By early afternoon the snow began to drift, and the process of breaking trail became a real job. Two and two, by turns, the men dismounted and broke the way for the horses and pack mules, pushing through snow which was too fine to pack and in which the animals might be bogged as in quicksand. Ritchie was taking his turn at this when a sudden jerk on his arm brought him up standing, swaying a little because of interrupted action.
It was Tuttle who had stopped him, and the old scout was looking under the spread palm of one hand at the crest of a rock spur which cut across their path maybe a half a mile ahead.
"What is it?" Lieutenant Gilmore churned up through the knee-high snow.
“Flash on the rocks—" Tuttle pointed with his chin Indian style.
"Flash on the rocks?" The young officer plainly did not understand.
"Mirror," Herndon explained. "Apache signals?" he asked Tuttle.
"Wal, I don't know as how anyone else is minded to make a bird of hisself 'n climb up thar jus' to go flashin' a mirror," the Mountain Man drawled. "We must make a right smart picture for him, all strung out on the snow this way—"
"Get back into that fringe of timber?" Gilmore nodded to some trees not so far to their left.
"Unhuh." Tuttle shifted his tobacco from one cheek to the other. "Leastwise I'd like to have a leetle look-see 'bout before we go marchin' on so bright 'n sassy-like. What say. Sergeant?"
"I'd like to wait for Velasco, sir," Herndon said to the officer. "He'll know pretty much the true state of affairs when he comes back."
Tuttle had been looking at the landmarks about them with more than casual interest. "Seems like this place ain't so unfamiliar to me, Lootenant. Up thar a ways thar's a good campin' place—might even be some forage 'cause it's sorta sheltered-like. Say we mosey up thar 'n give our mirror flashin' friend somethin' to wonder 'bout. He might even come sneakin' down to see what's changed our minds—"
Under the scout's direction the line of march angled left, and they brushed under snow-laden branches of pines to find themselves in what did seem to be the best camping site they could have found. A tiny blind canyon ended in a shallow cave, and the arching walls along most of its length had given shelter, so that the withered grass was bare of snow. The picketed horses and mules pulled at this ravenously, while two of the dragoons greeted with a shout of triumph a spring not capped with ice.
Tuttle was poking around in the back of the cave formation. Ritchie, having done his duty by Bess and dropped his saddle roll in the place Sturgis had chosen for them, slipped around to see what the old man was doing.
Two steps brought him to a narrow crevice through which the scout had just squeezed. Boldly Ritchie followed, just in time to see the flare of a match.
"Snug as a pack rat!" Tuttle's voice sounded hollow.
They were both standing in a small pocket of water-worn rock where queer shadows danced along the walls in ragged pattern. Tuttle had put fire to a dry bundle of sticks.
"Stop right thar!"
Ritchie stopped. Tuttle went down on one knee beside some charred ends of wood. He poked at them with a cautious finger, bending over to sniff at the dust which arose from his probing.
"Injun." He sat back on his heels and began to give the walls a second and more searching examination.
"How do you know?" demanded Ritchie.
Tuttle indicated the blackened ends. "Fire was built Injun style. See—a white man builds his fire with sticks burnin' in the middle. The ends fall off 'n ain't burnt. Injuns—they ain't so careless 'n more savin'. They start a fire on the ends laid in a circle touchin'. As the wood burns, they push it in 'til it's all gone. 'N this here buck wanted to sleep warm. Built him a fire las' niglit, got the rock good 'n hot, then raked them coals out 'n rolled up in their place with what was left of the blaze to toast his toes. He weren't no young buck out on his furst warpath."
''What are you looking for now?"
Tuttle was on his feet again circling the cave, studying each bit of rock.
''Trail signs. This ought t'be a regular stoppin' place fer them red devils. Ha!" He picked up a small brand from his tiny fire and held it close to the wall. Ritchie could see only a series of crooked scratches.
"Sonny, yo' git yoreself back 'n bring the Sergeant here pronto. Velasco too, if he has come in!"
Ritchie obeyed. And he did find the second scout dropping off his pony just as he went to call Herndon. Not only the scout and the Sergeant but Gilmore, also, pushed in to join Tuttle. Since no one of them noticed Ritchie, he dared to lurk behind and listen.
Velasco crossed the rock pocket with his noiseless stride and half crouched, almost rubbing the rock with his nose as he squinted at the scratches.
“Fresh?" Gilmore asked the first question.
Velasco grunted. Herndon touched one of the upper ones with the tips of his ungloved fingers. He nodded at the Lieutenant.
The scout sat back on his heels and took out one of the long brown cigarrillos the Mexicans smoked. Over its length he grinned.
"I think, Lieutenant," he said softly, "that in one day, maybe two, we shall have some ver' surprised Apaches, ver' surprised!"
"Is that a giveaway?" Gilmore pointed to the scratches.
Velasco nodded. "Ver' much the giveaway. They have done what they always do, attacked and then slipped away in many small parties. One party we have followed. But I think that they were left to fool us, lead us into the mountains and then—poof!"—he made a little gesture with his cigarrillo—'they are gone like smoke! If we are fools, they watch us be fools and then will come another ambush. If we are not fools—too great fools—we shall only be lost and mad and ver' hungry before we get back to the post again. This, you understand, is how they plan. But this"—he pounded his fist on the cave wall—"this is what they do not plan for us. This tells plain for those who have scattered and must pass this way where the true rancheria is, where the women and children and the old ones wait for the victors to return."
"Can you find the rancheria?" Gilmore's face was boyishly eager as he looked at the palm space of marks, which might mean a face-saving victory for the army and a real defeat for the always too successful Apaches.
A faint frown appeared between Velasco's heavy brows. He conned the lines a second time.
"Lieutenant, if a large body of men march to this place, then they shall betray their coming. A small party could slip up through the canyons in surprise. Also if we all leave this trail, they will suspect and come back to see why we go-"
Gilmore pulled at his lower lip. Then he looked at the Sergeant and Tuttle.
"You know this country and the Apache. Have we a chance to get to the rancheria unsuspected?"
Tuttle's jaws moved rhythmically on his tobacco cud, and his eyes narrowed. "Guess not, if we go stampin' in like a herd of buffalo bulls. They'd have us marked in a half-hour —maybe less—"
"We could split up." Herndon's voice was colorless as if he did not want to push his suggestion too much.
Gilmore made up his mind. ''All right. It's too good a chance to lose. If we can knock out just one rancheria, we'll be striking back enough to hurt. Herndon, you know this country better than I do. You and Velasco pick your men and take your own trail. I'll march on with the rest of the detachment along the trail we've been following. We'll play their game and you play ours. Tuttle—?"
The Mountain Man arose from his leaning position against the wall. ''Guess I'd better go 'long with the boys here. Yo've got Belmore 'n Watkins, 'n they know their business. Jus' don't ride too far into the hills. Might let yore-self git a bit disgusted with the whole business 'bout noontime tomorrow 'n start moseyin' back, slow-like." His eyes twinkled and Gilmore laughed. Then the Lieutenant spoke to Herndon.
"We'll pray luck rides with you, Sergeant. I'm likely to be broke if this play turns out to be a foolish one after all."
Herndon saluted, and Ritchie had barely time to get out of his way before he came out, brushing shoulders with the boy. His glan
ce flickered over Ritchie's eager face; there was a faint frown between his eyes.
Had it been Tuttle, Ritchie would have dared to ask, but now he hesitated and Herndon started away. The Sergeant had taken a step or two before he paused, looked over his shoulder, and said curtly, "Come on!"
Ritchie followed so closely on his heels that he almost bumped into his superior's back when Herndon stopped short a second time to watch the men making camp.
“You're only a recruit!" The words might have been fired from a carbine.
Ritchie blinked. "Yes—yes, sir." He looked down at the tips of his boots. This was it—the end of any wild hopes he might have been nursing for the past five minutes.
“We won't have time to urge on any stragglers—"
Ritchie clamped teeth on tongue. Out of his past experience he knew that when authority made explanations instead of giving an out-and-out refusal, "no" sometimes became "yes" if the speaker was allowed to argue himself to that point without interruption.
"You know nothing about the mountains—"
"No, sir," he ventured to agree in a whisper.
"It would be utter folly to accept you as a volunteer—"
Ritchie struggled to control the corners of his quirking lips.
"We travel light—"
"Yes, sir!" Ritchie took this as permission and was away before the Sergeant could be visited again by qualms of conscience. He made for the blanket roll which encased his small store of personal belongings and took hasty inventory. Boots were no good on mountain rocks; he should change into the high winter moccasins he had bought from the Crow squaw on the march to Santa Fe. His prairie knife, with its deadly six-inch blade whetted to a needle's sharpness, was already in its belt sheath. As he made hurried choices, he became aware for the first time of a hot voice behind him.
"So you're passing over me?"
"I haven't forgotten the Los Gatos affair, Sturgis. This is no expedition for anyone who can't obey orders—"
"Orders! What do you have for blood, Herndon—orderly-room ink? I know these hills—you're not the only one who does!"
Sturgis, breathing fast through his nose, his head up and his eyes very bright, was blocking the Sergeant's path. For a long moment he waited for an answer which didn't come, and then his mouth moved wryly before he could shape words.
"You icy fish! You don't know what it is to get excited over anything, do you? May the Lord let me be there on the day that you do!"
He stepped aside, and the Sergeant went on. With Sturgis directly behind him now, Ritchie did not dare to look up but fumbled with the things he had laid out, picking them up and laying them back as if he had never seen them before.
"Stand up!" There was such a whip crack of order in the tone that he obeyed and found himself facing Sturgis eye to eye.
"Yes, we're of a size. Get off those breeches on the double!"
Ritchie's fingers went to the buckle of his belt.
"But why? What-?"
"Think army issue stuff will stand up to clambering around on rocks? Want to come back frozen stiff? Get out of those and into these." As he spoke, Sturgis was peeling off his trousers of buffalo calfskin, the hair side in. He fairly pulled off Ritchie's jacket and got him into the deerskin one he had worn, adding his wolfskin cap to finish the exchange. When Ritchie tried to thank him, he growled and slammed away in a black mood, refusing to watch when the party pulled out.
They went at dusk, heading out through the tangle of trees that masked the cave canyon, keeping close under the protection of the rock walls. Their mounts were the sturdiest and toughest of the troop, Ritchie having surrendered Bess for a wise-eyed black gelding that seemed to know more about this business than did its rider.
How many miles they made that night there was no way of guessing. And their winding track through whatever cover the country provided was so twisted that Ritchie was hopelessly lost within ten minutes of their setting out, though he had tried to follow the advice given newcomers in the country—to fasten on some peak or landmark ahead and hold to it.
Just ahead of him rode a black lump which was Krist-land, the trumpeter, his instrument making a light spot against the dark fur of his coat. For some reason Kristland's musical ability had won him a place in this company. And behind Ritchie Tuttle allowed his sure-footed riding mule to pick proper footing at the steady pace set by Velasco who led the line.
Before dawn they stopped for longer than the usual breathing spell, coming out of their saddles and rubbing down the shivering legs of the animals. A bundled-up figure came down the line shaking something out of a bag into each man's hand. Ritchie held the palmful of gritty stuff uncertainly until he saw Kristland lick up his portion with a long tongue.
"What is it?"
“Penole—parched corn," the trumpeter mumbled. "It keeps a man going, but it don't stick to the ribs none."
Ritchie ground the tasteless stuff between his teeth. It was getting lighter now, and he could count the men who were strung out along the dried-up stream bed. Eight—nine —ten—thirteen—fourteen— One was missing, but, even as he discovered that, a second man vanished on foot among the rocks.
"All right, men!" That was Herndon's whisper carrying authority. "Every fifth man—horse-holder."
Ritchie counted again. This time he had no desire to remain in that noncombatant post. But, with a sigh of relief, he found himself fourth instead of fifth.
"As soon as Velasco reports back, be prepared to move."
Carbines moved down the line. They would leave sabres behind—they were little good when climbing. A carbine, a knife, and maybe a pistol—if one was lucky enough to rate one—that was for this work.
Ritchie was tapped lightly on the shoulder. He jumped, and when he saw the tapper was Herndon, he flushed.
"You and Kristland are to follow me."
Had Herndon looked amused when he said that? Ritchie scowled at the nearest rock.
Velasco was back; he had flitted in as noiselessly as a snow owl.
"On foot—" Ritchie could catch only a word or two. "Two—three miles to the northwest. Cross the spur 'n come down from the ledges before they know— There is a house of the Old Ones which can cover us—"
"Very well." That was Herndon again. "Ready." His raised voice went down the line. "No noise and close up. We'll have to climb, and if any fool gives us away—"
There was no need for him to add to the threat in that. Ritchie nervously slung his carbine and edged along with the trumpeter at the Sergeant's back.
4
“The Game's Made, 'n the Ball's Rollin'!”
Ritchie moved awkwardly and tried to disguise it. His bruised shoulder was tender, raw flesh under the jerk of his carbine strap. But he dared not try any adjustments. He had too good an opinion of Herndon's ability to see all and know all, and he had no wish to be sent ignominiously back to companion the horse-holders.
They climbed steadily, and the pace Herndon set was not too taxing. But the thin cold air blowing down over the mountain snow was one to sear the throat and lungs, and they were all panting. The trail they took kept them to what cover there was, angling up the heights in every bit of shadow afforded by pinon, bush, or outcrop. Near the top of the rise Herndon paused under an overhang of red rock and waited for them to crowd in about him.
Then, with quick strokes of a pencil on a slab of rock, he plotted the course of the action to come.
"Velasco, Hermann, O'Neill, and Dermont, with Krist-land, will go down here, cross the ridge, and take cover on the opposite mesa top. At the signal shot Kristland will sound Attack.
“The Apache rancheria is located here—on a ledge jutting out from the mountain. We'll wait a while to see most of the warriors come in before we strike. We want to get the men, not the women and children." He rubbed absently at the marks he had made. “Poor devils, if we win, they'll get theirs anyway, left without food or shelter. Now" —his voice was crisp again—"the rest of us will cut aside from the trail in an
other hundred yards.
''Right about here, overlooking the camp ledge, there is a big cave with some of the old ruins in it. Apaches don't like ruins. We get in there and stay until it's time to strike—they won't be apt to prowl around close enough to sniff us out."
"If they do come up," Tuttle drawled, "we do a leetle owl hootin', 'n they'll go kitin' out again with their tails up. Makes blood come up in the throat—that's what an Apache says about an owl hoot." This tag of Indian lore lightened some of the tension which had followed Herndon's orders.
Ritchie dared to lean back against the rock, easing his shoulder a little. He wondered if Tuttle had said that on purpose. There was something in the picture the scout's words had evoked—of bloodthirsty Apache warriors scuttling off like a herd of frightened mountain deer at the hoot of a bird—that relaxed a fellow, coaxed the icy crawl out of his spinal column. He came away again from his rock with a real snap of eagerness as Herndon gave the sign to move on.
"Hmm!" Tuttle was sniffing the air. "Looks like the cactus telygraff is workin', right enough. Smell that, son?"
There was a faint, almost spicy taint on the breeze, an odor which grew stronger with a wind puff down slope. Herndon's advance had become a crawl, and the others, taking their time from him, were creeping too. They were all watching the sky and the edge of the cliff ahead.
Then Ritchie saw it, too, a pencil of gray-white smoke ascending, first as a streamer and then, batted by the wind, a long curve—signal smoke born of a fire of resinous pine cones.
Herndon consulted Tuttle with a look. But after a moment the scout shook his head.
"If it was us they was talkin' 'bout, we'd already be crow meat. I'm thinkin' that they're callin' in their young men. They've got them a pile of rich loot to pick over. 'N maybe Gilmore is So far off by now they think they're really safe. So they're plannin' a bang-up party for all the boys."
"So!" Herndon's mittened fingers drummed a tattoo. "If we wait—"