Shalako (1962) Read online

  And the rider was a woman. Not only a woman, but a young woman, and a beautiful woman.

  How long since he had seen a girl like that? Shalako watched her ride toward him, noting the ease with which she rode, the grace of manner, the immaculate clothing.

  A lady, this one. She was from a world that he had almost forgotten… Bit by bit his memories had faded behind the blazing suns, the hot, still valleys, the raw-backed hills.

  She rode a sorrel, and she rode sidesaddle, her gray riding skirt draped gracefully over the side of the mare, and she rode with the ease of long practice. Yet he was grimly pleased to see the businesslike way her rifle came up when he appeared from around the rock. He had no doubt that she would shoot if need be. Moreover, he suspected she would be a very good shot.

  She drew up a dozen yards away, but if she was frightened there was no visible evidence of it.

  “None of my business, but this here is Apache country.”

  So. “You know a man named Pete Wells?” “Yes. He’s our wagon-master.”

  “Pete never did have much sense.” He gathered his reins. “Lady, you’d better get back to your camp wherever it is and tell them to pack up and high-tail it out of here.” “Why should I do a thing like that?”

  “I think you’ve guessed,” he said, “I think you had an idea when you saw those tracks back yonder.” He gestured to indicate the mountains far behind him. Their near flank was shadowed now, but the crest carried a crown of gold from the sun’s bright setting. “Over there in the Sierra Rica there’s an Apache named Chato. He just rode up out of Mexico with a handful of warriors, and here and there some others are riding to meet him. He will soon be meeting with some more who have jumped their reservation, and within forty-eight hours there won’t be a man or woman alive in this corner of New Mexico.”

  “We have been looking forward to meeting some Indians,” she replied coolly. “Frederick has been hoping for a little brush with them.”

  “Your Frederick is a damned fool.”

  “I should advise you not to say that to him.”

  Shalako handed her his field glass. “Over east there. See that smoke? Over by the peak?”

  “I see nothing.” “Keep looking.”

  She moved the glass, searching against the far-off, purpling mountains. Suddenly, the glass ceased to move. “Oh? You mean that thin column of smoke?”

  “It’s a talking smoke … the telegraph of the Apache. You and your outfit better light out fast. You already got one man killed.”

  “I … what?”

  “Pete was always a damn’ fool, but even he should have known better than to bring a party of greenhorns into this country at a time like this.”

  Her cheeks paled. “Are you telling me that Pete Wells is dead?”

  “We’ve sat here too long. Let’s get out of here.” “Why should I be responsible? I mean, if he is dead?” “He’s dead, all right. If he hadn’t been sky-lining himself on every hill while hunting for you he might not have been seen.”

  He led off along the base of the Hatchets, heading north. The gaunt land was softening with shadows, but was somehow increasingly lonely. The girl turned in her saddle to look toward the distant finger of smoke, and suddenly she shivered.

  “We’re at a ranch north of the range,” she told him. “Mr. Wells took us there. The place is deserted.”

  “How’d you get in here past the troops?”

  “Frederick did not want an official escort. He wished to see the Apache in battle.”

  “Any man who hunts Apache trouble is a child.” Her tone was cool. “You do not understand.

  Frederick is a soldier. He was a general in the Franco-Prussian War when he was twenty-five.

  He was a national hero.”

  “We had one of those up north a few years back. His name was Custer.”

  Irritated by his amused contempt, she made no reply for several minutes yet, despite her anger with him, she was observant enough to note that he rode with caution, never ceased to listen, and his eyes were always busy. She had hunted before this, and her father had hunted, and she had seen the Masai hunt in Africa… they were like this man now.

  “It is silly to think that naked savages could oppose modern weapons. Frederick is amused by all the trouble your Army seems to have.”

  He looked uneasily into the evening. There was a warning in the stillness. Like a wild thing he felt strange premonitions, haunting feelings of danger. He felt it now. Unknowingly he looked eastward toward the mountains, unknowingly because upon a ridge of those mountains an Apache looked westward … miles lay between them.

  Tats-ah-das-ay-go, the Quick Killer, Apache warrior feared even by his own people … master of all the wiles, the deceits, the skills. He looked westward now, wondering.

  At the no longer deserted ranch where the hunting party of Baron Frederick von Hallstatt built its cooking fires, a man beside one of the fires suddenly stood up and looked away from the fire.

  He was a lean and savage man with a boy’s soft beard along his jaws, high cheekbones, and a lantern jaw. His thin neck lifted from a greasy shirt collar, and he looked into the distance as if he had heard a sound out there. The .44 Colt on his thigh was a deadly thing.

  Bosky Fulton was a gunman who had never heard of either Tats-ah-das-ay-go or Shalako Carlin. He did not know that his life was already bound inextricably to those two and to the girl Irina, whom he did know. Yet the night made him restless.

  Back upon the desert, Shalako had drawn up in a cluster of ocotillo clumps and under their slight cover he studied the country around, choosing a way.

  “Every Apache,” he said conversationally, “knows all your Frederick knows about tactics before he is twelve, and they learn it the hard way. The desert is their field of operations and they know its every phase and condition. Every operation your Frederick learned in a book or on a blackboard they learned in battle. And they have no base to protect, no supply line to worry about.”

  “How do they eat?”

  He swept a gesture at the surrounding desert. “You can’t see them but there are a dozen food plants within sight, and a half dozen that are good for medicine.”

  The sun brushed the sky with reflected rose and with arrows of brightest gold. The serrated ridges caught belated glory… out upon the desert a quail called inquiringly.

  She felt obliged to defend their attitude. “There are eight of us, and we are accompanied by four scouts or hunters, eight teamsters, two cooks, and two skinners. We have eight wagons.”

  “That explains something that’s been bothering me. The Apaches started eating their horses two days ago.” “Eating them?”

  “Only thing an Apache likes better than horse meat is mule meat. He will ride a horse until it’s half dead and, when they find a place where they can get more horses, they will eat those they have.”

  “You are implying they expect to have our horses?” The desert was too still, and it worried him. He got down from the saddle and rinsed his bandanna once more in the roan’s mouth. As she watched him the girl’s anger went out of her.

  She looked at him again, surprised at the softness in his eyes and the gentleness with which he handled the horse.

  “You love your horse.”

  “Horse is like a woman. Keep a strong hand on the bridle and pet ‘em a mite and they’ll stand up to most anything. Just let ‘em get the bit in their teeth and they’ll make themselves miserable and a man, too.”

  “Women are not animals.” “Matter of viewpoint.”

  “Some women don’t want a master.”

  “Those are the miserable ones. Carry their heads high and talk about independence.

  Seems to me an independent woman is a lonely woman.”

  “You are independent, are you not?”

  “Different sort of thing. The sooner women realize that men are different, the better off they’ll be. The more independent a woman becomes the less of a woman she is, and the less of a woman
she is the less she is of anything worth-while.”

  “I don’t agree.”

  “Didn’t figure on it. A woman shouldn’t try to be like a man. Best she can be is a poor imitation and nobody wants anything but the genuine article.

  “Nature intended woman to keep a home and a hearth. Man is a hunter, a rover… sometimes he has to go far afield to make a living, so it becomes his nature.”

  He kept his voice low and without thinking of it she had done the same.

  “And where is your woman?” “Don’t have one.”

  The sun was gone when they reached the last rocky point of the Hatchets. About a mile away a tall peak thrust up from the desert and beyond were a couple of lesser peaks, and still farther the distant bulk of the Little Hatchets. West of the nearest peak was a dark blotch of ranch buildings, and among them some spots of white that could be wagon covers. And in their midst blazed a fire, too large a fire.

  Smelling water, the roan tugged at the bit, but there was a feeling in the air that Shalako did not like.

  They sat still, while he listened into the night, feeling its uneasiness. It was not quite dark, although the stars were out. The desert was visible, the dark spots of brush and cacti plainly seen.

  Into the silence she said, “I am Irina Carnarvon.” She said it as one says a name that should be known, but he did not for the time place the name, for he was a man to whom names had ceased to matter.

  “My name is Carlin … they call me Shalako.”

  He started the roan down the gentle slope. The roan was too good a horse to lose and in no shape to run, but the ranch was safety and the ranch was two miles off.

  He slid his rifle from its scabbard.

  “Get ready to run. We’ll walk our horses as far as we can, but once we start running, pay me no mind. You just ride the hell out of here.”

  “Your horse is in no shape to run.” “My problem.”

  The roan quickened his pace. There was a lot of stuff in that roan, a lot of stuff.

  “You actually believe we are in danger?”

  “You people are a pack of idiots. Right now you and that tin-braided general of yours are in more trouble than you ever saw before.”

  “You are not polite.” “I’ve no time for fools.”

  Anger kept her silent, yet she sensed the uneasiness of her horse and it made her wary. A fine horsewoman, she knew the feeling at once and it frightened her far more than the warnings of the stranger.

  Silence, and the distant fire … the hoof falls of the horses … the stars against the soft darkness of the sky, the loom of mountains … a coolness in the air, balm after the day’s fierce heat. The quickening pace of the horses, the faint gleam along the rifle barrel. A slight breeze touched her cheek.

  “Shalako … it is a strange name.”

  “Name of the Zuni rain god. Seemed like every time I showed up in their country it rained, so they called me that for a joke.”

  “I did not realize Indians had a sense of humor.” “The greatest. Nobody has more humor than an Indian, and I know. I’ve lived among them.”

  “I heard they were so stoical.”

  “Indians act that way around white men they don’t know because they don’t want to answer a lot of fool questions.”

  They were out of the flat now, at least a quarter of a mile gained.

  The Apache, in distinction from many other Indians, preferred not to fight at night, believing the soul of a warrior killed at such a time must wander forever in darkness.

  That did not mean that on occasion an Apache would not take a chance.

  When the camp was less than a mile away and they could hear faint sounds, an Apache suddenly raised up from behind a greasewood bush with a bowstring drawn back … but he had stood up directly in front of the muzzle of Shalako’s rifle and less than thirty feet off.

  He heard the thud of the bullet into flesh in the instant the arrow whizzed past his ear.

  Startled by the explosion of the gunshot, both horses leaped into a run. Behind them there was another shot and Shalako felt the bullet when it struck the cantle of his saddle and carromed off into the night.

  The roan ran proudly, desperately, determined not to lose the race to the fresher horse. A wave of fierce pride swept over Shalako and he realized again the unconquerable spirit of the roan mustang.

  Neck and neck they raced for the ranch, and Shalako let go with a wild Texas yell to warn those ahead that he was not a charging Indian.

  On a dead run they swept into the ranch yard and drew up in a cloud of swirling dust.

  Several people started toward them, and Shalako glanced sharply around, taking in the camp and those who peopled it with that one sweeping glance.

  The man who walked up to them first was tall. He was lean and strong, with blond hair and handsome, if some what cold, features. His eyes were white-gray, his boots polished and immaculate, his white shirt crisp and clean.

  “What happened? Did you see a coyote?” His eyes went from Irina to Shalako, taking in his dusty, travel-worn clothing, his battered hat, and unshaved face.

  “Better circle your wagons into the gaps between the buildings,” Shalako suggested.

  “Get your stock inside the circle. That was an Apache, not a coyote.”

  The gray eyes turned again to Shalako, cool, attentive. “There are no Indians off the reservations,” the blond man said. “Our man Wells told us-”

  “Your man Wells is dead. If you want him you’ll find him all spraddled out in a dry lake southeast of here, as full of holes as a prairie dog town … and it wasn’t any reservation Indian that shot him.”

  “Who is this man, Irina?”

  “Mr. Carlin, the Baron Frederick von Hallstatt.”

  “If you want to live,” Shalako said, “forget the formalities.”

  Von Hallstatt ignored the remark. “Thank you for bringing Lady Carnarvon back to camp, Carlin. Now if you want something to eat, just go to the cook and tell him I sent you.”

  “Thanks, but I’m not staying that long. This outfit doesn’t have a prayer and I’m not going down the chute with it. I’m riding out.”

  “Your pleasure,” von Hallstatt replied coolly, and lifted a hand to help Irina from the saddle.

  Two of the men who had come forward were standing by, and one of them said, “Forget it, General. This fellow was scared by a shadow.”

  The roan gelding swung as of its own volition and faced the speaker. Shalako’s face was half-hidden by the pulled-down brim of his hat, but what the man could see he did not like. “Mister”-Shalako’s voice was utterly cold-“I saw Apaches out there.

  What I shot was an Apache. Do you want to call me a liar?”

  The man backed off a step. Desperately, he wanted to call the name and draw his gun, but something about the man on the roan horse made him hesitate.

  “None of that!” Von Hallstatt’s voice rang with the harshness of command. “Carlin, we thank you for escorting Lady Carnarvon back to camp. Eat if you wish. Sleep here if you wish, but I suggest you be gone by daybreak.”

  “By daybreak you’ll be fighting for your lives. I’ll be gone within the hour.”

  Turning away from them he rode the roan to the water tank. An ambitious settler had built this tank before the Apaches canceled out his faith in humanity by putting a half-dozen arrows in his belly.

  He had been a sincere man, a good man. He believed that he who planted a tree or dug a well was closest to God, and would be blessed by all who needed water, or needed shade.

  He also believed, good trusting man, that if he was himself peaceful others would be peaceful toward him. He did not realize that others operate by a different philosophy and to those peace is unrealistic. Nor did he know that to an Apache all who are not of his tribe are enemies, that kindness was to them a sign of weakness.

  He was, nevertheless, a man of stamina as well as faith, and he lasted for three days, the arrows in his belly, tied head down to a wagon wheel, close
to water but unable to reach it… and all this under a blazing summer sun.

  He left no record of his philosophy at the end of that time.

  Shalako allowed the roan to drink sparingly, then drew him back from the water and, stripping off the saddle, rubbed the horse down with a handful of dry grass, and as he worked his eyes took in the disposition of the camp.

  He had never seen anything like it. The wagons were scattered haphazardly about, the teamsters loafing around a smaller fire, von Hallstatt’s companions dressed as if for a hunt in England or Virginia, served by a chef in a white apron and chef’s hat.

  No effort had been made to prepare for attack, all was elaborately casual, with much conversation and laughter. The stable was the sturdiest-looking building, close to the water tank, and with a lower story of adobe, an upper story of hewn logs.

  There were several narrow ports for firing. The stable was built much like an old-fashioned blockhouse.

  The house had been built at a much later date and by the peace-loving settler, and offered no practical defenses. Nor did the sheds and outbuildings. Yet they did form a rough rectangle with the house at the east end and the stable on the south. By drawing wagons into the gaps between the buildings the area could be made a fortress against any ordinary attack, with a final retreat to the stable in a last emergency.

  Suddenly a sound of approaching steps made him look up. “Shalako!

  I’ll be damned! Where’d you blow in from?” Shalako straightened wearily, dropping the grass.

  “Buffalo? This is a long way from Fort Griffin.” He dusted fragments of dry grass from his fingers. “Me? From the Sierra Madre, riding neck and neck with Chato and about forty Apaches. At least, there’ll be forty of them by now.” “You ain’t foolin’?”

  “I’m riding out tonight.”

  Buffalo Harris swore bitterly. “An’ the Army doesn’t even know we’re in the Territory!

  Was that you who shot out there awhile back?”

  Shalako indicated the cantle of his saddle. “Feel of that… fired from off at the side or it might have taken me right out of the saddle.”

  Buffalo laid a finger in the groove and whistled softly. “They don’t come much closer.”