At a place in the trail above Old Campground, the Apache halted. Kaytennae, youngest of the group with us, came over to where I held my mount with those of Ben Allison and the rearguard warrior, a surly fellow whom I did not know. Kaytennae was another matter.
I had known the youth from his twelfth summer, when he had been brought to me near death from what appeared to be a deep brain fever. The good Lord God furnished me the power to heal him and return him to his savage people in health. The Nednhi made Indian payment of the debt. Each summer, after that, the boy had been sent down out of the Sierra to stay at the blackrobe’s “school” and be taught the skills of medicine. The Apache, despite all contrary imaginations, were an extremely bright people. The Nednhi well knew that white man and Mexican had many learnings that Indians did not and could not possess, living as they did. In rare cases, as it went against their every barbarian instinct, they would trust a youngster to some priest for tutelage. The priest, of course, understood just as well what the terms of his failure would be.
Kaytennae was a Mexican Apache—most of the hostiles were American bands living in Chihuahua as the occasions of Yanqui pursuit demanded—and a nephew of Juh. He was no more than sixteen in this springtime of the El Paso raid; and he was with the Juh party as “horse boy”—a young Apache soldier’s first employment in war. The duty was not a simple one, and its awarding to any young Chiricahua—most warlike of all the Apache peoples—was always of significance. I was certain Kaytennae would be known to a later history, being of the highest intelligence and most supreme wildness.
In the present case, the boy was selected to approach me for the simple reason that none of his fellows seemed disposed to do so. At least, that was my guess.
“Blackrobe,” he now said, first touching his forehead to show respect, “look down there.”
I did not have to ask where.
We had climbed no more than half a mile. Old Campground lay directly below us, no greater distance downward than perhaps six hundred feet. The moon had risen as we made our way upward and now lit Pool of Light and the white-sanded beach with nearly dazzling brilliance. The eye, unaided, could make out a stone on that pure sand no bigger than the head of a man. Still, I was puzzled at the boy’s direction, for the campground lay deserted of visible life. The bodies of the Apache dead had been “honored” and were gone. Gone also were the men and horses with Juh. Plainly, the work of the burial party had been done and that party, with the two scalp hunter prisoners, was on its way up the path by which we had just come to this spectacular overlook.
“What is it, Kaytennae?” I said. “I see nothing down there but some small stones on the beach, one or two, near where the last of the fire smolders.”
“Two,” the boy said softly.
“Well, yes,” I answered. “I see them, if that is what you mean. Is that such a strange thing, niño?”
“Not to us,” murmured Kaytennae. “Watch.”
Allison, listening to the exchange, which was in the bastard Spanish of the monte, kneed his horse nearer to us. He had been relieved of Huera’s burden by the other Apache, who had the woman resting on a pallet of their blankets while we awaited Juh and the remainder of the party. In consequence we were, for the moment, free of any witness save young Kaytennae. I could sense the Texan’s tenseness, as opposed to my own relative calm.
“Can you imagine what the boy is talking about?” I asked him, feeling, in fact, quite relieved and grateful to God to be where we were, alive and with hope to remain that way. The big man nodded quickly.
“I can,” he said. Narrowing the pale eyes, he peered hard and for some moments at the distant beach. Then, wiping his eyes, he shook the lean head.
“Damn!” he said, plainly disturbed. “I wish we had them field glasses of Bustamante’s.”
“Well, they are in the sack of things you left strapped to Mean Trick. Along with my own bag of small belongings similarly fastened to Tin Can. If it has come to wishes, hombre, I could do much better than that. I would say, let the field glasses be here, and let us be there, with dear Lata and sister Jugada. No es verdad?”
“Very damn much so,” grimaced the Texan.
But there was a surprise here.
Kaytennae, as I had spoken in Spanish, understood the reference.
Reaching into his own war bag, he came forth with a bulky object, which he tendered to me.
“Gemelos de campaña,” he said. “Mejicano.”
I accepted the offering, and he spoke the truth; in my hand lay a fine pair of Mexican cavalry field glasses.
Allison took them from me, unbidden.
Almost in the instant that he raised them, granting only a swift moment of focusing, I heard him say, “Oh, Christ,” under his breath. Next moment, Kaytennae had taken the glasses back from him.
“What is it?” I asked the silent Texan.
“It’s Custer Johnson and that young feller, Carson.”
“The scalpers—they’re dead!”
“Worse; alive.”
“Thank God!”
“Not hardly,” said Ben Allison, low voiced. “They’re buried to their necks on the beach.”
“Nombre Dios! The stones—!”
“Their heads,” nodded the Texan. “That’s all of them that your friend Juh left sticking out of the sand.”
“But why?” I cried out. “For what?”
Into the stillness that fell between us came a sobbing, doleful howling of wolves, immediately near. I felt a chill of ice about my heart. And Allison nodded once more.
“For them,” he said.