Ralph Compton - Down on Gila River

He took the makings from his shirt pocket and said, “You smoke, Santos?”

The man’s only answer was a shake of the head.

“I was teached how to smoke by vaqueros when I was a younker,” Sam said. “They have a great fondness for tobacco and they passed it on to the Texas punchers.”

“More fool them,” Santos said.

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Sam said. “Doctors say smoke is good for the chest, keeps a man’s breathing tubes clear.”

“What do doctors know?”

Sam lit his cigarette. “They know a lot. Hell, one time a doc down on the Canadian fixed me up after I broke a leg. He told me, ‘Son, broken legs go with the cowboyin’ profession, and so do broken necks.’”

Sam nodded. “Yep, I never forgot that, because them were words of wisdom. What do you think, Santos?”

“I think you talk too much.”

“Well, now, you sure know how to dam up a discussion in midstream, don’t you?” Sam said.

But Santos wasn’t listening. His eyes were fixed on the grass and aspen hill country ahead of him.

The breed drew rein and Sam did the same.

“What are you looking at, Santos?” he said.

“Apaches.”

“We makin’ a run fer it?”

“No. I will talk to them.”

Sam was taken aback. “Since you ain’t a talkin’ feller, and Apaches are pretty much inclined the same way, what the hell are you going to say to each other?”

“Be silent,” Santos said. “You are the one in danger, not me.” After a few moments, Santos said, “They’re Mescalero, my mother’s people.”

“Well, that’s good news,” Sam said. “Ain’t it?”

“No, the Mescalero stoned her to death for adultery.”

Sam groaned. “Well, if you don’t mind, Santos, I reckon I’ll light a shuck out of here.”

“No, you won’t. Try to make a break and I’ll kill you.”

A tense couple of minutes passed, and then it was too late for Sam to go anywhere.

The Apaches, lithe sun-browned men, spread out in a skirmish line and stopped when they were a few yards away. There were seven of them, and they sat their horses silently, their black eyes seeing everything. Sam read a stony indifference in their expressions, but there was something else . . . something tense . . . fearful. The Apaches held themselves stiffly and white-knuckled their rifles as though they were prepared for the sudden onslaught of a dreaded and savage enemy. To a man, they raised their noses and tested the wind and Sam Sawyer had no idea why.

“Right nice to meet you boys,” Sam said, smiling. Then in a whisper to Santos: “The little feller at the end is forking my bronc. You reckon this would this be a bad time to mention it to him?”

Santos ignored that and said something in Apache that brought no immediate reaction from the Indians. But after a few moments the oldest of them bowed his head and replied to Santos in the same tongue. His voice was loud and high-pitched, as was the way of the Apache when he talked to someone who scared him.

The talk then went back and forth, and Sam became aware that none of the Apaches had even looked at him. He considered this a good sign, but whether it was or not, he had no idea.

After some speechifying, the oldest Apache pointed to the southeast, then spoke some more.

For a moment Santos looked surprised. Then he said something in return that made the Indians laugh.

The older Apache kneed his pony forward. He bowed again and pulled a heavy silver ring off the middle finger of his right and passed it to Santos.

The breed made a show of gasping in surprise when he looked at the ring. Then he said something that made the Apache smile.

Santos gave the ring to Sam. “Admire it,” he said. “Smile, nod, turn it over in your hand as though it is the most valuable piece of jewelry you ever saw.”

Sam brought the ring closer to his eyes and gasped and smiled as Santos had done.

The ring was cheaply made but it was engraved with two interlinked hearts and the words Mi amor . Sam guessed it had belonged to some Mexican soldier whose scalp was now hanging in the old Apache’s wickiup.

“Es bueno,” Sam said, dredging up the little Mexican he remembered. He passed the ring back to Santos, glad to get rid of the thing.

The breed slid the ring onto the middle finger of his left hand. He unbuckled the belt around his waist and slid off his English bowie knife with its beaded sheath. He offered the knife to the old warrior, but the man shrank from it and shook his head, as though he’d just been offered a wriggling rattlesnake.

Santos passed the bowie to Sam. “Give it to him,” he said.

“He don’t want it,” Sam said.

“I said give it to him!”

Sam smiled at the Apache and held out the knife. “This is for you, amigo,” he said. “Use it in good health.”

It looked to Sam that the gift was well received, because the Apache smiled and showed the knife to his companions.

Apaches don’t hold much store for elaborate good-byes, so the visit ended when they swung their ponies away and headed west in the direction of the Arizona border.

* * *

“We were lucky,” Santos said after watching the Indians leave. “The old one told me he remembered me when I was a boy and lived in his ranchería . He told me other things, but they don’t concern you.”

“That was true-blue of him, remembering you an’ all,” Sam said. “If you and him are almost kin, why wouldn’t he take the knife from you?”

“He feared I might want it back and come to his wickiup late at night when the hunting moon is full.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Sam said.

“It does to an Apache,” Santos said. “He told me more.”

“About Hannah and the others?”

“What do I care what happens to Hannah and the others?”

Chastened, Sam made no answer, and Santos said, “The Apache says that early this morning three white men tried to rob an army payroll wagon down near Preacher’s Point.”

Santos stared to the west, in the direction of the departing Indians.

“Well?” Sam said.

Without looking at the older man, the breed said, “They killed two of the guards, but the firing drew the attention of a cavalry patrol on the scout for Apaches.”

Now he turned his head to Sam. “All three of the robbers got away, but it seems a couple of them were badly shot up. The Apache doesn’t know who the outlaws were.” He smiled faintly. “But I do.”

“Kin o’ your’n?” Sam said.

Santos ignored that and said, “It was the Wells brothers and Vic Moseley.”

That the Wells brothers were involved didn’t surprise Sam, but hearing Moseley’s name did.

“Hell,” he said, “an’ I thought they were out lookin’ for me.”

“You’re not that important,” Santos said. “And that brings up an interesting question.”

“An’ I’ll do my best to answer it,” Sam said. Just before he spoke, he’d briefly thought about jumping Santos and trying to wrestle him to the ground, but had dismissed the idea.

The breed had the face of a preening fop, but the body of a panther. Any way Sam looked at it, he was no kind of bargain.

“The question is addressed to myself,” Santos said. “But you may listen.”

“Then ask away,” Sam said, thinking again.

Maybe he could make a grab for one of the breed’s guns. Nah, that wouldn’t work either. Santos was as fast as a striking snake. Besides, even if Sam got his hands on one of the Remingtons, he’d be bound to miss with his first shot. The breed wouldn’t miss, not with his first or his last.

“Some facts first,” Santos said. “Dan Wells promised to cut me in for five thousand dollars from the payroll robbery if I brought you in alive. But now that that venture has failed, all you’re worth to me is five dollars a day, say fifteen or twenty dollars.”