Norton, Andre - Novel 15 (7 page)

 
          
 
"As soon as Velasco reports
back,
be prepared to move."

 
          
 
Carbines moved down the line. They would leave
sabres behind—they were little good when climbing. A carbine, a knife, and
maybe a pistol—if one was lucky enough to rate one—that was for this work.

 
          
 
Ritchie was tapped lightly on the shoulder. He
jumped, and when he saw the tapper was Herndon, he flushed.

 
          
 
"You and Kristland are to follow
me."

 
          
 
Had Herndon looked amused when he said that?
Ritchie scowled at the nearest rock.

 
          
 
Velasco was back; he had flitted in as
noiselessly as a snow owl.

 
          
 
"On foot—" Ritchie could catch only
a word or two.
"Two—three miles to the northwest.
Cross the spur 'n come down from the ledges before they know—
There
is a house of the Old Ones which can cover us—"

 
          
 
"Very well."
That was Herndon again. "Ready." His raised voice went down the line.
"No noise and close up. We'll have to climb, and if any fool gives us
away—"

 
          
 
There was no need for him to add to the threat
in that. Ritchie nervously slung his carbine and edged along with the trumpeter
at the Sergeant's back.

 
          
 
Ritchie moved awkwardly and tried to disguise
it. His bruised shoulder was tender, raw flesh under the jerk of his carbine
strap. But he dared not try any adjustments. He had too good an opinion of
Herndon's ability to see all and know all, and he had no wish to be sent
ignominiously back to companion the horse-holders.

 
          
 
They climbed steadily, and the pace Herndon
set was not too taxing. But the thin cold air blowing down over the mountain
snow was one to sear the throat and lungs, and they were all panting. The trail
they took kept them to what cover there was, angling up the heights in every
bit of shadow afforded by pinon, bush, or outcrop. Near the top of the rise
Herndon paused under an overhang of red rock and waited for them to crowd in
about him.

 
          
 
Then, with quick strokes of a pencil on a slab
of rock, he plotted the course of the action to come.

 
          
 
"Velasco, Hermann, O'Neill, and Dermont,
with Krist-land, will go down here, cross the ridge, and take cover on the
opposite mesa top. At the signal shot Kristland will sound Attack.

 
          
 
“The Apache rancheria is located here—on a
ledge jutting out from the mountain. We'll wait a while to see most of the
warriors come in before we strike. We want to get the men, not the women and
children." He rubbed absently at the marks he had made. “Poor devils, if
we win, they'll get theirs anyway, left without food or shelter. Now" —his
voice was crisp again—"the rest of us will cut aside from the trail in
another hundred yards.

 
          
 
''Right about here, overlooking the camp ledge,
there is a big cave with some of the old ruins in it. Apaches don't like ruins.
We get in there and stay until it's time to strike—they won't be apt to prowl
around close enough to sniff us out."

 
          
 
"If they do come up," Tuttle
drawled, "we do a leetle owl hootin', 'n they'll go kitin' out again with
their tails up. Makes blood come up in the throat—that's what an Apache says
about an owl hoot." This tag of Indian lore lightened some of the tension
which had followed Herndon's orders.

 
          
 
Ritchie dared to lean back against the rock,
easing his shoulder a little. He wondered if Tuttle had said that on purpose.
There was something in the picture the scout's words had evoked—of bloodthirsty
Apache warriors scuttling off like a herd of frightened mountain deer at the
hoot of a bird—that relaxed a fellow, coaxed the icy crawl out of his spinal
column. He came away again from his rock with a real snap of eagerness as
Herndon gave the sign to move on.

 
          
 
"Hmm!"
Tuttle was sniffing the air. "Looks like the cactus telygraff
is
workin', right enough. Smell that, son?"

 
          
 
There was a faint, almost spicy taint on the
breeze, an odor which grew stronger with a wind puff down slope. Herndon's
advance had become a crawl, and the others, taking their time from him, were creeping
too. They were all watching the sky and the edge of the cliff ahead.

 
          
 
Then Ritchie saw it, too, a pencil of
gray-white smoke ascending, first as a streamer and then, batted by the wind, a
long curve—signal smoke born of a fire of resinous pine cones.

 
          
 
Herndon consulted Tuttle with a look. But
after a moment the scout shook his head.

 
          
 
"If it was us they was talkin' 'bout,
we'd already be crow meat. I'm thinkin' that they're callin' in their young
men. They've got them a pile of rich loot to pick over. 'N maybe Gilmore is
So
far off by now they think they're really safe. So they're
plannin' a bang-up party for all the boys."

 
          
 
"So!" Herndon's mittened fingers
drummed a tattoo. "If we wait—"

 
          
 
"If we wait—'n I ain't growed as simple
as a beaver kit in my old age—we've got us a mighty fine chance to clean out
the whole kit 'n caboodle of 'em.
Game to try,
Sergeant?"

 
          
 
Herndon's eyes sparkled; he didn't have to
answer. The way he hurried them on was reply enough. Ritchie smelled the
smoke—but it was fainter now. The fire, having served its purpose, must be
almost out.

 
          
 
Their last halt was at the beginning of an
extremely narrow ledge. Tuttle was the first to squeeze out along it. After
several hour-long minutes Herndon reached back for Ritchie's sleeve and tugged
him up.

 
          
 
"Hug the wall all the way, and don't make
a sound!"

 
          
 
With his tongue tip caught between his teeth,
his hands damp and shaking a little in spite of the bite of the cold as he
shucked off his gloves, Ritchie ventured along the scrap of path. He kept his
attention on the rock wall at his left, gluing his fingers to any knob or crack
which would give him purchase. Then the ledge widened out and was canopied by
the beginnings of an overhang. He stumbled forward to be caught up in the
scout's grip.

 
          
 
"Git over thar 'n keep
still!"
That fierce whisper sent him into the shadows where he
burrowed into a pile of debris and nursed his arm. Tuttle's pinching fingers
had started up the ache of his bruise again.

 
          
 
By the time Tuttle was hauling in the second
man Ritchie was satisfying his curiosity about their surroundings. Although it
was past sunrise, the sky had not cleared much, and dark gray clouds were
piling up with the promise of more snow. So the niche they were occupying was
still a place of dusk and shadows.

 
          
 
Straight before him ran a wall, almost to the
lip of the drop, and above its crumbling crest he could make out a square,
tower-shaped structure. Even the pile of stuff against which he had been
sheltering was man made. He had heard of these strange cliff castles, but this
was the first time he had seen one.

 
          
 
"All right."
Herndon swung in, the last to cross. “Take cover along the outer ruins and thin
out. Pick a place that'll put your sights down there."

 
          
 
He pointed a little to the left. Ritchie
squirmed forward. But he never reached the place of his own choice, for the
Sergeant rounded and pushed him down in an angle of the broken wall.

 
          
 
“Loosen a couple of these bricks,"
Herndon ordered in a half whisper. ''That'll make you a loophole. And stay
put-right here!"

 
          
 
Ritchie unslung the carbine and pulled out his
knife. He had to keep his fingers bare while he dug and twisted at the
powdering adobe. From time to time he stopped and stuffed his hands inside coat
and shirt to thaw out the warning numbness. But he had the first brick loose
and was easing it out of its age-old setting when Herndon returned to drop down
beside him.

 
          
 
The Sergeant was picking away, too. But he
moved with astonishing speed to catch a second brick which almost dropped out
of Ritchie's blue, raw-cold hands.

 
          
 
“Put those in—next to your hide and keep them
there! This is no time to get frostbite!"

 
          
 
Reluctantly Ritchie obeyed, shuddering all
through his body as the icy flesh slapped against the warmth over his ribs. At
least the knife wind of the mountain slopes did not come here. If they could
only have a fire now—why, it wouldn't be half bad!

 
          
 
Herndon put down another brick.

 
          
 
"Take a look down there. And keep
awake!"

 
          
 
Keep awake—that was good! As if anyone could
sleep now! Ritchie hunched up a little and looked down through their improvised
loophole. Some distance below, a wide ledge, which might almost have been the
top of a small mesa, jutted far out. Fires burned there, and the curious heaps
of dried brush covered with ragged blankets that were the lodges of the Apaches
made lumps not unlike the untidy nests of pack rats. Blanketed squatty
figures—probably the squaws, he decided—
were
moving
around the fires. He could see only one red-turbaned warrior, a lookout mounted
on a rock to watch the valley below.

 
          
 
"He's your target." Herndon
indicated the lookout. "When the time comes, see that you freeze on him.
And shooting downhill is tricky. If you're not sure of the range, fire at that
line of rocks—the ricocheting bullets are sometimes as good as straight shots.
Ah—"

 
          
 
His voice faded. There was a sudden stir of
activity on the ledge of the camp. Three warriors, conspicuous against the
general drabness because of their fiery headcloths, were trotting up the
incline to the camp. The sound of voices came up through the clear air, though
not clearly enough to distinguish words. Tuttle was right; the raiding party
was coming home.

 
          
 
The next hour was both the most miserable and
the most exciting Ritchie had ever spent. Although cold seeped into his bones
and his body ached with it, he dared not stir from his vantage point to ease
cramped limbs. He watched the raiders gather in by twos and threes.

 
          
 
That fire which had tantalized them since
their arrival with its fragrant smoke and promise of heat blazed higher, and
another smell came up with the smoke, the hot stench of too-well-roasted meat.
Ritchie swallowed. If he closed his eyes, he could almost visualize the roast
ham which had been the centerpiece at Aunt Emma's dinner on the last occasion
he had been there. Roast ham with sweet potatoes and beans and—

 
          
 
Herndon's sudden move snapped him back to the
present. The Sergeant was up on one knee, his pistol resting on the wall, as he
watched with very intent eyes a swirl of movement in the camp.

 
          
 
The murmur of sound from down there had ended
in a couple of wild shouts. Ritchie's hand tightened on the carbine.
Discovery?
No, no one down below was thinking of the cliffs.
Instead the Apaches were packed in a wide circle around two of their own
number. The men were stripped bare, their powerful stocky bodies showing as
dark silhouettes of strength and endurance against the few patches of snow as
they circled warily.

 
          
 
“Apache duel!" Herndon spoke more to
himself than to Ritchie.

 
          
 
A steel blade in one dueler's fist caught life
from the fire. There was an attack, sudden, direct, but it did not get home.
For one long moment Herndon watched the contest. Then his pistol lifted, and he
fired into the air.

           
 
Ritchie's trigger squeezed as the answer came
from across the canyon in the clear notes of the bugle. A steady wave of fire
poured down into the massed target below.

 
          
 
What followed wasn't pretty. But then the
canyon of the ambush had not been a tidy sight either—and the fuse which set
off this powder train had been long in weaving. None of them doubted that
Apache war was war to the death.

 
          
 
Wailing cries came up. Dark sacks of clothing
fell to the rocks and did not rise again. A few escaped into the brush. But
most of the red turbans fought, backs against rocks, making a firm last stand,
sending up arrows which could not even nick the cliff tops held by their
enemies.