my fire. One branch of the tree extended across a corner of the wall, and I
ducked under it and rolled away a couple of fallen stones that lay there. The
big fallen limb and its branches offered partial cover for the comer, so I cut
some pine branches and wove them in among the branches of the maple until I had
a fair shelter.
Tying the black horse under the maple, but on a rope long enough so he could
graze, I carried the saddle and gear to the shelter. The boy was already seated
in the corner.
From under a couple of fallen trees I peeled some dry bark, gathered twigs from
the fallen maple limb, and in a few minutes I had a fire going. It looked good,
and felt better.
I had built the fire close against the wall so the heat would be reflected, and
there we huddled in reasonable comfort. The wall, the sheltering trees, and our
improvised shelter kept off most of the rain. After a few minutes, the boy fell
asleep.
I checked my guns, made sure my rifle was fully loaded, and trusting to the
black to warn me, I huddled against the wall on the opposite side of the fire
from the boy, and slept too.
Chapter 8
The night wind moaned in the passes, and the small fire sputtered. The fuel
burned down to coals, and the coals were a dull red except when touched briefly
by the wind. The rain had come to an end, but big drops fell now and again from
the leaves of the maple.
From time to time I opened my eyes, looked around, land slept again. It was
always so with me … I can remember few nights when I slept the hours through
without awakening, usually to lie awake listening for a while, sometimes to get
up and prowl restlessly.
The black horse, now that the rain had stopped, moved away from the tree to crop
the thick grass. Up on the ridges the grass had been sparse and had little
nourishment, but the grass that grew around the fallen stones was rich and
green.
You know how it is when you hear something a long time before you are really
aware of it? It was like that now with riders coming down the trail. Most likely
I didn’t hear much … maybe only a whisper of sound … maybe some hidden sense
felt the difference in the night, for they came like ghosts in the darkness, or
like wolves, soft-footed and sure of their prey.
They must have been puzzled, and worried too, for I’d come down the trail of the
Old Ones, where no one ever rode.
It was a spirit trail, and they would not have liked it, especially in the
night. Their horses would be mountain-bred and sure-footed, and more than likely
they had known this valley of the ruins when they ran wild, for there was grass
here, good grass and water.
These riders must have been slow in getting away from their rancheria, coming
after my tracks had crossed the trail of the Apaches that pursued my compadres.
Seeing the tracks of my lone horse, they had followed, sure of a kill.
My small fire gave off so little smoke as to remain undetected, and its slight
red glow would be hidden by the tree and the wall. Yet they found me. I suppose
they heard my horse cropping grass.
All was still in my camp. A drop fell hissing into the coals, and my horse
stopped cropping grass and lifted his head, blowing softly through his nostrils.
I came clean awake.
An instant I lay there, listening, and then I rolled over and left the blanket
in a long smooth dive into the darkness, and heard the whip of an arrow as I
went. When I looked back, I saw that the arrow had gone through my blanket into
the ground.
They came in fast, and my butt stroke missed the head of the nearest attacker,
and hit his shoulder, staggering him. Then my rifle was knocked from my hands.
Now, back yonder in the mountains where I hail from, the boys and men do a sight
of knuckle and skull thumping. The girls go to the dances for the dancing and
the boys, and the boys go for the fighting and the girls.
Me being such a tall kind of homely boy, I had more time for fighting. Then in
the Army, and on the river boats, and all — well, I’d done my share. So when I
lost my rifle it just sort of freed me for fighting.
A body lunged against mine and I butted at the face, used my knee in his crotch,
lifting him clean off the ground, so as I could lay hands on him. I fairly
picked him up and threw him, and then I took a roundhouse swing at something
coming at me. I saw a knife flash, and my fist landed and I felt bone crunch.
It was bang with both hands, swing, grab, but Apaches were fair hands at
wrestling, but they had no experience at fist-fighting, and that was what I was
doing. One short, powerful Apache grabbed me by the arm and the waist to throw
me, but I brought my boot heel down on his instep and he let go and I could
swing my elbow against his ear.
It was kind of lively there for a few minutes. There was three of them, but I
was bigger and stronger. One of them jumped on my back with his forearm across
my throat, but I grabbed his hand and elbow and flung him over my shoulder and
smack down across the stone wall. He hit hard, and I heard him scream. And just
then there was a shot.
Coming from outside of camp, it caught us unawares, but I saw an Apache fall and
then the others ghosted into the night, one of them dragging the one I’d thrown
across the wall. Then they disappeared like drops of water into a pool. They
were there, and they were gone.
The one who had been shot was lying there near the fire, and Harry, his skins
clutched around him, was sitting up, huddled and scared, in the corner of the
wall.
And then a low voice said, “Hello, the camp!”
I said, “Come in, if you’re of a mind to,” and the next thing there walks into
camp the cutest button of a girl you ever laid eyes on.
She was scarcely more than five feet tall and wore a buckskin hunting shirt that
looked better than any such shirt I’d ever seen before. She was quick and pert,
and she was leading her pony, but the Winchester in her hands wasn’t for fun —
that Apache would have realized it had he lived past her bullet.
She held out her hand. “I am Dorset Binny,” she said, “and I hope you will
forgive me for not looking as much like a lady as I should.”
“Ma’am,” I assured her, honestly enough, “when you come up like that and shoot
that straight, I couldn’t care how you’re dressed.”
And I added, “I am William Tell Sackett, and the boy yonder is Harry Brook,
recently taken back from the Apaches.”
We had both moved back into the shadows, and with that much said we took to
listening. It was my idea those Apaches had them a bellyful, but they weren’t
alone, and this was no place to dally.
“Some other children got away, didn’t they?”
“Yes — a couple of boys and a small girl.”
“The girl was my sister. That is why I am here.” Well, she was talking to a
shadow, for I was already saddling up. Right then, what I wanted between me and
those Apaches was distance, for within a matter of hours this mountain would be
alive with them, like a kicked anthill with ants.
She came along with me and the boy, and for an hour we followed the old trail
north, then we turned west, taking a trail on which I found no tracks. Once in a
while through the parted clouds I could see the sky, and sometimes a star was
right above us. Black walls crowded closer, and we were skirting some almighty
big boulders. Me, I kept thinking what a nasty place we were in, with the
weather what it was. A body didn’t need to look at the walls for a high-water
mark. You just knew that the water must run through here thirty feet deep for an
hour or two after a heavy storm. But the water had already passed on … and I
wished for no more rain now.
The folks that had made this trail had no horses, it was a moccasin trail. After
a while we had to get down and lead, for there was just no riding, but I let