Buchanan 17 Page 9

“Everything’s all set. The whole kit and caboodle’s about to fall into our hands. You and me querida. We got to be ready for it—we got to be married.”

  “You don’t care about anything but that ranch.”

  He said, “Don’t put on airs, ’Tonia.”

  “Maybe we ought to think about—”

  “Maybe, maybe, maybe,” he said angrily. “Maybe if my Ma had whiskers, she’d be my Pa. I’m sick of maybes. Look, either you go through with this, or I call off the whole deal. You won’t cut much of a swath back East without two copper pennies to rub together. Or was you figuring to set up in business for yourself in some flyblown room over a saloon somewheres?” He watched her with care. She didn’t have any way of knowing that it was too late to call anything off. Quick’s scheme had been set in motion, and there was nothing to do now but wait for it to carry itself to the finish. But he had to marry himself into the line of inheritance before she found that out.

  “How about it, querida? Last chance to make up your mind.”

  She said, “It’s a funny thing, how you can love and hate the same man.”

  “You aim to go through with it?”

  “Yes, Steve.”

  “Then let’s quit arguing.”

  He put a smile on his mouth and reached out to grasp her hand. They rode into town that way, hand in hand. They tied up in front of the preacher’s house, and Quick said under his breath, “Walk like a lady, querida.”

  He took her up onto the porch and banged on the door until a lamp came on inside. The preacher showed up in his night-robe and stocking cap.

  Quick made his grin friendly. “Sorry to get you out of bed at this hour, Reverend.”

  “Not half as sorry as I am.” The preacher smiled raggedly.

  “We’d kind of like your services,” said Quick. He looked at Antonia and swallowed a sense of panic that made him want to chuck the whole thing and run like hell.

  Buchanan gave a last glance to the three fresh graves, clapped on his hat, and turned to put away his camp shovel and Bible. The first streaks of false dawn were visible eastward. Johnny Reo said, “Kind of eerie, them coyotes blowing Taps out there.”

  “Getting on your nerves, Johnny?”

  “Naw. But I could’ve used some more sleep. What good’s buryin’ the likes of these? Waste of sweat, waste of time, if you ask me.”

  “I guess I didn’t ask you,” Buchanan said.

  “When my time comes, I don’t much care whether they plant me or leave me to the coyotes. I aim to have my fun before I get dead, not after.”

  “That so?”

  “Sure,” said Reo. “Life is like making footprints in a sandy beach, didn’t you know that?”

  “What do you mean, life’s like making footprints in a sandy beach?”

  “How the hell do I know what I mean? I ain’t no philosopher.”

  Buchanan grinned. “Let’s saddle up.” They had a long way to go, up into the Apache stronghold.

  Reo said, “Ain’t no rush. Them mountains will still be there tomorrow.”

  “But the girl may not.”

  “You set a lot of store by her, for a female you ain’t never even laid eyes on.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Buchanan said. “We’ve still got a job to do.”

  Reo said while saddling his horse, “There are two kinds of men in this business of ours, Buchanan—the crazy ones and the scared ones. You ain’t either kind. I don’t know as I like that.”

  “Don’t lose any sleep over it.”

  “I guess not.”

  They headed up into the foothills. Buchanan tuned his ears to the long silences of the country, estimating their meaning. Silence could mean the absence of company; and it could mean the presence of company that didn’t want to be heard.

  The hills heaved up, irregular and barren; it was death-hot here, with no shade against the rising sun. Buchanan dismounted and had a look at a dimly scuffed mark on the flinty ground; he added that together with the broken stems of a clump of bunch grass and said, “Maybe forty-eight hours.”

  “Could’ve been Sentos and the girl,” Reo said.

  “Uh-huh.” Buchanan gathered the reins, climbed up, and went on ahead. The hills rolled on up, and beyond them stood the black-cut higher peaks. Whole meadows of flat rock slabs hung in the hollows. Buchanan’s big frame was slouched loosely, saving its energy. The hat cut low across his sun-blackened cheekbones.

  Reo scraped his long, rawboned jaw. “We could get killed, you know that?”

  “Warrenrode won’t like that.”

  “I’ll take a pretty dim view of it myself,” said Reo. “Don’t reckon I can collect the rest of that gold from the grave. Hell, Buchanan, you sure you don’t know where to find Sentos?”

  “Don’t have to know. Once we get up in the peaks, he’ll find us.”

  “Unless some other outfit finds us first. More’n one Injun camp up there.”

  “Uh-huh,” Buchanan muttered with half his attention. His wary eyes absorbed the details around him. Saddle leather squeaked dryly. An earth-colored lizard sat sleepy-eyed in the minuscule shade of a hat-sized rock. Buchanan examined all those shadows and all the clumps of catclaw and Spanish bayonet—every shadow big enough to hold a solitary Indian who could lie with great patience for hours without moving. The slopes lay dust-silent under the heavy beat of the sun, the color of an old sow’s belly. Reo said, “Getting to be a goddamned hot climb.”

  The rocks reflected heat like furnace walls. A sun-maddened scorpion rolled on the ground, stinging itself to death. Reo’s horse grunted and dodged away from it.

  Reo said, “Maybe we ought to cut south and angle in at them.”

  “No. We want them to know where we’re heading.”

  “Yeah, but who’s ‘them’? Sentos has got a bunch of Mimbrenos, maybe, but we’re likely to find Chiricahuas up there too.”

  Buchanan made no answer. They swung up a steep slope, paused to blow the horses, and threaded a rocky fissure. They nooned on a hilltop, in plain view of the surrounding hills—much to Reo’s disgust—and afterward walked their horses into the cross canyons. Buchanan’s shirt was sweat-pasted skintight against his back.

  By late afternoon there were a few scattered pines; the air was thinner, the heat not so brassy, and Reo was in a better mood. “Maybe find some water up here.”

  “Take a breath,” Buchanan said, “and it tastes clean, like nobody’s ever breathed the air before. I like this country.”

  “Now, if only it liked you.”

  Buchanan looked sharply left, where he thought he had seen a blur of motion slipping from one tree to another. Reo said easily, “Squirrel.”

  “Squirrel now, maybe, but it’ll be an Apache later,” Buchanan said. “We’re closing in.”

  “Won’t be too long,” Reo agreed.

  Sundown. Blue twilight trickled down the mountain slopes. They were on a forested slope. Buchanan said, “We’ll camp here.”

  “Smart. Go banging around up here after dark, and no telling who might take a shot at us.”

  “You never know,” Buchanan agreed. “Might even run into somebody friendly.”

  “Nothing’s friendly out here.”

  “You need a little more faith, Johnny,” Buchanan said.

  “Easy for you to say. Sentos may be your friend, but he ain’t mine.”

  “Then, think about this—if they kill you, they won’t want to leave me alive to talk about it.”

  “Now, that does cheer me up,” Reo said.

  They pitched dry camp, and Buchanan moved through the trees laying down ropes. He took his time; it was an hour before he had set all his snares; and afterward he rolled out his blankets, stuffed them with hat and wadding, and joined Reo in the trees. It was full dark, starlight filtered only vaguely down through the pines. Reo murmured, “A lot of work. Suppose an Injun don’t show up?”

  “They’re about as likely not to show up as a corpse at its own funeral.”

  �
�Now,” Reo observed, “there’s one hell of a lot of comfort in that thought.”

  In the dark the silence of the mountains seemed greater. Buchanan crouched with his head pushed against a tree trunk, hoping to pick up the rumor of vibration if anyone should approach. He noticed how taut Reo’s body was; Reo had one hand on the butt of his gun. For all his studied casual deviltry, Reo was fine-tuned.

  Buchanan considered the night, the forest, and the snares he had set. His battle-scarred face displayed candid good nature. “I feel hospitable. Hope we get a visitor or two.”

  “You never can tell,” said Reo.

  “I think we’ll have company tonight,” Buchanan said. “Spread out some to the left there. We’ll see if we can’t hire ourselves a guide or two. And Johnny ...”

  “What?”

  “I keep remembering how you shot Trask.”

  “Don’t worry, I ain’t got the itch right now.”

  “That’s good. Because dead Indians won’t do us any good.”

  “Enju,” Reo said dryly, the word being a noncommittal Apache grunt that could mean just about anything you wanted it to mean. He drifted to one side and was swallowed by the shadows.

  Buchanan sat with his elbows on his knees. He took out his long-bladed sheath knife and held it with care by the blade to keep the metal from throwing a reflection. His lips formed a soundless whistle; a cheerful tune ran through his head. Thick silence had settled down in the gloomy timber corridors.

  He looked across to Reo, who was only visible because Buchanan knew where to look for him. Reo had his hand on his gun; that made Buchanan frown a little. Then Reo lifted his hand to push back his hat and did not touch his gun afterward.

  Searching the forest slowly, Buchanan discovered stealthy movement below and to his left. Buchanan’s attention narrowed like a cone, until the whole focus of it lay against the shifting shadow.

  It became an Apache, moving afoot through the trees, half-crouched, armed with a hand-axe. Buchanan’s glance held on him long enough to be sure of the identification; then Buchanan shifted his eyes, moving his head ever so slightly to make sure Reo had spotted the approaching Apache. Reo squatted motionless; the way his head was set indicated he was watching the Indian. Buchanan swept the rest of the timber with his eyes and ears but discovered no other movement. He returned his attention to the lone Apache.

  Buchanan’s right arm dropped close to the ground, and the point of the knife blade settled against a tight-stretched rope at his feet. He held the knife there, poised and ready to cut, and watched the Indian rise from his crouch to search the night.

  Presently the Apache hunkered down again and came forward, approaching near enough for Buchanan to hear the faint abrasion of his moccasins on the ground.

  Two paces more, Buchanan thought. His hand tightened on the knife. The Indian halted; he stood slowly turning his head, as if he smelled trouble. He held his position for a long time, not stirring, and in the corner of his vision Buchanan could see a tiny movement—it might have been Reo’s hand curling around his gun butt. But at that moment the Apache moved, advancing alertly, right foot and then left foot...

  Buchanan’s knife slashed down. The keen edge sliced through the hemp cord. A thick, bent sapling sprang upright. Suspended from it was a loop of rope that lifted smartly around the Apache’s ankles, flipped the Indian over, and hung him dangling by his feet, with his head two feet off the ground.

  Reo chuckled happily. The Indian grunted. Buchanan rushed forward and chopped the blade of his big hand down, dislodging the war axe from the Apache’s grip—

  Reo came up, squatted down, and laughed. “How about that?”

  The Indian’s face looked odd upside down. He opened his mouth and let out an ear-splitting bellow.

  Buchanan nodded. “All right. Every Apache within five miles heard that.”

  “It’s a hard life,” Reo sighed. He tugged a short length of rope out of his belt and made a grab for the Indian’s wrists. Buchanan swung forward to help.

  When they had the Indian’s hands tied, they let him down to earth. Reo said, “Aravaipa Apache. Ain’t none of Sentos’ boys.”

  “Too bad, then,” said Buchanan, “but he’ll do.”

  The Indian watched all this with a baleful sullen glare, unblinking. Reo suddenly unleashed a torrent of guttural Apache words at him. The Indian listened impassively and grunted three or four syllables in answer.

  Buchanan said, “Have to do better than that.”

  “Uh-huh,” Reo said. “Lend me that toad-sticker.”

  “Careful how you handle it.”

  “Sure,” Reo said. He accepted the knife hilt-first and turned toward the Indian, who watched without expression. Reo laid the edge of the knife against the Indian’s Adam’s apple. It rested there of its own weight. Reo spoke softly. The Indian said nothing.

  Buchanan said, “Remind him what happens to his spirit if he gets killed at night.”

  “He knows all that, I reckon.”

  Reo’s hand stirred. A trickle of blood appeared at the Apache’s throat. Reo lifted the knife and turned it from side to side. “Pain don’t scare them none, but he’ll think a couple of minutes about spendin’ eternity in the Happy Huntin’ Ground in darkness. He’ll come around.” The Indian came around. He began to talk sullenly. Buchanan listened, getting the gist of it.

  Reo interpreted. “Says to tell him what we want of him.”

  “Ask him if he knows where Sentos is.”

  “He does.”

  “Tell him we want to see Sentos. Tell him we want him to take us there.”

  Some Apache talk rattled back and forth. Afterward Reo said, “He ain’t partial to the idea.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Buchanan said. “We’ll use him as a hostage. We won’t get far before Sentos will find us. The trick is to keep to open country, where they can’t jump us.”

  By first light they moved out, penetrating the mountains. Buchanan picked open hilltops and wide ridges to travel. The Indian walked between them at the center of a rope that ran from Buchanan’s saddle to Reo’s. Now and then the Indian turned and spat. He had no other comments.

  Buchanan kept his rifle balanced across his saddle horn. All morning he’d had a feeling like ice across the back of his neck and he made no argument when Reo observed, “Here we are riding along like Custer...”

  There was no more talk until half past nine by the sun, when Buchanan halted his horse on a razorback ridge and eased his seat in the saddle. Reo drew up alongside, and the Indian stood between them, steadfastly staring at the ground as if there were some fascinating object two feet in front of his moccasins.

  “Here we are,” Buchanan said.

  Reo nodded. “It worked. Not that I take any particular joy from it.”

  Coming up the ridge toward them were six Indians on horseback. They all looked like wooden cigar-store figures, for all the expression they gave. Two of them wore faded blue shirts, tails out, over buckskin leggings. The others were stripped down to hunting dress—breechclout and headband, barefoot and bareback.

  “Sentos’ tribe markings,” Reo said. “But I don’t see Sentos in the bunch.”

  “Don’t get nervous with your trigger finger until we find out how they want to play the game,” Buchanan said.

  “Hell of a time to tell a man not to get nervous.”

  Buchanan let the rifle lie in the notch between pommel and gun belt; he lifted both hands empty into plain sight and held up his right hand palm-forward. It was supposed to be a sign of peace, but it took two parties to make peace, and he didn’t have a great deal of confidence in the gesture. Still, what encouraged a man was that the six Indians yonder were riding forward in a bunch, in plain sight, and in no evident hurry.

  The captive Indian looked up at Reo and said something in a very dry voice. Buchanan said, “What’d he say?”

  “Says our heads are as empty as his belly.”

  “Could be right,” Buchanan said. “But
those six look friendly enough.”

  “When a cougar bares his fangs, it don’t pay to assume he’s smiling,” said Reo.

  The six Indians rode to a point fifty feet away and stopped. Reo murmured, “Raiding party—otherwise they’d be on foot. And by the way, I hope you’ve taken a look over yonder.” Reo nodded toward the west.

  Buchanan had already seen it—the unraveling dust plume of a single rider galloping toward them at the far end of the mile-long ridge.

  One of the six Apaches detached himself from the bunch and rode forward. He drew rein ten feet from Buchanan and said, “Enju.”

  “Sure,” Buchanan said. “Enju. You’re Matesa, I remember you.”

  “Buchanan,” said Matesa, and nodded. He had a face that looked as though a woodpecker had used it for target practice. Most Apaches were sawed-off and squat, but Matesa was about Ben Scarlett’s size—some bigger than Buchanan, which made him bigger than big. Buchanan hadn’t been in Sentos’ camp for quite a spell, but it was hard to misplace the recollection of an outsized Apache with a face like Matesa’s.

  The trouble with Matesa, Buchanan recalled, was that his personality was a match for his looks. Matesa would fight at the drop of a hat and would drop the hat himself.

  Matesa’s thick arm swept toward the captive Apache, helplessly roped between Buchanan and Reo. Matesa said, “What you got him for?”

  “To keep us alive,” Buchanan said.

  Matesa shrugged elaborately. When his great rippling muscles all settled back into place, he said, “That one Aravaipa. Don’t matter dead or not. Would you carry a war shield with hole in it?”

  “Better that than no shield at all,” said Buchanan.

  Matesa grinned. His teeth pointed in several directions, and his grin was only slightly less unsettling than his frown. He said, “I have not killed Aravaipa in many suns.”

  “You’ll have to kill me too, then.”

  “No trouble,” Matesa said. “I kill you slow, Buchanan. I don’t forget the handkerchief fight.”

  Matesa turned to look over his shoulder. Buchanan said, “Before you turn them loose on us, maybe you’d better talk to Sentos first.”

  “Sentos not here,” Matesa said with indisputable logic.