Last Stand at Papago Wells (1957) (11 page)

"All the horses here, mine included," Cates replied, "now belong to the group until we get out of here. The strong must walk, the weak will ride, and at least one horse must be kept for carrying water alone. No man or woman has a right to a horse of his or her own now."

"We didn't agree to that," Taylor objected.

"I'm sorry," Cates replied, "but it's necessary." He gestured toward the meat, changing the subject. "We'd best cook that. It won't keep in this heat."

Abruptly he walked away. His weariness hit him suddenly and when he found a shady spot he sat down heavily. With an effort he managed to get his boots off, and, lying down, was asleep at once.

"Takes a lot on himself, doesn't he?" Webb muttered.

Grant Kimbrough did not reply, but he was filled with impotent anger. Their only hope lay in flight, and if he had not crossed the desert to the west he was sure that a man on a good horse could make Yuma in no time. Without the drag of those who must walk, and those other women, they could make it through on fast horses.

Getting out of the cul-de-sac that was their defensive position was the big thing. Once away they could run for it, and Webb was ready to go. So he would plan it that way, prepare Jennifer to be ready for the break, and when opportunity came they would ride out. If Cates objected, Kimbrough would kill him. He had, he realized, been giving the contingency a lot of thought these past two days. The first thing was to talk to Jennifer. She would, he was sure, be only too anxious to go.

Logan Cates awakened with a start. He was bathed in perspiration and for a moment he did not know where he was. A blanket had been stretched from the rock to the ground forming a crude shelter that allowed shade and some air circulation. He sat up, and listened ... there was a crackle from the fire, a distant murmur of voices, the sound of someone stirring about close by.

He checked his pistols. These actions, the moment of listening to judge what was happening around him, the checking of the guns, all were second nature to him now. When he slid out from behind the blanket curtain he resumed the boots that he had immediately put on again after returning from his midnight foray.

Jennifer was at the fire. "You slept a long time," she said. "It's noon."

"Anything happen?"

"Styles is dead."

"He's better off, but it's a hard thing to die here."

"Why did you go out last night? You might have been killed."

"We needed meat."

"What happened out there?"

"Met an Apache whose luck had run out."

Big Maria had moved herself closer to the rocks, near the place where Cates had seen her disappear that night. She kept a gun close to her at all times, and before Cates had finished his coffee he could see by her actions that she was suspicious and ready for trouble.

He must talk to Lonnie Foreman. The boy was solid, he had nerve, and he was a stayer. He could count on Foreman, probably Sheehan. Who else? Junie Hatchett, with perhaps Beaupre and Lugo. Conley was another question but he seemed to be a solid citizen. As to Jennifer ...

Lugo was at the fire, gnawing on a mutton bone. He glanced up at Cates and his eyes went to the bloody shirt. It was like the Pima that he made no comment, asked no questions. The bloody shirt spoke for itself, and the Indian is not one to talk of the obvious or of needless things. Lugo knew there had been a fight out there in the dark, the fact that Logan Cates had returned and that the blood was not his own was sufficient evidence as to the outcome.

"Who's with the horses?" Cates asked.

"Kimbrough," Lugo said. "He watch horses."

Logan Cates considered that but saw nothing in it that was dangerous. It was true that Kimbrough had always held a position in the rocks or in the brush along the edge of the arroyo, but there were no assigned positions, and a man could choose his own.

"Is he alone?"

"A soldier is with him."

Lonnie Foreman was hunched in the shade talking to Junie. He was stripped to the waist and Junie was mending a rent in his shirt. Beaupre and Zimmerman were digging a grave for Styles in the lower arroyo not far from where the horses were. Webb paced restlessly; Kimbrough was busy with his own thoughts. Logan Cates picked up his Winchester, checked the load and then climbed up in the rocks, noting the water level as he went by. Although the water had fallen considerably since their arrival, there was still enough ... if they did not stay too long.

Conley was on watch in the rocks. "Nothin'," he said, "just nothin' at all. I never seen so much of nothin'."

Heat waves shimmered and the buzzards, high against the brassy sky, described long, loose circles. Nothing else moved. Cates sat down on a rock and mopped the sweat from his face. His clothing smelled of stale sweat and dust and his eyes were tired of the endless glare of sun on sand and rock. He laid the Winchester across his knees and swore softly.

"My sentiments," Conley said. "I can't figure why I ever come to this country. My folks had them a good farm back in Kentucky. Right nice place ... used to be parties or dances every Saturday night, and folks come from miles around. Now here I am stuck in a rocky desert with every chance I'll lose my hair. Why does a body come to this country?"

Cates took out the makings and began to build a cigarette. Sweat got in his eyes and they smarted. "You got me, soldier, but you stay a while and it grows on you."

"Not on me. If I get out of this fix I'm takin' off. I'm goin' to those gold fields and find myself a job. I know a fellow in Grass Valley ... Ever hear a nicer name? Grass Valley. Makes a man think of cool, green meadows an' streams. Maybe it ain't like that, but I'd sure like to give it a try."

Logan Cates lifted the cigarette to touch the edge of the paper to his tongue when he saw the movement. He dropped the cigarette and swung the Winchester. All he saw was a flickering movement and Conley's body jerked sharply. He turned half around as if to speak to Cates, then fell, tumbling over and over among the rocks as Cates's own shot followed the sound of the shot that killed Conley.

Cates fired and saw his bullet kick sand. He fired again, into the brush, then tried a shot at a shelf of rock hoping for a ricochet into the concealed position from which the Indian had fired.

Ofl the instant, all were alert. Beaupre had run forward, lifting Conley from the rocks as if he were a child. It was no use; the soldier was dead. Two gone. Styles and Conley. How many were to go? Out there again the desert was a silent place, a haunted place.

Zimmerman mopped his face and peered into the brush. When he lifted his hand to brush away the sweat it was trembling. The death of Conley had shocked them all. It had come so suddenly, and that attractive, pleasant young soldier was smashed suddenly from existence. It was proof enough, if proof was needed, that their every move was watched, that the Apaches had made a tight cordon around them, watching, waiting.

Suddenly the desert had become a place of menace; its very silence was evil, its heat was a threat. The sinking level of the water was obvious to them all, their food was growing less, and the forage for the horses was all but a thing of the past. The horses had eaten the grass down to the roots, sparse as it had been, they had eaten the leaves and the mesquite beans.

The faces of the men were taut, sullen, and frightened, as they waited in place, staring at the blinding glare of the sun-blasted sand and waiting for a target that never appeared.

Even Sergeant Sheehan was feeling the pressure. He looked drawn and old now, and his square shoulders sagged a little. "They'll get us all, Cates," he said. "We're whipped."

Chapter
Eleven

Logan Cates searched the empty desert with his red-rimmed eyes. Nowhere was a sound or a movement. The sun seemed to have spread over the entire sky, and there was no shade. The parched leaves of the mesquite hung lifeless and still, and even the buzzards that hung in the brassy vault above them seemed motionless.

The rocks were blistering to the touch, the jagged lava boulders lay like huge clinkers in the glowing ashes of a burned-down fire. The heat waves drew a veil across the distance. Cates opened his shirt another button and mopped his face with his bandanna. He shifted the rifle in his sweaty hands, and searched the desert for something at which to shoot.

Lonnie Foreman crawled up in the rocks and seating himself, took a healthy pull at his canteen, then passed it to Cates. The water tasted flat and dull, lukewarm from the canteen.

"It's awful down there." Foreman gestured toward the deeper arroyo where the horses were held. "Like an oven."

"They can cover the horses from up higher. Tell Lonnie to come on up."

Foreman slid off the rocks and when he stood up on the main level he walked slowly away, his boots grating on the rock. He walked past the narrow shelf of shade under which the three women sat. Nobody cared about the fire, nobody wanted coffee. Despite the shortage of food, nobody was even hungry.

Cates watched the men retreat to the higher level. They could watch the horses as well from there, and the defensive position was better. He was afraid of that corral now ... he could not say why, but it seemed the most vulnerable, and the Apaches would want what horses they could get, either to ride or eat. Pulling the defenders back meant his line of defense was tighter, more compact, better sheltered.

Nothing stirred out there. Now that the men had been pulled back he could hear their conversation. Cates sat quietly among the rocks, ready for anything. Evidently the Apaches had observed the construction of the corral when it was first built, for no attempt had been made to stampede the horses, nor for some time had any effort been made to kill them, so evidently they believed they would have them all before many days had passed.

Nothing moved. From down by the waterhole someone was swearing in a heavy, monotonous voice. A fly buzzed near and lighted on Cates's face. He brushed it with an irritable hand and a bullet spat fragments of granite in his face as the sound went echoing down the hills.

He hunched lower, and, peering between the rocks, tried to find a target. He glanced down to see Zimmerman squatting near Big Maria, whispering. The big woman's face was lowered and Cates could not discern what effect the words were having, if any. They had drawn apart from the others. It was very hot, and very still.

Sheehan found a place in the thin shade and stretched out, trying to rest before the night watch. Kimbrough and Webb sat side by side in the rocks, talking as they kept a lookout.

Logan Cates tried to think of an escape. There had to be a way to get out of here, there was always a way. No matter how he squinted his eyes over the desert and tried to think of some way out, none came to him. By this time, however, the Army knew its patrol was lost or in trouble, and they would know the sheriff's posse was in the same situation. The fact that two well-armed parties had vanished in the same area at the same time was sufficient warning of what must be happening out there. Also, there could have been little or no desert travel in the meantime which would be evidence enough of an Indian outbreak. By this time there would be speculation and undoubtedly a search party was being organized.

In Tucson, Jim Fair would have given up the search or would by this time have started west, and being the man he was, Cates was quite sure that if Fair realized his daughter had run into trouble, he would be heading west without delay. Nor would they take too long in finding them at Papago Wells. There was, therefore, a double reason for alertness. They must be prepared to warn any search parties of a trap.

Cates began considering a smoke signal ... yet there was little fuel, and what there was must be conserved until there was absolute necessity.

It was beyond reason that Churupati and his renegades could exist out in those blistering rocks, but they were doing it, and the fact that the slightest incautious movement by the defenders brought a well-aimed shot was evidence enough.

Zimmerman got up suddenly. "To hell with this!" he said suddenly. "I'm gettin' out of here!"

Nobody replied. Lonnie Foreman got up and walked over to the rocks to climb up and relieve Cates. Kimbrough spat into the sand at his feet. His coat had long since been discarded and his shirt was torn and dirty. There was a thick stubble of beard on his jaws and his eyes seemed to have thinned and grown mean. They studied Zimmerman now, but he offered no comment.

The big man stood in the center of the open space and glared around him. "I'm ridin' out of here tonight, and anybody who wants to come is welcome!"

Cates reached the ground near him. He turned slowly. "Zimmerman, forget it. We'll all be out of here before long. Just sit tight."

Zimmerman turned sharply around. "When I need advice from you, I'll ask it. I'm ridin' out of here at daylight."

"If you want to leave, just go ahead. But you're not riding."

"No?" Zimmerman measured him with insulting eyes. "You're stoppin' me, I suppose?"

Sheehan was suddenly awake. "Zimmerman!' His voice rang in the space between the walls. "Sit down and shut up!"

Zimmerman did not even turn to glance at Sheehan. He simply ignored the command, his eyes on Cates. "I don't like you, Cates. I never have. All you've done is say 'sit tight.' Well, I'm tired of it, and when I want to ride, I'm ridin', and when I ride, I'm ridin' your horse. What do you think of that?"