"What's that?"
"Gu Nakya? That's where Agustín used to hole up in the old days. That's where some of his folks is buried, only they don't bury 'em, of course—they just burn down the brush hut the feller lived in. Gu Nakya is over the top of the mountain, looking down that steep drop to the other side."
"Will you take me to Gu Nakya?"
Uncle Roscoe sighed. "All right, if you're so damned anxious to lose your liver and lights! Soon's I pack up a few more supplies, I intended to head up that way anyhow. This time I got the Gypsy Dancer dead in my sights. But you sure you don't want to change your mind?"
"Dead sure! I am firm in my decision."
Borrowing dried meat, hard cheese, and some tea and biscuits from the Sprankles, Jack told George Dunaway what he planned to do. Dunaway pushed back his hat and stared.
"You mean it?"
"I do indeed."
"Only yesterday I was thinking 'What if Drumm went up there, tried to find Phoebe?' It was a wild hare of an idea—I said so at the time—but now—" Dunaway fumbled for Jack's hand, gripped it hard. "Once," he muttered, "I beat the tar out of you in a fight. Remember?"
"I do."
"I used a few Arizona tricks on you, things you never saw before, and I flattened you. But I'm bound to admit you're a better man, Jack. While I sit here on my butt, scared of a court-martial, you—you—" Dunaway took a pad of paper from his pocket, scribbled quickly. "Here," he said. "You'll need this."
"What is it?"
"A pass through our pickets." Dunaway gestured toward the foothills of the Mazatzals. "They'll stop you when you get up there. No civilians allowed." He grinned wryly. "When Major Trimble finds out, it'll be my butt in small pieces! But it's the least I can do." He shook hands with Jack Drumm. "If—if you ever see Phoebe again, tell her I—I—" He broke off. "I guess I loved her," he said awkwardly. "Hard to tell, in a way, since I never had experience with the real thing. But—" He turned on his heel, walking rapidly away.
On the flanks of the Mazatzals, far above the river, they paused for breath and to rest Jack's roan mount and the heavily laden Pansy. Though it was still winter, the sun bore heavily down. The playa below shimmered in the heat. Uncle Roscoe sat in the shade of a rocky ledge and drank from a canteen. His face was flushed with effort, and the dirty shirt was black with sweat under the armpits and across his meager chest.
"Hard going," Jack wheezed, squatting beside him.
Uncle Roscoe hooted. "You ain't seen any hard going yet!" He nodded skyward. "Wait till we get up there!"
Below them, the new M-7 heliographs winked in the sun. They were stationed, as the major had said, all up and down the river, a chain of rapid communication, making Agustín's situation difficult. If he risked a raid at one point, it was likely that troops quickly summoned from another would cut off his retreat into Gu Nakya.
Still winded, Jack clambered onto Tom. Uncle Roscoe prodded Pansy with a stick and they moved forward again, forward and upward. A rattler sunning on a flat rock watched them with dusty hooded eyes. The old prospector glanced at the snake, moved slightly aside, estimating the serpent's striking range, and said, "He don't mean us no harm, and I don't mean him none. That's the way to get along in the Territory. Wisht the gov'mint and the Apaches had the same policy."
At noon they stopped for a quick meal of dried meat and iron-hard biscuits. Uncle Roscoe, tattered hat over his face, took a nap. Jack Drumm was whittling with the Apache knife when a corporal, followed by two soldiers, stepped from the bushes. The soldiers trained Springfield rifles; the corporal waved a revolver menacingly.
"What you people doing up here?"
Uncle Roscoe sat bolt upright.
"What in hell you mean, what are us people doing up here? This is a free country, ain't it? What in Tophet you yellowlegs doing up here so God damn far from your mammy? Why, I—"
"Be quiet," Jack said. Under the watchful eye of the corporal he took the paper from his pocket. "We have a pass," he explained.
The corporal examined the paper. "I didn't hear nothing about any passes being issued."
"Do you recognize Lieutenant Dunaway's signature?"
The man scratched his stubbled chin. "That's his signature all right—he give me a three-day pass last week at Fort Whipple. But—"
Jack took the pass and put it again in his shirt pocket. "Then let us go on. We have a long way to travel."
"I ain't sure!" the corporal protested. "Where you two going, anyway?"
"That's for us to know and you to find out," Uncle Roscoe snapped. "Come on, Pansy."
"All right, then! I was only intending to give you some good advice." The corporal gestured toward the mountaintop. "Up there the Apaches are swarming like bees! They say Agustín's been joined by more hostiles that's bolted the reservation. I don't know what your business is, you fellers, but don't say I didn't warn you!"
"Thank you," Jack said. "If you'll tell your men to put down those rifles, we'll pass on through."
Late in the afternoon, several thousand feet above the playa, they paused, winded and staggering with fatigue. Pansy, sides heaving, stood stiff-legged under her burden as if fearing relaxation of her legs would result in complete collapse. Tom, the roan, limped badly with a stone-bruised foot. Uncle Roscoe took off his hat and fanned himself; a blue vein in his temple pumped. Voice hoarse but exultant, he pointed to the twin crags above them. "There's where she lies, the Gypsy Dancer! God, I spent most of my life lookin' for her! Now I can practically spit on her!"
The sun was sliding down the western wall of the sky and the air was cooler. Above them Jack could see scattered patches of snow. The flora, too, had changed. There were junipers, and an occasional pine tree. Different birds fluttered about in the undergrowth; chickadees and nuthatches, they were called.
"I'm glad you're near the Gypsy Dancer," he panted, "but you're going to take me to Gu Nakya—remember?"
Roscoe swallowed a long draft of water; the knob of Adam's apple bobbed up and down in his lean throat.
"That's right," he agreed, corking the flask. "I ain't one to forget a promise! Now this here is the plan." He pointed upward. "Behind that peak, sloping down to the other side, lies Gu Nakya. I don't doubt but what some scout seen us already, and wonders what in hell we're up to. We best hunker down right here for the night, get a little rest. When the moon comes up so's we can see a little, we'll go on up. Mebbe they won't ketch sight of us till we're pretty well up on 'em. By sunup we'll be on top, and then—"
He broke off, the words slurring oddly.
"And then—" he repeated.
Again he broke off, looking at Jack Drumm with a worried expression. "I—I feel kind of queer," he muttered.
Concerned, Jack squatted beside him. "Are you ill?"
The old prospector shook his head. "Dunno! It don't seem like sick, exactly, but—" With Jack's help he got to his feet, swaying, fumbling with a gnarled hand at his throat. "A little dizzy, seems like, but—"
Suddenly he collapsed, bandy legs folding under him. Alarmed, Jack let him gently down, pillowing Roscoe's head with his coat. When the old man struggled, Jack forced him to lie still.
"Don't exert yourself!" he urged. "Lie quietly for a few minutes and you'll feel better! It's—it's probably the altitude."
Even in the fading light he could see that the old man's face was red and perspiring; even more than red, the wattled cheeks took on a purplish tinge. Roscoe's lips moved clumsily.
"Dizzy—it's just a little—dizzy—"