Mad River

by Donald Hamilton

  There was a dizzy sensation to riding over empty space, the river below, sliding slick and yellow past the deserted ferry and its decaying landings, looked small and far away. John Black's heavy cable looked like a string down there. Cohoon was aware of the muted thunder of the rapids downstream; it had been in his ears for the past hour, but he had not thought about it before. Well, he reflected, if you dropped from this height the rapids would be nothing to worry about since the fall would undoubtedly kill you ... A sound made him turn in the saddle to look back. The end of the bridge that he had just left was blocked by a dozen riders. At the head of them was Willie Black, conspicuous in his neat, dark suit.

  "You're under arrest, Cohoon!" the marshal shouted, his voice diluted by the sound of the river. "Give yourself up quietly and I'll guarantee you a fair trial."

  Another voice shouted, "Yeh, a fair trial and a good stout rope!"

  Cohoon lifted his reins. The marshal saw the gesture and raised his gun to fire once in the air. "You can't get away, he called to Cohoon. "We've got you boxed."

  He pointed ahead, and Cohoon turned to see another group of riders come around the bend in the road a quarter of a mile ahead, riding in to block the south end of the bridge in response to Black's signal. There was no time to waste in wondering what these men thought he had done that deserved hanging; and it was clear they were in no mood to listen to denials. Cohoon drove the spurs in hard. At least he could reach a better place to make a stand than this one, suspended over five hundred feet of nothing.

  The men ahead, seeing his action, raised a yell and came rushing down the road, racing him for the end of the bridge; but he had much the shorter distance to go. The hollow thunder of his progress changed to a hard chopping sound as he reached solid ground; a bullet went by on a sharp, whining note, and he heard guns firing behind him, but did not look back, keeping his attention on the group charging down on him from ahead.

  There were too many for him to have a chance of breaking through, and the men from behind were coming up fast. He knew a moment of rage and hatred more bitter than he had ever experienced. The impulse to stop, dismount, and, shooting carefully, take as many with him as he could, was very strong. With his father's old Henry he could make a shambles of that heedlessly charging mob in the minutes or seconds before one of their bullets found him. But into his mind came the sound of Ward Cohoon's voice, saying, A man can always find a place to die; the trick is to find a place to keep on living.

  He reined the horse around sharply and spurred hard; the beast shuddered, and lunged desperately at the steep bank to the right. A bullet touched Cohoon's sleeve and another kicked up dust beside him as he crouched over the saddle horn, throwing his weight forward to help the laboring animal. Behind and below him the two halves of the posse came together and began milling in confusion. They had expected him to make his try toward the open country to the east, and had fanned out to block escape in that direction. But there was no escape to the west, where a sheer red bluff made progress downstream impossible except by a detour of several miles—Cohoon heard Black's voice ordering a handful of men, by name, to cut south and keep him penned into the open rectangle formed by the bluff, the canyon, and the road.

  He was still boxed, he reflected grimly; but there was a hole in the box—although it was a hole no sane man would try to use. Well, a man who would spend five years in prison on the strength of a girl's smile could hardly be considered to have full possession of his senses. . . . Bullets were still pecking at the ground around him; then the tiring horse lurched over the crest of the slope, and Cohoon sent it forward at a run, angling back toward the river, to the bewilderment of the half-dozen riders who came into sight a moment later. Seeing him merely riding deeper into the trap in which they held him they reined in and took time to organize the next phase of the campaign, and wait for reinforcements, allowing Cohoon to reach the canyon rim unhindered.

  He followed the rim downstream, sparing the horse now that he had a little time; presently, in the shadow of the bluff, he came upon the old road that had carried traffic down to the river during the years John Black's ferry had been in operation under the guidance of the old scoundrel himself or his son— thinking this, Cohoon heard Willie Black's voice shouting crisp orders behind him. They were drawing up a cordon now across the angle formed by the river and the bluff. Willie's dad would turn over in his grave, Cohoon reflected wryly, to see his boy wearing a star. He turned the horse along the deep old tracks, blurred now with disuse, and rode over the edge onto the first of the switchbacks leading down to the water.

  From here he could again see the bridge. It held a handful of men, dismounted. Seeing him come into sight, they began to shoot at him, but their weapons and marksmanship left something to be desired at five hundred yards Also, their hearts were clearly not in it: he was theirs, there was no place for him to go, and they preferred to enjoy his fruitless struggles for a while longer. Nevertheless, the sporadic reports of the guns, and the occasional whine of a bullet, made the precipitous, constantly reversing road seem considerably longer than he remembered it. He was halfway down when a rider came out of the hills to the north and charged across the bridge at a labored gallop—even at this distance it was clear that the horse was almost finished. Cohoon had a moment's hope that this might be a messenger from town to tell the posse they were making a mistake, but the shooting did not stop.

  He negotiated a washout; the road was easier below, and he reached the bottom without further incident, dismounted, and got his rifle and his rope. Then he approached the deserted ferry. He had to wade to reach it, which was all to the good; high and dry it would have been useless to him. He threw his belongings aboard and, after a moment's study, put his shoulder against the sloping front of the scow and heaved strongly at the angle that seemed most promising. He was aware that men had reached the canyon rim above him now; there seemed to be some sort of an argument in progress, since they were all gathered in a bunch talking instead of shooting or coming down to get him.

  He pushed hard, feeling his muscles crack and his boots drive into the yellow mud of the riverbank with the strain.

  But it seemed that John Black's ferry, having made its last official trip, was not eager to come out of retirement. There were men riding back across 'the bridge now, heading for the old road leading down the north wall to the other landing, to meet him if he should succeed in making the crossing. Cohoon grinned tightly at this, drew a deep breath, and called upon all his strength; above the ever-present sound of the river, he heard a small sucking noise. Somewhere the mud was losing its grip on the Waterlogged boards. Fearful of losing what he had gained, he continued to shove from the same position despite the fact that his feet were beginning to slide in the slippery mud.

  A bullet hit the water nearby. Shouts and the sound of gunfire reached him from above; apparently the argument up there had ended. Cohoon took a fresh purchase, but he was tiring now, and could not start the sluggish craft again. Then running feet splashed through the water nearby, and he looked around quickly, reaching for the revolver at his belt—and stopped the motion, staring at Claire Paradine as she waded toward him heedlessly.

  "They wouldn't believe me!" she cried. "I told them that I'd lied—that they had made me lie—but they laughed at me. Boyd, what can I do?"

  He came out of his momentary paralysis. "Go back," he said. "This is no place for you."

  "Don't send me away," she gasped. "Please don't send me away! Let me help."

  He hesitated, and glanced at the road down which she had come; men were already following her down. He looked at her a moment; then he shrugged. He had protected her once. Remembering the payment it had earned him, he could not see doing it again. She was old enough to know her own mind.

  "If you wish," he said. "Let's see if we can get this thing afloat."

  "But—"

  "Did you come to help or talk?" he asked harshly, not fully understanding her presence, and as deeply disturbed by it
as the moment would permit. He threw himself against the weathered boards with sudden anger, and she came to push beside him. It was nothing like the picture he had carried of her through the years; he could never have imagined Claire Paradine knee-deep in muddy water, laboring like a squaw beside him—yet it gave him strength, and the scow began to slide as they pushed together. Suddenly it was riding free, swinging slightly to the current. Cohoon caught the girl by the arm.

  "Last chance," he said. "Go back, Claire."

  She looked up at him, and shook her head stubbornly, He hauled himself aboard and reached down for her, telling himself that he could not leave her to the mercy of the mob—and knowing quite well that he wanted her with him. Yet it was, he knew, a vengeful kind of wanting, of which he was ashamed: she had refused to come with him once when coming might have been easy; it seemed like retribution that she should accompany him now, when it was hard. But there was no time to undo what had been done. She was aboard, and the ferry •was already sliding smoothly away from shore, driven by the pressure of the current down the curve of the cable that would carry them as far as midstream.

  Cohoon rose, and picked up the single, long, weather beaten sweep that John Black had kept aboard as a feeble gesture toward a possible emergency, but there was no need for it. The current kept them moving. Claire tossed the long, loose, disheveled fair hair back from her face and looked up.

  "I betrayed you twice, Boyd," she said. "Once that you don't even know about. Does this make up for it?"

  He grinned abruptly, "Honey, you shouldn't make it sound so damn much like a duty."

  She rose, and pulled at her wet skirts, and glanced around. "Have we got away from them.... Oh, no! Boyd, they're on the other shore waiting for us! What are we going to do?" The ferry came to a deliberate halt in the center of its arc; from here it was uphill work to the other shore, if you wanted to go there. Cohoon looked briefly at the girl beside him. He laid down the sweep and picked up the rifle instead, levered a shell into the chamber, and aimed the weapon carefully. Realizing his intention at last, Claire cried out in panic: "No, Boyd, no! We'll be killed!"

  The gun fired. The bullet tore through the heart of John Black's ancient cable. For a moment nothing happened; then the wounded strands began to separate and unravel, stretching unbelievably and parting with slow reluctance....

  The lurch as the cable gave way threw both occupants of the ferry to the deck. Free, for the first time in its long life John Black's ferry seemed to hesitate for an instant before it began to slide downstream toward the first of the roaring rapids between this point and Yellow Ford.

  23

  NAN MONTOYA drew the green riding habit from the trunk with stiff fingers, not knowing exactly what she planned to do, only that she could not sit here, inactive and helpless, after the news she had just heard.

  "He took the damn old scow into the middle of the river," the man had said, pausing on his way into Flagler's to make the announcement. "Took her right out into the middle and shot the cable in two. The Paradine girl went with him. Well, if they'd rather have the river than a rope, I reckon the choice was theirs. Who'll buy me a drink?"

  Nan laid the garments on the bed, and began to unbutton the gingham dress she was wearing. A shocked word of protest sounded behind her; and Jesusa marched past her and gathered up the riding habit, exclaiming over its creased condition in voluble Spanish, and bearing it out into the other room to be ironed. Annoyed, Nan started after the old woman, but checked herself. After a moment, she fastened up her dress again mechanically, and walked quickly out of the house by the back door—it had been a fantastic idea anyway, born of despair. What could she accomplish down by the river by herself?

  The sun was hot on her shoulders and bare head; she could feel the heat of the ground through her shoes. The wind scorched her face and the dust stung her eyes. It was a grim and merciless country, she thought; there had been a time when it had interested and challenged her, when she had dreamed of defeating it and the people it contained, but that time was gone. Suddenly she seemed to have no strength or will to fight. I should have gone home with Lawrence, she thought bleakly, it would have been better than this, better than being alone.

  A murmur of voices caught her attention. She heard the clatter of many horses coming up Main Street and realized that the main body of the posse was returning, and that the town had come out to meet it. Already, when she reached the corner of Creek Lane, there were fifty people gathered around the dusty, sweating men as they dismounted. She saw that some did not stop here but rode on, meeting nobody's eyes; they would be the ones who felt the death of a woman on their consciences. The rest, however, Were ready enough to share their experiences with anyone who would pay for the drinks.

  Nan found herself trembling; hidden in the crowd, she crouched slightly, reaching down. Montoya's little gun was a weight at her knee; for a moment she was ready to snatch it out and empty it into any one of those gloating, triumphant faces. Common sense intervened, and she straightened up, and turned sharply away, needing to escape to some dark and private place....

  "Miss Montoya."

  She recognized the voice and swung around. "Mrs. Montoya, Marshal," she whispered, looking into the face of William Black. The thought of the gun returned to her mind; and she knew surprise. Even during the recent, bitter years she had never hated anyone enough to kill; but she knew that she could kill this man without a qualm.

  "I'm sorry." Black's voice was even. "Mrs. Montoya. I would like to talk to you, ma'am."

  "You'd better go," she said. "I'm thinking of killing you and I have a gun. Get out of my sight, Marshal, before I forget that your death will do no good."

  "Please, ma'am. There's something I'd like to ask ..." He was quite young, she realized in sudden surprise; he sounded like a polite schoolboy asking a favor, and she looked into his face more closely, and was startled at what she saw. This was a different man from the arrogant officer of the law who had invaded her house that morning; now his face was set in grim lines, and his eyes had a blind look of suffering.

  She heard herself say, "Ask your question."

  The crowd had drifted away from them a little; they had space to themselves. The marshal licked his lips. "Mrs. Montoya," he said, "Mrs. Montoya, was I wrong?"

  After a moment, she nodded. "Yes. You were wrong."

  "Can you prove it?"

  "What good will it do, now?" She shrugged. "I told you about the knife. Did you check on that?"

  "No."

  "Do so. You'll find I'm telling the truth. As for the identification—"

  Black said softly, "Miss Paradine retracted her identification. At the river. The men ... the men did not believe her."

  "What more do you need?"

  "The money," Black said. "The money from the first robbery. The money you deposited in the bank the following day...."

  She shook her head. "You're barking up the wrong tree. That money was given to Cohoon by the Paradines, for services rendered. If you've heard the gossip of the town, you know what services I mean."

  "I heard some stories, but never believed them. It was not in the character of any Cohoon to make such a gesture."

  Nan cried angrily, "What do you know of his character? All you know is that his brother,played a cruel trick on you once; for that, you've hounded Boyd and killed him!"

  "She went with him," the marshal said dully. "I tried to hold her, but she broke away and rode down to join him—"

  Nan said, "You're not interested in justice, Mr. Black, or in the fact that you sent an innocent man to his death. All that bothers you is that Claire Paradine became involved as well."

  He looked up, startled; then he nodded slowly. "Perhaps you're right, ma'am. In that case . . . in that case, I have no business wearing this any longer, do I?" With an abrupt gesture he ripped the badge from his shirt and hurled it away from him, turning to stride away.

  "Marshal," she called. "Mr. Black."

  He paused. "What
is it?"

  "Is there any hope?"

  He looked back. "My father used to boast about his exploits when he was drunk, Mrs. Montoya. Doubtless you've heard rumors; well they're all quite true. In all, he claimed to have sent eleven men down the river. Many were alive when they hit the water. None ever showed up at Yellow Ford, alive or dead. There are records of six others who, not having the money to pay the ferry charges, tried to swim across and failed. None were heard of again." Black paused, and went on. "I sent some men to Yellow Ford this morning, on the strength of the information you gave me—not that I believed it. If anyone gets through, those men will be waiting."

  "Yes," she said bitterly, "with a rope."

  Black gave her a strange, blank look, and walked away. She watched him out of sight. Presently she became aware of a drunken voice by the nearest saloon explaining in detail how the trap had been set at the bridge, and how Cohoon had ridden into it unsuspectingly. . . Nan shivered and turned away, but checked herself at the sight of a well-dressed man of less than medium height who stood listening to the recital without expression—standing a little apart from the crowd as if, like most small men, he disliked being jostled.

  She knew him by sight and reputation, of course: this was Paul Westerman who, once a Creek Lane gambler, had managed to build upon his winnings until he was rumored to own half the town and wield influence throughout the territory. This was the man who hated Cohoon and was to have married Claire Paradine. His feelings, Nan reflected, must be divided at this moment; it was no wonder he chose to conceal them. As she looked at him curiously, a large bearded man she had seen before came walking through the crowd in a casual way and paused beside the smaller man briefly, as if by accident; but a word was passed, and Nan saw the wicked light that flared for an instant in Westerman's eyes.