Trail Of the Apache and Other Stories (1951) Read Online Free
Author: Elmore Leonard
cool, but still, and the stillness held the promise of the blistering heat of the day to come.
The sun was only a little higher when Travisin and his scouts rode up to four wickiups along the bank of the Gila. Travisin halted the detail, but did not dismount. He sat motionless in the saddle, his senses alert to the quiet. He said something in Apache and one of the scouts threw off and cautiously entered the first wickiup. He reappeared in an instant, shaking his head from side to side. In the third hut, the scout remained longer than usual.
When he reappeared he was dragging an unconscious Indian by the legs.
Travisin said, That one of them, Barney?
Fry swung down from his pony and leaned over the prostrate Indian, saying a few words in Apache to the scout still holding the Indian's legs. He's a Chiricahua, Captain. Dead drunk. Must have been drinking for at least two days. He nodded his head toward the Apache scout. Ningun says there's a jug inside with a little tizwin in it.
Travisin pointed to two of the scouts and then swept his arm in the direction of the fourth wickiup. They kicked their ponies to a leaping start, dashed to the hut and gave it a quick inspection. In a minute they were back.
The scouts watched Travisin intently as he studied the situation. They knew what the signs meant.
They sat their ponies now with restless anticipation, fingering their carbines, checking ammunition belts, holding in the small, wiry horses that also seemed to be charged with the excitement of the moment for there is no love lost between the Coyotero and the Chiricahua. Eric Travisin knew as well as any of them what the sign meant: sixteen drunken Apaches screaming through the countryside with blood in their eyes and a bad taste in their mouths. It was something that had to be stopped before the Indians regained their senses. Now they were loco Apaches, bloodthirsty, but a bit careless.
By the next day, unless stopped, they would again be cold, patient guerrilla fighters led by the master strategist, Pillo.
From the direction of the agency a scout rode into sight beating his pony to a whirlwind pace. He reined in abruptly and shouted something to Fry through the dust cloud.
We been sleepin', Captain. He says Gatito made off with a dozen carbines and two hundred rounds of forty-fours. Must have sneaked them out sometime last night.
In Travisin, the excitement of what lay ahead was building up continually. Now it was beginning Trail of the Apache to break through his calm surface. We're awake now, Barney. I figure they'll either streak south for the Madres right away, or contact their people up near Apache by dodging through the Basin and then heading east for the reservation. I know if I w as going to hide out for a while, I'd sure want my wife along. Let's find out which it is.
Chapter Four: The Rustlers.
By midmorning Travisin's scouts had followed the tracks of the hostiles to an elevated stretch of pines wedged tightly among bare, rolling hills.
They halted a few hundred yards from the wooded area, in the open. Before them the land, dotted with mesquite and catclaw, climbed gradually to the pine plateau; and the sun-glare made shimmering waves, hazy and filmy white, as they looked ahead to the contrasting black of the pines. A shallow arroyo cut its way down from the ridge past where the detail stood, finally ending at the banks of the Gila, twelve miles behind them. On both sides of the crusted edges of the arroyo, the unshod tracks they had been following all morning moved straight ahead.
Ningun, the Apache scout, rode up the arroyo a hundred yards, circled and returned. He mumbled only a few words to Fry, who glanced at the pine ridge again before speaking.
He says the tracks go all the way up. Ain't no other place they could go.
Does he think they're still up there? Travisin asked the question without taking his eyes from the ridge.
He didn't say, but I know he don't think so.
Barney Fry pulled out a tobacco
The sun was only a little higher when Travisin and his scouts rode up to four wickiups along the bank of the Gila. Travisin halted the detail, but did not dismount. He sat motionless in the saddle, his senses alert to the quiet. He said something in Apache and one of the scouts threw off and cautiously entered the first wickiup. He reappeared in an instant, shaking his head from side to side. In the third hut, the scout remained longer than usual.
When he reappeared he was dragging an unconscious Indian by the legs.
Travisin said, That one of them, Barney?
Fry swung down from his pony and leaned over the prostrate Indian, saying a few words in Apache to the scout still holding the Indian's legs. He's a Chiricahua, Captain. Dead drunk. Must have been drinking for at least two days. He nodded his head toward the Apache scout. Ningun says there's a jug inside with a little tizwin in it.
Travisin pointed to two of the scouts and then swept his arm in the direction of the fourth wickiup. They kicked their ponies to a leaping start, dashed to the hut and gave it a quick inspection. In a minute they were back.
The scouts watched Travisin intently as he studied the situation. They knew what the signs meant.
They sat their ponies now with restless anticipation, fingering their carbines, checking ammunition belts, holding in the small, wiry horses that also seemed to be charged with the excitement of the moment for there is no love lost between the Coyotero and the Chiricahua. Eric Travisin knew as well as any of them what the sign meant: sixteen drunken Apaches screaming through the countryside with blood in their eyes and a bad taste in their mouths. It was something that had to be stopped before the Indians regained their senses. Now they were loco Apaches, bloodthirsty, but a bit careless.
By the next day, unless stopped, they would again be cold, patient guerrilla fighters led by the master strategist, Pillo.
From the direction of the agency a scout rode into sight beating his pony to a whirlwind pace. He reined in abruptly and shouted something to Fry through the dust cloud.
We been sleepin', Captain. He says Gatito made off with a dozen carbines and two hundred rounds of forty-fours. Must have sneaked them out sometime last night.
In Travisin, the excitement of what lay ahead was building up continually. Now it was beginning Trail of the Apache to break through his calm surface. We're awake now, Barney. I figure they'll either streak south for the Madres right away, or contact their people up near Apache by dodging through the Basin and then heading east for the reservation. I know if I w as going to hide out for a while, I'd sure want my wife along. Let's find out which it is.
Chapter Four: The Rustlers.
By midmorning Travisin's scouts had followed the tracks of the hostiles to an elevated stretch of pines wedged tightly among bare, rolling hills.
They halted a few hundred yards from the wooded area, in the open. Before them the land, dotted with mesquite and catclaw, climbed gradually to the pine plateau; and the sun-glare made shimmering waves, hazy and filmy white, as they looked ahead to the contrasting black of the pines. A shallow arroyo cut its way down from the ridge past where the detail stood, finally ending at the banks of the Gila, twelve miles behind them. On both sides of the crusted edges of the arroyo, the unshod tracks they had been following all morning moved straight ahead.
Ningun, the Apache scout, rode up the arroyo a hundred yards, circled and returned. He mumbled only a few words to Fry, who glanced at the pine ridge again before speaking.
He says the tracks go all the way up. Ain't no other place they could go.
Does he think they're still up there? Travisin asked the question without taking his eyes from the ridge.
He didn't say, but I know he don't think so.
Barney Fry pulled out a tobacco
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