Norton, Andre - Novel 15 Read online

  "On your feet!" In spite of its snap the Sergeant's voice was only a weary thread. ''Bring up the black, Stouffer, and help him on. We'll move along the canyon here; that will give some protection against the storm."

  It was as if the ineffectual mutiny had drained the spirit from all of them. They picked up the few pitiful bundles of supplies they could no longer load on the worn-out animals and went on, Tuttle and the Sergeant in the lead.

  Herndon caught now and then at a handhold on the rock as if he had difficulty in keeping his feet. But he did not drop back, Ritchie noted, or hold onto the stirrup of one of the plodding mounts as did the other men when they could. There was no more talk; they had to save their breath to keep going, shuffling through the tails of the drifts.

  But the Sergeant had been right. In the shadow of the canyon the drifts grew fewer, and they did not have to fight for footing every inch of the way.

  Winters slouched in the saddle of the horse just before Ritchie in line. He moaned once or twice and rode with both hands clutching at the horn. The snow continued to fall, but lazily and with none of the rush which had made such a tight curtain of the first storm.

  Suddenly Ritchie saw something else on the trampled snow, a pinkish mark which made a pattern. He watched for it a while stupidly, without trying to puzzle out its source. And then he called to Tuttle who had dropped back for a breather.

  ''The snow's pink—"

  "Eh?" The scout had been rubbing Jessie's patient nose. "What's that ag'in, boy?"

  "There." Ritchie pointed to a stain which was darker and more pronounced. "See? Pink snow."

  As if it hurt him to stoop, the scout leaned over and examined the patch Ritchie had pointed out. Then he started, at a swifter pace than he had shown for hours, toward the fore of the party. When he returned, Velasco came with him, carrying an untidy bundle over his shoulder. It was the Apache boy.

  "Can yo' ride Star, boy?" Tuttle paused by Ritchie's knee. "The critter's been wore down so he ain't so skittish, 'n yo' can maybe manage him. Jessie, she can't carry double now, 'n someone's got to hold the brat—"

  "Sure." Ritchie slipped down from the mule's saddle, giving his bad hand a wrench which made him set his teeth. "What's the matter?"

  "This." Velasco whipped aside the edge of the blanket which wrapped his patient, and Ritchie saw bloodstained, tattered moccasins.

  "Walked the soles off his feet." Tuttle brought up the strong stallion, the most powerful horse in the depleted train. But Star did not plunge now or try any of his more annoying tricks, and Ritchie was able to mount him. They settled the Apache boy in the curve of his good arm.

  "Dermont'll give yo' a hand if yo' need it—jus' sing out." Tuttle indicated the man who plodded beside Winters' horse. "Don't drowse, 'n don't let the brat neither! T'ain't good-"

  Ritchie nodded. He knew the menace in the strange lethargy which could settle upon a man in the cold. He shifted the boy and peeped under the hooded curve of the blanket. Black, blank eyes stared back at him, but there was a taut line of pain about the child's mouth. To keep those eyes open—well, he could talk, though what he said might not be intelligible to his listener.

  ''What's your name?" he began, not knowing that he committed a great and lasting sin against Apache etiquette with that innocent question. One did not ask an Apache to spew forth that sacred and particular possession—his own name.

  With an awkward movement of his slinged hand he indicated his own chest.

  "Ritchie," he repeated slowly. "Ritchie Peters."

  Did or did not a shadow of intelligence cross the other's small filthy face at that? Ritchie persevered. He said the word for the horse they rode. It became a challenge—to awaken a response from the boy—and on the tenth word he did. The bluish lips repeated the word for saddle. Ritchie grinned and began all over. This time his pupil echoed him.

  "Time for a break, son." Tuttle materialized beside Star. "How's the brat?"

  "Horse," replied the student briefly with a strong accent and then gave his full attention to Ritchie again.

  Tuttle gave a shrill hoot of laughter which turned all heads toward the little group.

  "So I’m a hoss? Wal, I'll be dang-shotted! Humped yore-self a-learnin' that one, didn't yo', sonny? Anyway, this old hoss says it's time to light 'n have yoreself a snack. Had us a bit of luck comin' down the canyon. See?"

  He led them toward a fire, and the smell of roasting meat hung warm and comforting on the air.

  "Fool deer got hisself lost—jus' nice for us. Mighty little lot to go round, but sonny here'll have him a bone to suck."

  Ritchie chewed his portion a long time, trying to make each mouthful satisfy as much as a dozen would.

  "Glad we didn't hole up in them ruins." Tuttle spoke louder than usual so that he could be heard around the circle. "When we was hidin' out before the fight, I drawed me a place where a kit fox had bin furst—stunk like a skunk's hole almost. Kin smell it yet!"

  Winters grunted at Tuttle's words and shifted his feet. He was watching not the scout but the Sergeant who sat a little to one side.

  None of them could see much of Herndon's face, but something in the drooping line of his shoulders made Ritchie uncomfortable. He wanted to cross the range of the firelight and join the Sergeant—to say something—what he didn't quite know. But he did realize, deep inside, that if he dared to do that he would not be welcome. He swallowed his last bite and licked his fingers with a sigh.

  "Yo' can't do anything fur him, son—"

  Ritchie started at that low whisper from Tuttle. Under the intentness of the scout's gaze he squirmed.

  "He's made what he thinks is a big mistake. 'N he's got to fight it out for hisself.”

  "Why? Because he fought Winters—"

  Tuttle's fingers twisted a small lump of tobacco. He seemed to be considering whether to consume this last bit of treasure or to preserve it for another day.

  "A man's head 'n his heart, his feelin's 'n his duty, ought never to git mixed up. They do a lotta times. Jus' that's brought a sight of us out into this dad-blasted country. But if a man can hold onto his head, then he's got a chance to be great. Scott—he does it most of the time. But he let his feelin's git the better of him back thar, 'n now he thinks he's damned hisself. He's broken his medicine—as the Injuns say. He's got to build up his walls ag'in. Now, like as not he'll go too far the other way 'n freeze up—all ice. Remember that if he does, son. But if we git through this, it'll be that iron in him what brings us in. 'N that's the dead truth of it!"

  When they started again. Winters refused to remount the horse. He wavered on through the snow with Kristland to give him a hand. As he passed Herndon, who stood checking the last man out, he spat into a drift.

  "Better ride—"

  “Huh!" Winters' voice came thickly between his battered lips. "Want to make a parade of me like them brats, eh. Sergeant High-n-mighty? Wal, yo' ain't a-goin' to. I kin foot it as good as the rest of the boys."

  Herndon made no answer. But he saw the horse Winters had been riding led out behind the stubbornly limping dragoon. Ritchie got back on Star and waited for the Apache to be handed up to him. When they were ready to move out, the Sergeant crossed over to them.

  "Watch your hands and feet and the boy's," he said in a low voice. "If they get numb, sing out. D'you understand? At once!"

  "Yes, sir," replied Ritchie automatically.

  "Don't call me sir!" The heat of that was like a fist in his face, and he looked down into eyes that were blazing with real rage.

  Ritchie swallowed before he found his voice. "Sorry—" But the word trailed off unheard, for Herndon was already setting off to the head of the line.

  Coming down the canyon had indeed been a lucky choice. Through the rest of that dragging day the snow grew no heavier within its sheltering walls, and the footing became better instead of worse. They found one or two patches almost free of covering, where the animals were able to snatch mouthfuls of dried grass. It was on t
he edge of such a grazing ground that they made night camp.

  The second bright spot in their day was the news Velasco had. With a smooth piece of snow for a blackboard and a twig for chalk he explained.

  "Here we are now. And here"—he tapped another point —"is the stage station. Tomorrow I will take Star and ride through here and down. Then I will come back with supplies and fresh mules. So it shall be well with us—jus' like 'Left front into line!' " His voice took on the rasp of official command. " 'Gallop Ho!' And we shall be home again."

  But none of them aroused to answer this prophecy. Winters, Kristland, and two of the others sat apart. Winters had shed his foot gear and was bending almost double trying to see his feet.

  "Rub them with snow—hard!" Herndon dropped to his knees and gathered up a wet handful, rubbing it over the dragoon's insteps. And the Sergeant kept to his task, accepting snow brought by the others in caps and cupped hands when he had used all within his own reach. Winters swore, a steady mumble, and once or twice he bit and tore at his mitten.

  "Let me spell you, Scott." Velasco elbowed the Sergeant away. Herndon leaned back and watched the operation with narrowed eyes.

  "Frostbite." Tuttle joined Ritchie. He was carrying the small case of medical supplies Herndon had guarded so carefully all through that nightmare journey. " 'N he didn't have sense enough to sing out when it started! Now Hern-don'll blame hisself for this, too—" He opened the case.

  Ritchie, with no pleasant anticipation himself, slipped his hand out of the sling and braced himself for his nightly period of torture.

  "Why'll Herndon blame himself?" He wondered if Winters' remedy of a mitten between the teeth would work for him, too.

  "That stupid pig's stubbornness kept him goin' when he should have reported. Herndon's near out on his own feet, 'n he'll work hisself silly tryin' to git that cussed fool out of his own mess!"

  For several moments then Ritchie forgot Winters and Herndon, being very much occupied with certain sensations of his own. But, when he was free to slip his freshly dressed hand back into hiding again, he saw that the dragoons were still working on Winters with snow.

  "Man—?" The Apache tugged at Ritchie's coat and pointed to the group of men who were rubbing. Ritchie explained as best he could, and the boy nodded solemnly.

  "Keep on with that snow," Herndon advised Kristland who had taken over from Velasco. "Velasco—?"

  The tough little scout arose in one lithe movement.

  "Star has carried double all day. Could you take the roan —maybe after about three hours' rest?"

  Velasco studied his own crude snow map. "As long as I follow the canyon, it will be easy. After I strike the plain— who knows?" He shrugged. "I have seen drifts there that have grown like the mountains. However, what can one do but try? The roan, si, it is the best except Star. I shall try, my frien'."

  Herndon forced his own portion of the scanty food into Velasco's hands, and perhaps in the package he fastened to the saddle was his rations for the next day. Velasco, after a cheery look around their fire and an almost flippant wave of the hand, rode his reluctant horse away from the circle of dried grass, thudding off into the dark. It was clear and cutting cold, and all but the finger tips of the searching-wind were cut off by the natural walls around them. And they huddled together for warmth and for something else that they did not put into words—the companionship of shared misery.

  Winters cried out now with the agony of returning circulation, the tears tracking through the grime above his great bush of beard. He pleaded with them to leave him alone, to stop, but they still worked over him. Now it was necessary to go some distance for the snow they must use.

  Suddenly out of the blackness beyond the fire rim came a sound which brought fear into the open, a raking scream as if from the throat of a woman bound to the stake. Ritchie stumbled to his feet, expecting to hear the patter of arrows or the roar of the Indians' muzzle-loaders. But Tuttle only laughed.

  "Old Man Lion missed him a kill 'n is gonna tell the world 'bout it. Must be mighty thin huntin' round these parts nowadays."

  Ritchie stared into the shadows, and Tuttle laughed again. ''Don't imagine things, son. He ain't a-slinkin' round out that now—"

  But Tuttle was wrong. Another shrill scream, this time from the lungs of a fear-maddened horse, tore the air. What was left of their mounts stampeded across the edge of the fire-lit circle, heading down canyon.

  For one stunned moment they stayed still. But a second pain-filled scream, cut off in mid-note, brought them into action. Tuttle leaped for the fire, seized a piece of burning wood, and whirled it around his head as he bounded out into the dark.

  The flames darting out of the wood struck answering green fire in the night. Across the broken body of Jessie, limbs taut, jaws dripping and agape, was a hissing gray cat, its ears flattened to the skull, a snarl lifting its lip from the fringe of fangs. For a single second it faced the fire; then it was gone in a long arching bound which carried it beyond the farthest reaches of their light. It was too late to shoot.

  They went back to the fire. And for the first time Tuttle had nothing to say. He dropped cross-legged in the range of the heat and drew his knife from its sheath. With infinite care he set about honing the blade on the sole of his moccasin. When Ritchie drifted off to sleep, he was still there, still at work, now and again lifting his head to listen to the sounds from beyond the firelight.

  The missing horses had not gone far. They had been too exhausted to really lose themselves, and the canyon walls had held them from scattering. By midmorning the next day, even moving at the snail's pace they were now reduced to, the dragoons had come up with all but one of the truants.

  But it was when they hit the plain that the worst blow fell. A scrap of brown protruding out of a drift, which appeared disturbed at the top, drew Herndon out of the line of march. It did not need more than a few scoops of snow dug out by hand to reveal the stiff body of the roan Velasco had ridden out of their last camp. Neatly through the white star between its wide, glazed eyes a bullet had been fired. One leg was snapped, the bone thrust through the thin hide of the shin.

  Across the body of the roan Herndon faced Tuttle. Kristland came up, looked blankly at the horse, and began to laugh, a low sound growing into a wild peal that made Ritchie want to cover his ears.

  "Lots of luck, boys," sputtered the trumpeter between gasps of insane laughter, "lots of luck—'n all of it bad!"

  There was the smack of flesh meeting flesh, and the trumpeter rocked back on his heels. Herndon flipped his hand across his coat with a wiping motion. Kristland had stopped laughing, but his eyes on the Sergeant's back were bright and hard.

  "Velasco"—Herndon's voice still had all its hard, assured ring—"is a veteran scout. He knows this country, and there is no reason to believe that he cannot reach the stage station, even on foot. It is up to us to push on as fast as we can to meet the relief force he may have already started toward us. This horse is frozen; the accident must have taken place hours ago, maybe soon after he left."

  "Sure," muttered the man next to Ritchie. "March on 'n die in our tracks 'n they'll find us when the thaw comes in the spring. Join the army 'n freeze it out! On yore feet, kid." He turned to Ritchie and put out a hand to pull him up. "Where's the Injun brat?"

  "Up on Star. Hope he's light enough so that horse won't give out too—"

  "Ain't more'n a bag of bones," commented the dragoon critically. "But none of us are exactly fatties now. 'N we won't make pretty corpses—'nough to scare the guts outta the fellas as will find us."

  No one answered that sally. They had come again to a place of drifts through which they had to beat their way as they had on the first dismal days of their march. Only this time the heart was almost gone out of them; their last hope had flickered and died with the discovery of Velasco's horse.

  It was Tuttle and the Sergeant who kept them on their feet and moving. Men who fell were pulled, even beaten up again, pommeled until the
y escaped punishment by crawling forward a step or two. Half-dead horses and mules which could barely drag their hooves were brought up and bodies thrown across them, the same bodies stung into wakefulness by constant slaps and punches. Toward the end Herndon stripped off his belt and was using it with grim energy to keep them going.

  And when help came, they simply didn't believe in it. There was some sort of noise up ahead which meant nothing to their dulled ears. They did not even look up from the trampled snow—that snow which must be eternally beaten down and down.

  Ritchie stumbled into the man who had been in front of him. Mechanically the boy began to edge around him, thinking that he had given out from trail-making. But the man caught at him as he brushed by.

  "Look—" His voice quavered, and he blinked rapidly. "Can yo' see them, too?"

  Ritchie tried to shake free. Then he heard something— a confused shouting. And above it rang the call of a bugle. Across the drifts, coasting up and down like a ship beset by a rising sea, came a sled pulled by a four-ox team. But spurring ahead of this plodding bulk was a knot of mounted men, the snow dashing up like foam around the stamping hooves of their horses.

  As if something had pulled all the stiffening out of him, Ritchie dropped where he stood. He could not wink his eyes free of a swimming film which blurred the world, and salt burned across his cracked lips. He heard a voice from far off saying with emphasis:

  ''They sure brought all their sand with 'em!"

  It was heaven to lie flat in the ox sled, even if his head and shoulders were supported by another uneasy body and someone's long legs crowded his. He drifted off into a shadow world which had little connection with reality and never remembered their arrival at the stage station or the second journey on to the fort.

  A stab of familiar pain brought him back at last. Overhead was a roof of strips of dusty canvas. He lay on a hard cot, and working on his hand was the post surgeon who tut-tutted sharply at what he had found beneath the bandages. Turning to reach for an instrument he encountered Ritchie's open eyes.