by Zane Grey
“Guess again, Laddy. Dick, I reckon you’d better flash the glass up the slope.”
Gale adjusted the field glass and began to search the lava, beginning close at hand and working away from him. Presently the glass became stationary.
“I see half a dozen small animals, brown in color. They look like sheep. But I couldn’t distinguish mountain sheep from antelope.”
“Shore they’re bighorn,” said Laddy.
“I reckon if you’ll pull around to the east an’ search under that long wall of lava — there — you’ll see what I see,” added Jim.
The glass climbed and circled, wavered an instant, then fixed steady as a rock. There was a breathless silence.
“Fourteen horses — two packed — some mounted — others without riders, and lame,” said Gale, slowly.
Yaqui appeared far up the trail, coming swiftly. Presently he saw the rangers and halted to wave his arms and point. Then he vanished as if the lava had opened beneath him.
“Lemme that glass,” suddenly said Jim Lash. “I’m seein’ red, I tell you.... Well, pore as my eyes are they had it right. Rojas an’ his outfit have left the trail.”
“Jim, you ain’t meanin’ they’ve taken to that awful slope?” queried Ladd.
“I sure do. There they are — still comin’, but goin’ down, too.”
“Mebbe Rojas is crazy, but it begins to look like he—”
“Laddy, I’ll be danged if the Greaser bunch hasn’t vamoosed. Gone out of sight! Right there not a half mile away, the whole caboodle — gone!”
“Shore they’re behind a crust or have gone down into a rut,” suggested Ladd. “They’ll show again in a minute. Look sharp, boys, for I’m figgerin’ Rojas ‘ll spread his men.”
Minutes passed, but nothing moved upon the slope. Each man crawled up to a vantage point along the crest of rotting lava. The watchers were careful to peer through little notches or from behind a spur, and the constricted nature of their hiding-place kept them close together. Ladd’s muttering grew into a growl, then lapsed into the silence that marked his companions. From time to time the rangers looked inquiringly at Gale. The field glass, however, like the naked sight, could not catch the slightest moving object out there upon the lava. A long hour of slow, mounting suspense wore on.
“Shore it’s all goin’ to be as queer as the Yaqui,” said Ladd.
Indeed, the strange mien, the silent action, the somber character of the Indian had not been without effect upon the minds of the men. Then the weird, desolate, tragic scene added to the vague sense of mystery. And now the disappearance of Rojas’s band, the long wait in the silence, the boding certainty of invisible foes crawling, circling closer and closer, lent to the situation a final touch that made it unreal.
“I’m reckonin’ there’s a mind behind them Greasers,” replied Jim. “Or mebbe we ain’t done Rojas credit... If somethin’ would only come off!”
That Lash, the coolest, most provokingly nonchalant of men in times of peril, should begin to show a nervous strain was all the more indicative of a subtle pervading unreality.
“Boys, look sharp!” suddenly called Lash. “Low down to the left — mebbe three hundred yards. See, along by them seams of lava — behind the choyas. First off I thought it was a sheep. But it’s the Yaqui!... Crawlin’ swift as a lizard! Can’t you see him?”
It was a full moment before Jim’s companions could locate the Indian. Flat as a snake Yaqui wound himself along with incredible rapidity. His advance was all the more remarkable for the fact that he appeared to pass directly under the dreaded choyas. Sometimes he paused to lift his head and look. He was directly in line with a huge whorl of lava that rose higher than any point on the slope. This spur was a quarter of a mile from the position of the rangers.
“Shore he’s headin’ for that high place,” said Ladd. “He’s goin’ slow now. There, he’s stopped behind some choyas. He’s gettin’ up — no, he’s kneelin’.... Now what the hell!”
“Laddy, take a peek at the side of that lava ridge,” sharply called Jim. “I guess mebbe somethin’ ain’t comin’ off. See! There’s Rojas an’ his outfit climbin’. Don’t make out no hosses.... Dick, use your glass an’ tell us what’s doin’. I’ll watch Yaqui an’ tell you what his move means.”
Clearly and distinctly, almost as if he could have touched them, Gale had Rojas and his followers in sight. They were toiling up the rough lava on foot. They were heavily armed. Spurs, chaps, jackets, scarfs were not in evidence. Gale saw the lean, swarthy faces, the black, straggly hair, the ragged, soiled garments which had once been white.
“They’re almost up now,” Gale was saying. “There! They halt on top. I see Rojas. He looks wild. By —— ! fellows, an Indian!... It’s a Papago. Belding’s old herder!... The Indian points — this way — then down. He’s showing Rojas the lay of the trail.”
“Boys, Yaqui’s in range of that bunch,” said Jim, swiftly. “He’s raisin’ his rifle slow — Lord, how slow he is!... He’s covered some one. Which one I can’t say. But I think he’ll pick Rojas.”
“The Yaqui can shoot. He’ll pick Rojas,” added Gale, grimly.
“Rojas — yes — yes!” cried Thorne, in passion of suspense.
“Not on your life!” Ladd’s voice cut in with scorn. “Gentlemen, you can gamble Yaqui ‘ll kill the Papago. That traitor Indian knows these sheep haunts. He’s tellin’ Rojas—”
A sharp rifle shot rang out.
“Laddy’s right,” called Gale. “The Papago’s hit — his arm falls — There, he tumbles!”
More shots rang out. Yaqui was seen standing erect firing rapidly at the darting Mexicans. For all Gale could make out no second bullet took effect. Rojas and his men vanished behind the bulge of lava. Then Yaqui deliberately backed away from his position. He made no effort to run or hide. Evidently he watched cautiously for signs of pursuers in the ruts and behind the choyas. Presently he turned and came straight toward the position of the rangers, sheered off perhaps a hundred paces below it, and disappeared in a crevice. Plainly his intention was to draw pursuers within rifle shot.
“Shore, Jim, you had your wish. Somethin’ come off,” said Ladd. “An’ I’m sayin’ thank God for the Yaqui! That Papago ‘d have ruined us. Even so, mebbe he’s told Rojas more’n enough to make us sweat blood.”
“He had a chance to kill Rojas,” cried out the drawn-faced, passionate Thorne. “He didn’t take it!... He didn’t take it!”
Only Ladd appeared to be able to answer the cavalryman’s poignant cry.
“Listen, son,” he said, and his voice rang. “We-all know how you feel. An’ if I’d had that one shot never in the world could I have picked the Papago guide. I’d have had to kill Rojas. That’s the white man of it. But Yaqui was right. Only an Indian could have done it. You can gamble the Papago alive meant slim chance for us. Because he’d led straight to where Mercedes is hidden, an’ then we’d have left cover to fight it out... When you come to think of the Yaqui’s hate for Greasers, when you just seen him pass up a shot at one — well, I don’t know how to say what I mean, but damn me, my som-brer-ro is off to the Indian!”
“I reckon so, an’ I reckon the ball’s opened,” rejoined Lash, and now that former nervous impatience so unnatural to him was as if it had never been. He was smilingly cool, and his voice had almost a caressing note. He tapped the breech of his Winchester with a sinewy brown hand, and he did not appear to be addressing any one in particular. “Yaqui’s opened the ball. Look up your pardners there, gents, an’ get ready to dance.”
Another wait set in then, and judging by the more direct rays of the sun and a receding of the little shadows cast by the choyas, Gale was of the opinion that it was a long wait. But it seemed short. The four men were lying under the bank of a half circular hole in the lava. It was notched and cracked, and its rim was fringed by choyas. It sloped down and opened to an unobstructed view of the crater. Gale had the upper position, fartherest to the right, and therefore was best
shielded from possible fire from the higher ridges of the rim, some three hundred yards distant. Jim came next, well hidden in a crack. The positions of Thorne and Ladd were most exposed. They kept sharp lookout over the uneven rampart of their hiding-place.
The sun passed the zenith, began to slope westward, and to grow hotter as it sloped. The men waited and waited. Gale saw no impatience even in Thorne. The sultry air seemed to be laden with some burden or quality that was at once composed of heat, menace, color, and silence. Even the light glancing up from the lava seemed red and the silence had substance. Sometimes Gale felt that it was unbearable. Yet he made no effort to break it.
Suddenly this dead stillness was rent by a shot, clear and stinging, close at hand. It was from a rifle, not a carbine. With startling quickness a cry followed — a cry that pierced Gale — it was so thin, so high-keyed, so different from all other cries. It was the involuntary human shriek at death.
“Yaqui’s called out another pardner,” said Jim Lash, laconically.
Carbines began to crack. The reports were quick, light, like sharp spats without any ring. Gale peered from behind the edge of his covert. Above the ragged wave of lava floated faint whitish clouds, all that was visible of smokeless powder. Then Gale made out round spots, dark against the background of red, and in front of them leaped out small tongues of fire. Ladd’s .405 began to “spang” with its beautiful sound of power. Thorne was firing, somewhat wildly Gale thought. Then Jim Lash pushed his Winchester over the rim under a choya, and between shots Gale could hear him singing: “Turn the lady, turn — turn the lady, turn!... Alaman left!... Swing your pardners!... Forward an’ back!... Turn the lady, turn!” Gale got into the fight himself, not so sure that he hit any of the round, bobbing objects he aimed at, but growing sure of himself as action liberated something forced and congested within his breast.
Then over the position of the rangers came a hail of steel bullets. Those that struck the lava hissed away into the crater; those that came biting through the choyas made a sound which resembled a sharp ripping of silk. Bits of cactus stung Gale’s face, and he dreaded the flying thorns more than he did the flying bullets.
“Hold on, boys,” called Ladd, as he crouched down to reload his rifle. “Save your shells. The greasers are spreadin’ on us, some goin’ down below Yaqui, others movin’ up for that high ridge. When they get up there I’m damned if it won’t be hot for us. There ain’t room for all of us to hide here.”
Ladd raised himself to peep over the rim. Shots were now scattering, and all appeared to come from below. Emboldened by this he rose higher. A shot from in front, a rip of bullet through the choya, a spat of something hitting Ladd’s face, a steel missle hissing onward — these inseparably blended sounds were all registered by Gale’s sensitive ear.
With a curse Ladd tumbled down into the hole. His face showed a great gray blotch, and starting blood. Gale felt a sickening assurance of desperate injury to the ranger. He ran to him calling: “Laddy! Laddy!”
“Shore I ain’t plugged. It’s a damn choya burr. The bullet knocked it in my face. Pull it out!”
The oval, long-spiked cone was firmly imbedded in Ladd’s cheek. Blood streamed down his face and neck. Carefully, yet with no thought of pain to himself, Gale tried to pull the cactus joint away. It was as firm as if it had been nailed there. That was the damnable feature of the barbed thorns: once set, they held on as that strange plant held to its desert life. Ladd began to writhe, and sweat mingled with the blood on his face. He cursed and raved, and his movements made it almost impossible for Gale to do anything.
“Put your knife-blade under an’ tear it out!” shouted Ladd, hoarsely.
Thus ordered, Gale slipped a long blade in between the imbedded thorns, and with a powerful jerk literally tore the choya out of Ladd’s quivering flesh. Then, where the ranger’s face was not red and raw, it certainly was white.
A volley of shots from a different angle was followed by the quick ring of steel bullets striking the lava all around Gale. His first idea, as he heard the projectiles sing and hum and whine away into the air, was that they were coming from above him. He looked up to see a number of low, white and dark knobs upon the high point of lava. They had not been there before. Then he saw little, pale, leaping tongues of fire. As he dodged down he distinctly heard a bullet strike Ladd. At the same instant he seemed to hear Thorne cry out and fall, and Lash’s boots scrape rapidly away.
Ladd fell backward still holding the .405. Gale dragged him into the shelter of his own position, and dreading to look at him, took up the heavy weapon. It was with a kind of savage strength that he gripped the rifle; and it was with a cold and deadly intent that he aimed and fired. The first Greaser huddled low, let his carbine go clattering down, and then crawled behind the rim. The second and third jerked back. The fourth seemed to flop up over the crest of lava. A dark arm reached for him, clutched his leg, tried to drag him up. It was in vain. Wildly grasping at the air the bandit fell, slid down a steep shelf, rolled over the rim, to go hurtling down out of sight.
Fingering the hot rifle with close-pressed hands, Gale watched the sky line along the high point of lava. It remained unbroken. As his passion left him he feared to look back at his companions, and the cold chill returned to his breast.
“Shore — I’m damn glad — them Greasers ain’t usin’ soft-nose bullets,” drawled a calm voice.
Swift as lightning Gale whirled.
“Laddy! I thought you were done for,” cried Gale, with a break in his voice.
“I ain’t a-mindin’ the bullet much. But that choya joint took my nerve, an’ you can gamble on it. Dick, this hole’s pretty high up, ain’t it?”
The ranger’s blouse was open at the neck, and on his right shoulder under the collar bone was a small hole just beginning to bleed.
“Sure it’s high, Laddy,” replied Gale, gladly. “Went clear through, clean as a whistle!”
He tore a handkerchief into two parts, made wads, and pressing them close over the wounds he bound them there with Ladd’s scarf.
“Shore it’s funny how a bullet can floor a man an’ then not do any damage,” said Ladd. “I felt a zip of wind an’ somethin’ like a pat on my chest an’ down I went. Well, so much for the small caliber with their steel bullets. Supposin’ I’d connected with a .405!”
“Laddy, I — I’m afraid Thorne’s done for,” whispered Gale. “He’s lying over there in that crack. I can see part of him. He doesn’t move.”
“I was wonderin’ if I’d have to tell you that. Dick, he went down hard hit, fallin’, you know, limp an’ soggy. It was a moral cinch one of us would get it in this fight; but God! I’m sorry Thorne had to be the man.”
“Laddy, maybe he’s not dead,” replied Gale. He called aloud to his friend. There was no answer.
Ladd got up, and, after peering keenly at the height of lava, he strode swiftly across the space. It was only a dozen steps to the crack in the lava where Thorne had fallen head first. Ladd bent over, went to his knees, so that Gale saw only his head. Then he appeared rising with arms round the cavalryman. He dragged him across the hole to the sheltered corner that alone afforded protection. He had scarcely reached it when a carbine cracked and a bullet struck the flinty lava, striking sparks, then singing away into the air.
Thorne was either dead or unconscious, and Gale, with a contracting throat and numb heart, decided for the former. Not so Ladd, who probed the bloody gash on Thorne’s temple, and then felt his breast.
“He’s alive an’ not bad hurt. That bullet hit him glancin’. Shore them steel bullets are some lucky for us. Dick, you needn’t look so glum. I tell you he ain’t bad hurt. I felt his skull with my finger. There’s no hole in it. Wash him off an’ tie — Wow! did you get the wind of that one? An’ mebbe it didn’t sing off the lava!... Dick, look after Thorne now while I—”
The completion of his speech was the stirring ring of the .405, and then he uttered a laugh that was unpleasant.
; “Shore, Greaser, there’s a man’s size bullet for you. No slim, sharp-pointed, steel-jacket nail! I’m takin’ it on me to believe you’re appreciatin’ of the .405, seein’ as you don’t make no fuss.”
It was indeed a joy to Gale to find that Thorne had not received a wound necessarily fatal, though it was serious enough. Gale bathed and bound it, and laid the cavalryman against the slant of the bank, his head high to lessen the probability of bleeding.
As Gale straightened up Ladd muttered low and deep, and swung the heavy rifle around to the left. Far along the slope a figure moved. Ladd began to work the lever of the Winchester and to shoot. At every shot the heavy firearm sprang up, and the recoil made Ladd’s shoulder give back. Gale saw the bullets strike the lava behind, beside, before the fleeing Mexican, sending up dull puffs of dust. On the sixth shot he plunged down out of sight, either hit or frightened into seeking cover.
“Dick, mebbe there’s one or two left above; but we needn’t figure much on it,” said Ladd, as, loading the rifle, he jerked his fingers quickly from the hot breech. “Listen! Jim an’ Yaqui are hittin’ it up lively down below. I’ll sneak down there. You stay here an’ keep about half an eye peeled up yonder, an’ keep the rest my way.”
Ladd crossed the hole, climbed down into the deep crack where Thorne had fallen, and then went stooping along with only his head above the level. Presently he disappeared. Gale, having little to fear from the high ridge, directed most of his attention toward the point beyond which Ladd had gone. The firing had become desultory, and the light carbine shots outnumbered the sharp rifle shots five to one. Gale made a note of the fact that for some little time he had not heard the unmistakable report of Jim Lash’s automatic. Then ensued a long interval in which the desert silence seemed to recover its grip. The .405 ripped it asunder — spang — spang — spang. Gale fancied he heard yells. There were a few pattering shots still farther down the trail. Gale had an uneasy conviction that Rojas and some of his band might go straight to the waterhole. It would be hard to dislodge even a few men from that retreat.