The Complete Western Stories of Elmore Leonard - Elmore Leonard [36]
“You got it wrong there, Lieutenant,” the scout said. “We didn’t find him. That Indian found us.”
“Perhaps I’m wrong, but I’d observe him to be a lookout. Now he’s obviously fled after being seen.”
“Only thing wrong with that, Lieutenant, is that you don’t observe an Apache when he’s on lookout. I don’t know what your experience is, but I hear this is your first patrol out of Fort Thomas. You might as well learn right now that when you spot an Apache like that, it’s because he wants you to see him. Right now there could be a dozen of ’em hidin’ on that rocky grade goin’ up to the ledge. If we was to ride to the mouth we’d see him again just a little way further on. Then you’d go further and you’d see him again. Until he led you to the right spot. There’d be a lot of shots and you’d go back to Thomas draped over your horse facedown. If there’s anybody left to lead the horse.”
And so they learned. The lieutenant faced the scout, but was silent. It wasn’t the best thing to have been said in front of his men. Above all, they had to have confidence in him. He waited until he felt the heat of embarrassment drain from his face.
“What do you suggest, then?”
Matt Cline shifted his chew to the other cheek. “Well, it looks like Byerlein’s tracks go into the canyon, which means they pro’bly got him. It’s one thing trackin’ a deserter, but it’s another goin’ into an Apache rancheria to get him. If he’s there he’s either dead or half dead, so there’s no worry there anymore.” He pointed to a splash of green that crept between low hills to the north of where they were standing.
“I think we’d better wait and move over to those pines until Sinsonte shows up. He’ll cut our sign over to there without any trouble. Maybe he’ll know just what we’re up against.”
FROM THE EDGE of the pines they watched the canyon entrance across the empty stretch of desert, and the shadowy defile that slashed into the mountainside had eight different meanings. But it flicked through everyone’s mind that it was a place where you could die while never seeing what did it. Six enlisted troopers prayed to six interpretations of God that the young lieutenant wasn’t a glory seeker …at least not on this patrol. So the men sprawled in sand and grass, their bodies relaxed—though it’s a singular type of relaxation only a little more than a mile from the Apache. Eyes are ever watchful. The lieutenant and Cline sat a little apart from the men. Towner pulled at the sparse tufts of grass nervously, looking around in every direction, but mostly toward the canyon.
“How do you know you can trust Sinsonte?” It was more than just making conversation. “He’s an Apache just like the rest of them. How do you know he isn’t eating with that band of hostiles right now?”
“Well, for one thing, army chow’s spoiled him,” the scout answered. “He probably wouldn’t even touch mescal anymore if somebody baked it for him. I been scoutin’ with him goin’ on five years now and I don’t have any reason not to trust him. The day he turn around and lets go with his Sharps at me, why, then I’ll quit trustin’ him.”
Cline smiled at his joke. “ ’Course he ain’t always been a scout. He was with Cochise ten years ago, shootin’ all the whites he could, long as he needed a pony or a few extra rounds, but that was just somethin’ in his past. To an Apache, what you did a long time ago hasn’t got much bearin’ on what you happen to be doin’ at the present. And I don’t think he got along too well with Cochise, though he was with him since Apache Pass. ’Course, he won’t come right out and tell you. See, Sinsonte is a White Mountain Apache, and for some reason—buried somewhere in his past—he’s got a full-fledged hate for