Trail of the Apache and Other Stories Read online

  the ground for a sign. That’s what he was paid for.

  It kept running through his mind that it was an awful funny thing to go out after sixteen hostiles, meet

  sixty and still come back with sixteen. Have to tell

  that one at Lon Scorey’s in Globe.

  Pillo rode with his chin on his bony chest. He

  was much older, and the throbbing hole in his thigh

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  didn’t help him, either. He was beginning to smell

  the greenness of decay.

  On the afternoon of the fourth day they rode

  slowly into the quadrangle at Gila. Travisin looked

  about. Nothing had changed. For a moment he had

  expected to find something different, and he

  yearned for something that wasn’t there. But he

  threw aside his longing and slumped back into his

  role—the role that forced him to be the best

  Apache campaigner in the Territory.

  A cavalry mount stood in front of the agency office and a trooper appeared on the porch as Travisin, Fry and de Both dismounted and walked to the

  welcome shade of the ramada.

  “Compliments of the commanding officer, sir.

  I’ve rode from Fort Thomas with this message.”

  Travisin read the note and turned with a smile to

  the other two. “Bill, let me tell you one thing if you

  don’t already know it. Never try to figure out the

  ways of a woman—or the army. This is from Collier. He says the Bureau has decided to return Pillo

  and his band to his people at Fort Apache. All sixteen of ’em. Certainly is a good thing we’ve got sixteen to send back.”

  Fry said, “Yep, you might have got yourself

  court-martialed. Way it is, if Pillo loses that leg,

  you’ll probably end up back as a looie.”

  De Both listened and the quizzical look turned to

  anger. He opened his mouth to speak, but thought

  Trail of the Apache

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  better of it and waited until he had cooled off before muttering simply, “Idiots!”

  If Travisin was the winking type, he would have

  looked at Fry and done so. He glanced at Fry with

  the hint of a smile, but with eyes that said, “Barney, I think we’ve got ourselves a lieutenant.” Then

  he walked into the office. There are idiotic Bureau

  decisions, and there are boots that have been on

  too long.

  And along the Gila, the war drums are silent

  again. But on frontier station, you don’t relax. For

  though they are less in number, they are still

  Apaches.

  2

  You Never See Apaches . . .

  By nature, Angsman was a cautious man. From

  the shapeless specks that floated in the sky miles

  out over the plain, his gaze dropped slowly to the

  sand a few feet from his chin, then rose again more

  slowly, to follow the gradual slope that fell away

  before him. He rolled his body slightly from its

  prone position to reach the field glasses at his side,

  while his eyes continued to crawl out into the

  white-hot nothingness of the flats. Sun glare met alkali dust and danced before the slits of his eyes.

  And, far out, something moved. Something darker

  You Never See Apaches . . .

  61

  than the monotonous tone of the flats. A pinpoint

  of motion.

  He put the glasses to his eyes and the glare

  stopped dancing and the small blur of motion

  cleared and enlarged as he corrected the focus.

  Two ponies and two pack animals. The mules were

  loaded high. He made that out right away, but it

  was minutes before he realized the riders were

  women. Two Indian women. Behind them the

  scavenger birds floated above the scattered animal

  carcasses, circling lower as the human figures

  moved away.

  Angsman pushed himself up from the sand and

  made his way back through the pines that closed in

  on the promontory. A few dozen yards of the darkness of the pines and then abruptly the glare was

  forcing against sand again where the openness of

  the trail followed the shoulder of the hill. He

  stopped at the edge of the trees, took his hat off,

  and rubbed the red line where the sweatband had

  stuck. His mustache drooped untrimmed toward

  dark, tight cheeks, giving his face a look of sadness.

  A stern, sun-scarred sadness. It was the type of face

  that needed the soft shadow of a hat brim to make

  it look complete. Shadows to soften the gaunt angles. It was an intelligent, impassive face, in its late

  thirties. He looked at the three men by the horses

  and then moved toward them.

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  Ygenio Baca sat cross-legged in the dust smoking

  a cigarette, drawing deep, and he only glanced at

  Angsman as he approached. He drew long on his

  cigarette, then held it close to his eyes and examined it as some rare object as the smoke curled

  from his mouth. Ygenio Baca, the mozo, had few

  concerns.

  Ed Hyde’s stocky frame was almost beneath his

  horse’s head, with a hand lifted to the horse’s muzzle. The horse’s nose moved gently against the big

  palm, licking the salty perspiration from hand and

  wrist. In the other arm Hyde cradled a Sharps rifle.

  His squinting features were obscure beneath the hat

  tilted close to his eyes. Sun, wind, and a week’s

  beard gave his face a puffy, raw appearance that

  was wild, but at the same time soft and hazy. There

  was about him a look of sluggishness that contrasted with the leanness of Angsman.

  Billy Guay stood indolently with his thumbs

  hooked in his gun belts. He took a few steps in

  Angsman’s direction and pushed his hat to the back

  of his head, though the sun was beating full in his

  face. He was half Ed Hyde’s age, a few years or so

  out of his teens, but there was a hardness about the

  eyes that contrasted with his soft features. Features

  that were all the more youthful, and even feminine,

  because of the long blond hair that covered the

  tops of his ears and hung unkempt over his shirt

  collar. Watching Angsman, his mouth was tight as

  You Never See Apaches . . .

  63

  if daring him to say something that he would not

  agree with.

  Angsman walked past him to Ed Hyde. He was

  about to say something, but stopped when Billy

  Guay turned and grabbed his arm.

  “The dust cloud was buffalo like I said, wasn’t

  it?” Billy Guay asked, but there was more statement of fact than question in his loud voice.

  Angsman’s serious face turned to the boy, but

  looked back to Ed Hyde when he said, “There’re

  two Indian women out there cleaning up after a

  hunting party. The dust cloud was the warriors going home. I suspect they’re the last ones. Stragglers.

  Everyone else out of sight already.”

  Billy Guay pushed in close to the two men.

  “Dammit, the cloud could have still been buffalo,”

  he said. “Who says you know so damn much!”

  Ed Hyde looked from one to the other like an

  unbiased spectator. He drop
ped the long buffalo rifle stock down in front of him. His worn black

  serge coat strained tight at the armpits as he lifted

  his hands to pat his coat pockets. From the right

  one he drew a half-chewed tobacco plug.

  For a moment Angsman just stared at Billy Guay.

  Finally he said, “Look, boy, for a good many years

  it’s been my business to know so damn much.

  Now, you’ll take my word that the dust cloud was

  an Indian hunting party and act on it like I see fit,

  or else we turn around and go back.”

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  Ed Hyde’s grizzled head jerked up suddenly. He

  said, “You’re dead right, Angsman. There ain’t

  been buffalo this far south for ten years.” He

  looked at the boy and spoke easier. “Take my word

  for it, Billy.” He smiled. “If anybody knows it, I

  do. Those Indians most likely ran down a deer

  herd. But hell, deer, buffalo, what’s the difference?

  We’re not out here for game. You just follow along

  with what Angsman here says and we all go home

  rich men. Take things slow, Billy, and you breathe

  easier.”

  “I just want to know why’s he got to give all the

  orders,” Billy Guay said, and his voice was rising.

  “It’s us that own the map, not him. Where’d he be

  without us!”

  Angsman’s voice was the same, unhurried, unexcited, when he said, “I’ll tell you. I’d still be back at

  Bowie guiding for cavalry who ride with their eyes

  open and know how to keep their mouths shut in

  Apache country.” He didn’t wait for a reply, but

  turned and walked toward the dun-colored mare.

  “Ygenio,” he called to the Mexican still sitting

  cross-legged on the ground, “hold the mules a good

  fifty yards behind us and keep your eyes on me.”

  ✯ ✯ ✯

  Eight days out of Willcox and the strain was be ginning to tell. It had been bad from the first day.

  Now they were in the foothills of the Mogollons

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  and it was no better. Angsman had thought that as

  soon as they climbed from the dust of the plains the

  tension would ease and the boy would be easier to

  handle, but Billy Guay continued to grumble with

  his thumbs in his gun belts and disagree with everything that was said. And Ed Hyde continued to say

  nothing unless turning back was mentioned.

  Since early morning their trail had followed

  this pine-covered crest that angled irregularly between the massive rock peaks to the south and

  east and the white-gold plain to the west. Most of

  the ways the trail had held to the shoulder, turning, twisting, and falling with the contour of the

  hillcrest. And from the west the openness of the

  plains continued to cling in glaring monotony.

  Most of the time Angsman’s eyes scanned the

  openness, and the small black specks continued to

  crawl along in his vision.

  The trail dipped abruptly into a dry creek basin

  that slanted down from between rocky humps

  looming close to the right. Angsman reined his

  mount diagonally down the bank, then at the bottom kicked hard to send the mare into a fast start

  up the opposite bank. The gravel loosened and fell

  away as hooves dug through the dry crust to clink

  against the sandy rock. Momentarily the horse began to fall back, but Angsman spurred again and

  grunted something close to her ear to make the

  mare heave and kick up over the bank.

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  He rode on a few yards before turning to wait

  for the others.

  Billy Guay reached the creek bank and yelled

  across, without hesitating, “Hey, Angsman, you

  tryin’ to pick the roughest damn trail you can

  find?”

  The scout winced as the voice slammed against

  the towering rock walls and drifted over the flats,

  vibrating and repeating far off in the distance. He

  threw off and ran to the creek bank. Billy Guay began to laugh as the echo came back to him. “Damn,

  Ed. You hear that!” His voice carried clear and loud

  across the arroyo. Angsman put a finger to his

  mouth and shook his head repeatedly when he saw

  Ed Hyde looking his way. Then Hyde leaned close

  and said something to the boy. He heard Billy Guay

  swear, but not so loud, and then there was silence.

  Now, ten days from the time the message had

  brought him to the hotel in Willcox, he wasn’t so

  sure it was worth it.

  In the hotel room Hyde had come to the point

  immediately. Anxiety showed on his face, but he

  smiled when he asked the point-blank question

  “How’d you like to be worth half a hundred thousand dollars?” With that he waved the piece of

  dirty paper in front of Angsman’s face. “It’s right

  here. Find us the picture of a Spanish sombrero and

  we’re rich.” That simply.

  Angsman had all the time in the world. He

  You Never See Apaches . . .

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  smoked a cigarette and thought. Then he asked,

  “Why me? There’re a lot of prospectors around

  here.”

  Hyde did something with his eye that resembled

  a wink. “You’re well recommended here in Willcox. They say you know the country better than

  most. And the Apaches better than anybody,”

  Hyde said with a hint of self-pride for knowing so

  much about the scout. “Billy here and I’ll give you

  an equal share of everything we find if you can

  guide us to one little X on a piece of paper.”

  Billy Guay had said little that first meeting. He

  half-sat on the small window ledge trying to stare

  Angsman down when the scout looked at him. And

  Angsman smiled when he noticed the boy’s two lowslung pistols, thinking a man must be a pretty poor

  shot with one pistol that he’d have to carry another.

  And when Billy Guay tried to stare him down, he

  stared back with the half smile and it made the boy

  all the madder; so mad that often, then, he interrupted Hyde to let somebody know that he had

  something to say about the business at hand.

  Ed Hyde told a story of a lost mine and a

  prospector who had found the mine, but was unable to take any gold out because of Indians, and

  who was lucky to get out with just his skin. He referred to the prospector always as “my friend,” and

  finally it turned out that “my friend” was buffalo

  hunting out of Tascosa in the Panhandle, along

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  with Ed Hyde, raising a stake to try the mine again,

  when he “took sick and died.” The two of them

  were out on a hunt when it happened and he left

  the map to Hyde, “since I saw him through his

  sickness.” Ed Hyde remained silent for a considerable length of time after telling of the death of his

  friend.

  Then he added, “I met Billy here later on and

  took to him ’cause he’s got the nerve for this kind

  of business.” He looked at Billy Guay as a man

  looks at a younger man and sees his
own youth.

  “Just one thing more, mister,” he added. “If you

  say yes and look at the map, you don’t leave our

  sight.”

  In the Southwest, lost-mine stories are common.

  Angsman had heard many, and knew even more

  prospectors who chased the legends. He had seen a

  few become rich. But it wasn’t so much the desire

  for gold that finally prompted him to go along.

  Cochise had promised peace and Geronimo had

  scurried south to the Sierra Madres. All was quiet

  in his territory. Too quiet. He had told himself he

  would go merely as an escape from boredom. Still,

  it was hard to keep the wealth aspect from cropping into the thought. Angsman saw the years slipping by with nothing to show for them but a

  scarred Spanish saddle and an old-model Winchester. All he had to do was lead them to a canyon and

  a rock formation that looked like a Spanish hat.

  You Never See Apaches . . .

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  Two days to collect the equipment and round up

  a mozo who wasn’t afraid to drive mules into that

  part of Apacheria where there was no peace. For

  cigarettes and a full belly Ygenio Baca would drive

  his mules to the gates of hell.

  ✯ ✯ ✯

  It was almost a mile past the arroyo crossing that

  Angsman noticed his black specks had disappeared

  from the open flats. For the past few hundred yards

  his vision to the left had been blocked by dense

  pines. Now the plains yawned wide again, and his

  glasses inched over the vastness in all directions,

  then stopped where a spur jutted out from the hillside ahead to cut his vision. The Indian women had

  vanished.

  Hyde and Billy Guay sat their mounts next to

  Angsman, who, afoot, swept his glasses once more

  over the flat. Finally he lowered them and said,

  more to himself than to the others, “Those Indian

  women aren’t nowhere in sight. They could have

  moved out in the other direction, or they might be

  so close we can’t see them.”

  He nodded ahead to where the trail stopped at

  thick scrub brush and pine and then dipped

  abruptly to the right to drop to a bench that slanted

  toward the deepness of the valley. From where they

  stood, the men saw the trail disappear far below

  into a denseness of trees and rock.

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