Norton, Andre - Novel 15 (11 page)

 
          
 
" 'N
if we ain't
bowled over by that?" Winters, the dragoon, poked a finger toward the sky.

 
          
 
Herndon shrugged. "Pick up your stuff.
We're moving on."

 
          
 
"We ain't
! '
N
don't
try to pull the officer on us, Herndon. We ain't
no
slaves of yoren—"

 
          
 
Herndon half crouched as if that last sentence
had been a lash
laid
across his face. Then he sprang. But
Winters
was ready for him, braced to meet the attack.
And, although the force of the Sergeant's dive threw him off his feet, his fist
struck home before he fell. They
rolled,
a tangled
fighting blur in the snow, not like men but as clumsy panting animals, while
the clouds swept in and the first white flakes began to fall again.

 
          
 
The fight ended as abruptly as it had started.
Herndon got to his feet, pulling away from the limp body of his opponent. He
stooped and slapped
Winter's
face until the dragoon
opened his eyes.

 
          
 
"On your feet!"
In spite of its snap the Sergeant's voice was only a weary thread. ''Bring up
the black, Stouffer, and help him on. We'll move along the canyon here; that
will give some protection against the storm."

 
          
 
It was as if the ineffectual mutiny had
drained the spirit from all of them. They picked up the few pitiful bundles of
supplies they could no longer load on the worn-out animals and went on, Tuttle
and the Sergeant in the lead.

 
          
 
Herndon caught now and then at a handhold on
the rock as if he had difficulty in keeping his feet. But he did not drop back,
Ritchie noted, or hold onto the stirrup of one of the plodding mounts as did
the other men when they could. There was no more talk; they had to save their
breath to keep going, shuffling through the tails of the drifts.

 
          
 
But the Sergeant had been right. In the shadow
of the canyon the drifts grew fewer, and they did not have to fight for footing
every inch of the way.

 
          
 
Winters slouched in the saddle of the horse
just before Ritchie in line. He moaned once or twice and rode with both hands
clutching at the horn. The snow continued to fall, but lazily and with none of
the rush which had made such a tight curtain of the first storm.

 
          
 
Suddenly Ritchie saw something else on the
trampled snow, a pinkish mark which made a pattern. He watched for it a while
stupidly, without trying to puzzle out its source. And then he called to Tuttle
who had dropped back for a breather.

 
          
 
''The snow's pink—"

 
          
 
"Eh?" The scout had been rubbing
Jessie's patient nose. "What's that ag'in, boy?"

 
          
 
"There." Ritchie pointed to a stain
which was darker and more pronounced. "See?
Pink
snow."

 
          
 
As if it hurt him to stoop, the scout leaned
over and examined the patch Ritchie had pointed out. Then he started, at a
swifter pace than he had shown for hours, toward the fore of the party. When he
returned, Velasco came with him, carrying an untidy bundle over his shoulder. It
was the Apache boy.

 
          
 
"Can yo' ride Star, boy?" Tuttle
paused by Ritchie's knee. "The critter's been wore down so he ain't so
skittish, 'n yo' can maybe manage him. Jessie, she can't carry double now, 'n
someone's got to hold the brat—"

 
          
 
"Sure." Ritchie slipped down from
the mule's
saddle,
giving his bad hand a wrench which
made him set his teeth. "What's the matter?"

 
          
 
"This." Velasco whipped aside the
edge of the blanket which wrapped his patient, and Ritchie saw bloodstained,
tattered moccasins.

 
          
 
"Walked the soles off
his feet."
Tuttle brought up the strong stallion, the most powerful
horse in the depleted train. But Star did not plunge now or try any of his more
annoying tricks, and Ritchie was able to mount him. They settled the Apache boy
in the curve of his good arm.

 
          
 
"Dermont'll give yo' a hand if yo' need
it—jus' sing out." Tuttle indicated the man who plodded beside
Winters
' horse. "Don't drowse, 'n
don't
let the brat neither
! T'ain't good-"

 
          
 
Ritchie nodded. He knew the menace in the
strange lethargy which could settle upon a man in the cold. He shifted the boy
and peeped under the hooded curve of the blanket. Black, blank eyes stared back
at him, but there was a taut line of pain about the child's mouth. To keep those
eyes open—well, he could talk, though what he said might not be intelligible to
his listener.

 
          
 
''What's your name?" he began, not
knowing that he committed a great and lasting sin against Apache etiquette with
that innocent question. One did not ask an Apache to spew forth that sacred and
particular possession—his own name.

 
          
 
With an awkward movement of his slinged hand
he indicated his own chest.

 
          
 
"Ritchie," he repeated slowly.
"Ritchie Peters."

 
          
 
Did or did not a shadow of intelligence cross
the other's small filthy face at that? Ritchie persevered. He said the word for
the horse they rode. It became a challenge—to awaken a response from the boy—and
on the tenth word he did. The bluish lips repeated the word for saddle. Ritchie
grinned and began all over. This time his pupil echoed him.

 
          
 
"Time for a break,
son."
Tuttle materialized beside Star. "How's the brat?"

 
          
 
"Horse," replied the student briefly
with a strong accent and then gave his full attention to Ritchie again.

           
 
Tuttle gave a shrill hoot of laughter which
turned all heads toward the little group.

 
          
 
"So I’m a hoss? Wal, I'll be
dang-shotted!
Humped yore-self a-learnin' that one, didn't
yo', sonny?
Anyway, this old hoss says it's time to light 'n have yoreself
a snack.
Had us a bit of luck comin' down the canyon.
See?"

 
          
 
He led them toward a fire, and the smell of
roasting meat hung warm and comforting on the air.

 
          
 
"Fool deer got hisself lost—jus' nice for
us. Mighty little lot to go round, but sonny here'll have him a bone to
suck."

 
          
 
Ritchie chewed his portion a long time, trying
to make each mouthful satisfy as much as a dozen would.

 
          
 
"Glad we didn't hole up in them
ruins." Tuttle spoke louder than usual so that he could be heard around
the circle. "When we was hidin' out before the fight, I drawed me a place
where a kit fox had bin furst—stunk like a skunk's hole almost. Kin smell it
yet!"

 
          
 
Winters grunted at Tuttle's words and shifted
his feet. He was watching not the scout but the Sergeant who sat a little to
one side.

 
          
 
None of them could see much of Herndon's face,
but something in the drooping line of his shoulders made Ritchie uncomfortable.
He wanted to cross the range of the firelight and join the Sergeant—to say
something—what he didn't quite know. But he did realize, deep inside, that if
he dared to do that he would not be welcome. He swallowed his last bite and
licked his fingers with a sigh.

 
          
 
"Yo' can't do anything fur him,
son—"

 
          
 
Ritchie started at that low whisper from
Tuttle. Under the intentness of the scout's gaze he squirmed.

 
          
 
"He's made what he thinks is a big
mistake
. '
N he's got to fight it out for hisself.”

           
 
"Why? Because he fought
Winters
—"

 
          
 
Tuttle's fingers twisted a small lump of
tobacco. He seemed to be considering whether to consume this last bit of
treasure or to preserve it for another day.

 
          
 
"A man's head 'n his heart, his feelin's
'n his duty, ought never to git mixed up. They do a lotta times.
Jus' that's brought a sight of us out into this dad-blasted
country.
But if a man can hold onto his head, then he's got a chance to
be great. Scott—he does it most of the time. But he let his feelin's git the
better of him back thar, 'n now he thinks he's damned hisself. He's broken his
medicine—as the Injuns say. He's got to build up his walls ag'in. Now, like as
not he'll go too far the other way 'n freeze up—all ice. Remember that if he
does, son. But if we git through this, it'll be that iron in him what brings us
in. 'N that's the dead truth of it!"

 
          
 
When they started again.
Winters refused to remount the horse. He wavered on through the snow with
Kristland to give him a hand. As he passed Herndon, who stood checking the last
man out, he spat into a drift.

 
          
 
"Better ride—"

 
          
 
“Huh!" Winters' voice came thickly
between his battered lips. "Want to make a parade of me like them brats,
eh.
Sergeant High-n-mighty?
Wal, yo' ain't a-goin' to.
I kin foot it as good as the rest of the boys."

 
          
 
Herndon made no answer. But he saw the horse
Winters
had been riding led out behind the stubbornly
limping dragoon. Ritchie got back on Star and waited for the Apache to be
handed up to him. When they were ready to move out, the Sergeant crossed over
to them.

 
          
 
"Watch your hands and feet and the
boy's," he said in a low voice. "If they get numb, sing out. D'you
understand
?
At once!"

           
 
"Yes, sir," replied Ritchie
automatically.

 
          
 
"Don't call me sir!" The heat of
that was like a fist in his face, and he looked down into eyes that were
blazing with real rage.

 
          
 
Ritchie swallowed before he found his voice.
"Sorry—" But the word trailed off unheard, for Herndon was already
setting off to the head of the line.

 
          
 
Coming down the canyon had indeed been a lucky
choice. Through the rest of that dragging day the snow grew no heavier within
its sheltering walls, and the footing became better instead of worse. They
found one or two patches almost free of covering, where the animals were able
to snatch mouthfuls of dried grass. It was on the edge of such a grazing ground
that they made night camp.

 
          
 
The second bright spot in their day was the
news Velasco had. With a smooth piece of snow for a blackboard and a twig for
chalk he explained.

 
          
 
"Here we are now. And here"—he
tapped another point —"is the stage station. Tomorrow I will take Star and
ride through here and down. Then I will come back with supplies and fresh
mules. So it shall be well with us—jus' like 'Left front into line!'
" His
voice took on the rasp of official command.
" 'Gallop Ho!' And we shall be home again."

 
          
 
But none of them aroused to answer this
prophecy. Winters, Kristland, and two of the others sat apart.
Winters had shed his foot gear and was
bending almost double
trying to see his feet.

 
          
 
"Rub them with snow—hard!" Herndon
dropped to his knees and gathered up a wet handful, rubbing it over the
dragoon's insteps. And the Sergeant kept to his task, accepting snow brought by
the others in caps and cupped hands when he had used all within his own reach.
Winters swore, a steady mumble, and once or twice he bit and tore at his
mitten.

 
          
 
"Let me spell you, Scott." Velasco
elbowed the Sergeant away. Herndon leaned back and watched the operation with
narrowed eyes.