Corporal. Get set. They'll be back."
There was sporadic firing, and Davis studied the meadow and the slope. The ambush had taken seventeen Indians and half again that many horses. A number of wounded had been carried away.
He studied the grassy plain where the Indians had disappeared. There was a faint stirring of the grass. He fired into the grass and saw an Indian half rise, then sink back.
He studied the situation. Nothing more to be gained here by sniping fire. In any event, they had taught Vittoro a lesson.
"Sergeant?"
"Yes, sir?"
"Get the horses. We'll move on."
Clanahan's voice boomed. "Lieutenant! Look!"
Davis wheeled and saw the rider. At first he thought it was an Apache, and then he knew no Indian ever rode like that. The man was hunkered down low and riding hard, but he had stirrups and there was a flash of sunlight on polished leather, and then he recognized the horse.
The rider was coming at a dead run and he did not slow up until he had plunged into the very circle of soldiers. Then he drew up sharply, his horse rearing high, and he slid to the ground. It was Pete Britton.
His hard old face was gray and there was blood on his shirt. "Lieutenant," his voice was calm, "you got more'n a hundred Mimbrenos comin' up behind you."
Lieutenant Creyton C. Davis stood very still. He had his hat in his hand and he felt the wind stirring his hair. "What chance of getting through to the fort, Pete?"
"Not none a-tall." Pete Britton hesitated, then he said quietly, "I caught me a brave. He wasn't so brave an' he talked. He said forty Mescaleros left the reservation last night. There's more Mimbrenos comin', too. You're boxed in, Lieutenant. My guess is what we know ain't but part of it. I figure half the Apache nation is betwixt us an' the fort."
"Could you get through?"
"Might."
"I want a message taken."
Old Pete spat into the dust, then he grinned slowly. "Lieutenant, git yo'self another boy. I got a crease in my hide back yonder. I ain't fixed for ridin'. Anyway, I've took a lot of 'Pache hair in my time. I'll give 'em a chance at mine."
Davis put on his hat. "All right, Pete. Glad to have you."
"They'll know soon enough," Pete said dryly. "Anyways, I'm agittin' rheumatic these days. Figure I'd like it better thisaway."
Lieutenant Davis turned to Breen. "All right, Sergeant. Have the boys dig in and get settled. We'll wait for them."
Wind stirred the grass. Sweat trickled down his face. He shook his canteen. It was over half full. They moved back to the rim of the hills around the tiny basin where the horses were held.
There was dust to the south, and away there to the east there was dust. He mopped his brow and waited. He took the letter to his wife from his pocket and thrust it conspicuously over a spear of bear grass.
He settled down and lighted a smoke. Clanahan was squatted on his heels and he grinned at the Lieutenant. "Wished I had a drink," he said. "I could get drunk without makin' the guardhouse."
Davis turned and reached into his saddlebag. He drew out a flat bottle and tossed it to the burly Irishman. Clanahan grinned and caught the bottle in his big palm. The pulled cork made a comfortable sound. He tilted back his head and drank.
There was no sound but the wind, no movement but the bending grass.
Chapter Five
Hondo Lane walked the lineback into the willows and let the horse plunge his dark muzzle into the cold, clear water of the stream. Day had come but the sun was obscured behind towering masses of thunderheads. The morning was cool. There was no wind.
Two days out of Angie Lowe's ranch and he had just reached the bank of Little Dutch Creek. At this rate he would be four days getting to the post. If he got there at all.
Twice on the first day he had cut the trail sign of small Apache bands. Yesterday, after swinging wide to try to avoid further meetings, he had narrowly escaped being seen on a grassy hillside. Luckily he had left the lineback in an arroyo over the ridge, so he
There was sporadic firing, and Davis studied the meadow and the slope. The ambush had taken seventeen Indians and half again that many horses. A number of wounded had been carried away.
He studied the grassy plain where the Indians had disappeared. There was a faint stirring of the grass. He fired into the grass and saw an Indian half rise, then sink back.
He studied the situation. Nothing more to be gained here by sniping fire. In any event, they had taught Vittoro a lesson.
"Sergeant?"
"Yes, sir?"
"Get the horses. We'll move on."
Clanahan's voice boomed. "Lieutenant! Look!"
Davis wheeled and saw the rider. At first he thought it was an Apache, and then he knew no Indian ever rode like that. The man was hunkered down low and riding hard, but he had stirrups and there was a flash of sunlight on polished leather, and then he recognized the horse.
The rider was coming at a dead run and he did not slow up until he had plunged into the very circle of soldiers. Then he drew up sharply, his horse rearing high, and he slid to the ground. It was Pete Britton.
His hard old face was gray and there was blood on his shirt. "Lieutenant," his voice was calm, "you got more'n a hundred Mimbrenos comin' up behind you."
Lieutenant Creyton C. Davis stood very still. He had his hat in his hand and he felt the wind stirring his hair. "What chance of getting through to the fort, Pete?"
"Not none a-tall." Pete Britton hesitated, then he said quietly, "I caught me a brave. He wasn't so brave an' he talked. He said forty Mescaleros left the reservation last night. There's more Mimbrenos comin', too. You're boxed in, Lieutenant. My guess is what we know ain't but part of it. I figure half the Apache nation is betwixt us an' the fort."
"Could you get through?"
"Might."
"I want a message taken."
Old Pete spat into the dust, then he grinned slowly. "Lieutenant, git yo'self another boy. I got a crease in my hide back yonder. I ain't fixed for ridin'. Anyway, I've took a lot of 'Pache hair in my time. I'll give 'em a chance at mine."
Davis put on his hat. "All right, Pete. Glad to have you."
"They'll know soon enough," Pete said dryly. "Anyways, I'm agittin' rheumatic these days. Figure I'd like it better thisaway."
Lieutenant Davis turned to Breen. "All right, Sergeant. Have the boys dig in and get settled. We'll wait for them."
Wind stirred the grass. Sweat trickled down his face. He shook his canteen. It was over half full. They moved back to the rim of the hills around the tiny basin where the horses were held.
There was dust to the south, and away there to the east there was dust. He mopped his brow and waited. He took the letter to his wife from his pocket and thrust it conspicuously over a spear of bear grass.
He settled down and lighted a smoke. Clanahan was squatted on his heels and he grinned at the Lieutenant. "Wished I had a drink," he said. "I could get drunk without makin' the guardhouse."
Davis turned and reached into his saddlebag. He drew out a flat bottle and tossed it to the burly Irishman. Clanahan grinned and caught the bottle in his big palm. The pulled cork made a comfortable sound. He tilted back his head and drank.
There was no sound but the wind, no movement but the bending grass.
Chapter Five
Hondo Lane walked the lineback into the willows and let the horse plunge his dark muzzle into the cold, clear water of the stream. Day had come but the sun was obscured behind towering masses of thunderheads. The morning was cool. There was no wind.
Two days out of Angie Lowe's ranch and he had just reached the bank of Little Dutch Creek. At this rate he would be four days getting to the post. If he got there at all.
Twice on the first day he had cut the trail sign of small Apache bands. Yesterday, after swinging wide to try to avoid further meetings, he had narrowly escaped being seen on a grassy hillside. Luckily he had left the lineback in an arroyo over the ridge, so he
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