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sight herself. In that way the Indians would not be suspicious when they
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noticed the missing horses. There were several places they could be picketed
out of sight, and where they could not be found without a search. Thus their
disappearance would not be sudden, and not a cause for investigation.
Yet even as she worked and planned, Angie knew that her chances of escape
were small. Only one thing made her decision to make the attempt one from
which she could not retreat. There was no other way.
She was hanging out her wash when she heard approaching horses. Turning
quickly, she saw that three Indians had ridden their ponies into the ranch
yard. Scarcely two hours after the horses had been moved, and the Indians were
here!
One of them was Silva.
They rode around the corral, noting the tracks. One of them rode in the
direction the horses had gone, then returned, saying something to Silva. He
shrugged, then walked his pony toward Angie.
She faced him, standing very straight, her face composed. To show terror
could mean death, and she knew that of them all, Silva feared Vittoro less
than the rest. He was, she knew, some sort of subchief.
"What do you want?"
He looked at her insolently. "Maybe soon you be my squaw."
"You?" Her contempt was plain. "Of all the braves in the lodges of the
Apache, you would be the last, Fighter of Women!"
Silva's nostrils flared and temper quickened his eyes. It would not do to
tempt this man too far, she realized. His was a hair-trigger temper, and he
was naturally vindictive. Nor had he forgotten his defeat by her child. The
story must have aroused many a chuckle in the wickiups.
One of the two braves riding with him was Emiliano. She remembered him
instantly as one of those who had come with Vittoro to the squaw-seeking
ceremony. He was a lean and powerful Indian, not the sort to be intimidated.
"I no fight women!" Silva's temper lashed at her. "I kill soldier! I count
plenty coups!"
Sensing sympathy from the other Indians, she answered him. "And my child
counted coup over you, Brave Warrior! And he is but six summers! Think, Brave
Warrior!" Her contempt was thick. "What if he had been twelve?"
Silva started forward as if prodded with a lance, but Emiliano's voice rang
sharply.
Silva whirled his horse and the two Indians faced each other, tempers
flaring. The third Apache looked at her and she thought she detected a faint
smile on his face. Whatever was said between Silva and Emiliano, the former
suddenly wheeled his horse, and moved away.
The others hesitated a moment, and then Angie said quietly, "Thank you,
Emiliano. I shall speak of this to Vittoro."
His eyes held her briefly, then the two wheeled their ponies and followed
after Silva. It was only then that reaction set in. What if Emiliano had not
been there? What if Silva had with him some braves more of his own nature?
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He would never, she knew instinctively, make this mistake again.
Suddenly her knees began to tremble, and the muscles in her legs shook
uncontrollably. She got to the house and sat down on the steps, and it was a
long time before she could move.
She had been a fool to stay on. She had been a silly fool. What good would
she be to her son if they were taken to an Indian village? What good would the
ranch be to either of them?
She would think no more ofHondo Lane . She would not think of Ed. Neither of
them would come. The latter was faithless and vacillating, the former had no
reason to return. No real reason. She was a lonely woman and her loneliness
had magnified his respect and a chance kiss into something that was not there.
She would think of one thing only: escape. When the planting rain came, she
would go. And if the rains were hard, they would wash out her tracks, and she
would take a direction where they would never expect her. Then she might
escape.
In the night she was awakened suddenly. A waiting moment of silence, then a
sudden rush of hoofs across the hard-packed yard, then a hoarse cry. A long
moment when there was no sound, then a shot and after it a long-drawn, wailing
scream as of a mortal soul in pain.
Crouching by the window, rifle in hand, she peered out, and she could see
nothing, only the moonlight on the cottonwood leaves, only the white-seeming
roof of the stable, only the empty hills.
A dream? No. Johnny was crouching beside her, trembling, partly from cold and
partly fear. He tugged at her arm. "Mommy! Mommy, what was that? What
happened? Did the man come back?"
Did the man come back? She felt something like horror mounting within her.
Had he come back and been killed at her door?
There was no more sleep. When Johnny was safely in bed she wrapped a blanket
about her and sat by the window, the rifle at her hand.
Slowly, with a quiet chill, the night passed. A faint yellow faded the
eastern sky, the tips of the cottonwoods turned gold, like the sun-tipped
lances of a moving army. The shadows in the yard drew back, hiding in the barn
and under the brush along the stream, crouching there. A quail sent out an
inquiring call, and somewhere across the basin another quail responded.
It was morning.
Chapter Twelve
PHALINGER AND ED LOWE had ridden back a quarter of a mile from Hondo's place
of stopping, Lowe drew up. "Look," he said quietly. "We've got him. Right now
he's makin' camp. He'll be mighty cautious. So we let him be. Come daylight,
either before he's up or when he's gettin' up, we'll take him."
The gambler shrugged. "Your party." He studied the hills. "His fingers will
be stiff then."
Phalinger looked at Lowe with a faint shadowing of contempt. "Don't take many
chances, do you?"
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"Why be a sucker?"
From the position Lowe had chosen, the arroyo was in view. They could not
seeHondo Lane , nor could he see them, but escape from his camp was impossible
without alerting them.
Phalinger was quiet. The farther he had gone, the less he liked any part of
it. He was a man without qualms. Lowe knew little about him aside from his
utter lack of scruples and the fact that he was a slick second-dealer who knew
cards and who worked well with a partner. Phalinger had done murder inMissouri
, drifted west intoKansas , then south intoTexas . He was wanted in both
places.
Yet he had an admiration for a brave man, andHondo Lane was such a man.
Despite the fact that he worked with Lowe, he despised him. Yet not even
Phalinger knew that Lowe had deserted a woman in Indian country. Had he known,
he might have killed him out of hand.
Phalinger was restless. Their camp was good. They needed no fire. They had
food and whisky. Nevertheless, the premonition he had felt earlier now [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]