Hondo (1953) (17 page)

Hondo circled, knowing the danger of the man. He was strong, uninjured, and filled with hatred. Under any circumstances he would be dangerous. Silva extended his left hand, but was bothered by the knife in the wrong hand. It should have been in the right, so he could seize the wrist. Circling to study this, he lunged suddenly. Hondo felt the sharp point of the knife rip his shirt, then he stomped down hard with his boot on Silva's bare foot and slashed with his knife edge. The Indian twisted away but the knife left a red line that rapidly turned red with blood along a shoulder.

They circled, and around them the sweaty faces stared eagerly. Hondo could hear the breathing of the warriors. He could see the glow of firelight, he could see the eagerness in their eyes, for this to them was the great moment, the greatest of sport. Fighting men all, they could know and respect a fighting man, and not one there but knew the odds each man faced.

Silva came in low, his point flicking. Hondo sprang back, then lunged. The knife of Silva stabbed and the blade sank into Hondo's shoulder. Before it could be withdrawn, Hondo pressed forward against the haft, holding the knife in the wound to prevent its withdrawal. They went to the ground and Hondo caught Silva's hair and forced his head back, exposing the brown throat, then he put the edge of his knife against the throat of the Indian and looked up at Vittoro.

Vittoro stood above them and he said, unhurried, "The white man permits you to choose, Silva."

Silva hesitated, his hatred a living, fighting thing. Yet there was only the one choice, to yield or to die. And he was not ready to die. If he lived he might yet kill the white man and take his hair.

"I choose," he muttered.

Vittoro gestured, and Hondo released Silva and stepped back. But he still held the knife.

Silva stared at Hondo, then turned abruptly and stalked away to his wickiup.

"White man," Vittoro said, "is it in your thoughts you have purchased life?"

"It is my thought that the one called Vittoro is a great chief, and a chief considers all that happens in this world."

"It is possible you may live. Or you may die. We shall see what is written."

Chapter
Fifteen

Across the vast sweep of the sky there were clouds, darkening clouds pressing ominously down toward the far hills. Flat upon the earth, skyward they lowered in huge, unbelievable masses.

A low wind caught the breath of their coolness and moved across the desert, moving down the arroyos and canyons, creeping across the face of a land scarred by canyons and ridged by the backbones of ancient ridges. And the cool wind came swiftly and crossed the land and dipped into the basin and the ranch.

The wind stirred the curtain and Angie looked up from her ironing and glanced outside. A few leaves skittered across the hard-baked clay of the yard, the horses' tails streamed past their hocks, and a whisp of hay blew to a corral post, then hung there, still and quiet.

Angie walked to the stove and exchanged her iron for one freshly heated, testing it with a dampened finger. At the window Johnny stared at the towering battlements of cloud, looming now above the basin's edge.

"Mommy, big clouds are coming up."

"It feels like rain." She drew the apron over the end of the board and sprinkled it lightly.

"Why is rain, Mommy?"

"God's way of making the earth green. This is what the Indians call the planting rain."

The planting rain. ... She looked quickly past the trees at the sky.

Black, threatening clouds piled high. Quickly she put down the iron and went to the door, apprehension written large upon her face.

There could be no doubt. There would be rain, the planting rain, and then there was no time. When the storm began it would rain hard, then it might settle down for a long hard rain. They must leave before it ended, while it would still wipe out their tracks.

She folded her clothing and put it away, then went quickly to the cupboard. She packed swiftly, according to plan. She was sure, definite in her movements. There was no choice, no further decision to be made. Before the Indians could come, she must be gone.

Going to the bed, she took blankets and the old ground sheet and wrapped them in a tight roll. Johnny turned from the window. She caught his glance. "Would you like to go on a picnic, Johnny? In the rain?"

He looked doubtful. "In the rain?"

"It would be fun in the rain. We've got to ride a long way, and you'll have to take good care of Mommy."

"You mean I can ride a horse? All my own?"

"Yes, all your own. You can ride Old Gray."

Instantly he was all eagerness. She gave him several small tasks to do, then went to the barn and after some trouble lured the horses to the corral bars and got a rope on them. Leading them to the barn, she turned to the saddles. Hearing Johnny call out, she turned.

It was too late. A small cavalcade of Indians was coming down the slope.

Her heart pounding heavily, she walked to the house. "Johnny, you stay inside. They want to see Mommy."

There were a dozen Indians in the little group, and they had a prisoner. She saw that at once, only seeing the hanging head of a man, the slim shape of a haggard face beneath the hat. Vittoro dismounted and came to her. Behind him the man was dragged from the saddle.

"Is this your man?"

Angie looked beyond him. The man had lifted his head and he stared into her eyes. His own were glazed with suffering and weariness. She could see that something was terribly wrong with his hand. But she noticed nothing, only that it was Hondo Lane, and that he had come back.

"Speak!"

At a gesture from Vittoro, an Indian threw a pail of water into Lane's face. He blinked, then shook his head, straightening a little. Their eyes met and held.

"Is this your man?"

She understood suddenly, and she smiled quickly at Vittoro, coming down from the steps. "Yes. This is my husband."

She went to him quickly, taking his arm. Vittoro stared at her, then at Hondo Lane.

"White man," he said sternly, "you have lived with the Apache. That is good. You know how the Small Warrior should be taught so that he will be the honored son of Vittoro.

"Watch like the hawk, be patient as the beaver and courageous as the puma that he may learn well. Know it, then, or your dying will be long before you welcome death."

He turned away and mounted. Without looking back, the Indians rode from the valley.

Holding tight to his arm, for she sensed his weakness, she led him toward the house. In the distance thunder rumbled and there were scattered drops of rain, large drops striking hard on the baked clay.

She took him to the bed and he sat down, then fell loosely into sleep. She looked down at the blistered and swollen hand, the lacerated wrists, the bloody shirt. Turning quickly, she went outside with the pail to get fresh water.

Sam was coming down the slope, making slow time on three legs. She started to call, then saw Silva. The Apache came over the slope and started for the dog on a gallop. Sam turned, trying to run, but with a shrill yell Silva dropped his lance and ran the dog through the body. In a wild, despairing effort, the dog snapped at the lance, then fell free. Silva rode on over the slope.

Leaving the pail, Angie ran up the slope to the dying dog. His body was horribly torn; blood was flowing from him. Nothing could be done. She touched his head gently. "Good boy, Sam," she said softly. Feebly he tried to lick her hand.

She straightened then and looked in the direction Silva had taken. She knew then how a man could kill.

Rain was falling fast when she reached the house with her bucket. Once inside, she closed and barred the door. Quickly she got water on the fire to heat, got out the bandages she had made for emergencies. She had turned the horses back into the corral, and there was shelter for them under the overhang of the lean-to.

With a needle she ran a bit of colorless yarn previously soaked with antiseptic through each blister to allow it to drain. Then she put grease over the burned hand and, wrapped it, not tightly. She was taking off his shirt when he sat up groggily.

"I'm all right."

"You will be when I fix your shoulder. The cut on your chest is only a scratch."

"It's not that. I've other things to keep me awake."

She looked at him quickly, thinking he had seen Silva's killing of Sam. "You saw it, then?"

"Saw what?"

"Silva. He finished Sam. Sam is dead. I'm sorry."

He held himself still, looking down at the clumsy-looking hand and its loose bandage. Sam ... a man's dog.

"He was gettin' old ... Been with me goin' on eleven years. Old for a dog."

She was furious. "That beast Silva killed him. For no reason."

"Silva's scalp lock should be dryin' from a ridgepole."

"I know how you feel. That loyal dog, and ... and--"

Hondo turned the bandage, looking at it. She could not see his expression, only hear his voice. He was keeping his eyes down. "Wasn't he an ugly cuss, that Sam? Mean as a catamount in the breeding season. I almost ate him once. Up on the Powder. Quick freeze caught us, and after I'd been three days without rations, I took to looking at Sam.

"Lucky for him I found us a snowbound moose. Didn't look forward to eatin' Sam. Probably been tougher than a trail-shiny moccasin."

Angie turned down the light and moved away. She could sense the man's grief, and she was feeling it herself. That brutal, ugly-looking mongrel ... and there at the last, dying, he tried to lick her hand. A fighting dog, so strangely gentle. The thought moved her and she looked quickly at the man who lay face to the wall.

So strangely gentle...

Did the dog take on the qualities of the man? Or under the hard exterior were they much the same?

She turned to her work and saw the rolled-up blankets she had meant to take away. Now she need not go. But what had she done? Her face turned crimson. She had told Vittoro this man was her husband! And he dared not leave now.

Yet what else could she have done? Had she not accepted him as her husband, he would have been killed, and she would have no choice but to become a squaw to one of Vittoro's brawes. Still, what must he think of her?

Outside thunder rumbled and rain was falling, falling steadily, without the fury of the storm that had come those long days ago after he had ridden away before; She added fuel to the fire. A gust of wind sent a little smoke into the room. Then a big drop fell down the chimney and hissed upon the coals.

Johnny had already gone to bed, sleeping contentedly. The man was back.

And outside the rain was no longer a threatening thing, but suddenly it made the house seem even cozy, very warm. She listened to the heavy breathing of Hondo. Was this what she wanted? A man in the house?

No, not a man. This man ... and no other.

He turned, muttering in his sleep, and something fell to the floor with a tinny sound. Glancing down, she saw it was a tintype. She picked it up. Johnny. But the tintype was scarred. Instinctively she knew what that scar meant.

Turning, she went to him and thrust it back into the pocket from which it had fallen.

For a long time she sat at the table, staring at the rain-streaked window. There was nothing to think of now, nothing to wait for. There was only the night and the steady rain falling, and the quiet, good sound of a man breathing heavily in his sleep. She knelt beside the fire, and banked it with a log, and then another, gathering the coals close.

When she got up, she brushed her hands down, straightening her apron. She looked over at his broad back, at muscles relaxed and sleeping now. She wanted to touch him, to put her hand upon his hair...

She turned quickly to her own bed and began to undress. A large drop hissed on the dying coals, a stick popped loudly. There was rain on the roof, but it was quiet in the house, and there was no fear. The man was back.

Chapter
Sixteen

When she awakened it was daylight and the house was silent. Suddenly, and with a start, she realized that Johnny was gone, and so was Hondo.

Glancing through the window, she could see Hondo at the corral, Johnny beside him. They were pitching hay to the horses. Quickly she dressed.

The ground was wet, and rain dripped from the eaves, but the rain had stopped for the moment. There was no break in the clouds. When she had breakfast started she returned to the mirror and fixed her hair more carefully.

When she opened the door, Hondo glanced around. "Breakfast is ready!" she called, and he started to the barn with the fork. Together they trudged toward the house, and after Johnny had bathed, Hondo followed.

His hair was freshly combed when he came in, but he was favoring his bandaged hand and his shoulder was stiff. He avoided her eyes, seating himself quickly. They ate in silence, and when his cup was empty she reached for the pot. "More coffee?"

"Thanks."

He was silent, brooding. Once he started to speak, then stopped.

"After breakfast you'd better take off your shirt and let me fix it."