The Fight at Hueco Tanks Page 9

  He was changing positions.

  Tanner eased up his Winchester, tucked it firmly into his shoulder, then sighted down the blued barrel. As he lined, the Apache backed out of the mesquite and made to scurry away. A downhill shot was awkward but Tanner made allowances. He wanted this ended. The Indian paused.

  Tanner squeezed the trigger.

  He missed. At the instant of his finger contracting the Apache had moved fast. The bullet chipped shale behind his shoulder. The Indian’s mouth dropped open as his eyes flashed upwards to rake the terrain. His rifle flowed up to his shoulder and he snapped off a shot.

  Even Tanner was surprised. The bronco’s movement had been a blur and had taken him so unaware he hadn’t even reloaded. The Apache’s bullet shrieked within a hair’s-breadth of his head. He worked the Winchester’s action as he rolled. Coming up onto his elbows he fired again. Perhaps the shock had thrown the Indian’s pace. After the shot he had tried to make a break for fresh cover. Now, as well as Tanner above him, the others down at the station had seen his push for breathing-space. Two or three weapons were now hammering.

  Copperhead was panicking. He shrank back into the mesquite. He didn’t like new developments, especially if he knew nothing of them and even more especially when they were working against him. It had all been rather tame up to now; keep the white-eyes corralled in the barn. Now it was serious. There were more of them. And if one could break out and get in back of him then so could others. The one above him had cut off his line of retreat to his pony, still tethered at the camp-site. If he made a move in that direction then he would have to cross an open stretch of ground.

  A bullet rattled through the mesquite. Grim-faced, he pushed another shell into his single shot rifle. And the blanco had a repeater. Curses on the white man. Another bullet smacked into the earth at his feet. They were getting his range now. If he ran he was dead and if he stayed put it was only a matter of time before a stray bullet found him.

  Run or stay.

  Which?

  ***

  Hardcastle cursed silently as he twisted in his saddle and saw the two lines of straggling troopers.

  “Bring ’em on, Sergeant!” he shouted.

  “Sir!” Mullaney reined in and backed his horse partly out of the line of travel. He held ground as the troopers ambled by. “Pick it up now! You’re not trail hands riding drag, you’re soldiers. Get with it!”

  As each man filed grimly past, Mullaney noted the deadness in their eyes. They’d seen too much sun and too much sand these last two days and they just didn’t give a damn anymore. He knew exactly how they felt. He almost felt the same way himself. There was no joy in breathing the hot air that scorched your lungs and there was no relief in the brassy sky. They were desperately short of water too. All they could hope for was that Lieutenant Hardcastle would lose heart and order them to turn back. Each man nurtured the wish in his weakly pumping heart and in the stringy tiredness of his drained muscles. The sergeant would have hated to disillusion them but he knew the truth was that before the day was out they’d be fighting against determined Indians. No matter how hot they were, or how drained, the renegades would fight. It was all they had left to do. What had they to lose? Nothing, just another ride back to San Carlos, and they all hated the godforsaken place anyway. If they were going to die they wanted to die free. And who could blame them?

  And why not here, in the desert? It was as good a place as any. It was their real home.

  So if the troopers were going to fight he had to get them into some semblance of order. To each man that rode numbly past he offered curses or encouragement as his experience judged would have the greatest effect. But he still knew it was a lost cause. Here and there a spark lit a pair of eyes for the briefest of moments before the glaze settled over again.

  It was useless.

  Helpless, he dug in his heels and urged his horse to catch up the lieutenant’s mount.

  “With all respect, Sir. It’s time to walk the horses.”

  Hardcastle’s mouth twisted into an ugly line. When he spoke his voice was a parody of the sergeant’s. “With all respect, Sir. It’s time to walk the horses.” He grunted, then slipped back into his own voice. “It’ll be time to walk the horses when I say and not before. I’m not going to lose those renegades now. Not if I have to capture them myself and all these…” he turned gritty eyes on the troopers “…fall down along the way. And if they do fall down I will personally kick their butts until they get up and get on with their job.”

  “Yes, Sir!” Mullaney exaggerated. “Look, Sir.”

  Hardcastle switched his attention to the trail ahead. Three-Fingers had left the paint pony’s hackamore trailing and was crouched behind some brush so he could see over the crest of a low ridge that the column was about to climb. While the lieutenant watched, the scout remained as still as stone.

  “Find out what’s going on, Sergeant.”

  “Yes, Sir.” Mullaney spurred his horse up to where the paint stood, head drooping as flies buzzed round its eyes. He dismounted and approached the brush, removed his hat and stooped to stay below the skyline. As he neared, Three-Fingers waved a hand of warning. The sergeant slowed, creeping forward almost doubled over. He dropped to his knees by the Apache.

  Over the ridge the land fell away into a sandy bottom and almost within throwing distance could be seen a narrow fissure. Back from the entrance pools of shadow indicated that it grew deeper.

  “The box canyon?”

  Three-Fingers nodded.

  “They still in there?”

  The scout grimaced. “I see tracks but I need to be closer to read them.”

  “Lookouts?”

  The Indian’s head shook almost imperceptibly. Mullaney realized that not seeing any lookouts was what was bothering the scout. “I can’t spot them,” the Apache said lamely. “You give cover. I will go down.”

  “Okay.” Mullaney glanced back at the halted column, dust settling as the men morosely sat their mounts. The fight that was surely to come was not one to look forward to. He made sure his Springfield carbine was loaded, then looked at Three-Fingers. “Okay. Do it.”

  He hefted the Springfield, eyes raking the scrub at both sides of the canyon. That was where the lookouts would be if there were any. Below him Three-Fingers moved like a shadow, gliding from cover to cover. There didn’t seem enough to hide behind but somehow the Apache always found something. Mullaney could do nothing but admire the Indian’s skill. And these are the men we are going to fight, he thought bitterly, the young untested faces of his troopers in his mind’s eye. God help them! And all because Hardcastle wanted to grab some glory. How many officers had he ridden under who suffered from the same disease?

  When Three-Fingers settled into a crouch beside him, gulping at the desert air, Mullaney studied his face. “What’d you find?” he asked.

  “Pony tracks leading in, but none coming out.”

  “How many?”

  The Apache spread five fingers. “Three hands, maybe more. The same as I trailed before,” he lied.

  Fifteen, the sergeant counted. Some loose ponies perhaps and the ten Indians Three-Fingers had reported earlier. He was relieved there weren’t more. Maybe even his men could handle fifteen.

  “Okay, stay here.”

  The scout nodded, eyes still fixed on the canyon entrance. Mullaney rose and retraced his steps. He caught the reins of his horse and led it back to where Hardcastle waited impatiently. Mullaney gave it to him straight, interpreting the lieutenant’s eyes glittering fiercely in his grimy face. Hardcastle listened and nodded, leaning forward in his saddle. He’s keen, Mullaney thought, he’s too damn keen by far.

  “No lookouts, you say? Good. Maybe they’re in bad shape, resting up. We’ll form up in four ranks of five, you and me in front, and make a charge. That should take them by surprise.”

  Mullaney listened in horror. Didn’t this idiot know he wasn’t fighting a battle plotted in some strategy room at West Point? C
harging a canyon full of hostiles was the last thing to do. What else were scouts for but to mosey up quietly and take a look-see? If it looked good then the column could move up and surround them if it was at all possible. But to make a rash decision to charge with no firm idea of what they were going to meet when they got in there? It smacked of dime novels, not what happened in real life. Caught in that gateway to the canyon the Apaches could cut them to shreds.

  His eyes met the lieutenant’s. Hardcastle was staring defiantly at him, almost willing him to object. Was he just going to accept it without stating his view? For a moment he hung undecided, then his sense of responsibility drove him to speak.

  “Sir?”

  The look on Hardcastle’s face said he knew it was coming and what was more he was ready to meet it head on. He answered exactly as the sergeant knew he would, based on nothing but rank, the oppressive hammer of authority.

  “I’ll have no insubordination. Those are my orders, Sergeant. If you refuse to obey I will have you relieved and the corporal will take over your duty.” He settled back, content in the knowledge that Mullaney would not relinquish command to the corporal, whom he knew the sergeant despised, both as a man and as a soldier.

  Mullaney stared at Hardcastle. The bastard would do it too, he thought bitterly. And what chance would those boys have under Corporal Samson? If Hardcastle didn’t get them killed, Samson would. If anyone was going to take them in there Mullaney decided it would be he himself, as much as he hated the idea.

  He glowered. “Very good, Sir.”

  Hardcastle smirked openly at his victory. “Form up the men.”

  Mullaney remounted and began to issue orders under the lieutenant’s watchful eye. The troopers fell into ranks and readied their weapons. Mullaney rode along the lines, reading nothing in the slack faces. There wasn’t even fear. He had never led men like this before. God Almighty, he thought, they’re dead before they even ride in there.

  “Prepare to charge,” he muttered.

  Hardcastle drew his saber and kissed the blade like a man about to fight a duel over a fair maiden. When he looked at his men his face was set in a rigid smile, a pulse thumping visibly in his neck. Slowly he raised his arm until it was horizontal in front of him, the long blade pointed directly between his horse’s ears. When he spoke his voice was hoarse with excitement.

  “Charge!”

  He dug his spurs savagely into his horse’s ribs and galloped up to the crest and over. The troopers, in a pale imitation of their leader, followed him over and down the bottoms. Riding hard, they entered the gateway. They were into the box canyon.

  Po-faced, Three-Fingers watched them go.

  CHAPTER 13

  Tanner squeezed off another two shots. They shrieked into the mesquite where the bronco had taken shelter. He rolled to the right out of his gun smoke. With a clear view he could see bullets from the relay station rattling through the brush. He worked the Winchester’s action. Make a run, he whispered. C’mon bronco, make a run and you’re dead. You’re dead anyway, so do it now and let’s get it over with.

  Nothing moved.

  Tanner blinked away the sweat. The memories were coming back again. They always did. Last night at the camp-fire and again now. Little Antelope. Angrily he shook his head but she wouldn’t go away.

  Little Antelope.

  Reining in, smoke rising from the chimney of the cabin to hang in the early morning sky over the cottonwoods. A good feeling coming home from the hunt, a young buck stretched over the back of the packhorse, ready to crawl into the blankets with your woman. Zeke grinning, reaching out to take your horse, prepared to look after the animals and butcher the fresh meat because he knows you want to see her. Smiling, the heavy dew soaking through your moccasins. It’s your place, built with your own work-callused hands, built for her. And for the child she’s ready to give you.

  He had found her sprawled on the floor like a broken doll.

  Even now he felt the bile rise at the memory, the hard edge of it. Everything gone. Her and the child both dead. Cut up, spirits flown. Still and cold. One great big emptiness.

  Apaches. Stinking Apaches.

  His grip had grown unconsciously tighter on the Winchester’s stock. Move, damn you, move, he urged silently. You will pay for the deeds of your brothers.

  He knew he had to concentrate. Ruthlessly he pushed the memory to the corner of his mind but there was still a sour taste in his mouth. The anger writhed like a serpent in his gut. The sun frying his mind, those frozen images kept crawling back to haunt him. Patience wasn’t a virtue that would hunt with him that afternoon.

  Breathing ragged, he began to circle, working his way toward the mesquite. The Indian hadn’t escaped. He could smell him. Zeke had often bragged Tanner could track a grizzly bear through running water or a bee through the sky. Shy of the boasts, the one thing Tanner could do was smell out an Indian.

  And the stink was in his nostrils now.

  He crawled like a diamond-backed rattler, belly down in the dust, dragging himself along by his elbows. The heat and the grit made his eyeballs raw and the sun sucked at his strength like a hungry leech. He whispered soundlessly to himself. C’mon Apache, make a break. Run. Run and you’re going to die. Another scalp to placate Little Antelope’s spirit.

  He had gained fifteen or twenty yards and was now almost behind the mesquite on the opposite side to the relay station. If the bronco made a run he had to choose this direction, what with the main group below and Tanner, if he had still been in the same place, above to the right.

  The carbine cracked. Tanner grinned. He had no idea which way the Apache had fired but the shooting from the station picked up tempo. He decided to hold his fire, retaining the edge. When the bronco realized Tanner had stopped shooting he would grow worried, trying to figure out what Tanner was up to. Well, it was the same game the Apaches had played all morning. Now it was their turn to sweat it out.

  Tanner waited.

  Occasionally stray bullets overshot the Apache’s hiding place to smack into the sand below him, sending up puffs. Without any breeze to drift it the dust settled back to the desert floor. He figured the Apache couldn’t last much longer. They were always short of ammunition and this one had been shooting plenty. Any time now.

  ***

  Copperhead sweated in the mesquite. He calculated he had held the blancos for at least two hours. He pushed aside a branch so he could gaze down at the station. They were still firing. He could hear the bullets striking the hillside, then see the puffs of gun smoke a second or more before he heard the shots. It was eerie, as if the bullets were coming from nowhere and were harmless. He had heard nothing from the one across the slope. That one worried him. He had a nagging feeling it was El Cazador, the Hunter. Just the kind of thing he would do. If he wasn’t shooting, then what? Circling? Copperhead reasoned the best move he could make was to get out before Tanner, if it was Tanner, came down to get him. It wasn’t far to his pony. Only a few seconds up the crest and he would be free.

  He reached his decision.

  He snapped off a shot at the station then squirmed out of the mesquite. He turned, already running, angling up the slope. He didn’t even hear the gunshot. Suddenly there was an explosion in his chest like the kick of a wild pony. His mouth opened in a surprised O as the .44 bullet plucked his legs from under him. He fell back, one hand uselessly groping his blood-wet shirt, then his head hit the sand. Frothy pink lung blood speckled his lips. For a moment it seemed he would lie still, but then he slid downwards for six feet.

  Tanner lowered the smoking Winchester to eye his handiwork. After five long seconds of silence he ejected the spent shell and pushed himself to his feet. Eyes steady on the fallen Apache, he began to pick his way down the slope. Without feeling, without even pride at a job done cleanly and well, he stood over Copperhead to verify he was dead. One watchful eye on the motionless Indian, he stooped to pick up the fallen carbine so he could look it over.

  It was em
pty.

  The gunfire from the station had ceased. Tanner yelled, then without waiting for a reply turned on his heel and scaled the slope to the crest. He found Copperhead’s tethered pony and the tracks left by Chato’s band when they had driven off the herd. He gathered the pony’s reins and led it back over the ridge.

  Zeke met him halfway up, blowing like a winded mule.

  Tanner grinned and held out the reins. “Here, this is for you.”

  “What do I want a half-growed varmint like that for?” the old man growled.

  Tanner jerked his thumb behind him. “There’s a trail up there heading east. Chato’ll be at the end of it.”

  “What about the column?”

  “What about your horse? I thought you wanted it back?”

  When Zeke didn’t answer Tanner looked off to the station. “Josh can get the stage rolling on to El Paso and we’ll catch us a few scalps.”

  ***

  When the two scouts told the travelers the stage would be leaving soon but that they wouldn’t be riding with them, William Loving, who now that imminent danger was past had somewhat regained his composure, protested indignantly.

  “But it’s your duty to protect us!”

  “I thought it was all over,” Kate Lantz said, one arm around her daughter’s shoulders.

  Tanner ignored the salesman’s outburst and instead turned to Kate. “It’s over for you, Mrs. Lantz, but Zeke and I have to track down those broncos, then find our cavalry column.”

  “But what if they attack the stagecoach again?” Loving pressed.

  Irritated, Tanner hunched his shoulders and glanced at his boots to hide his distaste. “Apache trail goes east, you’re going west.”