by Zane Grey
An instant later, before either Jim or Smoky could comment on this further diminution of their outfit, another spanging, zipping, spatting ounce of lead entered the cave. It actually struck both walls and the ceiling before it droned away into space.
“Jim, the only safe place from thet — is hyar, huggin’ this corner,” declared Smoky. “An’ there ain’t room enough for the two of us.”
“Keep it, Smoky. I’m not going to get hit. This is my day. I feel something in my bones, but it’s not death.”
“Huh! I feel somethin’ too — clear to my marrow — an’ it’s sickish an’ cold. . . . Jim, let’s both sneak out an’ crawl back of them. Thet’s my idee. I don’t have wrong idees at this stage of a fight.”
“Leave that girl here alone? Not much.”
“Hell! I clean forgot her,” declared Smoky, his hand going up. “I’ll go an’ you stay. . . . Jim, it’d be a pity to let Heeseman’s outfit git her. Why, they’d devour her alive, like a pack of bloody wolves!”
“It would, Smoky, by Heaven!”
“Wal — wal! . . . Hank is goin’ to raise hell out there, an’ if I do the same on this other side, between us we might stave Heeseman off. But if we don’t an’ there’s no chanct fer you to take thet poor gurl back home—”
“Smoky, you forget.”
“Aw! . . . But if you see the fight goin’ ag’in’ us — Jim, you could kill her. Thet’d be merciful.”
“Smoky, I promised her I would,” returned Jim.
“Wal, thet’s all right. . . . Now! . . . Another glancin’ hunk of lead. —— thet sharpshooter. I’m gonna snip off the top of his head. . . . Jim, there’s only one thing more thet sticks in my craw.”
“And what’s that?”
“Hays. I’d never be comfortable in hell if he lived on, crucifyin’ thet gurl. . . . I had a sister once. Gawd! it seems long ago! She had gold hair, not so gold as this one, though.”
“He sticks in my craw, too, Smoky. And in my throat and brain and blood.”
“Wal, then, it jest ain’t written thet both of us could croak an’ Hays be let live. . . . Jim, I reckon we understand each other.”
“Yes. . . . Smoky, I’d have liked you as a pard, under happier circumstances.”
“Wal, it’s too late, ‘cause we can’t both git out of this mess. But I’m sayin’ you shore air a man after my heart.”
That was the last he spoke to Jim. Muttering to himself, he laid a huge roll of bills under the belt Hays had deposited on the little shelf of rock. The act needed no explanation. Then he took a swig of whisky from the flask beside Bridges’ ghastly form. And as he dug into his pack for more shells another spanging, ricocheting compliment from the sharpshooter entered the cave.
Jim wheeled to see if he could return the shot. There was no sign even of smoke. When he glanced back again Smoky had gone. Jim caught one fleeting glimpse of him darting round the corner of the corral, and then he vanished.
Scarcely had he gotten out of sight when Jim thought of the field-glass. Smoky should have taken it. Jim risked going back to his pack to secure it, and had the fun of dodging another bullet.
What had become of Hays? A moment’s reflection dissolved Jim’s natural return to suspicion of further treachery. No. — When Hays forgot the woman, and under the flaying of Slocum’s scorn went out to kill Heeseman, he had swung back to his former self. It was not only a flash back, but a development, perhaps a borrowing from despair. Heeseman’s outfit would hear presently from this dethroned chieftain, and to their sorrow. Jim returned to his safest cover and waited. Sitting against the wall he used the glass to try to locate Smoky across the oval. But birds and rabbits were the only moving objects that fell under his vision. Meanwhile the sharpshooter kept firing regularly, about three shots to the minute. Jim became accustomed to the whang of the bullets.
Next he attempted to locate the diligent member of Heeseman’s outfit. This man evidently shot from behind the rim, low down, and not even the tip of his rifle could be seen. From his position, however, as calculated by the puffs of smoke, he certainly must be exposed from the west side of that cliff. Jim had a grim feeling that this fighter would not much longer be so comfortable. Before this, Smoky must have passed the danger zone below. He could work up the ravine on the north side, climb a ragged rock slope, go down into the valley beyond the oval, and under cover all the way, get high up somewhere behind those of Heeseman’s riders who were still on that west side.
What had become of Hays? Waiting alone amongst these deflecting bullets wore on Jim’s mood. He decided to peep out of the hole again, making sure that his impatience would not result in recklessness. To this end he climbed to the shelf, rifle in hand and the glass slung round his neck. There was a great blood patch where Mac had fallen.
He could command every point with the aid of the field-glass, without exposing his head. Through apertures in the brush the glass brought most of that west cliff, at least the highest third of it, clearly and largely under his eye.
The sharpshooter had eased up a bit on wasting ammunition. Jim sought for the owl-shaped piece of rim-rock and got it in the center of the circle. Just then, up puffed a wisp of smoke — crack went the rifle, followed by the spanging and pattering in the cave below.
An instant later a far-off shot thrilled Jim. That might be Smoky. Suddenly a dark form staggered up, flinging arms aloft, silhouetted black against the sky. That must be the sharpshooter. Smoky had reached him. Headlong he pitched off the cliff, to plunge sheer into the wash below.
This tragedy heralded war on the cliffs. Dull booms of heavy guns vied with sharper reports, and between, in slow regularity that indicated cool and deadly nerve, cracked the rifle beyond the cliff. Smoky had at least carried out his idea. He was up somewhere, behind cover or in the open, as the exigency of the case afforded, and he was making it hot for the Heeseman gang.
The rattle of rifles fell off, but still what was left was not the scattering, desultory kind. It meant a lessening of man power. One at least for every two shots of Smoky Slocum’s! And those on the cliff grew louder, closer. Heeseman’s gang, what was left, were backing from that fire out of the west.
Jim swung the glass to the left and swept the cliff, and the rocky approach to it. Suddenly he espied Hays boldly mounting the slope at that end. Bold, yet he lunged from rock to rock, taking advantage of what cover offered. But it appeared that he had not been discovered yet. Those on top were facing the unseen peril to the west.
Jim marveled at the purpose of the robber chief. Certain death, it seemed, awaited him there. But he kept on. Jim, transfixed and thrilling, waited with bated breath. Still another shot from Smoky — the last! But Hays had reached high enough to see over. Leveling the rifle, he took deliberate aim. How menacing and deadly his posture! His shaggy locks stood up. His rigidity was that of resistless and mighty passion. Then he fired.
“Heeseman!” hissed Jim, as sure as if he himself had held that gun.
Hays, working the lever of his rifle, bounded back and aside. Shots boomed. One knocked him to his knees, and he lunged up to fire again. He made for a rock, gained it but it was not high enough to shield him. Again he was hit, or the rifle was, for it broke from his hands. Drawing his two Colts, he leveled them, and as he fired one, then the other, he backed against the last broken section of wall. Jim saw the red dust spatter from the rock above Hays, on each side, and low down. Those opposing him were shooting wild, or from difficult positions, or were retreating. Hays seemingly could not stand there long. He had emptied a gun. One more instant Jim watched, frozen to the glass. What a figure of defiance! From Jim’s reluctant heart was wrenched a sullen respect and admiration. At the end, this robber had reverted to the man who had won Smoky and Latimer to extraordinary loyalty. He was grand in his disregard of his life. When he started up that slope he had accepted death. But it had not come.
The shots thinned out, and ceased. Hays was turning to the left, his remaining gun lowered. He was
aiming down the slope on the other side. He fired again — then no more. Those who were left of Heeseman’s outfit had taken to flight. Hays watched them, strode to the side of the big rock, and kept on watching them.
Soon he turned back with an air of finality and, sheathing one gun, took to reloading the other. It was at this moment that Jim relinquished the field-glass to take up his rifle. With naked eyes through the aperture in the brush he could see Hays finish loading his gun. Then the robber examined the top of his shoulder, where evidently he had been shot. His action, as he folded a scarf to thrust up under his shirt, appeared one of indifference.
This moment, to Jim’s avid mind, was the one in which to kill the robber. He drew a bead on Hays’ breast. But he could not press the trigger. Lowering the hammer, Jim watched Hays stride up among the rocks to disappear. No doubt he meant to have a look at that enemy whom he had so deliberately shot with the rifle.
A storm was imminent. The sky had darkened, and a rumble of thunder came on the sultry air.
Jim leaped up out of the hole to have a better look. Far beyond the red ridge he discerned men running along the white wash. There were three of them, scattered. A fourth appeared from behind a bank, and he was crippled. He waved frantically to the comrades who had left him to fare for himself. They were headed for the cove where the horses still stood. And their precipitate flight attested to the end of that battle and as surely to the last of Heeseman’s outfit.
Jim picked up the field-glass, and slinging it in his elbow, he essayed a descent into the cave. On the shelf he hesitated, and sat a moment locked in thought. A second time he started down, only to halt, straddling the notch. The battle had worked out fatefully and fatally. Would he see Smoky again? Yet nothing had changed the issue. The end was not yet. With his blood surging back to his heart, Jim leaped down to meet the robber chief.
CHAPTER 15
HAYS WAS NOT yet in sight. Thunder was now rolling and booming over the brakes, and gray veils of rain drifted from purple clouds. The storm, black as ink, centered over the peaks of the Henrys. To the west the sun shone from under a gorgeous pageant of white and gold. And over the canyons hung rainbows of vivid and ethereal loveliness.
Between the intervals of mumbling rumble there was an intense quietness, a sultry suspension of air. Even in that moment the beauty of the scene struck Jim as appalling. It seemed unnatural, because death lay about him, bloody and ghastly; and down the arroyo stalked the relentless robber.
Jim strode out. The chief hove in sight. He walked slowly, with an air of intense preoccupation.
Jim deliberated. A survival of the fittest entered into this deliberation, yet there was in Jim a creed born of the frontier. It was what Hank Hays had lived by before he threw everything to the winds for the beauty of a woman. Hays had reverted to it, in the hour of his extremity. He had gone out to bear the brunt of Heeseman’s attack and he had expected to die. The fortune of war had favored him. Therefore, it was not Jim’s confidence that forbade him to kill Hays at long range. Not even for the girl’s sake would Jim force himself to such a deed, however justified by Hays’ villainy.
The robber chieftain neared the cave.
“Where’s Smoky?” called Jim, his lynx eyes on Hays’ right hand.
“Cashed in,” boomed Hays, fastening great hollow eyes of pale fire upon Jim. “He had cover. He plugged I don’t know how many. But Morley’s outfit had throwed in with Heeseman. An’ when thet gambler, Stud, broke an’ run, Smoky had to head him off. They killed each other.”
“Who got away? I saw four men, one crippled.”
“Morley an’ Montana fer two. I didn’t recognize the others. They shore run, throwin’ rifles away.”
“They were making for their horses, tied half a mile back. Where’ll they go, Hays?”
“Fer more men. Morley is most as stubborn as Heeseman. An’ once he’s seen this roost of ours — he’ll want it, an’ to wipe out what’s left of us.”
“Heeseman?”
“Wal, he didn’t run, Jim. Haw! Haw! — His insides air jest now smokin’ in the sun.”
The chief strode to the mouth of the cave and stared around. Jim remained at the spot he had selected, to one side, between the robber and Helen’s covert.
“Jack an’ Mac, too?” he ejaculated, in amaze. “How come? No more of thet outfit sneaked down in hyar.”
“Mac stuck his noodle too far out of that hole in the cave. And Happy Jack stopped a glancing bullet. See this rock here. Look at those white spots. Every one made by a bullet. Must have been two dozen or more slugs come hummin’ off that rock. They’d hit the walls and glance again.”
“I’d know who started thet if I hadn’t seen him,” said Hays, to himself. “Old Black Dragon Canyon days.”
“Two of us left, Hays,” returned Jim, tentatively. The robber had utterly forgotten such a thing as sworn retribution, or else, now that Slocum was not to be reckoned with, he had no fears.
“The storm’s travelin’ this way,” he said, as thunder boomed and rolled like colossal boulders down the canyons. “Reckon we can hang out hyar one more night.”
“Going to bury your dead?” queried Jim, in curt query.
“Wal, we might drag these fellers to the wash thar, an’ cave in the bank on them.”
“Sand and gravel would wash away.”
“What the hell’s thet to us? If I do anythin’ atall it’ll be fer my gurl. Them stiffs ain’t a pretty sight.”
If Jim Wall needed any galvanizing shock to nerve him to the deed he had resolved upon, that single possessive word was enough.
“I’ll bury them later,” he said.
“Good. I’m all in. I climbed more ‘n a mile to get to them fellers.” Hays sat down heavily, and ran his right hand inside his shirt to feel of the bulge on his shoulder. Jim saw him wince. Blood had soaked through his shirt.
“You got hit, I see.”
“Flesh wound. Nothin’ to fuss over this minnit. An’ I’ve got a crease on my head. Thet hurts like sixty. Half an inch lower an’—”
“I’d have been left lord of Robbers’ Roost?”
“You shore would, Jim. Lousy with money, an’ a gurl to look after. But it jest didn’t happen thet way.”
“No, it didn’t. But it will!”
That cool statement pierced the robber’s lethargic mind. Up went his shaggy head and the pale eyes, opaque, like burned-out furnaces, took on a tiny curious gleam. When his hand came slowly down from inside his shirt his fingers were stained red.
“What kind of a crack was thet?” he demanded, puzzled.
“Hays, you forget.”
“Oh-ho! Reckon I did. Never thought I’d fergit Smoky’s blastin’ tongue. May he roast in hell! . . . But, Jim, this wasn’t no mix of yours.”
“I’ve made it mine.”
“You an’ Smoky come to be pards?”
“Yes. But more than that.”
“You’re sore thet I didn’t divvy square?”
“Hays, I take it you double-crossed me same as you did them.”
“Uhhuh. Wal, you got me in a corner, I reckon. Thar’s only two of us left. I’d be crazy to quarrel. . . . Would a third of my money square me?”
“No.”
“It wouldn’t? Wal, you air aimin’ at a bargain. Say half, then?”
“No.”
A tremor ran over the robber’s frame. That was a release of swift passion — hot blood that leaped again. But he controlled himself.
“Jim, I don’t savvy. What’s eatin’ you? Half of the money hyar is a fortune fer one man. I did play the hawg. But thet’s past.”
“I won’t make any deals with you.”
“Ahuh. Then we’ve split?”
“Long ago, Hays.”
“Air you tryin’ to pick a fight with me?”
At this Jim laughed.
“‘Cause if you air, I jest won’t fight. I’d be senseless. You an’ me can git along. I like you. We’ll throw together, hide somewhe
re awhile, then build up another outfit.”
“Hays, you’re thick-skulled,” retorted Jim, sarcastically. “Must I tell you that you can’t bamboozle me?”
“Who’s tryin’ to?” demanded the robber, hotly. “All I’m tryin’ is to patch it up.”
“It can’t be done.”
“I’ll give you two thirds of the money.”
“Hays, I wouldn’t take another dollar from you — that you gave willingly.”
“No money atall!” ejaculated the chief, bewildered. His mind was groping. Probably his natural keenness had suffered dulling for the hour.
Jim had turned his left side slightly toward Hays, concealing his right hand, which had slipped to his gun butt, with his thumb on the hammer! For Jim then, Hays was as good as dead.
“It’ll all be mine, presently,” he replied.
“Holdin’ me up, huh?” rasped Hays. “Learned to be a shore-enough robber, trainin’ with me, huh?”
“Hays, I promised Smoky I’d kill you — which he meant to do if he had lived to come back.”
The robber’s face grew a dirty white under his thin beard. At last he understood so much, at least. What volumes his stupidity spoke for his absorption! It changed. Jim’s posture, his unseen hand, suddenly loomed with tremendous meaning.
“Shore. Thet doesn’t surprise me,” admitted the robber. “When men’s feelin’s git raw, as in a time like this, they clash. But I did my share to clear the air. An’ if Smoky had come back he’d have seen it different. I could have talked him out of it. . . . Jim, you’re shore smart enough to see thet, an’ you oughter be honest enough to admit it.”
“I dare say you could have won Smoky back. He had a fool worship for you. . . . But you can’t talk me out of anything.”
“Why, fer Gawd’s sake — when I’m givin’ you all the best of the deal?”
“Because I want the girl,” thundered Jim.
A great astonishment held Hays stricken. Through it realization filtered.
“Thet! — Thet was it — all the time!” he gasped.