stays there — that is, if he rides in of his own notion, and not forced.
It was a long chance, for we were already shooting-enemies. They most likely
knew me by sight by this time. Yet try as I might, I just couldn’t come up with
any other idea. But what to do when I got into their camp? How to get Spanish
out of there?
I could get along in the language. Not that I was an easy talker like Tampico
Rocca, but I could make out.
Spanish Murphy was in this fix because he had chosen to ride with me to Mexico,
and it was up to me to take him from those Apaches, or to die with him.
I was packing plenty of iron. My Winchester was loaded, and I carried a
six-shooter in my holster, with which I’d always been considered uncommonly
swift There was another six-shooter tucked into my belt.
So I swung my black horse up that bank and rode in amongst them.
For a minute there, you never saw anybody more surprised. These were Netdahee
Apaches — killer warriors — dedicated to wiping out their enemies.
Now, as I’ve said, the Indian is a curious sort of man. They were bred to
battle, and among the Apaches the Netdahee were the fiercest, a warrior society
of chosen men. They appreciated nerve, but they were curious, and maybe they
wanted to see what I was going to do. Maybe it was because I was inside their
camp, but nobody lifted a hand.
My eyes took in the lot of them, methodically picking the ones at whom I would
shoot first. If trouble started I’d have small time to pick targets, but if I
could nail a few of them …
“Greetings!” I spoke to them in Apache. “I have come for my friend!”
Chapter 9
They turned like tigers at bay, cornered, their black eyes staring. Of the nine
of them, one was wearing an old Army coat, another a faded red shirt, and the
others were naked except for breech-clouts and knee-high, Apache-style
moccasins.
One held a rifle, two had pistols, and one held a bow and a handful of arrows.
The others were armed only with their knives. Their rifles and bows lay near the
fire.
The Apache with the bow and the one with the rifle, those I’d take first. An
Apache can shoot his arrows just as fast as a man can work the lever on a
Winchester … and they made a nastier wound.
“The man you have tied is my friend. We have come far together, and we have
fought well together. He is a good man in the desert or in the mountains.”
My sudden appearance had startled them, and they were unsure. Was I alone? I saw
their eyes go to the rocks around their camp.
They could not believe I would ride into their camp alone. There was brush along
both sides of the stream from where I had come, and the hills at this point were
lower and covered with boulders.
They were all in front of me now, and I dared not ride among them. Taking my
time, and lifting one hand to hold them as they were, I then lifted my rifle and
pointed it at Spanish, then lowered the muzzle a trifle and fired.
My bullet cut the rope where it passed around the tree to which Spanish was
tied. He tugged, the rope loosened, and he tugged again.
Suddenly one of the Apaches moved. “Kill him!” he shrieked.
And I shot the man with the bow, then spurred the black and he leaped among
them. I fired again, missed, and swung the stock of my rifle against an Apache
skull. My horse went through them, turned swiftly, and started back.
A shot came from the rocks, then another. Spanish was loose and running toward
the Apache horses.
A lean, fierce-looking Indian started for him and I held my sight an instant on
his spine, then squeezed off the shot. The Apache kept running straight into a
large boulder, hit it and seemed to rebound, then fell.
One Apache warrior made a running dive and sprang at me, grasping my saddle and
swinging up to my horse, striving to get behind me.
I struck out savagely, guiding my horse with my knees, and for an instant we
fought desperately. But I had both feet in my stirrups and a better purchase
than he, so I threw him loose.
Spanish came charging from the horses, riding his own mount, and we went into
the stream-bed side by side at a dead run, while the Apaches vanished into the
rocks, shooting at the surrounding hills.
As we hit the sand of the stream-bed there was a rattle of rocks and, swinging
around ready to fire, we saw Tampico Rocca and Battles riding neck and neck down
the slope in a cascade of gravel.
We raced our horses for half a mile, then slowed to save them, and almost at
once saw a fairly wide trail run off to the north from the stream. We took it,
and crossed over a low hill into what must have been another part of the same
stream-bed.
Then we held our horses to a good steady pace, keeping a sharp lookout behind.
Nobody was talking. Me, I was watching the trail for some sign of Dorset and the
boy, but we saw no tracks. We were riding in the lower foothills of the Sierra
Madre now, and while the ridges were covered with pines, the lower slopes were a
lush growth of maple, juniper, oak, and willow, with a thick underbrush of rose
and hackberry. Small streams were frequent
Somehow, more by chance than by skill, we had thrown them off our trail, but we
knew better than to think it meant anything more than a breather. Surprise had
worked for us, but the Apaches would find our trail, and they would catch up.
We lifted our horses into a trot, frequently glancing back over our shoulders,
yet always watching the ridges around. We were now traversing a broken but
relatively open country with trees along the streams or growing here and there
in small clumps. After the heavy rains our passage raised no dust, and the hoofs
of our horses made little sound in the grass.
Twice we forded streams, three times we rode upstream or downstream in the water
to lose whatever trail we might leave.
Once in the shade of great arching trees, while giving our horses a breather and
a chance to drink at a small stream, I told them about Dorset Binny and the boy.
“If anything happens to me,” I said, “find them and get them out of here.”
The other youngsters had been riding quiet, scared and hungry, no doubt. Had it
been us alone we’d never have chanced stopping to fix grub, but the children
needed it, and we found ourselves a likely spot. While Rocca stood watch and
Spanish fixed some food, Battles and me turned in under a tree for some sleep.
It seemed like years since I’d caught more than a few catnaps.
When I woke up my mouth was dry, and I sat up, staring around, just taking
stock. It was almighty quiet, a beautiful quiet such as you only find in the
forest. Far off, we could hear the stir of wind in the pines, a wonderful sound.
Closer to, there was only the murmur of water around the stones of the creek,
and a faint chirping of birds. It was a natural, friendly quiet
Tampico Rocca and Spanish came over to me. Battles was on lookout, perched up
among the rocks where he could keep out of sight and still look the country
over. The youngsters were sleeping.
“Got any idea where we are?” I asked Rocca.
“I been thinking on it.” With his finger he drew a wavy line in the sand. “This
here is the Bavispe,” he said, and he pointed west. “She lies right yonder. If
we cross the river there’s some ranches. I wouldn’t count on there being folks
about, but it could be. Mostly the Apaches have wiped ’em put, burned ’em out,
or stole them out. But it would be a good place to stop. There’ll be old walls,
water, and grass.
“Next we head for the Santa Margaritas … I know an old mining camp where we
can hole up. Then we can head for Chinapa, on the Sonora River.”
“Sounds good.”
Spanish was chewing on a blade of grass. “Fact remains,” he said, “that we
didn’t get what we come for. We didn’t find your nephew.”
Rocca was looking at me, watching me. “The little ones,” he said, “they know
nothing of such a boy … and they would know if the Indians had him.”
“I put no faith in women,” Spanish said, “meanin’ no offense, but did you ever