Shalako (1962) Page 3

  “How’d you ever tie up with a haywire outfit like this?”

  “Haywire? Are you crazy? This here is the most fixed up outfit I ever seen! They got champagne, crab, oysters … everything: She’s a mighty plush setup, Shalako, an’ don’t you forget it… and the best grub I ever eat.”

  “So you lose your hair. Saddle up and come with me.” “Can’t do it. I told them I stay the route.”

  Von Hallstatt strode up and, seeing Buffalo, stopped. “Harris, do you know this man?”

  Buffalo spat. “I know him: He was scoutin’ for the Army when he was sixteen. Knows more about this country than the Apaches do.”

  “Then you should go to work for me, Carlin. I can use a good man.”

  “If you don’t pull those wagons into position you won’t be in shape to hire anybody.

  Chato started eating his spare horses two, three days ago, which means they planned to steal yours before they crossed the border.”

  “That’s impossible. They could not have known we were here.”

  “They knew … they knew you have four women with you, how many horses and mules you have, and how many men. No, I’m riding out of here.”

  Yet, even as he said it, he knew the roan was in no shape for an all-night ride … or a ride anywhere, for that matter. The mustang needed rest, food, and water.

  Nevertheless, he was getting out. These people had come there under their own power, they could get out the same way.

  Von Hallstatt measured Shalako with cool eyes. He disliked the man, this he admitted.

  On the other hand, someone who knew the country as well as Buffalo said he did might be useful. Especially with Wells dead, if, of course, he was dead.

  “If you would name your price, Carlin, we would like to have you with us.” He took his pipe from between his teeth. “You might at least stay and see the fun.”

  “You’re not going to be having any fun.” Shalako was brusque. “Unless you’re shot with luck every man-jack of you will be dead within forty-eight hours.”

  Von Hallstatt laughed. “Oh, come now! Naked savages against modern weapons?”

  On a beat-up horse his chances of survival were slight, but this camp had the mark of death upon it, and realization that he had no choice but to make a run for it made Shalako increasingly irritable.

  “Mister, let me tell you a little story about a West Pointer we had named Fetterman.

  He used to make his brag that given eighty men he could ride through the whole Sioux nation. Fetterman was well trained, he was efficient, and he was bulging at the seams with all those fancy European tactics, and he was confident.

  “One day they sent him out with eighty men to rescue some wagons that were under attack, and they warned him if the Indians ran, not to chase them.

  “He had his eighty men and his chance, and he chased them. His eighty men lasted less than twenty minutes, less time than you’d take to drink a cup of hot coffee, actually.”

  Shalako began to build a smoke. “Do you know how they did it? Like Hannibal at the Battle of Cannae … the center fell back and, when Fetterman followed them in, the flanks closed around him and wiped him out.”

  “You would have me believe these savages under stand tactics?”

  “Unless I miss the breed, you’ll be from one of the old Junker families of Prussia.

  War has been a way of life to you for centuries, yet I doubt if you have seen more than ten battles, or that your oldest general has seen more than thirty.”

  Shalako folded the paper over his cigarette. “Mister, out there in the dark there are forty or fifty Apaches and the chances are there isn’t one of them who isn’t a veteran of fifty to a hundred battles. They fight Americans, Mexicans, other Indians. War is a way of life for the Apache, too, and every child learns his tactics by listening to the warriors talk of their battles.

  “There isn’t a thing in Vegetius, Saxe, or Jomini an Indian doesn’t know, and more besides. He is the greatest guerrilla fighter the world has ever known.

  “He doesn’t know a thing about all that military balderdash of close-order drill, military courtesy, or parade ground soldiering. Everything he learns is by applying it that way. He’s taught, sure, but he’s taught to fight and to win and he wastes time on none of the fixings.

  “You boys say close-order drill is good for discipline. That’s nonsense. The only kind of discipline that counts is the discipline of training to function in battle.

  How to keep in touch with the men on either side of you, how to advance and retreat under fire, how to give covering fire and supporting fire, how to select routes of travel under risk of attack. You don’t learn any of that training for a lot of parade-ground nonsense.

  “There isn’t a thing to learn about fighting in this country-and this is the worst country in the world to fight in that every Apache out there doesn’t know.”

  “I am surprised,” von Hallstatt said contemptuously, that your Army is able to defeat these supermen of yours. These super-Indians.”

  “I’ll tell you why. Only one out of three or four has a rifle, and he may not have a dozen rounds of ammunition. Unless they can find a crooked trader to supply them they have to kill to get weapons, so they are always in short supply.

  “And the Army outnumbers them fifty-to-one. And that Army is the best bunch of fighting men the sun ever shone on. They use Indian tactics part of the time themselves, and General Crook, who knew more about fighting Indians than any of them, he used Indians to fight them.”

  Shalako turned toward the fire. “And let me tell you something else: Any rattle-headed fool who would bring a bunch of women into a country like this at a time like this deserves to be shot.”

  Deliberately, he turned his back and walked away toward the fire where he glanced at the coffeepot, then walked on to the stable where he filled a feed bag and carried it back to the roan. The feed bag was alien but the oats were not. After a little hesitation and backing away the roan decided to accept the situation.

  Von Hallstatt had walked away, but Harris was still there.

  “That was medicine talk, but the general was sure sore.” Harris watched while Shalako picked up his rifle. “What happened to Pete?”

  Shalako explained, then jerked his head toward von Hallstatt. “Is he carrying money?”

  “You ain’t just a-woofin’! And diamonds? These women are wearin’ diamonds like they were candy! And you should see their rifles and shotguns! Inlaid with gold, ivory and mother of pearl. I d’clare, Shalako, these folks must have a fortune in guns.”

  “Then I know why Rio Hockett is here.” “Where’d you know him?”

  “The Rangers chased him out of the brush down on the Nueces a few years ago. He’s been a horse thief, a cow rustler, and a scalp hunter. If you folks get out of here alive, you talk von Hallstatt into getting rid of him. He’s trouble.”

  Buffalo was silent for several minutes, and then he said, “You don’t think we’ve got a chance, do you?” “With Chato and forty Apaches out there? What do you think?”

  Irina Carnarvon came suddenly from the darkness with a plate of food and a cup of coffee. “You must be starved, Mr. Carlin.”

  Buffalo Harris faded discreetly into the shadows and Shalako reached for the food gratefully. The very smell of it made him faint, he was that hungry. He had run out of jerked meat-the last food he had-the day before yester day and had not dared chance a shot, although he had seen a couple of deer.

  Irina stood beside him, and the faint smell of her perfume stirred old memories.

  He glanced at her over his coffee cup. She was tall for a woman, slender but rounded … quite a woman.

  His eyes went beyond her to the tables that were being spread with white linen and set with silver and sparkling glassware. He shook his head in amazement to see such a thing in New Mexico, with Apaches around the camp.

  There was a low murmur of conversation from a group of people who sat in camp chairs near the fire. It was the
polite conversation of well-bred people everywhere, idle, interesting talk, but strangely incongruous here.

  “What are you doing with this outfit?” he asked bluntly. “You’re real.”

  She turned to look at him. “They are real, too, Mr. Carlin. It is merely another sort of life.”

  “But unreal here, and unrealistic. That sort of thing is fine in England, or New England. Out here, at a time like this it reminds me of Nero’s fiddle.”

  “You asked me what I was doing here. These are my friends, Mr. Carlin … and I may marry Frederick.”

  It irritated her that she hesitated before saying it, almost as if she were ashamed, which she certainly was not. In the East and in Europe, almost everywhere in fact, Frederick von Hallstatt was considered quite a catch. His was an ancient family, he had won many honors in the Prussian Army, he had a title, position, and wealth.

  He put down the plate. “Men must be mighty scarce where you come from.”

  “Most people believe that I am fortunate.”

  He glanced at her. “You are warm, friendly, and I think sentimental,” Shalako said.

  “He is cold, calculating, and ruthless. Furthermore,” he added, “he’s a fool, or he would never have brought you here.”

  “You make up your mind very quickly,” she spoke stiffly. “I am not sure you are qualified to render an opinion.

  “Out here we don’t have time to consider folks. We have to make up our minds fast, and we judge a man by his looks and his actions. We pay no attention to titles or honors or whatever because we have found they don’t measure a man. Yes, I made a fast judgment on him, and I may be wrong.”

  “I think you are very wrong.”

  “I don’t believe you,” he said. “You’re too smart a girl to make a mistake like that.”

  This man was a total stranger, a big, unshaved and rugged man out of the desert.

  Very likely he had not bathed in a week… where he would get the water she could not imagine … and she was discussing her friends with him. It was preposterous.

  His thoughts had moved into the darkness, thinking beyond this place, thinking of the trail westward. The roan was in no shape, but if he could get over into the Animas Mountains he might hole up and rest for a while, then move out and keep to low ground.

  “Come with me,” he said suddenly, “and I’ll get you out of this.”

  “And leave my friends? You must be mad.” She paused. “I scarcely know you, Mr. Carlin, and I could never leave my friends if they are in as much danger as you assume.”

  He was scarcely listening, his mind was out upon the desert, thinking of the way that lay before him. He owed these people nothing, and this was a country where a man saddled his own broncs and fought his own battles. They had come into the country recklessly, foolishly, hoping for a “brush with the Apaches”… well, they would get it.

  “You must take one of my horses, Mr. Carlin. I have three, very fine horses, and your horse is half-dead. “You’d swap?”

  “Certainly not. But I will loan him to you, and when you can, return him and pick up your own horse. If you are correct and we do not get out of here, you may keep him.”

  “You needn’t do this, you know. You owe me nothing.” She looked up at him. “I wasn’t thinking of you, Mr. Carlin. I was remembering what you said about them eating their horses. I couldn’t bear them eating Mohammet.”

  He chuckled suddenly. “Now I like that. You’re honest, anyway. All right, I’ll take care of your horse.”

  She turned abruptly and walked away, and he stared after her, aware of a feeling of guilt. In a few minutes Harris returned, leading a stallion.

  Black as midnight, he knew at once that he had never seen a horse to compare with it. Clean-limbed and strong, it was built both for speed and staying power. When he reached for the stallion it thrust a velvety nose into his palm.

  He talked to the horse, rubbing its neck and making friends.

  “You must have put the sign on that girl, Shalako. This is her best horse, and she treats it like a child. Pure Arab, right out of the desert.”

  He threw his saddle on the stallion and cinched it up, and the stallion took the bit eagerly, as if he was eager to go. Shalako had known such horses, as excited about a trail as a man would be.

  Buffalo Harris left, and when he returned he had a small packet of food. Shalako took his time, reluctant to leave now that a way was open.

  Von Hallstatt had given the order and the wagons had been pulled into the spaces between the buildings, making a fairly tight circle. It was too large to defend well, yet it could be defended, and there were quite a few men, all well-armed.

  As Shalako put his blanket roll behind the saddle, someone behind him spoke.

  “What you all figure to do with that horse?” Shalako turned slowly.

  The roan facing him was lean and narrow-shouldered, a sparse beard on his jaws. Bosky Fulton was a trouble hunting man, and Shalako read him at a glance, nor was he inclined to side-step it. Shalako knew all too well that any sign of hesitation would be accepted as a sign of fear.

  “None of your damned business,” he said coldly, and as he spoke he stepped closer to Fulton.

  Few gunmen could stand up to a close fight. Most of them fancied their shooting ability, but at close range there was too much chance of both men being killed … and no man wants to die.

  Fulton backed off a step, to keep the distance between them, but Shalako followed.

  “None of your business,” Shalako said coldly.

  Fulton stared hard at Shalako, thinking to intimidate him, but the eyes that looked back into his showed only contempt, and something else that Fulton liked even less.

  Before Fulton could speak, Harris interrupted. “Lady Carnarvon loaned him the horse, Bosky. It’s all right.” “Loaned him?” Fulton was incredulous. “She won’t even let anybody touch him.”

  Frederick von Hallstatt walked up; he ignored Fulton, but glanced from the horse to Shalako. “Lady Carnarvon loaned you that horse?” he asked doubtfully. “I can’t believe it.”

  Laura Davis and Irina had also come up. “Yes, I loaned Mohammet to him, Frederick.

  I believe if we are attacked he will be safer with Mr. Carlin than with us.”

  “Attacked? You believe that story then?”

  “You forget, Frederick. I was out there with him. Those shots were very real.”

  “If you can get out of here,” Shalako suggested, “make a run for it to Fort Cummings.

  Lieutenant Colonel Forsyth is in command there.”

  He lingered, reluctant to leave. “You get your grub and ammunition inside the stable.

  They’ll be all around you, come daylight, and you won’t see any of them.

  “The way I read the smokes, Indians have left the reservation to join Chato, and that means the Army will have been notified and Forsyth will be out. If you burn your wagons the Army will be likely to see the smoke.”

  “I doubt if it will come to that,” von Hallstatt replied. “We have a good-sized force and we are well armed. And several of us have had military experience.”

  “No matter what experience you’ve had, in this kind of war you’re a tenderfoot.”

  Shalako gathered the reins. “Thanks, ma’am, and good luck. You’re quite a woman.”

  He walked the Arab into the darkness near the stable and drew up to listen, shutting out the sounds of the camp to hear only the desert.

  There was an eagerness in the stallion. The Arab liked the feel of the night and the desert, and no doubt some forgotten or atavistic memory stirred his Arab blood on such desert nights as this.

  Ears pricked, dainty as a dancer, the black Arab moved down into the wash, holding close to the near bank and the deepest shadow.

  His hoofs made no sound in the soft sand, and for several minutes they went cautiously forward, but soon Shalako sensed that something lay to the north that the Arab did not like. Shalako let the horse pull away to the sout
h a little, trusting the horse had caught the scent of an Apache.

  Westward, eight or nine miles away, lay the Animas Mountains, an area he knew better than the Hatchets, and a place where he knew of a hideout where with luck he might hole up. Yet the farther he rode the more irritable he became.

  The wind was in his face … he smelled dust.

  Quickly he drew the Arab into the deepest shadow, whispering to him to quiet his excitement.

  And then he heard a sound … the soft scuffle of hoofs in the sand.

  A party of riders coming from the northwest, and they would be coming down into the wash somewhere close to them.

  Shalako drew his Colt and rested the barrel on the saddle horn. The night was still and cool, the sound of hoofs was closer now, like surf upon a sandy shore. His mouth was dry, and he kept his thumb on the gun hammer, ready to fire.

  Chapter Two.

  When he had gone she stood listening, oblivious of the camp sounds and conversation, but she heard nothing. There was no shot, no shout… nothing.

  He had ridden into the shadow beside the stable and paused there, but when he moved from that shadow into the outer darkness she had no idea.

  He was gone.

  Irina Carnarvon felt a curious sense of loss … a ridiculous thought, for the man was not her sort, anyway. Yet the feeling remained, and she asked herself, What was her sort?

  What sort of man did she want? What sort of life? It was an odd question, for she had believed that was settled in her mind. She had thought to marry Frederick, and it was unreasonable that a ride of a few miles with a strange, unshaved, unwashed man of the desert could change that.

  Nor had it been changed. Only there was a subtle sort of difference in her feelings now. What had moved her to let him ride Mohammet? She had never allowed Frederick to ride the horse, and actually, aside from one groom on their estate in Wales, nobody had ridden him but her father and herself.

  What was her sort? What kind of man did she want? And what sort of man was this man called Shalako? Certainly, she did not want him. She did not know him, and then he was only a wanderer, a hunter, big, uncouth … but was that fair?