Hondo. Part 8

Sherry was leaned back in his chair looking out the window at the heat-baked parade ground. He was a grim-faced, clean-cut man of forty-four, a professional soldier who knew the frontier and liked it. He knew the country, the Indians, and the men he commanded. Years of duty in face of the enemy had burned away all the spit and polish. He was a fighting man, and wanted to be nothing else. He had been close to the top of his cla.s.s at the Point, but had never cared for Eastern duty. He knew the book on combat tactics, but most of what he knew had been learned by applying it in battle against enemies that could be counted the greatest guerrilla tacticians the world had ever known.

"What's on your mind, Lane?"

"I want to go out there." Lane jerked his head toward the hills. "Personal business."

Sherry turned to his desk and shuffled his papers. "Sorry, Lane. It can't be done. The General wants you here for the time being." He stacked the papers. "Personal business, you said?"

"Yes, sir. There's a woman out there, with a child. They wouldn't come in then. They might come now."

The Major took out his pipe and stoked it with tobacco. "You lived with the Apaches, that right?"

"Yes, sir."

Major Sherry touched a match to the pipe. "I've been ordered to hold all scouts in. The General has something in mind. Nevertheless, I'd like--and I know he'd like--some information on Vittoro. If anybody could get it, you could."

Hondo Lane shifted in his chair, waiting. The Major's face did not change.

"It's mighty dangerous out there. Any man who went out alone would be a fool. And we've orders to stop anyone--anyone at all."

Hondo Lane got to his feet and turned to the door. "That all, sir?"

"Yes." Major Sherry drew on his pipe and looked out the window. As Hondo pulled on his hat and opened the door, Sherry turned his face toward him. "Lane," he said quietly, "be careful."

Chapter Nine.

Angie came to the door to shake out her broom. She glanced around the yard, but Johnny was not in sight. A thrill of fright went through her, and she stepped out into the yard. "Johnny! Johnny!"

There was no sound. Shading her eyes, she scanned the hills. Johnny was an obedient child. He had been told not to go to the hills, and so far he had always obeyed, going only when they went together.

Frightened, she walked quickly around the house. He was nowhere in sight.

"Johnny!"

Her call sounded, and the empty hills threw back her voice. Her heart pounded heavily. She walked toward the corral. "Johnny! Johnny!"

And then from the trees walked two horses. On one of them was Vittoro, and Johnny rode the other.

Relief went over her like a cold shower, yet she looked uncertainly at the hard-faced old Indian.

"Oh, I thought ... I didn't know ... I heard nothing."

"The Apache does not make noise."

The old Indian lifted Johnny to the ground, and his hands were gentle, almost fatherly. A hand lingered on the boy's shoulder.

"Mommy, Vittoro says I'll make a good warrior."

The Apache nodded, starting the child toward his mother. "He will ride well and he does not fear."

"Look, Mommy. I have a headband."

Proudly he showed her the headband. There was an opal of exceptional beauty in the center.

She knelt to look at it. "How beautiful! And it has an opal!"

"It is the emblem of his lodge." Vittoro glanced at Johnny. "I speak with your mother. Go inside the house."

"Yes, Vittoro."

Obediently Johnny turned and ran into the house. Angie watched him, a little catch at her heart. Vittoro looked at her and his eyes were serious. Mentally she stiffened, for instinctively she knew what was coming, and she knew that she must use every word with care. She had seen several parties of Indians pa.s.s, and she had seen the fresh scalps they carried. That she was alive only at the sufferance of Vittoro she knew. Whatever came, he must not be offended.

"A lodge should have a man. Small Warrior should have a father to instruct him."

"My husband will be home any day."

Vittoro considered this. Then he shook his head. "I do not think so. I think your man is dead. I will deliberate on this."

She hesitated, then said quietly, "It is the way of my people for a woman to choose her own man. If my man is dead, there will be another."

"Many braves ride with me."

"They follow a strong leader," she said, "but an Apache woman for an Apache man--a white woman for a white man."

Vittoro considered this. He said, "Small Warrior is blood brother to Vittoro. He must grow strong in the ways of Vittoro."

Her eyes looked frankly into those of the proud old man. "I would have it so. My son could have no better model than Vittoro. I had heard his greatness. Now I have known it--and he is also kind.

"My son," she continued slowly, "is born to this land. I would have him know it as the Apache knows it. The man I choose will teach him to know the ways of the Apache."

There was nothing to read in his face. He merely turned to his horse. "Of this I shall think," he said, and he walked his horse away into the trees.

For a long time after he was gone she stood perfectly still, forgetful of the hot sun, forgetful of the work that remained to be done.

An issue was before her, and she knew she walked a narrow way between life for herself and her son and death for them both. Yet she had not lied. She would like her son to know how to live off the country as the Apache did, yet he must remain true to his blood, true to his G.o.d, and true to his people and his country.

How long would Vittoro allow her to wait? Not long, that she knew. And then what remained for her? Unless the Army came, unless she escaped and abandoned her home, all she had in the world, then she must take a husband from among Vittoro's braves.

Yet what had she said? "The man I choose will teach him to know the ways of the Apache."

And who, of the men she knew, could do that? She blushed and bit her lip, unwilling to frame his name in her mind. Yet when she had taken up her broom again, she faced the fact of it. She had never been one to dodge issues. If she knew nothing else, she had learned in these lonely months to know herself, and she knew there was only one man of whom she could think in that way.

She was a woman still married, and she was thinking of Hondo Lane.

But what was it that made a woman married? Had her husband acted the part of a husband? Had he remained with her? Where was he now, in her time of trial?

He had never been her husband, not as her father had been to her mother. He had been a young man whom she married and with whom, for a time, she lived. And he had left no impression here, not even in his son.

Mentally she stood him before Vittoro, and she saw the old chieftain's decision, understood his scorn. And then she saw Hondo Lane, and he stood squarely before Vittoro, a man.

She worked steadily, yet her thoughts would not remain still. Her problem was with her, and she was a woman born to a Christian life, reared to a moral life, yet always an honest life. Her father had always been a man with whom she could talk, and those talks had reached into her present life with their clear-cut wisdom, their simple truth.

To each of us is given a life. To live with honor and to pa.s.s on having left our mark, it is only essential that we do our part, that we leave our children strong. Nothing exists long when its time is past. Wealth is important only to the small of mind. The important thing is to do the best one can with what one has.

These things her father had taught her, these things she believed. A woman's task was to keep a home, to rear her children well, to give them as good a start as possible before moving on. That was why she had stayed. That was why she had dared to remain in the face of Indian trouble. This was her home. This was her fireside. Here was all she could give her son aside from the feeling that he was loved, the training she could give, the education. And she could give him this early belief in stability, in the rightness of belonging somewhere.

Now it was threatened. The very thing that had saved their lives might turn her son from the life that should be his. He was excited by the attentions of the old chief, and he hungered for the company of a man. How else was a boy to learn how to become a man?

Was she a fool to think always of Hondo Lane? The man was a killer.

But this also her father had given her: reserve of judgment, and to judge no man or woman by a grouping, but each on his own character, his own ground.

In Hondo Lane she had recognized some of the same virtues she had known in her father. The singleness of purpose, the honesty, the steadfastness, and the industry. A killer he might be, but a man must live as he must. There were things a man must face and things a man must do that no woman could understand, just as the reverse was true.

Tonight the hills were lonely. A coyote yapped at the moon, and in the silence a quail called.

How long did she have? How lone before Vittoro came again and demanded a decision of her? But Indians did not permit women to make decisions ... or did they? She had heard not, and yet, knowing women, she was not altogether sure of this. She smiled into the night.

Johnny came out and sat on the steps beside her. "Mommy? Do you think the man will like my headband? Do you think he will?"

"I'm sure of it, Johnny."

Then carefully, thinking of the future, she said, "You're a white boy, Johnny, and although someday you may live with the Indians, you will always be a white boy. Mr. Lane lived with the Indians, and he remained a white man."

Darkness crept in and crouched around the stable, and in the darkness she smelled the sage and heard the stirring and the stamping of the horses in the corral. In the east there was a bright star low above the mountains.

Would he come back again? Would he come in time?

"Mommy!" Johnny pulled at her hand. "What will I have to learn to be a warrior?"

"Oh, you'll have to learn to track wild animals, to ride, to hunt, to find food in the desert ... many things."

"Will I learn to ride like the man did?"

The man ... "Yes, I think so." She hesitated just a little. "Maybe he'll come back and teach you. He's a good man, Johnny."

"I liked him." Johnny watched the quiet star. "I liked the dog, too."

"But he snapped at you!"

"But he didn't know me!" Johnny said. "He didn't know I was his friend! If a dog let anybody touch him before they were friends, somebody might hurt him."

A faint sound caught her ears. She held her breath, listening.

It was the sound of a horse ... of many horses.

And then she saw them, a dozen Indians, filing by toward the spring, just beyond the reach of her light. An Indian's horse's eyes caught the light and reflected it.

An Indian left the group and started toward them. She got to her feet, recognizing Silva.

He stood looking at her, and there was a pride in his bearing, and contempt, too. He gestured at her head, then lifted a scalp at his belt. It was fresh, red-haired.

Another Indian came up behind him and said something. Silva hesitated, looking from her to the child. The other Indian spoke again, more urgently. The only word she knew was "Vittoro." The second Indian used the name several times. Silva turned away, finally, and walked back to the horses.

She stood very still, holding Johnny tightly to her until she heard their horses moving away. For a long time after they were gone, she was uneasy. Inside she checked the pistol again. Since Hondo had loaded it, and since Johnny had nearly killed Silva, she always kept it loaded.

Silva would come back. He would come alone. Afterward he could always blame some other Indians for what was done. He had forgotten nothing, and he would not forget. Her only hope was to have a man of her own. But who could stand against Silva if anything happened to Vittoro?

She asked the question into the nighty and her heart gave her the answer.

Chapter Ten.

Behind the stables the lineback was saddled and ready. Hondo Lane came around the corner carrying his rifle. He slid the Winchester into the boot and began tying his bedroll behind the saddle.

He looked over his shoulder when he heard the approaching feet, his fingers continuing to work. It was Lowe, and with him was Sergeant Young.

"See?" Lowe said angrily. "It's my horse. That's my brand."

He indicated the E L on the horse's shoulder. Sergeant Mike Young examined the brand as if hoping to find it a mistake.

He looked up at Hondo. "What he says true?"

"Yes, this is his horse."

"Where did you get it from?"

Hondo looked at Lowe with casual contempt. "From his place. That's where I'm takin' it back. That's where he can find it."

Young hesitated. He liked no part of this. He had no use for Ed Lowe. He knew he was a fourflusher, although a dangerous one. By the same token, he liked Hondo Lane and had ridden in several long patrols guided by Lane. He knew the man and knew him well.

He also knew he had inadvertently walked into something of which he would have preferred to know nothing. There was a standing order that no one was to leave the camp, but at the same time Lane was very close to Major Sherry, and had talked with Sherry on the previous day. The order had gone around that no one was to leave, but at the same time the whisper had followed that no one was to pay any attention to the activities of Hondo Lane. And this had come from the sergeant major.

Major Sherry disciplined his men with strictness, and he had company punishment and the court-martial to enforce it. The sergeant major had only two large fists, but a way of being convincing with them.

Carefully, and merely for the record, Sergeant Young said, "But that's in Injun territory now--strict orders against any white going in."

Hondo pulled at his ear. "Know somethin'? I got a bad ear. Can't hear what you're sayin'."