Apache Rampage (4 page)

‘That doesn’t concern us any,’ Ellwood growled and heard his town give their rumbled agreement. ‘We’ve never had any trouble with the Apaches.’

‘You’re like to get it,’ said the blond giant, his voice a deep, cultured Texas drawl. ‘Dusty wasn’t fooling and Lon knows Indians. It’d be downright murder to send folks out there until you know the way things lay.’

‘We never asked them to come here in the first place,’ screamed Mrs. Haslett, seeing her chance to get back at Phyllis and the girls, even if it meant sending them to certain death. She hoped the show people would. beg to be allowed to stay. ‘This’s our town and we don’t want the likes of them here.’

The small Texan looked hard at Ellwood. ‘That your word?’

‘Not exactly,’ replied Ellwood. He might have acted differently but hated the thought of being forced into a decision. ‘It’s true we don’t want their kind here, but we’ve seen no sign of Apaches.’

The small man’s eyes never left Ellwood’s face. They were grey eyes, cold and hard now, the cold grey stare making the marshal feel uncomfortable. ‘You’re sending white women out of here at a time like this. Into what could be death, or worse. When I pass the word of what you’ve done folks won’t even spit on you in the street.’

‘And who’ll bother to listen to the likes of you?’ Mrs. Haslett sneered, her eyes studying the insignificant young Texan.

The blond youngster moved his big paint to flank his friends and spoke for the first time:

‘Ma’am, I reckon folks just might listen. This here’s Dusty Fog.’

‘Dusty Fog?’ Ellwood breathed the two words out, staring at the small Texan and half suspecting a joke. ‘I’ve heard of you.’

On the wagon Phyllis nudged Thornett in the ribs and smiled. Her guess was a meat-in-the-pot hit. She’d hardly recognised Dusty, for the last time she saw him was in Gratton, Texas. Then Dusty was wearing town clothes and acting as a school-teacher to help break a ruthless town-boss. The range clothes prevented Phyllis from recognising Dusty before. She knew he recognised her by the smile he gave her before looking back at Ellwood.

The crowd knew the name. Every man here had heard of the Rio Hondo gun-wizard, Dusty Fog. His was a name to conjure with throughout the West. Dusty Fog, a small man who stood head and shoulders over the tall men he rode with. A Confederate Army captain at seventeen, Dusty built a reputation which equalled the Dixie masters, John Singleton Mosby and Turner Ashby. Since the war he’d become known as trailhand of the first water, cowhand, rough-string rider and trail boss. He was the man who brought law to the rough towns where other men failed. That was Dusty Fog, segundo of the mighty O.D. Connected ranch, nephew of the owner, Ole Devil Hardin.

He was the leader of the elite of the O.D. Connected ranch crew, Ole Devil’s floating outfit. Three members of the floating outfit rode with him now.

It didn’t take a whole lot of brain power to guess who the three men were.

The blond giant was Mark Counter. He was a cowhand with a name as high as any man’s. His father owned the biggest ranch in the Big Bend country but Mark rode as a hand with his friends. In Bushrod Sheldon’s Confederate Cavalry, Mark was known as the man who set the fashion in uniforms. Now he was the Beau Brummel of the cow fighting men in the West. His skill with his fists was told of along the cattle trails: he was known to be a good rifle shot. For all of that there were few who knew of his skill with his matched guns. Those who knew said Mark Counter was second only to Dusty Fog himself in speed of draw and skill at placing home his shots.

The dark boy on the big white horse was also known—and how he was known. The Ysabel Kid was known as a rifle shot who could make a hit any time a hit was possible and frequently made a hit when a hit was impossible. He was said to be the greatest exponent of the art of cut and slash since James Bowie died at the Alamo. He was also fair with his old Dragoon gun, proving that Colonel Sam’s old four-pound heavyweight was a precision weapon in skilled hands. He was spoken of as a man skilled in the noble art of reading sign. His tenor voice was much sought after by quartet singers. He could speak fluent Spanish and was conversant with six Indian tongues. His father had been an Irish Kentuckian and his mother a French Creole Comanche woman. From this mixture of bloods came a soft-talking, innocent-looking but deadly dangerous child christened Loncey Dalton Ysabel, but was better known as the Ysabel Kid.

The last member of the quartet, the handsome boy on the big paint, was known by only one name, Waco. He’d been left an orphan almost from birth by a Waco Indian attack, and from the age of thirteen was riding the cattle ranges with a low-tied gun by his side. He’d grown fast, sullen, truculent and trouble-hunting. A man who rode for Clay Allison was likely to be a real good man with a gun, and Waco was no exception to the rule. He’d ridden for the old Washita curly wolf’s C.A. outfit, and with them Waco learned to handle a brace of low-tied guns. Then he met Dusty Fog and his life changed. From the day when Dusty Fog pulled Waco from in front of the stampeding C.A. herd, the youngster started to change. He’d left Allison and joined the O.D. Connected’s floating outfit, changing from a proddy, trouble-hunting heller to a likeable, friendly and efficient young man. He was now known as an expert cowhand, liked and respected. To the other members of the floating outfit he gave a loyalty, brotherly respect and accepted all they could teach him. To Dusty Fog, Waco gave the devotion and hero-worship which should have gone to his father. To speak with disrespect about the Rio Hondo gun-wizard in Waco’s presence was to invite a fight and to get one.

Phyllis watched the faces of the crowd, then turned to Dusty Fog and smiled. The recognition was mutual. Dusty knew who she was and remembered her from their last meeting. She gave the crowd a withering glance and said:

‘We’re going, Captain Fog. We wouldn’t stay here if they begged us.’

For all her apparent calm Phyllis was worried. She’d helped fight off two Indian attacks but only against Pawnees or Utes, low down on the dangerous Indian scale. The Apaches were right up there on top of that scale, one of the most savage, ruthless, battle-wise and deadly of all the fighting, Indian tribes. For all that, even should the Apaches be waiting a mile from town, should the death of herself and her family be certain, Phyllis did not aim to stay in Baptist’s Hollow. The very people of the town sickened her.

‘That’s right,’ Mrs. Haslett let out a squeal She was disappointed that Phyllis was not begging to be allowed to stay. ‘Get out of here and take your four hired killers with you.’

Dusty Fog stopped Waco’s angry retort and looked hard at Ellwood. ‘You know these ladies could get killed, or worse, taken by the Apaches?’

‘We’ve never had any Apache trouble,’ answered Ellwood, worried far more than he was showing. ‘Chief Ramon’s a friend of our town and attends our church. He would never allow his men to attack us.’

‘You sure of that?’ asked the Ysabel Kid, leaning forward slightly and looking attentive. ‘I mean, about him being such a good friend?’

‘He’s our friend.’

‘Mister, you got a real dead friend,’ the Kid’s drawl was Comanche, deep and mean. ‘A fortnight back a troop of Yankee cavalry hit his camp by mistake. They went right straight through and left poor ole Ramon dead as a six-day stunk-up skunk. Now a real bad hat, white-hater called Lobo Colorado’s riding as war chief and he don’t like white-eyes one lil bit.’

Ellwood stiffened and stared at the Ysabel Kid. The marshal knew something about Ramon’s braves and more than somewhat about the one called Lobo Colorado. The Ysabel kid only half called it when he said Lobo Colorado was a white-hater. The Indian hated every white-skinned man, woman and child, hated them bitterly for taking away his land. With him riding as war chief it was going to mean bad trouble for the white people of Arizona. Ellwood turned to the wagon and spoke in a grudging tone:

‘You can stay on here until we hear something definite. But you’ve got to behave and you don’t try to give your show.’

‘Thanks for nothing,’ snapped Phyllis, taking a chance on what she knew of the four Texans. ‘I wouldn’t stay in your town if I knew my girls were all going to be taken alive by the Apaches. I’d prefer them to you. Come on, Doc, start the wagon.’

‘You got company, happen you don’t mind, ma’am,’ said Mark Counter, making the remark Phyllis guessed he would.

‘Be pleased to have you along,’ Phyllis replied, trying to hide her relief. With those four along they stood a better than fair chance of getting through to Fort Owen. She looked back into the wagon where Elwin was seated and talking to her daughter. ‘You hear what was said, boy?’

Elwin gave a startled jump and turned to the woman. ‘Yes’m,’ he lied, for he’d been so engrossed talking to Janice that he had not heard a word.

‘Do you want to stay here instead of risking the fort?’

‘No, ma’am!’ replied Elwin in a determined voice. What Janice just told him would have made him willing to face the devil. ‘I’ll take my chance along with you.’

‘Right, come on up front here while Janice changes out of that torn dress.’

Ellwood was doing some right smart, fast thinking now. If Ramon was dead and Lobo Colorado rode as war chief a man could do worse than have four men like these fighting alongside him. In the war Ellwood learned the lesson of what a few good fighting men could do for an otherwise weak command. He knew the fighting qualities of his people, or the lack of fighting qualities. The four Texans might stiffen the citizens, give them hope if not courage. He made a decision which might make him unpopular with the people of the town.

‘You can stay on here if you like.’

‘Not us, mister,’ replied Mark. ‘We wouldn’t pollute your fair city no more. We’ll let Fort Owen know how you’re getting on.’

Thornett started the wagon rolling along Church Street, headed for the stage trail. Three of the four Texans moved their horses to one side, then followed the wagon, but the fourth remained. The Ysabel Kid sat his big white, his face dark and Comanche-looking, his red-hazel coloured eyes mocking and hard. For a full minute he did not speak, then he gave forth with some of his inborn Indian savvy.

‘Mister, happen you’ve got the sense of a seam-squirrel, you’ll sleep real easy tonight and every other night until Lobo Colorado’s put under— You being such a good friend of Ole Ramon, that is.’

Ellwood hated the mocking note in the voice and at any other time would have reacted differently. Right now there was too much he wanted to know about Apaches, and there was not much time to learn it. Holding down his annoyance he asked:

‘What do you mean?’

‘Man’d say I know a mite about Apaches, just a lil mite,’ the mocking note was still there, biting and savage. ‘They think real funny, Apaches do. Right now, and ever since the blue-bellies put Ramon under, ole Lobo Colorado’s been sending out the word for every bronco bad-hat to meet up with him and see how little he cares for Ramon’s ways and—’ There was a pause, pregnant with the thought for the listening crowd. ‘Ramon’s friends.’

Ellwood was beginning to catch the drift of Ysabel’s remarks and did not like what he read in them. ‘Well?’ he asked.

‘Waal, a smart ole Yankee major like you ought to be able to figure it out real good, if a half-bright lil Texas boy like me can,’ drawled the Kid, confirming Ellwood’s suspicions. ‘Yeah, he’ll be here one of these dawns. Him and every white-hating buck who ride hoss, or tote gun. They’ll be all here, wild and r’aring to show how much they hate Ramon and his amigos. Mister, one morning, real early, you’re going to find yourself plump belly deep in Apaches. Good luck, you’ll likely wind up needing it.’

With that the Ysabel Kid began to knee his big white horse around to follow his friends. Before the horse took two walking steps, Ellwood called out, ‘Hold it there, young man.’

In all the West, as Ellwood knew from what he’d heard, there were probably not more than two men who owned sufficient knowledge to outweigh the Ysabel Kid’s ‘lil mite’ of Indian savvy. Anything the Kid might feel like telling right now was going to be of great help to the town in preparing for the forthcoming Indian attack.

‘Something bothering you, mister?’ asked the Kid, turning his horse once more and bringing it to a halt.

‘What’d you say was the best thing we could do?’

The Ysabel Kid looked first at the Apache war arrow which still stuck in the dirt of the street. Then slowly his eyes lifted to the scared faces of the crowd. There was quite a change in the faces now. The truculent, righteous looks were all gone, the hatred and anger faded. Only raw fear remained. The Kid looked at the people of Baptist’s Hollow and his face showed what he thought of them.

‘Ain’t but three things you could do now. Run. But there isn’t time, travelling slow like you’d be. They’d get you out in their own country—it wouldn’t be pretty. You could stock that ole church there with food, powder, ball and everything. Even so, with a bunch like this to back you I wouldn’t like your chances,’ the Kid replied, starting to turn his horse again. ‘Way I see it, we’re lucky to be getting out of here.’

‘You said three things we could do, cowboy,’ said Ellwood in a hoarse voice. Suddenly he saw himself and his town the way this cowhand and every other person must see it. The feeling hurt, for he saw himself as a fool, a stupid, bigoted fool. Not only he himself, but almost every man and woman in the town. Now, unless they were lucky they would all wind up being dead fools. ‘You said three things we could do,’ he repeated. ‘What was the last thing?’

The big stallion was walking away and the Ysabel Kid did not stop it. He turned in the saddle and looked back, then replied:

‘Mister, your bunch are so strong for religion and doing everything right—You might try and pray.’

CHAPTER FOUR

Major Ellwood, town marshal of Baptist’s Hollow, watched the wagon leaving his town, the four young Texas men riding behind it. He watched the four men’s departure with some misgivings. If the Apaches did attack he could have used such men to back him and help in the defence of the town. They would have been just what he needed, for fighting men were desperately short in Baptist’s Hollow and there were none in whom Ellwood could put his trust. Certainly not men like Haslett, Millet or the town’s minister, Deacon Routh. None of them could be termed a fighting man.

The men of Baptist’s Hollow stood in a group, talking among themselves about what they’d heard. Ellwood watched their faces, reading the fear in most of them. Millet was in the centre of things as usual. He was a flabby fat man with a mean, piggy face which worked into folds and lines as he stressed some point. By Millet’s side stood Haslett, his thin, sallow face paler than was usual as he tried to peer through the store window and see what Elwin stole when he left. Yet the thin man was so scared of missing anything that not even his mistrust of others and love of money could make him leave the street. Deacon Routh, the minister, was also there, his thin, miserable face strained and scared as he tried to think up a suitable Bible quotation to cover the situation.

‘What’re we going to do, Major?’ Haslett asked.

There Ellwood was stumped for a moment. He did not know right off just what they were going to do. Ellwood was the sort of man who needed time to think, he did not have the quick brain, the lightning speed of adaptability, which went to make a great lawman or soldier. Given a plan ready-made he could carry it out so long as it went as planned. He lacked the ability to improvise on the spot when things went wrong. His eyes went to the old Spanish church across the plaza and he remembered the Ysabel Kid’s advice. There was everything to be said for their going into the church, for he knew how ideal it was for defence and protection. It would take artillery and a regiment of skilled men to break into their church if the defenders held firm. With the church supplied with food, ammunition and the necessities of life, it could be held indefinitely by determined men. Long before the Apaches could break through the defence relief would be on hand from Fort Owen. The Texans would take word to the fort, that was certain, and the cavalry could come fast.

‘We’d best do what that young feller told us, fort up the church.’

‘I think we should assemble the Town Council and talk things out first,’ replied Deacon Routh. He was a shrewd judge of character and knew exactly what Haslett meant. While the good deacon did not object to any man making a profit, he did not want the same profit made at his expense.

Ellwood snorted. At this moment there was nothing he wanted less than a meeting with the Town Council, which consisted of himself, Routh, Millet and Haslett. The purpose this council served, as Ellwood was bitterly aware, was to make sure that things ran smoothly for the members. There was no way he could avoid the meeting, so he gave his assent and turned to walk off in the direction of the jail. Millet bent to pull the Apache war arrow from the ground, then followed the other members of the council along the sidewalk.

The Town Offices of Baptist’s Hollow were neither large, nor grand. They were in fact half the jail house, the other half being the steel barred cells. So little business was ever done in the office that the prisoners, if any were in the cells, could look in on any meeting. The offices themselves were nothing more than a filing cabinet in one corner and a small desk.

The two prisoners looked up as the double doors opened.

Scully was clearly on his dignity as became a man who’d been jailed in most of the big towns of the West. ‘I say, my good man,’ he greeted, as Ellwood came in. ‘When do we eat in this pokey?’

Ellwood ignored the man and waved the council inside. Haslett was quick at counting and saw there would not be sufficient chairs to go around, so he made a dash for one, beating Routh to it by a short head. Millet laid the arrow on the desk and showed his annoyance at failing to get a seat. The arrow was an interesting object, and he might be able to sell it in his store. Then he opened the meeting with a statement worthy of his mighty brain.

‘I don’t think there is any Apache trouble at all. Those four brought this with them and used it as an excuse to get the show out of town.’

‘Why’d they bother?’ asked Ellwood, wondering how the man ever reached such a conclusion.

‘They were working in with the man who ran the show. You know what those hired killers are.’

Ellwood snorted, wondering where Millet kept his brains. ‘Why’d they need to lie about it. If they’d wanted to take the show out of town we couldn’t have stopped them doing it.’

Millet puffed up pompously. ‘I wouldn’t say that, Major. I’m no man to cross when I’m roused.’

Deacon Routh looked at the Apache arrow, then at the rifles which were secured to the wall by a chain through their trigger-guards and locked firmly. ‘Gentlemen, let us assume the warning was correct, what will be our best plan?’

‘We do have our duty to the citizens to consider,’ agreed Haslett, ‘but I can’t see why those men would bother to warn us.’

‘It could have been out of Christian charity,’ answered Ellwood in a low tone.

The marshal was thinking of the layout of the town now and saw a possible way of defending it. He knew little about Apache’s first-hand, his knowledge coming from people he’d heard talking. The Apaches were horse-Indians, fighting from the backs of’ their racing war-ponies. That was one thing he was almost sure about. They were horsemen with few equals, and yet not even Apaches could ride down the slopes on three sides of the town. That meant they would come in from the open end, following the trail. There was enough room on either side of the trail for a large body of men to make a combined attack. That would be the way Lobo Colorado came, the obvious way. Any half-bright shavetail out of West Point would see that in half a glance. The Apaches would strike at dawn, coming in as the first light of day came, for that was the way they fought. Ellwood knew that much and thought back to his lessons at West Point and started to make a plan. He thought he would have little trouble in dealing with a bunch of savages, without his military training. What Ellwood was forgetting was that the Apache fought against many men with far better military training—and with some success.

‘What do you think, Major?’ asked Deacon Routh in a tone which suggested the marshal should have thought everything out.

Ellwood drew in a deep breath, then gave out with his plan for defending the town. ‘We’ll dig rifle pits across the mouth of the hollow and keep them fully defended all night.’

‘Rifle pits?’ Haslett asked, a puzzled look on his face.

‘Yes, we used them in the war. Dig them just deep enough so a man can fire a rifle from them without showing too much of himself. That way he doesn’t stand so much chance of getting hit. We can hold the Apaches out of town from them.’

‘How about the slopes on the other sides?’ Haslett inquired.

‘Everybody knows Apaches fight on horseback,’ snorted Millet, giving Ellwood his support as a way of avoiding moving his stock. ‘They can’t ride horses down the slopes, so they won’t come in that way.’

‘That’s what I thought, too,’ agreed Ellwood. ‘Then we’ll get every man in town to start digging out there.’

Millet coughed. He was never the sort of man to relish doing any work, much less if he wasn’t getting paid good hard cash for doing it. ‘My wife was hurt by that little hussy,’ he began. ‘I should stay by her—’

‘I said every man of us,’ snapped Ellwood grimly. ‘The Town Council’s going to set an example to the others. There is an election coming off soon.’

‘And Elvira’s being well cared for by the other ladies,’ went on Haslett. He put his spoke in because he could not think of any excuse to avoid digging himself and did not mean that Millet should. ‘She’ll be all right, and she’ll be a whole lot worse hurt if the Apaches get in.’

Millet looked around for some excuse to avoid being taken along. His eyes went to the two men in the cells. ‘We could make the prisoners do all the digging.’

In the cells Scully gulped as he heard the words. There was one thing which he’d never committed in his life—work. He was proud of his record of never having worked any harder than toting a deck of cards up his sleeve and would die rather than get such a blemish on his spotless record. His noble sentiment was not put to the crucial test for Ellwood shook his head.

‘Two men couldn’t do all that digging and they’d be more trouble than they were worth if we took them along,’ he said. ‘Besides, they’re only in jail pending trial, and they could sue the town if they were forced into any kind of punishment before they were tried.’ He paused and there was a grim set to his face. ‘You go out and gather all the folks, Deacon. I’m not sure we shouldn’t take all your arms and ammunition to the church ready, Fred.’

‘There’s no need for that yet,’ Millet answered hastily. He thought he might lose some of his goods if he let other people handle them. His greed was such that, even in this present time of danger, he would not risk losing anything. ‘I think we ought to get the men out and digging.’

‘The town should take over your food and get it up to the church ready, Haslett,’ Ellwood went on, looking for more support. ‘Just in case.’

‘That won’t be necessary with the rifle pits dug,’ Haslett gulped, seeing his chance of a profit slipping. The other members of the council would not object to his making a profit—but not at their expense. They would not agree to paying more than the wholesale price if they purchased the goods from town funds.

‘Go and get the men together then,’ Ellwood ordered and the other three men left the room. Turning to his prisoners Ellwood went on, ‘I’ll get you a meal before I go out.’

‘There’s no rush, Marshal,’ replied Scully, so grateful at not being forced to commit work that he was almost willing to forgive Ellwood for not accepting his bribe. ‘And thank you, sir, thank you.’

Ellwood could not decide what the prisoner was thanking him for and left without inquiring. Scully and Willy exchanged glances, then both went to lay back on the hard, uncomfortable beds, ignoring the discomfort.

‘That was close,’ said Scully.

‘What’s it all about?’ Willy inquired. ‘I saw ole Doc and Miz Phyllis leave town with four men.’

‘Were they people from the town?’ asked Scully, for he liked Doc and Phyllis.

‘Nope, they wus cowhands and good uns at that.’

‘There was some talk of Apaches,’ Scully mused, looking up at the room. ‘I wouldn’t want to be caught in here by Apaches. It wouldn’t be restful or pleasant.’

Ellwood found a sullen, mutinous crowd awaiting him outside the office. The citizens of the town had one thing in common, a dislike for doing anything which did not pay a return in good, hard cash. They were so narrow-minded that none could see the sense in digging holes which might never be needed. There was still less enthusiasm when they realised they’d be forced to man the same holes.

One of the men stepped forward. ‘Look here, Major,’ he said truculently. ‘We been talking things over and we don’t reckon there’s any need for us to get all hot and bothered. Maybe a couple of miners were killed in the hills, maybe there wasn’t. We ain’t but got the words of them four men for it. Even if they did find the two miners it don’t mean Ramon’s people done it. It could have been done by renegades. Anyways, we haven’t heard from the Army yet.’

Ellwood was beginning to hate the people of his town, hate their selfish ways and actions. ‘So?’ he asked grimly.

‘The stage comes in at noon today.’

‘I know that.’

‘Last one come in a week back.’

‘What’re you getting at?’

‘It won’t be running if the Apaches are out, now will it?’

‘It wouldn’t, most likely,’ agreed Ellwood. ‘If folks knew about the Apaches being out, that is.’

‘Then how about waiting until one o’clock?’ the man demanded.

There was some sense in what the man was saying. Ellwood conceded the point, for he knew that the Wells Fargo Company would not be running their stage if they knew of Apache trouble. This was also a slack time of the year, and only one coach could be guaranteed to run. That was the fast mail carrying coach to Fort Owen, it was due in Baptist’s Hollow at noon this day, and the driver was proud of his boast that he was never late. The only trouble with waiting was that it would have wasted valuable time which could profitably be spent in preparing the defences of the town. Ellwood knew there was no chance of getting anything done by his people until they were sure it was absolutely necessary, so he gave in with bad grace.

‘All right, do what you want,’ he snapped. ‘But if that coach isn’t here by one o’clock, we’re starting to dig those pits without any more talk.’

The crowd dispersed and Ellwood went back to the jail. He was in a mood and did no more than grunt in reply to Scully’s questions. There was no reason why the Texans should lie to him. They were not working with the medicine show. He’d heard enough of Dusty Fog and the others to know they never sold their guns. Even if they were working in with the show there would have been no need to lie. There was no man, or bunch of men, in Baptist’s Hollow, who could have stopped the forceable leaving of the show. That was an Apache war arrow the Ysabel Kid threw at the feet of the crowd, and Ellwood was fully aware of the significance of such a weapon.

It was then Ellwood remembered that Chief Ramon and the other few converted Apaches were not at church for the past two Sundays. The chief was usually one of the best attenders to church, yet he suddenly stopped coming. Ellwood had always been suspicious of Ramon’s motives in becoming a Christian and expected him to give it up when he found he could make nothing out of it. Now Ellwood wondered. He would not have thought anything about the Apache’s non-arrival. Now he was not so sure, he felt something had gone wrong. The feeling grew on him as the minutes ticked away, dragging on towards one o’clock.

Noon came and went without a sign of the stage. Only a few men were on the street at noon, for all of them expected the familiar sight of the coach lumbering at full speed along the street, making a turn in the plaza and coming to a halt before the Wells Fargo office. At ten past one there were worried looks and a few more of the citizens began to gather. By twenty past the worried looks were getting more and more in evidence. Then Millet gave an excited yell and pointed off towards the stage trail.