Authors: 1939- Brian Garfield
Harris looked at Brady. "What was that for?" "Most likely the old woman's his mother-in-law. They ain't supposed to look at their mothers-in-law or talk to them."
Harris smiled faintly. Tucker gigged himself up alongside; -and thus, thi'ee abreast, they faced the chief's lodge.
Stooping to clear the low doorway, Inyo came through into the rain. He was a tall man, very tall for an Apache, and lean like his son Tonio; his face was a seamed map of creases and shelves. He raised a hand in greeting to Brady and said softly, "Enju."
"Enju" Brady replied and said to Harris, "We can get down now."
A brave came forward with obvious intent, whereupon Harris said, "Tucker, take care of the horses," and the brave apparently understanding him, changed course and went away. Tucker grunted without pleasure and gathered up the reins of the four horses. The pack horse kicked a fly away with a rear hoof, startling Tucker. Brady had to smile; they were all jumpy today, and no wonder. On the ground, facing Inyo across a four-yard distance, he heard Harris's quiet question; "Does he speak Eng-Hsh?"
"Some. He'd rather speak his own language-it's a matter of saving face. I'll interpret."
"All right," Harris said, and stepped forward, giving the Indian sign for friendship. "Enju," he said. Brady stayed right beside him.
The tall chief nodded carefully and indicated the doorway of the lodge, afterward pushing the blanket-door aside and entering. "After him," Brady said dryly, and followed Harris into the damp dimness of the wickiup.
A small fire burned in the center of the place; its smoke made exit through a hole in the roof. Now and then a drop of drizzling rain sizzled on the fire. Inyo sat down cross-legged on a blanket, indicating to Brady that he and Harris should take seats on the far side of the fire. Inyo's eyes were level, lighted by an immense pride; he waited patiently.
''May the god of the sun be kind to the great war chief," Brady said in Apache dialect.
The chief dipped his head in reply. Brady spoke a few more pleasantries, obeying the Apache code of etiquette, and turned to Harris. "You can speak your peace.''
"You can do it better than I can," Harris said. "Tell him about the telegram from Sherman."
"All of it?"
"The whole thing."
"All right," Brady said, and turned to the chief. He spoke for some time, telling Inyo in carefully chosen words the offer to move the Apaches to the San Carlos, and the condition appended to the offer: that Inyo lead his renegades to the reservation.
Afterward, Inyo made answer in tones that were not so much guttural as low and soft-throated.
Harris said, "What did he say?"
"About what we expected. He says it sounds good to him, but he doesn't speak for all his people. He's only a war chief. There's a difference between a chief of the people and a war chief."
"Who's the chief of the people?"
"They haven't got one," Brady said dryly. "In wartime they don't need one."
"Then who gives the orders?"
"In battle, the war chiefs. Other times, nobody. Everybody makes up his own mind. They run a pretty free society. For all practical purposes, everybody's free to come and go as he pleases."
"That's just fine," Harris said, with a dour turn of his lips. He locked his hands together and leaned back a little. "Tell him the alternative—tell him we're prepared to mount a big expedition against him. Tell him we respect his fighting abihty and the pride of his people but we've got a whole lot more soldiers than he does, and sooner or later we'll kill all of them if they keep on resisting. Tell him his children will all be orphans and his women will all be widows."
Brady told it to Inyo, though he was fairly certain the chief had understood Harris's English. Inyo considered the two of them over a stretching interval, after which he spoke again, and Brady translated: "He says he knows all'that now. He didnt know it when he jumped the reservation, but he's figured out the odds. He knows we've got him hcked in the long run. But he still says he can't speak for anybody but himself."
Harris scratched his head and tugged at his ear-lobe. "Ask him to talk frankly--ask him what he thinks the chances are of him talking his people into giving up and coming back to the reservation."
Brady asked, and waited with half-held breath for Inyo's answer.
When it came, the answer was carefully thought-out and spoken. Brady said, "He says it wouldn't work. The braves have suffered too long and taken too many empty promises from the Government. They prefer to stay in the mountains and fight as long as they can-at least it's an honorable way to Uve and to die, if they must."
"But Inyo has a lot of prestige with them. He's a respected man. Why shouldn't they listen to him?''
"It's not in their way of doing things. They'd listen to him. They'd give him all the respect he's due. Then they'd go off and do as they please."
Harris turned to look away for a moment; he said, "Frankly, I can't say I blame him. If I was in the shoes of one of these Apache braves I'd probably make the same choice myself."
Brady said, "That kind of attitude wont get us anywhere right now."
Harris grunted. "All right. Will, can you think of anything else we can say?"
"No."
"That's what I thought. We've said our piece. Inyo has our offer. You might tell him it's a good offer, and we'll stand by it. It's no empty promise."
Brady translated the words into Apache and relayed them. Inyo said nothing. Harris turned his palms up, raising his shoulders in a sign of resignation. "That's it, then. Ask him if we'll have safe passage out of the mountains."
Brady asked the question, and interpreted Inyo's reply drily: "He says he can't guarantee it. He says his own men will respect our flag of truce, but he can't speak for the others in the mountains. He says maybe we ought to keep our eyes open."
"Thank him for the advice," Hanis said. "Make your goodbye speech. Will, and let's get going."
Brady did so, and afterward followed Harris outside. Tucker was standing patiently by the horses, trying to ignore a squad of small brown children who were keeping busy by taunting the horses and throwing pebbles. Brady grinned at them and shook his fist; the children became quiet and stopped throwing stones, but did not run away. Instead, they stood fast and glared with steady hatred.
"Let's get out of here," Harris murmured uncomfortably, and Brady turned to his horse.
Brady carried the white flag, high and conspicuous on a pole. He wondered skeptically how much good it would do if they happened to encounter a crowd of Indians who were not directly within Inyo's sphere of influence.
They rode back through the country of high cliffs and wide mesas, under the continuing discomfort of the steady drizzle. There seemed no end in sight to the sky's weeping. Tucker, alongside with the pack horse, was decidedly nervous. It was not the kind of nervousness brought on by fear; rather it was an angry wariness, the impatience of a man growing anxious for action. It was product and culmination of the gradual gathering bitterness that marked Tucker's progress through life-Brady remembered Tucker's diy comment, that he had seen too many doors close in his face.
Noon came and went-time gauged by Harris' pocket watch, not by the sun; there was no sun. Time traveled on in gray and leaking lethargy; the ground, once dusty, was turned soggy, muffling the sound of hoofbeats. The cold on these windswept, dripping heights was biting. Dim, gray light washed all warmth out of the various color-tones of the land, giving everything in sight the appearance of a uniform hostility.
They traveled with deliberate haste, now galloping, now trotting, now walking; alternating the pace in that manner to save the horses, they covered ground at a good rate. The trail Brady chose was one that kept them in open country much of the time, thus minimizing the chance of ambush. Now and then they had to cut through a tangle of badlands or a narrow-sided canyon, and in these places Brady's hand stayed near his gun and his. eyes swept the nearby places of concealment with heightened alertness. And then, walking the horse across a long flat plateau of rock and scrub growth, his head lifted sharply and his hand raised in restraining signal.
They reined in on that barren flat; Harris said, 'Whaf s the matter?"
"I think I heard something—gunshots."
Harris frowned and turned to Ksten against the wind. There was the steady light patter of rain against their oilskin ponchos; there was the sound of Tucker's led horse shifting its feet. "I don t hear anything," Harris said.
Brady shook his head. His eyes were narrowed. "I didn't imagine it. Keep your eyes open. Let's keep going."
They moved forward again, each man frowning with new, taut awareness toward the surrounding jagged peaks. "Timber country coming up soon," Brady said. "Watch the shadows."
Harris squinted upward toward the clouds. "Not a break anywhere in that sky. It's going to be a long | summer-a tough campaign. The only way we'll get ' these Apaches out of the mountains will be to pick them off one by one."
"That sounds like fun," Tucker said morosely. He, too, considered the sky; presently he said, "Will?"
"What?"
''Does that offer still stand?"
"Sure."
"I think I'll take you up on it," Tucker said. His face looked sour. "I've had enough campaigning to last me quite a spell."
Harris turned his glance toward the sergeant. His voice carried a rough good-humor. "This is a hell of a time to desert me."
'The army's full of sergeants. Captain. I'm tired."
Harris's eyes were level, holding Tucker's. "I can't say I blame you," he said.
"Thanks," Tucker said dryly. "We're not out of this yet, though. I'll keep my gun greased till we hit the desert. Which is still two days away."
"So it is," Brady murmured, scanning the juniper slopes ahead. The path he chose dropped them through a long field of altitude-stunted greenery, lifted them over a rocky saddle of ground between two somber bald-topped peaks, and took them by easy stages downward, and finally, at midafternoon, entering a stand of timber with startling abruptness. Rain dripped unsteadily from the laden tree-tops, adding to their discomfort. Along the way they scared up an antelope, a solitary animal prowling the forest for graze; startled, it wheeled and fled, the humping signal spots on its rump showing white in alarm. When Brady looked at Tucker he saw that Tucker had his sixgun halfway out of its holster. Tucker rammed the gun back with a grunt of disgust and folded his slicker back over the holster. "A trip like this would make a wooden Indian jumpy."
"A fact," Brady murmured in agreement. He, too, felt the nerve-tightening pressure of their constant danger.
Single file, they threaded the forest, steadily descending. Late in the afternoon the rain quit, although the cloud cover continued to blanket the sky from horizon to horizon. Nightfall came early; it caught them still in the depths of the tall timber country. Brady said, "We may as well rig a lean-to and make camp. There's no hurry-if the Indians want us, they'll get at us whenever they please."
And so they built a quick shelter beneath the dripping pines, staked the horses out, and spent the night in relatively dry discomfort, taking turns standing guard. No incidents marred the night. At dawn long red splashes of light streaked the eastern sky. "Clouds are breaking up," Tucker observed thankfully. They broke camp and were once again on the move by six o'clock after a quick cold meal. Harris said, "How far is it to Yeager's?" 'Three hours," Brady said positively. "If the place is still standing."
"Now," Tucker observed in his customary dour tones, "there's an encouraging thought. I rise to remark that you're about the most contrary skunk I know, Brady. Maybe I'll reconsider that horse-wrangling job."
Brady's chuckle relieved a good deal of pent-up strain; he was grateful even for Tucker's bit of sour humor. They traveled forward at a steady gait across the damp-matted carpet of soaked pine needles, now and then cutting tlirough a rocky clearing and once passing the edge of a long bum, wth nothing remaining but the fire-blackened stumps and charred, lifeless trees, the only aftermath of a forest fire.
The sun advanced, going in and out of sight past the moving breakup of clouds. Fhckering shadows shortened along the ground and then, chmbing a slope through a thick stand of pines, Brady reined in abruptly so that Tucker almost ran into the tail of his horse.
"What's up. Will?"
"Shooting. Hear it?"
The three listened with keen ears. "I hear it," Harris said, and Tucker echoed the statement.
"About a mile and a half ahead," Brady guessed. ''That would put it just about at Yeager's place."
"Fine," Tucker said. "Fine."
Brady looked at Harris. "You're in command."
Harris grunted. "Thanks for reminding me." He turned silent and for a moment they listened to the steady distant talk of rifles, echoing across the mountains. "Let's take a look," Harris said, and led the way forward at a cautious pace. Brady looked back and saw the grin across Tucker's mouth that did not spread to the man's eyes; Brady's jaws tightened and he gigged his horse forward.
As they advanced across the undulating slopes, the sound of gunfire grew louder, and their caution increased. Presently Brady said softly, "Easy, Justin. It's just over the hill now."
Harris nodded and went on, finally halting within pistol shot of the top of the hill. He dismounted and said in a sibilant whisper, "Hold the horses. Tucker. We'll go up for a look."
Brady dismounted and went up the hill on foot with Harris beside him. Behind him, Tucker sat his saddle, keening the roundabout woods.
Approaching the rim, they dropped to hands and knees. The shooting had slackened a bit, but still the volume of fire indicated to Brady that at least a dozen rifles, perhaps more, were busy peppering Yeager's ranch. The heavier roar of a buffalo gun would be Yeager himself, fighting back through the little gunports of his fortified house.
And so it proved to be. They belly-crawled the last fifteen feet and lay flat and hatles5 on the soaked ground, peering down through the thinning timber to the wide cleared area that marked Yeager's outfit. Yeager's house bloomed with gunfire; Brady counted eight guns firing from various positions within the house, and that made him frown: Yeager had himself, his wife and four boys. That made six. Who were the other two riflemen?