Killoe (1962) Page 10

  The sun rose behind a blanket of lowering gray cloud, and the rain settled down to a steady downpour, with little lightning, and thunder whimpering among the canyons of the far-off Guadalupes.

  Stiffly, I got to my feet and slid to the ground. Donning my slicker, I looked carefully around.

  The earth was dark with rain, the ground where the camp stood was churned into mud, and wherever I looked the sky was heavy with rain clouds that lay low above the gray hills. The Pecos rushed by—dark, swirling waters that seemed to have lost their reddish tinge. Crossing the camp, I picked up Pa’s body and carried it to shelter under the wagon, then began to look around.

  On the edge of camp I found Bud Caldwell… he was dead. Another man, unknown to me, but obviously a Comanchero, lay dead near the river bank.

  Ignoring their bodies, I gathered the body of Ben Cole in my arms and carried him to where Pa lay.

  We desperately needed horses, but there were none in sight. There was a dead horse and a saddle lying not too away and, walking to them, I took the saddle from the horse, tugging the girth from beneath it. The horse lay upon soft mud, and the girth came out without too much trouble. Then I removed the bridle and carried them to the wagon.

  Tim Foley got down from the wagon. “Tim,” I said, “you and Mrs. Foley can help. Go through both wagons and sort out all the food you can find that’s still good. Also, collect all the canteens, bedding, and whatever there is in the way of ammunition and weapons.”

  He nodded, looking around grimly. “They ruined us, Dan. They ruined us.”

  “Don’t you believe it. We’re going to make it through to the Copper Mines, and then we’ll see. If you find Pa’s papers, account books and the like, you put them aside for me.”

  Zeno Yearly got down from the wagon also. He looked wan and sick, but he glanced at me with a droll smile. “We got us a long walk, Dan. You much on walking?”

  Together we hunted around. There was no sign of Jim Poor, I but he might have been drowned or swept away by the river. The one thing none of us was talking about was the kids. Tim’s two boys and Stark’s children. Nobody had seen a sign of them since the attack, yet I had seen them bedded down and asleep when I was awakened o go out for my night guard.

  Zeno and me walked slow up along the bank of the river. Whatever tracks there had been were washed out. It was unbelievable that they could all have survived, but the fact that we saw no bodies gave us hope.

  Zeno and I spread out, and suddenly he gave a call. He was standing looking down at or into something. When I got over there, I saw that he was standing on the edge of some limestone sinks.

  The earth had caved in or sunk in several places that were thirty feet or more in diameter. Looking across the hole where Zeno stood, we could see the dark opening of a cave.

  Zeno called out and, surprisingly, there was an answering call. Out of a cave under the very edge where we stood came Milo Dodge.

  “Heard you talkin’,” he said. “You all right?”

  “You seen the youngsters?”

  “They’re here with me, all dry and safe. Emma Stark is here, too.”

  Slowly, they climbed out of the cave and showed themselves. Milo climbed up to where we were.

  “Frank Kelsey’s dead. He lived through the night, died about daybreak. He caught two damned bad ones, low down and mean … right through the belly.”

  “Pa’s dead,” I said, “and Ben Cole.”

  “Emma Stark got the youngsters out when the first attack hit, and I’d seen this place, so I hustled them over here. I got in a couple of good shots, and missed one that I wished had hit.”

  “What do you mean?” He had a look in his eyes that puzzled me.

  “Ira Tilton,” Dodge said. “He was with them. When they came riding in he was alongside Bud Caldwell. I took a shot at him.”

  “Remember the fight Tap had with Webb Holt? If Ira was with them, that explains how those other men showed up so unexpectedly. He must have warned them.”

  “I’ll make it my business,” Milo said coldly. “I want that man.”

  “You’ll have to get to him before I do,” Zeno said. “I never liked him.”

  Slowly we gathered together, and it was a pitiful bunch we made.

  Tim Foley, Milo Dodge, Zeno Yearly, and me … three women, five children. Foley’s boys were fourteen and ten …

  Emma Stark’s youngsters were a girl thirteen, and two boys, one nine, one a baby.

  “First off,” I said, “we’d better move into that cave, Milo. The women and youngsters can hide there while we hunt horses. I can’t believe they were all driven off, and I think we should have a look around. Some of those horses may come back to camp.”

  We stripped the wagons of what was left that we could use, and took only the simplest of gear. We moved our beds and cooking utensils down there, and what little food was left, and we moved our ammunition too.

  Zeno and I started out in one direction, each of us with a rope. Milo and Tim started out the other way. Unluckily the storm had left no tracks, but we had agreed not to go far, to keep a wary eye out for Comanches, and if we found nothing within a few miles, to return.

  Zeno and me climbed a long, muddy slope to the top of the rounded-off ridge. The country was scattered with soapweed, prickly pear, and mesquite. Far off, we saw something that might be a horse, or maybe a steer—at that distance, we couldn’t make it out.

  “There’s another!” Zeno picked it out with his finger. “Let’s go!” I

  We started off, walking in the direction of the animal we had seen, and when we had gone scarcely half a mile we could make it out to be a steer. It was Old Brindle, our lead steer. “You ever ride a steer, Dan?”

  “When I was a youngster—sure. I don’t think anybody could ride Old Brindle, though.”

  “Maybe.” Zeno looked at him with speculative eyes. “Toward the end there, he was getting mighty friendly. Acted as though he and us were handling that herd together.

  Let’s go get him.”

  Well, we walked along toward him, and pretty soon he sighted us. We saw his big head come up—his horns were eight feet from tip to tip—and then he walked out toward us, dipping his horns a little as if ready for battle. A man on the ground is usually fair game for any steer, although they will rarely attack a man on horseback.

  He came toward us and I spoke to him, and he watched us, his eyes big and round, his head up. Turning away, I started toward that other animal. “Come on, boy!” I said. “You’re with US.”

  And you know something? That big old steer fell in behind us like a big dog, and he walked right along, stopping when we stopped, moving when we moved.

  “He might stand for a pack,” I said, “and if he did, it would take a load off us.”

  “We can try.”

  And then we had a real break.

  Rounding the clump of mesquite that lay between us and the other animal we had seen, we saw it. Standing there in a sort of hollow was that line-back dun of mine, and with him were two other horses from the remuda. One was a bay pony, the other a paint.

  I called out to the dun, and he shied off, but I shook out a loop. He ducked and trotted around, but when the loop dropped over his head he stood still, and I think he was glad to be caught. Horses and dogs thrive better in the vicinity of men, and they know it. Moreover, they are sociable animals, and like nothing better than to be around men and to be talked to.

  Rigging a hackamore from some piggin strings, I mounted up, and soon had caught the paint. Zeno was packing the bridle I’d found on Bud Galdwell’s dead horse if it was his—and he was soon riding the second horse. The third one was more shy, but he seemed to want to stay with the other horses, and when we started back toward camp he followed along and pretty soon Zeno dabbed a loop on him.

  Foley and Dodge returned empty-handed. They had seen fresh tracks, however, made since the rain, of both cattle and horses.

  We camped that night in the cave, and made a sparing
supper of the remnants of some salt pork and beans.

  “This cave goes away back,” Foley commented. “Looks like the whole country’s undermined with it. I used to live in limestone country in Kentucky, and believe me, caves like this can run for miles.”

  At daybreak we loaded what gear we had and moved out. The youngsters and the women were to take turns riding, and surprisingly enough, Old Brindle seemed pleased with his pack. That cantankerous old mossyhorn was full of surprises, but he had gotten used to folks, and he liked being around them. Not that Conchita and the youngsters hadn’t helped by feeding him chunks of biscuit or corn pone touched with molasses.

  We made a sorry outfit, but we started off. The bodies of Pa and the others were buried in a row, and what little we could find of Freeman Squires.

  There was no sign of Zebony Lambert, of Jim Poor or the Sandys.

  The last I’d seen of Zeb he had jumped on a horse behind a Comanche and gone riding away into the night, fighting with him. Maybe he was a prisoner, and maybe he got off scot-free. Anyway, we had found no other bodies, though in hunting horses we had looked around a good bit.

  We kept going, and by nightfall came up to a place in the bend of Delaware Creek.

  There had been a big encampment here at some time in the past, and there was a lot of wood lying about, and one busted-down wagon from which two wheels had been taken.

  The grass was the best we had seen in weeks, and there were a couple of clumps of mesquite of fair size. About sundown Zeno killed an antelope, and we had ante lope steaks for supper. It was the first good meal we had since leaving the Pecos.

  We took turns standing guard, for we figured we weren’t finished with the Comancheros, and wanted to be ready for them. It was nigh on to midnight when I heard a horse coming. He was coming right along, but when he got somewhere out there in the darkness, he stopped.

  My dun whinnied, and he answered, and came closer. It was Conchita’s big horse.

  Shaking her awake, I explained, and she got up quickly and went to the edge of the firelight, calling him. He came right up to her and started to nuzzle her hand as if looking for corn or sugar or something. He was wearing a saddle and bridle of Spanish style, with a high cantle and too much tree for my taste. There was a good rifle in the scabbard, and the saddlebags were evidently packed full.

  Conchita opened the saddlebags. There were a couple of small packets of ammunition and a buckskin sack containing some gold pieces.

  She handed this to me. “We can use that,” she said. Nothing had been said about Miguel, but I could see by the stillness of her face and a tightness around her eyes that she was trying to maintain her composure. His body had not been found, and nobody could recall seeing him after the first burst of fighting.

  Obviously, the big horse had been captured along with the rest of the stock, but he had thrown his rider at some later time and returned to us.

  “No man had ridden him,” Conchita explained. “He would have watched for his chance to throw any rider but myself, or perhaps some other woman.”

  We moved westward, and the clouds withdrew and the sun came out. Heat returned to the plains … the grass grew sparser again, there was little fuel. We men walked … and we saw no Indians.

  On the third day we killed an ox we found on the desert. Obviously left behind by some wagon train passing through, perhaps long before, he had fattened on mesquite beans. We killed and butchered the ox, and that night we dined on good beef and cut much of the remainder into strips to smoke over the fire.

  In the distance we could see the tower of Guadalupe Mountain shouldering against the sky.

  Surprisingly, we made better time than with the herd and wagons. On the first day after finding Conchita’s horse we put sixteen miles behind us, but we made dry camp that night.

  Morning came and we were moving out before dawn, with Zeno and myself off in the lead. The women and youngsters on the horses came in between, and Tim Foley brought up the rear with Milo Dodge.

  The desert shimmered with heat waves, and on the open plain weird dust-devils danced, A chaparral cock appeared from out of nowhere and ran along beside us. Everywhere we passed what had been pools from the rain, now dried up, the earth cracked and turning t dust. Our canteens were nearly empty, and there was no food left but the strips of dried, smoked beef.

  The soil was hard and gravelly; there were frequent limestone outcroppings, and low hills. Westward was the beckoning finger of Guadalupe Mountain. Toward dusk we made camp in a little valley where the grazing was good. There were a few trees here, and three springs, one of them smelling strongly of sulphur and a soda spring, but the third was pure, cold water.

  Foley helped his wife from the saddle, and for a moment they stood together, her arms clinging to his. Her naturally florid features were burned even redder by the sun and wind, but she was pale beneath the color, and he led her carefully to a place under a tree, where she sat down.

  The children scattered to gather wood and cow chips for a fire, and Zeno led the horses into the shelter of the trees.

  Tim Foley walked over to where I stood talking to Zeno Yearly. “My old woman’s about had it, Dan. She’s done up. If she don’t get some food and proper rest soon, we won’t have her with us long.”

  “You’re looking kind of long in the tooth yourself, Tim,” I said, “but you’re right.

  Seems like we’d better get some meat before we pull out of here.”

  “This is Apache country,” Milo Dodge said, “so keep an eye out.”

  It was finally settled that I would go alone, and the other three would remain behind to keep a sharp lookout. Foley’s boy was provided with a rifle, for he was fourteen and coming on to manhood, and they settled down to guard the womenfolks and the horses.

  Wearing my two pistols, with the Patterson fully loaded, I walked out. Twice I saw rattlers, but I left them alone.

  The evening was still. The desert was gathering shadows in the low places, and the distant mountains were taking on the soft mauve and purple of evening. Somewhere out on the desert a quail called … and after a minute, there was an answer. These were the blue quail, which rarely fly, but run swiftly along the ground. They were small, scarcely larger than a pigeon.

  Twice I paused, and with piggin strings, the short strips of rawhide carried by a cowhand for tying the legs of a calf, I rigged several snares where I had seen rabbit tracks.

  But I found no game. Toward dusk I did get a shot at a quail, and killed it. Returning home, I had only the quail to show. At daybreak I checked my traps and found I’d caught a large jackass rabbit. What meat there was on him was divided among the women and children.

  So we started on at the break of dawn. The Guadalupe Peak loomed higher than ever, and the long. range that stretched out to the north from behind it seemed dark and ominous. Tim Foley, who was the oldest of us all, fell down twice that day. Each time he got up slowly, carefully, and came on.

  We camped that night after making only a few miles, in a small grove of live oak and pines, with the mountain looming over US.

  Tim Foley dropped to the ground, exhausted, and it was Mile and Zeno who stripped the saddles from the horses and helped the women down. Taking my Patterson, I walked out at degnee.

  To tell you the truth, I was scared. We men had gone a whole day without food, and during the past four or five days had been on mighty short rations. Tim was older than we were, and had lived a life in the saddle, but it was still a good long trek to the Copper Mines for all of us.

  Nobody had much to keep them going, and if I did not scare up food of some kind we were not much further. going Several times I saw deer droppings, but all were old, and I saw no deer, nor any recent tracks. Because this was Apache country, I did not wish to shoot unless I was sure of a kill.

  It was very still. Sweat trickled down my chest under my shirt. The sky overhead was very blue, and the clouds had gone. For some reason my nerves were suddenly on edge, yet I had heard nothing
, seen nothing. Carefully, I edged forward.

  Far overhead a lone buzzard circled lazily against the blue. The vague trail I followed now had carried me over a thousand feet above the tiny valley where our camp lay concealed. Drying my hands on my shirt, I started forward again. Suddenly, on the edge of a cliff some fifty yards away, I saw a bighorn sheep.

  He was a big fellow, and he was watching something below him. His big horns curved around and forward, and he had the color of a deer, or close to it, and the same sort of hair. It was the first bighorn I had seen.

  Carefully, leaning my shoulder against the cliff, I lifted the Patterson and took a careful sight on a point just back of his neck. I was trying for a spine shot, hoping to stop him where he was. Shot through the heart, he might disappear into the rocks and be lost. Deer will often run half a mile after a heart shot and the bighorn might do even more, and this was a rugged country.

  But even as I laid the sights on the point where I wished the bullet to strike, the poise and attention of the sheep worried me. Lowering the rifle, I eased forward a step further, and looked down into the rugged country below.

  The first thing I saw was a cow … it was a white-faced longhorn cow, and then behind it came another and another, and they were our cows. And then a man stepped from the brush. It was Jim Poor!

  Holding still, I watched them slowly come from a draw onto the open mountainside, at least thirty head of cattle, some cows, some young stuff, and a few old steers, and behind them walked two men, and a woman who rode their one horse.

  Catching myself just as I started to call out, I looked again at the bighorn. He had drawn back and turned away from me, and he was ready to get out of there, and fast. Lifting the Patterson, I caught my sight again, and squeezed off the shot.

  The bighorn leaped straight up and landed with his legs spread out. He started to go forward and I steadied the rifle for another shot. Just as I was about to fire, his knees buckled and he fell forward on one shoulder and lay still.