lla.thelonelymen-第7章

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leaves　that　reflect　sunlight　and　give　off　no　moisture　to　the　sun。
　Plants　and　animals　have　learned　to　live　with　the　desert；　and　so　have　the　Apaches。　And　we；　the　four　of　us；　we　were　like　Apaches　in　that　regard。
　The　desert　is　the　enemy　of　the　careless。　Neither　time；　nor　trails；　nor　equipment　will　ever　change　that。　A　man　must　stay　alert　to　choose　the　easiest　routes；　he　travels　slow　to　save　himself；　he　keeps　his　eyes　open　to　see　those　signs　which　indicate　where　water　might　be　found。　The　flight　of　bees　or　birds；　the　tracks　of　small　animals；　the　land　of　plants　he　sees　…　these　things　he　must　notice；　for　certain　plants　are　indications　of　ground　water；　and　some　birds　and　animals　never　live　far　from　water。　Others　drink　little；　or　rarely；　getting　the　moisture　they　need　from　the　plants　they　eat　or　the　animals　they　kill。
　We　rode　until　the　sun　was　two　hours　in　the　sky；　and　then　we　turned　off　into　a　narrow　canyon　and　hunted　shade　to　wait　through　the　hottest　hours。　We　unsaddled；　let　the　horses　roll；　then　watered　them　at　a　little　seep　Rocca　knew　of。　After　that；　with　one　man　to　watch；　we　stretched　out　on　the　sand　to　catch　some　rest。　There　always　had　to　be　a　man　on　watch；　because　the　Apaches　were　great　horse　thieves；　though　not　a　patch　on　the　anches；　who　could　steal　a　horse　from　under　you　whilst　you　sat　in　the　saddle。　You　either　kept　watch　or　you　found　yourself　afoot；　and　in　the　desert；　unless　you're　almighty　canny；　that　means　you're　dead。
　First　off；　when　we　rode　into　that　canyon　we　studied　the　opening　for　sign。　A　man　in　wild　country　soon　gets　so　he　can　read　the　trail　sign　as　easy　as　most　folks　read　a　newspaper；　and　often　it's　even　more　interesting。
　You　not　only　read　what　sign　you　see　on　the　ground；　but　you　learn　to　read　dust　in　the　distant　air　…　how　many　riders　there　are　under　that　dust；　and　where　they're　headed。
　The　droppings　left　by　horses　also　have　a　story　to　tell；　whether　that　horse　has　been　grain…fed；　whether　he　has　been　grazing　off　country　grass　or　desert　plants。
　And　no　two　horses　leave　the　same　track。　Each　is　a　mite　different；　and　their　gaits　are　different。　Their　hoofs　do　not　strike　with　the　same　impact；　and　sometimes　there's　a　difference　in　the　way　they　are　shod。
　We　could　tell　that　nobody　had　been　in　that　canyon　for　weeks。　We　knew；　too；　that　most　of　the　time　during　the　months　of　June；　July；　and　August　in　Sonora　you'll　get　some　rain。　Sudden　showers　that　may　be　gone　as　quickly　as　they　e；　but　enough　to　settle　the　dust　and　to　fill　some　of　the　〃tanks〃　in　the　desert　mountains。
　Among　those　desert　ridges　such　tanks　are　frequent；　pits　hollowed　in　the　rock　over　the　centuries　by　driving　rain；　or　shaped　by　run…off　water。　During　heavy　rains　these　tanks　collect　water　and　hold　it　for　weeks；　or　even　for　months。　We'd　had　some　rain；　so　the　better　water…holes　and　tanks　were　holding　water　now。
　Shortly　before　sundown；　rested　by　our　nap　in　the　shade；　we　saddled　up　again。　This　time　I　took　the　lead。
　There　were　clusters　of　cholla　and　ocotillo；　and　we　took　advantage　of　them　as　much　as　possible　to　shield　our　movements。　The　route　we　used　was　an　ancient　one　rarely　traveled　in　these　days；　but　from　time　to　time　we'd　pull　up　near　a　clump　of　brush　where　the　outlines　of　our　horses　and　ourselves　would　merge　into　the　growth；　and　there　we'd　set；　studying　the　country　around　us。
　You　might　think　that　out　in　such　open　country；　with　no　good　cover　anywhere；　a　body　wouldn't　have　to　worry；　but　knowing　Apaches　the　way　we　did；　we　knew　that　twenty　of　them　could　be　hidden　out　there　in　a　matter　of　yards；　and　nobody　the　wiser。
　We　were　taking　our　time；　saving　our　horses。　An　Apache；　who　often　rode　his　horses　to　death；　will　make　sixty　to　seventy　miles　a　day　if　he's　in　a　hurry。　On　foot　he'll　cover　thirty…five　to　forty　miles　a　day　even　in　rough　country。　That　was　about　what　we　were　doing　a…horseback。
　About　an　hour　after　dark；　we　rode　down　into　a　little　hollow　choked　with　mesquite　brush　and　built　ourselves　a　tiny　fire　of　dried　wood　and　made　coffee。　The　fire　was　well　hidden　in　the　hollow　and　the　brush；　and　it　gave　us　a　chance　to　get　the　coffee　we　dearly　needed。
　〃What　you　think？〃　Rocca　said　suddenly。　〃One　rider？〃
　〃Uh…huh；〃　I　said；　〃a　small　man　or　a　boy。〃
　〃What　are　you　talking　about？〃　Battles　asked。
　〃We've　been　picking　up　tracks；〃　I　told　them。　〃A　shod　horse。　A　small　horse；　but　a　good　one。　Moves　well　。。。　desert　bred。〃
　〃Injun；　on　a　stolen　horse；〃　Spanish　said　promptly。　〃No　white　man　would　be　ridin'　alone　in　this　neck　of　the　woods。〃
　Rocca　shrugged　doubtfully。　〃Maybe　so　。。。　I　don't　know。〃
　Those　tracks　had　been　worrying　my　mind　for　quite　a　few　minutes；　for　whoever　rode　that　horse　was　riding　with　caution；　which　meant　it　was　no　Apache。　An　Apache　would　know　he　was　in　country　where　his　people　were　supreme；　and　although　he　would　keep　alert；　he　would　not　be　pausing　to　scout　the　country　as　this　rider　was。
　In　my　mind　I　was　sure；　and　I　knew　Rocca　was　sure；　that　the　rider　was　no　Indian。　Unless；　maybe；　an　Indian　child。
　When　the　desert　sun　was　gone　the　heat　went　with　it；　and　a　coolness　came　over　the　land。　The　horses；　quickened　by　the　cool　air；　moved　forward　as　eagerly　as　if　they　could　already　smell　the　pines　of　the　Sierra　Madre。　From　time　to　time　we　drew　up　to　listen　into　the　night。
　About　an　hour　before　daylight　we　gave　our　horses　a　breather。　Rocca；　squatting　on　his　heels　behind　a　mesquite　bush；　lit　a　cigarette　cupped　in　the　palm　of　his　hand　and　glanced　at　me。　〃You　know　the　Bavispe？〃
　〃Yes　。。。　we'll　hit　at　the　big　bend　。。。　where　she　turns　south　again。〃
　Tampico　Rocca　knew　this　country　better　than　I　did。　After　all；　he　was　half　Apache；　and　he　had　lived　in　the　Sierra　Madre。　Battles　was　sleeping；　and　Spanish　he　went　over　to　listen　to　the　night　sounds；　away　from　our　voices。　I　was　hot　and　tired；　and　was　wishing　for　a　bath　in　that　river　up　ahead；　but　it　wasn't　likely　I'd　get　one。
　Rocca　was　quiet　for　a　spell；　and　I　settled　back　on　the　sand　and　stared　up　at　the　stars。　They　looked　lonely　up　there　in　the　nighttime　sky；　lonely　as　we　were　down　here。　I　was　a　solitary　man；　a　drifter　across　the　country；　with　no　more　home　than　a　tumbleweed；　but　so　were　we　all。　We　were　men　without　women；　and　if　all　the　nights　we'd　spent　under　a　roof　were　put　together　they　would　scarcely　cover　four　or　five　weeks。
　Men　have　a　way　of　drifting　together　without　much　rhyme　or　reason；　just　the　circumstances　of　their　living　brings　them　together；　just　as　we　had　been　brought　together　in　Yuma。　Now　the　three　of　them　were　chancing　their　lives　to　lend　me　a　hand；　but　that　was　the　way　with　western　men；　and　chances　were　I'd　have　done　the　same　for　them。
　We　started　on　again　when　the　first　streaks　of　dawn　were　coloring　the　eastern　sky。　The　cactus　began　to　be　separate　from　the　other　shadows；　and　the　rocks　stood　out；　dark　and　somber。　We　rode　single　file；　nobody　talking　until　the　gray　sky　was　yellowing　overhead；　and　then　in　a　quiet　corner　we　stopped；　found　a　place　to　hide　a　fire；　and　made　a　small　breakfast
　We　were　careful　to　build　our　fire　in　a　hollow　and　under　a　mesquite　bush；　where　the　rising　smoke　would　be　dissipated　by　the　branches　overhead　。。。　though　using　dry　wood　there　was　little　smoke。　Our　time　for　hot　meals　was　about　over。　Barring　some　sort　of　accident；　we　should　soon　e　up　to　the　Bavispe。　Once　we　crossed　that　we　would　be　in　the　heart　of　Apache　country；　with　them　on　every　side　of　us。
　The　Apache；　in　a　sparse；　harsh　land　where　raising　any　crops　was　mighty　nigh　impossible；　turned　to　raiding　and　robbing。
　Generally；　the　men　I'd　heard　talk　of　the　Indian　thought　it　was　taking　his　land　that　ruined　him。　As　a　matter　of　fact；　it　had　much　to　do　with　it；　for　an　Indian　couldn't　live　on　a　fixed　ten　acres　or　a　hundred　acres　and　live　as　he　liked。　He　needed　lots　of　hunting　ground；　and　country　that　would　support　fifty　Indians　would　support　ten　thousand　planting　white　men。
　But　the　Indian　was　whipped　the　first　time　one　of　them　had　a　rifle　for　his　own。　It　was　the　trader　who　whipped　the　Indian　by　giving　or　selling　him　things　he　couldn't　make　himself。　From　that　time　on；　the　Indian　was　dependent　on　the　white　man　for　ammunition；　for　more　guns；　for　more　of　the　things　he　was　getting　a　taste　for。　It　was　good　sitting　there　in　the　cool　of　early　morning；　with　the　faint　smell　of　woodsmoke　in　the　air；　the　smell　of　frying　bacon；　the　smell　of　good　coffee。　We　were　taking　a　chance；　but　we　had　scouted　the　country　with　care。
　〃How　old's　the　boy？〃　Spanish　asked　suddenly。
　〃Five　。。。　I　think。　About　that。〃
　〃You　think　he's　still　alive；　Tamp？〃　Battles　asked。
　Rocca　shrugged。　〃Depends　on　whether　he's　a　nervy　kid；　maybe。　We'll　pick　up　some　tracks　soon。〃
　〃Seen　any　more　of　that　strange　rider？〃　Battles　asked。　〃I　been　watching　for　tracks　all　morning。〃
　〃No；〃　I　said；　〃I　haven't　seen　any。〃
　〃What's　it　like　up　yonder？〃　Spanish　asked。
　〃Oaks　。。。　then　pines。　Running　streams；　rocks。　All　anybody　could　want　but　grub。　They　have　to　bring　it　in。　They　get　it　from　the　Mexicans；　or　they　kill　them。〃　He　gestured。　〃The　Apaches　have　almost　cleared　this　part　of　Sonora　of　the　Mexicans。　At　least　the　rich　ones。　And　the　poor　ones　can　only　stay　if　they'll　provide　food　for　the　Apaches。〃
　My　thoughts　went　back　over　the　desert　to　Laura。　She　was　a　pretty　woman；　and　she　was　brave　。。。　holding　herself　up；　like　she　did；　with　her　little　boy　lost；　and　all。　But　somehow　she　left　me　uneasy。　But　I　was　never　very　fortable　around　women　。。。　except　Ange。　And　the　Trelawney　girls　I'd　known　back　home　in　the　hills。
　We　sat　there　quiet　a　little　longer；　listening　to　the　horses　cropping　at　the　shrubs。　Rocca　was　smoking　and　squinting　at　the　hills　around。
　None　of　us　knew　what　might　be　waiting　for　us　up　yonder。　Even　if　we　found　the　boy　alive；　we　still　had　to　get　him　from　the　Apaches　and　get　him　back　across　the　border。　Our　chances　were　none　too　good。　I　looked　over　at　Rocca　and　said；　〃Shall　we　move　out？〃
　He　rubbed　his　cigarette　into　the　sand；　and　got　up。
　Me；　I　just　stood　there　a　moment　or　two　thinking。　All　of　a　sudden　I　wished　I　was　somewhere　else。　We　were　facing　up　to　a　lot　of　hell；　and　I　looked　forward　to　none　of　it。　Besides；　there　was　something　about　this　whole　affair　that　made　me　mighty　uneasy。
　We　crossed　the　Bavispe　and　took　a　thin　trail　that　led　up　through　scattered　oaks；　along　steep　switchbacks　toward　the　pines。　The　only　sound　was　the　chirping　of　birds；　the　grunting　of　one　of　the　horses　over　a　steep　part　of　the　trail；　or　the　clatter　of　a　falling　rock。
　For　an　hour　we　climbed；　pausing　several　tunes　to　let　the　horses　catch　their　breath。　Finally　we　rode　out　on　a　bench　under　the　pines　where　stood　the　ruins　of　stone　houses　built　of　rough　lava　blocks　with　no　mortar。　There　were　at　least　a　dozen　of　them　in　sight；　and　maybe　more　back　under　the　trees。　The　walls　were　of　a　sort　of　gray　felsite；　and　here　and　there　one　appeared　to　be　better　built　than　the　others；　as　though　built　by　different　hands；　by　different　thinking。
　Rocca　indicated　a　slight　depression　in　the　grass　near　one　of　the　walls。　〃We're　still　on　the　trail。〃
　A　crushed　pine　cone　looked　as　if　it　had　been　scarred　by　a　sharp…shod　hoof。　There　were　other　signs　too。
　The　country　here　was　wild　and　rugged；　and　we　saw　no　water。　We　were　now　over　six　thousand　feet　up；　judging　by　the　growth　around　us；　and　still　we　climbed。　The　trail　occasionally　wound　along　a　rim　with　an　almost　sheer　drop　falling　off　on　one