Novel 1957 - Last Stand At Papago Wells (v5.0) Read online

  “If I was a little older,” Lonnie explained carefully, “I’d—no, I want to see some more country. Why, I hear tell that up north in California there’s some of the biggest trees in the world! I’d sure like to see them trees.”

  “You do that.” Cates had found a cluster of rocks in the sand that somehow did not look quite natural. “I figure every man should see some trees before he dies.”

  He lifted his Winchester and sighted at the flat surface of a rock slightly behind the group. He steadied himself, blinked the sweat from his eyes, then squeezed off his shot.

  From behind the rocks there was a startled yelp and Cates fired against the rock again, then fired past the rock. There was no further sound.

  “Them ricochets,” Lonnie said, “they tear a man up. They tear him up something fierce.”

  Cates slid back to where it was safe, then stood up. “You stay here, Lonnie. They’ll be nervous now, but you be careful.” He started down the rocks. “She’s a fine girl, all right. I’d say she was very fine.”

  He stopped by the fire for coffee. He squatted by the fire, thinking about it. The killing of that horse had been no accident, for every horse killed meant a man afoot, and a man walking was a man who would die in this country.

  Zimmerman walked to the fire and lifted the coffee pot. Cates saw at a glance that the big man was hunting trouble, and it would be always that way with Zimmerman. He would hunt trouble until somebody killed him—only this was not the time.

  “You wet-nursin’ that Injun?” Zimmerman demanded.

  “Before we get out of here we’ll be glad to have him with us. We’ll need every man we’ve got.”

  “Send him out there with the rest of the Injuns,” Zimmerman said. “He’s like them all. This here’s a place for white men.”

  “Lugo is a Pima, and the Pimas are good Indians. They are ancient enemies of both the Apaches and the Yaqui, with more reason for hating them than you’ll ever have. He stays.”

  “Maybe.” Zimmerman gulped coffee, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Maybe I’ll run him out.”

  “In the first place”—Logan Cates got to his feet—“Tony Lugo is, I suspect, twice the fighter you’ve ever been. In the second place, I’m in command here, and if you want to start anything with him, start it with me first.”

  Zimmerman looked at him over the coffee pot, a slow, measuring glance, and he did not like what he saw. He had seen these lean, quiet men before, and there was a cool certainty in Cates’s manner that betrayed the fact that he was no stranger to trouble. Yet Zimmerman knew his own enormous strength and relied upon it. “You get in my way,” he said, “and I’ll take that little gun and put it where it belongs.”

  “How about right now?” Cates asked softly.

  Zimmerman looked at him, then shook his head. “I’ll pick my own time,” he said, “but you stay out of my way.”

  Turning, the big soldier walked away, and Logan Cates knew that only the time was suspended, that nothing had been avoided. Nor could there be any reasoning with Zimmerman, for the man’s hatred of all Indians had been absorbed during childhood, drilled into him, leaving no room for reason; for such a man the loss of an arm would come easier than the loss of prejudice, for he lived by hatred.

  The attack came suddenly. The Apaches came out of the desert like brown ghosts, and vanished as suddenly. They had come with a rush, moving suddenly as on signal, but there had been no signal that anyone heard. They came, they fired and they hit the sand, and then the desert was empty again, as though the sudden movement had been a deception of the sunlight on the sand … only now they were closer.

  Another horse had been killed, and Cates swore under his breath, knowing what the Indians had in mind.

  For a time there was silence and every man waited, expecting another rush, searching the sand and the jumble of lava for a target they really did not expect to find. Sheehan mopped sweat from his brow and worried, wondering what had been done back at the fort, knowing how few men were there.

  “Nobody to shoot at,” Foreman complained. “They’re like ghosts.”

  “We wasted time!” Taylor said irritably. “We could have struck out for Yuma.”

  “Like your posse did?” Cates asked.

  “That was an accident!” Taylor said angrily. “It wouldn’t happen again.”

  “The Apaches make accidents like that.”

  Beaupre and Lugo fired as one man, and Kimbrough’s shot was an instant behind. The three bullets furrowed the crest of a sand hill a short distance off, a crest where an instant before an Indian had showed.

  “Missed him!” Beaupre spat his disgust.

  “Teach ’em to be careful,” Lonnie Foreman assured him. “If you missed you sure made him unhappy, comin’ that near.”

  Minutes paced slowly by. Out over the desert heat waves shimmered; the day was going now, and it would leave them in darkness soon, leave them in darkness where the Apaches could creep closer, and closer.

  Cates moved around their position, checking each man, scanning the desert from every vantage point. The area they covered was all of a hundred yards long, but difficult to get at for any attacker. There was cover beyond their perimeter of defense, but the cover for the defenders was even better. Where the two upper pools were there was a wide space that was open and safe as long as the defenders could keep the Indians out of the bordering rocks.

  The hours drew slowly on. Occasionally a shot came out of the desert … or an arrow. But there were no more casualties. Only once did anyone get a shot, and it was Kimbrough. He took a shot at a running Indian, a shadow seen among the mesquite and cholla, no more. Whether he scored or missed there was no way of telling. The sun lowered itself slowly behind the distant hills, and out over the lava, a quail called. It was evening again.

  Squatting beside the fire, Cates nursed his cup in his hands. The fire and the coffee were the only friendly things; he did not belong here, he did not want this fight. Alone, he might have gone on, for his horse was a desert horse and his two canteens were large. And now he was pinned here, surrounded by Indians, and among people either indifferent to him or outright in their dislike of him.

  “Will we get out?” Jennifer asked him.

  “We’ll get out.”

  “Do you suppose—I mean, is this all? Or are there other Indians out?”

  “Can’t say.”

  “I was wondering because of my father. I—I think he’s looking for me.”

  “I would be, if I was him.”

  “Why? I love Grant. I intend to marry him.”

  “All right.”

  “You don’t like him, do you?”

  Cates shrugged. “I don’t know him. He may be a good man … but not for you.”

  “You don’t think much of me, either.”

  “You’ll do all right as soon as you understand what your dad means to this country, and what the country means to him.”

  “He killed a man. I saw him.”

  “Before we get out of here,” Cates replied, “we’ll all have killed men. Or we’ll have been killed ourselves.”

  “That’s different!”

  “Is it?” Cates indicated Kimbrough. “What about him? He was in the war, so what about the killing he did?”

  “But that was war!”

  “Your dad was in a war, too, only it was fought without banners, without the big battalions. It was fought by a few men, or fought alone and without help … it was a war to survive, and they survived; they built the country. Every meal you’ve eaten, every gown you’ve worn, every bit of it was bought with the results of that war.”

  “I saw my father kill a boy … just a boy!”

  “Uh-huh … but that boy carried a man’s gun, didn’t he?”

  Cates got up. “This is a rough country, ma’am. It needs men with the bark on … and it needs women, women who could rear strong sons.” He indicated Junie Hatchett. “There’s a girl to ride the river with. There’s iron in h
er, but she’s all woman, too.”

  He walked away from the water, his mind returning to Churupati. Carefully, he assembled what knowledge he possessed, the fragments heard here and there about the renegade. Whatever was done here, and whatever chance of survival they had must be based on that knowledge.

  Behind him Jennifer Fair was both angry and confused. She glanced almost resentfully at Junie. What was there about her that was so much? Yet even as she asked herself the question, she knew the answer. The girl had courage, and courage of a rare kind. She had survived a terrible ordeal, and without whining, without even crying. As for herself, Jennifer had to admit, she had been fussing over the inconvenience of living in one of the finest ranch houses in Arizona!

  Logan Cates prowled restlessly among the rocks, always careful to avoid exposing himself. Undoubtedly there were little potholes of water out there, and Churupati would find them, and an Indian needed little water. Like a coyote or a chaparral cock, he could go for days on a few swallows.

  Yet whatever was to happen could not be long delayed, and for even this delay, Churupati must have a purpose. Logan Cates scowled at the shadows beyond the area of their defense. What was Churupati planning?

  Chapter 8

  LOGAN CATES CAME down from the rocks and found a place back from the water’s edge where he could roll up in his blankets. The night was cold, the day’s heat gone, and a faint breeze stirring from the Gulf, not many miles to the south.

  He lay awake, staring up at the stars, trying to find a solution, and then he gave it up and turned on his side and was almost instantly asleep. Yet suddenly he was once more awake, aroused by that sixth sense developed by hunter and hunted. There was movement where there should be none.

  Cates held himself very still, straining his ears into the dark. It seemed he had only just fallen asleep, but the stars told him several hours had passed. He waited, sure there had been some slight movement to awaken him, and his eyes searched the rim of the rocks. Suddenly the movement came again, only it was closer.

  Near the pool something stirred, and a figure rose slowly and for several seconds remained still. It was a bulky figure, heavier than—it was Big Maria!

  There was no reason for her not to be there, no reason why she should not be moving around, but there was something so surreptitious about her actions that he watched closely. She held her saddlebags in her hands, and she moved by him in moccasins that made no sound. Like an Indian she slipped by him into lava rocks south of the pool, and as she disappeared he heard a faint clink of metal on metal.

  He started to rise and follow, then hesitated. Whatever she was doing she did not wish to be seen, and whatever it was could not be important to him … or could it?

  He was still worrying about that when she returned, and now the saddlebags were gone!

  Those saddlebags had been heavy for her and she was a very strong woman. She had been quick to take them from her horse so they would not be handled by anyone but herself. And now she had taken those saddlebags and concealed them. It all began to weave a curious and interesting pattern … who was Big Maria? Where had she come from, if not Tucson? Where could she have come from that would allow her horse to arrive comparatively fresh? Where could she have been that would still allow her time to have been in Tucson when Jim Fair arrived searching for Jennifer?

  He told himself that it was no business of his, but then he began to remember that sack … what could be so heavy but gold? And what but gold could she be hiding out in the rocks? Had anybody seen her but him?

  For several minutes he lay awake, then dozed off, and when next his eyes opened there was a faint gray in the sky, and he came to his feet at once and crossed to the lower pool, where he bathed his face and hands then dried himself with his neckerchief. He combed his hair with his fingers and put on the black hat.

  Beaupre crossed to him. “All quiet.” He struck a match to his cigarette and glanced at Cates out of the corners of his eyes. “How far is it to the Gulf? I mean, could a man make it, d’ you s’pose?”

  “Maybe three days from here, maybe a bit more. If a man made it he would need a good horse, lots of water, and a very special kind of luck. There’s no water south of here, and no people except Seri Indians.”

  “Might be a way out,” Beaupre suggested.

  “Not a chance!” Logan Cates found himself wondering who had suggested the route to Beaupre. “Whatever water you had, you’d have to carry along. There isn’t enough in any canteen to get a man through, and when he got there what would he do?”

  “Catch himself a boat.”

  “Just like that? Few boats come up that far, and fewer still come close to the east shore. No, Jim, you’ll have to think of something else.”

  Beaupre was obviously unconvinced, and Cates watched him as he walked away. A man would be a fool to attempt such a ride. The country was bleak desert, sand dunes and broken lava, without water, without any settlements, not even a ruined ranch. There was no more desolate land under the sun than that around Pinacate. But somebody had given Jim Beaupre the idea.

  To attempt to find another way out than that to Yuma was a waste of time. The desert to the south was a death trap that offered nothing, and their only hope was to make a stand here, and while making the stand attempt to locate the Indian camp. Once located they could make a counterattack and might deal them such a blow as to render them harmless for the future. In the meanwhile they were secure, or reasonably so.

  Yet their greatest enemy was not the Apaches, but the trouble that lay among themselves and the strain of waiting for an attack that seemed never to come.

  LOGAN CATES CLIMBED among the rocks. It was very still, and upon the wide face of the desert nothing moved. Even now, surrounded by Indians, in danger of attack at any moment, able to trust no rock or bush, Logan Cates loved the desert morning. The stillness, the distance, the far blue serrated ridges, the lonely peaks, and over all the vast and empty sky.

  Nothing moved out there, not even a lizard. Yet the very silence was a menace, the stillness a warning. If they had been east of Tucson, or even closer to the town, there might be a chance of help, here there was none. Whatever future they had they must provide for themselves. And then he remembered the mysterious movements of Big Maria.

  A stir of movement caught his eye and he eased his Winchester higher, alert and ready.

  Nothing happened.

  Yet behind that brush there had been something, something alive.

  Where could she have hidden the gold, if gold it was? She had been gone only a few minutes, and could not have gone far, nor would she wish to chance being captured by Indians or being missed. Yet in this broken country of lava rock there were a million places. Everywhere there were cracks, hollows, tumbled broken rock. He had heard no sound, and if she had covered it, that meant there would have been a rattle of stones that he could have heard at the distance she could have gone. It must, then, be lowered into a crack or tucked into a hollow.

  Smoke began to rise from the stirred-up fire, and glancing down he was surprised to see it was not Junie Hatchett, but Jennifer.

  Zimmerman was walking toward the fire, his rifle in the hollow of his arm, and Big Maria was brushing her hair into place with her hands. Logan Cates considered her for a moment. She was a dangerous woman, big, strong as a man and hard as nails.

  His eyes scanned the terrain out before them. There was good shelter there. It was a place where they might get close enough for a rush, and he had just seen movement there. On a sudden hunch he turned quickly, and catching Lonnie Foreman’s eye, held up four fingers.

  Lonnie hesitated, then realizing what Cates wanted, he grabbed Zimmerman, Kimbrough, Conley and Styles. The four moved swiftly up to the rocks and Logan Cates scattered them into position facing the danger area. They settled down, guns ready.

  Beaupre, aroused from partial sleep by the movement, picked up his rifle and joined them. Hidden behind rocks and in brush, they waited. Minutes ticked by, and no
thing happened; the morning was still cool and pleasant, the desert was innocent of movement. Nothing stirred out there, not even a dust-devil. And there was no sound.

  Ten minutes, twenty minutes passed. A fly buzzed near and lit on a rock just ahead of Cates. He was getting stiff from holding his position.

  Half an hour went by and the waiting men were growing restless. A bird lit in the brush some fifty feet away and began preening his feathers. Down at the fire the breaking of branches for fuel made loud sounds in the still morning. Big Maria and Jennifer were talking, their voices carrying clearly to the watching men.

  Cates cleared his throat soundlessly and drew a deep breath. Zimmerman was getting out his tobacco and the tops of the western peaks were growing yellow and pink from the rising sun. Lonnie yawned and shifted his position a little. The bird suddenly took off, flying straight up and then away, and the Apaches came with a rush.

  They started out of the sand and brush where nothing had seemed to be, and they were not thirty yards from the line of defense in the lava rocks. They had been expecting one guard, at most two, and they ran head on into a withering blast of fire. Logan Cates fired at Churupati, whom he saw plainly, and the bullet missed, knocking down an Indian behind him. And then the Apaches were in the rocks and it was hand to hand and every man for himself.

  An Apache came over the rocks almost as Cates’s first shot sounded. He grabbed at Cates’s rifle barrel and Cates kicked him in the groin, then swung the rifle barrel sidewise and caught the Indian across the skull. He fired instantly at another, saw him stagger, and then suddenly they were gone and there was nothing in sight but a couple of trails of blood on the sand where Indians had been shot down and dragged away.

  They were gone … even the one he had slugged with the rifle barrel. Somehow he had rolled over and lost himself in the rocks. There was nothing to indicate there had been an attack but the trails of bloody sand, the acrid smell of gunsmoke in the clear morning air, and Styles.

  Styles was down, an arrow in his chest. Lonnie was sitting sidewise, his back to a boulder, bandaging a burned wrist.