Ambush on the Mesa (9 page)

The moonlight shone dully on something else, beyond the ravaged carcass of the mule. Something like pools of water dappling the sandy earth. Hugh was puzzled until he remembered the silver service.

Where in the hell was Pearce? Maybe the burly New Yorker hadn’t come out here at all. Maybe the gun had
been shot at something else. Maybe … The thought trailed off in Hugh’s mind. He slowly turned his head to look along the rock ridge, then down into the canyon, then up the steep northern wall, to follow along the rock which almost blocked the entrance. A Mescalero had once told him something he should have remembered: “White-Eyes hear shot. Run like hell to see what happen. Tinneh hear shot. No run to see. Stay tight in hiding place. Wait. Wait. Wait, until sure no one in ambush.”

Hugh bellied down the slope in the shelter of the brush. He lay flat beside a large boulder. There was something ahead of him, dimly seen through the tangled brush. Something white. He inched forward on the warm earth until he could see what it was.

The body lay on its back, the thick mats of curly black hair in deep contrast to the whiteness of the skin. The skin looked unusually white compared to the mahogany brown of the big hands. The contorted face was yet another hue. Hugh looked away for a moment. The skull had been crushed and blood had coated the broad face in a dark mask. The bloody eyes stared unseeingly up at the moonlit sky.

Hugh inched back. Something else caught his eye. Dan Pearce clutched a beautifully formed silver creamer in his right hand.

Hugh did not hurry on his return trip, although the hounds of fear ran silently at his heels. He made his way carefully up the slope until he reached the place where Chandler Willis waited for him. There was no need to say anything to Willis. He knew.

They walked slowly back toward the cliff dwellings. They were almost to the crumbling wall when Willis spoke softly. “One down,” he said. “Twelve to go. Who’s next, scout?”

M
ATT
H
ASTINGS
marked it down in his little notebook. “Pearce, D. A., Pvt — from duty to deceased,” he said. He wrote down the time and date.

“What’s the A stand for?” asked Willis.

“Aloysius.”

“Jesus,” said Willis. “No wonder he’d never tell me.”

Isaiah Morton stood at the edge of the terrace with his lean hands clasped together. “Therefore thus saith the Lord of hosts, the God of Israel; Behold, I will feed them, even this people, with wormwood, and give them water of gall to drink.”

“There he goes again,” said Willis.

Isaiah Morton raised his voice. “I will scatter them also among the heathen, whom neither they nor their fathers have known: and I will send a sword after them, till I have consumed them.”

The men looked at each other with wide eyes. Hastings closed his notebook. “Morton,” he said quietly, “this J Company wasn’t issued a chaplain, and if it had been, I’d tell him to say something cheerful from the Good Book. Any more of that stuff out of you and I’ll heave you over the wall so you can go amongst those heathen, whom neither us nor our fathers have known.
Comprende?
”

Morton’s eyes seemed to shine through the darkness. He stalked off down the terrace. “They shall have eyes and they shall see not,” he intoned. “They shall have ears and they shall hear not.”

“Makes my skin crawl,” said Hastings. “The man is a Jonah.”

They could hear the horses and mules plainly. Stevens looked toward them. “By God, Sarge,” he said hoarsely, “they’re really suffering. I can’t listen to ‘em much longer.”

Hastings opened his mouth to curse Stevens, and then he shut it. They were all horsemen. None of them liked the idea of letting the horses suffer. Hastings looked at Hugh. Hugh raised his head and drew a forefinger across his lean throat.

Hastings nodded. “I’ll tell the captain,” he said.

“Tell him what, Sarge?” demanded Stevens.

“None of your damned business.”

Stevens stepped forward and dropped his carbine across his left forearm. “You mean you’re going to kill off those horses?”

Hastings lowered his right hand to his Colt butt. “Not all of them. We’ve got three extras now. Pearce’s mount and the two pack mules. God knows there isn’t enough water for those that will be left, but we’ll have to sweat out a day or two more before we figure out what to do with them.”

Stevens cocked his carbine. “You’re not going to kill any of them,” he said quietly. “Let them go. They’ll take care of themselves.”

Hastings eyed the trooper. “Look, jaybird,” he said, “we’re out of food. I don’t like horse or mule meat but I’ll be damned if I’m going to starve as long as I can get some of it. Now you let down the hammer of that carbine and get to your post before I show you the hard way who’s first soldier around here.”

Stevens stood there for half a minute, then he eased down his carbine hammer and walked slowly toward the west end of the terrace.

“The sonofabitch actually thinks more of them damned animals being kept alive than he does of us eating,” said Matt Hastings.

“Who’ll slaughter them?” asked Hugh.

Hastings whirled. “Not me!”

“Then who?”

“You!”

Hugh shook his head. “I killed my best horse two years ago when Comanches had me cut off from the column. Dropped him with a shot between the eyes to use him so I could fort up in a buffalo wallow. I can still remember how he looked just before he got the bullet.”

Hastings pulled at his lip. “Yeah, yeah.”

The five of them stood there in the dimness: Hugh, Hastings, Roswell, Willis and Greer. Hastings cleared his throat. “We can draw straws,” he said.

“No need,” said Harry Roswell. “I’ll do it.”

The other four looked quickly at Roswell. Greer wet his thin lips, then turned and walked away. Willis shoved back his hat, shrugged, and then sauntered toward the east end of the terrace.

“Both mules and one of the horses,” said Roswell. “Which horse?”

Hastings shrugged. “Pick out the worst of the lot.” He grinned as he looked toward the shadowy line of animals tethered at the west end of the terrace. “Stevens’s,” he said.

Roswell leaned his carbine against the wall and reached for his Colt. Hugh placed a hand on Roswell’s wrist. “Use the knife,” he said. “We can’t spare ammunition. Besides … we don’t want to arouse the Apaches.”

Roswell nodded. He wet his lips. Hugh drew out his heavy
sheath knife and handed it to the noncom. Roswell hefted it, then walked toward the animals.

“Lead them away one at a time from the others!” called out Hugh. “If the rest of them smell the blood they’ll get excited.”

Roswell nodded without turning.

“I couldn’t do it,” said Greer from the shadows.

“You can’t do anything,” said Hastings.

“Maybe the officers won’t like it,” said Greer.

Hastings spat. “There’ll be a helluva lot more they won’t like before we get out of this hellhole.”

Roswell was holding the first horse by the bridle reins now. Somebody spoke to him.

“Whose horse is that?” asked Hugh suddenly.

Hastings stared. “Stevens’s,” he said.

Hugh started forward. “The damned fool should have known better.”

Roswell was dragging at the bridle reins of Stevens’s bay. Suddenly there was a sharp cry from Stevens. He hit Roswell with the butt of his carbine. The noncom staggered toward the terrace wall, dropping the knife. Stevens was up on his bay. He shrieked like a Comanche and drove the excited bay against the horse next in line. The horses and mules jerked at their tethers. One by one they broke loose, neighing sharply and clashing their hoofs against the floor of the terrace.

Stevens whooped. He slapped at the nearest rumps with his hat. A horse leaped the terrace wall and crashed down the slope. Roswell screamed as the frenzied animals surged toward him. He was driven against the wall. Then the horses and mules smashed against the wall. Rocks crumbled as the hoofs struck sparks from them. Then the whole mass of them were over the wall and floundering down the slope in an uproar that echoed and re-echoed through the canyon. Dust rose in a pall and swept back toward the cliff dwellings.

Hugh raced toward Roswell. He could see Stevens behind the stampeding animals, waving his hat and screaming wildly. The group of horses and mules reached the bottom of the slope and crashed through a dense thicket. Then they were in the clear, racing toward the east end of the canyon with a steady drumming of hoofs.

Nettleton ran alongside Hugh. “What happened?”

Hugh didn’t answer. He crouched beside Roswell. The
noncom was unconscious. Blood stained his face and ran from the corner of his mouth. One arm hung at an awkward angle. A bubbling sound came from his throat as he breathed.

The bitter smell of dust hung in the night air. The drumming of the hoofs was dying away when the flat crack of a rifle carried to those who stood on the terrace.

“I wonder what he thought he was doing?” asked Katy Corse.

“He’s loco,” said Chandler Willis.

Hugh wiped the blood from Roswell’s face. “He’s in a bad way. Help me get him into one of the rooms.”

Willis and Hastings helped Hugh with the injured man. Katy Corse came into the room after they lowered Roswell onto his blanket. “Get some cloth for bandages,” said Hugh over his shoulder.

Katy bent forward and pulled up her skirt. She looked at the torn and dirty petticoat she wore. “It won’t help him any to put cloth like this against his wounds.”

Hugh wiped the blood from Roswell’s chin and neck. “Ask Mrs. Nettleton for some of her things. She’s got a packful of them.”

Katy nodded. She left the room. Hastings looked down at Roswell. “What do you think, Kinzie?” he asked softly.

Hugh stood up. “He’s all smashed up inside.

Hastings shook his head. “I never thought he’d take me serious when I told him to kill Stevens’s horse.”

Willis leaned against the wall. “You knew damned well he always did what he was told, Sarge.”

Hastings looked up. “Yeah. Yeah.”

Abel Clymer burst into the room. “Hastings!” he snapped. “We’ve got to get those horses back at once.”

Far down the canyon another shot cracked faintly, like a faggot snapping in the fireplace.

“If the lieutenant will tell me how,” he said coolly, “I’ll be glad to try.”

Clymer looked from one to the other of the three men standing in front of him. “Who’s responsible for that stampede?”

“If we told you, what would you do, Clymer?” asked Hugh. “Court-martial him?”

“We’re trapped for sure now!” snapped Clymer.

Hugh studied the blustering officer. “You’ve been trapped ever since you left the Fort McLane trail and came up into these mountains.”

There was doubt in Clymer’s eyes now. He looked down at Roswell. “How badly is he hurt?”

“He’s all smashed up inside, Mr. Clymer,” said Hastings.

“You think he’ll live?”

Hastings stared at the big officer. “I hope so, sir!”

Clymer looked about the dim room. “Where’s Greer?”

“Somewhere outside.”

Clymer turned and left the room.

Hastings eased Roswell’s head back onto a fold of the blanket. “Clymer sounded almost like he wanted Roswell to die…. I wonder why?”

“I suppose he figures Roswell will be nothing but a burden now,” Hugh said.

Katy Corse came in, carrying a petticoat over her arm. “Get some water, Willis,” she said.

Willis looked at Hugh. Hugh nodded. Willis left the room. Hastings took a stub of candle from his pocket and lit it, placing it in a wall niche. The flickering yellow light seemed to accentuate the ghastly pallor of Roswell’s face. Katy handed the petticoat to Hastings. “Rip it up,” she said.

Hastings whistled as he felt the fine material. “My God, but our cat had a fine long tail, Katy. What’d she say when you asked her for it?”

Katy brushed back her hair. “I didn’t ask her. If I had, and she’d refused me, I would have taken it anyway.”

Hugh walked outside. Abel Clymer was partway down the slope, staring off to the west as though he could penetrate the gigantic shoulder of rock which blocked off the mysteries of the western part of the canyon.

Darrell Phillips came up behind Hugh. “I wish he’d take a walk up that canyon,” he said softly.

Hugh looked quickly at the officer. “We’re getting shorthanded,” he said. “First Pearce. Then Stevens and Roswell. Morton is useless and Greer isn’t much better.”

Phillips waved a hand. “All the same, I wish to God he’d walk into an Apache trap.”

“Who’s on guard?”

“I don’t know.”

“Damn it!” Hugh turned on a heel and walked toward the watchtower. He turned quickly into the narrow passageway. There was a sudden movement in the darkness. Boots grated against rock. Then something smashed and tinkled against the rock wall. The pungent odor of strong liquor flowed toward Hugh. He darted forward but whoever had dropped
the bottle was gone in the darkness of the passageway which led behind the cliff dwellings.

Hugh returned to the terrace. Hastings and Willis were with Roswell and Katy. Nettleton was with his wife. Phillips was standing at the far end of the terrace looking down into the canyon. Abel Clymer was partway down the slope, looking in the direction the horses and mules had gone. Hugh nodded. He walked to the passageway which led back to the triangular passageway behind the dwellings. There was a furtive movement in the darkness. Hugh reached out with a big hand and clamped it on Greer’s shirt collar. He drew the squirming little man toward him.

Greer struck at Hugh. Hugh shook him a little. Greer bared his yellowish teeth. “You’ve got no right to treat me like this!”

Hugh thrust his face close to Greer’s. “You drunken little bastard! Where did you get the stuff?”

Greer drew back. “Down in one of those round rooms below the terrace.”

Hugh shoved the little orderly back against the wall. “There was a time when nothing short of a jab in the rump from Satan’s pitchfork would have made you go down there.”

Greer shakily held out a hand. “Don’t tell the captain,” he pleaded.

“Have you got another bottle?”

“No!”

Hugh swiftly passed his hands over the little man’s body. Greer was clean. Hugh thrust a big finger under Greer’s nose as though he was admonishing a little child. “I get one whiff of liquor from you, Greer, and I’ll break your God-damned neck like a match stick.
Comprende?
”

Greer straightened up. He stroked his skinny neck. “A man has to have something around here to keep up his courage.”

“You never had any in the first place.”

“Go to hell, Kinzie!”

Hugh stepped back. “Get your carbine. Get out on that terrace and keep your eyes peeled.”

Greer watched Hugh walk back toward the terrace. The little orderly scurried back into the triangular passageway. He reached up into a cleft and gripped a bottle. Swiftly, with shaking hands, he drew out the cork. He tipped up the bottle and let the flaming liquor flow down his open throat. He
gulped as though he were tasting mother’s milk, then took down the bottle, corked it and cached it. He wiped his mouth with the back of his dirty hand and grinned in the darkness. “Go to hell, Kinzie,” he said softly.

Hugh walked to the ladder which protruded from one of the openings in the terrace floor. He eased his way down it until his feet hit the floor. He took out a candle stub and lit it, placing it on one of the low shelves which encircled the room. Part of the contents of the mule packs had been stored in the room. Hugh lifted some of the articles with a boot toe, shaking his head as he did so. Boxes of clothing, hat boxes, bags of odds and ends and several tablecloths. There was no liquor amongst the things.

Something moved up on the terrace. Hugh blew out the candle and climbed the ladder. Greer was at the west end of the terrace, looking down into the canyon. There was no one else on the terrace. Hugh heard Harry Roswell groan in deep-seated agony. He walked to the next underground opening and went down the rickety ladder. He relit the candle and looked about the room. There were some rawhide panniers lying to one side. Hugh knelt beside them and opened the first of them. The necks of bottles showed through the straw packing.