the Lonely Men (1969) by Louis - Sackett's 14 L'amour Page B
Authors: Louis - Sackett's 14 L'amour
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clothing, evidently stripped from some Mexican or his wife -- from our distance we could not determine which.
Suddenly Battles grabbed my arm and pointed. Several children had come up, carrying bundles of sticks. At least one appeared to be a white boy, his face was partly turned from them. He was a tall youngster, perhaps eight or nine years old.
This could be the place. Whatever else we did, we must talk to that boy.
I was conscious of the fresh smell of the pines and of crushed pine needles underfoot. There was a faint smell of smoke from the camp, and I could make out the sound of Indian voices speaking. Inside me, I was still -- waiting, thinking.
If there were other white children around, that boy would know about them. But what if he had already become close to being an Apache? Taken young enough, many American or Mexican children had no wish to leave the Apaches. To speak to him was a risk, but it must be done.
Spanish, he looked over at me. "We got us a job, boy," he said.
"I never figured it to be easy." I studied the rancheria, and I did not feel happy about the situation.
"We're too close," Rocca said. "We'd better move back. If the wind changed a mite, the dogs could smell us."
So we moved back among the trees and, weaving around a little, we found ourselves a tree-shaded hollow with a lot of boulders around and some big trees.
It was a perfect place to hide, and we were out of the wind there.
But I was worried. When I traveled alone, as I most often did, I had nobody to worry about but myself, and if I got into trouble there was only my own scalp to lose. This shape-up was entirely different, for these men had come along only to help me. If anything happened to them I'd have it on my mind.
We were here, though, and we had a job to do. "Rocca," I said, "is it likely that boy yonder would ever be left alone?"
"I doubt it. Depend on how long he's been with them, and how much they've come to trust him. There's a chance maybe."
"He'd be likely to know about other white youngsters, wouldn't he?"
"It's likely. Word gets around, and the Apache children would know, and they'd be apt to speak of it. At least when I was a boy in those Apache camps I knew most of what went on."
For the time being there was nothing much we could do, so the others stretched out to catch a little sleep, and I worked up to the bluff to get a better look than we'd had before.
The camp was quiet. The squaws never stopped working, of course, always busy at something, and a few youngsters played around. One of the Apache braves we had seen ride into camp sat cross-legged in front of his wickiup. He was a stoop-shouldered but strongly made man of about my own age, and he had a new Winchester that was never far from his hand. Even here, in their own hide-out, they never let up.
After a while I returned to camp and Spanish took my place up on the bluff.
Under a low tree I settled down for some rest.
When I awoke I fought myself back to reality with an effort. I'd been dog-tired, and whilst I usually was ready to wake up on the slightest sound, this time I had really slept.
The first thing I noticed was the silence. There was no fire, of course, and there was little light. It was late afternoon, and under the trees it was already shading down to dusk.
For a moment I lay quiet, listening. Raising my head, I looked around. Over yonder there was a saddle -- I could see the faint shine of it. I could see nothing else, nor could I hear any sound but the soft rustling of the leaves overhead.
My right hand moved for my rifle, closed around the action. A shot fired here would bring Apaches around us like bees from a kicked hive.
Carefully, I eased back the blanket, moved my feet out, and then drew them up and rolled to my knees. Glancing to where John J. Battles was lying, I could see his body under a blanket. He was asleep ... at least he was not moving.
Rocca was nowhere in sight, his bed was empty. We had purposely scattered out to
Suddenly Battles grabbed my arm and pointed. Several children had come up, carrying bundles of sticks. At least one appeared to be a white boy, his face was partly turned from them. He was a tall youngster, perhaps eight or nine years old.
This could be the place. Whatever else we did, we must talk to that boy.
I was conscious of the fresh smell of the pines and of crushed pine needles underfoot. There was a faint smell of smoke from the camp, and I could make out the sound of Indian voices speaking. Inside me, I was still -- waiting, thinking.
If there were other white children around, that boy would know about them. But what if he had already become close to being an Apache? Taken young enough, many American or Mexican children had no wish to leave the Apaches. To speak to him was a risk, but it must be done.
Spanish, he looked over at me. "We got us a job, boy," he said.
"I never figured it to be easy." I studied the rancheria, and I did not feel happy about the situation.
"We're too close," Rocca said. "We'd better move back. If the wind changed a mite, the dogs could smell us."
So we moved back among the trees and, weaving around a little, we found ourselves a tree-shaded hollow with a lot of boulders around and some big trees.
It was a perfect place to hide, and we were out of the wind there.
But I was worried. When I traveled alone, as I most often did, I had nobody to worry about but myself, and if I got into trouble there was only my own scalp to lose. This shape-up was entirely different, for these men had come along only to help me. If anything happened to them I'd have it on my mind.
We were here, though, and we had a job to do. "Rocca," I said, "is it likely that boy yonder would ever be left alone?"
"I doubt it. Depend on how long he's been with them, and how much they've come to trust him. There's a chance maybe."
"He'd be likely to know about other white youngsters, wouldn't he?"
"It's likely. Word gets around, and the Apache children would know, and they'd be apt to speak of it. At least when I was a boy in those Apache camps I knew most of what went on."
For the time being there was nothing much we could do, so the others stretched out to catch a little sleep, and I worked up to the bluff to get a better look than we'd had before.
The camp was quiet. The squaws never stopped working, of course, always busy at something, and a few youngsters played around. One of the Apache braves we had seen ride into camp sat cross-legged in front of his wickiup. He was a stoop-shouldered but strongly made man of about my own age, and he had a new Winchester that was never far from his hand. Even here, in their own hide-out, they never let up.
After a while I returned to camp and Spanish took my place up on the bluff.
Under a low tree I settled down for some rest.
When I awoke I fought myself back to reality with an effort. I'd been dog-tired, and whilst I usually was ready to wake up on the slightest sound, this time I had really slept.
The first thing I noticed was the silence. There was no fire, of course, and there was little light. It was late afternoon, and under the trees it was already shading down to dusk.
For a moment I lay quiet, listening. Raising my head, I looked around. Over yonder there was a saddle -- I could see the faint shine of it. I could see nothing else, nor could I hear any sound but the soft rustling of the leaves overhead.
My right hand moved for my rifle, closed around the action. A shot fired here would bring Apaches around us like bees from a kicked hive.
Carefully, I eased back the blanket, moved my feet out, and then drew them up and rolled to my knees. Glancing to where John J. Battles was lying, I could see his body under a blanket. He was asleep ... at least he was not moving.
Rocca was nowhere in sight, his bed was empty. We had purposely scattered out to
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