Things have eased enough for wagons and stages to come through the valley. Oh, the Apaches may swoop down in a few raids like at Weaver's Ranch, but we've got Agustín pretty well trapped up on the mountain." He gestured toward the Mazatzals and grinned. "See that smoke? Probably old Agustín barbecuing one of your mules, Drumm! Nothing an Apache likes better than a mule steak!"
"I should think," Drumm muttered, "that with their need of transportation they would be very foolish indeed to eat their animals!"
The brigandish-looking corporal whom Drumm remembered from the encounter with Dunaway in the canyon hooted with laughter. A trooper slapped his thigh and grinned a gap-tooth grin. Dunaway was also amused. He swigged water from a canteen and put the cap back on, savoring the moment. "An Englishman couldn't be expected to know, I guess, but Apaches don't
ride
horses—they eat them!"
"Eat them?"
"That's right."
Drumm was bewildered. He gestured at the infinite space of the playa. "But how do they get around, then?"
"They
walk
!" Seeing Drumm's astonished stare, Dunaway chuckled. "You know Port Isabel, down on the Gulf?"
"Of course. We landed there, on the
Sierra Nevada
, from San Francisco."
"Then you know it's a hundred miles from Port Isabel up to Yuma?"
"About that. Yes, I should guess a hundred miles."
"Colorado Steam Navigation Company had some tame Apaches hired a while back to run mail from Port Isabel to Yuma. The red sons of—" He coughed, delicately. "An Apache runner delivered the mail on regular schedule; a hundred miles in twenty-four hours." He glanced toward the train of freight wagons, now drawing up at the river to water their teams of oxen. "Well—"
"If the rascals are walking," Jack Drumm said in a tight voice, "then it seems to me your mounted command should have captured them by now, and have them safely back on the Verde River reservation, where they cannot plague innocent travelers!"
Dunaway scowled. "We've been in the saddle for six days running! An Apache on foot is harder to catch than a flea in a sandstorm! I've seen 'em travel all day and all night with no food but a handful of mesquite beans, and gain on us! A man on a horse shows up a long way off, but an Indian on foot looks like another damned bush till he raises up and shoots your ass off!"
Drumm had found a sensitive spot, and probed deeper.
"Nevertheless, I should think a few men from our Middlesex Regiment could handle this situation rather better. They have fought Indians—real Indians, from India—for a long time. They probably know better how to handle the aborigines than you people from the Colonies!"
George Dunaway turned red. The scorching afternoon was suddenly quiet. The teamsters, scenting trouble, gathered around. Someone laughed, a jeering laugh probably intended for Jack Drumm.
"Miss Larkin," Drumm said coolly, "perhaps you and Mrs. Glore had better get your things together now. Lieutenant Dunaway will see you safely to Prescott and your uncle—that is, if Indians on foot do not overwhelm him on the way!"
He was being deliberately insufferable; he knew it, and he enjoyed it. Dunaway's insolence and contempt, added to the other indignities he had experienced since coming to the Territory, drove him to it. Besides, Miss Larkin was watching the exchange with interest. Jack Drumm was not used to being put down at all, even less before an attractive female. Satisfied, he turned on his heel in curt dismissal of the U. S. Army and its fumbling attempts to deal with the rebellious Agustín. But Dunaway cleared his throat and said, "Just a minute!"
Surprised, Drumm turned.
"Corporal Bagley," Dunaway said to the brigand, "I ask you to witness that George Dunaway, Sixth Cavalry, U. S. Army, Fort Whipple, near Prescott, is now going off duty. Whatever happens next has got nothing to do with the Army." Carefully he unpinned the silver bars from his shoulders and removed the collar insignia from his sweat-stained
"I should think," Drumm muttered, "that with their need of transportation they would be very foolish indeed to eat their animals!"
The brigandish-looking corporal whom Drumm remembered from the encounter with Dunaway in the canyon hooted with laughter. A trooper slapped his thigh and grinned a gap-tooth grin. Dunaway was also amused. He swigged water from a canteen and put the cap back on, savoring the moment. "An Englishman couldn't be expected to know, I guess, but Apaches don't
ride
horses—they eat them!"
"Eat them?"
"That's right."
Drumm was bewildered. He gestured at the infinite space of the playa. "But how do they get around, then?"
"They
walk
!" Seeing Drumm's astonished stare, Dunaway chuckled. "You know Port Isabel, down on the Gulf?"
"Of course. We landed there, on the
Sierra Nevada
, from San Francisco."
"Then you know it's a hundred miles from Port Isabel up to Yuma?"
"About that. Yes, I should guess a hundred miles."
"Colorado Steam Navigation Company had some tame Apaches hired a while back to run mail from Port Isabel to Yuma. The red sons of—" He coughed, delicately. "An Apache runner delivered the mail on regular schedule; a hundred miles in twenty-four hours." He glanced toward the train of freight wagons, now drawing up at the river to water their teams of oxen. "Well—"
"If the rascals are walking," Jack Drumm said in a tight voice, "then it seems to me your mounted command should have captured them by now, and have them safely back on the Verde River reservation, where they cannot plague innocent travelers!"
Dunaway scowled. "We've been in the saddle for six days running! An Apache on foot is harder to catch than a flea in a sandstorm! I've seen 'em travel all day and all night with no food but a handful of mesquite beans, and gain on us! A man on a horse shows up a long way off, but an Indian on foot looks like another damned bush till he raises up and shoots your ass off!"
Drumm had found a sensitive spot, and probed deeper.
"Nevertheless, I should think a few men from our Middlesex Regiment could handle this situation rather better. They have fought Indians—real Indians, from India—for a long time. They probably know better how to handle the aborigines than you people from the Colonies!"
George Dunaway turned red. The scorching afternoon was suddenly quiet. The teamsters, scenting trouble, gathered around. Someone laughed, a jeering laugh probably intended for Jack Drumm.
"Miss Larkin," Drumm said coolly, "perhaps you and Mrs. Glore had better get your things together now. Lieutenant Dunaway will see you safely to Prescott and your uncle—that is, if Indians on foot do not overwhelm him on the way!"
He was being deliberately insufferable; he knew it, and he enjoyed it. Dunaway's insolence and contempt, added to the other indignities he had experienced since coming to the Territory, drove him to it. Besides, Miss Larkin was watching the exchange with interest. Jack Drumm was not used to being put down at all, even less before an attractive female. Satisfied, he turned on his heel in curt dismissal of the U. S. Army and its fumbling attempts to deal with the rebellious Agustín. But Dunaway cleared his throat and said, "Just a minute!"
Surprised, Drumm turned.
"Corporal Bagley," Dunaway said to the brigand, "I ask you to witness that George Dunaway, Sixth Cavalry, U. S. Army, Fort Whipple, near Prescott, is now going off duty. Whatever happens next has got nothing to do with the Army." Carefully he unpinned the silver bars from his shoulders and removed the collar insignia from his sweat-stained
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