I felt a sudden heat on my face, like the feeling you get when you're talking about someone, then suddenly find the person standing next to you.
Without thinking about it I told McKay, 'That's Peza-a, one of my people.' What made me call him by his Apache name I don't know. Perhaps because he looked so Indian. But I had never called him Peza-a before.
He approached us somewhat shyly, wearing his faded shirt and breechclout but now with a streak of ochre painted across his nose from ear to ear. He didn't look as if he could have a drop of white blood in him.
'What's he doing here?' McKay's voice still held a note of suspicion, and he looked at him as if he were trying to place him.
Bowie Allison studied him the same way, saying nothing.
'Where's Tudishishn? These gentlemen are waiting for him.'
'Tudishishn is ill with a demon in his stomach,' Peza-a answered.
'He has asked me to substitute myself for him.' He spoke in Spanish, hesitantly, the way an Apache does.
McKay studied him for some time. Finally, he said, 'Well . . . can he track?'
'He was with Tudishishn for a year. Tudishishn speaks highly of him.' Again I don't know what made me say it. A hundred things were going through my head. What I said was true, but I saw it getting me into something. Mickey never looked directly at me. He kept watching McKay, with the faint smile on his mouth.
McKay seemed to hesitate, but then he said, 'Well, come on. I don't need a reference . . . long as he can track.'
They mounted and rode out.
McKay wanted prongbuck. Tudishishn had described where they would find the elusive herds and promised to show him all he could shoot. But they were many days away. McKay had said if he didn't have time, he'd make time. He wanted good shooting.
Off and on during the first day he questioned Mickey Segundo closely to see what he knew about the herds.
'I have seen them many times. Their hide the color of sand, and black horns that reach into the air like bayonets of the soldiers. But they are far.'
McKay wasn't concerned with distance. After a while he was satisfied that this Indian guide knew as much about tracking antelope as Tudishishn, and that's what counted. Still, there was something about the young Apache. . . .
'TOMORROW, WE begin the crossing of the malpais,' Mickey Segundo said. It was evening of the third day, as they made camp at Yucca Springs.
Bowie Allison looked at him quickly. 'Tudishishn planned we'd follow the high country down and come out on the plain from the east.'
'What's the matter with keeping a straight line,' McKay said. 'Keeping to the hills is longer, isn't it?'
'Yeah, but that malpais is a blood-dryin' furnace in the middle of August,' Bowie grumbled. 'You got to be able to pinpoint the wells. And even if you find them, they might be dry.'
McKay looked at Peza-a for an answer.
'If Senor McKay wishes to ride for two additional days, that is for him to say. But we can carry our water with ease.' He went to his saddle pouch and drew out two collapsed, rubbery bags. 'These, from the stomach of the horse, will hold much water. Tomorrow we fill canteens and these, and the water can be made to last five, six days. Even if the wells are dry, we have water.'
Bowie Allison grumbled under his breath, looking with distaste at the horse-intestine water sacks.
McKay rubbed his chin thoughtfully. He was thinking of prongbuck.
Finally he said, 'We'll cut across the lava.'
Bowie Allison was right in his description of the malpais. It was a furnace, a crusted expanse of desert that stretched into another world.
Saguaro and ocotillo stood nakedly sharp against the whiteness, and off in the distance were ghostly looming buttes, gigantic tombstones for the lava waste. Horses shuffled choking white dust, and the sun glare was a white blistering shock that screamed its brightness. Then the sun would drop suddenly, leaving a nothingness that could be felt. A life that had died a hundred million years ago.
McKay felt it and that night he spoke little.
The second day was a copy of the first, for the lava country remained monotonously the same. McKay grew more irritable as the day wore on, and time and again he would snap at Bowie Allison for his grumbling. The country worked at the nerves of the two white men, while Mickey Segundo watched them.
On the third day they passed two water holes. They could see the shallow crusted bottoms and the fissures that the tight sand had made cracking in the hot air. That night McKay said nothing.
In the morning there was a blue haze on the edge of the glare; they could feel the land beneath them begin to rise. Chaparral and patches of toboso grass became thicker and dotted the flatness, and by early afternoon the towering rock formations loomed near at hand. They had then one water sack two thirds full; but the other, with their canteens, was empty.
Bowie Allison studied the gradual rise of the rock wall, passing his tongue over cracked lips. 'There could be water up there. Sometimes the rain catches in hollows and stays there a long time if it's shady.'
McKay squinted into the air. The irregular crests were high and dead still against the sky. 'Could be.'
Mickey Segundo looked up and then nodded.
'How far to the next hole?' McKay asked.
'Maybe one day.'
'If it's got water. . . . Then how far?'
'Maybe two day. We come out on the plain then near the Datil Mountains and there is water, streams to be found.'
McKay said, 'That means we're halfway. We can make last what we got, but there's no use killing ourselves.' His eyes lifted to the peaks again, then dropped to the mouth of a barranca which cut into the rock.
He nodded to the dark canyon which was partly hidden by a dense growth of mesquite. 'We'll leave our stuff there and go on to see what we can find.'
They unsaddled the horses and ground-tied them and hung their last water bag in the shade of a mesquite bush.
Then they walked up-canyon until they found a place which would be the easiest to climb.
They went up and they came down, but when they were again on the canyon floor, their canteens still rattled lightly with their steps.
Mickey Segundo carried McKay's rifle in one hand and the limp, empty water bag in the other.
He walked a step behind the two men and watched their faces as they turned to look back overhead. There was no water.
The rocks held nothing, not even a dampness. They were naked now and loomed brutally indifferent, and bone dry with no promise of moisture.
The canyon sloped gradually into the opening. And now, ahead, they could see the horses and the small fat bulge of the water bag hanging from the mesquite bough.
Mickey Segundo's eyes were fixed on the water sack. He looked steadily at it. Then a horse screamed. They saw the horses suddenly pawing the ground and pulling at the hackamores that held them fast. The three horses and the pack mule joined together now, neighing shrilly as they strained dancing at the ropes.
And then a shape the color of sand darted through the mesquite thicket, so quickly that it seemed a shadow.
Mickey Segundo threw the rifle to his shoulder. He hesitated. Then he fired.
The shape kept going, past the mesquite background and out into the open.
He fired again and the coyote went up into the air and came down to lie motionless.
It only jerked in death. McKay looked at him angrily. 'Why the hell didn't you let me have it! You could have hit one of the horses!'
'There was not time.'
'That's two hundred yards! You could have hit a horse, that's what I'm talking about!'
