Trail of the Apache and Other Stories Page 8

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  yards ahead. It was funny, because he was looking

  at half-naked, armed Apaches and he could still

  hear Billy Guay’s laughter coming from behind.

  Then the laughter stopped. Hyde groaned, “Oh,

  my God!” and in the instant spurred his mount

  and yanked rein to wheel off to the left. There was

  the report of a heavy rifle and horse and rider

  went down.

  Angsman’s arms were jerked suddenly behind his

  back and he saw three Apaches race for the fallen

  Hyde as he felt himself dragged over the rump of

  the mare. He landed on his feet and staggered and

  watched one warrior dragging Hyde back toward

  them by one leg. Hyde was screaming, holding on

  to the other leg that was bouncing over the rough

  ground.

  Billy Guay had jerked his arms free and stood a

  little apart from the dozen Apaches aiming bows

  and carbines at him. His hands were on the pistol

  butts, with fear and indecision plain on his face.

  Angsman twisted his neck toward him, “Don’t

  even think about it, boy. You don’t have a chance.”

  It was all over in something like fifteen seconds.

  Hyde was writhing on the ground, groaning and

  holding on to the hole in his thigh, where the heavy

  slug had gone through to take the horse in the belly.

  Angsman stooped to look at the wound and saw

  that Hyde was holding the map, pressed tight to his

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  leg and now smeared with blood. He looked up and

  Delgadito was standing on the other side of the

  wounded man. Next to him stood Sonkadeya.

  ✯ ✯ ✯

  Delgadito was not dressed for war. He wore a

  faded red cotton shirt, buttonless and held down by

  the cartridge belt around his waist; and his thin face

  looked almost ridiculous under the shabby widebrimmed hat that sat straight on the top of his

  head, at least two sizes too small. But Angsman did

  not laugh. He knew Delgadito, Victorio’s war lieutenant, and probably the most capable hit-and-run

  guerrilla leader in Apacheria. No, Angsman did not

  laugh.

  Delgadito stared at them, taking his time to look

  around, then said, “Hello. Angs-mon. You have a

  cigarillo?”

  Angsman fished in his shirt pocket and drew out

  tobacco and paper and handed it to the Indian. Delgadito rolled a cigarette awkwardly and handed the

  sack to Angsman, who rolled himself one then

  flicked a match with his thumbnail and lighted the

  cigarettes. Both men drew deeply and smoked in silence. Finally, Angsman said, “It is good to smoke

  with you again, Sheekasay.”

  Delgadito nodded his head and Angsman went

  on, “It has been five years since we smoked together at San Carlos.”

  You Never See Apaches . . .

  83

  The Apache shook his head slightly. “Together we

  have smoked other things since then, Angs-mon,”

  and added a few words in the Mimbre dialect.

  Angsman looked at him quickly. “You were at

  Big Dry Wash?”

  Delgadito smiled for the first time and nodded

  his head. “How is your sickness, Angs-mon?” he

  asked, and the smile broadened.

  Angsman’s hand came up quickly to his side,

  where the bullet had torn through that day two

  years before at Dry Wash, and now he smiled.

  Delgadito watched him with the nearest an

  Apache comes to giving an admiring look. He said,

  “You are a big man, Angs-mon. I like to fight you.

  But now you do something very foolish and I must

  stop you. I mean you no harm, Angs-mon, for I like

  to fight you, but now you must go home and stop

  this being foolish and take this old man before the

  smell enters his leg. And, Angs-mon, tell this old

  man what befalls him if he returns. Tell him the

  medicine he carries in his hand is false. Show him

  how he cannot read the medicine ever again because of his own blood.” For a moment his eyes

  lifted to the heights of the canyon wall. “Maybeso

  that is the only way, Angs-mon. With blood.”

  Angsman offered no thanks for their freedom,

  gratitude was not an Apache custom, but he said,

  “On the way home I will impress your words on

  them.”

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  “Tell my words to the old man,” Delgadito

  replied, then his voice became cold. “I will tell the

  young one.” And he looked toward Billy Guay.

  Angsman swallowed hard to remain impassive.

  “There is nothing I can say.”

  “The mother of Sonkadeya speaks in my ear,

  Angs-mon. What could you say?” Delgadito turned

  deliberately and walked away.

  Angsman rode without speaking, listening to

  Hyde’s groans as the saddle rubbed the open rawness of his wound. The groans were beginning to

  erase the scream that hung in his mind and repeated

  over and over, Billy Guay’s scream as they carried

  him up-canyon.

  Angsman knew what he was going to do. He’d

  still have his worn saddle and old-model carbine,

  but he knew what he was going to do. Hyde’s leg

  would heal and he’d be back the next year, or the

  year after; or if not him, someone else. The Southwest was full of Hydes. And as long as there were

  Hydes, there were Billy Guays. Big talkers with big

  guns who ended up lying dead, after a while, in a

  Mimbre rancheria. Angsman would go back to

  Fort Bowie. Even if it got slow sometimes, there’d

  always be plenty to do.

  3 ‚

  The Colonel s Lady

  Mata Lobo was playing his favorite game. He

  stretched his legs stiffly behind him until his moccasined feet touched rock, and then he pushed,

  writhing his body against the soft, sandy ground,

  enjoying an animal pleasure from the blistering sun

  on his naked back and the feel of warm, yielding

  earth beneath him. His extended hand touched the

  stock of the Sharps rifle a few inches from his chin

  and sighted down the barrel for the hundredth

  time. The target area had not changed.

  Sixty yards down the slope the military road

  came into view from between the low hills, cutting

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  a sharp, treacherous arc to follow the bend of Banderas Creek on the near side and then to continue,

  paralleling the base of the hill, making the slow climb

  over this section of the Sierra Apaches. Mata Lobo’s

  front sight was dead on the sudden bend in the road.

  He flexed his finger on the trigger and sighted

  again, taking in the slack, then releasing it. Not long

  now. In a few minutes he should hear the faint, faraway rattle of the stage as it weaved across the plain

  from Rindo’s Station at the Banderas Crossing. Six

  miles across straight, flat desert. And then louder—

  with a creaking—a grinding, jingling explosion of

  leather, wood, and horseflesh as the Hatch &

  Hodges Overland began the gradual climb over the


  woody western end of the Sierra Apaches, and then

  to drop to another white-hot plain that stretched the

  twelve miles to Inspiration, the end of the line. The

  vision in the mind of Mata Lobo shortened the

  route by a dozen miles.

  Every foot of the road was known to him. Especially this sudden bend at the beginning of the

  climb. He had scouted it for weeks, timing the

  stage runs, watching the drivers from his niche on

  the hill. And through his Apache patience he

  learned many things.

  At the bend, the driver and the shotgun rider

  were too busy with the team to be watching the

  hillside. And the passengers, full and comfortable

  after a meal at Rindo’s, would be suddenly jolted

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  The Colonel s Lady

  87

  into hanging on with the sway of the bouncing

  Concord as it swept around the sharp curve, with

  no thought of looking out the windows.

  It was the perfect site for ambush, Apache style.

  Mata Lobo was sure, for he had done it before.

  And then it began. He raised himself on his elbows and cocked his ears to the sound that was still

  a whisper out on the desert. Two miles away. Then

  louder, and louder; then the straining pitch to the rattling clamor and the stage was starting up the grade.

  The Apache pivoted his rifle on the rocks in front

  of him, making sure of free motion, and then he

  lined up again the five brass cartridges arranged on

  the ground near his right hand.

  When he looked back to the road the lead horses

  were coming into view. He waited until the stage

  was in full sight, slowed down slightly in the middle of the road, and then he fired, aiming at the

  closer lead horse.

  The horse’s momentum carried it along for the

  space of time it took the Apache to inject another cartridge and squeeze off at the other lead animal. The

  horses swerved against each other, still going, then

  four pairs of legs buckled at once, and eight other

  pairs raced on, trampling the fallen horses, but to be

  tripped immediately in a wild confusion of thrashing

  legs and screaming horses and grinding brakes.

  Next to the driver the shotgun rider was throwing his boot against the brake lever when the coach

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  jackknifed and twisted over, gouging into the dirt

  road, sending up a thick cloud of dust to cover the

  scene.

  As the dust began to settle, Mata Lobo saw one

  figure lying next to the overturned Concord, his

  face upturned to the two right-side wheels, still

  turning slowly above him. There was a stir of motion farther ahead as a figure crawled along the

  ground, got to his feet, stumbled, pulled himself

  frantically across the road in a wild, reeling motion

  that finally developed into a crouched run. He was

  almost to the shelter of the creek bank when the

  buffalo gun screamed again across the hillsides.

  The impact threw him over the bank to lie facedown at the edge of the creek.

  He aimed the rifle again at the overturned stage

  in time to see the head appear above the door opening. Mata Lobo’s finger almost closed on the trigger, but he hesitated, seeing shoulders appear and

  then the rest of the body.

  The man stopped uncertainly, looking around,

  cocking his ear to the silence. An odd-looking little

  man, fat and frightened, but not sure of what to be

  afraid. He clutched a small black case that singled

  him out as a drummer of some kind. He clutched it

  protectingly, shielding his means of existence.

  When his gaze swept the hillside, perhaps he saw

  the glint of the rifle barrel, but if he did, it meant

  nothing to him. There was no reaction. And a sec-‚

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  89

  ond later it was too late. The .50-caliber bullet tore

  through his body to spin him off the coach.

  Again silence settled. This time, longer. The

  wheels had stopped moving above the sprawled

  form of the guard.

  Still Mata Lobo waited. His eyes, beneath the red

  calico headband, were nailed to the overturned

  Concord. He hadn’t moved from his position. He

  sat stone still and waited. Watched and waited and

  counted.

  He counted three dead: the driver, a passenger,

  and the guard who was in the road next to the

  coach—he was undoubtedly dead. But the run usually carried more passengers, at least two more, and

  that bothered the Apache.

  Others might still be inside the coach, dead,

  wounded, or just waiting. Waiting with a cocked

  pistol. Either way Mata Lobo had to find out. He

  hadn’t laid this ambush for sport alone. He needed

  bullets, and a shirt, and any glittering trinkets that

  might catch his eye. But it was the bullets, more

  than anything else, that finally made him raise himself and slip quietly down the side of the hill.

  His Apache sense led him in a wide circle, so that

  when he approached the Concord, Banderas Creek

  was behind him. He walked half crouched, slowly,

  with short toe-to-heel strides, catlike, a coiled

  spring ready to snap. Mata Lobo was a Chiricahua

  Apache, well schooled in the ways of war.

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  He passed the baggage strewn about the ground

  without a side glance and dropped to his hands and

  knees as he came to the vertical wall that was the top

  of the coach. He touched the baggage rack lightly,

  then, pressing his ear against the smooth surface of

  the coach top, he remained fixed in this position for

  almost five minutes. Long, silent minutes.

  He was about to rise, satisfied the coach was unoccupied, when he heard the sharp, scraping sound

  from within. Like someone moving a foot across a

  board.

  He froze again, pressing close, then slowly

  placed his rifle on the ground beside him and lifted

  a skinning knife from a scabbard at his back.

  He inched his body upward until he was standing, placed a foot on a rung of the baggage rack,

  and pushed his body up until his head was above

  the coach. He was confident of his own animal

  stealth. A gun could be waiting, but he doubted it.

  Only a fool would have moved, knowing he was

  just outside. A fool, or a child, or a woman.

  Nor was he wrong. The woman was crouched

  against the roof of the coach, her back arched

  against the smooth surface, holding with both hands

  a long-barreled pistol that pointed toward the rear

  window. She was totally unaware of the Apache staring at her a few feet away, lying belly down on the

  side of the coach. When she saw him it was too late.

  Revolver went up as knife came down, but the

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  The Colonel s Lady

  91

  knife was quicker and the heavy knob on the handle

  smashed against her knuckles to make her drop the

  revolver. Dark, vein-streaked arms reached in to

  drag her up through the door window. She struggled

  in his g
rasp, but only briefly, for he flung her from

  the coach and leapt down to the road after her.

  She sat in the road dust and eyed him defiantly,

  her lips moving slightly, her eyes not wavering from

  his face. She screamed for the first time as she rose

  from the dust, but it was not a scream of fear.

  She was almost to her feet when the Apache’s

  hand tightened in her hair to fling her off balance

  back to the ground. He stood over her and looked

  down into the dust-streaked face. Then he turned

  back to the stagecoach.

  She watched as he rummaged about the wreckage,

  sitting motionless, knowing that if she tried to run

  he would probably not hesitate to kill her. Her

  hands moved to her hair and unhurriedly brushed

  back the blond wisps that had been pulled from the

  tight chignon at the nape of her neck. Her hands

  moved slowly, almost unconsciously, and then down

  and in the same lifeless manner brushed the heavy

  dust from the green jersey traveling-dress, as if her

  movements were instinctive, not predetermined.

  But her eyes were not lifeless. They followed the

  Apache’s every move and narrowed slightly into

  two thin lines that contrasted sharply with her soft

  face, like fire on water. Her body moved from habit

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  while her mind showed through her eyes.

  She was afraid, but only loathing was on the surface. The fear was the stabbing weight in her breast,

  an emotion she had learned to control. She could

  have been in her late twenties, but her chin and the

  lines near her eyes told of at least six additional years.

  Every now and then the Apache would glance

  back in her direction, but he found her always in

  the same position. She watched him bend over the

  still form of the guard lying on his back, and her

  eyes blinked hard as the Indian brought the stock

  of his rifle down on the man’s forehead, but she did

  not turn her head.

  There was no doubt now that all were dead. Mata

  Lobo was a thorough man, for his people had been

  slaying the blanco since the first war club smashed

  through the cumbersome armor of the conquistadors. His deeds were known throughout Apacheria;

  they whispered the name of the bronco Chiricahua

  with the bloodlust ever in his breast. There would