Ambush on the Mesa Page 6

  Willis crawled out of a room. “Got it fairly well cleaned out,” he said. “Lotsa trash in there. Mrs. Nettleton, you’ll be all right in there.”

  Nettleton looked at Greer. “Get Mrs. Nettleton settled in there. For God’s sake, get the rest of that blood off of your face.” Nettleton turned toward Clymer. “Form a guard, Mr. Clymer.”

  Clymer looked at Phillips. “Take over, Mr. Phillips,” he said shortly.

  Later, as Hugh carried his blankets into one of the shelters which still boasted a roof, he looked out along the terrace. Stevens was pacing back and forth at the far end. Pearce leaned against a wall at the other end. The horses had been unsaddled and the mules unloaded. From somewhere in one of the small rooms he could hear a strident snoring. There was no sign of life in the canyon.

  Hugh straightened out his blankets. Harry Roswell raised his head from where he was lying. “You think they’ll bother us?” he asked.

  Hugh pulled off his boots. “Not likely. Unless we try to leave. They don’t like these places. Places Of The Dead, they call them. They’ll bide their time until we’re ready to pull out.”

  “Then we’ll get it.”

  “Maybe … maybe not.”

  Hugh dropped on his blanket and looked up at the dim ceiling of the little dwelling. He wondered how many years had passed since the builders of the room had slept there.

  Roswell rolled over and looked again at Hugh. “What happened to Greer down there?” he asked quietly.

  “Nerves.”

  “You feel anything down there?”

  “No.”

  Roswell rubbed his jaw. “You looked a little pale when you came up.”

  Hugh rose up on an elbow. “Look, Harry. I don’t like this place. I don’t like the deal we’re in. But I’m not going to lie awake talking about ghosts, if that’s what you mean.”

  Roswell lay back and covered his eyes with his right arm. “Sorry, Hugh,” he said.

  The wind moaned through the little window and small doorway. It sighed along under the great arch of the cave high above the cliff-dwelling ruins. From somewhere down the canyon a coyote howled softly.

  Chapter Eight

  HUGH was up at dawn. He shivered in the cold wind as he stepped out onto the terrace. Roswell was on guard with Greer. Hugh rolled a smoke and handed the makings to Roswell. “How did it go, Harry?”

  Roswell looked out over the dim canyon. He shrugged. “As quiet as the grave.”

  Hugh grinned. “A neat comparison.”

  Roswell lit his smoke. “Greer is acting peculiar.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Something has cracked inside of him.”

  Hugh nodded. “I’ve been expecting it. I’m going to look around.”

  Hugh glanced at Greer as he walked behind the little clerk. Greer was standing at the edge of the terrace, looking off into the dimness of the canyon, mumbling softly to himself.

  Hugh worked his way over a pile of debris in a passageway between two dwellings. High above him the arched roof of the great cave showed darker streaks of deep red. They blended into black splotches where the cave roof ended. The streaks were at almost regular intervals and Hugh finally deduced that the smoke from the fires had discolored the reddish-brown rock.

  There was a triangular space behind the back walls of the last row of dwellings, forming a long passageway between the walls and the slanting roof of the cave. It was littered with trash. Hugh picked up a finely shaped pottery bowl decorated with a black-on-white design.

  Hugh walked east the length of the passageway. It ended against the blank wall, stained by the smoke of ancient fires. He walked back the other way, feeling the utter loneliness of the place. He picked up a square of yucca matting, pieces of pottery and a flint arrowhead.

  Then he was at the western end of the passageway. Here there was a semicircular area, littered with ears of dried corn. There was a great fault in the cave wall, forming a narrow V-shaped crack in the rock. It had been carefully fiilled with mortared rock. Hugh skirted the crumbling wall at the end of the passageway, and eased his way through a narrow door into the bottom floor of a square, three-storied tower. A notched chicken ladder rose up to the next floor. Hugh climbed up to the second story. There was no ladder leading up to the third story, but he was able to stand on a pile of debris, grasp the edges of the trap door, and pull himself up into the top story. The roof had fallen in at one side. The light of early morning came in through a window, and flooded in through the gap in the roof.

  Hugh walked over to the window, and standing well back from it, he looked out over the canyon. The tower afforded a fine place to watch the whole area in front of the ruins. There wasn’t a sign of life on the brushy floor of the canyon. Hugh looked across to the far wall. He could have sworn the brush at one point moved a little against the wind.

  Hugh rolled a smoke and studied the canyon. A good rifleman in the tower could sweep the slopes in front of the ruins. He knew they could hold the ruins against fifty Mimbrenos. But would the Mimbrenos attack? It was a place of the dead, and their superstitious fears would work on them enough to keep them at a distance. But they could let the lack of food and water drive the White-eyes from the ruins. It shouldn’t take long.

  Hugh looked along the terrace below him. Willis was kindling a fire from shattered roof poles. Stevens was filling a large coffeepot with water from a canteen. Greer was squatted against the front of a dwelling, his thin hands hanging down in front of his knees. Morton was on the terrace just below the tower with his battered Bible in his hands.

  Katy Corse came out of one of the dwellings. She swept back her long hair with her hands, and thrust a comb into one side of the deep black tresses. She walked to the edge of the terrace and stood there, breathing deeply of the fresh morning air. Hugh thought that Katy Corse would be at home anywhere.

  Darrell Phillips walked toward Katy. She laughed as he said something. They stood there together looking out toward the canyon, almost as though they were safe in some park back in the East.

  Dan Pearce came out between two buildings, looked up and down the terrace, then furtively ducked back into a passageway again. First Sergeant Hastings was checking over the small stock of food, shaking his head as he did so. Harry Roswell was inspecting the horses picketed along the terrace.

  Captain Nettleton came out of the room in which he had spent the night “Is that coffee ready, Stevens?” he called out.

  “No, sir.”

  “Hurry it up.”

  “The fire isn’t hot enough, sir.”

  Nettleton threw his hands up in petty anger. He looked into the room he had just left. “It won’t take long, dear,” he said.

  Hugh thought of the lack of water. Maybe he should stop Stevens from making the coffee. But he had stuck his neck into enough bickering already, without going so far as to deprive them of their morning coffee.

  Hugh dropped down to the second floor of the tower. There was a startled exclamation from the first floor, then the crush of boots against the debris-littered floor. Hugh looked down through the opening. The first floor was empty. He turned on a heel and jumped to a side window, looking down into the narrow passageway between the wall and the end wall of the great cave. It was empty. But he did see something. Across from him was a rock shelf, slanting down and away from him. There was a thin trickle of moisture glistening against the wall.

  Hugh pulled up the chicken ladder and thrust it across the gap between the tower and the rock shelf. He teetered across. There was a shallow pan of water there, hardly enough to wet the rock. There was a slow dripping from the trickle against the wall. Hardly enough water to keep one person alive for long, much less thirteen. “Thirteen!” he said aloud.

  He walked back across the ladder and replaced it where he had found it. He’d keep the knowledge of the water to himself for a time, until he figured out what to do. He passed back into the triangular passageway. It was empty of life.

  Hugh walked ou
t on the terrace. Abel Clymer appeared at the far end and glanced at Hugh, then he came toward the fire. Hastings was doling out the meat and hardtack. “Willis,” he said, “you and Pearce take morning guard.”

  Willis stopped with his meat halfway to his wide mouth. “Hell, Sarge! I was on four hours last night.”

  “We’re not running this outfit from a duty roster.”

  Willis glanced at Phillips, at Clymer and then at Hugh. “There’s some here had a full night’s sleep,” he said.

  Hugh leaned against a wall. “We can get by with one guard during the day,” he said. “Send him to that tower at the west end. He can see the whole terrace, the slope, and a good part of the canyon from up there. Good field of fire.”

  Clymer’s eyes held Hugh’s for a moment, then the big officer turned away. “Captain Nettleton,” he said loudly, “how long are we going to stay here?”

  Nettleton put down his coffee cup. “Until we’re sure there are no Apaches out there,” he said.

  Clymer laughed. “We haven’t seen any yet. Maybe there aren’t any out there.”

  “Walk down the slope,” said Hugh. “Take a little stroll up or down the valley. If you dont’ come back then you’ll know they’re out there.”

  “I don’t like this,” said Clymer. He looked at Hastings. “Send out a man to look around.”

  Hastings stood up. He wiped big hands on his thighs. “One man, sir?”

  “Did you expect to send a squad?” asked Clymer sarcastically.

  Hugh rolled a smoke. He eyed Clymer. “Ask for a volunteer, Hastings,” he suggested.

  The men looked away. Hastings wet his cracked lips. “Any volunteers?” he asked uncertainly. No one spoke up.

  Hugh shifted a little. “You’ve got two good junior officers here, Captain Nettleton. A good officer wouldn’t send a man on a detail he wouldn’t take on himself.”

  Clymer scowled. Phillips went pale beneath his tan. Nettleton stood up and placed his coffee cup on a rock. “Why, yes,” he said brightly. “That’s it! Mr. Clymer, you and Mr. Phillips decide between yourselves who is to go.”

  Clymer looked at Phillips. “You go,” he said.

  Phillips felt about in his trousers pocket. “We’ll flip for it,” he said quietly.

  Clymer spat. “Forget it. Forget the whole thing!” He stamped off down the terrace.

  Willis softly laughed as he picked up his carbine and walked toward the tower to stand guard.

  • • •

  The heat of the afternoon seemed to hang in the silent canyon like a thick issue blanket. There wasn’t a breath of wind. Nothing stirred. The sky was a pitiless blue, without even a cloud to suggest shelter against the blazing sun.

  Hugh was in the tower, studying the far wall of the canyon with his field glasses, feeling the sticky sweat rolling down his sides. He lowered the glasses and wiped the misted eyepieces with his bandanna. Now and then one of the horses whinnied pitifully, to be answered by the dry braying of a mule. Something scraped below Hugh. He turned and looked at the opening in the floor.

  There was a rattling noise from the first story. Hugh cased his glasses and walked softly to the opening. He looked down through both openings. Harsh breathing came up to him. Hugh moved. A piece of stone rolled over the edge of the opening and dropped on the chicken ladder which was between the first and second stories. Boots crushed against debris.

  Hugh leaped over to the side window of the tower. He thrust his head through the window. Dan Pearce looked up at him. “What’s on your mind, Dan?” asked Hugh.

  Pearce flushed. “Water,” he said.

  “You’ll have to wait.”

  “Willis says there’s water around here somewhere.”

  “There is. But it isn’t in that first-floor room.”

  Pearce looked down. “Hell,” he said. “I thought there might be something a man could pick up and take along with him.”

  “Such as?”

  “Gold, maybe.”

  Hugh grinned. “These people were farmers, Pearce.”

  Pearce squinted his eyes as he looked up. “You find anything?”

  “Pottery. Arrowheads. Matting. That’s all.”

  “They must have had something of value.”

  Abel Clymer entered the passageway. He stared at Pearce. “What are you doing in here?”

  Pearce straightened up. “I’m next on guard, sir.”

  “Then get up in that tower!”

  Pearce glanced sideways at the big officer. He entered the tower and came up beside Hugh. “Sonofabitch,” he said. “He’s been poking around these ruins himself. Always was looking for something to lay his hands on back at Fort Ayres.”

  “Such as?”

  “Money. Women. Liquor. What else is there?”

  Hugh handed Pearce the glasses. “Keep away from the water,” he said.

  Pearce glanced out of the side window. “Ain’t enough there to wet a blotter,” he growled.

  “Just the same … leave it alone.”

  Pearce spat dryly as Hugh went down through the opening.

  Clymer was still in the passageway. He eyed Hugh. “You’ve got influence with the captain,” he said. “Get him to give us orders to move on.”

  “We’ve been through this before.”

  Clymer flushed. “Mrs. Nettleton isn’t standing this heat too well.”

  “Who is?”

  Clymer gripped Hugh by the shirt front and drew him close. “Damn you! Don’t get me riled, Kinzie!”

  Hugh dropped his carbine butt on one of Clymer’s feet. Clymer grunted in pain and stepped back. The carbine muzzle prodded the big officer in the belly. “Get out of my way,” said Hugh softly.

  Clymer limped backwards. His eyes were filled with feral hate as he watched Hugh walked out onto the terrace. A soft laugh came from high above Clymer. He looked up to see the grinning face of Dan Pearce. “Damn you, Pearce!” said Clymer. “I won’t take anything from you!”

  Pearce shoved a stone over the edge of the window. It hit Clymer on the head. Clymer clawed for his Colt but Pearce leisurely rested his carbine barrel on the bottom of the window. He cocked the hammer. His eyes met Clymer’s. Clymer released his hold on his pistol and limped back into the passageway. Pearce touched the partially healed scar on his head, then spat dryly down into the passageway.

  Chapter Nine

  MYRON GREER sat in a narrow space between two buildings. It was shadowy in there, but it was still hot. He could feel the sweat running down his thin body. He ran his tongue about inside his dry mouth. But it wasn’t water he wanted; he needed something far stronger than that.

  Strange thoughts went through Myron Greer’s mind. He felt as though he should get up and walk to the edge of the terrace, climb over the wall, then slide down the slope to the vast canyon floor. Somewhere out there he might find a drink.

  Maybe the scout, Hugh Kinzie, had a bottle. Those men usually had one, although they didn’t drink when they worked. Too dangerous. But it was handy for cleansing wounds and easing their pain.

  Above him a lizard scuttled about, dropping bits of mortar down on Greer’s bare head. He didn’t move.

  Maybe the people who had built these crazy cliff dwellings had learned how to ferment corn. But these people had been gone for generations. Anything they had left would have been long dried up by now. Still, if it had been well sealed and buried in the ruins, there might be a little bit of it left, and it would have a wallop like a dose of canister.

  Greer raised his head. A hammer started thudding inside his skull while an iron band seemed to tighten around the outside of it. He looked out across the canyon. He didn’t see the far wall shimmering and waving in the heat, but rather he saw a whirling, grayish mass, which seemed to form itself into a cone, like the inside of a whirlpool. It seemed as though he could run to the edge of the terrace and dive into the whirlpool to be swept away into its cool depths.

  Abel Clymer walked up and down the triangular passageway behind
the ruins. It was a little cooler in there, or so it seemed. His right instep throbbed where that sonofabitch Kinzie had dropped the steel-shod butt of his Sharps. Kinzie’s time would come, but Clymer wasn’t ready to get rid of him yet. Clymer wanted to get out of this hell hole and take Marion Nettleton with him. He wet his thick lips as he thought of Marion Nettleton. “Jesus,” he said softly.

  If he could get her back to the Rio Grande and show up at Santa Fe with her, he’d be the biggest damned hero in the Southwest. With rapid promotions the order of the day, he, Abel Johnston Clymer, first lieutenant, United States Cavalry, could ask for anything. With Bennett behind him he might eventually get a brigade. General Clymer! That was the ticket!

  Clymer stopped at the far end of the passage and wiped the sweat of heat and ambition from his broad face. Maurice Nettleton was in his way. Nettleton had money. That was why Clymer had stayed his little game until he had found a stake for himself. Well, he had it now. The next thing to do was to get Nettleton to move out of there, one way or another. With Kinzie to guide him, Clymer could break through. It might not be easy to get rid of Kinzie, but that job had to be done too. Then it would be Santa Fe, and the plaudits of the department commander. Then on to St. Louis and the firm, friendly handclasps of Boss Bennett. Despite the clinging heat, Clymer shivered a little in his ecstasy. “Captain Clymer. Major Clymer. Colonel Clymer. General Clymer!” he said aloud.

  • • •

  Dan Pearce peered through Hugh Kinzie’s field glasses. He studied the east end of the canyon. Somewhere in the haze was that damned dead mule with Nettleton’s silver still in the packs. Dan had seen the silver service back at Fort Ayres. It wouldn’t take a man long to get back to that stinking mule and cut those packs loose. He could cache the silver and come back for it some day. Maybe he and Chandler Willis could make a break for the river, but there wasn’t enough value in the silver for two to share it. The thing to do was get the silver, hide it, then talk Willis into going out of the canyon with him. Two would have a better chance than one. Three could make it without too much trouble — if the third man was Hugh Kinzie.