Trail of the Apache and Other Stories Read online

swept his arm in the direction of the fourth wickiup. They kicked their ponies to a leaping start,

  dashed to the hut and gave it a quick inspection. In

  a minute they were back.

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  ELMORE LEONARD

  The scouts watched Travisin intently as he studied the situation. They knew what the signs meant.

  They sat their ponies now with restless anticipation, fingering their carbines, checking ammunition

  belts, holding in the small, wiry horses that also

  seemed to be charged with the excitement of the

  moment—for there is no love lost between the Coyotero and the Chiricahua. Eric Travisin knew as

  well as any of them what the sign meant: sixteen

  drunken Apaches screaming through the countryside with blood in their eyes and a bad taste in their

  mouths. It was something that had to be stopped

  before the Indians regained their senses. Now they

  were loco Apaches, bloodthirsty, but a bit careless.

  By the next day, unless stopped, they would again

  be cold, patient guerrilla fighters led by the master

  strategist, Pillo.

  ✯ ✯ ✯

  From the direction of the agency a scout rode

  into sight beating his pony to a whirlwind pace. He

  reined in abruptly and shouted something to Fry

  through the dust cloud.

  “We been sleepin’, Captain. He says Gatito made

  off with a dozen carbines and two hundred rounds

  of forty-fours. Must have sneaked them out sometime last night.”

  In Travisin, the excitement of what lay ahead

  was building up continually. Now it was beginning

  Trail of the Apache

  25

  to break through his calm surface. “We’re awake

  now, Barney. I figure they’ll either streak south for

  the Madres right away, or contact their people up

  near Apache by dodging through the Basin and

  then heading east for the reservation. I know if I

  was going to hide out for a while, I’d sure want my

  wife along. Let’s find out which it is.”

  ✯

  Chapter Four

  By midmorning Travisin’s scouts had followed

  the tracks of the hostiles to an elevated stretch of

  pines wedged tightly among bare, rolling hills.

  They halted a few hundred yards from the wooded

  area, in the open. Before them the land, dotted with

  mesquite and catclaw, climbed gradually to the pine

  plateau; and the sun-glare made shimmering waves,

  hazy and filmy white, as they looked ahead to the

  contrasting black of the pines. A shallow arroyo

  cut its way down from the ridge past where the detail stood, finally ending at the banks of the Gila,

  twelve miles behind them. On both sides of the

  crusted edges of the arroyo, the unshod tracks they

  had been following all morning moved straight

  ahead.

  Ningun, the Apache scout, rode up the arroyo a

  hundred yards, circled and returned. He mumbled

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  only a few words to Fry, who glanced at the pine

  ridge again before speaking.

  “He says the tracks go all the way up. Ain’t no

  other place they could go.”

  “Does he think they’re still up there?” Travisin

  asked the question without taking his eyes from the

  ridge.

  “He didn’t say, but I know he don’t think so.”

  Barney Fry pulled out a tobacco plug and bit off a

  generous chew, mumbling, “And I don’t either.” He

  moved the front of his open vest aside with a thumb

  and dropped the plug into the pocket of his shirt. “I

  figure it this way, Captain,” he said. “They know

  who’s followin’ ’em, and they know we ain’t about

  to get caught in a simple jackpot like that one up

  yonder without flushin’ it out first. So they ain’t

  goin’ to waste their time settin’ a trap that we won’t

  fall right into.”

  “Sounds good, Barney, only there’s one thing

  that’s been troubling me,” Travisin said. “Notice

  how clean the sign’s been all the way? Not once

  have they tried to throw us off the track—and

  they’ve had more than one opportunity to at least

  make it pretty tough. No Apache, no matter if he’s

  drunker than seven hundred dollars, is going to

  leave a trail that plain—that is, unless he wants to.”

  He looked at the scout, suggesting a reply with his

  expression, and added, “Now why do you suppose

  old Pillo would want us to follow him?”

  Trail of the Apache

  27

  Fry pushed his hat from his forehead and passed

  the back of his hand across his mouth. It was plain

  that the captain’s words gave him something to

  think about, but he had been riding with Travisin

  too long to show surprise with the officer’s uncanny familiarity with what an Apache would do at

  a given time. He was never absolutely sure himself,

  but for some unexplainable reason Travisin’s judgment was almost always right. And when dealing

  with an unknown quantity, the Apache, this judgment sometimes seemed to reach a superhuman

  level.

  Fry was quiet, busy putting himself in Pillo’s

  place, but de Both spoke up at once. “I take it

  you’re suggesting that the Indians are not really

  drunk. But what about that unconscious Indian

  back at the reservation?” He asked the question as

  if he were purposely trying to shoot holes in the

  captain’s theory.

  “No, Lieutenant. I’m only saying what if,” Travisin agreed, with a faint smile. “Could be one way

  or the other. I just want to impress you that we’re

  not chasing Harvard sophomores across the Boston

  Common. If you ever come up against a better general than Pillo, you can be sure of one thing—he’ll

  be another Apache.”

  Though he was sure of Fry’s and Ningun’s judgment, Travisin sent scouts ahead to flank the pine

  woods before taking his command through.

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  In another hour they were over the ridge, in the

  open, descending noisily over the loose gravel that

  was strewn down the gradual slope that led to the

  valley below. On level ground again, they followed

  the tracks to the north, up the raw, rolling valley,

  flat and straight from a distance; but as they traveled, the sandrock ground buckled and heaved into

  shallow crevices and ditches every few hundred

  feet. The monotony of the bleak scene was interrupted only by the grotesque outlines of giant

  saguaro and low, thick mesquite clumps.

  Even in this comparatively open ground, de Both

  noticed that Travisin and all of the scouts rode halftensed in their saddles, their eyes sweeping the area

  to the front and to both sides, studying every rock

  or shrub clump large enough to conceal a man. It

  was a vigilance that he himself was slowly acquiring just from noticing the others. Still he was more

  than willing to let the scouts do the watching. The

  damned stifling heat and the dazzling glare were

  enough for a white man to worry about. He

  mopped his face continua
lly, and every once in a

  while pulled the white bandanna around his throat

  up over his nose and mouth. But that caused the

  heat to be even more smothering. He could feel the

  Apache scouts laughing at him. How could they remain so damned cool-looking in this heat! With

  every step of the horses, the dust rose around him

  and seemed to cling to his lungs until he would

  Trail of the Apache

  29

  cough and cover his nose again with the kerchief.

  Ahead, but slightly to the east, he studied the jagged,

  blue outline of a mountain range. The Sierra

  Apaches. The purplish blue of the mountains and the

  soft blue of the cloudless sky were the only pleasant

  tones to redeem the ragged, wild look of the valley.

  He pressed his heels into his horse’s flanks and

  rode up abreast of Travisin. The climate and the

  unyielding country were grinding de Both’s nerves

  raw; he wanted to scream at somebody, anybody.

  “I sincerely hope you know where you’re going,

  Captain.”

  ✯ ✯ ✯

  Travisin ignored the sarcasm. “You’ll feel better

  after we camp this evening. First day’s always the

  toughest.” He was silent for a few minutes, his head

  swinging in an arc studying the signs that did not

  even exist to de Both, and then he added, “Those

  mountains up ahead are the Sierra Apaches. Lot farther than they look. Before we pass them we’re going

  to camp at a rancher’s place. His name’s Solomon, a

  really fine old gentleman. I think you’ll like him,

  Bill.” It was the first time Travisin had used de Both’s

  first name. The lieutenant looked at him strangely.

  ✯ ✯ ✯

  It was close to six o’clock when they reached the

  road leading to Solomon’s place. The road cut an

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  arc through the brush flat and then passed through a

  grove of cottonwoods. From where they stood, they

  could see the roof of the ranch house through the

  clearing in the trees made by the road. The house

  stood a few hundred yards the other side of the cottonwoods, and just to the right of it a few acres of

  pines edged toward the house from the foothills of

  the Sierra Apaches towering to the east. Fry pointed

  to the wide path of trampled brush a hundred feet

  to the left of the road they were following.

  “There’s one I wouldn’t care to try to figure out.

  Why didn’t they take the road?”

  Travisin was watching Ningun circle the cottonwoods and head back. “They’re making it a bit too

  easy now,” he replied idly.

  Ningun made his report to Fry and pointed above

  the cottonwoods in the direction of the pines. A

  faint wisp of dark smoke curled skyward in a thin

  line. Against the glare it was hardly noticeable.

  “Know what that means?” Travisin asked. He

  looked at no one in particular.

  Fry answered, “I got an idea.”

  They dismounted in the cottonwoods and approached the clearing on foot. The ranch house,

  barn and corral behind it seemed deserted.

  Travisin said, “Go take a look, Barney.” Fry

  beckoned to four of the Apache scouts and they followed him into the clearing. They walked across

  the open space toward the house slowly, all abreast.

  Trail of the Apache

  31

  They made no attempt to conceal themselves by

  crouching or hunching their shoulders—a natural

  instinct, but futile precaution with no cover in

  sight. They walked perfectly erect with their carbines out in front. Suddenly they all stopped and

  one of the scouts dropped to his hands and knees

  and put his ear to the earth. He arose slowly, and

  the others back at the cottonwoods saw them

  watching the pines more closely as they approached

  the house. Fry walked up to the log wall next to the

  front door and placed his ear to it. He made a motion with his right hand and three of the scouts disappeared around the corner of the house. Without

  hesitating, Fry approached the front door, kicked it

  open and darted into the dimness of the interior,

  the fourth Apache scout behind him. In a few moments, Fry reappeared in the doorway and waved

  to the rest in the cottonwoods.

  He was still in the doorway when Travisin

  brought the others up. “Just the missus is inside”

  was all he said.

  Travisin, with de Both behind him, walked past

  the scout into the dimly lit ranch house. The room

  was a shambles, every piece of furniture and china

  broken. But what checked their gaze was Mrs.

  Solomon lying in the middle of the floor. Her clothes

  had been almost entirely ripped from her body and

  the flesh showing was gouged and slashed with knife

  wounds. Her scalp had been torn from her head.

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  ELMORE LEONARD

  De Both stared at the dead woman with a frozen

  gaze. Then the revulsion of it overcame him and he

  half turned to escape into the fresh air outside. He

  checked himself, thinking then of Travisin, and

  turned back to the room. The captain and the scout

  studied the scene stoically; but beneath their impassive eyes, almost any kind of emotion could be

  present. He tried to show the same calm. A cavalry

  officer should be used to the sight of death. But this

  was a form of death de Both had not counted on.

  He wheeled abruptly and left the room.

  The next step was the pines. Travisin ordered the

  horses put in the corral. In case of a fight, they would

  be better off afoot; though he was sure that Pillo was

  hours away by now. They threaded through the

  nearer, sparsely growing pines that gradually grew

  taller and heavier as they advanced up the almost

  unnoticeable grade. Soon the pines entwined with

  junipers and thick clumps of brush so that they

  could see no more than fifty feet ahead into the dimness. They were far enough into the thicket so that

  they could no longer see the wisp of smoke, but now

  a strange odor took its place. The Coyotero scouts

  sniffed the air and looked at Travisin.

  ✯ ✯ ✯

  Fry said, “i’ll send some of ’em ahead,” and

  without waiting for a reply called an order to

  Ningun in the Apache tongue. As five of the scouts

  Trail of the Apache

  33

  went on ahead, he said, “Let ’em do a little work

  for their pay,” and propped his carbine against a

  pine. He eased his back against the same tree and

  looked at Travisin.

  “You know, that’s a funny thing back there at the

  cabin,” Fry said, pointing his thumb over his shoulder. “That’s only the second time in my life that I

  ever knew of a ’Pache scalpin’ anybody.”

  “I was thinking about that myself,” Travisin answered. “Then I remembered hearing once that

  Pillo was one of the few Apaches with Quana

  Parker at Adobe Walls six years ago. Don’t know

  how Apaches got tied up with Commanches, but

  some Commanche dog s
oldier might have taught

  him the trick.”

  “Well,” Fry reflected, picking up his carbine,

  “that’s about the only trick a ’Pache might be

  taught.”

  Ningun appeared briefly through the trees ahead

  and waved his arm. They walked out to where he

  stood. Fry and Travisin listened to Ningun speak

  and then looked past his drooping shoulders to

  where he pointed. The nauseating odor was almost

  unbearable here. De Both tried to hold his breath as

  he followed the others into a small clearing. In

  front of him, Travisin and the scout moved apart as

  they reached the open ground and de Both was

  struck with a scene he was to remember to his dying

  day. He stared wide-eyed, swallowing repeatedly,

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  until he could no longer control the saliva rising in

  his throat, and he turned off the path to be sick.

  Fry scraped a boot along the crumbly earth and

  kicked sand onto the smoldering fire. The smoke

  rose heavy and thick for a few seconds, obscuring

  the grotesque form that hung motionless over the

  center of the small fire; and then it died out completely, revealing the half-burned body of Solomon

  suspended head-down from the arc of three thin juniper poles that had been stuck into the ground a

  few feet apart and lashed together at the tops. The

  old man’s head hung only three feet above the

  smothered ashes of the fire. His head and upper

  portion of his body were burned beyond recognition, the black rawness creeping from this portion

  of his body upward to where his hands were tied

  tightly to his thighs; there the blackness changed to

  livid red blisters. All of his clothing had been

  burned away, but his boots still clung to his legs,

  squeezed to his ankles where the rawhide thongs

  wound about them and reached above to the arch

  of junipers. He was dead. But death had come

  slowly.

  “The poor old man.” The words were simple,

  but Travisin’s voice cracked just faintly to tell

  more. “The poor, poor old man.”

  Fry looked around the clearing slowly, thinking,

  and then he said, “Bet he screamed for a bullet. Bet

  he screamed until his throat burst, and all the time

  Trail of the Apache