Ambush on the Mesa (13 page)

T
HE MOON
was on the wane. The cliff dwellings seemed as deserted as they had been before the arrival of the party. Hugh padded back into the triangular passageway. He walked softly along it until he found a place where something lay on the ground. He knelt and looked at it. It was a piece of ragged tin. He fingered it, rubbing grease from it. He sniffed at his fingers. Embalmed beef. Hugh stood up and looked about. Clymer had been eating recently. No one else had a scrap of food.

Hugh looked at a debris pile. It looked as though it had been disturbed. He began to remove rocks. Something grated on the ground behind him. He whirled in time to have a big fist driven hard against his jaw. He went down hard and hit his head against a rock. He tried to get up but Clymer drove a boot against his side. Hugh grunted in pain. He rolled away from the big man and got to his feet in time to meet a smashing attack. Clymer drove in pistonlike blows, battering alternately at Hugh’s face and belly, until Hugh was driven back into a corner where the rock wall of the cave met the end of the row of dwellings. Hugh’s head bounced from the wall. He covered up and worked his way around the officer.

Clymer danced about on his big feet. “You sonofabitch,” he said thickly. “You nosy bastard!”

Clymer drove in hard again. Hugh parried the blows with elbows and forearms. The very weight and speed of Clymer’s attack began to work against him. Hugh drove in a hard left jab, snapping Clymer’s head back. He followed through with a smash low to the belly. Clymer grunted. He staggered back with his arms outflung, allowing Hugh time to close in hard and fast, driving blows to the belly.

Clymer hit the wall. He got in one good punch but paid a high price for it. Hugh swung from the waist, uppercutting the big man. Teeth and lips smashed together. Hugh planted a right over Clymer’s heart. The big man bent forward in time to catch a neat uppercut. He sagged and slid down to the floor.

Hugh stepped back. “You loco bastard,” he said thickly.

Clymer ran a hand across his battered mouth and flicked the blood against the rock wall. He shook his head and got up on his feet. Then he hunched forward, dropping his right hand to his pistol. Hugh clamped his left hand on Clymer’s right wrist. He sank his right fist deep into Clymer’s belly. The officer’s sour breath exploded into Hugh’s face. He grunted in pain. Hugh dropped his hand to his own Colt and freed it from its holster. He rammed the muzzle into Clymer’s belly and looked into the wide, frightened eyes. “You sonofabitch,” he said quietly, “I’d like to cut you down to size.”

Hastings and Nettleton came up behind Hugh. “What is this, sir?” snapped Nettleton.

Hugh stepped to one side but kept his revolver in his hand. The big man had shaken him badly, and Hugh began to feel weak from the lack of food.

Clymer looked at Nettleton. “This man attacked me in here for no reason that I know of, sir. The man is demented.”

Nettleton looked steadily at Hugh. “What have you to say for yourself, sir?”

Hugh shrugged. “I was looking around back here. Clymer jumped me for no reason at all.”

“Is this true, Mr. Clymer?” asked Nettleton.

“No.”

“He knows why I was looking around back here,” said Hugh.

“Well?” demanded Nettleton of Clymer.

Clymer wet his thick lips. He looked away from his commanding officer. “I had a little food cached back here,” he said.

Nettleton raised his head. “Food? All supplies were to be turned in to Sergeant Hastings. You deliberately disobeyed my orders, sir!”

Clymer swelled up his chest. “I’m a big man, sir. The biggest of all of you. I wanted to keep strength in my body
for our escape, knowing it would depend on
me
to get Mrs. Nettleton to safety.”

“Jesus,” said Hastings softly.

Nettleton raised a shaking hand. “You will consider yourself under arrest, Mr. Clymer.”

Clymer stared at him. Then he laughed. “Under arrest? Where will you put me, sir?” He laughed again and swung out a thick arm to indicate the canyon. “We’re all prisoners, you pompous idiot! With dozens of jailors thirsting for our blood! Damn you, Nettleton! You got us into this. Now let a better man get you out of this unholy mess!” Clymer stalked off.

Hugh rubbed his battered jaw. Suspicion began to form in his mind. Clymer wasn’t gutty enough to kill a man for a can of embalmed beef. There was something else he was hiding.

Nettleton looked as though he had been kicked in the belly. He looked at Hugh and then at Hastings. “We’ll say no more about this,” he said.

Hugh nodded.

Nettleton hesitated. “Did you find any food? Not for myself, you understand,” he said hastily, “but for Mrs. Nettleton.”

Hugh shook his head. “Nor any for Miss Corse, either, he said.

Nettleton jerked his head as though he had been slapped. “Yes. Yes. Of course.” He placed a hand on Hugh’s arm. “Tell me, Kinzie: is there a chance of escape?”

Hugh looked down at him. “I don’t know.”

“Will you try to get a message through?”

“If I can get out of this canyon, sir, it would be days before I could bring back help.
If
I did bring back help, what would
We
find when we got here?”

Nettleton nodded. “Yes,” he said quietly. “Of course.” He turned away and walked out toward the terrace.

Hastings eyed Hugh. “Now how about the truth, Hugh?”

“Damned if I know. I knew Clymer had been eating. I came in here and found a piece of tin from a beef can. I was poking around to find his cache when he got me from behind.”

“I wish you’d killed the big stud.”

Hugh felt his jaw. “He damned near killed me.”

Hastings looked down the passageway and spoke in a low voice. “Watch your back, Hugh.”

Hugh nodded. “What are we going to do now, Matt?”

Hastings spat. “I’m not going to sit here to be caught like a rat.”

“So?”

Hastings raised his head. “No gut-eating Apache is going to crack my skull to keep my spirit from haunting him.”

Hugh looked closely at the veteran. “I’ll need you when the time comes to make the break. You’re the only one I can trust now, Matt.”

Hastings stepped back. “Yeah.” He walked away.

Hugh stared at the first soldier. A subtle change had come over Hastings.

Hugh walked toward the tower. He stopped in the semicircular area at the west end of the passageway. His boots crunched ancient maize cobs. He looked up at the rock fault which had been carefully sealed with rocks and mortar. Then he looked up at the cave ceiling. It must be many yards thick between the ceiling and the mesa top. He looked at the sealed fault again. He passed a hand over the smooth surface of the mortared rocks. They had taken great pains to seal it off. What was behind it?

Hugh climbed up into the tower and walked across the beam they had placed to reach the water pan. He placed a hand in the thin sheet of water and pressed its coolness against his aching face. He squatted there in the dimness, wishing for a smoke. His head throbbed. It was hard to think. He eyed the glistening trickle of water. It seemed to come from the very pores of the rock itself. He crawled over to it and pressed a hand against it, trying to fathom from whence it came. He looked up at the rock roof again. How many yards to the mesa floor?

Hugh closed his eyes. A faintness seemed to come over him. He tried to shake it off. The fight had taken a hell of a lot of strength out of him.

He walked across the narrow bridge they had made to reach the water. He stepped down from the window ledge and full into a soft body. Marion Nettleton slid her arms about his neck. “Are you all right, Hugh? I couldn’t rest when Maurice told me what had happened.”

He looked down at her. The faint odor of rich perfume came from her.

“Hugh, is there any chance for us at all?” she whispered.

“All I have to have happen now is to have the captain walk in on us.”

She shook her head. “He’s lying down. He broods a lot. Hugh, he can’t get me out of here.”

“And you think
I
can?”

She moved closer and the faintly sour odor of her sweat came to him mingled with the rich perfume. Hugh almost grinned. Marion Nettleton wasn’t going to stink like the rest of the common folk. But the combination of odors was typical of her. There was a stink behind her looks and polish. He took her arms from around his neck.

“When the time comes, Marion, we’ll all know who is going to be saved. Like Resurrection Day.”

She replaced her arms about his neck and pressed her lower body hard against his. “Don’t send me away,” she said softly.

Hugh was tempted. The sands of time were trickling away fast and it had been a long time since he had had a woman, and the last one he had had wasn’t in a class with Marion Nettleton, except that she had had some sense of honor despite her moral code. “You’d better get back to your husband,” he said.

For a moment she hesitated. Hugh almost took her then and there, but she turned away and left the room. He shrugged and followed her. Katy Corse came out of the shadows and looked up at him. “You didn’t have much time to get anything done with her in that tower,” she said.

Hugh scratched his jaw. Then he smiled. He broke into a wide grin and then laughed aloud. He swept her to him and kissed her hard. Then he pushed her away. “Can
he
kiss you like that, Katy? Tell the truth?”

She bit her lip. “Damn you, Hugh Kinzie,” she said. She walked to her quarters.

Darrell Phillips stepped out in front of Hugh as he followed Katy. “Where are you going?” he asked quietly.

“None of your damned business, Phillips.”

“I can’t fight you as Clymer did, but I can ask you out as a gentleman!”

Hugh grinned again. “Jesus Christ but everybody is touchy tonight. She’s all yours, Phillips.”

Phillips watched Hugh walk to the far end of the terrace. Abel Clymer came out of his room and stopped beside
Phillips. “Some day I’ll break his God-damned back,” he said.

Phillips glanced at the big man. “If he doesn’t break yours first, Clymer. I almost wish to God he had.”

Clymer turned quickly. “I’ll smash in your pretty face,” he snarled.

Phillips stepped back. “I’ll put a bullet into your belly first, Clymer.”

Clymer glanced down at Phillips’s gun. Then he looked into the taut, cold face. “There’ll be a showdown before long,” he said. “Then all these little problems will be settled. By God, Phillips, I’d like to see those Apache squaws working over you with knife and fire.”

Phillips went pale. He bit his lip and turned away. A sour flood seemed to rise in his throat. Behind him Abel Clymer laughed aloud.

D
ARRELL
P
HILLIPS
had the guard just before dawn. A cold wind swept through the canyon just as the first traces of the false dawn tinged the eastern skies. He shivered a little and drew his blanket about his shoulders. There was a dull gnawing ache in the pit of his stomach, and his head throbbed a little. He had amused himself during his watch by thinking of the fine restaurants he had dined in back east. A poor way for a half-starved man to spend his time.

He felt better with the coming of light, for the darkness was peopled with phantoms who seemed to leer and gibber at him from behind every rock and clump of brush.

He hunched his shoulders beneath the blanket and thought of Katy Corse. It was she who had brought him the blanket as he had gone on watch. She was trying to understand him in the goodness of her heart. It was his damned imagination that caused him so much trouble. It had always been so. The actuality had always been less fearful than the expectancy. She had placed a probing finger on his secret. She knew why he had become a soldier. To prove to the world that he had courage. He knew he wasn’t really a coward. Not
as much as some men, in any case. Somehow he had thought that wearing blue and brass would prove to everyone that he was as brave as any man. He had seen little action at Fort Ayres, but what he had seen after several slashing Apache raids on stage stations and lonely ranches had been branded on his mind with letters of fire. There seemed to be a thick green mucous of fear clogging his soul.

The light was better now. He looked down the slope. There was a strange growth there. Something alien. He stared at it, and then opened his mouth. A shriek that did not seem to emanate from his mouth awoke the canyon echoes. It was almost as though someone else had done it.

Hugh Kinzie burst from his room holding his Sharps carbine at hip level. He stared at Phillips’s ghastly white face. The officer dropped his carbine, pointed down the slope, then turned away to retch violently.

Hugh looked down the slope. A white man lay there, stripped to the buff. His head was curiously misshapen. It was Chandler Willis — or what had been Chandler Willis.

Hugh gripped Phillips by the shoulder. “Make sure the women don’t see this.” He shoved Phillips toward the dwellings. The officer walked as though in a dream, dropping the blanket from his shoulders.

Matt Hastings came up at a trot and looked down at Willis. “I knew it,” he said.

Hugh nodded. “At least he wasn’t tortured,” he said.

Hastings spat dryly. “For God’s sake, Hugh, if they get at me and wound me, make damned sure you save a slug for me. You’ll remember that?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll do the same for you.”

“Gracias,”
said Hugh dryly.

“I’ll go down and noose a picket line on his body. We can draw him up here and bury him.”

Maurice Nettleton looked down at the body. “When did they put him there?”

“Quién sabe
?” said Hugh. “The point is that they dragged that body clear across the canyon and placed him not thirty feet from the man standing on guard.”

Nettleton touched his throat. There was a sickness apparent on his face. “If I had only tried with all speed for the Rio Grande,” he said.

“You didn’t.”

“We might have been safely at Santa Fe by now.”

Hugh spat over the wall. “It’s a little late to think about it now.”

Hastings passed them carrying a coiled picket line in his hand. He vaulted the wall and slid down the slope. He worked quickly, glancing now and then over his shoulder. Hugh knelt behind the wall with his cocked carbine in his hands, watching the opposite canyon wall.

Hastings finished. He came up the slope, uncoiling the line. They pulled the battered corpse up to the wall and lifted it over. Hugh looked away from the smashed head.

They buried Chandler Willis in a hole behind one of the buildings. Abel Clymer leaned against the wall watching them as they finished the burial. Hastings marked it in the book. “I had a feeling he’d make a break,” said Matt Hastings.

Hugh nodded. “Five down; eight to go, as
he
would have said.”

“At least he’s out of this mess.”

Hugh scratched the bristles on his face. “The chips are all down now, Matt.”

Hastings leaned back against a wall. There were dark circles under his eyes, and his uniform was beginning to hang loosely on his thick body. “If we didn’t have the women,” he said quietly, “we could all make a break for it. We’re all handy with sidearms. Except Morton. I’d rather die fighting than like a rat in a trap.”

“We can’t leave the women, Matt.”

“There’s one way out.”

They looked at each other.

“It isn’t time yet,” said Hugh. “Besides … who would do it? Roswell might have; he always obeyed orders. I’ll not do do it until the last possible moment.”

Hastings touched his cracked lips. “We can draw straws.”

“I said I wouldn’t do it now!”

“We can make it easy on them. A bullet in the back of the head when they don’t expect it.” “No!”

“Look, Hugh! We won’t all get out of this mess. Six men might make it after dark. Sure, some of us will get it. But I’m enough of a gambler to take my chance. One man might break free. I’ll take those odds against sitting there waiting for the end. Another day of this and we’ll all be too weak to make a mile on foot.”

Hugh watched Clymer walking toward the watchtower. “Clymer could.”

Hastings figured the butt of his Colt. “I once thought I’d plug him in the back in the first action we got into.”

“Our loss would be Heaven’s gain, as Isaiah would say. Let’s go and talk with the others.”

• • •

They gathered in front of the watchtower as the sun began to flood the canyon. Nettleton’s hands shook as he buttoned up his blouse despite the heat. Clymer squatted with his back against the tower. There was a set look on his broad face. Phillips seemed pale beneath his tanned face. Now and again he wet his lips and looked across the empty canyon. Hastings stood up with his big hands folded atop his carbine muzzle. Isaiah Morton was there in body only.

Nettleton looked about. “We must do something,” he said nervously. “My wife is not well. There is no food left”

“No horses either,” said Clymer.

“Yes. Yes.”

“If you had listened to me, we would have made a break out of here some days ago,” said Clymer.

“Let us look forward, Mr. Clymer.”

Clymer laughed. “To what?”

“I wanted to make a sortie then,” said Darrell Phillips.

“Yeah,” said Clymer. “You were going with the captain here as
aide
. Who was detailed to lead the attack? Me! Well, I’m not leading any attack now, sonny.”

“We haven’t enough strength in numbers for that now,” said Nettleton.

They looked at each other. None of them had an idea. The realization that death was a surety instead of an even chance weighed on them.

Isaiah Morton opened his eyes. “Perhaps we could reason with our red brethren. Surely there is some pity in them. Are they not the Lord’s children as well as we?”

“You talk with them,” said Clymer.

“Yes! I am willing.”

“He don’t talk their lingo,” said Hastings.

“Kinzie does,” said Clymer slyly.

They all looked at Hugh. He shook his head. “They’re out for our blood.”

Phillips walked to the edge of the terrace. “Perhaps, after dark, before the moon rises, we could scale this side of the canyon and pull the ladies up by means of the picket ropes.”

Nettleton rubbed his jaw. “Perhaps. What do the rest of you think?”

“Sounds all right, sir,” said Hastings, “but maybe they’re up there too.”

“Yes,” said Nettleton. He paced back and forth. “But we can try. Yes! We’ll do it!”

Hugh shrugged. “It’s our last chance,” he said. He studied the others.

Clymer stood up. “I’ll go,” he said.

Hastings nodded. “Count me in, sir.”

Isaiah Morton wandered off. He looked out across the canyon. Voices seemed to speak into his ears. Hunger and thirst were forgotten as he walked back and forth, trying to clearly understand the words which he heard. He stopped and stood at the edge of the terrace for a long time staring at the motionless brush which rimmed the edge of the far canyon wall.