dead. There was a rifle in the saddle scabbard, so I took it along. There was no
canteen.
We rode out of there at a good clip. The country ahead promised nothing. We had
two, three days to cross the border, but we’d not be safe until we got to Pete
Kitchen’s or to the settlement on the border.
Taking advantage of every chance to mask my trail, and trying to keep down the
dust, I rode north, leading Spanish on Rocca’s horse. The wind was picking up a
mite, which might drift enough sand to cover my tracks, but there was small
chance it would be in time. Several times I slowed down, checking animal tracks,
and watching for any sign that might indicate water.
The trail behind was empty, and the trail ahead looked clear. I rode in my own
small world of sunlight, the movement of horses, and the smell of dust and
sweat. Ahead of me, on the right, a sawtooth range showed itself above the
flatter country around us.
I slowed my horse to a walk, for there were dark streaks of sweat along his
flanks. An arroyo opened ahead of me, and I rode into it and found a way up the
opposite bank. A towering butte was ahead for destination.
The bullet smashed against the pommel of my saddle, then ricocheted away with a
nasty whine, and the heavy report of the rifle followed. Slapping spurs to my
horse, I started to run him as three Apaches broke from cover to my right. They
had waited in ambush, but my dip into the arroyo had fooled them and now they
came running.
Turning in the saddle, I taken aim as best I might and fired … once, twice …
three times. I saw a horse stagger and go down, spilling head over heels in the
sand.
Ahead of me three more Apaches had come from right out of the desert, it seemed.
I turned my mount a little away from them and raced on, holding my fire. Behind
me Spanish rode like a sack of grain in the saddle, his body lurching with every
jump, yet somehow he remained upright.
They came at me, and suddenly I wheeled the black and charged into them, firing
my Winchester with one hand as if it was a pistol.
The sudden switch surprised them and one of them turned so sharply his horse
spilled into the sand. Another was right ahead of my rifle barrel and not thirty
feet away when I shot into his chest, dusting him on both sides. He went down,
and then we were through and riding for that butte.
Behind me there was a shot and something brushed at my shoulder, but we were off
and away. Sliding my Winchester into its scabbard, I drew a six-gun and fired,
slowly and deliberately, trying for a score. The first shot missed, so did the
second. Then an Apache elected to swing his horse around a small cedar just as I
thumbed back the hammer. He was broadside to me and I let go, heard the slam of
the shot, and saw the Apache lurch in the saddle, then swing off to one side,
barely clinging to his horse.
Suddenly, from ahead there was the hard bark of a rifle, and glancing back, I
saw another Indian falling. I raced forward, scarcely daring to believe it could
be help, but the Apaches, wily fighters always, were swinging away. And Spanish
was still riding behind me.
The desert fell away in a long slope ahead of us, and on the rim stood John J.
Battles, dusty, bloody, his hat gone, his shirt torn. He got up from the ground
as we approached and swung into the saddle … and he had the pack horse.
“She found me,” he said. “Came trailing along the desert, part of her pack gone,
the rest hanging under her belly.”
“Did you see anything of the youngsters?” I asked.
“No, not a sign.” He looked back at Spanish. “He hurt bad?”
“I haven’t had time to look. I think so.”
We pushed on, praying for the night to hurry, and finally it came. Our horses
slowed to a walk, and Battles and me, we swung down to save them as much as we
might.
“How far d’you think to the border?” Battles asked. “Maybe sixty miles,” I
said. “Might be less.” He stopped to work his toes around in his boots. I knew
the signs, for I was doing the same thing. We were, both almighty tired. I
figured I was stronger than him, and I’d been running on nerve. I seemed to have
been hot, tired, and sore as long as I could remember. My muscles ached, my eyes
hurt from the glare, and felt all the time as if they had sand in them. I was
wanting to stop with every step, and I knew the horses didn’t feel any better.
But we kept on, because neither of us was smart enough to quit. Finally Battles
stumbled and went to his knees, and he was slow getting up.
“You better get on your horse and ride for it,” he said. “Ride that horse to
death if need be, but get to safety. We just ain’t a-going to make it like
this.”
I didn’t answer, but kept on going. Every time I put one foot ahead of the other
I figured I’d gained just that much. Then when I had stumbled a couple of times
myself, I realized the black horse was tugging at the bridle. He wanted to go
off to the east.
“Mount up, John J.,” I said. “Maybe we’ve found something, but you hold ready to
shoot, because we may find trouble.” I was so dry I had to try twice before I
could make the words come.
Once in the saddle, I just let the black have his head, and that horse started
off at a good clip, considering the shape he was in. And the others came on
behind, Spanish Murphy still a-setting up there like a preacher pronouncing
sentence on Satan, his head bowed but his shoulders hunched as if he figured
maybe Satan was aiming to get in one more blow.
It wasn’t long before we felt a coolness, and the horses lurched down into an
arroyo and all of a sudden we came up to a small fire where there were four or
five Apaches gathered around, eating a fresh-killed horse.
No telling who was the most surprised, but Battles got off the first shot and he
drilled one of those Injuns with meat in his teeth, and the rest of them fell
away into the shadows like so many ghosts. I slammed spurs to my black and
jumped him across the fire in time to see one Apache snaking into the brush, and
I cut down on him. Something slammed alongside my head and I felt myself hit
ground, bounce, and fall free, losing a boot in the stirrup.
I rolled over, my Winchester gone in the brush, and I clawed for a six-shooter.
And then I froze right where I lay, because an Apache was standing astride of me
and he had the razor edge of his blade right across my throat. He was looking me
right in the eyes, and I could see the firelight on his scarred face, and we
knew one another at the first glance. It was Kahtenny, the Indian I hadn’t been
willing to kill, way back there in my fight with the Apaches.
“You better hold back on that edge,” I said. “You’re liable to cut somebody.”
Chapter 16
He still stood astride of me, that knife edge against my throat, and he never
moved it one mite. He kept looking right into my eyes and I looked right back at
him, and I knew all he had to do was make one quick slash to end my days.
Then easylike, to give no false notions, I lifted my hand to his wrist and
pushed the blade away, very gently.
“That’s a good knife. Got quite an edge to it,” I said.
“You are brave man. You are warrior.”
“We are warriors together,” I said. “It is enough for you and for me that we
know each other.”
The other Apaches were filtering back out of the darkness, and their black eyes
were reaching to me in anticipation, I expect, for the torture of a strong
prisoner was a pleasure not to be missed.
Right off I recognized Toclani among them. He had served in the army under Emmet
Crawford as one of his company of Apache scouts. Toclani and me, we had ridden
together, shared our grub, and fought side by side against other Apaches. Now I
had no idea whether that would help me any at all, for Toclani might have
returned to the wild ones, the broncho Apaches who fought whoever stood in their