Ambush on the Mesa Read online

  Marion Nettleton looked at her husband. “Why, Maurice!” she said quickly. “I’ll be more than glad to help. I’m a soldier’s wife. I must learn to do this type of work.”

  Maurice Nettleton stared at his wife. There were times when he wondered about her. She had once said she’d never have children because of the pain and mess involved. It had struck sharply home to him and he had never forgotten it. Now here she was volunteering to attend a badly smashed sick man who hadn’t had a bath in several weeks. It was beyond Maurice Nettleton to figure her out.

  Marion looked at Hugh. “What time do you want me there?”

  “In about an hour. Katy will spend most of the night with him, but she must have some sleep. You can work it out with her.”

  She smiled. “I’m sure we will.”

  Hugh left the room. He glanced back at it. He had expected something quite different from Marion Nettleton. No wonder she had that poor bastard of a husband under her pretty thumb.

  • • •

  Myron Greer looked out of the tower window. The moon bathed the canyon in pure silver light. The liquor was bubbling gently inside him. He grinned as he leaned on the sill of the window. That God-damned Hugh Kinzie wasn’t all he seemed to be.

  Greer looked up the terrace. Kinzie was at the far end with Darrell Phillips. Greer slid down to the next floor of the tower and then down into the first floor. He stood there in the darkness, listening like a prowling coyote. He was too damned clever for Kinzie to outmaneuver. Greer leaned his carbine against the wall and eased his way into the passage.

  From up above him he could hear the occasional dripping of water. Myron Greer didn’t need food nor water when he had a bottle cached away.

  He worked his way down the cluttered passageway at the rear of the dwellings, fumbled in the niche for his treasure, then drew the bottle down to his lips. He drank sparingly and replaced the bottle. He walked partway back to his post, feeling the liquor flame within him. Maybe he’d better have another snort. He might not be able to leave his post again. He hurried back to the niche. He got the bottle and uncorked it, then stopped short. Something had moved down the passageway toward the east end of the dwellings. He corked the bottle and raised it toward the niche. He could see the man fairly well now. It was Abel Clymer. No one else would fill the passageway as the big officer did.

  Abel Clymer was fumbling about in a pile of fallen rocks and debris. He did not look toward Myron Greer. Greer took the cork from the bottle and drank deeply. Craftily, he hid the bottle in another place. Then he eased his way back toward his post, stopping at the corner of the tower to watch Clymer. Clymer was concentrating on something. Then he replaced whatever he had in his hands in the hole and covered it with rocks and debris. Greer faded around the corner and climbed up to his post. His head was swimming a little with the exertion, and his feet stumbled on the notches of the chicken ladder. He drew himself up into the top room of the tower and leaned for a time against the wall. The room seemed to sway and lift a little as though it were floating on water.

  • • •

  The moon was at its highest. Jonas Stevens lay on his face, clawed fingers buried to the second joints in the bloody sand. He looked curiously flattened. He had seen the Apache before he had fired. Jonas had spurred his bay to get ahead of the stampeding horses and mules and had succeeded just in time to be slammed from his saddle by the impact of a heavy rifle ball. The horses and mules had done the rest. The horses and mules Jonas Stevens had been trying to save.

  Harry Roswell opened his eyes and looked up into the oval face of Marion Nettleton. “Is it time for First Call?” he asked.

  “No,” she said quietly.

  He closed his eyes. “I thought I heard the trumpet.” He coughed harshly.

  She raised his shoulders and head. The sour smell of the man sickened her. She wondered how Katy Corse had been able to spend the last two hours sitting here beside the dying man. She lowered the trooper and wiped his face with a damp cloth. His breath was sour and thick with liquor fumes. Drying blood caked his lips. His breathing seemed to bubble deep in his chest. Sweat broke out on his pallid forehead.

  Marion reached over and pinched out the candle. The moonlight streamed in through the small windows. A cold finger of fear seemed to trace the length of her spine, almost as though Death had entered the room the instant she had put out the candle, and had touched her to let her know he was there waiting the end too.

  • • •

  Darrell Phillips was standing his guard at the east end of the terrace. Death had struck hard three times within the past few hours. Dan Pearce had died out on the sands. Jonas Stevens had died somewhere down the canyon. Harry Roswell was fencing with Death in a losing battle. There was a cold loneliness in Darrell Phillips. There was a finality about the way things were happening. The course of events was shaping toward an ending which would, in all probability, find Darrell Phillips cold in death. He couldn’t face it alone. He had to have Katy Corse beside him, so that her feminine strength would fill in the gap in his own strength, and the two of them together could face the end.

  • • •

  Abel Clymer leaned against a wall watching Hugh Kinzie. That damned scout had his nose into everything. Abel wondered if Kinzie had gone down into the underground room solely to find liquor for Roswell. Kinzie was always prowling around like a damned lean cat.

  Kinzie knew how Abel felt about Marion Nettleton. Kinzie was always so damned sure of himself. That was one reason Abel had to take it easy. There was no one in the party who could serve Abel Clymer as Hugh Kinzie could. The two of them might get out of this death trap and could take Marion Nettleton along to boot. Kinzie could be gotten rid of later when safety was in sight. Sweat broke out on Clymer’s body. His hands shook in expectation. With Marion Nettleton and the stake he had cached away he’d be the biggest hero west of the Mississippi.

  Clymer wet his lips. There were four men who had been with him when he had found Winston’s body. Corporal Roswell, Privates Pearce, Willis and Stevens. Roswell was dying. Pearce was dead, and Stevens probably was, too. That left that slit-eyed bastard Willis to be reckoned with. He was secretive and sly. How much did he know?

  Abel Clymer faded into the darkness as Hugh Kinzie walked slowly along the terrace, looking out into the mysterious moonlit canyon. A coyote howled softly from the top of the far wall.

  • • •

  Isaiah Morton pressed his thin hands against his burning eyes. There was a fire deep in his soul which seemed to gain in intensity as the days went on. There was no hunger in him and very little thirst, but his desire to carry the word of God to the heathens who held the party trapped, gained in intensity even as the insatiable flame which raged within him.

  “Oh, my God, why dost thou persecute me?” he whispered. He laced his thin fingers together and pushed his hands downward as he raised his head and eyes upward. He shivered a little in his ecstasy of desire. “I will bring them truth, and the truth shall set them free. I shall make them walk as children of the light.”

  • • •

  Hugh Kinzie padded along the terrace carrying the liquor panniers. He did not see the eyes that watched him from the tower. Hugh bent his head to enter the low doorway of the room where Harry Roswell was dying. “How is he?” he asked Marion.

  She wearily brushed back a wisp of damp hair. “Asleep,” she said.

  “Bueno!” Hugh placed the panniers in a corner.

  She eyed the panniers. “You don’t think he’ll need all that?”

  “No. But it’s safer here.”

  “Why?”

  Hugh squatted beside her and felt for his tobacco pouch. “The food is almost gone. We’ve lost two men and will lose another before long. Nerves are getting frayed. At times like this men will turn to liquor for Dutch courage.”

  “A courage that quickly lets them down.”

  “Yes. May I smoke?”

  She nodded. “If I may have one too.”


  She studied him as he rolled her a cigarette. “You’re not surprised?”

  He shook his head. “I’ve spent too much time along the border to think twice about women smoking.” He placed the cigarette between her full lips and lit it with a lucifer. The spurt of flame lit up her oval face. He blew out the match without taking his eyes from her.

  She looked away. “You didn’t make one of them for yourself,” she said.

  He jerked his head. “Oh!”

  She watched his big fingers as they deftly rolled the cylinder of tobacco. “You seem to do everything well.”

  He placed the cigarette in his mouth and lit it. “Everything?”

  “Everything I’ve seen you do, that is.”

  “That’s better.”

  They smoked without speaking. Hugh looked at Harry Roswell. His face had undergone a subtle change; it seemed longer and sunken. It was as though the skull was trying to come through the flesh.

  “Do you think there is a chance?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “I didn’t think you’d give up easily.”

  He glanced quickly at her. “Me? I’m not giving up. I thought you were talking about Harry.”

  “Well?”

  He sat down with his back against the wall. “Some of us might make it to the Rio Grande.”

  She shivered a little despite herself. There was a fatalism in him she had not expected. But this was a man who could be depended upon.

  Hugh inspected his cigarette. “My job is to get you to safety, Mrs. Nettleton.”

  She was startled. It was almost as though he had read her mind.

  Hugh stood up. “I’ll admit things look black, but it could be worse. We haven’t been attacked in here. We have a little water.”

  She ground out her cigarette. “No horses. A handful of men, half of whom are useless encumbrances.”

  He shrugged. “I said some of us wouldn’t make it.”

  “But you will?”

  “Yes.”

  She stood up suddenly, standing so close to him her full breasts touched his shirt. “You once told me it was a fifty-fifty chance. Maybe less. You also promised me that you would stay close to me on the trail. Is that promise still good?” She placed her slim hands on his shoulders and looked up into his eyes. Her own promise was in her eyes. She knew how to use her weapons.

  Hugh slid an arm about her waist and crushed her to him, feeling her breath on his face. She shivered a little as he bent his face close to hers. “Don’t you think this is a hell of a place for dallying?” he asked softly. “With a dying man at our feet and your husband not fifty feet away?”

  Her face flushed and then went taut. She bit her lip as she realized he was making a fool out of her. She struggled to break free. Suddenly he released her. She raised her hands to rake his face to bloody ribbons, but he was too fast for her. He kissed her so hard he bruised her lips and his whiskers scored her delicate skin. Then he shoved her back and walked to the door. He looked back at her.

  “Take good care of Harry,” he said quietly.

  “Damn you!”

  He grinned. “Remember you’re a lady,” he said with a strong hint of laughter in his voice.

  She hurled a cup at the wall as he vanished from her sight….

  Abel Clymer pressed his big body flat against the wall as Hugh Kinzie padded past. Clymer’s thick lips drew back as he looked at the broad back of the scout. Clymer rested a hand on the butt of his revolving pistol. He had overheard them talking in the dwelling. He withdrew his hand. Let them talk. Both of them were part of his plan, and he wasn’t part of theirs. Abel Clymer could play a waiting game. His time would come….

  A coyote howled softly up the canyon. A night bird chirped from the brush. Harry Roswell opened his eyes and looked up at Marion Nettleton. “I wish …” he said thickly. “I wish …” His voice faded away. His breathing stopped but his eyes were wide in his head.

  Marion Nettleton stared down at the dead man. Then her control broke. She screamed, and screamed again, awakening the canyon echoes.

  Chapter Thirteen

  THEY buried Harry Roswell behind a crumbling wall in the debris from a fallen roof. There was no marker on the grace. No one would ever come here to find his grave, Hugh thought as he watched Chandler Willis and Matt Hastings finish the burial.

  Hastings looked up at Hugh. “Where’s Greer?”

  “He was on guard.”

  “He isn’t there now.”

  “Sleeping somewhere, then.”

  Hastings nodded. He took out his little notebook and marked it down. “Roswell, H. L., Corp. — from duty to deceased.”

  “What’s the ‘L’ stand for?” asked Willis as he wiped the sweat from his lean face.

  “Lemuel.”

  “Jesus.”

  Isaiah Morton clasped his thin hands together and looked down at the unmarked grave. “Gone from this earth to his reward in Heaven,” he said. “Our loss is Heaven’s gain.”

  “That sonofabitch Stevens is responsible for this,” said Matt Hastings.

  “You mark Stevens down in your little book, Matt?” asked Hugh.

  “Yes.”

  “How did you mark it?”

  Hastings looked up. “Absent without leave. How else?”

  “My God,” said Hugh. “Always the first soldier.”

  “Our band of lost sheep gets smaller every day,” said Morton. He bowed his head. “The Lord is my shepherd.”

  “Gives me the creeps,” said Willis.

  The midmorning sun was beating down into the quiet canyon. The heat was soaking into the cliff dwellings. There wasn’t a breath of wind to bring relief.

  “You’d think them officers would have come,” said Willis.

  Hugh nodded. The signs were plain. Everyone was thinking of himself now, and that included Marion Nettleton.

  Willis opened up his shirt and scratched his lean belly. “Any mess?” he asked Hastings.

  “Nothing.”

  “This ain’t the army any more. A man could leave right now if he had a mind to.”

  Hastings closed his book and stowed it away in his pocket. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “Except for two things.”

  Willis spat leisurely. “What’s to stop a man?”

  Hastings held up two dirty fingers. “One,” he said softly, “the Apaches. Two, me.”

  Willis yawned. He straightened up and then he walked down the pile of debris and into the triangular passageway.

  “He’s right,” said Hugh.

  Hastings turned quickly. “What do you mean?”

  “It isn’t the army any more, Matt. Each to his own from now on.”

  Hastings wiped the sweat from his face. “Go ahead, Kinzie. I won’t try to stop you.”

  Hugh slid down the crumbling pile of debris. “I’ll try to get some game,” he said over his shoulder.

  Morton was praying. Hastings eyed the cadaverous preacher. “Any way you can get some of that manna from Heaven?” he asked.

  Morton did not answer.

  “How about the miracle of the loaves and fishes?” asked Hastings.

  Morton did not move. Hastings shrugged and left the room.

  • • •

  The strays came drifting down the canyon about noon. Five of them. All horses. It was Darrell Phillips who saw them first. “Look!” he called out in a cracked voice.

  The others, with the exception of Myron Greer, ran out of the rooms where they had been trying to avoid the heat. They crouched behind the low terrace wall and looked at the horses.

  “They’ve had water,” said Hastings.

  “They’ve had grass,” said Willis.

  The men looked at each other. Abel Clymer rested big paws on the top of the wall. “I’ll give any man fifty dollars who’ll bring in one of those horses.”

  There was a moment’s silence and then Chandler Willis laughed dryly.

  Hugh Kinzie eyed the far wall of the canyon. There was no sign of life. W
hoever was directing the cruel game was a genius. He had timed it just right. Morale and unity were beginning to show great cracks throughout the little besieged party of White-eyes.

  “A hundred dollars,” said Abel Clymer.

  “Shut up,” said Hugh.

  The strays drifted slowly into the shade of a great shoulder of rock. So near and yet so far. But it was worth far more than a hundred dollars to cross that stretch of baking rock and sand. It was worth a man’s life.

  By midafternoon the heat was intense. There was no trace yet of wind in the lifeless air. Nothing moved, not even the strays, who stood with bent heads in the hot shadow of the rock shoulder.

  Matt Hastings ran his tongue over his cracked lips. He looked at Hugh. “What do you think?” he asked.

  “Don’t try it, Matt.”

  “Maybe after dark?”

  “They have ears like dogs.”

  “Yeah.”

  Minutes ticked past. Hastings slid his carbine forward and checked the cap. He placed his hand on his pistol butt. He looked at Hugh from out of slitted eyes.

  Hugh held up a thumb and looked up from beneath the brim of his hat. A buzzard floated high overhead in the windless air like a scrap of charred paper. The shadow flitted across the yellowish floor of the canyon.

  Matt Hastings rested his head on his forearms. “Bad luck,” he said.

  The steady pounding of Hugh’s heart seemed to be like the swinging pendulum of a clock marking the slow passage of time. Sweat trickled greasily down his body and he realized it had been quite some time since he had bathed. He touched his face. The bristles were thick upon his jaws.

  Hastings suddenly laughed. It sounded so strange to Hugh that he raised his head to stare at the big first sergeant Maybe he was cracking up. Hastings’ sunburned face was set in a grin, but there was no mirth in his eyes.

  “What’s the joke?” asked Hugh.

  Hastings tenderly touched his cracked lips, aggravated by the strain of his wide grin. “I was thinking of old Dobe-gusndi-he. He was a subchief of the White Mountain Apaches. Never could catch the wily old bastard. Finally one of his warriors sold him out for a sack of bullets, a butcher knife and a bottle of red-eye. We closed in on him near Escudilla Mountain. Run him to earth in a box canyon just like this. He had no water. No food. Damned little powder and ball.” Hastings rested his head wearily on his forearms.