Ambush (21 page)

Linus watched now, and saw an Apache rise out from the rocks, turn to the slope, and then call wildly. Another figure rose and not even looking back, started running bent over, dodging from rock to rock, heading north.

It was time, Linus saw, and he called, “All right, Sergeant. Take the left flank, form a skirmish line and join up with Storrow. Don't rush.”

He moved out from his rock now, aiming for the slope, and his half of the detail followed at intervals, first seeking cover, then moving cautiously up the valley. Ahead of them, almost out of rifle distance, Linus saw the occasional bobbing and weaving of an Apache on the retreat. He knew the tactics they would follow; they would leave men behind to hold up the enemy's advance, then, when the firing was too close, they would sift back behind the defenders of the second line, who would follow the same stubborn tactics. When Corporal Wells, from Loring's detail, appeared ahead of him, Linus knew that the details were joined, a solid skirmish line from rim to rim, which would sweep up the valley.

When Ward saw the campfires flickering through the thin timber some two hundred yards to the south of them and lower, he knew they had come as close as they could without alerting the camp. He turned and asked Lieutenant Storrow to halt the detail which, single file, had scaled the ridge to its rim. They had made their circle in the darkness, sweeping wide because thirty booted troopers, no matter how carefully alert, could not travel silently. He had been able to gamble on a laxness of vigilance in the Apaches, partly because they were relying on their scouts to warn them of Wolverton's movements, and partly because the warriors were out of camp, but he had crowded his luck far enough.

Storrow came up beside him and had his look, and afterwards asked, “No closer? Can we hear it from here?”

“You'll hear something,” Ward said dryly.

“And then it's on the double down into camp for us,” Storrow said. “All right, and luck be with you.”

Ward vanished into the night, heading alone toward camp. This part of the plan had been his own suggestion, for he knew that the troopers could never surprise a camp that was awake. And once alarmed, the Apaches would mount and run. It was the horseherd, therefore, that must be taken care of first, and it was for this he was heading.

He made his way cautiously, moving quickly and silently from rock to tree to rock, pausing often to listen. What little stirring of before-dawn breeze there was came from the camp to him, rising. Presently, when he was closer, he could see that the camp was still mildly astir. Most of the remaining members of the band were sleeping or resting, but a half-dozen women were moving around, and a baby was crying dimly and fretfully. Ward was thankful again for the Apache intolerance of dogs while on a war party.

Keeping to the ridge now, he moved on, from time to time going down on his belly and crawling. When he came in sight of the crude horse corral, he studied it. The first faint graying in the east hinted at coming dawn. Then, it was likely, the herd would be moved out onto the bench under close guard for whatever grazing there was. His time was short.

He moved on and down, and when next he paused, he knew immediately that the horses had either heard or smelled him. The small noises of aimless wandering, of impatient scuffling and restlessness were stilled. They were silent, waiting for some alarm. And beyond the rough corral, Ward saw a figure rise silently off the ground, alerted by the horses' sudden quiet.

At that moment, the sound of crackling gunfire came from the south, faint but distinct. Some of the sleepers raised on elbow, listening, but the horse guard did not move, and Ward knew he could wait no longer.

He drew a great breath of air into his lungs, and let go with the blood-chilling shriek of a mountain lion. It rent the morning stillness like the crack of doom, and he edged a small boulder down the slope. The horseherd seemed to explode and he could hear the wild shouting of the horse guard. Rising now, he raced down the slope, hearing the savage grunts and shrieks of the horses mingled with the crashing of brush as they burst the corral.

The milling at the break slowed them momentarily and now Ward raced across the corral. As they burst through the break, then, like water pouring over a dam, Ward leaped and caught the mane of one pony. The brush tore at his shirt as his pony broke out, and Ward swung up on its back now. Lying flat on its neck, he looked out over the racing herd and in the dim light saw that the horse guard had procured a horse too. He was yelling wildly, trying to turn the herd up the slope.

Ward roughly cuffed his horse in the jaw, and the horse swerved to the right to the outside of the herd, and now Ward saw the Apache ahead of him. He drew his gun, and drummed savagely on his pony's flanks, urging him to greater speed. The pony responded and pulled up almost abreast the Apache's pony. Raising his gun, Ward shot and he saw the Apache pitch over the shoulder of his horse and roll under the feet of the herd. Without pressure on them now, the horses turned down the slope and spread out, and Ward knew their break was clean.

Swinging off his own pony, he braked himself as best he could, lost his balance, and fell heavily on his shoulder as his pony pounded on to join the herd.

Rising now, gun still in hand, he turned back in the graying light for the camp. It was turmoil there he saw. From his right and up the slope he heard shouted orders in Storrow's bull voice. “Lower, Mack, lower! Swing around them!”

And then he saw the first troopers break clear of the rock above the broken corral. Ward, running, swung below the camp, and seeing the women heading off the bench, he shot twice. One woman stopped, irresolute, but the others kept on, and now he heard the pounding of booted feet behind him. It was Mack and his men.

Only a few scattered shots came from the camp, and were promptly returned by the troopers on the ridge. Ward pulled even with the Apache woman now and pushed her back toward the camp. The panic there was complete except for one old man whom Ward could see in the growing light. He stood utterly still, contemptuous of the screaming woman and his captors alike.

The camp was surrounded now, and moving in with Mack at his right, Ward yelled over the racket, “Mary Carlyle! Is Mary Carlyle here?”

His voice carried over the pandemonium, quieting it, and then in the bare light he saw a woman break from the others and run toward him. Another woman seized a spear from the ground and running after her, raised it overhead. Three separate shots broke from the ring of troopers, and the second woman was knocked rolling to the ground. The first woman ran straight for Sergeant Mack, and flung herself in his arms. Mack, a sensible man, held her as tightly as he would have a child, pressing her head to his chest as she sobbed in wild abandon.

Ward tramped over to him now, as Lieutenant Storrow, a trooper on each side of him, cut through the quieting camp, walking into and through the clustered womenfolk and children and breaking up their groups. He came directly to Mack, who wordlessly held the woman to him.

“Mrs. Carlyle?” Storrow asked.

When Mrs. Carlyle turned, Storrow's tough face broke into a smile. “We're happy to see you, ma'am.”

Mary Carlyle, Ann Dunnifon's sister, was as dark a girl as Ann. Her emaciated face made her brown eyes seem abnormally large. Her dress was Apache, her dark hair done Apache fashion, and she was crying unashamedly.

“Lieutenant Storrow, ma'am. Are you all right?”

Mary Carlyle didn't answer; she put out her hand to touch him, as if to reassure herself.

Storrow smiled again and called, “Corporal Samson!”

When Samson came up at a trot, Storrow said to Mrs. Carlyle, “Samson and his men will escort you back to our horses, Mrs. Carlyle. We aren't taking a chance of losing you again. Meanwhile, we have some business.”

“The soldiers at the head of the canyon are being attacked,” Mrs. Carlyle said haltingly, as if she were unsure of her words.

Ward said, “Mrs. Carlyle, is this the whole band?”

When she turned to him, Ward saw the dead weariness in her face, a weariness that told him she was on the verge of collapse.

“No, Sal Juan took his people last evening and they are headed for the Rincon potholes.”

“Are they close enough to join in this fight?”

“I don't know. Diablito sent runners for them.”

Ward's glance met Storrow's, and held it for a moment, and then Storrow said, “Mrs. Carlyle, are there weapons in this camp?”

“Yes.”

Storrow looked at Mack. “Make a quick search, Sergeant, and break anything that'll shoot. We don't want anything at our backs. You have five minutes before Kinsman takes us to join Delaney.”

The advance up the valley was steady, if slow, and Linus measured the alarm of the Apaches by the tenacity with which each Apache member of their rear guard fought before he was flushed out by troopers.

To the right of him in the dawn now, he could make out an occasional trooper advancing quickly to the shelter of a rock, checking with the man on the right and the left of him, as the line went slowly forward. He heard Loring's voice, angry and excited, lashing out at a laggard.

Far ahead up the trail, he saw pairs of Apaches meet, look back, sometimes remain there as if undecided, sometimes return to the fight. There was a vicious flurry of rifle fire to his left, which died as suddenly as it began. The band had not yet admitted defeat; when it did, he knew, there would simply be no resistance, no enemy to be seen. They would vanish completely, heading for their horses.

He heard someone running to his right, and looked around to see Trooper Menzies heading for him, bent low, taking advantage of each bit of shelter.

Menzies pulled in behind Linus' rock, and said breathlessly, “From Captain Loring, sir. He says to dig them out as you go, sir, and don't bypass them.”

Linus said, “Right. Thanks,” and rose to move on. Loring's order was so unnecessary that he wondered why Menzies didn't laugh aloud when he repeated it. He dodged on to further shelter and saw Trooper O'Mara parallel his advance.

O'Mara bellied down, and started to shoot at something to his left. Linus, watching, heard a swelling of gunfire by the east ridge, and paid it no attention. Moving forward cautiously now, he tried to see O'Mara's target among the yonder rocks, and could not, and then his glance shuttled to the east ridge.

For an instant, he could not believe his senses. There was a wild mêlée of close-quarter fighting at the base of the east ridge. He could see three separate Apaches standing over something, and the one with the spear was plunging it again and again at something on the ground. And then a movement on the east slope attracted his attention, and looking closely he saw a file of Apaches racing pell-mell down the east ridge in Loring's rear. They were already on the flats, too, running for positions in the rear of the long skirmish line.

For one appalled instant, Linus was tempted to rally his detail to Loring's aid, but he knew it would be fatal. Loring was flanked, and the rear of the whole line was open, the troopers unwarned and unprotected.

He yelled then at the top of his lungs, “West ridge! Rally at the west ridge!”

He saw a score of troopers rise and look in his direction, and he beckoned frantically, and then he wheeled, knowing that he must alert the rest.

Pounding past O'Mara, he called, “Form at the west ridge. Pass on the word!” He ran desperately now, bellowing over and over, “Form at the west ridge!” knowing this was a race for survival. Where was Storrow, who commanded this flank? Wounded, probably. If the line could swing around in time, it could go back to the ridge. To his right now, he could see troopers pulling out toward the ridge. To his left and behind him, he saw the racing brown forms of a half-dozen Apaches, yelling like coursing hounds after a rabbit.

At the base of the ridge, he halted and pulled the first two troopers down into position, and then he traveled the base of the ridge, forming his line. Every other man he sent on up the slope until he counted off a dozen under Corporal Samson; now, looking out, he could see that the first band of Apaches had joined with the second, forming a ragged line in the middle of the valley that was moving at them.

Loring, he knew, had been overrun, and for a long and bitter moment, he wondered how this had been allowed to happen.

The first rush of the Apaches now was a fury of haste. Samson's detail on the ridge poured down a scalding fire on them, and the two bands knew their chief hope of victory lay in close fighting. They came in a crouching ragged wave, and Linus saw one warrior come over a rock and leap desperately for the next one. He was hit in midair, and half turned, so that he landed loosely, heavily, with an impact that Linus felt through the earth he was lying on. Around them was a snarl of rifle fire, and the high excited yelling of the Apaches.

And then Linus heard other rifle fire, and he rose from his sheltering rock and saw an Apache standing in the open; he was staring across the valley, away from them, yelling excitedly, so that his face was a contorted mask of fury. Another Apache tried to join him and was wiped down by a shot that sent the second to cover too. Wheeling now and lunging up the slope, Linus clawed his way up until his breath gagged in him, then turned and looked.

A blue-uniformed trooper came into sight from behind a rock in the middle of the valley, and then another, and presently Linus saw the long line stretching up and down the valley, moving toward them. Loring?
They'd never leave a man of them alive
, he thought. Was it Wolverton? And then he picked out the gesticulating figure of Storrow. The Apaches were driving now for the canyon mouth, but the withering fire from the ridge was beating them down.

To Linus came the belated, stunning realization that the offensive was his again, and he bawled “Charge!” and piled down the slope, pistol in hand.

As the troopers moved out from the base of the slope, they saw it was over. Some of the Apaches were standing erect, looking up at the ridge as if announcing their surrender. They hunkered in pairs and trios by the rocks they had fought from, their guns on the dirt beside them, and were booted to their feet by the troopers. Slowly, pushing the sullen Apaches ahead of them, they moved out into the valley and saw the rest of the band. It was moving toward them, prodded by Storrow's detail.