The man died while I stood there looking down at him.
I mounted up and rode out of there. I headed due west, riding hard and steady. I held to low ground, and saw nobody. Twice I did see signal smokes in the distance, a sure sign that what the man had said about the Apaches was true.
This was rugged, broken country, and what I needed now was speed. At Dead Cow Canyon I turned south and plunged into the lonely wilderness of the Mazatzal Mountains.
It was hot and still. The coolness of the morning was far behind me now, and the climbing had worked my horses hard. On the slope of a cactus-covered ridge I drew up to let them breathe and to contemplate the countryside.
It was good to sit quiet a moment and look upon the land, for the flowers were out and it was carpeted with beauty. Little enough time I had for that, but it came to me through the air I breathed, for the loveliness of this land was always with one who traveled through it.
Far away the mountains were a blue rim. Close by, the canyons clung to their shadows, and setting quiet up there, I just let my eyes roam over the far country and the near, watching, searching.
The Apache of the mountains is a fierce man, given to fighting and raiding, a man who knows his way about, and is always near when he seems far away. The numbers were so against me that there were only two things I could do … I could find some place to hole up, leaving no tracks and hoping they would not find me; or I could try to filter through, to work my way into the outside and then ride for an Army post or Globe or Prescott and wait until Allen tired of paying Apaches. But my chances of getting through were slim indeed, and of hiding places there was no chance I could find one that was not already known to the Apaches.
Far away a slim column of smoke lifted, and nearer I could see a small puff of dust, so I walked my horses up the slope and crossed Cactus Ridge on a low saddle and pointed north, toward Knob Mountain.
I thought back to Swandle. He had been stern, but almost friendly. I could believe that he did not approve of what Allen was doing – Allen, the man who remained a mystery to me. And suddenly I remembered the startled look on Swandle’s face when I mentioned there might have been other women like Ange. Almost as if he knew something of the sort.
But it was time to face the facts. It was I, not he, who was being hunted by a superior force, and my chance of escape, let alone the chance of facing the guilty man, were almighty small. I was alone, and the forces moving against me were more than I could hope to defeat, and still I had not even seen the man I searched for, nor did I know anything about him beyond the mere name.
Never in my life before had I wished for help, but I found myself wanting it now. I realized that there was almost no chance of my doing the hunting. Somewhere I had to find a place to hide out.
Coming off the shoulder of Knob Mountain, riding toward Midnight Mesa, I saw three riders ahead of me. They came out of the trees and were riding down toward me. Rifle across my saddle, I rode toward them.
They spread out a little when they saw me, but I kept right on, seeming to pay them no mind. My mouth was dry, and I was wary, because no man likes to tackle three tough men head-on, and any man I’d meet riding for Lazy A would be a tough man now. But on the steep slope there was no chance to run. It was bluff or fight, and so I kept right on.
As they drew up, all three were set for trouble, and then I saw one of them glance at the brand on my horse … I’d forgotten it was a Lazy A horse.
He chuckled. “Had me worried there for a minute or two,” he said. “I thought you was Sackett.”
They had all relaxed when they saw my brand, but I kept that rifle on them. “I am Sackett,” I said. “You boys unbuckle. And if you want to lose your hair, just have at it.”
Oh, they were mad, no question about it, and they dearly wanted to try for their guns, but they had ridden too many trails to want to die easy. They used their fingers mighty careful as they unbuckled.
Then I backed them off about thirty yards and made them dismount. I taken their horses and collected their guns. There was a pack of grub on one of the horses, and I tossed it to them.
“Eat,” I said, “and then walk down to the Verde. Sooner or later somebody will come along, or you can high-tail it up to Camp Verde.”
Two of them had cartridges I could use, so I stripped the loops of their gun belts. Their six-shooters I hung on a tree where they could be seen, but their rifles I kept. No telling when I might have to fight and no chance to re-load.
And then I rode off and left them cussing me, which I didn’t mind, nor did I blame them. It was a sore thing to be set afoot in rough mountain country, with riding boots and a long walk ahead of you.
That night I hid out in the breaks back of Wet Bottom Creek – named for a cowpuncher who fell in – and I cooked myself a batch of bacon and some frying-pan bread. Their horses I had turned loose near sundown, figuring they would head back for the ranch.
Just short of daybreak I rolled out of my blankets and was putting my outfit together for the trail when I heard a quail call. Something about it didn’t seem right to me. There were quail all over this country, the blue Mexican quail, but that call sounded a mite odd. So I saddled up and packed up fast.
Meanwhile, another quail answered, and then a third.
My camp had been on an almost level spot under the cottonwoods and sycamores beside the creek. It was a quiet, pleasant place, with the creek chuckling along over the stones, and when the sun was up the ground under the trees was dappled with sunlight and shadow.
Below me the canyon’s walls rose almost sheer, and the canyon bottom was rarely touched by sunlight. At the point where I had made camp there was an open space, all of a half-mile long and perhaps a third as wide, with good grass. It was on the edge of this open area that I’d made my camp.
It looked across the stream toward the north and toward a canyon that opened out from that direction. On my right the upper canyon of Wet Bottom led back up toward Bull Spring Canyon and an ancient Indian trail.
It was a likely place, and I’d had hopes of staying a while, letting my horses rest and getting some rest for myself. After the bad fall I’d had I hadn’t yet fully regained my strength although I was much better. Now they had found me – of that I had no doubt. The question was, could I get out and away?
Down canyon might be the safest. Nobody was going to chase me down there, not if they were in their right mind. One man with a rifle could hold off an army there. But once out of the lower canyon I was in the valley of the Verde, and I could lay money there would be Lazy A riders or Indians patrolling along the river.
Those quails calls were likely to be Apaches, and I could expect nothing but trouble from them. The fact that some of them had helped me before meant nothing now, for the chances were slight that they would be the same bunch. Even if they were, they would be ready to earn the rewards offered them.
It was very still. Taking the bridle and lead rope, I walked to the far side of the clearing, listened, then stepped into the water of the stream. The bottom here was flat rock and coarse gravel, the water clear and cold. It had been a wet spring in this stream, which occasionally almost disappeared, was now running eighteen inches to two feet deep. As the water started to deepen, I stepped into the saddle.
The shoulder of the mesa was close on my right, and I thrust my rifle into its scabbard to give myself greater freedom of movement Any action now would be pistol action, for a man could see only a few yards in any direction.