De Both raised an objection. “I see nothing wrong with our treatment of the Indians. As a matter of fact, I think we’ve gone out of our way to treat them decently.” He recited the words as if he were reading from an official text.

  Fry broke in. “Go up to San Carlos and spend a week or two,” he said. “Especially when the government beef contractors come around with their adjusted scales and each cow with a couple of barrels of Gila water in her. Watch how the ’Pache women try to cut each other up for a bloated cow belly.” Fry spoke slowly, without excitement.

  Travisin said to the lieutenant, “Fry’s not talking about one or two incidents. He’s talking about history. You were with Pillo all the way up from Thomas. Did you see his eyes? If you did, you saw the whole story.”

  ✯

  Chapter Three

  The early afternoon sun blazed heavily against the adobe houses and vacant quadrangle. The air was still, still and oppressive, and seemed to be thickened by the fierce, withering rays of the Arizona sun. To the east, the purplish blur of the Pinals showed hazily through the glare.

  Travisin leaned loosely against a support post under the brush ramada. His gray cotton shirt was black with sweat in places, but he seemed unmindful of the heat. His sun-darkened face was impassive, as if asleep, but his eyes were only half closed in the shadow of his hat brim, squinting against the glare in the direction from which Fry would return.

  Earlier that morning, the scout and six of his Coyoteros had traveled upriver to inspect the tracts selected by Pillo and his band. The hostiles had erected their wickiups without a murmur of complaint and seemed to have fallen into the alien routines of reservation life without any trouble; but it was their silence, their impassive acceptance of this new life that bothered Travisin. For the two weeks the hostiles had been at Camp Gila, Travisin’s scouts had been on the alert every minute of the day. But nothing had happened. When Fry returned, he would know more.

  De Both appeared in the office door behind him. “Not back yet?”

  “No. He might have stopped to chin with some of the White Mountain people. He’s got a few friends there,” Travisin said. “Barney’s got a little Apache blood in him, you know.”

  De Both was openly surprised. “He has? I didn’t know that!” He thought of the countless times he had voiced his contempt for the Apaches in front of Fry. He felt uncomfortable and a little embarrassed now, though Fry had never once seemed to take it as a personal affront. Travisin read the discomfort on his face. There was no sense in making it more difficult.

  ✯✯✯

  “His mother was a half-breed,” Travisin explained. “She married a miner and followed him all over the Territory while he dug holes in the ground. Barney was born somewhere up in the Tonto country on one of his dad’s claims. When he was about eight or nine his ma and dad were killed by some Tontos and he was carried off and brought up in the tribe. That’s where he got his nose for scouting.

  It’s not just in his blood like some people think; he learned it, and he learned it from the best in the business. Then, when he was about fifteen, he came back to the world of the whites. About that time there was a campaign operating out of Fort Apache against the Tontos. One day a patrol came across the rancheria where Barney lived and took him back to Fort Apache. All the warriors were out and only the women and children were around. He remembered enough about the white man’s life to want to go back to the Indians, but he knew too much about the Apache’s life for the Army to let him go; so he’s been a guide since that day. He was at Fort Thomas when I arrived there seven years ago, and he’s been with me ever since I’ve been here at Gila.”

  De Both was deep in thought. “But can you trust him?” he asked. “After living with the Apaches for so long.”

  “Can you trust the rest of the scouts? Can you trust those rocks and mesquite clumps out yonder?” Travisin looked hard into the lieutenant’s eyes. “Mister, you watch the rocks, the trees, the men around you. You watch until your eyes ache, and then you keep on watching. Because you’ll always have that feeling that the minute you let down, you’re done for. And if you don’t have that feeling, you’re in the wrong business.”

  A little past four, Fry and his scouts rode in. He threw off and ran toward the agency office. Travisin met him in the doorway. “They scoot, Barney?”

  ✯✯✯

  Fry paused to catch his breath and wiped the sweat from his face with a grimy, brown hand.

  “It might be worse than that. When we got there this morning only a few of Pillo’s band were around. I questioned them, but they kept trying to change the subject and get us out of there. I thought they were actin’ strange, talkin’ more than usual, and then it dawned on me. Gatito had spotted it right away. They’d been drinkin’ tizwin. You know you got to drink a whoppin’ lot of that stuff to really get drunk. I figure these boys ain’t had much yet, cuz they were still too quiet. But the others were probably off at the source of supply so we rode out and tried to cut their sign. We tried every likely spot in the neighborhood until after noon, and we still couldn’t find a trace of them.”

  Travisin considered the situation silently for a moment. “They’ve probably been at it since they got here. Taking their time to pick a spot we wouldn’t find right away. No wonder they’ve been so quiet.” Travisin had much to think about, for a drunken Apache will do strange things. Bloody things. He asked the scout, “What does Gatito think?”

  Fry hesitated, and then said, “I don’t like the way he was lickin’ his lips while we were on the hunt.”

  Fry did not have to say more. Travisin knew him well enough to know that the scout felt Gatito could bear some extra attention. To de Both, watching the scene, it was a new experience. The captain and the quarter-breed scout talking like brothers. Saying more with eyes and gestures than with words. He looked from one to the other intently, then for the first time noticed the young Apache standing next to Travisin. A moment ago he had not been there. But there had not been a sound or a footstep!

  The young brave spoke swiftly in the Apache tongue for almost a minute and then disappeared around the corner of the office. De Both could still see vividly the red calico cloth around thick, black hair, and his almost feminine features.

  Fry and Travisin began to talk again, but de Both interrupted.

  “What in the name of heaven was that?”

  Travisin grinned at the young officer’s astonishment. “I thought you knew Peaches. Forgot he hadn’t been around for a while.”

  “Peaches!”

  Travisin said, “Let’s go inside.”

  They gathered around his table, lighted cigarettes, and Travisin went on. “I’d just as soon you didn’t speak his name aloud around here. You see, that young, gentle-looking Apache has one of the toughest jobs on the reservation. He’s an agency spy. Only Fry and I, and now you, know what he is. Not even any of the scouts know. The Indians suspect that someone on their side is reporting to me, buttheyhavenoideawho it is.He’sgot adangerous job, but it’s necessary. If trouble ever breaks out, we have to be able to nip it in the bud. Peaches is the only way for us to determine where the bud is.”

  “May I ask what he told you just now?”

  Travisin drew hard on his cigarette before replying. “He said that he knew much, but he would be back sometime before sunup tomorrow to tell what he knew. He made one last point very emphatic. He said, ‘Watch Gatito!’ ”

  ✯✯✯

  A rear room of the agency office adobe served as sleeping quarters for both of the officers. Their cots were against opposite walls, lockers at the feet, and two large pine-board wardrobes, holding uniforms and personal gear, were flush with the wall running along the heads of their bunks.

  A full moon pointed its light through the window frame over de Both’s bed, carpeted the plank flooring with a delicate sheen, and reached as far as the gleaming upper portion of Travisin’s body, motionless on the cot. One arm was beneath the gray blanket that reached just above his waist, the other was folded across his bare chest.

  A floorboard creaked somewhere near. His eyes opened at once and closed just as suddenly. Beneath the blanket his hand groped near his thigh and quietly covered the grip of his pistol. He opened his eyes slightly and glanced across the room. De Both was dead asleep. The latch on the door leading to the front office rattled faintly, and then hinges creaked as the door began to open. Travisin quietly drew his arm from beneath the blanket and leveled the pistol at the doorway. His thumb closed on the hammer and drew it back, and the click of the cocking action was a sharp, metallic sound. The opening-door motion stopped.

  “Nantan, do not shoot.” The words were just above a whisper.

  Travisin threw the blanket from his legs, swung them to the floor and moved to the doorway without a sound. Peaches backed into the office as he approached.

  “Chiricahua leave.”

  “How long?”

  “They go maybe five mile now. Gatito go with them.”

  Travisin stepped back to the doorway and slammed the butt of his pistol against the wooden door. “Hey, mister, roll out!” De Both sat bolt upright. “Be ready to ride in a few minutes,” Travisin said, and ran out of the office toward Barney Fry’s adobe across the quadrangle.

  In less than twenty minutes, thirteen riders streaked out of the quadrangle westward. Behind them, orange light was just beginning to show above the irregular outline of the Pinals. The morning was cool, but still, and the stillness held the promise of the blistering heat of the day to come.

  The sun was only a little higher when Travisin and his scouts rode up to four wickiups along the bank of the Gila. Travisin halted the detail, but did not dismount. He sat motionless in the saddle, his senses alert to the quiet. He said something in Apache and one of the scouts threw off and cautiously entered the first wickiup. He reappeared in an instant, shaking his head from side to side. In the third hut, the scout remained longer than usual. When he reappeared he was dragging an unconscious Indian by the legs.

  Travisin said, “That one of them, Barney?”

  Fry swung down from his pony and leaned over the prostrate Indian, saying a few words in Apache to the scout still holding the Indian’s legs. “He’s a Chiricahua, Captain. Dead drunk. Must have been drinking for at least two days.” He nodded his head toward the Apache scout. “Ningun says there’s a jug inside with a little tizwin in it.”

  Travisin pointed to two of the scouts and then swept his arm in the direction of the fourth wickiup. They kicked their ponies to a leaping start, dashed to the hut and gave it a quick inspection. In a minute they were back.

  The scouts watched Travisin intently as he studied the situation. They knew what the signs meant. They sat their ponies now with restless anticipation, fingering their carbines, checking ammunition belts, holding in the small, wiry horses that also seemed to be charged with the excitement of the moment—for there is no love lost between the Coyotero and the Chiricahua. Eric Travisin knew as well as any of them what the sign meant: sixteen drunken Apaches screaming through the countryside with blood in their eyes and a bad taste in their mouths. It was something that had to be stopped before the Indians regained their senses. Now they were loco Apaches, bloodthirsty, but a bit careless. By the next day, unless stopped, they would again be cold, patient guerrilla fighters led by the master strategist, Pillo.

  ✯✯✯

  From the direction of the agency a scout rode into sight beating his pony to a whirlwind pace. He reined in abruptly and shouted something to Fry through the dust cloud.

  “We been sleepin’, Captain. He says Gatito made off with a dozen carbines and two hundred rounds of forty-fours. Must have sneaked them out sometime last night.”

  In Travisin, the excitement of what lay ahead was building up continually. Now it was beginning to break through his calm surface. “We’re awake now, Barney. I figure they’ll either streak south for the Madres right away, or contact their people up near Apache by dodging through the Basin and then heading east for the reservation. I know if I was going to hide out for a while, I’d sure want my wife along. Let’s find out which it is.”

  ✯

  Chapter Four

  By midmorning Travisin’s scouts had followed the tracks of the hostiles to an elevated stretch of pines wedged tightly among bare, rolling hills. They halted a few hundred yards from the wooded area, in the open. Before them the land, dotted with mesquite and catclaw, climbed gradually to the pine plateau; and the sun-glare made shimmering waves, hazy and filmy white, as they looked ahead to the contrasting black of the pines. A shallow arroyo cut its way down from the ridge past where the detail stood, finally ending at the banks of the Gila, twelve miles behind them. On both sides of the crusted edges of the arroyo, the unshod tracks they had been following all morning moved straight ahead.

  Ningun, the Apache scout, rode up the arroyo a hundred yards, circled and returned. He mumbled only a few words to Fry, who glanced at the pine ridge again before speaking.

  “He says the tracks go all the way up. Ain’t no other place they could go.”

  “Does he think they’re still up there?” Travisin asked the question without taking his eyes from the ridge.

  “He didn’t say, but I know he don’t think so.” Barney Fry pulled out a tobacco plug and bit off a generous chew, mumbling, “And I don’t either.” He moved the front of his open vest aside with a thumb and dropped the plug into the pocket of his shirt. “I figure it this way, Captain,” he said. “They know who’s followin’ ’em, and they know we ain’t about to get caught in a simple jackpot like that one up yonder without flushin’ it out first. So they ain’t goin’ to waste their time settin’ a trap that we won’t fall right into.”

  “Sounds good, Barney, only there’s one thing that’s been troubling me,” Travisin said. “Notice how clean the sign’s been all the way? Not once have they tried to throw us off the track—and they’ve had more than one opportunity to at least make it pretty tough. No Apache, no matter if he’s drunker than seven hundred dollars, is going to leave a trail that plain—that is, unless he wants to.” He looked at the scout, suggesting a reply with his expression, and added, “Now why do you suppose old Pillo would want us to follow him?”

  Fry pushed his hat from his forehead and passed the back of his hand across his mouth. It was plain that the captain’s words gave him something to think about, but he had been riding with Travisin too long to show surprise with the officer’s uncanny familiarity with what an Apache would do at a given time. He was never absolutely sure himself, but for some unexplainable reason Travisin’s judgment was almost always right. And when dealing with an unknown quantity, the Apache, this judgment sometimes seemed to reach a superhuman level.

  Fry was quiet, busy putting himself in Pillo’s place, but de Both spoke up at once. “I take it you’re suggesting that the Indians are not really drunk. But what about that unconscious Indian back at the reservation?” He asked the question as if he were purposely trying to shoot holes in the captain’s theory.

  “No, Lieutenant. I’m only saying what if,” Travisin agreed, with a faint smile. “Could be one way or the other. I just want to impress you that we’re not chasing Harvard sophomores across the Boston Common. If you ever come up against a better general than Pillo, you can be sure of one thing—he’ll be another Apache.”

  Though he was sure of Fry’s and Ningun’s judgment, Travisin sent scouts ahead to flank the pine woods before taking his command through.

  In another hour they were over the ridge, in the open, descending noisily over the loose gravel that was strewn down the gradual slope that led to the valley below. On level ground again, they followed the tracks to the north, up the raw, rolling valley, flat and straight from a distance; but as they traveled, the sandrock ground buckled and heaved into shallow crevices and ditches every few hundred feet. The monotony of the bleak scene was interrupted only by the grotesque outlines of giant saguaro and low, thick mesquite clumps.

  Even in this comparatively open ground, de Both noticed that Travisin and all of the scouts rode half-tensed in their saddles, their eyes sweeping the area to the front and to both sides, studying every rock or shrub clump large enough to conceal a man. It was a vigilance that he himself was slowly acquiring just from noticing the others. Still he was more than willing to let the scouts do the watching. The damned stifling heat and the dazzling glare were enough for a white man to worry about. He mopped his face continually, and every once in a while pulled the white bandanna around his throat up over his nose and mouth. But that caused the heat to be even more smothering. He could feel the Apache scouts laughing at him. How could they remain so damned cool-looking in this heat! With every step of the horses, the dust rose around him and seemed to cling to his lungs until he would cough and cover his nose again with the kerchief. Ahead, but slightly to the east, he studied the jagged, blue outline of a mountain range. The Sierra Apaches. The purplish blue of the mountains and the soft blue of the cloudless sky were the only pleasant tones to redeem the ragged, wild look of the valley.

  He pressed his heels into his horse’s flanks and rode up abreast of Travisin. The climate and the unyielding country were grinding de Both’s nerves raw; he wanted to scream at somebody, anybody.

  “I sincerely hope you know where you’re going, Captain.”