was near forty but did not show his age. The runt, Choya, sat on his left, his slightly crossed eyes never leaving O’Hagen’s face.

To watch these three men, one would never guess that at one time they had lived together, had been playmates, a white man and two savage Apaches.

O’Hagen spoke to Contreras, a greeting without friendliness. Leaving Sergeant Herlihy by the wickiup door, O’Hagen walked around the men, the silence so deep it hurt his ears. They wore blankets and he knew they were naked, their wet clothes now hidden. The wickiup was full of Apache stink, unwashed bodies, the fetid odor of hot animal entrails. O’Hagen stopped near the women. Apache women were never pretty like the Sioux. Their faces were broad and heavy-boned. The hair was coarse and ragged, worn parted in the middle. An Apache woman’s habits leave them offensive and even in the earlier years, few mountain men wanted one for a wife.

Choya’s woman sat slightly behind the others. She wore a shapeless sack dress, ballooning away from her body as though she were with child. O’Hagen said, “Hee-kist-see nak-tay nah-lin.”

“Pindah-lickoyee das-ay-go, dee-dah tatsan!” She spat on his boots and O’Hagen flicked his glance toward Herlihy, who remained by the opening. “She said I’ll soon be dead, Sergeant.”

Lazily, O’Hagen turned his glance back to the woman, then his hand darted out, caught the loose neck of her dress and ripped it to her knees. Wadded blue polkadot fell to the dirt floor and he swept this up as Choya surged to his feet, his knife flashing.

Herlihy whipped up his long-barreled pistol and brought it down across the base of Choya’s skull. The other Apaches growled and Herlihy cocked the gun.

“Ink-tah, dee Shis-Inday das-ay-go tatsan!” O’Hagen said and they fell quiet, for they knew he was as good as his word. He would kill them! Stepping away from the women, O’Hagen rolled Choya over with his foot. He brushed the long hair away from the Apache’s neck, exposing vermilion and white streaks of paint.

“Learn this, Sergeant: Apaches never fight without paint. Maybe you can’t see it, but it’s there, on their thighs, under the arms, behind their knees—someplace.” He looked down at Choya. “Friendly Apaches!” His voice was low and tight, then he lifted his eyes to Contreras. “You killing son-of-a-bitch! You understand that? Savvy English? Sure you do.”

A smoldering fire grew in Contreras’ eyes, but his expression remained fixed. O’Hagen tossed the dress to Herlihy, never taking his eyes off the tall Apache. “Get up, you Apache bastard. Get up or I’ll kick your damned face in!”

Contreras came erect, standing nearly a head taller than O’Hagen. Outside, two horses approached at a run and came on to the wickiup. There the riders flung off. Corporal Shannon whipped the flap aside and Osgood H. Sickles came in, his eyes dark with anger. With one sweeping glance he saw Choya’s half-naked wife, Contreras’ anger mottled face, and the indisposed Choya.

“Lieutenant,” Sickles said with icy softness, “I assume this is your doing. Breaking into a peaceful wickiup in this manner may cost you your commission.”

O’Hagen took Mrs. Lovington’s dress from Sergeant Herlihy. He intended to hand it to Sickles, make an unemotional report and trap the Indian Agent, but he kept hearing Joe Lovington’s voice, “In the name of God—shoot me!” And the old anger returned, the blind rage that pushed wisdom and judgment aside.

He whipped the garment across Sickles’ face, driving the dark-haired man back a step. “See this dress, Sickles? Smell the Apache stink? Contreras stripped it off Mrs. Lovington!”

Sickles’ eyes grew round. “You’re insane, Mister. You’ve been on too many patrols.”

“Get something through your fat head,” O’Hagen said. “I was at Lovington’s and saw these Apache dogs. My troopers saw them. And we ran them all the way back here. Wiggle out of that if you can.”

“Let’s go to the office and settle this like sane men,” Sickles suggested.

“You want me to make out a report in seven copies?”

“At least that approach is realistic,” Sickles said. “My job is to preserve peace with the Apaches, while you seem determined to undermine my efforts.”

“Your efforts stink!”

“There’s no need to get insulting about it,” Sickles said. “Are you coming to headquarters or not?” He turned to the wickiup door.

O’Hagen sighed. “Assemble the troop, Sergeant. I’ll leave two squads here. You come with me.” He followed Sickles outside.

While the troop gathered, O’Hagen mounted and rode to the headquarters building with Osgood Sickles. Herlihy and five troopers trailed at five paces. Gerald Hastings, the assistant agent, was waiting on the headquarters porch. Lamps were glowing through the front windows and O’Hagen gave his horse to a trooper, going inside immediately. The building was log and large; a fire crackled in the fireplace across the large main room.

A side door opened and a woman stood framed there, her dark eyes round with surprise. O’Hagen sucked in his breath sharply and said, “Rosa! What are you doing here?”

“Allow me to present my wife,” Sickles said, a smile lifting his thick lips. He was a handsome man, heavy through the shoulders, and his mustache was a thick brush on his upper lip. “We were married three days ago. She is staying here with me until the Tucson town house is completed.”

O’Hagen stared at the woman like a man horse-kicked. The color had drained from his face and bleak lines pulled at the ends of his lips. “Why?” he said softly. “Why did you, Rosa? I thought that we—”

“I am sorry,” she said. Her small hands fluttered nervously; then she composed herself, drawing strength from her husband’s presence. She wore a long velveteen dress with the Spanish lace at cuffs and collar. Her hair and eyes were ink black, her skin extremely white, an almost unvarying mark of the pure Castilian. “What can I say?”

“There is no need to apologize,” Sickles said smoothly, turning his attention to O’Hagen. “I suggest we settle our business for I have no wish to detain you.” He smiled again. “After all, I would like some time alone with my wife.”

O’Hagen faced Sickles, his long legs spread for balance. He needed a shave and a bath and a good night’s sleep. Deep lines etched shadows across his high forehead and around his pale eyes. “Sickles,” he said, “you got a licking coming.”

“Don’t swing the subject on me,” Sickles said. “You came here because of the Apaches, but now you’re trying to turn this into something personal. O’Hagen, you knew I kept company with her. Don’t act so surprised. She made the choice.”

“Sure,” O’Hagen said. “All figured out, just like everything else.” He switched his glance to Gerald Hastings who leaned against the mantel. Hastings was young and very serious. He wore glasses and had a nervous habit of adjusting them continually. “Mister, I’m going to cause some trouble. Are you going to keep out of it?”

“He’ll do as I say,” Sickles said quickly. “O’Hagen, I’m not afraid of you, but this time you’re biting off too much. Gerald, throw him off the reservation!”

O’Hagen did not glance at Hastings when he said, “You want a broken arm, then try it.”

He moved toward Sickles, like a stiff-legged dog. Putting out his hand, he shoved the agent back, and then Sickles exploded into action. He came against O’Hagen with a rush, axing a blow into the stomach, but O’Hagen went back with it. Then O’Hagen hit him, the sound dull like the snap of a stout twig. Sickles reeled backward, the back of his thighs coming against a low table. He went over this, arms flailing, and when he came erect, he had a hand clamped over a bleeding eye. O’Hagen stalked him with a flat-footed patience and when he came within range, leveled Sickles with one blow.

The man went completely flat and lay there, moaning slightly. Rosalia Sickles stepped deeper into the room, a primitive pleasure in her eyes. Hastings had left the fireplace and was backed against the wall, clearly out of this. Rosalia said, “Tee-mothy, please—”

He swung to her, anger a stamp on his features. “You like it? You want me to fight over you? Rosa, why did you do it? Tell me why so I can understand.”

Her shoulders stirred and the light faded in her eyes. She spoke in a cool, almost distant voice. “My father arranged it. He considered Senor Sickles a proper man.”

“What about you?” O’Hagen was shouting now. “Don’t you have a mind? Can’t you think for yourself?”

“Don’t say that,” she said and turned away from him, showing him only the stiff, offended set of her shoulders.

He let out his breath slowly, speaking to Sergeant Herlihy. “Help Sickles outside and have a team hitched. We’re all going back to Fort Apache together.”

“Her too, sor?”

“Dammit, yes!”

“Yes, sor,” Herlihy said and went to the door, calling in two troopers.

O’Hagen waited on the porch while the ambulance was being hitched. Rosalia came out, bundled in a coat, but they did not speak. This was the way with lovers; a quarrel can place them at immeasurable distances.

Herlihy came up, made a brief report and O’Hagen mounted the troop. Sickles, now able to walk a bit, chose to lie down in the back of the ambulance. “Move the troop out,” O’Hagen said and turned his horse toward the reservation road.

For an hour he let them settle again to the routine of march, and when they approached the gorge leading to the river crossing, spoke softly to Herlihy. The sergeant nodded and passed the word back and when it reached the last man, softly spoken Apache was the language used for communication.

Through this wild and dangerous country they moved, the wheels of the ambulance making a soft crunching in the gravel. Through jagged hills and into the awe-inspiring silence of the gorge, the column clung to a parade walk. The sheer walls were the closing jaws of a giant vise. The night was deepest black here, with only a gray sliver of sky showing when you looked straight up. At the end and near the top, an Apache signal fire burned brightly.

Yet O’Hagen took his patrol through, not silently but noisily. The men laughed and chattered back and forth in Apache. No jangle of equipment betrayed them. Near the far end, an Apache at the high camp threw a burning stick to the canyon floor where it exploded in a shower of sparks. O’Hagen called up to him and the Apache yelled back his greeting, laughing at this huge joke.

Then they were through and swinging left. The land changed, becoming less barren, and foliage dotted the trailside in dark clumps. O’Hagen normally enjoyed this part of the patrol, the ride through this forested section with the clean, wild flavors of oak and pungent pine. He enjoyed the first glimpse of Fort Apache through the timber opening, but now he found no pleasure.

Behind in the ambulance rode a man he hated and the woman he loved. And there was the old rat-gnaw of defeat to nag him. Contreras and Choya would not be brought into the post for a hearing; he felt sure of this. Osgood Sickles would figure a way out for them, just as he had always done, and O’Hagen drubbed his mind for an answer.

I’ll have to kill both of them; he decided. Sickles, too.

This thought startled him. He did not altogether like it.

At four o’clock he passed through the palisade gates and with Herlihy dismissing the troop, went to headquarters. There was a light in Major Sidney A. Calvin’s office and O’Hagen let himself in. From the doorway he looked back and saw Sickles and his wife walking across the parade to the spare picket quarters.

“There goes nothing but trouble,” O’Hagen said to no one and went inside to wait while the officer-of-the-day woke the major.

Calvin came in a few minutes later, his face sleep wrinkled. He grumbled to himself while he lit a cigar, then offered O’Hagen one. Calvin was a man who looked at life dourly; this was evident in his cautious glance, the disciplined lines around his mouth. He closed his eyes while O’Hagen made his report and his only movement was an occasional gnawing of the lip. When O’Hagen finished, Calvin said, “I can’t make out that kind of a report and you know it. I can’t put my endorsement on yours if you make it.”

O’Hagen was shocked. “I’ve got the troop as witnesses, the dress that Choya took from Mrs. Lovington—what more do you need for a case against Sickles?”

“You don’t understand,” Calvin said impatiently. “I can’t explain it to you; I’m not going to try. I’m sorry, Lieutenant. File a routine patrol report and let it go.”

“What has Sickles got on you, sir?”

“That’s enough! I said, let it go!”

“Is that an order, sir?” O’Hagen was white-faced with anger.

Major Calvin turned his back so that he did not have to look at O’Hagen. “Yes. That’s an order. . . .”

As soon as the door closed, Major Calvin knew that he had made a mistake. He banged his fist against the desk. Mistake or not, he had to do something. O’Hagen would talk, not barracks gossip, but when Crook arrived he would talk. Major Calvin did not like to think of this possibility.

The decision was slow to form, but the more he thought about it, the more practical it became. He gathered his hat and cape and crossed the parade to the infirmary. The contract surgeon raised his head and Major Calvin said, “May I speak to Mr. Sickles?”

“Don’t stay too long.”

“This will only take a moment,” Calvin said. “Yes, only a moment.”

The surgeon nodded and Calvin went into the agent’s room.