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, sunscarred 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 warriors sat in an irregular circle between the wickiups and the dead cook fires. He rose to one knee as they approached and beckoned them to join the circle; but Towner stopped the group on the opposite side of the cook fires and watched the Indians pass from one to the next a bulging water bag made from horse intestines.
Towner turned his head slightly. "What are they drinking?"
"Tizwin, most likely," Cline said. "Or mescal."
He watched the Indians drink. "I wouldn't put any pesos on it bein' water."
"What the devil's tizwin?"
"Apache corn beer. Knock you back to the States if you drink enough. Makes a worse Indian out of a bad one. I don't know what it'll do to a hardcase like Lacayuelo. He wants us to join 'em."
"Corn beer, eh," the lieutenant muttered, almost to himself. And he had a most uncommon look in his eyes.
Sometimes it seems as if certain men are set aside to do great things while others have to play the role of the fool or the coward, predestined from all eternity. But if you look close into every case, and that means everybody in the world, you'll see a time, a circumstance where a judgment has to be made that either makes or breaks the man. Sometimes luck helps. But it happens often in the army especially on frontier station and it was happening now to young Gordon Towner. Fortunately, he knew it.
And wasn't afraid to push his luck.
"Mr. Cline, tell the filthy scoundrel that we'll be only too happy to join his soiree." And then to Lonnigan, "Sergeant, turn your bully boys loose.
They can drink all they want long as it's more than the Indians."
They sat where they had stood, on the other side of the ashes of the cook fires, ten to fifteen feet from the Apaches. Lacayuelo sent the water bag over to them it turned out to be tizwin but gestured and argued loudly for almost an hour for the blancos to join his circle. He was drinking all the time, like everyone else, and finally gave up his pleading when he saw that it was no use. The fly would not venture into the web. Perhaps he felt that ten feet wasn't far anyway.
The soldiers raised their baked clay cups drink for drink with the Indians, carbines or handguns across laps, eyes ever watchful over the cup brims.
It was a strange setting: the savage and the soldier, mortal enemies, drinking tizwin together, each watching for the false move. But the strangest sight was Gordon Towner. He was at least two cupfuls ahead of everyone else. He repeatedly drank down the warm liquid with one toss and raised his empty cup as a sign for more. He drank without speaking, never taking his eyes off the Apache subchief. Lacayuelo met the blanco chief's gaze and felt more than distrust. There was a challenge also. And he would try to drink his tizwin as rapidly.
Cline looked at the lieutenant anxiously. The scout was beginning to feel his drinks, and he'd had tizwin before.
"Mister, you'd better take it easy. This stuff'll do somethin' to you."
Towner sat erect with his legs crossed. "Mr.
Cline, I may be young, but a long time ago my father taught me to drink like a gentleman. If I didn't think I could out drink these creatures, I'd resign my commission."
"That's the trouble, they don't drink like gentlemen."
The lieutenant reached for the water bag again.
"Play the game, Mr. Cline. Play the game." And oddly enough the words gave the scout confidence.
It was shortly after this that one of the Apaches screamed and leaped to his feet, drawing a knife from his breechclout. Five white men dropped their cups and raised pieces in one motion to cover the Apache who was about to leap over the mound of ashes. The sixth was doing quite another thing. He was laughing, and loud enough to make the Indian stop his motion in midair, so that one of his moccasins came down in the middle of the cook fire, the soft ashes puffing in a cloud of gray smoke. He jerked his foot up instinctively, but too quickly, so that he was thrown off balance back among the other Chiricahuas. Towner laughed all the louder.
Then he stopped abruptly and eyed the subchief coldly. He spoke slowly, carefully, to make certain the old Indian would understand.