Ambush on the Mesa Page 2

  The sun was up when he found another trace of them. A horse had fallen on a rough patch of the trail. Boot tracks showed where they had stood around the fallen horse and got him up on his hoofs. It was as plain as a page of print.

  The hills crowded in on Hugh as he went on. There was no chance of losing the trail, for there was no other route for them to follow. From the tracks he deduced that there were at least a dozen people in the party.

  He looked back to the south as he climbed a ridge. A thread of smoke showed against the sky like coarse hair lying on pale blue cloth. He rubbed his bristly jaw. Farther to the west another scarf of smoke hung against the sky. Now he knew there was no chance of going back to the south.

  He crossed a shallow rushing stream, probably a fork of the Gila. They had watered their horses here. The tracks showed plainly on the far side of the stream. He followed the great valley, constantly looking back over his shoulder. The smoke had drifted away.

  Cholla, agave and some mescal stippled the valley floor, while above him the slopes were clothed with juniper, piñon and scrub oaks. He looked up ahead. The mountains were high, rough and seemingly endless. It looked like a one-way trip into uncharted country.

  Higher and higher he went. Douglas firs, ponderosa pines and spruces began to appear. A deer surveyed him from a slope, then disappeared into the trees. Long-crested jays chattered at the lone rider who disturbed their secluded haunts. A black bear shambled off in the distance. But there was no sign of human life other than the imprint of hoofs, always going north.

  He was almost certain that he was on the trail of the Nettleton party, for he couldn’t figure out who else it could be. If they had been Confederate sympathizers they would have trended southward. They were making a trail through that wilderness as though they were traveling on a highway back in civilized country. Hugh was almost tempted to turn back and make for the Rio Grande, but there was always the memory of those smoke signals against the vast sky behind him.

  A massive peak towered at least eight thousand feet high to his left. Far to the north he could see another giant of the mountains. It was a country he could have enjoyed if the tigers of the human species weren’t somewhere behind him. No matter how careful he was about his own trail, the trail of the party he was following was too plain to erase. Still, one man might get into the mountains and get away from any pursuers. The temptation was strong.

  The stream was wider now. He reached a place where it forked. Beyond the fork he could see land which had once been cultivated. Nature had almost erased the signs.

  Darkness mantled the mountains, and he was just about to seek a hiding place for the night when he caught the odor of burning wood borne to him on the gentle wind.

  Hugh dismounted and took his carbine. He led the buckskin into a thicket and tethered it. Then he went forward through the trees toward the smell of the smoke.

  He could see the flickering of flames as he topped a rise. He squatted low and eyed the fire. The murmuring of voices came to him. Americans. The odor of cooking meat mingled with the smell of the smoke. Beyond the fire he could see horses. A soldier stood guard on a knoll, leaning on his rifle, but he was watching the people at the fire rather than the darkness behind him. Having a guard there really didn’t make any difference, for the Mimbrenos could have ringed that camp as silently as ghosts, waiting for their chance to move in.

  Hugh stood up and walked forward. “Hello, the camp!” he called. Then he prudently stepped behind a tree. The guard whirled and raised his rifle. The rest of the people stood about the fire, staring into the darkness. A woman walked into the shadows. A tall officer swiftly drew out his pistol.

  “Who is it?” called out the guard.

  “Hugh Kinzie. Scout from Fort Craig.”

  “Come forward into the light!”

  “Put out that damned fire, you fools! Are you trying to make sitting ducks out of yourselves?”

  “Who does he think he is?” snapped an officer.

  Hugh came forward, holding his carbine above his head. A slightly plump officer with captain’s bars on his shoulder straps stepped forward. “Captain Maurice Nettleton,” he said. “We’re from Fort Ayres. Who sent you?”

  Hugh grounded his carbine and rested his hands on it. “Major Benjamin Roberts, commanding Fort Craig.”

  Nettleton tugged at his dark side whiskers. “How did you find us?”

  Hugh looked at the blazing fire. “It wasn’t hard,” he said dryly. “You’ve left a trail plain enough for an ish-ke-ne to follow.”

  The tall officer came forward. He was only a few inches taller than Hugh but was half as wide. His shoulders filled out his blouse, threatening to break through the seams. “Ish-ke-ne? Say, who the hell are you?”

  Hugh ignored the big man. “Tell your men to douse that fire,” he said to Nettleton.

  “But we haven’t eaten yet,” said Nettleton.

  Hugh walked forward. He kicked dirt over the fire. “You’ll be eating in hell by dawn if you don’t put it out.”

  The tall officer placed his hand on the butt of his pistol and swaggered forward. “I’d like proof of who you are,” he said threateningly.

  Hugh looked into the face of the officer. His eyes were the coldest gray-green he had ever seen. “I told you who I was,” he said quietly.

  “I know that. What proof do we have you’re Hugh Kinzie from Fort Craig?”

  A woman came out of the darkness. “It’s Hugh Kinzie, all right,” she said quietly. “Hello, Hugh.”

  Hugh turned. “Katy Corse,” he said.

  Katy Corse brushed back her dark hair. “It’s like you to show up in the wilderness,” she said quietly. “And like you to vanish just as quickly.”

  Hugh flushed. “What are you doing here, Katy?”

  The big officer gripped Hugh by the shoulder. “I was talking to you,” he said. “Don’t you know an officer when you see one?”

  Hugh looked the big man up and down. “Yes. Why?”

  Nettleton came forward. “Now, Mr. Clymer,” he said quickly, “I want no trouble.”

  Hugh looked about the camp. There were eight other men watching him. One of them was an officer. The others were enlisted men, with the exception of a gaunt man who was dressed in somber black. “Where were you planning to go, Captain Nettleton?” he asked.

  Nettleton wet his lips. “We tried for the Rio Grande and heard the Mimbrenos were between us and the river. We didn’t want to go too far south because of the Confederates. So we decided to come north through the mountains, then turn east toward the Rio Grande near Soccorro.”

  “Just like that,” said Hugh dryly. “Who knows the way through that?” He waved a hand toward the black bulk of the mountains.

  Nettleton flushed. “There was nothing else we could do.”

  Hugh kicked more dirt on the fire. He looked at the closest enlisted man. “Get some water,” he said.

  The enlisted man got a big canteen and emptied it on the burning wood.

  Hugh stood there in the dimness. The pungent odor of the wet wood floated about him. “There’s no more time to talk,” he said. “Let’s get moving.”

  Clymer raised his head. “You’re just an enlisted man,” he said. “You’ve got all-fired guts taking charge.”

  Hugh shook his head. “I’m a civilian scout, Clymer. It’s obvious there isn’t a man here who knows the Apaches and this country. If you want to get out of these damned mountains with a whole skin you’ll do as I say.”

  Clymer raised a thick hand. Nettleton drew himself up. “See to it that the horses are ready, Mr. Clymer,” he said.

  Clymer eyed the captain for a moment, then spat deliberately into the smoking embers. “Phillips!” he roared.

  The third officer came forward through the drifting smoke. Clymer thrust out a thick arm. “Get the horses ready,” he said.

  Hugh rubbed his jaw. “Is your wife here, sir?” he asked Nettleton.

  Clymer whirled. “What’s it to you?”
he snapped.

  “Is she here, sir?” asked Hugh quietly.

  Nettleton nodded. “Of course she is. She’s resting in her tent. Why do you ask?”

  “Her father has been riding hell out of the War Department to find her. That’s all.”

  Nettleton plucked at his lower lip. “I was worried about that.”

  Clymer waved a hand. “I could have got her through safely,” he said loudly.

  Nettleton watched the big officer walk away. “What do you want us to do, Kinzie?” he asked.

  “Move north to find a place where we can defend ourselves.”

  “You fear an Apache attack?”

  “Yes.”

  Nettleton swallowed. He looked off into the darkness. “I’ll get my wife,” he said. He hurried off.

  Katy Corse looked at Hugh. “It’s been quite a while, Hugh,” she said.

  Hugh nodded. “Where’s your husband?” he asked.

  “I didn’t get married,” she said quietly.

  “So?”

  “Herbert died a month after you left Fort Buchanan.”

  The enlisted men were saddling the horses. A mule brayed. “Damn you, jughead,” said a trooper. “You got the biggest mouth.”

  Katy Corse looked at Hugh and then turned on a heel. She walked toward the tent amongst the trees.

  A man wearing corporal’s stripes looked after Katy. “A nice girl,” he said.

  “Yes,” said Hugh softly. “I never expected to see her again.”

  “She came through the Gila country a week or so before we left Fort Ayres. Said she was heading for the Rio Grande. There was no way for her to go on. Captain Nettleton made her wait until we were ready to leave. I’m Harry Roswell. I’ve heard of you, Kinzie. You used to be a sergeant in A Company of the Mounted Rifles.”

  “Yes.” Hugh impatiently looked at the men working amongst the horses and mules. “They act like they’ve got all thumbs.”

  Roswell nodded. “We’re a mixed-up lot here, Kinzie.”

  “Three officers and a handful of enlisted men. Where are the rest of the men from Fort Ayres?”

  “We had a beef herd at the post. Nettleton was scared to death he’d get blamed if we lost them. He started the herd out under charge of Mr. Winston and most of the men.”

  “So?”

  “Chiricahuas stampeded the herd right through their first night’s bivouac. We found what was left of some of them the next day. It wasn’t pretty. Nettleton lost his nerve and headed into the hills. Short of supplies and low on ammunition. That’s us.”

  “What’s on those pack mules?”

  Roswell laughed dryly. “Mrs. Nettleton’s clothes. Nettleton’s silver service and dress uniforms. Records from Fort Ayres.”

  “That all?”

  “Yes. Wait … I forgot … There are some cases of liqueurs and brandy.”

  “Nettleton’s?”

  “Nettleton’s.”

  “For God’s sake!”

  “Do not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain,” a sepulchral voice said just behind Hugh.

  “Who are you?” asked Hugh as he turned.

  “Do not blaspheme. I am Isaiah Morton.”

  Morton was the gaunt-looking civilian Hugh had seen in the background. Even in the dimness he could feel the burning eyes of the man studying him.

  Roswell spat. “Morton joined us on the trail west of Fort McLane. Said he was going to convert Mangus Colorado.”

  “They are God’s children, even as you and I, Brother Roswell.”

  Roswell snorted. “That’s open to argument.”

  “Roswell! Where the hell are you?” The harsh voice sounded like a stick being dragged along a picket fence.

  Roswell grinned. “That’s the first soldier,” he said. “I’d better get busy.”

  A thick-bodied man came up in the darkness. The stripes and diamond of a first sergeant showed on his sleeves.

  “Hello, Matt,” said Hugh easily.

  Matt Hastings thrust his head close to Hugh. “Kinzie! I thought you had taken a discharge.”

  “I did.”

  Hastings raised his head. “You’re a scout now?”

  “Yes.”

  “The army must be hard up for good scouts.”

  Hugh tilted his head to one side. “And first sergeants. So you finally got your diamond, Matt. You bucked hard enough for it.”

  Hastings looked back over his shoulder. “I know more about soldiering than any man jack in this J Company outfit.”

  Hugh nodded. Matt Hastings hadn’t changed. Hugh had known him at Fort Stanton and later in Arizona. He was a ring-tailed roarer, self-educated, with the biggest bump of self-esteem on any horse soldier Hugh had ever met in his years of service.

  “Well, don’t I?” snapped Hastings.

  “You sure as hell have forgotten anything you learned about Apaches. Camping in front of a fire.”

  “There aren’t any Apaches within fifty miles.”

  “Too bad you didn’t look back over your shoulder some time this afternoon. You would have seen their signal smokes.”

  “Boots and Saddles!” roared Clymer through the darkness.

  Hugh went back for his buckskin and stood there for a time listening to the night sounds. It was no use. There was enough uproar from the darkened camp to drown out anything else he might have heard.

  There was a slender woman standing beside Maurice Nettleton when Hugh came back to the camp. She wore a scarf over her dark hair. Nettleton helped her up on a horse. Hugh looked curiously at her as he mounted. Her face was in shadow, but he could see that she was pretty. He wondered if Boss Bennett would ever see her again.

  The noisy cavalcade rode up the trail. Hugh dropped back to cover the rear. Isaiah Morton jogged along on his swaybacked nag. The jackleg preacher looked up at the dark heights looming ahead of them. “A land of darkness, as darkness itself; and of the shadow of death, without any order, and where the light is as darkness,” he said dolefully.

  Hugh glanced at him. “Have you got a gun?” he asked.

  “No.”

  Hugh leaned over and slashed his reins across the rump of the preacher’s nag. “Then get up there and do your prophesying!”

  A trooper was sitting his horse at the side of the trail. He grinned at Hugh. “I can’t prophesy, scout,” he said. “But I can shoot.”

  “Good!”

  “The name is Chandler Willis.”

  “Hugh Kinzie.”

  Willis swung his carbine across his thighs. He shifted his chew and spat. “Looks like a long night,” he said laconically.

  “Yes. What kind of officers do you have here?”

  “Nettleton lives by the book. Never goes far without looking for some regulation to cover what he’s doing. Ain’t never quite sure of himself for my money.”

  “And Clymer?”

  Willis grinned. “Fancies himself a real stud with the ladies. Got the morals of an alley cat. Lets Nettleton think he’s runnin’ the shebang. Darrell Phillips ain’t a bad hombre. Got breedin’, he has. Might make a good soldier if he didn’t have to serve under those other two.”

  “What kind of an officer was Lieutenant Winston?”

  “One of the best. A real man. Wasn’t with us long. Come from Fort Buchanan on special duty, or so I heard tell.”

  “What kind of special duty?”

  Willis eyed Hugh. “How should I know?” All I know is that Nettleton wouldn’t send Phillips out with them steers, and Clymer wouldn’t go. So Nettleton orders Winston. He had to go.”

  Hugh nodded. “Did they find Winston’s body?”

  “Yep. Only way we could tell him was by his uniform.”

  Hugh looked west. Maybe the drafts had been trampled into the dirt along with the bodies of the troopers. Maybe the Apaches had found them and thrown them away, not knowing their value. There wasn’t a chance now of clearing Ron. He shrugged, then looked up the column. He could see Katy Corse riding beside Marion Nettleton. Now and th
en she steadied the captain’s wife in the saddle when they hit rough spots on the trail. Hugh wondered if he could finish the second part of his task. Chances looked slim on that too.

  Hugh looked back down the dim trail. Below them he could see an eye of fire winking in the darkness. The wind had fanned an ember into life. These greenhorns had left a trail as easy to follow as the Oregon Trail across the plains of Kansas.

  Willis looked back. “You think them ‘Paches are back there somewheres?”

  “I know it, Willis.”

  They went on through the darkness with fear riding close behind them.

  Chapter Four

  CAPTAIN NETTLETON called a halt just when the false dawn showed over the eastern heights. Hugh spurred forward, leaving Chandler Willis as rear guard. Nettleton was close beside his wife, holding her in her saddle. “We’ll stop here and make a fire,” he said to Hugh.

  “No fires,” said Hugh shortly.

  Able Clymer stood up in his stirrups. “Captain Nettleton is in command, Kinzie.”

  Hugh looked at the belligerent bull moose of a man. “We’ll have cold tack,” he said quietly.

  Darrell Phillips rode forward and then turned his horse. “There’s some kind of an old wall here,” he said. “It might serve as a defensive position.”

  Clymer spat. “Listen to the soldier,” he said.

  Hugh kneed his buckskin past Clymer. He rode up to Phillips. Someone, long ago, had built a wall in front of a steep slope of rock. “It’ll do,” said Hugh.

  Clymer was arguing with Nettleton about something. His voice was too low for Hugh to hear what he was saying.

  Nettleton straightened himself in his saddle. “We’ll do as the scout says, Mr. Clymer. We must trust him.”

  Darrell Phillips’s handsome face darkened. “Clymer is a bully,” he said.

  Hugh nodded. “He’s still obeying orders though.”

  Phillips nodded. “Yes, but for how long? If he had his way we’d all be under his filthy thumb.” He looked at Marion Nettleton. “She’s exhausted,” he said.

  “Katy is holding up.”

  “There’s a difference. Marion is gentle bred.”