lla.thelonelymen-第8节

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eace；　there　was　always　some　drunken　white　man　or　wild…haired　Indian　ready　to　make　trouble。
　When　an　Indian　made　war　he　made　war　on　women　and　children　as　well　as　on　men；　and　even　the　friendly　white　men　found　it　hard　to　be　friendly　when　they　came　home　and　found　their　cabins　burned；　their　women　and　children　killed。　On　the　other　hand；　the　politically　appointed　Indian　agents　and　the　white　men　who　wanted　Indian　land　or　horses　would　rob；　cheat；　and　murder　Indians。
　It　was　no　one…sided　argument；　and　I　knew　it。　But　now　the　Apaches　had　stolen　some　children　and　taken　them　into　Mexico；　and　we　were　going　after　them。
　We　rode　through　the　last　of　the　afternoon　and　into　the　cool　of　the　evening。　We　camped　that　night　in　some　ruins；　half　sheltered　by　adobe　walls；　and　at　daybreak　we　rode　out。
　On　the　second　night　we　stayed　at　Pete　Kitchen's　ranch。
　
　Chapter　5
　
　We　rode　south　for　a　few　miles　after　leaving　Pete　Kitchen's　place；　then　turned　off　the　main　trail　toward　the　east。　Now；　a　man　who　leaves　a　trail　in　the　desert　had　best　know　exactly　where　he　is　going；　for　his　life　is　at　stake。
　Travel　in　the　desert　cannot　be　haphazard。　Every　step　a　man　takes　in　desert　country　has　to　be　taken　with　water　in　mind。　He　is　either　heading　for　water；　or　figuring　how　far　he　will　be　from　it　if　he　gets　off　the　trail。　The　margin　of　safety　is　narrow。
　All　of　us　had　been　south　of　the　border；　but　it　was　Tampico　Rocca　who　knew　most　about　it；　with　me　ing　second；　I　suppose。　Like　everybody　else；　we　had　to　depend　on　waterholes；　and　no　matter　what　route　we　chose；　sooner　or　later　we　had　to　wind　up　at　those　watering　places。　This　was　just　as　true　for　the　Apaches。
　The　desert　has　known　waterholes；　but　it　also　has　other　waterholes　not　generally　known；　usually　of　limited　capacity　and　usually　difficult　to　find。　Birds　and　animals　know　of　those　places；　and　so　do　the　Apaches　in　most　cases。　If　you　did　not　know　of　them　you　had　to　know　how　to　find　them；　and　that　was　something　that　did　not　e　easy。
　A　man　living　in　wild　country　has　to　be　aware　of　everything　around　him。　He　has　to　keep　his　eyes　looking；　his　ears　listening；　his　every　sense　alert。　And　that　doesn't　mean　because　of　Apaches；　but　because　of　the　desert　itself。　You　can't　fight　the　desert　。。。　you　have　to　ride　with　it。
　The　desert　is　not　all　hot　sun　and　sand；　there's　the　rocks　too。　Miles　of　them　sometimes；　scattered　over　the　desert　floor；　great　heaps　of　them　now　and　again；　or　those　great　broken　ridges　of　dull　red　or　black　rock　like　the　broken　spines　of　huge　animals。　They　shove　up　through　the　sand；　and　the　sand　is　trying　hard　to　bury　them　again。
　In　much　of　the　southwestern　desert　there's　even　a　lot　of　green；　although　the　playas；　or　dry　lake　beds；　are　dead　white。　Some　of　the　desert　plants　hold　back　until　there's　a　rain；　then　they　leaf　out　suddenly　and　blossom　quickly；　to　take　advantage　of　that　water。　But　much　of　the　greenness　of　desert　plants　doesn't　mean　that　rain　has　fallen；　for　many　of　the　plants　have　stored　water　in　their　pulpy　tissues　to　save　against　drought；　others　have　developed　hard…surfaced　leaves　that　reflect　sunlight　and　give　off　no　moisture　to　the　sun。
　Plants　and　animals　have　learned　to　live　with　the　desert；　and　so　have　the　Apaches。　And　we；　the　four　of　us；　we　were　like　Apaches　in　that　regard。
　The　desert　is　the　enemy　of　the　careless。　Neither　time；　nor　trails；　nor　equipment　will　ever　change　that。　A　man　must　stay　alert　to　choose　the　easiest　routes；　he　travels　slow　to　save　himself；　he　keeps　his　eyes　open　to　see　those　signs　which　indicate　where　water　might　be　found。　The　flight　of　bees　or　birds；　the　tracks　of　small　animals；　the　land　of　plants　he　sees　…　these　things　he　must　notice；　for　certain　plants　are　indications　of　ground　water；　and　some　birds　and　animals　never　live　far　from　water。　Others　drink　little；　or　rarely；　getting　the　moisture　they　need　from　the　plants　they　eat　or　the　animals　they　kill。
　We　rode　until　the　sun　was　two　hours　in　the　sky；　and　then　we　turned　off　into　a　narrow　canyon　and　hunted　shade　to　wait　through　the　hottest　hours。　We　unsaddled；　let　the　horses　roll；　then　watered　them　at　a　little　seep　Rocca　knew　of。　After　that；　with　one　man　to　watch；　we　stretched　out　on　the　sand　to　catch　some　rest。　There　always　had　to　be　a　man　on　watch；　because　the　Apaches　were　great　horse　thieves；　though　not　a　patch　on　the　anches；　who　could　steal　a　horse　from　under　you　whilst　you　sat　in　the　saddle。　You　either　kept　watch　or　you　found　yourself　afoot；　and　in　the　desert；　unless　you're　almighty　canny；　that　means　you're　dead。
　First　off；　when　we　rode　into　that　canyon　we　studied　the　opening　for　sign。　A　man　in　wild　country　soon　gets　so　he　can　read　the　trail　sign　as　easy　as　most　folks　read　a　newspaper；　and　often　it's　even　more　interesting。
　You　not　only　read　what　sign　you　see　on　the　ground；　but　you　learn　to　read　dust　in　the　distant　air　…　how　many　riders　there　are　under　that　dust；　and　where　they're　headed。
　The　droppings　left　by　horses　also　have　a　story　to　tell；　whether　that　horse　has　been　grain…fed；　whether　he　has　been　grazing　off　country　grass　or　desert　plants。
　And　no　two　horses　leave　the　same　track。　Each　is　a　mite　different；　and　their　gaits　are　different。　Their　hoofs　do　not　strike　with　the　same　impact；　and　sometimes　there's　a　difference　in　the　way　they　are　shod。
　We　could　tell　that　nobody　had　been　in　that　canyon　for　weeks。　We　knew；　too；　that　most　of　the　time　during　the　months　of　June；　July；　and　August　in　Sonora　you'll　get　some　rain。　Sudden　showers　that　may　be　gone　as　quickly　as　they　e；　but　enough　to　settle　the　dust　and　to　fill　some　of　the　〃tanks〃　in　the　desert　mountains。
　Among　those　desert　ridges　such　tanks　are　frequent；　pits　hollowed　in　the　rock　over　the　centuries　by　driving　rain；　or　shaped　by　run…off　water。　During　heavy　rains　these　tanks　collect　water　and　hold　it　for　weeks；　or　even　for　months。　We'd　had　some　rain；　so　the　better　water…holes　and　tanks　were　holding　water　now。
　Shortly　before　sundown；　rested　by　our　nap　in　the　shade；　we　saddled　up　again。　This　time　I　took　the　lead。
　There　were　clusters　of　cholla　and　ocotillo；　and　we　took　advantage　of　them　as　much　as　possible　to　shield　our　movements。　The　route　we　used　was　an　ancient　one　rarely　traveled　in　these　days；　but　from　time　to　time　we'd　pull　up　near　a　clump　of　brush　where　the　outlines　of　our　horses　and　ourselves　would　merge　into　the　growth；　and　there　we'd　set；　studying　the　country　around　us。
　You　might　think　that　out　in　such　open　country；　with　no　good　cover　anywhere；　a　body　wouldn't　have　to　worry；　but　knowing　Apaches　the　way　we　did；　we　knew　that　twenty　of　them　could　be　hidden　out　there　in　a　matter　of　yards；　and　nobody　the　wiser。
　We　were　taking　our　time；　saving　our　horses。　An　Apache；　who　often　rode　his　horses　to　death；　will　make　sixty　to　seventy　miles　a　day　if　he's　in　a　hurry。　On　foot　he'll　cover　thirty…five　to　forty　miles　a　day　even　in　rough　country。　That　was　about　what　we　were　doing　a…horseback。
　About　an　hour　after　dark；　we　rode　down　into　a　little　hollow　choked　with　mesquite　brush　and　built　ourselves　a　tiny　fire　of　dried　wood　and　made　coffee。　The　fire　was　well　hidden　in　the　hollow　and　the　brush；　and　it　gave　us　a　chance　to　get　the　coffee　we　dearly　needed。
　〃What　you　think？〃　Rocca　said　suddenly。　〃One　rider？〃
　〃Uh…huh；〃　I　said；　〃a　small　man　or　a　boy。〃
　〃What　are　you　talking　about？〃　Battles　asked。
　〃We've　been　picking　up　tracks；〃　I　told　them。　〃A　shod　horse。　A　small　horse；　but　a　good　one。　Moves　well　。。。　desert　bred。〃
　〃Injun；　on　a　stolen　horse；〃　Spanish　said　promptly。　〃No　white　man　would　be　ridin'　alone　in　this　neck　of　the　woods。〃
　Rocca　shrugged　doubtfully。　〃Maybe　so　。。。　I　don't　know。〃
　Those　tracks　had　been　worrying　my　mind　for　quite　a　few　minutes；　for　whoever　rode　that　horse　was　riding　with　caution；　which　meant　it　was　no　Apache。　An　Apache　would　know　he　was　in　country　where　his　people　were　supreme；　and　although　he　would　keep　alert；　he　would　not　be　pausing　to　scout　the　country　as　this　rider　was。
　In　my　mind　I　was　sure；　and　I　knew　Rocca　was　sure；　that　the　rider　was　no　Indian。　Unless；　maybe；　an　Indian　child。
　When　the　desert　sun　was　gone　the　heat　went　with　it；　and　a　coolness　came　over　the　land。　The　horses；　quickened　by　the　cool　air；　moved　forward　as　eagerly　as　if　they　could　already　smell　the　pines　of　the　Sierra　Madre。　From　time　to　time　we　drew　up　to　listen　into　the　night。
　About　an　hour　before　daylight　we　gave　our　horses　a　breather。　Rocca；　squatting　on　his　heels　behind　a　mesquite　bush；　lit　a　cigarette　cupped　in　the　palm　of　his　hand　and　glanced　at　me。　〃You　know　the　Bavispe？〃
　〃Yes　。。。　we'll　hit　at　the　big　bend　。。。　where　she　turns　south　again。〃
　Tampico　Rocca　knew　this　country　better　than　I　did。　After　all；　he　was　half　Apache；　and　he　had　lived　in　the　Sierra　Madre。　Battles　was　sleeping；　and　Spanish　he　went　over　to　listen　to　the　night　sounds；　away　from　our　voices。　I　was　hot　and　tired；　and　was　wishing　for　a　bath　in　that　river　up　ahead；　but　it　wasn't　likely　I'd　get　one。
　Rocca　was　quiet　for　a　spell；　and　I　settled　back　on　the　sand　and　stared　up　at　the　stars。　They　looked　lonely　up　there　in　the　nighttime　sky；　lonely　as　we　were　down　here。　I　was　a　solitary　man；　a　drifter　across　the　country；　with　no　more　home　than　a　tumbleweed；　but　so　were　we　all。　We　were　men　without　women；　and　if　all　the　nights　we'd　spent　under　a　roof　were　put　together　the