Hondo (1953) Read online

  There could be no doubt. There would be rain, the planting rain, and then there was no time. When the storm began it would rain hard, then it might settle down for a long hard rain. They must leave before it ended, while it would still wipe out their tracks.

  She folded her clothing and put it away, then went quickly to the cupboard. She packed swiftly, according to plan. She was sure, definite in her movements. There was no choice, no further decision to be made. Before the Indians could come, she must be gone.

  Going to the bed, she took blankets and the old ground sheet and wrapped them in a tight roll. Johnny turned from the window. She caught his glance. “Would you like to go on a picnic, Johnny? In the rain?”

  He looked doubtful. “In the rain?”

  “It would be fun in the rain. We’ve got to ride a long way, and you’ll have to take good care of Mommy.”

  “You mean I can ride a horse? All my own?”

  “Yes, all your own. You can ride Old Gray.”

  Instantly he was all eagerness. She gave him several small tasks to do, then went to the barn and after some trouble lured the horses to the corral bars and got a rope on them. Leading them to the barn, she turned to the saddles. Hearing Johnny call out, she turned.

  It was too late. A small cavalcade of Indians was coming down the slope.

  Her heart pounding heavily, she walked to the house. “Johnny, you stay inside. They want to see Mommy.”

  There were a dozen Indians in the little group, and they had a prisoner. She saw that at once, only seeing the hanging head of a man, the slim shape of a haggard face beneath the hat. Vittoro dismounted and came to her. Behind him the man was dragged from the saddle.

  “Is this your man?”

  Angie looked beyond him. The man had lifted his head and he stared into her eyes. His own were glazed with suffering and weariness. She could see that something was terribly wrong with his hand. But she noticed nothing, only that it was Hondo Lane, and that he had come back.

  “Speak!”

  At a gesture from Vittoro, an Indian threw a pail of water into Lane’s face. He blinked, then shook his head, straightening a little. Their eyes met and held.

  “Is this your man?”

  She understood suddenly, and she smiled quickly at Vittoro, coming down from the steps. “Yes. This is my husband.”

  She went to him quickly, taking his arm. Vittoro stared at her, then at Hondo Lane.

  “White man,” he said sternly, “you have lived with the Apache. That is good. You know how the Small Warrior should be taught so that he will be the honored son of Vittoro.

  “Watch like the hawk, be patient as the beaver and courageous as the puma that he may learn well. Know it, then, or your dying will be long before you welcome death.”

  He turned away and mounted. Without looking back, the Indians rode from the valley.

  Holding tight to his arm, for she sensed his weakness, she led him toward the house. In the distance thunder rumbled and there were scattered drops of rain, large drops striking hard on the baked clay.

  She took him to the bed and he sat down, then fell loosely into sleep. She looked down at the blistered and swollen hand, the lacerated wrists, the bloody shirt. Turning quickly, she went outside with the pail to get fresh water.

  Sam was coming down the slope, making slow time on three legs. She started to call, then saw Silva. The Apache came over the slope and started for the dog on a gallop. Sam turned, trying to run, but with a shrill yell Silva dropped his lance and ran the dog through the body. In a wild, despairing effort, the dog snapped at the lance, then fell free. Silva rode on over the slope.

  Leaving the pail, Angie ran up the slope to the dying dog. His body was horribly torn; blood was flowing from him. Nothing could be done. She touched his head gently. “Good boy, Sam,” she said softly. Feebly he tried to lick her hand.

  She straightened then and looked in the direction Silva had taken. She knew then how a man could kill.

  Rain was falling fast when she reached the house with her bucket. Once inside, she closed and barred the door. Quickly she got water on the fire to heat, got out the bandages she had made for emergencies. She had turned the horses back into the corral, and there was shelter for them under the overhang of the lean-to.

  With a needle she ran a bit of colorless yarn previously soaked with antiseptic through each blister to allow it to drain. Then she put grease over the burned hand and, wrapped it, not tightly. She was taking off his shirt when he sat up groggily.

  “I’m all right.”

  “You will be when I fix your shoulder. The cut on your chest is only a scratch.”

  “It’s not that. I’ve other things to keep me awake.”

  She looked at him quickly, thinking he had seen Silva’s killing of Sam. “You saw it, then?”

  “Saw what?”

  “Silva. He finished Sam. Sam is dead. I’m sorry.”

  He held himself still, looking down at the clumsy-looking hand and its loose bandage. Sam … a man’s dog.

  “He was gettin’ old … Been with me goin’ on eleven years. Old for a dog.”

  She was furious. “That beast Silva killed him. For no reason.”

  “Silva’s scalp lock should be dryin’ from a ridgepole.”

  “I know how you feel. That loyal dog, and … and—”

  Hondo turned the bandage, looking at it. She could not see his expression, only hear his voice. He was keeping his eyes down. “Wasn’t he an ugly cuss, that Sam? Mean as a catamount in the breeding season. I almost ate him once. Up on the Powder. Quick freeze caught us, and after I’d been three days without rations, I took to looking at Sam.

  “Lucky for him I found us a snowbound moose. Didn’t look forward to eatin’ Sam. Probably been tougher than a trail-shiny moccasin.”

  Angie turned down the light and moved away. She could sense the man’s grief, and she was feeling it herself. That brutal, ugly-looking mongrel … and there at the last, dying, he tried to lick her hand. A fighting dog, so strangely gentle. The thought moved her and she looked quickly at the man who lay face to the wall.

  So strangely gentle…

  Did the dog take on the qualities of the man? Or under the hard exterior were they much the same?

  She turned to her work and saw the rolled-up blankets she had meant to take away. Now she need not go. But what had she done? Her face turned crimson. She had told Vittoro this man was her husband! And he dared not leave now.

  Yet what else could she have done? Had she not accepted him as her husband, he would have been killed, and she would have no choice but to become a squaw to one of Vittoro’s brawes. Still, what must he think of her?

  Outside thunder rumbled and rain was falling, falling steadily, without the fury of the storm that had come those long days ago after he had ridden away before; She added fuel to the fire. A gust of wind sent a little smoke into the room. Then a big drop fell down the chimney and hissed upon the coals.

  Johnny had already gone to bed, sleeping contentedly. The man was back.

  And outside the rain was no longer a threatening thing, but suddenly it made the house seem even cozy, very warm. She listened to the heavy breathing of Hondo. Was this what she wanted? A man in the house?

  No, not a man. This man … and no other.

  He turned, muttering in his sleep, and something fell to the floor with a tinny sound. Glancing down, she saw it was a tintype. She picked it up. Johnny. But the tintype was scarred. Instinctively she knew what that scar meant.

  Turning, she went to him and thrust it back into the pocket from which it had fallen.

  For a long time she sat at the table, staring at the rain-streaked window. There was nothing to think of now, nothing to wait for. There was only the night and the steady rain falling, and the quiet, good sound of a man breathing heavily in his sleep. She knelt beside the fire, and banked it with a log, and then another, gathering the coals close.

  When she got up, she brushed her hands
down, straightening her apron. She looked over at his broad back, at muscles relaxed and sleeping now. She wanted to touch him, to put her hand upon his hair…

  She turned quickly to her own bed and began to undress. A large drop hissed on the dying coals, a stick popped loudly. There was rain on the roof, but it was quiet in the house, and there was no fear. The man was back.

  Chapter Sixteen

  When she awakened it was daylight and the house was silent. Suddenly, and with a start, she realized that Johnny was gone, and so was Hondo.

  Glancing through the window, she could see Hondo at the corral, Johnny beside him. They were pitching hay to the horses. Quickly she dressed.

  The ground was wet, and rain dripped from the eaves, but the rain had stopped for the moment. There was no break in the clouds. When she had breakfast started she returned to the mirror and fixed her hair more carefully.

  When she opened the door, Hondo glanced around. “Breakfast is ready!” she called, and he started to the barn with the fork. Together they trudged toward the house, and after Johnny had bathed, Hondo followed.

  His hair was freshly combed when he came in, but he was favoring his bandaged hand and his shoulder was stiff. He avoided her eyes, seating himself quickly. They ate in silence, and when his cup was empty she reached for the pot. “More coffee?”

  “Thanks.”

  He was silent, brooding. Once he started to speak, then stopped.

  “After breakfast you’d better take off your shirt and let me fix it.”

  He gulped his coffee, then said quickly, “Not before I show you something.”

  He took the tintype from his pocket and handed it to her. She looked at it, and then at him.

  “Did Ed give it to you?”

  “No. I took it off his body.”

  She had known this. She had felt it from the moment she saw the tintype with the bullet scar. Now she waited, but she felt nothing. There was nothing to feel. Later, she knew she would. But Ed … for months now he had seemed like somebody who had never really been. Like someone who had walked across the page of her life and left no tracks.

  “He’s dead.”

  When she had spoken the words, tears came to her eyes. There were no sobs, just a welling of tears. She sat silent, and no words came to help.

  “I tried to tell you last night. I wanted to.”

  “I’m not surprised. It’s … it’s like something that happened long ago. I guess I never really expected him to come back.”

  Hondo tasted his coffee and tried to find the words to tell her the rest of it. But how did you tell a woman you had killed her husband? One of you had to be in the wrong. He was not prepared to accept the blame for trouble he had not wanted. Nor was he sorry for Ed Lowe. He was sorry only because the dead man had been the husband of Angie.

  The door burst open and Johnny came charging back into the room. He rushed at Hondo, seizing his arm.

  “Look out for his hand, Johnny.” She crossed the room to the stove. “It’s very noble of you.”

  “Noble?” Hondo looked at her under his brows. “Me?”

  “You came in here to get us out.”

  “I’m going to give you something,” Johnny said. “My Indian emblem. Vittoro gave it to me, didn’t he, Mom?”

  He started off quickly to get the headband. Hondo shifted his feet under the table and allowed Angie to fill his cup again. He was deeply stirred. Johnny’s prize possession, and he wanted him to have it.

  Angie hesitated, putting the coffeepot back on the stove. “The Indians,” she said at last, “place such a great value on dying well. Did Ed die well?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Well.”

  Angie resumed the ironing halted by the coming of the Indians. Something in Hondo’s attitude disturbed her, but she could not explain her feeling. It was unlike him to be so silent.

  It was something about Ed. Something was wrong there, very wrong.

  Nevertheless, she said, “When Johnny is old enough, and when he has to be told, it will make him proud.”

  Johnny came in with his emblem. He placed it on the table before Hondo. “Here’s the emblem. You’re a chief now!”

  Hondo Lane turned away from the table and picked up the headband. He turned it in his hands, studying it. After a while he put it back on the table. Talking to a child … what did he know about that?

  “Johnny,” he said slowly, uncertain of what to say, “I’d like to take it, because that’s a mighty fine gift. Guess there ain’t anything you could give me that would be nicer. But you see, that headband was given to you, not to me.

  “It was given to you by Vittoro. He meant it for you. Now I’d like to have you give me something, but this is yours: Wouldn’t be right, nohow, to give it to me. Vittoro, he’s a mighty big chief. Not many folks he likes. He must admire you quite some to give you that, so you stick by it.

  “You an’ me, Johnny, we got a lot of ground to cover together. Vittoro wants you to know how an Apache gets along. Good thing to know, too. You live in this country, you better know most of it. Man can never tell when he’ll be lost in the desert, have to feed himself, find water, maybe. All that you’ve got to learn.”

  “Will you teach me?”

  Hondo placed his hand clumsily on the boy’s shoulder. “I reckon I’d like that, son. I sure would. I guess I’ve learned so much I’m up to here with it. Need somebody to learn it from me.”

  When Angie was washing clothes at the edge of a pool in the creek, Hondo rode down the slope with an antelope slung behind his saddle.

  Angie looked up with a smile. “More fresh meat. We’re living high.”

  Johnny sat on a round rock some distance above the pool, fishing.

  Hondo swung down from the saddle and said quietly, “Don’t turn around too fast, but there’s an Indian up on the rim right now, just under that stunted pine.”

  “I can’t see him. You must have wonderful eyesight.”

  “Learned. There was one up there day before yesterday, too.”

  He groundhitched the lineback near a patch of grass, then walked back, starting to roll a smoke.

  “Why? I don’t understand.”

  “To watch the boy, I think. Vittoro must set store by him.”

  He left Angie to her washing and strolled upstream to where the boy was fishing. He took off his hat and ran his fingers through his hair. It was cool under the cottonwoods, better than out there on the desert. Was he getting soft? Or had this life got to him?

  “If you want my opinion, you won’t catch any fish there.”

  “He never does,” Angie said, “but it keeps him amused.”

  “Might as well catch him a bass while he’s at it.” He glanced around, his brow furrowing. “Course, I don’t mean to interfere.”

  “Please do.”

  She dipped a boy’s shirt into the water, rinsing it. When she straightened up, she said quietly, “He needs a father. He’s getting to that age now. He loves me, but I’m a woman. Sometimes he tolerates me.”

  Hondo grinned. “Boys are that way. Wait’ll he gets older. He’ll do mor’n tolerate a pretty woman.”

  She flushed a little, but she was pleased. “He has lots of time.”

  “Grow up before you know it.”

  “I … I don’t want him to be here. Not when he’s older.”

  “No, ma’am. But right now he’s best off here. Boy should know how to hunt. How to get along. He’ll learn better here, and you’re safe, long as Vittoro lives.”

  She looked at him quickly. “You don’t think I would be if he died?”

  “Don’t figure to scare you, but what’d you think about Silva?”

  She remembered the hatred in the Indian’s eyes, the way he started toward them that first day, the way he had killed Sam.

  “He’ll be the big man when Vittoro dies,” Hondo said. “Do to think about.”

  Johnny trudged downstream to Hondo, who shoved his hat back on his head and looked down at the boy. “Wher
e’s the sun?”

  “There.” Johnny pointed.

  “On the back of your neck.” He indicated the shadow the boy threw upon the water. “Shadow. If you can see it, the fish can see it. Always fish with the sun in your face. That’s if you want my opinion. And that bank’s the place.”

  “Can I, Mommy?”

  Angie hesitated. She was afraid of the creek. There were deep pools, and some old snags that had washed down from upstream. “Some of those pools are deep. I worry about him out here.”

  “He can’t swim?”

  “He’s so young.”

  “I’ve seen Indian boys that age swim the Missouri at flood.” He watched the boy lazily as Johnny started across the stream on the stones. At the far bank, Johnny stepped ashore. “Hey, boy!”

  Johnny hesitated, looking back, and Hondo said, his voice carrying easily across the small stream, “Hot this time of day. Was I you, I’d walk on the sunny side of that rock. When it’s hot the snake will be in the shade, when it’s cold he’ll be in the sun.”

  Johnny skirted the rock, then found a good place and seated himself, dropping his hook into the water.

  “Funny thing. An Apache won’t eat fish.”

  “What?” Angie was astonished. “I thought all Indians fished.”

  “What most folks think. Maybe it’s because they live mostly in desert country, but no Apache will eat fish.”

  “I never heard of such a thing!”

  “Fact. Down at Camp Grant the ‘Pache kids used to hang around, beggin’ candy or biscuits. When the pony soldiers got tired of havin’ them around, they’d open a can of fish and set it out. They’d all leave.” He threw the stub of his cigarette into the water. “Two reasons for that, though. Partly it was the fish, partly the label on the can.

  “The label?”

  “You know that red devil they have on some brands of fish? Scares Apaches. They call it ghost meat.” Hondo squatted on his heels, watching her wash. “That Indian’s gone from the rim.”

  “How do you know? You haven’t looked up.”

  “I looked.”

  Angie dried her hands. “Do you think Vittoro really means it when he says he’ll make an Apache out of Johnny?”