Mad River

by Donald Hamilton

  Then the bearded man moved on—his name was Jack Rudy, she recalled now—and Westerman, having regained his composure, held his place for some minutes longer. When he moved away, it was with the leisurely gait of a man Who had lost interest in the proceedings. Nan hesitated, and found herself walking slowly after him.

  She was remembering her discussion with Cohoon the night before—already it seemed years ago—and her own insistence that the man who called himself the General was someone well known in town. Whoever he was, he had set the mob on Cohoon's trail to draw public attention from his own crimes—and it could easily be the short, assured man walking ahead of her. If this were true, it would explain how he had so quickly grown in wealth and influence in the community. The profits from the General's robberies seemed a more likely source for the money that had financed his ambitious schemes than the winnings of a few lucky nights at poker....

  Evening was closing in on the town and the desert; the lengthening shadows made concealment easy. It did not, apparently, occur to Paul Westerman that he might be followed; he led her directly down Creek Lane to its end at the arroyo; then made his way to the right some hundred years to an adobe house that had been deserted for the obvious reason that a change in the course of the stream bed during a past flood had undermined and carried away the whole rear of the building, leaving the front half perched precariously on the edge of the ten-foot bank, wide open to the desert to the north, but still presenting a closed, civilized face toward the town.

  Standing in the shadow of a nearby hut, Nan watched the small man ahead of her walk directly to this remnant of a dwelling and swing himself around the broken wall where it ended at the sheer edge of the bank, disappearing inside. After a reasonable delay to make sure he was not coming out again immediately, she darted across the open space and crouched beneath a window, feeling a little ridiculous at behaving in such a stealthy manner. But the sound of voices acted as an effective antidote to her self-consciousness; she found herself listening intently.

  Westerman's voice said sharply, "You still haven't told me what you're doing here in that getup! Do you want to get yourself hanged?"

  "Señior," said a slurred voice that was faintly familiar, "I am getting drunk, can't you see? For years I have pretended to be a worthless borracho. Who pays attention to the movements of a young man so obviously interested in nothing but whisky and women and more whisky? Today I am celebrating; for a change I am really getting drunk—"

  "Well, get out of that costume and get drunk somewhere else before you get us all in trouble!" Westerman snapped. The other laughed. "It's too late for that, amigo. You are in trouble. You will never use my father's bank for your clever schemes, because I smashed it this morning, and him with it. You'll never marry my sister for the respectability she would bring you. . . . You wanted to marry into the fine Paradine family and move into the fine Paradine house; but what you didn't know was that it was a house of cards. Well, I blew it over today, amigo, with one little puff of breath. Poof, like that. So much for the Paradines, and so much for you, Westerman. You've been playing a game with me for years, ever since you learned the General's identity, using me as a weapon to terrorize this country, and taking half the profits for yourself. You were waiting, weren't you, for the right moment to take your revenge for Harry—oh, you know what I mean, and I know you know. But I was playing a game with you, too, my friend; and I struck first, And now I'll tell you this: your Harry was a yellow rat, The only courage he had was in his trigger finger. I warned him once that I would leave him to his own devices if he could not keep his nerves under control. Well, he lost his head again and started shooting, as was his habit, and I kept my promise and rode out on him. That's how Harry died, Westerman, a trigger-happy little coward ...."

  There was a rustle of movement, and the sound of a blow. It was time to go for help, and Nan started up—and froze, seeing Jack Rudy watching her from the corner of the derelict house, a sly grin on his bearded lips. He stepped forward. She ducked, and reached for the gun she carried; but his powerful arm clamped about her, pinning her own arms to her body. The gun fell to the ground. She kicked hard, driving backwards with her heel; the man holding her swore in an ugly fashion, and his fist caught her behind the ear. Through the mists of receding consciousness she became aware that hers had not been the only struggle; inside the half-shell of a house, another human being was fighting for life against odds. But that resistance, also, was almost at an end.

  24

  THE SCOW HAD STRUCK once in the first rapids—struck, and hung on the submerged ledge for an interminable time, while the roaring water beat against it and washed over it; then it had pivoted in a deliberate way and, grindingly, pulled free to be flung out by the current into the smooth run of water below, down which it slid with frightening speed, rotating slowly. Cohoon released the girl and rose, aware that the craft beneath him, already waterlogged at the start of the journey, was settling more rapidly now as the water reached cracks opened by long exposure to the hot sun and dry air.

  "Give me your shoes," he said to Claire.

  She looked at him blankly through the matted veil of hair that had washed over her face. He was aware of regret and a sense of guilt; whatever she had done to him, he had his revenge in full, and it was a tasteless thing. He crouched beside her and removed her shoes, and his boots, and lashed these, with the rifle, to the weather-beaten sweep lying on deck. He left two loops of rope lying free. The girl watched numbly; all hope and interest had been knocked out of her by the recent buffeting, as well as by her conviction that they were doomed.

  He tried to encourage her, shouting over the roar of the next rapids, now close at hand, "As Father used to say, there never was a horse that couldn't be rode, or a river that couldn't be run. If we can just get down to where the canyon opens up a bit.... Hang on, now. Here we go again."

  The ancient ferry seemed to pause; it tilted and plunged down a foaming chute into black shadows. Here the canyon walls were perpendicular and so high as to shut out the light of the afternoon sun. In the shadows, the current was torn apart by hidden rocks; they hit three times before they were borne out into sunlight again. Cohoon, lying on the deck beside the girl, took advantage of the respite to drag the sweep closer, and fit the rope about them; then they were thrown against the shore rocks with a splintering crash, and borne away, and hurled down a long incline of white water, in the middle of which the scow, riding deep now, struck with an impact that sent them sliding across the deck. It hung there; slowly the upstream side began to rise under the terrible pressure; boards and timbers cracked below. The deck began to open up; the whole fabric of the craft was dissolving.

  There was no need to jump; the lower side was already submerged, and the angle of the deck let them slide into the water merely by letting to, but Cohoon had to break the girl's fingers loose from the panicky grips they found. Then they were floating free, still in the shelter formed by the grounded ferry. A moment later the current snatched them away.

  Cohoon could never clearly recall the rest of that journey. He remembered seeing, behind them, the ferry upended and overturned and hurled like a toy after them, only to strike again and disintegrate into a mass of broken lumber. He had a memory of releasing the gun and belt that weighed him down. He remembered also, once when an eddy threw them close to the shore, that Claire had come suddenly to life and tried to free herself from the ropes to swim to safety; he had to grab her and hold her. There was nothing to be gained by reaching shore here, only to die of starvation under these towering red cliffs. Sunlight alternated with shade as they were implacably carried along; smooth water with rough. Claire lost consciousness, and he did his best to keep her head above water. Then a run of swift water shot them out into sunlight again, and the canyon walls were not as close as they had been, and he knew that this was the place for which he had been waiting, saving his strength.

  He changed his grip on the sweep and, kicking hard, tried to drive them toward
the south bank that was sliding past with frightening speed. Ahead the canyon narrowed again to a dark gateway beyond which more rapids roared. They had come less than a quarter of the way; they could never survive the rest. Even dead men had never made the full journey. . . . He labored desperately, and an eddy flung them back; he had to rest for a moment, and another eddy bore them shorewards, and he rode it in and fought blindly and furiously against the grip of it as it threatened to carry them out again. He broke free, and lay panting in a quiet backwater, floating on the sweep. Straightening, he felt his feet touch bottom.

  Later he dragged the girl, and the sweep with its attached burden, up the clay beach. He determined that Claire was alive; and started for the oar with some notion of breaking it up and using the fragments to make a fire to warm her, but dizziness hit him suddenly, and he had to lie down. Lying there, he fell asleep. When he awoke, there was darkness all around him, but there was light in the sky upstream, which confused him, since it was his understanding that the sun normally set in the west. Then he laughed, realizing that he had slept the night through and this was morning.

  He rose, limped back and forth a couple of times to loosen his abused muscles, and set to work to build the fire he had intended to make the evening before, using matches from the waterproof cache he always carried—even with this, he had to strike three before finding one that would light. As the flames grew, he became aware of being watched, and turned to see Claire's eyes open.

  "What time is it?" she asked.

  It seemed like an odd question, but he did not comment on it, answering: "I don't rightly know. Morning, anyway." She sat up, and cried out. He went to her and helped her rise. "Oh, I feel like I'd been broken into a thousand pieces!" she whimpered. "Boyd, where are we? What are we going to do? How are we going to get out of this terrible place?"

  "Walk," he said.

  She glanced at him quickly.

  He said, "Don't you remember, Claire. We climbed down here once when we were kids."

  She looked around. "It's dark," she said. "I didn't recognize. ..." She turned back to him. "You kissed me," she said. "I remember that. It was the first time. You were kind of slow in getting around to it, Boyd."

  She looked quickly away again, raised her hands to her hair and presently turned aside to bring her dress into as much order as its condition would permit; finished, she found her shoes and put them on. She returned to stand by the fire and spread her skirts, still heavy with moisture, to the warmth. She spoke again to Cohoon, who had used the interval for much the same purposes.

  "Aren't you going to ask me any questions? Aren't you even curious why those men were trying to hang you?"

  He grinned. "Right now, I'm just happy to be alive, ma'am."

  "It was my fault," she said. "But I've paid for it, haven't I? Boyd, look at me? Tell me you don't hate me! Please!"

  "I never did, Claire," he said, and added honestly, "except maybe a little, now and then. After dreaming for five years, a man kind of hates to wake up and find he has nothing but the dream for his pains."

  "I know," she said, "I know! It was unforgivable of me, but I was afraid; afraid you'd changed; afraid you wouldn't ... wouldn't have anything left for us to live on; afraid of what Paul might do. . " Her voice died. She raised her head to look at him across the fire. "I'm not afraid any longer, Boyd. "

  He returned her look; after a moment he moved, circling the fire to go to her. She waited for him; when he reached her, she turned her face up for the kiss as she had once before, on his first night home, but this time her arms came tight about his neck and her body was soft and yielding beneath his hands. . . . They stood thus for a measurable period of time. Then her arms dropped away; and he stepped back. A long time passed, and the thunder of the river was all around them. She was the first to make a sound; she laughed sharply.

  "It's funny, isn't it," she whispered. "We were so much in love; and now there's nothing left. Did you know?"

  He shook his head.

  "Neither did I," she breathed. "I thought ... When did it happen, my dear? Was it during the years you were away; or did I kill it a few days ago? ... Never mind. It doesn't matter. Boyd—"

  "Yes?" he said.

  "I'm still a woman," she said, facing him. "I'm yours if you want me. It's a need men have, isn't it, even without love? I can fill it as well as that creature on Creek Lane; the one who wouldn't lift a finger to help you yesterday. I have followed you into this place; I'm yours. At least one Paradine will pay what is owed."

  He said stiffly, "You're paying a debt, Claire? Is that why you came?"

  She moved her shoulders beneath the damp, soiled dress.

  "Maybe I thought there might be more. Maybe I hoped . . But it doesn't matter, and there has been too much cheating. I'll keep the bargain I made with you five years ago. I promised you something then, and it's yours for the taking—here and now if you wish. You can marry me later or not as you please. I can't be particular about that, can I—the sister of a wanted outlaw and the daughter of a thief?"

  He did not understand the reference; but it was not the time to ask. He was shocked and embarrassed by what she was offering—and by the fact that he had no desire at all to accept the offer, even if it had not been unthinkable that he should so take advantage of her weariness and dependence upon him in this place.

  "Claire," he said, "Claire..."

  Then she Was in his arms, crying bitterly; and he held her until the paroxysms subsided, and lent her a damp handkerchief with which to dry her eyes. She laughed suddenly, looking up at him.

  "Well, at least I tried, my dear. The offer was made in good faith, and I do not withdraw it."

  He said curtly, "It's getting light. We'd better be moving. It's going to be a hot day for climbing."

  25

  TOWARD NOON they stopped to rest, for the fifth time in an hour. Shade was becoming hard to find, even the crevice up which they were now making their way, but when they sat back against the wall, the sun could not quite reach them. Sitting there, Cohoon inspected his rope and coiled it carefully. A rope was not much assistance to a man climbing upward; however it had served to help him pull the girl after him up the more difficult places. He laid the rope aside and picked up the rifle, which he had earlier cleaned and dried to the best of his ability.

  He turned to Claire Paradine, lying back against the sandstone wall with her eyes closed. Her small face was dirty and her lips had a parched look. She had had no strength to spare for saving her clothing during the climb; and her light garments, already stained and yellowed by the sediment-laden waters of the river, were further discolored now by dust and perspiration, and damaged beyond hope of repair. She had the look, Cohoon thought, of a flower cruelly broken and trampled into the dirt—but behind his sympathy was a faint sense of irritation at her helplessness. It occurred to him that she had required—demanded, even—almost as much assistance the last time they had come this way, But he had taken pleasure in being allowed to help her then, and considered her brave just to make the venture....

  "Come on, Claire," he said gently, "it's only a little way to the top now."

  "You said that two hours ago." She opened her eyes. "Leave me here, Boyd. I'm only a burden to you. Just leave me; it's what I deserve.

  This was the new and humble Claire Paradine, purged and purified by suffering, and rather proud of it. Cohoon had no sympathy with her attitude; he lifted her to her feet, picked up rope and rifle, and led her away. An hour later he hauled himself over the crumbling edge of the rimrock, reached down for the gun she passed him, and then caught her wrists and pulled her up beside him. They stood there for a while, hearing the muted rumble of the river below and behind them; ahead was the broad expanse of the Grant.

  Cohoon said, "Well, we've still got about seven miles to water. Might as well start walking—"

  "Boyd, look!"

  He followed the direction of her pointing arm, and saw a bunch of horsemen coming down the side of a
small knoll that overlooked the surrounding country, heading directly for them.

  He said dryly, "You've got to hand it to Willie. He gets around. Looks like we've had all our trouble for nothing."

  "You think it's the marshal?"

  "Or Westerman's outfit. Either way they're not apt to be friendly." He sighed, and looked at the Henry rifle with the spliced stock. Deliberately he levered a shell into the empty chamber. "Maybe I should have done my shooting yesterday," he said, "when I had dry cartridges to shoot with. I don't even know if these are going to fire. Walk off to the left a way, Claire—"

  "I won't leave you!"

  He glanced at her. "Go on," he said. "I appreciate the sentiment, but it will do no good. There's only one rifle, anyway—" He checked himself, suddenly frowning as he regarded the approaching figures. "Why, that's just one rider and two led horses!" he said softly. "Why do you reckon a man would bring two saddled horses....

  He saw the quick hope in Claire's eyes. He lowered the gun he held, and they stood side by side on the rim watching the unknown horseman come closer, until his neat and sober clothing was clearly visible. Cohoon stood motionless, but his thumb found the hammer of the rifle that he had let down when he lowered the weapon. The rider approached at an easy trot. "That's far enough, Willie," Cohoon said presently.

  Fifty yards away, Black reined in. "I've got water," he said. "Looks like you might find a use for it. There's food in the packs." Sitting there, he reached down slowly and unbuckled his gunbelt, removed it from his waist, buckled it again, and hung it on the saddle horn. Then, still moving with careful deliberation, he dismounted, and stepped away from the horse. "I'm unarmed, Cohoon," he said. "No gun. And no badge. I owe you an apology. I made a bad mistake yesterday, because of my dislike for you. I was afraid it was irretrievable; but I made a search along the river anyway, in the hope of being able to make amends."