Текст книги "Apache Canyon"

Автор книги: Brian Garfield

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"In that case." Harris said flatly, "we'll all go. If you won t give shelter to a wounded man, Yeager, then You've got no right to shelter yourself. And we can use the firepower you and your boys will add to the party."

Yeager's mouth opened but Harris had his gim out by then. "I don't want to use this, Yeager. I don't even want to think about using it. But I will if I have to. You understand me?"

"Captain-do you know how long I've spent building this place up?"

"Don't look for pity from me, Yeager. I've spent too long watching you play both sides against the middle."

Brady murmured, "I warned you the day would come when you'd have to climb down off the fence on one side or the other. That day's come, Yeager. Make your choice."

Yeager's glance moved back and forth between the two of them. "Aagh," he said, giving up in disgust, and turned away. Harris bolstered his gun. "All right, everybody. Get ready to move."

Brady looked around the room. His glance passed the four boys, Rubio, Harris, Sutherland-one of Sutherland's eyes was closed, the other only half open; his face was a bloody mess, even after Yeager's squaw had done her best to clean him up; he had to support himself by leaning slumped against the wall. All the stiffness had gone out of his back.

And Tucker. Tucker looked up, smiling, his hand loosely draped around the neck of the two-thirds-empty whisky bottle, as though jealously guarding it. "Emmett?" Brady said softly.

"All set." Tucker said, "whenever you are."

But Brady wasn't so sure, looking at the pale shade of Tucker's lips and the fever-brightness of his eyes.

"Don't worry about me, hey?" Tucker breathed. If I fall off my horse, don't let anybody stop on my account."

"I never make that kind of promise," Brady said and stood up. "Pete?"

"Another five minutes," Rubio said. "Then it will be dark enough. When we go, we go fast."

And it was fast.

They managed to get mounted without discovery. Brady flung the corral gate open and spoke a quick, soft command; and then it was all hoofbeats drumming, pounding across the valley, charging into the trees with a few scattered, startled bullets seeking them but falling short or flying wide; and they were into the trees, all of them, and pummeling through the forest. It wouldn't be long, Brady knew, before the Apaches got to their horses and gave chase; but the margin might be just wide enough to let them make good the escape.

They poimded on at a dangerous pace through the darkness. The moon was fattening up, about one-third full. It flickered down through the branches. In the lead, Brady was first to reach the top of the ridge where the fork lay; he made his choice without hesitation and pounded down the left trail, toward the narrow head of Apache Canyon—the most direct, but the most rugged route down to the desert floor. One man posted in the thin split that was the canyon s rocky head could hold off an advancing army. Brady had spoken to no one about it, but he intended to be that man. He hoped that once he had given his companions enough of a lead, he could make good his own escape down the ti'eacherous canyon trail. It was not much of a hope, but he had to gamble on it.

They drummed through the night with no sign of pursuit yet, but it was only a matter of minutes before he heard the first of the gunshots behind them. The Indians would follow them closely, sniping at them; they would not, however, make a battle of it. Not at night; their superstitions forbade it. Brady was gambling on that superstition. There had been times, he knew, when Apaches had ignored it.

Rubio, arm in sling, rode forward at breakneck pace to catch up and spoke across the hoof-pounding distance between them: "I'll drop back and hold the head of the canyon."

"The hell you will," Brady said. "I picked that job for myself. You know the trail down through the canyon better than I do. It's up to you to guide therest of them down safely."

He wasn't sure, but he thought he heard Rubio grumble. Then Rubio's voice lifted again: "Tucker's not doing too good—I think he's started bleedin again."

Brady cursed under his breath but there was no slowing the pace now. He could only pray for Tucker.

The trees gave way to a long barren plateau across which they thundered on straining, panting horses. It was only a part of a mile to the head of the canyon now. Brady said, "Keep going, Pete," and fell out to the side of the column, slowing his pace, letting the others sweep past—eerie shadow-shapes on horseback, careening wildly tlirough the crying night. Behind, he could see the distant flashes of Apache gunfire. At that range, and from the backs, of running horses, they could not hope to hit anyone except through blind luck. Still, they were burning up a good bit of ammunition, and it was not easy to expect them to miss everyone. His horse loped along under him; the column swept past and he had a glimpse of Sutherland's slumped shape rocking on the saddle. Yeager's bearded silhouette was hunched, and so was his wife's, like a flour sack.

The Yeager boys went by, four in a row, and in the darkness Brady couldn't tell them apart. And then came Harris, bringing up the rear, Brady let him go by and then fell in behind. A bullet, half spent at this range, whipped audibly past. The Apaches knew full well what was going on up here; their fire increased savagely so that the horizon immediately behind him became like a far-off mountain in an electrical storm. He swung out to the side a little to keep his eye on the column ahead. And that was when he saw a man halfway down the column throw up his arms, utter a brief cry and pitch from the saddle, tumbling in awkward somersaults.

"Keep going," Brady shouted.

He swept forward and when Harris went by, not pausing, he reined in savagely and jumped from the saddle, holding the reins, kneeling over the dovmed man.

"Sutherland," he breathed and touched Sutherland's pulse. There was none. "Maybe you're better off," Brady murmured, and stood up.

Forward, the first of the column was already clattering into the narrow, rocky defile that was the head of Apache Canyon. Brady for this moment stood quite alone on the plateau wdth only Sutherland's corpse for companionship. But behind him the Indians were gaining swiftly. Their bullets thudded into the ground about him. He gathered the reins and swung into the saddle with practiced speed. The horse, sensing the oncoming danger, plunged ahead at an immediate dead run, almost slipping out from under him; he clamped his legs around the horse's barrel and sought the stirrups and leaned forward while Apache gims kept up a fierce running banage behind him. In front the last of the column disappeared, dropping abruptly from the level plain into the steep descending notch of the canyon.

Behind him lay George Sutherland, dead from an anonymous bullet. It was, he thought, probably the best Sutherland could have hoped for—at least now he would not have to stand before the military tribunal and face the consequences of his acts.

Something struck him a blow, half-turning him in the saddle, and he realized that he had been hit. For a moment he did not know where; it was a frightening interval. The horse bounded ahead, rapidly closing the distance to the canyon, and when he felt the beginning sharp burn of the buUet slice across his arm, he experienced a strong wave of relief. It was no more than a cut.

Leaning forward to make a smaller target, he rammed through the night, crossing the last hundred yards, beginning to slow the horse's pace before he reached the abrupt drop at the canyon head.

Big twdn boulders, simk mto the top of the notch, made of it a single-file fissure, through which everyone must pass who wished to enter the canyon. It, was a perfect spot from which to block entrance and hold off pursuers. Brady yanked the reins back, ready' to jump out of the saddle with his rifle, when something caught his eye. A riderless horse wandered aimlessly in search of grass. "Who's here?"

''Keep going, Will." The voice was hoarse but strong. Emmett Tucker's voice. "Don t be a fool, Emmett."

Tucker came out of the rock's shadow and stood with his rifle lifted and trained on Brady s chest. Tucker was bent over a little to one side, favoring the arrow wound. In the night Brady could not make out his expression.

Tucker said, "I wouldn't make it all the way down anyway. Will. You go on."

"You re crazy," Brady said, lifting his leg over the saddle to dismount.

"Stay put." Something in the shading of Tucker's voice stayed Brady. Tucker said, "I'm not foolin', Will. I'll put a bullet in you if you don't keep going. And two of us, wounded, can't do any better a job than one of us. Move on. Will, and hurry it up. I'll shoot if you don't."

"To hell with you."

"I mean it. Will."

Brady's eyes narrowed. "I believe you do," he said in a quieter tone. Behind him the onrushing thunder of horses was a growing racket. "Emmett—when you get through, remember that horse ranch." "Yeah," Tucker said huskily. "So long, Will." "So long," Brady replied, "partner." And under the unwavering muzzle of Tucker's cocked rifle, he wheeled reluctantly away and put his horse down the treacherous switchbacks of the canyon trail. The walls rose swiftly so that the world grew even blacker and his eyes became useless except for affording him a look at the narrow strip of sky winding overhead.

Then he heard the first of the gunshots behind him.

He reined in and turned the horse aroimd, and sat the saddle uncertainly. Tucker's rifle barked again. Brady heard the muffled echoes of the column down below him, somewhere in the black depths of the canyon. He cursed hvidly; he slammed a fist into his open palm and glared defiantly against the night; and turned around again, pointing the horse downward through the canyon. The night was complete; he had to trust the horse's head since he could not see the trail. Behind him the firing settled down to a steady rate and slowly grew faint with distance.

At the moment when Brady disappeared into the canyon, Tucker's chief emotion was a sudden, vast loneliness. It sank into his belly, almost overpowering him. He took his carbine, canteen, and ammunition, and dragged himself mainly by wall power across the narrow opening, dropping behind a low rock that would shield most of his body from anvthing except a chance ricochet. Out on the plain, the Apaches had quit shooting and were probably off-horsing to come up on the canyon afoot. He sighed, poked the carbine forward, and fired in the direction of a vague movement. His bullet drew no response, but he suspected it had served to caution the Apaches and slow them down. And that, in the end, was all he could expect to do—slow them down, hold them off for a limited time.

His lanky body lay cradled in the rocks. The tightly bound wound throbbed with dull heat. He felt a bit lightheaded, and knew without doubt that there was a definite hmitation placed on his time. His face was long and dour, reflecting a half-warm faraway regret. He remembered a good many things and he thought,

I guess after all a man makes his own breaks. A long time ago, at the time of his first enlistment, he had made his choice, and it had come inevitably to this. The best he could do was shrug it off: I have to die sometime.

He saw a bobbing shape and fired at it, whereupon it dropped from sight. He had no way of knowing whether he had hit the man or just warned him. His eyes were close-lidded; they swept the flats in steady arcs. A thousand memories came hard and sudden, the bitter and the sweet intermingled. He squeezed off a shot and had the satisfaction of hearing a man cry out in the night; he reloaded the carbine and saw in his mind an image of a cannon wheeling into position and firing, jerking back on its wheels from recoil. Vicksburg? He could not recall. A film seemed to be glazing his vision. He had to blink it away. He fired again and a bullet whanged off the rock above his head, leaving a long white scar. The muzzle flash echoed red in his eyes and he fired back at it, thus drawing a sudden heavy volley of bullets. They had him ranged. The bullets sang close by. His shoulder jerked back and when he laid his other hand on it, he felt the warm stickiness of blood and knew that his moment was drawing near.

He took a drink from his canteen and felt his body jerk in sudden spasm; his left arm fell to his side and he could not move it, and when he touched it he knew that a bullet had smashed the bone near his shoulder. He grunted, blinking away the haze that coated his eyes, and lifted the revolver out of his holster. It took a good deal of energy to ear back the hammer. He rested his gun-hand on the rock, waited.

"So this is what it's like," he muttered. He thought of praying, but set the idea aside. The time for praying had been a long while ago; it was too late for that now. His hfe was behind him. If he was to be judged by it, nothing he could say now would change anything.

"Well," he murmured, "good luck, everybody," and pulled the trigger.

A SHAFT of sunlight streamed in through the window slantwise, showing a sharp-comered pall of dust hanging in the room's air. Brady stood bone-weary, hipshot against McCracken s desk, slowly and mechanically building a cigarette and lifting his red-rimmed eyes toward Justin Harris.

Major Cole was talking: "I suppose it's just as well."

"Yes, sir." Harris said tiredly.

"Good or bad," Major Cole went on, "I've only had one life, and that was the army. If we'd court-martialed him and drummed him out or imprisoned him, he'd have been worse off than he is now. To tell the truth, Justin, I've known worse officers than George Sutherland. At least he had guts."

Harris nodded bleakly and Brady said with momentary fire, "So did the men who rode with him, Major."

"We can't resurrect them," the major said to him, and turned back to Harris. "For the sake of his wife, and everyone else concerned, I'm going to report nothing more than that he died in the performance of his duty."

"Yes, sir," Harris said again, and Brady, seeing how meaningless it would be now, kept his peace.

The major said, "Sherman's reply just came in. Our guess was right. It's going to be a tough campaign. Our orders are to throw troops into those mountains and keep them there, keep Inyo off balance—press him, harass him, pick his men off, wear them down and give them no chance to rest."

"That's a large assignment," Harris said, without surprise.

'To do the job," the major answered, "we're getting an additional company of cavahy from Fort Apache, and two companies of infantry from Fort Lowell. They're sending Al Sieber down as chief of scouts. Brady, you'll be his second."

"No, sir."

The major's head drew back. "What's that?"

"My contract's run out," Brady said. Fatigue dragged his shoulders down, slowed his voice and dimmed his vision. "I'm through, Major."

The major frowned and said slowly, "I see."

Harris said, "Going to build that horse ranch, Will?"

"I guess I am."

"It may not be too peaceful around those parts," Harris said. "Not until we get the Apaches rounded

"I'll take my chances," Brady said. "I doubt Inyo will get that far west."

"He will if he's pushed."

Brady's only answer was a tired shrug. Major Cole said, "What can I say to make you change your mind?"

'"Nothing," Brady said. "I'll pick up my pay at the adjutant's. So long. Major." He stepped forward to shake the major's hand, and turned away.

Halfway to the door, Harris stopped him, offering his hand. 'Well, then," he said warmly, "good luck, Will."

"Ill drop in now and then, when Tm down this way," Brady said, and met Harris's deep glance. He nodded and walked outside. As he went through the door, he heard the major's businesslike voice behind him, talking to Harris: "My plan is to release Tonio from the guardhouse and then trail him. With luck, he'll lead us right into Inyo's main camp."

So that was the major's plan; that was why Tonio was kept prisoner. Brady shrugged it ofiF; it was no longer any of his concern. He paused a moment on the major's porch to hght his cigarette, then dropped his feet into the dust of the parade ground and walked up to the adjutant's office for his pay.

When he came out, the sun burned harshly against his shoulders, and far down the compound a drill sergeant was marching Harris's troops. A tangible gloom had settled over the garrison, evidence of the grief that had come back with news of the massacre of Sutherland's command.

Harris came out of the major's office, saluted wearily and headed across the parade ground, obviously going toward the sutler's where Sadie Rand awaited him.

Brady went over to the guardhouse, nodded to the half-dozing sentry, and squinted in through the high small opening, taking a moment to accustom his eyes to the darkness of the interior.

Tonio prowled forward and looked at him blankly. Brady said, "You're a good kid, Tonio."

"Why do they keep me here, Brady? When will they let me go?"

"Soon," Brady said. "Plenty soon, kid. Take it easy." He made a vague gesture of farewell and turned away, leaving the proud youth standing in sohtary pride within the hot, dark place.

Brady stood under the sun, took off his mangled hat and turned it around in his hands, considering it thoughtfully. It was not a good time for what he had in mind, but it was the only time he had; so he turned his eyes and his steps, and walked up the line to the Sutherland quarters.

She was waiting for him. He said, "Hello, Eleanor," and she said, "Hello, Will," without much ex-pression in their voices. She wore black, and tliat was fitting; but the set of her features was more regretful than grieving.

The moment was quiet and calm. He spoke his piece briefly but without hurry; he had little enough to say. "I'm going," he told her. "Maybe one day I'll be back. Where will you be?"

"I think I'll go to Tucson for a while."

"Tucson," he said.

Her eyes met his, holding them with frank honesty. There was no longer any pretense between them. "That valley of yours," she said, "it's near Tucson, isn't it?"

"A day's ride, maybe less," he murmured.

"Look for me, then."

He nodded. "I guess it wouldn't be a good thing for you to come with me now."

"No. First, I've got to straighten out some things in my mind."

He nodded; he felt the same way. "All right," he said. "I'll see you in Tucson."

"So long, Will," she said softly.

He planted his hat on his head, touched a forefinger to its brim, and turned out of the place.

Pete Rubio was just then leaving the post hospital, his arm hanging in a fresh white sling. Brady set a course that would intersect with Rubio's, and came up beside the scout when they were halfway to the stables. He extended his hand and said, "I'm pushing on, Pete. Good luck to you."

"Sure," Rubio said, shaking hands. "Don't take any wooden Indians, Will." He turned then, walking away, his squat, compact legs hitting the ground solidly. Pete Rubio, though perhaps he didn't know it, was as army as any man on this post.

Brady shook his head; it was no longer for him; he had had his fill of it. The call of the peaceful hills was strong. A little horse ranch, a hand-hewn cabin by the waters of a spring, a fireplace for winters and the shade of tall trees for summers. There would be game in plenty for his rifle, and an end to combat.

It was four days' ride. The sun was angling westward, striking his face. He was tired, but anxious-ness kept building in him, and so he saddled his horse and rode from the post, heading for the Santa Catalinas. He never looked back.