The Complete Western Stories of Elmore Leonard - Elmore Leonard [42]
Lacayuelo began gesturing and speaking rapidly in the choppy, sound-picture Apache tongue. Matt Cline listened without interrupting, until he was finished, and then turned to the lieutenant.
“To make it short, he says there’s no reason why we can’t all be friends. He says just give him and his warriors some shells so they can hunt and keep from going hungry, and everybody’ll be happy. He says he can’t understand why we attacked him and his peaceful huntin’ party.”
Towner stared at the Apache. He took his campaign hat off and shook his head. “Does this animal understand English?”
“Enough to get by, but it would take him till Christmas to tell you anything.”
The lieutenant continued to stare at Lacayuelo and his eyes narrowed. “Tell him he can go to hell with his hunting. He and his party are under arrest. Tell him he’s going back to San Carlos to stand trial for murder.”
Cline passed it on to the Chiricahua subchief who grinned and replied in only a few words.
“He says you can’t arrest him, because he’s here under the protection of a white flag. He says you have too much honor to disregard his sign of truce. He’s a sly old devil, throwin’ it back in your lap.”
“Ask him what he’s done with Byerlein.”
The scout turned from the Indian after a minute. “He says he doesn’t know what you’re talkin’ about. He says we’re the first blancos he’s seen in two months.”
“He does, does he.” Towner had not taken his eyes from the subchief since he stepped forward. Now, still looking full into his face, he raised his revolving pistol and pulled back the hammer. “Tell Lacayuelo that white flag or no white flag, I’ll shoot his damn eyes out if he doesn’t start talking about Byerlein.”
Cline hesitated. “Mister, he’s got more men than we have.”
“He’s got more men without bullets. Tell him!”
Cline passed it on and the words made the Apache lurch forward a half a step, but he looked into the muzzle of Towner’s gun and stopped dead. He studied the young lieutenant, looking him up and down, taking his own good time; and finally must have decided that the blanco wasn’t joking, for all at once a broad grin creased his evil, sun-scarred face and he was as friendly as could be. He jabbered to Cline for almost two minutes and then turned abruptly and walked away. The other Apaches followed.
“Where the devil are they going?”
Cline said, “He says he sees you’re a friend of the Apache, so he’s invitin’ us to his rancheria for some refreshments. We’re supposed to follow. He’s thinkin’ of somethin’. I say stay here.”
Towner only glanced at him. “When you’re in command, Mr. Cline, you can say that. Lonnigan! Spread out behind me. Mr. Cline, you’ll walk at my side.”
Five cavalrymen and a civilian scout walked slowly across the canyon floor, following the Indians by fifty yards. The sun had begun to drop behind the western canyon wall so that half of the boxed area was in shadow. Towner and the rest strode from the dark into the light and followed the Indians to the other side, then through a narrow defile into a side canyon. They walked into this new clearing where four wickiups stood and a dozen or so ponies were tethered on the other side of the canyon meadow. And they approached the Apaches with almost a swagger, a show of indifference, for they were cavalrymen of the “5th”… though they had only nine bullets between them.
Chapter Three
Tizwin
FOR AN APACHE rancheria, this one was comparatively clean, but it only testified that the Indians had not been there very long. The four wickiups were in a semicircle, and two cook fires, close together, were in the center of the half-moon area. Lacayuelo and his