course the Apaches might have seen it, too, and might be waiting for us down
there, for it was the only place where we could come off the mountain with any
speed. But we had not seen it from below, only from the view on the rimrock.
We gathered near the edge, the loose horses before us, held by me and Spanish.
Tampico Rocca was in the saddle, John J. Battles beside him, holding our two
horses.
It was near the middle of the night when we released our hold on the horses and
went back to step into our saddles. “All right,” I said, “let’s go.”
We started the horses forward. We made almost no sound in the night, there was a
whisper of hoofs in the sand, a slight creak of saddle leather. I could feel a
tightness in my chest, and I gripped hard on the pistol butt in my hand. This
would be close, fast work — no chance for a rifle here.
The lead horses disappeared over the edge before us and started down, and as
they reached a point about a third of the way down we let out a whoop and each
of us fired a shot.
Startled, the half-broken horses lunged into a run. They went down the slope in
a scattered band and hit the flat below running all out. A rifle flashed,
somebody shouted, and a fire flared up. The Apaches had prepared fires for
light, and they lit the wild scene with a dancing glare.
Low down on the black horse, I charged into the night, gun held low and ready.
The wind whipped my face, and the horses thundered into the Apache camp.
Off to my left Rocca’s gun was blazing. I saw a wild Apache face spring at him
out of the dark, saw the flash of the pistol, and the face vanished into the
darkness. Somewhere a horse screamed, and I heard a shout from Battles as his
horse spilled head over heels, and John J. hit the sand running. I saw him slide
to a stop and slam two fast shots at the running Apaches. Then he wheeled and,
bolstering his pistol as he moved, he made a wild grab at the streaming mane of
one of our horses, somehow turned aside from the first rush. He was almost swept
from his feet, but he went astride the horse, clinging to his hold on its mane.
Flames stabbed from every side, and then we were through the camp and racing
away down the bottom of the barranca.
My black was running all out, and I turned a little in my saddle. Rocca was
still coming, riding loose in the saddle, his hat on the back of his neck, held
by the string of his chin-strap which had slipped to his throat.
Spanish was off to my right — or so I thought — and we charged on into the
night, some of the horses running wild ahead of us, others scattered to left and
right.
We raced on, and somehow the horses found a winding trail to the cap rock and
slowed to climb it. I called out, but there was no reply. Finally the black
struggled over the rim onto the mesa. There was more light there, under the high
stars.
I drew up. Here and there I glimpsed a horse, but none that carried a rider.
Slowly I rode on, talking to the horses and hoping the others would follow.
Daylight was still far away, but none of us would dare to stop. If they were
alive they, too, would keep on.
There was no use to try to find anybody. In the darkness a body could be missed,
and any one of us would shy from any other rider for fear he was facing an
Indian.
Through the night I rode, once lifting my horse to a trot for a few miles, then
slowing again to a walk. I reloaded my gun, checked my rifle. Once, worn out as
I was, I dozed in the saddle.
Finally, in the gray light of day, I stopped. Carefully, standing in my
stirrups, I looked in every direction. I could see for a good distance on all
sides, but there was nothing but desert and sky. Wearily, I started the black
horse on again, heading north.
By noontime, with nothing in sight, I got down and stumbled on, leading the
horse. There was no telling when I might need all that horse had to make a run
for it.
There were no tracks. There was only silence. Overhead a buzzard swept down the
sky, returned and circled widely above me. After that he stayed with me, and I
figured a buzzard had pretty good judgment about where he might get a meal.
The sun was hot, and no breeze stirred. My canteen had been holed by a bullet
and was empty. I stumbled along like a sleepwalker, dead on my feet, yet not
daring to stop. Finally I gave up and climbed into the saddle again.
Ahead of me, almost lost in the blue of distance, the cap rock seemed to break
off. There were mountains beyond, behind me and to the east there was nothing.
Water … I had to have water, and so did my horse. Under a desert sun a man
cannot live long without water.
The mesa ended abruptly, but there was no trail to the rough, rolling land
below. Here there was another stretch of the rimrock, nowhere less than thirty
feet of sheer wall, then a steep, rock-strewn slope.
Far off I thought I could see a patch of green in a fold of the earth. Skirting
the cliff, I rode on. Suddenly I saw the tracks of shod hoofs.
The tracks were familiar. They were the tracks of a horse that Spanish Murphy
had ridden, a tough, mountain-bred horse, larger than the average mustang, and
weighing almost a thousand pounds. Turning into the trail, I followed it along
the rim. We came abruptly to a cleft where the rock wall had broken away and
there was an easy though steep descent to the valley below. We made it.
We rode on, the black and me, with the black quickening his pace so as to come
up with his friend. Sure enough, we’d gone not over five miles when we saw the
bay mustang ahead of us. He had stopped, and was looking ahead, ears pricked.
Well, I shucked that Winchester before you could say aye, yes, or no, and I
eared back the hammer and walked the black right up alongside that mustang. I
spoke easy to him, and he didn’t do more than side-step a mite, knowing my
voice. Then I looked where he was looking.
There was a thick clump of ironwood beside the way we were taking, and a horse
was standing head down there, just waiting, and sitting up on its back was a
man. He was sitting there, hands on the pommel, head hanging like the horse’s,
and when we started forward, he paid us no mind.
Good reason why. It was Tampico Rocca, and he was dead.
Even before I got to him I could see by the blood on his vest that he’d been
shot at least twice, but he’d lived long enough to lash one hand to the
saddlehorn and tangle the fingers of the other hand in the turns of the rope.
Rocca had said that if he got into the saddle he would stay there, and he meant
it.
Chapter 15
There was no need to stay close to him, and I was wary. Had the Apaches seen me
coming, it would have been like them to leave Rocca there, and I wanted no
traps.
An arroyo offered some shelter, and after a quick glance I rode into it and
waited there, listening.
For several minutes I watched Rocca, the horse, and the rocks around. Mostly, it
was the horse I watched, for the actions of the horse would warn me if there was
anyone close by.
Following the arroyo a little further, I saw a clump of brush and low trees near
the lip of the draw, so I rode up the bank in their shelter. After a while,
reasonably sure that it was safe, I went back to the horse and its burden.
The trailing bridle had caught in the brush, and I let it stay there while I
lifted Rocco from the saddle after freeing his hands. There was nothing with
which to prepare a grave, so I found a shallow watercourse, placed him in it,
and covered the body with brush and rocks.
But first, I had taken his guns and ammunition, to leave nothing for the Apaches
if they found him. There was a full belt of ammunition as well as some loose
cartridges. And there was a swallow of water in the canteen.