Hondo (1953) Page 10

  A faint sound reached him: a hoof on stone, the creak of saddle leather.

  Lowe drew back, triumph choking him. “We got him!” he breathed. “Let’s move back a bit. We got him right where we want him!”

  Chapter Eleven

  When Angie had collected a double handful of the tender stalks of the squaw cabbage she put them in a basket and straightened to look at the hills. They were brown now, the grass fading under the blazing summer heat.

  The days had passed slowly, each filled with its quota of work, but days that found her going more and more often to look from her doorstep at the surrounding hills. Hondo had said nothing of returning, and yet within her she was sure he had intended to come back.

  Had she really read that intention in him, or was it only that the wish was father to the thought? And her time was growing short. At any time Vittoro might return and say that she must choose now. Perhaps she should have gone with Hondo when he wanted to take her. She might be with him now. Yet she could not bear to leave all this, this place to which she had given the labor of her hands, and where she had seen her father rebuild the house, and lay the poles for the corral.

  A man might drift, but a woman must belong somewhere, if it was no more than a hovel on a hillside. A woman must have a home, and this belonged to her. To herself and to Johnny.

  There had been a great battle fought. That she knew from the scalps she had seen and the cavalry horses ridden by the Apaches. They had slaughtered one and eaten it not a half mile down the arroyo. Why the Apaches preferred horse and mule meat to good beef she did not know, but so they did, preferring mule meat to all else.

  Her father had told her once that the early-day mountain men had liked the meat of the panther best, preferring it to the most tender venison. And they had their choice of game in a country where only Indians had hunted and there was much game.

  Picking up her basket, she walked back, going a little out of her way to look at the bushes along the creek. There would be berries later in the season. Maybe enough to preserve some for the winter. This year would be the first when Johnny could help, and anxious as he was to appear a man, she knew he would do more than his share.

  She had reached the house and was washing the cabbage stalks when she heard the rush of hoofs. At one moment the ranch was silent and the next it was a circle of rushing horses, a half-dozen hard-riding Indians sweeping by at a dead run, picking objects from the ground, leaping on and off their horses, performing like a circus gone mad.

  Rifle in hand, she stopped at the door, staring in consternation at the yelling, charging Indians. Then she saw Vittoro, standing calmly beside the door.

  “I thought the Apache were always silent.”

  “Except during the squaw-seeking ceremony.”

  Angie felt her heart miss a beat. For an instant she held herself still. “The what?”

  “Ceremony of seeking new squaw. Then the braves show off their skill that the squaw may choose.”

  He took a step forward and lifted a hand. “Hola!”

  The Indians swung into a charging line and rode up, rearing their horses, then quieting them to sit waiting.

  “You will pick one. It is not good for Small Warrior to grow up without a father to teach him how to perform a man’s duty.”

  Fascinated, she stared at Vittoro, and then at the Indians. Physically, they were magnificent specimens. Two were tall, the others the barrel-chested men of medium height typical of the Apaches. All were dressed in their fanciest regalia, but at least two wore parts of uniforms taken from dead soldiers.

  Vittoro gestured at the one on the left. “This is the one called Emiliano. Very brave, and has six horses. Two squaws, but one is old and will soon be gone. He is a good hunter. It is never hungry where he sits.

  “This one is Kloori. Ten horses, only one squaw. He is …”

  Turning swiftly, Angie ran into the house, her heart throbbing painfully, too frightened almost to breathe. As she fought to regain control, tears came into her eyes. She heard Vittoro come into the house behind her, and turned quickly to face him.

  Turning to Johnny, he said, “Go stand by my horse.”

  “Yes, Vittoro.”

  When the boy had gone the old Indian said sternly, “Small Warrior is never to see tears. The Apache does not weep.”

  Angie drew herself up. Desperation gave her strength. “Chief, you can’t make me … I’m married.”

  “Married? Oh, the white man’s word for it. You are a fool. Your man is dead.”

  “No. I do not know he is dead. Among my people it is not so easy. I … I must be sure. But even if it were true, I don’t know … I …”

  Vittoro did not seem to be listening. He gestured toward the waiting braves. “Sachito. Brave warrior. Many horses, does not beat squaws much. Sings very loud.”

  Desperately she searched for an argument that might move him, some common ground. Suddenly she believed she had it. “You don’t understand. It would be against my religion. You Apaches have your own religion, and live up to it. I know that. Can’t you understand? Can’t you see that if mine tells me—”

  Vittoro was impatient. He spoke quickly now, and more sharply. He was not accustomed to arguing with women, and the warriors who waited outside were the pride of his people, not to be lightly disdained by any woman.

  “When religion makes you act like a fool, it is a wrong religion.” He hesitated, then said brusquely, “Very well! I have decided. We will wait.” He pointed toward the mountains. “Soon will come the planting rain. If your man comes by then, good. If not, you take Apache brave. It is spoken.”

  He walked out of the house without a backward glance, mounted his pony, and, followed by the braves, rode from the basin. Angie, her heart pounding, watched them go.

  Again, for a little while, she was safe. And after that there would be no choice. For a few minutes she thought of flight, suddenly, and in the night. Then she knew the absurdity of the idea, for by daylight they would be upon her trail and then there would be no more waiting … if they did not kill her out of hand. And one among them, at least, would do just that. She remembered the hatred in the eyes of Silva.

  There would be no chance to get away, for she knew what an Apache on a trail was like, and she knew nothing of hiding a trail, and with Johnny they could not travel fast. She was not even sure exactly where the Army post lay. And even there she might not find security. Who knew if there was even an Army post left? Many soldiers had been killed, perhaps all of them.

  Yet from that moment she began to plan. There was no definite knowledge of what Hondo planned to do. She was foolish to think he might return, and the chance that Ed might return was even smaller. She must now, as always, rely upon herself.

  The thing to do was to remain quiet, yet to plan and make preparations. She would need two horses, she would need food and ammunition. She did not know exactly where the post lay, yet she did know where the Pass was, and the Pass was large enough to be safe from any Indian attack. There was an Army post there, also, and there were rangers there.

  Somewhere among her father’s things there was a map—she remembered seeing him make it—and if she could find it, she might be able to plan a way out. And he had taught her, while she was only a little girl, to use the stars to guide her travel. There would be a time when the braves of Vittoro would be far away at battle, raiding in Mexico or elsewhere. She had learned to know those times, and often the parties went through her basin on their way out.

  The next time they went, she would take her horses and go at once, within the hour.

  That night, after Johnny was asleep, she packed the saddlebags with ammunition and filled two canteens. If she had to wait she could always refill them. She prepared some jerky, placed it and some hardtack where they could be reached and packed in an instant.

  Searching through her father’s trunk, she found the map. It was a square of some twenty inches of hide, the lines drawn and notations made in his painstaking h
and. The map itself was not crude, but a small work of art. She located the ranch, then searched out a way among the buttes and canyons by which they could travel.

  Only one of the horses was fit to ride, so she must break the other. Fortunately, she believed there would be time. If there was not, she could always take Johnny on the same horse. Yet she went at once to the corral and remained beside the horses until it was completely dark, talking to them and feeding them.

  She could not conquer them as Hondo had done, but the horse she needed was a much less dangerous animal, and she had seen both her father and Hondo make friends with a horse until the battle was half won. Those were the tactics she would use; they were all that remained to her.

  Once her decision was made, she planned every move with it in mind. There was an old lock … Perhaps the Indians would break it, but she could at least try to protect her house until she returned.

  She would wait until every other chance was gone. Perhaps she might escape during the rain. With the rain to wipe out her tracks, their chances would be greater. Yet that meant exposing Johnny to the fury of the storm … for storm it would be when the planting rain came.

  It was almost midnight before Angie finally retired. During most of that time she had tried to plan her course of action. At the last moment she might have to act entirely opposite to her decided course, but she would have a plan. What to do would depend upon the events of the moment, but the very fact that she had a plan gave her confidence and a feeling of greater security.

  Yet even as her eyes closed, her last conscious thought was that Hondo Lane might return. And the question remained in her mind: What had happened between them that she should feel so sure of how he felt? So little had been said, so little done. Yet the knowledge was there, and a deep inner realization that this was the man with whom she could be happy, this was the man with whom she wanted to live out her years.

  And it could never be. Even if she escaped the Indians, if she survived all the fighting, and if Hondo felt about her as she felt about him, there was still no chance for happiness for either of them. There was always Ed Lowe. He might be dead, but Angie was not prepared to believe that. And he was her husband, the father of her child.

  At daybreak an idea came to her. The Apaches would know how many horses were in the corral, and when two were missing they would immediately know she had fled. But for that she could plan. That very morning she led out two of the horses and picketed them on the grass in the trees and out of sight of any passing Indians. She would do this occasionally, while still remaining in sight herself. In that way the Indians would not be suspicious when they noticed the missing horses. There were several places they could be picketed out of sight, and where they could not be found without a search. Thus their disappearance would not be sudden, and not a cause for investigation.

  Yet even as she worked and planned, Angie knew that her chances of escape were small. Only one thing made her decision to make the attempt one from which she could not retreat. There was no other way.

  She was hanging out her wash when she heard approaching horses. Turning quickly, she saw that three Indians had ridden their ponies into the ranch yard. Scarcely two hours after the horses had been moved, and the Indians were here!

  One of them was Silva.

  They rode around the corral, noting the tracks. One of them rode in the direction the horses had gone, then returned, saying something to Silva. He shrugged, then walked his pony toward Angie.

  She faced him, standing very straight, her face composed. To show terror could mean death, and she knew that of them all, Silva feared Vittoro less than the rest. He was, she knew, some sort of subchief.

  “What do you want?”

  He looked at her insolently. “Maybe soon you be my squaw.”

  “You?” Her contempt was plain. “Of all the braves in the lodges of the Apache, you would be the last, Fighter of Women!”

  Silva’s nostrils flared and temper quickened his eyes. It would not do to tempt this man too far, she realized. His was a hair-trigger temper, and he was naturally vindictive. Nor had he forgotten his defeat by her child. The story must have aroused many a chuckle in the wickiups.

  One of the two braves riding with him was Emiliano. She remembered him instantly as one of those who had come with Vittoro to the squaw-seeking ceremony. He was a lean and powerful Indian, not the sort to be intimidated.

  “I no fight women!” Silva’s temper lashed at her. “I kill soldier! I count plenty coups!”

  Sensing sympathy from the other Indians, she answered him. “And my child counted coup over you, Brave Warrior! And he is but six summers! Think, Brave Warrior!” Her contempt was thick. “What if he had been twelve?”

  Silva started forward as if prodded with a lance, but Emiliano’s voice rang sharply.

  Silva whirled his horse and the two Indians faced each other, tempers flaring. The third Apache looked at her and she thought she detected a faint smile on his face. Whatever was said between Silva and Emiliano, the former suddenly wheeled his horse, and moved away.

  The others hesitated a moment, and then Angie said quietly, “Thank you, Emiliano. I shall speak of this to Vittoro.”

  His eyes held her briefly, then the two wheeled their ponies and followed after Silva. It was only then that reaction set in. What if Emiliano had not been there? What if Silva had with him some braves more of his own nature?

  He would never, she knew instinctively, make this mistake again.

  Suddenly her knees began to tremble, and the muscles in her legs shook uncontrollably. She got to the house and sat down on the steps, and it was a long time before she could move.

  She had been a fool to stay on. She had been a silly fool. What good would she be to her son if they were taken to an Indian village? What good would the ranch be to either of them?

  She would think no more of Hondo Lane. She would not think of Ed. Neither of them would come. The latter was faithless and vacillating, the former had no reason to return. No real reason. She was a lonely woman and her loneliness had magnified his respect and a chance kiss into something that was not there.

  She would think of one thing only: escape. When the planting rain came, she would go. And if the rains were hard, they would wash out her tracks, and she would take a direction where they would never expect her. Then she might escape.

  In the night she was awakened suddenly. A waiting moment of silence, then a sudden rush of hoofs across the hard-packed yard, then a hoarse cry. A long moment when there was no sound, then a shot and after it a long-drawn, wailing scream as of a mortal soul in pain.

  Crouching by the window, rifle in hand, she peered out, and she could see nothing, only the moonlight on the cottonwood leaves, only the white-seeming roof of the stable, only the empty hills.

  A dream? No. Johnny was crouching beside her, trembling, partly from cold and partly fear. He tugged at her arm. “Mommy! Mommy, what was that? What happened? Did the man come back?”

  Did the man come back? She felt something like horror mounting within her. Had he come back and been killed at her door?

  There was no more sleep. When Johnny was safely in bed she wrapped a blanket about her and sat by the window, the rifle at her hand.

  Slowly, with a quiet chill, the night passed. A faint yellow faded the eastern sky, the tips of the cottonwoods turned gold, like the sun-tipped lances of a moving army. The shadows in the yard drew back, hiding in the barn and under the brush along the stream, crouching there. A quail sent out an inquiring call, and somewhere across the basin another quail responded.

  It was morning.

  Chapter Twelve

  Phalinger and Ed Lowe had ridden back a quarter of a mile from Hondo’s place of stopping, Lowe drew up. “Look,” he said quietly. “We’ve got him. Right now he’s makin’ camp. He’ll be mighty cautious. So we let him be. Come daylight, either before he’s up or when he’s gettin’ up, we’ll take him.”

  The gambler shrugged. “Your
party.” He studied the hills. “His fingers will be stiff then.”

  Phalinger looked at Lowe with a faint shadowing of contempt. “Don’t take many chances, do you?”

  “Why be a sucker?”

  From the position Lowe had chosen, the arroyo was in view. They could not see Hondo Lane, nor could he see them, but escape from his camp was impossible without alerting them.

  Phalinger was quiet. The farther he had gone, the less he liked any part of it. He was a man without qualms. Lowe knew little about him aside from his utter lack of scruples and the fact that he was a slick second-dealer who knew cards and who worked well with a partner. Phalinger had done murder in Missouri, drifted west into Kansas, then south into Texas. He was wanted in both places.

  Yet he had an admiration for a brave man, and Hondo Lane was such a man. Despite the fact that he worked with Lowe, he despised him. Yet not even Phalinger knew that Lowe had deserted a woman in Indian country. Had he known, he might have killed him out of hand.

  Phalinger was restless. Their camp was good. They needed no fire. They had food and whisky. Nevertheless, the premonition he had felt earlier now returned. Hondo Lane was carrying several months’ wages from the Army and a small poke of gold of his own. It would make a rich haul, and gambling had not been profitable. Too many had lost to them and the word had gone around. It was time to drift, and without money drifting was impossible.

  Broodingly he watched Lowe. What drove the man? What was there in him aside from greed and hatred? Yet no man was all bad. Phalinger, who was bad in most ways, knew that he himself was not all bad. Lying on his back he looked up at the stars, thinking about Lowe. He decided that Lowe was weak … weak and jealous.

  He would always, Phalinger decided, strike at what was stronger and better than himself. The only reason that Lowe had neither left him nor struck at him, the gambler was sure, was because he considered himself smarter or braver. The thought was galling.