Hondo (1953) Page 9

  How long would Vittoro allow her to wait? Not long, that she knew. And then what remained for her? Unless the Army came, unless she escaped and abandoned her home, all she had in the world, then she must take a husband from among Vittoro’s braves.

  Yet what had she said? “The man I choose will teach him to know the ways of the Apache.”

  And who, of the men she knew, could do that? She blushed and bit her lip, unwilling to frame his name in her mind. Yet when she had taken up her broom again, she faced the fact of it. She had never been one to dodge issues. If she knew nothing else, she had learned in these lonely months to know herself, and she knew there was only one man of whom she could think in that way.

  She was a woman still married, and she was thinking of Hondo Lane.

  But what was it that made a woman married? Had her husband acted the part of a husband? Had he remained with her? Where was he now, in her time of trial?

  He had never been her husband, not as her father had been to her mother. He had been a young man whom she married and with whom, for a time, she lived. And he had left no impression here, not even in his son.

  Mentally she stood him before Vittoro, and she saw the old chieftain’s decision, understood his scorn. And then she saw Hondo Lane, and he stood squarely before Vittoro, a man.

  She worked steadily, yet her thoughts would not remain still. Her problem was with her, and she was a woman born to a Christian life, reared to a moral life, yet always an honest life. Her father had always been a man with whom she could talk, and those talks had reached into her present life with their clear-cut wisdom, their simple truth.

  To each of us is given a life. To live with honor and to pass on having left our mark, it is only essential that we do our part, that we leave our children strong. Nothing exists long when its time is past. Wealth is important only to the small of mind. The important thing is to do the best one can with what one has.

  These things her father had taught her, these things she believed. A woman’s task was to keep a home, to rear her children well, to give them as good a start as possible before moving on. That was why she had stayed. That was why she had dared to remain in the face of Indian trouble. This was her home. This was her fireside. Here was all she could give her son aside from the feeling that he was loved, the training she could give, the education. And she could give him this early belief in stability, in the rightness of belonging somewhere.

  Now it was threatened. The very thing that had saved their lives might turn her son from the life that should be his. He was excited by the attentions of the old chief, and he hungered for the company of a man. How else was a boy to learn how to become a man?

  Was she a fool to think always of Hondo Lane? The man was a killer.

  But this also her father had given her: reserve of judgment, and to judge no man or woman by a grouping, but each on his own character, his own ground.

  In Hondo Lane she had recognized some of the same virtues she had known in her father. The singleness of purpose, the honesty, the steadfastness, and the industry. A killer he might be, but a man must live as he must. There were things a man must face and things a man must do that no woman could understand, just as the reverse was true.

  Tonight the hills were lonely. A coyote yapped at the moon, and in the silence a quail called.

  How long did she have? How lone before Vittoro came again and demanded a decision of her? But Indians did not permit women to make decisions … or did they? She had heard not, and yet, knowing women, she was not altogether sure of this. She smiled into the night.

  Johnny came out and sat on the steps beside her. “Mommy? Do you think the man will like my headband? Do you think he will?”

  “I’m sure of it, Johnny.”

  Then carefully, thinking of the future, she said, “You’re a white boy, Johnny, and although someday you may live with the Indians, you will always be a white boy. Mr. Lane lived with the Indians, and he remained a white man.”

  Darkness crept in and crouched around the stable, and in the darkness she smelled the sage and heard the stirring and the stamping of the horses in the corral. In the east there was a bright star low above the mountains.

  Would he come back again? Would he come in time?

  “Mommy!” Johnny pulled at her hand. “What will I have to learn to be a warrior?”

  “Oh, you’ll have to learn to track wild animals, to ride, to hunt, to find food in the desert … many things.”

  “Will I learn to ride like the man did?”

  The man … “Yes, I think so.” She hesitated just a little. “Maybe he’ll come back and teach you. He’s a good man, Johnny.”

  “I liked him.” Johnny watched the quiet star. “I liked the dog, too.”

  “But he snapped at you!”

  “But he didn’t know me!” Johnny said. “He didn’t know I was his friend! If a dog let anybody touch him before they were friends, somebody might hurt him.”

  A faint sound caught her ears. She held her breath, listening.

  It was the sound of a horse … of many horses.

  And then she saw them, a dozen Indians, filing by toward the spring, just beyond the reach of her light. An Indian’s horse’s eyes caught the light and reflected it.

  An Indian left the group and started toward them. She got to her feet, recognizing Silva.

  He stood looking at her, and there was a pride in his bearing, and contempt, too. He gestured at her head, then lifted a scalp at his belt. It was fresh, red-haired.

  Another Indian came up behind him and said something. Silva hesitated, looking from her to the child. The other Indian spoke again, more urgently. The only word she knew was “Vittoro.” The second Indian used the name several times. Silva turned away, finally, and walked back to the horses.

  She stood very still, holding Johnny tightly to her until she heard their horses moving away. For a long time after they were gone, she was uneasy. Inside she checked the pistol again. Since Hondo had loaded it, and since Johnny had nearly killed Silva, she always kept it loaded.

  Silva would come back. He would come alone. Afterward he could always blame some other Indians for what was done. He had forgotten nothing, and he would not forget. Her only hope was to have a man of her own. But who could stand against Silva if anything happened to Vittoro?

  She asked the question into the nighty and her heart gave her the answer.

  Chapter Ten

  Behind the stables the lineback was saddled and ready. Hondo Lane came around the corner carrying his rifle. He slid the Winchester into the boot and began tying his bedroll behind the saddle.

  He looked over his shoulder when he heard the approaching feet, his fingers continuing to work. It was Lowe, and with him was Sergeant Young.

  “See?” Lowe said angrily. “It’s my horse. That’s my brand.”

  He indicated the E L on the horse’s shoulder. Sergeant Mike Young examined the brand as if hoping to find it a mistake.

  He looked up at Hondo. “What he says true?”

  “Yes, this is his horse.”

  “Where did you get it from?”

  Hondo looked at Lowe with casual contempt. “From his place. That’s where I’m takin’ it back. That’s where he can find it.”

  Young hesitated. He liked no part of this. He had no use for Ed Lowe. He knew he was a fourflusher, although a dangerous one. By the same token, he liked Hondo Lane and had ridden in several long patrols guided by Lane. He knew the man and knew him well.

  He also knew he had inadvertently walked into something of which he would have preferred to know nothing. There was a standing order that no one was to leave the camp, but at the same time Lane was very close to Major Sherry, and had talked with Sherry on the previous day. The order had gone around that no one was to leave, but at the same time the whisper had followed that no one was to pay any attention to the activities of Hondo Lane. And this had come from the sergeant major.

  Major Sherry disciplined his men wit
h strictness, and he had company punishment and the court-martial to enforce it. The sergeant major had only two large fists, but a way of being convincing with them.

  Carefully, and merely for the record, Sergeant Young said, “But that’s in Injun territory now—strict orders against any white going in.”

  Hondo pulled at his ear. “Know somethin’? I got a bad ear. Can’t hear what you’re sayin’.”

  Coolly he stepped into the leather, and then he swung the horse and keeping the stable between himself and the parade ground, he rode off.

  Lowe grabbed the Sergeant’s arm. “You can’t let him steal my horse!”

  Young jerked his arm free. “He may be an ornery son-of-a-anything-you-want-to-call-him, but I’m not calling him a horse thief either to his face or behind his back.”

  Abruptly Young turned and walked away, glad to be out of it. Behind him he heard Lowe swearing. As Young crossed to his quarters he saw Phalinger come out of the sutler’s store, and Young paused at the door of his tent, waiting. A moment later, Ed Lowe crossed the area and joined Phalinger. The two men talked, then walked away together.

  Sergeant Major Joe O’Bierne came out of the tent and glanced sharply at Mike Young. “What’s the matter?”

  Young jerked his head toward the two, then quietly repeated what had happened.

  O’Bierne nodded. “You did right, boy. ‘Twas none of our affair.”

  “They’ll follow him, I’m thinkin’.”

  O’Bierne shrugged. “Then on their own shoulders it’ll be.” He chuckled. “If the Injuns don’t get ‘em, Lane will, an’ good riddance.”

  Hondo Lane was moving swiftly, with no idea of those who came behind. He knew exactly what situation he faced. Between the post and its relative security and the basin where lay Lowe’s ranch, lay miles of country, wild and desolate, crossed and recrossed by hostile Indians. Rarely did they move in as large parties as those encountered by C Company on that fatal day of the massacre. Rather they traveled in smaller groups of eight to a dozen warriors, and were the more dangerous because of this.

  An Apache might be anywhere. This was his country, this heat-baked nightmare of waterless, treeless land, cut by no streams and with few water holes. Dotted with clumps of greasewood and cut by savage arroyos or uplifted ledges of black volcanic rock or sandstone, it was a weird and dangerous country over which to travel.

  No man knew better the art of concealment than the Apache. His own hide, his instinctive feeling for terrain, and his ability to live for days with little water and less food made him a fearful antagonist always. Hondo Lane rode into that heat-baked wilderness knowing exactly what lay before him. He had lived with the Apache. He knew his ways and much of his thinking, and he knew better than anyone how small was the chance that Angie Lowe and her Johnny were still alive.

  Yet he knew also that the Indian was a creature of whim, and although cruel to his enemies or those he believed were enemies, he could be kind to children. No Apache had ever been known to strike his child. He might beat his wife, but never his child. And the very fact that Angie Lowe was alive this long proved she had been fortunate. She might continue to be so.

  He moved now as he had before. He scouted the terrain before him, and only then did he move. He knew much of it, but he did not rely on that knowledge. He kept out of low places, held to the concealment just below ridges, studied every fresh track. He wore nothing that gleamed. The lineback’s dun color shaded into the desert as did his own clothing.

  With no weapons but his bow and arrows, his lance and war club or knife, the Apache had ruled over this vast area for generations, and when the rifle was introduced, he quickly learned its use and became an adept. Although always lacking ammunition, the Apache became a marksman in many cases second to none.

  At noon Hondo rode the lineback into an arroyo and swung down, leading the horse back into the shade of an overhang. Some dead curl-leaf lay in the canyon bottom and he collected it, then a few more sticks, all dry. He ate jerky with hardtack, and drank two cups of coffee hastily made over the fire.

  The dry wood made no smoke, and when the coffee was hot, Hondo extinguished the fire and carefully buried the coals, brushing over the surface with a loose branch. He squatted there, finishing his coffee and smoking, letting the heat of the day slip by while the lineback ate of the grass close under the cliff’s edge.

  Sam lay panting in the shade a few yards off. Hondo leaned back against the wall and dozed. Not until two hours had passed did he move, and then he tightened the cinch on the lineback and stepped into the saddle.

  Taking his time, he worked his way out of the arroyo, careful to study the country before moving into the open. All afternoon he traveled on, keeping a steady gait but frequently shifting his trail. Several times he paused, studying his backtrail. A faint dust was visible once. A dust devil? Or was it someone on his trail?

  At dusk he was approaching Deadman Water Hole, and he took his time. A mile from the water he crossed the trail of four unshod ponies. The trail was scarcely an hour old. A word to Sam and the dog moved out warily, scouting ahead. Hondo moved up to a place among some rocks where he looked over the approaches to the water hole. There was nothing in sight. And then he saw Sam.

  The big mongrel was moving closer, belly down among the rocks. Only the faintest of movements rendered him visible. Hondo waited, his rifle ready to cover the dog if need be, but suddenly the dog lifted himself to his legs, seemed to hesitate, sniffing the wind, and then trotted toward the hole. Relieved, Hondo Lane got a foot into the stirrup and swung his leg over. The lineback, sensing the water, walked eagerly forward.

  Deadman was a seep. The water was still but fresh, and Hondo drank, then allowed the horse to drink. Sam’s muzzle was already wet. The Apaches had been here, but had not remained long. Hondo mounted again and they moved on. Twice he paused before darkness to study his backtrail. He saw nothing.

  Far behind him two horsemen rode out of a gully. Ed Lowe was in the lead, Phalinger close behind. Phalinger was a lean, dark man. He stared at the darkening hills.

  “I don’t like it, Ed.”

  Lowe said nothing. He had already come farther than he had intended, but turning back was not part of his plan. He was a good man on a trail, but Phalinger was better. It had taken all their skill to follow Hondo Lane, although the big rider was making no undue effort to conceal his passing,

  “He’s gettin’ deep in Injun territory, and so are we,” Phalinger added.

  “What you squawkin’ for? He’s carryin’ plenty, and you know it. Besides, he ain’t goin’ much farther without makin’ camp.”

  Phalinger shrugged. “We never found his camp last night.”

  “We’ll find it this time.”

  They pushed on, finding an occasional track of the shod horse. Lowe had the added advantage of knowing where Lane was headed. He had said he was returning to the ranch, and Lowe believed him. It was an added reason for continuing. No one at the post must ever learn he had abandoned Angie and his child at the ranch. He would not be allowed to stay around for one minute.

  That had been one advantage. At the Pass they knew he was married. At the post they knew nothing of him except that he had a ranch and cattle. He had never mentioned Angie.

  At first he had intended to return. It was not Indians that worried him, but the long days at the ranch without company. Nor did he want to work. No sense in that. It was easier to play cards and win money from those that did work. So why be a fool? Besides, he had the ranch and cattle. When the Apaches settled down he’d hire a couple of men to round up the steers and sell them to the Army. The rest he would let run, and in time there would be more cattle. Not being there, he’d lose a few, but longhorns knew how to get along. A longhorn bull would tackle anything that walked. They had been known to whip grizzlies.

  He tried to avoid thinking of Angie. The thought of her accusing eyes made him uncomfortable. She was all right, only she had such notions about staying with the ran
ch. As if they wouldn’t be better off in town. And she didn’t want him to gamble. He won, didn’t he? He grinned a little, thinking of how he won. But she didn’t know that, and it was none of her business. Besides, he had worked hard enough for two men while her old man was alive.

  “Lots of ‘Paches movin’,” Phalinger said. “If we don’t come up with him tonight, I’m goin’ back.”

  Ed Lowe felt rising anger, but stifled it. Phalinger was no man to fool with, and besides, he wanted his company and his help. Ed Lowe was shrewd enough to know that he would get nowhere tackling Hondo Lane alone. The man’s reputation had been acquired the hard way.

  “Must be packin’ a thousand dollars,” Lowe said, urging Phalinger’s greed. “Where else we goin’ to get that much? Take us to Frisco.”

  “If we live.”

  They moved on as evening gathered, more slowly now. They were only a few miles behind Hondo at Deadman. They found the tracks of his horse there overlying those of the Indians.

  “All right,” Lowe agreed, “It’s tonight or we both go back.”

  They pushed on. Lowe mopped sweat from his face. He had the feeling they were close, and now that they were drawing near his mouth was growing dry, and he was tense.

  Long shadows stretched from the hills, the sun died beyond the mountains behind them, and the air grew cool. Lowe’s shirt felt sticky and uncomfortable. Phalinger moved closer. From time to time they paused, listening.

  “Ed.”

  Lowe turned to Phalinger. The gambler’s face was white and set.

  “I got a hunch, Ed. I got a gambler’s hunch. We’ve had it.”

  Irritation mounted within Lowe, stifling his own doubt. “Don’t be a damn fool!” He kept his voice down. “Hour from now we’ll have him right where we want him. It’s him ain’t goin’ to get back.”

  Their horses walked in sand. Ahead leaves rustled. Leaves meant a cottonwood, and a cottonwood meant water. Ed Lowe’s hatred mounted within him. He loosened his gun, urged his horse forward, then stopped.