CONCERNING AN ARROW
The bleak foreground of gray soil, covered with drifts of alkali and
sand, was studded with clumps of mesquite and cacti and occasional tufts
of sun-burned grass, dusty and somber, while a few sagebrush blended their
leaves to the predominating color. Back of this was a near horizon to the
north and east, brought near by the skyline of a low, undulating range
of sand hills rising from the desert to meet a faded sky. The morning
glow brought this skyline into sharp definition as the dividing line
between the darkness of the plain in the shadow of the range and the fast
increasing morning light. To the south and west the plain blended into
the sky, and there was no horizon.
Two trails met and crossed near a sand-buffeted bowlder of lava stone,
which was huge, grotesque and forbidding in its bulky indistinctness.
The first of the trails ran north and south and was faint but plainly
discernible, being beaten a trifle below the level of the desert and
forming a depression which the winds alternately filled and emptied of
dust; and its arrow-like directness, swerving neither to the right nor
left, bespoke of the haste which urged the unfortunate traveler to
have done with it as speedily as possible, since there was nothing
alluring along its heat-cursed course to bid him tarry in his riding.
There was yet another reason for haste, for the water holes were over
fifty miles apart, and in that country water holes were more or less
uncertain and doubtful as to being free from mineral poisons. On the
occasions when the Apaches awoke to find that many of their young men
were missing, and a proved warrior or two, this trail become weighted
with possibilities, for this desert was the playground of war parties, an
unlimited ante-room for the preliminaries to predatory pilgrimages; and
the northern trail then partook of the nature of a huge wire over which
played an alternating current, the potentials of which were the ranges
at one end and the savagery and war spirit of the painted tribes at the
other: and the voltage was frequently deadly.
The other trail, crossing the first at right angles, led eastward to the
fertile valleys of the Canadian and the Cimarron; westward it spread out
like the sticks of a fan to anywhere and nowhere, gradually resolving
itself into the fainter and still more faint individual paths which
fed it as single strands feed a rope. It lacked the directness of its
intersector because of the impenetrable chaparrals which forced it to
wander hither and yon. Neither was it as plain to the eye, for preference,
except in cases of urgent necessity, foreswore its saving of miles and
journeyed by the more circuitous southern trail which wound beneath
cottonwoods and mottes of live oak and frequently dipped beneath the
waters of sluggish streams, the banks of which were fringed with willows.
As a lean coyote loped past the point of intersection a moving object
suddenly topped the skyline of the southern end of the sandhills to the
east and sprang into sharp silhouette, paused for an instant on the edge
of the range and then, plunging down into the shadows at its base, rode
rapidly toward the bowlder.
He was an Apache, and was magnificent in his proportions and the easy
erectness of his poise. He glanced sharply about him, letting his gaze
finally settle on the southern trail and then, leaning over, he placed an
object on the highest point of the rock. Wheeling abruptly, he galloped
back over his trail, the rising wind setting diligently at work to cover
the hoofprints of his pony. He had no sooner dropped from sight over the
hills than another figure began to be defined in the dim light, this time
from the north.
The newcomer rode at an easy canter and found small pleasure in the cloud
of alkali dust which the wind kept at pace with him. His hat, the first
visible sign of his calling, proclaimed him to be a cowboy, and when
he had stopped at the bowlder his every possession endorsed the silent
testimony of the hat.
He was bronzed and self-reliant, some reason for the latter being
suggested by the long-barreled rifle which swung from his right saddle
skirt and the pair of Colt's which lay along his thighs. He wore the
usual blue flannel shirt, open at the throat, the regular silk kerchief
about his neck, and the indispensable chaps, which were of angora
goatskin. His boots were tight fitting, with high heels, and huge
brass spurs projected therefrom. A forty-foot coil of rawhide hung from
the pommel of his "rocking-chair" saddle and a slicker was strapped
behind the cantle.
He glanced behind him as he drew rein, wondering when the sheriff would
show himself, for he was being followed, of that he was certain. That was
why he had ridden through so many chaparrals and doubled on his trail.
He was now riding to describe a circle, the object being to get behind
his pursuer and to do some hunting on his own account. As he started to
continue on his way his quick eyes espied something on the bowlder
which made him suddenly draw rein again. Glancing to the ground he saw
the tracks made by the Apache, and he peered intently along the eastern
trail with his hand shading his eyes. The eyes were of a grayish blue,
hard and steely and cruel. They were calculating eyes, and never missed
anything worth seeing. The fierce glare of the semi-tropical sun which for
many years had daily assaulted them made it imperative that he squint
from half-closed lids, and had given his face a malevolent look. And the
characteristics promised by the eyes were endorsed by his jaw, which was
square and firm set, underlying thin, straight lips. But about his
lips were graven lines so cynical and yet so humorous as to baffle an
observer.
Raising his canteen to his lips he counted seven swallows and then,
letting it fall to his side, he picked up the object which had made
him pause. There was no surprise in his face, for he never was surprised
at anything.
As he looked at the object he remembered the rumors of the Apache war
dances and of fast-riding, paint-bedaubed "hunting parties." What had been
rumor he now knew to be a fact, and his face became even more cruel as
he realized that he was playing tag with the sheriff in the very heart
of the Apache playground, where death might lurk in any of the thorny
covers which surrounded him on all sides.
"Apache war arrow," he grunted. "Now it shore beats the devil that me and
the sheriff can't have a free rein to settle up our accounts. Somebody is
always sticking their nose in my business," he grumbled. Then he frowned
at the arrow in his hand. "That red on the head is blood," he murmured,
noticing the salient points of the weapon, "and that yellow hair means
good scalping. The thong of leather spells plunder, and it was pointing
to the east. The buck that brought it went back again, so this is to
show his friends which way to ride. He was in a hurry, too, judging from
the way he threw sand, and from them toe-prints."
He hated Apaches vindictively, malevolently, with a single purpose and
instinct, because of a little score he owed them. Once when he had managed
to rustle together a big herd of horses and was within a day's ride of a
ready market, a party of Apaches had ridden up in the night and made off
with not only the stolen animals, but also with his own horse. This had
lost him a neat sum and had forced him to carry a forty-pound saddle, a
bridle and a rifle for two days under a merciless sun before he reached
civilization. He did not thank them for not killing him, which they for
some reason neglected to do. Apache stock was down very low with him, and
he now had an opportunity to even the score. Then he thought of the
sheriff, and swore. Finally he decided that he would just shoot that
worthy as soon as he came within range, and so be free to play his lone
hand against the race that had stolen his horses. His eyes twinkled
at the game he was about to play, and he regarded the silent message and
guide with a smile.
"If it's all the same to you, I'll just polish you up a bit"--and when
he replaced it on the bowlder its former owner would not have known
it to be the same weapon, for its head was not red, but as bright as
the friction of a handful of sand could make it. This destroyed its
message of plentiful slaughter and, he knew, would grieve his enemies.
He touched it gently with his hand and it swung at right angles to its
former position and now pointed northward and in the direction from which
he expected the sheriff.
"It was d----d nice of that Apache leaving me this, but I reckon I'll
switch them reinforcements--the sheriff will be some pleased to meet
them," he said, grinning at the novelty of the situation. "Nobody
will even suspect how a lone puncher"--for he regarded himself as a
cowman--"squaring up a couple of scores went and saved the eastern
valleys from more devilment. If the war-whoops are out along the Cimarron
and Canadian they are shore havin' fun enough to give me a little. But
I would like to see the sheriff's face when he bumps into the little
party I'm sending his way. Wonder how many he will get before he goes
under?"
Then he again took up the arrow and carefully removed the hair and thong
of leather, chuckling at the tale of woe the denuded weapon would tell,
after which he placed it as before, wishing he knew how to indicate that
the Apaches had been wiped out.
He rode to a chaparral which lay three hundred yards to the southeast of
him and thence around it to the far side, where he dismounted and fastened
his horse to the empty air by simply allowing the reins to hang down in
front of the animal's eyes. The pony knew many things about ropes and
straps, and what it knew it knew well; nothing short of dynamite would
have moved it while the reins dangled before its eyes.
Its master slowly returned to the bowlder, where he set to work to cover
his tracks with dust, for although the shifting sand was doing this for
him, it was not doing it fast enough to suit him. When he had assured
himself that he had performed his task in a thoroughly workmanlike manner
he returned to his horse, and finally found a snug place of concealment
for it and himself. First bandaging its eyes so that it would not whinny
at the approach of other horses, he searched his pockets and finally
brought to light a pack of greasy playing cards, with which he amused
himself at solitaire, diligently keeping his eyes on both ends of the
heavier trail.
His intermittent scrutiny was finally rewarded by a cloud of dust which
steadily grew larger on the southern horizon and soon revealed the
character of the riders who made it. As they drew nearer to him his
implacable hatred caused him to pick up his rifle, but he let it slide
from him as he counted the number of the approaching party, before
which was being driven a herd of horses which were intended to be placed
as relays for the main force.
"Two, five, eight, eleven, sixteen, twenty, twenty-four, twenty-seven,"
he muttered, carefully settling himself more comfortably. He could
distinguish the war paint on the reddish-brown colored bodies, and he
smiled at what was in store for them.
"I reckon I won't get gay with no twenty-seven Apaches," he muttered. "I
can wait, all right."
Upon reaching the rock the leaders of the band glanced at the arrow,
excitedly exchanged monosyllables and set off to the north at a hard
gallop, being followed by the others. As he expected, they were Apaches,
which meant that of all red raiders they were the most proficient. They
were human hyenas with rare intelligence for war and a most aggravating
way of not being where one would expect them to be, as army officers will
testify. Besides, an Apache war party did not appear to have stomachs,
and so traveled faster and farther than the cavalry which so often
pursued them.
The watcher chuckled softly at the success of his stratagem and, suddenly
arising, went carefully around the chaparral until he could see the
fast-vanishing braves. Waiting until they had disappeared over the
northern end of the crescent-shaped range of hills, he hurried to the
bowlder and again picked up the arrow.
"Huh! Didn't take it with them, eh?" he soliloquized. "Well, that
means that there's more coming, so I'll just send the next batch plumb
west--they'll be some pleased to explore this God-forsaken desert some
extensive."
Grinning joyously, he replaced the weapon with its head pointing westward
and then looked anxiously at the tracks of the party which had just
passed. Deciding that the wind would effectually cover them in an hour
at most, he returned to his hiding place, taking care to cover his own
tracks. Taking a chance on the second contingent going north was all
right, but he didn't care to run the risk of having them ride to him for
explanations. Picking up the cards again he shuffled them and suffered
defeat after defeat, and finally announced his displeasure at the luck
he was having.
"I never saw nothing like it!" he grumbled petulantly. "Reckon I'll
hit up the Old Thirteen a few," beginning a new game. He had whiled
away an hour and a half, and as he stretched himself his uneasy eyes
discovered another cloud on the southern horizon, which was smaller than
the first. He placed the six of hearts on the five of hearts, ruffled
the pack and then put the cards down and took up his rifle, watching the
cloud closely. He was soon able to count seven warriors who were driving
another "cavvieyeh" of horses.
"Huh! Only seven!" he grunted, shifting his rifle for action. The fighting
lust swept over him, but he choked it down and idly fingered the hammer of
the gun. "Nope, I reckon not--seven husky Apaches are too much for one
man to go out of his way to fight. Now, if the sheriff was only with me,"
and he grinned at the humor of it, "we might cut loose and heave lead.
But since he ain't, this is where I don't chip in--I'll wait a while,
for they'll shore come back."
The seven warriors went through almost the same actions which their
predecessors had gone through and great excitement prevailed among them.
The leaders pointed to the very faint tracks which led northward and
debated vehemently. But the two small stones which held the arrow securely
in its position against the possibility of the wind shifting it could
not be doubted, and after a few minutes had passed they rode as bidden,
leaving one of their number on guard at the bowlder. Soon the other
six were lost to sight among the chaparrals to the west and the guard sat
stolidly under the blazing sun.
The dispatcher noted the position of a shadow thrown on the sand by a
cactus and laughed silently as he fingered his rifle. He could not think
out the game. Try as he would, he could find no really good excuse for
the placing of the guard, although many presented themselves, to be
finally cast aside. But the fact was enough, and when the moving shadow
gave assurance that nearly an hour had passed since the departure of
the guard's companions, the man with the grudge cautiously arose on one
knee.
After examining the contents of his rifle, he brought it slowly to
his shoulder. A quick, calculating glance told him that the range was
slightly over three hundred yards, and he altered the elevation of the
rear sights accordingly. After a pause, during which he gauged the
strength and velocity of the northern wind, he dropped his cheek against
the walnut stock of the weapon. The echoless report rang out flatly
and a sudden gust of hot wind whipped the ragged, gray smoke cloud into
the chaparral, where it lay close to the ground and spread out like a
miniature fog. As the smoke cleared away a second cartridge, inserted
deftly and quickly, sent another cloud of smoke into the chaparral
and the marksman arose to his feet, mechanically reloading his gun. The
second shot was for the guard's horse, for it would be unnecessarily
perilous to risk its rejoining the departed braves, which it very probably
would do if allowed to escape.
Dropping his rifle into the hollow of his arm he walked swiftly toward
the fallen Indian, hoping that there would be no more war parties, for
he had now made signs which the most stupid Apache could not fail to note
and understand. The dead guard could be hidden, and by the use of his own
horse and rope he could drag the carcass of the animal into the chaparral
and out of sight. But the trail which would be left in the loose sand
would be too deep and wide to be covered. He had crossed the Rubicon, and
must stand or fall by the step.
The Indian had fallen forward against the bowlder and had slid down its
side, landing on his head and shoulders, in which grotesque position the
rock supported him. One glance assured the "cowman" that his aim had
been good, and another told him that he had to fear the arrival of no
more war parties, for the arrow was gone. He was not satisfied, however,
until he had made a good search for it, thinking that it might have
been displaced by the fall of the Apache. He lifted the body of the
dead warrior in his arms and flung it across the apex of the bowlder,
face up and balanced nicely, the head pointing to the north. Then he
looked for the arrow on the sand where the body had rested, but it was
not to be found. A sardonic grin flitted across his face as he secured
the weapons of the late guard, which were a heavy Colt's revolver and a
late pattern Winchester repeater. Taking the cartridges from his body, he
stood up triumphant. He now had what he needed to meet the smaller body
of Indians on their return, ten shots in one rifle and a spare Colt's.
"One for my cavvieyeh!" he muttered savagely as he thought of the loss of
his horse herd. "There'll be more, too, before I get through, or my
name's not"-- he paused abruptly, hearing hoofbeats made by a galloping
horse over a stretch of hard soil which lay to the east of him. Leaping
quickly behind the bowlder, he leveled his own rifle across the body of
the guard and peered intently toward the east, wondering if the advancing
horseman would be the sheriff or another Apache. The hoofbeats came
rapidly nearer and another courier turned the corner of the chaparral
and went no further. Again a second shot took care of the horse and the
marksman strode to his second victim, from whose body and horse he took
another Winchester and Colt.
"Now I am in for it!" he muttered as he looked down at the warrior. "This
is shore getting warm and it'll be a d----n sight warmer if his friends
get anxious about him and hunt him up."
Glancing around the horizon and seeing no signs of an interruption, he
slung the body across his shoulders and staggered with it to the bowlder,
where he heaved and pushed it across the body of the first Apache.
"Might as well make a good showing and make them mad, for I can't very
well hide you and the cayuses--I ain't no graveyard," he said, stepping
back to look at his work. He felt no remorse, for that was a sensation
not yet awakened in his consciousness. He was elated at his success,
joyous in catering to his love for fighting, for he would rather die
fighting than live the round of years heavily monotonous with peace,
and his only regret was having won by ambush. But in this, he told
himself, there was need, for his hatred ordered him to kill as many as
he could, and in any way possible. Knowing that he was, single-handed,
attempting to outwit wily chiefs and that he had before him a carnival of
fighting, he would not have hesitated to make use of traps if they were
at hand and could be used. Perhaps it was old Geronimo whose plans he
was defeating and, if so, no precautions nor means were unjustifiable and
too mean to make use of, for Geronimo was half-brother to the devil and a
genius for warfare and slaughter, with a ferocity and cruelty cold-blooded
and consummate.
He had yet time to escape from his perilous position and meet the sheriff,
if that worthy had eluded the first war party. But his elation had the
upper hand and his brute courage was now blind to caution. He savagely
decided that his matter with the sheriff could wait and that he would
take care of the war parties first, since there was more honor in fighting
against odds. The two Winchesters and his own Sharps, not to consider
the four Colt's, gave him many shots without having to waste time in
reloading, and he drew assurance from the past that he placed his shots
quickly and with precision. He could put up a magnificent fight in the
chaparral, shifting his position after each shot, and he could hug the
ground where the trunks of the vegetation were thickest and would prove
an effective barrier against random shots. His wits were keen, his legs
nimble, his eyesight and accuracy above doubt, and he had no cause to
believe that his strategy was inferior to that of his foes. There would be
no moon for two nights, and he could escape in the darkness if hunger
and thirst should drive him out. Here he had struck, and here he would
strike again and again, and, if he fell, he would leave behind him such
a tale of fighting as had seldom been known before; and it pleased his
vanity to think of the amazement the story would call forth as it was
recounted around the campfires and across the bars of a country larger
than Europe. He did not realize that such a tale would die if he died and
would never be known. His was the joy of a master of the game, a virile,
fearless fighting machine, a man who had never failed in the playing of
the many hands he had held in desperate games with death. He was not
going to die; he was going to win and leave dying for others.