Ambush on the Mesa by Gordon D. Shirreffs Page A

close to the surface. There was no inner peace in any of them. Some ofthem laughed at Isaiah Morton, but he had taken it as part of his martyrdom, part of the task which had been given to him in a vision. For Isaiah Morton had been picked to bring Christianity to Mangus Colorado. It had been said that an old priest had tried to do so many years before. But he had failed. Some said that Father Font had been a good man, and had failed not because of anything he had done, or had not done, but rather because his own people had betrayed Mangus Colorado.
    The scout, Hugh Kinzie, a hard and violent man, had said the Mimbrenos were waiting for their chance out in the darkness. When that chance came they would strike and kill. Isaiah tried to conjure up a picture of Mangus Colorado.
    “He sitteth in the lurking places of the villages: in the secret places doth he murder the innocent: his eyes are privily set against the poor.” Isaiah Morton stood up and paced back and forth. “He lieth in wait secretly as a lion in his den: he lieth in wait to catch the poor: he doth catch the poor, when he draweth him into his net.” Isaiah’s harsh voice rang out, echoing from the walls. “He croucheth, and humbleth himself, that the poor may fall by his strong ones!”
    Someone called out along the terrace. Isaiah’s voice died away. A faint murmuring echo came from the arched rock wall high above the cliff dwellings. Cold sweat bathed Isaiah’s gaunt body.
    From somewhere in the darkness a dry voice spoke up. “If them Apaches didn’t hear that, they’re deaf. He’s a shoutin’ minister, that man is.”
    Isaiah bowed his head in prayer.
    Marion Nettleton was still tired. She had had more rest than anyone else in the party, and had been exposed to the least amount of hardships. She lay awake in the darkness, trying to imagine she was in her big bed in the cozy room in her father’s castellated monstrosity of a house back in Missouri. She had a strong will, and a fine imagination, but she could not fight back the eerie darkness of the ruins, always pressing in for every advantage.
    Maurice was outside somewhere, bumbling about, trying to play the part of the frontier soldier. Maurice had always been good to her. She had fallen in love with him, or thought she had, because he had had all the outward manifestations of the kind of man she wanted, but time and closer acquaintancehad showed her how wrong she had been. He was on the defensive with her now, catering to her every wish, pampering and petting her, when she had hoped for a man like her father, who ruled women, and everyone else for that matter, with a will of iron.
    Marion had come west with Maurice, hoping that he would assert himself and build up a reputation, but unfortunately he had been too long under the hard thumb and the strong will of Shelton Bennett. They hadn’t been at Fort Ayres more than a month when it was obvious his men were laughing at him. Mother Nettleton was his nickname behind his back. Marion often had wondered what they called her behind her back until one day she had overheard two noncoms talking together about her. She had not been mentioned by name. “The Little Corporal,” one of them had said.
    Marion hadn’t been too nervous when they had left Fort Ayres. Now doubt had a firm hold on Marion Nettleton. She had depended on these people for her comforts; now she was dependent on them for her very life. Maurice had bungled as usual. If he had abandoned the beef herd he would not have lost the largest part of his company, as well as the services of a skilled Indian fighter. If he had moved swiftly toward the Rio Grande, instead of traveling almost leisurely for the comfort of his wife, he might have escaped the net cast about him by Mangus Colorado. Now he was more concerned about his wife’s little desires than about the dangers surrounding them. Hot coffee, a soft place to sleep, warm blankets in the cool nights, and cold water during the hot days: