Trail Of the Apache and Other Stories (1951) by Elmore Leonard Page A
Authors: Elmore Leonard
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already.
Billy Guay pushed in close to the two men.
Dammit, the cloud could have still been buffalo, h e said. Who says you know so damn much!
Ed Hyde looked from one to the other like an unbiased spectator. He dropped the long buffalo rin1/4ee stock down in front of him. His worn black serge coat strained tight at the armpits as he lifted his hands to pat his coat pockets. From the right one he drew a half-chewed tobacco plug.
For a moment Angsman just stared at Billy Guay.
Finally he said, Look, boy, for a good many years it's been my business to know so damn much.
Now, you'll take my word that the dust cloud was an Indian hunting party and act on it like I see fit, or else we turn around and go back.
Ed Hyde's grizzled head jerked up suddenly. He said, You're dead right, Angsman. There ain't been buffalo this far south for ten years. He looked at the boy and spoke easier. Take my word for it, Billy. He smiled. If anybody knows it, I d o. Those Indians most likely ran down a deer herd. But hell, deer, buffalo, what's the difference?
We're not out here for game. You just follow along with what Angsman here says and we all go home rich men. Take things slow, Billy, and you breathe easier.
I just want to know why's he got to give all the orders, Billy Guay said, and his voice was rising.
It's us that own the map, not him. Where'd he be without us!
Angsman's voice was the same, unhurried, unexcited, when he said, I'll tell you. I'd still be back at Bowie guiding for cavalry who ride with their eyes open and know how to keep their mouths shut in Apache country. He didn't wait for a reply, but turned and walked toward the dun-colored mare.
Ygenio, he called to the Mexican still sitting cross-legged on the ground, hold the mules a good fifty yards behind us and keep your eyes on me.
Eight days out of Willcox and the strain was be ginning to tell. It had been bad from the first day.
Now they were in the foothills of the Mogollons You Never See Apaches . . . a nd it was no better. Angsman had thought that as soon as they climbed from the dust of the plains the tension would ease and the boy would be easier to handle, but Billy Guay continued to grumble with his thumbs in his gun belts and disagree with everything that was said. And Ed Hyde continued to say nothing unless turning back was mentioned.
Since early morning their trail had followed this pine-covered crest that angled irregularly between the massive rock peaks to the south and east and the white-gold plain to the west. Most of the ways the trail had held to the shoulder, turning, twisting, and falling with the contour of the hillcrest. And from the west the openness of the plains continued to cling in glaring monotony.
Most of the time Angsman's eyes scanned the openness, and the small black specks continued to crawl along in his vision.
The trail dipped abruptly into a dry creek basin that slanted down from between rocky humps looming close to the right. Angsman reined his mount diagonally down the bank, then at the bottom kicked hard to send the mare into a fast start up the opposite bank. The gravel loosened and fell away as hooves dug through the dry crust to clink against the sandy rock. Momentarily the horse began to fall back, but Angsman spurred again and grunted something close to her ear to make the mare heave and kick up over the bank.
He rode on a few yards before turning to wait for the others.
Billy Guay reached the creek bank and yelled across, without hesitating, Hey, Angsman, you tryin' to pick the roughest damn trail you can find?
The scout winced as the voice slammed against the towering rock walls and drifted over the n1/4eats, vibrating and repeating far off in the distance. He threw off and ran to the creek bank. Billy Guay began to laugh as the echo came back to him. Damn, Ed. You hear that! His voice carried clear and loud across the arroyo. Angsman put a finger to his mouth and shook his head repeatedly when he saw Ed Hyde
Billy Guay pushed in close to the two men.
Dammit, the cloud could have still been buffalo, h e said. Who says you know so damn much!
Ed Hyde looked from one to the other like an unbiased spectator. He dropped the long buffalo rin1/4ee stock down in front of him. His worn black serge coat strained tight at the armpits as he lifted his hands to pat his coat pockets. From the right one he drew a half-chewed tobacco plug.
For a moment Angsman just stared at Billy Guay.
Finally he said, Look, boy, for a good many years it's been my business to know so damn much.
Now, you'll take my word that the dust cloud was an Indian hunting party and act on it like I see fit, or else we turn around and go back.
Ed Hyde's grizzled head jerked up suddenly. He said, You're dead right, Angsman. There ain't been buffalo this far south for ten years. He looked at the boy and spoke easier. Take my word for it, Billy. He smiled. If anybody knows it, I d o. Those Indians most likely ran down a deer herd. But hell, deer, buffalo, what's the difference?
We're not out here for game. You just follow along with what Angsman here says and we all go home rich men. Take things slow, Billy, and you breathe easier.
I just want to know why's he got to give all the orders, Billy Guay said, and his voice was rising.
It's us that own the map, not him. Where'd he be without us!
Angsman's voice was the same, unhurried, unexcited, when he said, I'll tell you. I'd still be back at Bowie guiding for cavalry who ride with their eyes open and know how to keep their mouths shut in Apache country. He didn't wait for a reply, but turned and walked toward the dun-colored mare.
Ygenio, he called to the Mexican still sitting cross-legged on the ground, hold the mules a good fifty yards behind us and keep your eyes on me.
Eight days out of Willcox and the strain was be ginning to tell. It had been bad from the first day.
Now they were in the foothills of the Mogollons You Never See Apaches . . . a nd it was no better. Angsman had thought that as soon as they climbed from the dust of the plains the tension would ease and the boy would be easier to handle, but Billy Guay continued to grumble with his thumbs in his gun belts and disagree with everything that was said. And Ed Hyde continued to say nothing unless turning back was mentioned.
Since early morning their trail had followed this pine-covered crest that angled irregularly between the massive rock peaks to the south and east and the white-gold plain to the west. Most of the ways the trail had held to the shoulder, turning, twisting, and falling with the contour of the hillcrest. And from the west the openness of the plains continued to cling in glaring monotony.
Most of the time Angsman's eyes scanned the openness, and the small black specks continued to crawl along in his vision.
The trail dipped abruptly into a dry creek basin that slanted down from between rocky humps looming close to the right. Angsman reined his mount diagonally down the bank, then at the bottom kicked hard to send the mare into a fast start up the opposite bank. The gravel loosened and fell away as hooves dug through the dry crust to clink against the sandy rock. Momentarily the horse began to fall back, but Angsman spurred again and grunted something close to her ear to make the mare heave and kick up over the bank.
He rode on a few yards before turning to wait for the others.
Billy Guay reached the creek bank and yelled across, without hesitating, Hey, Angsman, you tryin' to pick the roughest damn trail you can find?
The scout winced as the voice slammed against the towering rock walls and drifted over the n1/4eats, vibrating and repeating far off in the distance. He threw off and ran to the creek bank. Billy Guay began to laugh as the echo came back to him. Damn, Ed. You hear that! His voice carried clear and loud across the arroyo. Angsman put a finger to his mouth and shook his head repeatedly when he saw Ed Hyde
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