Ambush on the Mesa Read online

  Willis padded to the back of the tower and looked up at it. He had noticed that Hugh Kinzie was missing. Willis slipped into the lower room and stood there in the darkness listening. He worked his way up to the second floor and waited again. He could hear the gritting of boots on the top floor and the dripping of water in the natural catch basin on the cave wall.

  Willis eased up the chicken ladder until he could thrust his head into the floor opening. He could see the broad shoulders of Hugh Kinzie outlined against the window. Willis wet his cracked lips. He rose a little higher.

  Hugh Kenzie spoke over his shoulder. “Come on up,” he said. “I’m sorry I lost my temper.”

  Willis climbed up into the room. He leaned his carbine against the wall. Cold sweat soaked through his stinking shirt. The scout must have eyes in the back of his head and ears like a dog.

  Willis walked up beside the scout. “I didn’t have no call to insult the lady,” he said apologetically.

  “Forget it.”

  “Seems like a man talks sometimes without thinking.”

  “We all do.”

  “Yeah. Smell the meat?”

  “How can you miss it?”

  They stood there like two small boys looking into a candy shop window.

  Willis looked at Hugh. “You speak Apache?”

  “A little.”

  “You ever been friendly with ‘em?”

  Hugh looked quickly at Willis. “I’ve known a few. Why?”

  “Nothing. Just wonderin’.” Willis cleared his throat. “They all speak the same tongue?”

  “There are some dialectal differences, but one of them can usually make his thoughts known to one of another tribal division.”

  “Supposin’ you met one and wanted to be friendly. What would you say?”

  Hugh shrugged. “Nejeunee. Means good friend, or you could say schicho, which means friend. Or schichobe, which means, old friend, you behold me!”

  “Anything else?” persisted Willis.

  “Sikisn. Brother.”

  “Well. Well. You do know something about it. Gracias, amigo.”

  Hugh leaned against the wall and eyed the trooper. “I might add that anyone but an Apache is an enemy. They take no chances.”

  Willis looked surprised. “I was just curious.”

  They could hear Morton down in the passageway. The canteens clattered together hollowly. Willis slapped Hugh on the shoulder. “No hard feelin’s?”

  “None.”

  “Gracias.” Willis went down through the hole in the floor.

  Hugh scratched his lean jaw. Willis was beginning to act odd, like some of the others.

  Isaiah Morton began to fill the first canteen. “And the people thirsted there for water; and the people murmured against Moses, and said, Wherefore is this that thou hast brought us up out of Egypt, to kill us and our children and our cattle with thirst?

  “And Moses cried unto the Lord, saying, What shall I do unto this people? they be almost ready to stone me.

  “And the Lord said unto Moses, Go on before the people, and take with thee of the elders of Israel; and thy rod, wherewith thou smotest the river, take in thine hand, and go.

  “Behold, I will stand before thee there upon the rock in Horeb; and thou shalt smite the rock, and there shall come water out of it, that the people may drink. And Moses did so in the sight of the elders of Israel.

  “And he called the name of the place Massah, and Meribah, because of the chiding of the children of Israel, and because they tempted the Lord, saying, Is the Lord among us, or not?”

  Chapter Fifteen

  CHANDLER WILLIS stood for a long time in the shadows.

  His mind was digesting a daring plan. There was no doubt in him that he must get away from the trap they had all fallen into. There was no organization left; each must look out for himself from now on and to hell with the hindmost. Besides, he was the only flunky left of the group which had entered that damned canyon of waiting death.

  Those Apaches were smart. They hadn’t lost a warrior in the whole process. All they had to do was sit where they were and wait for the White-eyes to die of starvation, then move in and gather up the spoils. They already had the horses and mules. It was a cinch.

  Willis touched his bruised face. He hadn’t expected the attack from Hugh Kinzie but he should have known better. Willis had never really expected Kinzie to throw in with him, and now he was sure about it.

  Hunger pains gnawed at his belly. It was time to pull foot. He’d try to work his way out of the canyon. If he was seen he’d talk to the Mimbrenos in the words taught him by Hugh Kinzie. He’d offer them liquor he’d steal from Nettleton’s cache. He’d make it all right.

  Willis slipped into the little room where Harry Roswell had died because he had obeyed his orders. Willis slid two bottles inside his filthy shirt. He hooked his canteen to his belt and walked outside. Katy Corse and Darrell Phillips were still talking. Hell of a place for dallying. There was no one else in sight. The wind carried the inviting odor of roast meat to him.

  Willis walked to the west end of the terrace. Hugh Kinzie was talking with Isaiah Morton. Willis eased over the crumbling wall and stood in a shadow, listening. Hugh Kinzie moved around in the tower room. Willis dropped to his belly, cradling his carbine in the crooks of his elbows, then worked his way under cover down the slope until he reached a place where a jungle of rocks and brush allowed him to stand up without being seen. He looked back at the dwellings, then thumbed his nose at them. Then he was gone through the thick brush, padding his way silently toward the huge rock shoulder which hid so many secrets from the people in the cliff dwellings.

  • • •

  Katy Corse stood at the edge of the terrace feeling the warm wind move her sweat-damp hair. It was the heat more than the hunger which bothered Katy; Darrell Phillips bothered her more than both of them together.

  Darrell Phillips stood with bowed head, hands gripping the crumbling top of the wall. There was a sickness in him at being trapped in this alien place, with bloodthirsty primitives waiting out there in the shadows to kill, torture and rape.

  The two of them had been standing there for three-quarters of an hour at least, and Darrell Phillips had been doing most of the talking.

  Katy placed a hand on his shoulder. “You’re really frightened, aren’t you, Darrell?”

  He raised his head. “In a way. Aren’t you?”

  She shrugged. “Yes. But it seems deeper in you.”

  He came closer to her. “You do understand me then! You want to understand me.”

  She smiled a little. “You mean no one understands you?”

  He flushed. “Not like that. It just seems that you do more than the others.”

  She nodded and looked out across the canyon. It was always so. Officers came and went, and more than half of them she had met had told her, or intimated the same thing. But once they had left for duty in other parts, she had been completely forgotten. It had happened a number of times before. If she survived from this experience, it would happen again.

  Phillips turned his back on the brooding moonlit canyon. “I keep trying to people the canyon,” he said quietly.

  “Yes. It seems as though the shadows and the moving brush are like figures from a Walpurgis Night.”

  He shivered a little. “With the Beltane fires glowing on the heights.”

  “You mustn’t let your imagination run riot.”

  “How can I prevent it?”

  She tilted her head to one side. “You should never have become a soldier.”

  He jerked his head and looked at her. “I’ve always wanted to be a soldier, Katy.”

  “Why? To prove to everyone that you’re not afraid?”

  It was as though she had driven a needle bayonet into him. He gripped her by the arms. “No! Katy, it’s one thing to face white men in civilized warfare and quite another to fight against these human tigers. I’ve heard stories of what they do to captives. It makes me sick
inside. So sick that I can’t think clearly. Believe me when I say that I’m not a coward. You must believe me!”

  She looked up into this face. “Yes,” she said softly.

  “I can lead a charge against breastworks and never falter. I can stand artillery fire and the volley of musketry. I’m not afraid of hand-to-hand combat with sword and pistol. But this is breaking me down. The eternal waiting. The silence. The deaths of Pearce, Stevens and Roswell, and the disappearance of Greer. Almost as though death is standing in the shadows, reaching out now and then with a bony finger to tap each one of us on the shoulder. It might be you next. It might be me.”

  She touched his flushed face. “Control yourself.”

  He placed his hand over hers and pressed it close to his cheek. “Katy,” he said tensely, “it isn’t the thought of dying that frightens me. It’s the way of dying.”

  His body began to shake. Tears filled his eyes. She took him by the hand and led him to one of the rooms. She sat down on the floor and drew him down to her. He placed his head on her lap. His sobs came at regular intervals.

  Hugh Kinzie watched Katy and Darrell Phillips enter the dwelling. It seemed as though a vial of acid had been broken inside of him. For a moment he thought of going down there and killing Darrell Phillips, but then he got control of himself.

  It was quiet; it was too damned quiet.

  Hugh Kinzie raised his head. He couldn’t see or hear anything, but he could sense something about to happen.

  • • •

  Chandler Willis padded across the canyon seeking the shelter of the great shoulder of rock which projected into the canyon. There was no sign of life other than the occasional scuttering of a small nocturnal animal.

  Cold sweat worked down his sides and greased his carbine stock beneath the grip of his hands. His head turned constantly from side to side as he advanced. Something seemed to warn him to go back, but he could not force himself to do so once he had made his decision to desert. He wasn’t really deserting, he assured himself. He was just looking out for Number One.

  • • •

  Marion Nettleton stirred restlessly in her sleep. Maurice Nettleton raised himself on an elbow and looked down at her. She was getting thin. There were dark circles beneath her lovely eyes. The sands of time were running out on the trapped party. Maurice Nettleton placed his hand on his Colt. There would be one shot for her, and he hoped to God he would have time to kill her before they got hold of her. Then he hoped he would have time to kill himself so that he wouldn’t have time to think of the horrible thing he had been forced to do.

  • • •

  Abel Clymer was eating. He crouched in the triangular passageway, feeling the sweat run down his face as he spooned greasy tough meat into his mouth from a can of embalmed beef. He had cached three cans of the repulsive stuff so that he would be able to keep strength in his body for the time when he would make his break with Marion Nettleton. He glanced at the debris pile to his left. Under it was something else he had to take along.

  • • •

  Isaiah Morton placed the canteens in one of the rooms. He felt no hunger. He was used to fasting and self-torture in his effort to eliminate the thoughts of bodily comfort from his mind, leaving it free for the work of the. Lord. He squatted in the dimness and began to pray.

  • • •

  Matt Hastings was cleaning his weapons. He jerked the pull-through out of his carbine barrel and held the weapon up to the light of the moon to check the barrel. Two Colts, loaded and capped, lay on his blanket, freshly cleaned and oiled. He loaded his carbine and capped it. Then he took out his sheath knife and began to sharpen it. The steady wheet-wheet-wheet of steel against stone kept time to his thoughts. No damned greasy Mimbreno was going to get Matt Hastings without a hell of a fracas. He’d take enough of them along with him to act as his pallbearers to hell.

  • • •

  Chandler Willis was almost around the rock shoulder, holding his breath, hoping to God that the canyon wasn’t a box.

  The warrior materialized from the brush almost as though raised from a prone position by the strings of a master puppeteer. He was fifty feet from Chandler Willis. He did not move, but watched the white man with great liquid eyes.

  Willis stopped with one foot planted forward. His carbine was in the crook of his left arm. He slowly extended his right hand, palm toward the silent buck. “Nejeunee” he said clearly.

  The warrior stood there as though carved from the very rocks behind him.

  Chandler Willis swallowed dryly. “Schicho!” he said.

  The wind moaned about the rock shoulder. The warrior stood like a statue.

  Willis raised his head. “Schichobe!” he mouthed.

  The musket roared inches from the back of the deserter’s head, smashing in the back of his skull. The blood sprayed out and strained the clean sands. Candler Willis was dead before he knew what had hit him.

  The crashing discharge of the big musket slammed back and forth between the canyon walls and then slowly died away down the canyon. The warrior lowered his smoking weapon and hooked a toe under the dead man’s body. He rolled him over. Willis’s arms flung outward. The killer spat and looked at his mate. “Nejeunee! Schicho! Schichobe!” he said.

  The two Mimbrenos laughed.

  The killer lifted his buckskin kilt and slapped his naked haunch. He spat on the body. “Yah-tats-an!” he said.

  • • •

  Hugh Kinzie ran to the terrace wall and looked in the direction from which the gun shot had come. Matt Hastings stopped beside him. “What is it?” he asked.

  “Quién sabe?”

  Nettleton came to them. “Who was it?”

  Hugh looked along the terrace. Marion Nettleton was leaning against a dwelling wall. Isaiah Morton was beside her. Katy Corse stood beside Darrell Phillips. He had his arm around her waist. Abel Clymer walked out of a passageway and stopped behind Hugh. Hugh caught the odor of food on the big officer’s breath.

  “Where’s Willis?” asked Hastings suddenly.

  They all looked at each other, then looked down the quiet canyon. “Mark it in the book, Matt,” said Hugh.

  “You’re sure?”

  Hugh nodded. “He wanted to know how to say a friendly greeting to them,” he said.

  “He got his answer the hard way,” said Hastings, wetting his cracked lips. “I’ll mark it down.” He looked at Hugh. “He didn’t have any middle initial,” he said. He walked to his quarters.

  Maurice Nettleton walked slowly back to his wife. His shoulders were rounded. He silently took her by the arm and led her into their quarters.

  Darrell Phillips turned suddenly and walked to the far end of the terrace.

  Katy Corse looked at Phillips, then walked toward Hugh.

  Katy stopped beside Hugh. “Was it Willis?”

  “I haven’t any doubt about it,” he said coldly.

  She placed a hand on his arm. “What’s wrong, Hugh?”

  “Go back to him,” he said, jerking a thumb at Phillips.

  “What do you mean?”

  There was a sneer on his face as he looked down at her. “You didn’t have much time to get anything done with him in that room,” he said.

  Her right hand lashed his face. She turned on a heel and ran to her quarters.

  Far down the canyon a coyote gave voice and was answered by one of his mates.

  Chapter Sixteen

  THE 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.