Trail of the Apache and Other Stories Read online

  ✯ Contents ✯

  Map

  iii

  1

  Trail of the Apache

  1

  2

  You Never See Apaches . . .

  60

  3

  The Colonel’s Lady

  85

  4

  The Rustlers

  107

  5

  The Big Hunt

  132

  6

  The Boy Who Smiled

  155

  7

  Only Good Ones

  176

  About the Author

  Praise

  Other Books by Elmore Leonard

  Credits

  Cover

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Map

  1

  Trail of the Apache

  Under the thatched roof ramada that ran the

  length of the agency office, Travisin slouched in a

  canvas-backed chair, his boots propped against one

  of the support posts. His gaze took in the sunbeaten, gray adobe buildings, all one-story structures, that rimmed the vacant quadrangle. It was a

  glaring, depressing scene of sun on rock, without a

  single shade tree or graceful feature to redeem the

  squat ugliness. There was not a living soul in sight.

  Earlier that morning, his White Mountain Apache

  charges had received their two-weeks’ supply of

  beef and flour. By now they were milling about the

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  cook fires in front of their wickiups, eating up a

  two-weeks’ ration in two days. Most of the Indians

  had built their wickiups three miles farther up the

  Gila, where the flat, dry land began to buckle into

  rock-strewn hills. There the thin, sparse Gila cottonwoods grew taller and closer together and the

  mesquite and prickly pear thicker. And there was

  the small game that sustained them when their government rations were consumed.

  At the agency, Travisin lived alone. By actual

  count there were forty-two Coyotero Apache

  scouts along with the interpreter, Barney Fry, and

  his wife, a Tonto woman, but as the officers at Fort

  Thomas looked at it, he was living alone. There is

  no question that to most young Eastern gentlemen

  on frontier station, such an alien means of existence would have meant nothing more than a very

  slow way to die, with boredom reading the services.

  But, of course, they were not Travisin.

  ✯ ✯ ✯

  From Whipple Barracks, through San Carlos and

  on down to Fort Huachuca, it went without argument that Eric Travisin was the best Apache campaigner in Arizona Territory. There was a time, of

  course, when this belief was not shared by all and

  the question would pop up often, along the trail, in

  the barracks at Fort Thomas, or in a Globe barroom. Barney Fry’s name would always come up

  Trail of the Apache

  3

  then—though most discounted him for his onequarter Apache blood. But that was a time in the

  past when Eric Travisin was still new; before the

  sweltering sand-rock Apache country had burned

  and gouged his features, leaving his gaunt face

  deep-chiseled and expressionless. That was while

  he was learning that it took an Apache to catch an

  Apache. So, for all practical purposes, he became

  one. Barney Fry taught him everything he knew

  about the Apache; then he began teaching Fry. He

  relied on no one entirely, not even Fry. He followed his own judgment, a judgment that his fellow officers looked upon as pure animal instinct.

  And perhaps they were right. But Travisin understood the steps necessary to survival in an enemy

  element. They weren’t included in Cook’s “Cavalry Tactics”: you learned them the hard way, and

  your being alive testified that you had learned

  well. They said Travisin was more of an Apache

  than the Apaches themselves. They said he was

  cold-blooded, sometimes cruel. And they were uneasy in his presence; he had discarded his cotillion

  demeanor the first year at Fort Thomas, and in its

  place was the quiet, pulsing fury of an Apache war

  dance.

  This was easy enough for the inquisitive to understand. But there was another side to Eric Travisin.

  For three years he had been acting as agent at the

  Camp Gila subagency, charged with the health and

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  welfare of over two hundred White Mountain

  Apaches. And in three years he had transformed

  nomadic hostiles into peaceful agriculturalists. He

  was a dismounted cavalry officer who sometimes

  laid it on with the flat of his saber, but he was completely honest. He understood them and took their

  side, and they respected him for it. It was better

  than San Carlos.

  That’s why the conversation at the officers’ mess

  at Fort Thomas, thirty miles southwest, so often

  dwelled on him: he was a good Samaritan with a

  Spencer in his hand. They just didn’t understand

  him. They didn’t realize that actually he was following the line of least resistance. He was accepting

  the situation as it was and doing the best job with

  the means at hand. To Travisin it was that simple;

  and fortunately he enjoyed it, both the fighting and

  the pacifying. The fact that it made him a better

  cavalryman never entered his mind. He had forgotten about promotions. By this time he was too

  much a part of the savage everyday existence of

  Apache country. He looked at the harsh, rugged

  surroundings and liked what he saw.

  He shuffled his feet up and down the porch pole

  and sank deeper into his camp chair. Suddenly in

  his breast he felt the tenseness. His ears seemed to

  tingle and strain against an unnatural stillness, and

  immediately every muscle tightened. But as quickly

  as the strange feeling came over him, he relaxed.

  Trail of the Apache

  5

  He moved his head no more than two inches, and

  from the corner of his eye saw the Apache crouched

  on hands and knees at the corner of the ramada.

  The Indian crept like an animal across the porch,

  slowly and with his back arched. A pistol and a

  knife were at his waist, but he carried no weapon in

  his hands. Travisin moved his right hand across his

  stomach and eased open the holster flap. Now his

  arms were folded across his chest, with his right

  hand gripping the holstered pistol. He waited until

  the Apache was less than six feet away before he

  wheeled from his chair and pushed the longbarreled revolving pistol into the astonished

  Apache’s face.

  Travisin grinned at the Apache and holstered the

  handgun. “Maybe someday you’ll do it.”

  The Indian grunted angrily. With victory almost

  in his grasp he had failed again. Gatito, sergeant of

  Travisin’s Apache scouts, was an
old man, the best

  tracker in the Army, and it cut his pride deeply that

  he was never able to win their wager. Between the

  two men was an unusual bet of almost two years’

  standing. If at any time, while not officially occupied, the scout was able to steal up to the officer

  and place his knife at Travisin’s back, a bottle of

  whiskey was his. For such a prize the Indian would

  gladly crawl through anything. He tried constantly,

  using every trick he knew, but the officer was always ready. The result was a grumbling, thirsty In- 6

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  dian, but an officer whose senses were razor-sharp.

  Travisin even practiced staying alive.

  Gatito gave the report of the morning patrol and

  then added, almost as an afterthought, “Chiricahua

  come. Two miles away.”

  Travisin wheeled from the office doorway.

  “Where?”

  Gatito spoke impassively. “Chiricahua come. He

  come with troop from Fort.”

  Travisin considered the Apache’s words in silence, squinting through the afternoon glare toward

  the wooden bridge across the Gila that was the end

  of the trail from Thomas. They would come from

  that direction. “Go get Fry immediately. And turn

  out your boys.”

  ✯

  Chapter Two

  Second Lieutenant William de Both, West Point’s

  newest contribution to the “Dandy 5th,” had the

  distinct feeling that he was entering a hostile camp

  as he led H troop across the wooden bridge and approached Camp Gila. As he drew nearer to the

  agency office, the figures in front of it appeared no

  friendlier. Good God, were they all Indians? After

  guarding the sixteen hostiles the thirty miles from

  Trail of the Apache

  7

  Fort Thomas, Lieutenant de Both had had enough

  of Indians for a long time. Even with the H troopers riding four sides, he couldn’t help glancing nervously back to the sixteen hostiles and expecting

  trouble to break out at any moment. After thirty

  miles of this, he was hardly prepared to face the

  gaunt, raw-boned Travisin and his sinister-looking

  band of Apache scouts.

  His fellow officers back at Fort Thomas had eagerly informed de Both of the character of the formidable Captain Travisin. In fact, they painted a

  picture of him with bold, harsh strokes, watching

  the young lieutenant’s face intently to enjoy the

  mixed emotions that showed so obviously. But even

  with the exaggerated tales of the officers’ mess, de

  Both could not help learning that this unusual Indian agent was still the best army officer on the

  frontier. Three months out of the Point, he was

  only too eager to serve under the best.

  Leading his troop across the square, he scanned

  the ragged line of men in front of the office and on

  the ramada. All were armed, and all stared at the

  approaching column as if it were bringing cholera

  instead of sixteen unarmed Indians. He halted the

  column and dismounted in front of the tall, thin

  man in the center. The lieutenant inspected the

  man’s faded blue chambray shirt and gray trousers,

  and unconsciously adjusted his own blue jacket.

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  “My man, would you kindly inform the captain

  that Lieutenant de Both is reporting? I shall present

  my orders to him.” The lieutenant was brushing

  trail dust from his sleeve as he spoke.

  Travisin stood with hands on hips looking at de

  Both. He shook his head faintly, without speaking,

  and began to twist one end of his dragoon mustache. Then he nodded to the foremost of the Chiricahuas and turned to Barney Fry.

  “Barney, that’s Pillo, isn’t it?”

  “Ain’t nobody else,” the scout said matter-offactly. “And the skinny buck on the paint is Asesino, his son-in-law.”

  Travisin turned his attention to the bewildered

  lieutenant. “Well, mister, ordinarily I’d play games

  with you for a while, but under the circumstances,

  when you bring along company like that, we’d better get down to the business at hand without the

  monkeyshines. Fry, take care of our guests. Lieutenant, you come with me.” He turned abruptly

  and entered the office.

  Inside, de Both pulled out a folded sheet of paper

  and handed it to Travisin. The captain sat back,

  propped his boots on the desk and read the orders

  slowly. When he was through, he shook his head

  and silently cursed the stupidity of men trying to

  control a powder-keg situation two thousand miles

  from the likely explosion. He read the orders again

  Trail of the Apache

  9

  to be certain that the content was as illogical as it

  seemed.

  HEADQUARTERS, DEPARTMENT OF ARIZONA

  IN THE FIELD, FORT THOMAS, ARIZONA

  August 30, 1880

  E. M. Travisin. Capt. 5th Cav. Reg.

  Camp Gila Subagency

  Camp Gila, Arizona

  You are hereby directed, by order of the Department of

  the Interior, Bureau of Indian Affairs, to place Pillo and

  the remnants of his band (numbering fifteen) on the

  Camp Gila White Mountain reservation. The Bureau

  compliments you on the remarkable job you are doing

  and has confidence that the sixteen hostile Chiricahuas,

  placed in your charge, will profit by the example of their

  White Mountain brothers and become peaceful farmers.

  The bearer, Second Lieutenant William de Both, is, as

  of this writing, assigned to Camp Gila as second in com-

  mand. Take him under your wing, Eric; he’s young, but I

  think he will make a good officer.

  EMON COLLIER

  BRIGADIER GENERAL COMMANDING

  He looked up at the lieutenant, who was gazing

  about the bare room, taking in the table, the rolltop

  desk along the back wall, the rifle rack and three

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  straight chairs. De Both looked no more than

  twenty-one or -two, pink-cheeked, neat, every inch

  a West Point gentleman. But already, after only

  three months on the frontier, his face was beginning to lose that expression of anticipated adventure, the young officer’s dream of winning fame

  and promotion in the field. The thirty miles from

  Fort Thomas alone presented the field as something

  he had not bargained for. To Travisin, it wasn’t a

  new story. He’d had younger officers serve under

  him before, and it always started the same way,

  “. . . take him under your wing . . . teach him

  about the Apache.” It was always the old campaigner teaching the recruit what it was all about.

  To Eric Travisin, at twenty-eight, only seven

  years out of the Point, it was bound to be amusing.

  The cavalry mustache made him look older, but

  that wasn’t it. Travisin had been a veteran his first

  year. It was something that he’d had even before he

  came West. It was that something that made him

  stand out in any group of men. It was the strange

  instinct that made him wheel and draw his handgun

  when Gatito stol
e up behind him. It was a combination of many things, but not one of them did

  Travisin himself understand, even though they

  made him the youngest captain in Arizona because

  of it.

  And now another one to watch him and not understand. He wondered how long de Both would last.

  Trail of the Apache

  11

  He said, “Lieutenant, do you know why you’ve

  been sent here?”

  “No, sir.” De Both brought himself to attention.

  “I do not question my orders.”

  Travisin was faintly amused. “I’m sure you

  don’t, Lieutenant. I was referring to any rumors

  you might have heard. . . . And relax.”

  De Both remained at attention. “I don’t make it a

  practice to repeat idle rumors that have no basis in

  fact.”

  Travisin felt his temper rise, but suppressed it

  from long practice. It wasn’t the way to get things

  done. He circled the desk and drew a chair up behind de Both. “Here, rest your legs.” He placed a

  firm hand on the lieutenant’s shoulder and half

  forced him into the chair. “Mister, you and I are

  going to spend a lot of time together. We’ll be either

  in this room or out on the desert with nothing to

  think about except what’s in front of us. Conversation gets pretty thin after a while, and you might

  even make up things just to hear yourself talk.

  You’re the only other Regular Army man here, so

  you can see it isn’t going to be a parade-grounds

  routine. I’ve been here for three years now, counting White Mountain Indians and making patrols.

  Sometimes things get a bit hot; otherwise you just

  sit around and watch the desert. I probably don’t

  look like much of an officer to you. That doesn’t

  matter. You can keep up the spit and polish if you

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  want, but I’d advise you to relax and play the game

  without keeping the rule book open all the

  time. . . . Now, would you mind telling me what in

  hell the rumors are at Thomas?”

  ✯ ✯ ✯

  De Both was surprised, and disturbed. He fidgeted

  in his chair, trying to feel official. “Well, sir, under

  the circumstances . . . Of course, as I said, there is

  no basis for its authenticity, but the word is that

  Crook is being transferred back to the Department