Hondo (1953) Page 7

  Yet as she put supper on the table her thoughts were not upon the land. They were hearing the creak of a saddle and a big man’s slow voice, quiet in the room.

  And when she lay in bed and drew the blankets high, she looked up into the darkness and remembered Johnny’s question. “Will the man come back, Mommy?”

  The morning was nearly gone when Angie took the two buckets and walked to the well. The sun was high, and only a few lost tufts of cottony cloud floated in the wide sky. All morning she had worked steadily around the house, only going out to feed the horses and to check the amount of water behind the dam. There was not so much as she had hoped, but enough to irrigate her garden several times. She had cleared mud away from the gate her father had built so the water would be free to flow when it was opened. Her decision to take the horses to the hills had been changed in favor of discretion. She did not believe the Apaches would ever bother her, but horses were a temptation she did not intend to make too inviting.

  She filled the first bucket, then the second. She heard no sound, and was standing looking toward the hills when something made her turn.

  An Indian had come from the trees and sat the back of his rough-looking paint pony, staring at her. She had heard no sound, no movement. Another appeared, and then another. And then they began to materialize from the trees as though by magic until there were a dozen.

  She had seen them ride by, from time to time she had seen them at the spring, yet this was the first time she had seen so many at such close range.

  They were men of medium height who seemed shorter than their height because of wide shoulders and deep chests. Most of their faces were flat-lipped and cruel, but all were sinewy and powerful in build, dark-skinned and dusty now, their lank black hair hanging to their shoulders, bound only with headbands.

  One of these men sat a very striking pony, and by his looks, Angie knew him for their leader. Her eyes looked past him at a tall, evil-looking Apache who whispered something to the older man, who seemed to be a chief. From the mane of the tall Indian hung several strips of bloody flesh and hair. Scalps, and none of them more than a day old.

  She felt herself turn faint and sick, but she forced herself to stand straight. Pale and frightened, she nevertheless managed to keep her voice strong as she spoke to the older man.

  “You are Vittoro.”

  “I am the one who is called Vittoro.”

  “Your horses have watered here.”

  His flat black eyes made no change. His face might have been hewn from mahogany.

  “You were warned.”

  “I could not leave. My husband is away. And this is my home.”

  Vittoro looked at her, and the Indians waited. A vagrant breeze caught at the drying dust of the yard and it swirled briefly, then died. The cottonwoods rustled among themselves.

  “This is an Apache spring.”

  “The Apaches live in the mountains,” Angie replied. “They do not need this spring. I have a son. I do need it.”

  “But when the Apache comes this way, where shall he drink? His throat is dry. You would keep him from water.”

  “There is water yonder.” She pointed to the hills. “But if the people of Vittoro come in peace, they may drink. When have I denied them?”

  Vittoro’s voice was shaded with impatience, and with a stab of fear she knew that talking was over.

  “It is sworn there will be no whites in Apache territory.” He turned on the tall Indian. “Silva!’ He spoke rapidly in the Apache tongue, and Angie saw the quick grin on Silva’s face. The tall Indian slid from his pony. He touched the mane of Vittoro’s palomino and said something, evidently comparing it with the color of Angie’s hair. Then he drew his knife and started toward her.

  She did not scream. She could not. Nor would she let them see her fear. She stood straighter, putting contempt in her face. And then Johnny came out of the door.

  He had the Walker Colt. He was holding the big pistol up and pointing it at Silva.

  Silva stopped, and one of the Indians chuckled. Even Silva grinned at the ludicrous sight of the boy holding a pistol nearly as large as himself, and so obviously determined.

  Angie wheeled and started for the rifle on the porch, but an Indian grabbed her from behind. As he did so, the gun bellowed.

  The gun was tipped high, and when it went off the bullet creased Silva’s scalp, knocking him down. Johnny, knocked backward by the kick of the huge pistol, also fell.

  Jerking loose from the Indian who held her, Angie ran to Johnny. Silva lay still on the ground, unconscious.

  Vittoro sat his pony his face showing no expression.

  He looked at the boy. “You are the mother of a strong son,” he said quietly. “It is well you have no man. You might raise an army of warriors to fight my people.”

  “I have no wish to fight your people.” Angie spoke with dignity. “Your people have your ways, I have mine. I live in peace when I am left in peace. I did not think,” her chin lifted, “that the great Vittoro made war upon women!”

  Vittoro slid from his horse and drew his knife. Angie clutched her son, wishing she had picked up the pistol, knowing now it would do no good. There was nothing anyone could do now.

  He walked toward them, a bigger man than she had believed, and every inch the chief. The Indians behind him sat their horses in silence.

  Vittoro picked up Johnny’s hand and knicked his thumb with the point of the knife, then his own. He pressed them together, their blood mingling.

  “He is my blood brother. I name him Small Warrior, of the Moon Dog Lodge of the Chiricahua Apache.” He looked at Angie, a flicker of something that might have been kindness in his eyes. “You will care for him well. As mother of a Chiricahua warrior, you may live here in safety.”

  Silva came swiftly to his feet, staring around. He put a hand to his head. It came away bloody. Knife in hand, he started forward, but Vittoro spoke sharply. Sulking, Silva turned and strode to his pony.

  Angie clutched Johnny. Vittoro swung to the back of the palomino. “I knew you were a great warrior,” she said. “I hope someday someone befriends your sons.”

  The iron face turned bleakly savage. “My sons are dead—in a white man’s prison.”

  They rode swiftly off. Only Silva looked back, and Angie caught that look. From that day on she knew only Vittoro stood between her and the shame and anger of Silva. And she knew the story of Silva’s defeat would be told in the villages, and his hate would harden to an evil thing.

  She lifted the pistol from the ground. It had been loaded. Even when he was not with them, Hondo Lane had been the reason of their security. It was he that had advised her, and had loaded the pistol.

  Chapter Seven

  Beyond the sprawling villages of adobes and jacales were the neatly ranged tents of the cavalry unit, and beside them and forming two sides of the square were the sutler’s store, the quartermaster’s storehouse, the bakery, the headquarters building, the blacksmith shop, and the stables. None of these were imposing structures. All looked squalid and dismal even after the bathing of rain.

  A few scouts and frontier drifters lounged in the area near the sutler’s store, or sat on the steps before it. They watched the lone rider come down the slope and ventured guesses as to who he was and where he came from. It was not a time to be riding alone, and not many were willing to chance it. Not even the hardy souls who loitered around the sutler’s store.

  A man came to the door of a jacal, a structure of upright logs set in holes in the ground and plastered with mud, roofed with smaller branches and more mud. He stared at the rider. He said something over his shoulder and another face appeared in the door of the jacal, and then both men walked out.

  It took little to get men out of the jacales, places more suited to the residence of scattered and indifferent centipedes, scorpions, or occasional tarantulas than of human beings.

  “Him, all right.” Dick spat tobacco juice at an unoffending lizard and chuckled. “Knowed it
.”

  Hondo walked the lineback to the hitch rail and swung down. Sam stopped a few feet away looking at the scouts without pleasure. He did not even pant. He just sat and stared glumly.

  “Well,” said Buffalo, a huge, whiskered man in a greasy buckskin shirt. “I owe you a jug of redeye. Settle come payday.” He walked around the dog. “That dog’s as friendly as a puma.”

  He looked carefully at the lineback, noting the strangeness of the horse. His eyes were sharp and attentive and as quick to see and catalogue as the eyes of an Apache. Hondo Lane had been places and none of it had been easy. It showed where the scout could see it.

  “Figured your hair would be hanging in some Apache wickiup. Bet Dick on it. You’re sure a disappointment to me, Hondo.”

  “You like to won. I wore out some horses.”

  “You wore out you, while you was at it,” Dick said. “Lemme get that war bag.”

  Headquarters building was a structure of adobe and rough planks identified by the flagpole. A sergeant sat behind a box that did duty for a desk. An enlisted cavalryman and a scout sat on a bench against the wall.

  A tall, rather handsome young man with a petulant, irritable expression was addressing the sergeant. He was a lean-bodied man with a low-tied gun and something of the dress of a frontier dandy, limited only by his cash outlay.

  “I say I got a right to talk to this here bowneck major.” His voice was casually insolent. “I don’t talk to no underlings.”

  “The Major’s sleeping.” The sergeant spoke in a careful, noncommittal tone. His manner betrayed all too clearly that he spoke to a civilian, to a man he disliked, and to a man he would cheerfully throw out of the office if it were permitted. At the same time, he spoke with the exasperated patience of a man who knows he must keep peace with citizens.

  “That’s too bad about him. I’m a citizen and I want to see him.”

  “Major Sherry ain’t slept for three days. I can tell you everything just as well as him. We ain’t heard nothin’ from up north.

  The lean-hipped rider stared at him with contempt. “If you ask me, the Cavalry’s scared of Vittoro. And I think the U.S. Cavalry…”

  Major Sherry came in from the room behind the sergeant. He was a tall man, wire-taut and strong, but his face was lined and exhausted. The speaker, suddenly aware of his presence, let his voice die away.

  “I am greatly interested in your opinion of the United States Cavalry,” Major Sherry said dryly. “Continue, Mr. Whatever-your-name-is.”

  “I’m Ed Lowe,” the lean-hipped man said. His voice lost its irritation before the sharpness of the Major’s and became complaining. “The Cavalry’s supposed to support the settlers. I’ve got some cattle up north and I—”

  “Company C is making a sweep to the north to escort out any settlers they may find. Company C is over a week late in returning. That is all I am able to tell you.”

  Hondo came through the door behind Lowe, followed by Sam. The big dog sank to the floor just inside the door. Hondo crossed and hung his saddle on the wall beside several other saddles. When the saddle was hung he looked back over his shoulder.

  “C Company won’t be back.”

  He turned slowly, as if reluctant to give them the news, and on the desktop before the sergeant he dropped the crumpled, bloodstained guidon of C Company.

  Major Sherry stared at the guidon, his face growing stiff and old. Grey Davis … He would have to tell his wife. Why the hell did he ever volunteer for the Arizona command?

  The story was there. Hondo would provide the details, but actually, none were needed except for the reports. Suddenly, wearily, Major Sherry knew he would rather not hear them. Good friends gone … good soldiers, good fighting men. C Company had been his best, his toughest outfit.

  Looking up, he saw Ed Lowe. A flicker of disgust showed, and he said irritably, “You may leave. I have business to attend to.”

  Major Sherry’s head came around. “Sergeant!”

  The implication was plain and the sergeant came to his feet abruptly. He started around the desk. “Git!” he said. “An’ don’t come botherin’ around no more!”

  Lowe turned angrily and started to the door. Hondo had moved back to the wall to hang up his pistol belt. Lowe found himself facing the big dog, and although there was plenty of room to pass, his anger flamed suddenly. “Get out of the way, you mangy cur!” He drew his foot back.

  Sam came to his feet with a swift, almost catlike move, crouched, his muscles bunched to leap. His lips curled back from his teeth but he neither growled nor snarled, only looked up at Lowe, his face ugly with readiness. Taken aback by the sudden reaction, Ed Lowe stepped back. Then he reached for his gun.

  Hondo’s gun belt was on the hook but his Winchester was in his hand. He tipped the barrel forward with his left hand slapping the butt into his hand. The butt struck his hand and at almost the same instant his thumb cocked the hammer back. Lowe froze at the sharp click, turning his head.

  There was no mistaking the rifle. It was hip-high and the muzzle was aimed at his stomach and not eight feet away. Ed Lowe looked at the rifle and his eyes lifted to the bleak, wind-raw face of Hondo Lane. Something in Ed Lowe seemed to back up and sit down.

  “If that’s your cur, get him out of the way.”

  Hondo neither advised nor threatened. “Walk around him.”

  “I’ll be hanged if I ever go out of my way for a cur dog!”

  Lane’s face did not change. His voice was matter of fact. “Man should always do what he thinks he should.”

  A fly buzzed in the room. Outside somewhere a horse stamped and there was a clang of iron on iron. Ed Lowe stood very still.

  He did not know this man. He might be anybody. Yet there was something in his manner that was too calm, too casual. Ed Lowe was a good man with a gun and had found occasions to demonstrate it. He figured there were few better. Yet suddenly he was examining his hole card and he did not like what he saw.

  There was that in the attitude of the stranger that implied all too much familiarity with such situations. Ed Lowe’s thoughts probed his memory for the face, for something that would be a clue. He liked to know what he was going up against.

  Nor did he like the obvious satisfaction in the sergeant’s face. The sergeant would not be unhappy to see him dead, and the sergeant seemed all too sure that he was about to see just that. And Ed Lowe did not have the kind of guts it would take to find out.

  The blue fly buzzed. Somebody laughed in the outer air, and the flickering instant of hesitation was ended. Ed Lowe had been fairly called and he knew it. All he had to do was to gamble … Suddenly sick and empty inside, Ed Lowe stepped around the dog and went blindly through the door.

  For an instant there was silence and the sergeant sighed briefly, with genuine regret. “Thought maybe we’d be rid of him,” he said to nobody in particular. “He’s got it coming.”

  Hondo pushed the dog aside with his foot. “Don’t block the door,” he said quietly.

  Major Sherry gestured to the guidon. “Where did you get this?”

  “About half a day’s ride south of Twin Buttes.”

  “How?”

  “Off two Indians. Running Dog Lodge of the Mescaleros.”

  “So the Mescaleros are up, too. That makes all the Apache lodges.”

  Hondo shoved his hat back and began to build a smoke.

  “Went up there,” he said, “and backtrailed them Mescaleros. Davis ambushed Vittoro. Figure he got twenty or more. He was pullin’ out of the ambush when they hit him from behind. ‘Nother outfit, maybe a hundred strong. He never had a chance.”

  “All there?”

  “Yes. They got no prisoners, if that’s what you mean.” Hondo hesitated, and then said quietly, “Clanahan fought ‘em off Davis’ body at the end. They went out together, him an’ the Lieutenant.”

  “Clanahan?” The Major’s eyes brightened a little. He remembered the man, a big, black-haired Irishman with a brutal face. A drunk, a b
rawler, a troublemaker, but a fighter. And he was Army. “He was a good man.”

  Hondo described the action briefly as he had seen the sign on the ground. It was a clear, accurate picture and had its value. Every battle was a lesson; in each there was something to be learned. Major Sherry never ceased to marvel at what these men would read from the ground, yet he had seen their facts proved too many times to doubt them.

  “They won,” Hondo said, “but it hurt. They got hit hard.”

  He took a long drag on his cigarette and turned to the door, then paused. “Any settlers out of the north basin since I been away? Lately?”

  “A few.”

  “Handsome woman? Fair? With a small boy, maybe six years old?”

  “No. All middle-aged or elderly people.”

  Hondo Lane walked to the door and found Buffalo waiting with his war bag. He reached for it but Buffalo pushed his hand away. “I’ll tote it.”

  Hondo walked out into the cool of the evening. They had not come out, then. He had hoped that after he had gone Angie would change her mind. She could have made it through while he rode north to follow through on the story of Company C. But there was nothing.

  Buffao walked along beside Hondo, shifting the war bag to his other hand. “Old Pete Britton was scoutin’ with C Company. Wintered with Pete once up on the Divide. Ornery cuss.”

  “Last of them,” Hondo said. “Maybe an hour, alone on a hilltop.”

  They walked on in silence. At the door of the jacal where Hondo stopped, Buffalo put down the bag.

  “Old Pete, he worried himself a lot. That winter on the Divide he was laid up lot of the time. Rheumatic, he was. Skeered of being crippled.”

  They stood together and smoked quietly. Hondo explained about the body. Buffalo dropped his cigarette, then walked away, saying no more. Hondo stood alone then, looking into the night.

  He was no man to be thinking about a woman. He had never lived with a woman … wouldn’t know how to. He wouldn’t know how to handle a kid, either. And women … It was one thing with a squaw. After a while you knew them. But a girl like Angie, now, that would be different. He was a fool to even think about it. What did he have to offer a woman?