Range Of Golden Hoofs Read online

  Eusabio sought relief from the tension in talk. This, he informed Dan, was the way to raise a sheep dog. A dog, taken from its mother before its eyes opened and given a goat to nurse, grew up with the idea that it was not a dog but a goat. So later the dog would consort with the goats and with the sheep, retaining its natural antagonism against coyotes and wolves, but always believing that it was a goat. Dan nodded. He had heard the tale before. Perhaps it was true, perhaps not. At any rate, dogs that were so raised made good sheep dogs, working intelligently and quietly with their charges.

  Among the grouped herders Hilario spoke sharply and pointed. Dan Shea, following the direction of that pointing arm, saw a man coming down from the north, trotting along, a small black dot against the green grass. The man came on, resolved into Nopomencenco, drew close, reached Dan Shea and stopped.

  Nopomencenco was panting. He drew great breaths into his deep chest and let them go. Dan waited. Still short of breath, Nopomencenco reported. They had, he said, found the Apaches. There were tracks to the north. The Apaches had seen the herd; of that Nopomencenco was certain. But the Indians were waiting. Perhaps five miles north they were. Vicente had located them.

  “Where is Vicente?” Dan demanded.

  He was watching the Apaches, Nopomencenco told him. There were not many in the raiding party. Vicente had sent him, Nopomencenco, back to report to Señor Shea.

  “How many Apaches?” Dan asked.

  Nopomencenco shrugged. He was not sure. Perhaps a dozen, perhaps a few more. Nopomencenco waited, watching his patrón. So, too, waited the others. Dan rubbed his hand against the stubble on his cheek, eyed his men and then spoke.

  “We’ll go to them,” he directed, smiling grimly. “They are waiting for us. It would be bad to disappoint them.” A grin broke on Hilario’s bearded face. All about Dan Shea the tension broke. It was almost as though he had invited these men to a fiesta. They would wait no longer. Here was opportunity to avenge themselves upon a hereditary enemy. There was a sudden babble of talk which Dan sternly checked.

  He spoke rapidly. Cercencio would remain with the sheep. He could, with the help of the dogs, hold them in the valley. The rest were to accompany Dan Shea. They must obey his orders absolutely.

  From about Dan the voices came in agreement. Dan stooped and picked up the Sharps.

  The men followed Dan out of the valley. Cercencio, resolute and with a Springfield across his knees, remained in a cluster of rocks. If they did not return Cercencio was to go back. He was to abandon the sheep and return to El Puerto del Sol with the word, so ran Dan’s instructions. But they would return, he reassured Cercencio, talking to him in private. There was nothing to fear. Cercencio nodded. He understood.

  Each man that followed Dan Shea carried a rifle and ammunition. Each man, too, had a knife. As to other personal armament Dan did not know. He himself dangled the heavy Sharps from his hand, and under his arm, beneath his coat already becoming ragged, there was his Colt. Nopomencenco walked beside Dan, a guide and pathfinder. So, on foot and cautiously, they traveled north.

  Beyond the ridge north of the valley that contained the herd the country fell away in long folds. There were wide draws that ran across the line of march. Nopomencenco, questioned by Dan, spoke briefly concerning the nature of the country. For the most part, the herder informed, the ridges and their concomitant hollows ran east and west. There was one long arroyo that swung in a slanting circle toward the river to the west. Dan nodded. So much he could see. If there was water it would be in the arroyo. If there was water the Apaches would wait beside it. While the others waited Dan made his plan. Where, he asked Nopomencenco, had he left Vicente? Nopomencenco pointed and explained, and Dan listened.

  He knew—or believed he knew—the operation of the Apache mind. The Apache was like a snake. He hunted when necessary but, by choice, the Apache waited beside a trail for his game to come to him. So might these be doing. If the raiding party knew of the presence of the herd, and Nopomencenco was sure that they did, then logically the savages would be considering the idea of attack, of loot and pleasure. They favored early morning or late evening for their raids. At those times men are unsuspecting and relaxed. And the Apaches had no reason to believe that the men with the sheep knew of their presence. Dan frowned. If he knew surely where the Apaches waited he would be able to beat them to the surprise. But he had no certain knowledge. Perhaps if he followed up the arroyo, scouting ahead with Nopomencenco…

  “Allá está Vicente,” Nopomencenco announced.

  Dan searched the country below him. He could see nothing until his swarthy companion pointed. Then close by the arroyo he sighted movement. A man—at least Dan believed it to be a man—appeared momentarily between two clumps of mesquite.

  “Es Vicente!” Nopomencenco said positively.

  That might be true. At least the arroyo was the logical place to reach. Dan nodded and started down the slope, his companions following.

  There were other ridges between that first high vantage point and the arroyo. They lost sight of the dry stream bed; then, crowning a rise, they sighted it again, much closer now. The herders remained behind the protection of the low ridge, and Dan and Nopomencenco crawled ahead. The bank of the arroyo, two hundred yards away, lay barren of all life. Dan glanced at Nopomencenco doubtfully, turned his head again to look at the arroyo, and his eyes widened with surprise. Vicente was walking from the arroyo toward them, his rifle swinging nonchalantly from his hand, pride evinced in his every step. Dan lifted his head, twisted his body and, seated, waited for Vicente’s arrival.

  Vicente was both boastful and scornful. He had marked the progress of Dan Shea and the herders across every ridge, he said. Dan doubted this. They were a full four miles and more than an hour’s travel from the sheep. No man, Dan believed, could see so far. He did not voice his doubts aloud. Vicente continued. The Apaches were in the arroyo. They had camped beside water. They were sheep, Vicente boasted; White Mountain Apaches, not at all like the Chiricahuas from whom Vicente came. Now they were moving, coming down the arroyo.

  “How many?” Dan demanded curtly.

  Vicente held up both hands, the fingers spread, then he closed one fist and left three fingers extended on the other hand. Thirteen.

  Dan nodded. His eyes scanned the bank of the arroyo. He stood up and gestured. Behind him his men arose. Swiftly Dan led the way across the expanse from ridge to arroyo bank. There, where mesquite grew, he stopped. The herders eyed the mesquite doubtfully. They knew its toughness, knew its sharp thorns. Still, at low-voiced command, they wormed their way into the thorny thickets, each man choosing a place, each man selecting shelter. They could tolerate the scratching and cuts of the thorn; they could bear with the sand and the waiting and the discomfort, for they were being given a chance to beat the Apache at his own game of ambush and throat cutting. To each man Dan Shea spoke his warning. They must wait until he fired the first shot; they must lie quiet and concealed. If they did not the Apaches would be at their throats.

  In his own place of concealment, flanked by Vicente and Nopomencenco, Dan sprawled down. Mesquite roots dug at him. A thorny branch trailed across his neck so that when he moved ever so slightly the thorns pricked cruelly. His Sharps was shoved out, and before him was the thin screen of mesquite through which he could see the arroyo. All along, on either side, Dan Shea’s companions waited, lying in ambush, the success of all dependent upon the quietness and fortitude of each individual. Dan watched the arroyo.

  Time dragged by interminably. A big red ant, exploring, found Dan’s arm and bit viciously, the sting almost unbearable. By shifting his eyes Dan could see Vicente’s head some eight feet to his left, the black hair bound with an old rag. The head lifted. Dan’s eyes were on the arroyo again. To the right, up the arroyo, a savage appeared riding a gaunt pony, moccasined legs dangling, a rifle resting across his thighs as he rode.

  The single savage came on, passed by Dan Shea, passed by Vicente. Not sixty yards away h
e was following the course of the dry stream. Dan let him go. To the right Nopomencenco sighed faintly, the barest whisper of sound. Dan did not move. The Apache rode on.

  Now others appeared, a straggling line of them, two grouped together, then three, then one, then the others. The leader passed by Dan Shea. Dan counted. There were twelve in view. Dan held his finger on the trigger of the Sharps, cocked the hammer and took careful aim. When the Sharps roared the whole thicket of mesquite responded, leaping into life with the crash of the rifles.

  Dan came up to his feet. Legs widespread, another shell sliding into the greasy, smoking breech of the Sharps, he turned to the left. There, up the arroyo, that first Apache—the scout who had passed by, was bent low over his pony’s neck, and sand was churning beneath the pony’s neck, and sand was churning beneath the pony’s feet. Again the Sharps steadied and then spilled its contents. The heavy five-hundred-grain slug must have pierced man and horse, for both went down. Dan swung back to the right again.

  There was wild confusion in the arroyo. From both arroyo and mesquite the yells arose. A savage, wiry and swift as a cat, scrambled up the opposite bank, poised for a moment and then collapsed into a bundle of rags and brown flesh. From the mesquite, heedless of thorns or footing, the herders came leaping, whooping, savage as the Apaches themselves. Dan Shea dropped the Sharps and with his pistol in hand crashed through the growth and ran to the arroyo.

  For perhaps a minute the fight raged and then, sudden as it had begun, was done. The herders, Nopomencenco and Hilario, Eusabio and Vicente, all of them, stood panting, the fierceness draining away from them, remaining only in their eyes and distorted faces, and in the arroyo, against its banks and on its sand, the Apaches lay, twisted and grotesque, caught and destroyed in just such a trap as they themselves delighted in setting.

  There was, of course, an aftermath to the fight. The herders and Dan Shea moved about the scene of the fighting, examining the bodies and searching them. From the evidence they collected there was no doubt that these were the marauders who had looted the placita. One savage corpse bore a gold cross about its neck; another wore earrings, and there were remnants of garments and fresh scalps to show.

  Contrary to their general custom, the raiders had not traveled lightly laden. There were two pack horses down in the arroyo, killed perhaps in the first volley. The packs of these were opened and examined by the herders, and from them such articles as caught the fancy were removed. In this Dan Shea played no part. He stood watching and, as the shadows grew long in the arroyo, called his men off from their pursuit. The hour was late and night was coming. They must hurry back to the waiting sheep. Dan gave his orders. So, filled with their success, drunk with it, laden with the weapons, the savage finery, the loot that they had taken from the looters, Dan Shea and his men started back, retracing their journey toward the herd.

  It was dusk when they reached the valley. Cercencio arose stiffly from amidst his rock fort and welcomed them. The herd was intact. There had been no alarm, Cercencio said, but he had heard the firing to the north. The men, weary, went about their appointed duties. A fire was built. Eusabio prepared food. The men ate. Then with the firelight flickering, with the tenseness eased, they rested, each man recounting his own exploits, so concerned with his own valor and glory that he hardly listened to the tales of his neighbors.

  Dan Shea sat watching them, smiling a little. These men were children, strong in body, simple in mind. As he listened to the talk his smile broadened. A man without knowledge listening to the talk might well believe that these few men had met and vanquished the Apache nation. They were scratched with thorns, and more than one of them bore signs of the conflict, cuts received when they charged in to finish the fight. Their clothing was torn, more ragged than it had been before the battle. They were weary, but the excitement of their recollections buoyed them. Like children they talked and laughed and glorified themselves and each other.

  Close to the fire Vicente bent above a bundle taken from an Apache pack horse. He untied the rawhide thong and laid the bundle open. Dan Shea, rising, strode across to survey Vicente’s loot. Vicente looked up and grinned, then, turning his attention to the contents of the pack, spread it out.

  There were a few skins, poor things, unworthy of a second glance. There was a pouch which, opened and shaken, gave forth a miscellany of objects: the dried foot of an eagle, the teeth of a wolf, lion claws, small chunks of ocher and white earth and tobacco. A medicine pouch, Dan surmised. There was a long roll wrapped in a sheepskin from which the wool had been removed; there was a coat, small when Vicente held it up for inspection, wrinkled, and still with a sort of dapperness about it. Dan Shea frowned when he saw the coat. It was such a garment as no native would wear. The coat had belonged to a white man. There was confirmatory evidence to that. The last article in the pack was the remains of a derby hat. Crushed and battered though it was, the identity was unmistakable. Dan Shea held out his hand and Vicente placed the hat in it.

  Squatting beside the Apache boy, Dan looked at the hat. It was made of hard brown felt and the crown was broken. He turned it in his hand. The leather sweatband was still intact and, faint upon the leather, letters had been stamped, unreadable now, but undoubtedly the initials of the man who had originally purchased the derby. Dan sought further to locate the maker’s stamp and, perhaps, the name of the store from which the hat had been purchased. These were too faint for deciphering. He returned the hat to Vicente.

  Vicente had opened the roll of sheepskin. Parchments were disclosed. Wordlessly he extended these to Dan Shea. Dan glanced at them and shrugged. He could speak Spanish but he could not read or write the language. These parchments that Vicente held out were written in Spanish and were yellow with age.

  “We will take these with us,” Dan decided. In his mind was an idea. Perhaps the papers from the sheepskin roll would disclose the identity of the man who had owned the coat and the derby. When he reached a place where there was someone who could read Spanish Dan would make inquiry.

  “Save them,” he ordered. “I think…”

  “Señor! Señor Dan!” Eusabio called from across the fire. Dan got up. Eusabio’s voice was excited. “Ven acá.”

  Dan walked around the fire. Eusabio was pointing down and Dan, looking at the place Eusabio indicated, saw that the pup was nursing at the goat’s udder. “He has his eyes open!” Eusabio exclaimed. “Mira, mira, Señor Dan!”

  Dan bent down. It was just as Eusabio had said. The puppy’s eyes were open, and when Dan Shea attempted to detach the little dog from the teat the pup clung fiercely and even growled, a bass rumble from the tiny throat.

  “Es un bravo,” Eusabio exclaimed.

  “Bravo,” Dan Shea agreed. “That’s his name: Bravo!”

  CHAPTER TWELVE:

  JOURNEY’S END

  On the evening of the second day following the fight with the Apaches visitors came to Dan Shea’s camp. The sheep were bedded on a slope and supper was ready when from a watcher at the herd there came a long yell. Dan Shea, looking up the slope, saw a column of horsemen topping the rise and knew them for what they were: cavalry.

  The little troop came on steadily, passed the flock and, halting at command, the troopers lounged in their saddles while the officer and a blue-jeaned guide approached the camp. Dan walked out to meet them.

  The officer was Lieutenant Shirby, very young and very eager. The guide, a grizzled oldster, loafed on his horse and chewed tobacco while the lieutenant questioned Dan.

  Shirby was on scout. With twenty troopers he was searching for a party of Apaches who had left the Mescalero reservation and gone west. He asked questions and Dan, without definite prevarication, managed to convey the impression that he had not seen Shirby’s quarry. Following the brief conversation with Dan Shea, Shirby returned to his men and gave orders. The troopers made camp some two hundred yards away from Dan’s fire, and Dan, returning to his own camp, ordered that Hilario butcher two sheep for the soldiers.

/>   Shirby came to thank Dan for the gift and remained to talk. When he had returned through the darkness to his own camp and quiet had fallen on the little valley where the camps were made, Dan sat beside his fire, musing. A soft step broke into his introspection and, looking up, Dan saw the blue-jeaned guide, Landcaster, move into the firelight. Without invitation Landcaster sat down, removed his chew from his mouth and tossed it carelessly into the blaze.

  “Where’d you find ’em?” Landcaster drawled.

  Dan was startled. “Find who?” he answered.

  “Lucero an’ his outfit,” Landcaster replied easily. “Look. I ain’t goin’ to say nothin’ to the lieutenant. What he don’t know won’t hurt him. He’s pretty young an’ he might make some trouble for you because he’s all filled up with this ‘wards of the guvamint’ business. But I seen a pair of moccasins that one of yore men’s wearin’, an’ there’s another that’s got a beaded pouch that I seen on an Apache buck not three weeks ago. I ain’t blind an’ I don’t figure that yore men traded for them things. What happened?”

  There was no use in trying to evade the scout’s questions. Dan knew it and, nodding thoughtfully, answered him truthfully. “We ran into them day before yesterday. They’d raided a little place over east of here, an’ I saw the smoke. I rode over to see what it was all about and found out what had happened.”