What had happened to those blamed-fool Circle R men? Kale found it highly unlikely they’d have gone to the trouble of tracking him through the canyon and setting him up for the kill only to let him slip through their fingers.
He rode warily, occasionally studying his back trail, but keeping a keen lookout ahead for any thicket where Costello could have staked his horses.
He wished for Carson, whose knowledge of these cliffs would surely come in handy. A few years back, Carson had been stationed at the ranger camp near Menardville, and Kale recalled stories Carson told of Captain Roberts and his men scouring this country for renegade Comanches who preyed on scattered settlers.
But Carson wasn’t here, and Kale fought against the feeling of being hobbled by his own lack of knowledge. At least he’d seen part of the front side of the cliffs. And he knew the cave where Benjamin had probably been killed.
The air was blue with the haze of autumn. Back behind a live oak thicket Kale drew up and studied the area ahead as it sloped gently to the river. This was where he and Ellie had picketed their horses, but Costello’s animals weren’t here. He momentarily considered starting his search by going directly to the cave he knew. Then he thought better and decided to stick to his original plan of locating that dry wash up ahead. Costello likely expected him to take the known path.
As he nudged the bay forward, a thrill went through Kale’s body, not unlike excitement, yet a sensation heavy with negative overtones. He reached down and patted the bay’s neck.
“Get ready, old son. We’re headin’ down the homestretch.”
One thing Kale had learned about himself long ago was that if any blessing had been bestowed on him, it was his sixth sense to smell trouble. He recognized the feeling now and his body relaxed. His fine-tuned reactions were alert and ready.
Up ahead the ground dropped off. That must be the break in the cliffs. To the right of the dropoff he spotted a cedar brake which would provide cover for the bay.
Kale nudged his horse toward the cedars. Restlessness welled up inside him at the thought of what lay ahead. His primary concern was to get Ellie safely away from Costello, and he was eager to be done with the task.
But he was hesitating, too, knowing that this time when he faced the gambler, he’d learn the truth about Benjamin’s death. He had guessed it, of course. But hearing that his brother had been killed for buried treasure likely would be hard to take.
Fighting to erase all extraneous thoughts from his mind, Kale was suddenly swamped by images of Ellie: at Benjamin’s grave, watering the rosebush, wearing that silky green thing that drove him mad with wanting her, and his last sight of her, gussied up like a painted lady. Thinking of her now in that red gown, he wondered how he’d resisted—
The scream was faint, but it pierced his reverie like a clap of thunder. He drew rein and looked around. It was Ellie for sure, but where was she? The cry had come from the cliffs. Was it from the cave they’d visited?
He was surprised to notice how far he had traveled since the scream tore through the silence. He’d passed the cedars and was practically upon the break in the cliff.
Quickly he backtracked, picketed the bay in the cedar brake, and struck out for the dry wash. He made the gully with two oversized steps, his leg throbbing with each jolt. Suddenly, he heard a clattering of rocks below, and he dived behind a clump of prickly pear which was large, though not large enough for cover.
He looked down the gully in time to see the back of a leg disappear to the left along a ledge.
Whoever it was didn’t appear to have seen him, but from the brief glimpse, Kale knew he had more company than he’d bargained for. That leg did not belong to Costello, who wore flat-heeled, city-bought boots. Instead, the boot Kale saw was the sturdy, no-nonsense boot of a western man.
So the Circle R made it to the party, he thought. He hadn’t doubted they would, but he’d hoped to take on the troops one at a time.
Of course, they might come in handy—if they drew Costello out in the open…
Thing was, they could get to Ellie before he did. And there was no doubting where they stood on that score. They might as well be in cahoots with Costello.
Kale let the man get out of earshot, then picked his way amid the jumble of rocks to the next ledge.
Bracing his back against the wall, he peered around the corner to his left. No sign of the Circle R man. He waited a moment before leaning forward to check right. All clear.
Then he moved to step around the corner and his senses were shattered by a sound above his head—the sound of a human laugh.
Kale froze with one foot poised in midair, uncertain what move to make. The laugh, more of an amused snicker, came again from the cliff behind him. So much for his dependable sixth sense.
“Gotcha, Jarrett.”
Chapter Seventeen
Holt Rainey’s voice was low but unmistakable as it came to Kale from not more than twenty feet away.
“Gotcha, Jarrett. Toss that rifle off and turn around nice an easy-like.”
Fury struck Kale like a fist to the gut. If Holt shot him now, Ellie was as good as dead. Even if he missed, which was hardly likely, but say his gun misfired, the shot would call Newt and Saint. And it would alert Costello to their presence.
“Toss off that gun,” Holt repeated.
Kale complied, pitching the rifle as gently as possible into a nearby clump of bear grass, hoping the matted stems would absorb some of the noise.
“Now, turn around and face me,” Holt commanded. “You don’t think I’d shoot a man in the back, do you?”
Kale bit his tongue to keep from replying. He knew full well that Holt Rainey would do anything his pea-sized brain suggested. But shooting Kale Jarrett in the back would play hell with the reputation he hungered after.
And Holt’s hunger for a reputation might just save Kale’s life. In this game, emotions were always a liability.
Love…hate…fear…ambition…greed…any one of them could color a man’s outlook and cause him to act illogically. He would act to satisfy the emotional need, often missing whatever opportunity the situation offered.
Holt could have shot him in the back. He certainly was not above such an act. But his need to be a big man took charge of his logic and bought Kale some time to think.
“Face me, Jarrett!”
Kale glanced down briefly to get his bearings, then slowly swung his foot around, pivoting on his bad leg. Pain shot up his side. He braced against it.
That he could take Holt, Kale had little doubt. He might collect some lead himself, but it wouldn’t stop him killing the man.
At this particular time, however, he could afford neither to get himself shot up nor the sound of a single gunshot. Up to this point, there was a chance Costello was unaware of their presence. Holt’s voice had been low, uncharacteristically low.
But a gunshot was a different matter altogether. A gunshot would echo up and down these cliffs, reaching into every nook and cranny. A gunshot would signal their arrival as surely as a calling card placed in Armando Costello’s lily-white hand.
And it would leave Costello too few choices. Gunfire meant more than one person. He’d know his chances of escaping all of them were slim, especially carrying a woman along. He might feel forced to get rid of Ellie and try his luck alone. Kale recalled Ellie’s scream, and an image of Costello’s Bowie knife flashed through his brain.
He couldn’t afford a single shot. But Holt Rainey stood above him itching for a showdown. And Rainey could afford as many shots as his heart desired. Or could he?
Kale suddenly had second thoughts about the man—usually so loud and blustery. Why was he so quiet now? Did it have anything to do with Newt and Saint?
Newt and Saint were being paid to do a job—and paid handsomely, no doubt. But Matt Rainey was a sly old codger. Kale would wager Rainey was holding a good half of their pay until he was satisfied the job had been accomplished.
A couple of missed shots and K
ale might hightail it out of here, along with Costello and Ellie. A couple of missed shots and their fighting wages would go flying out the window, blowing away like so many grass seeds. Newt and Saint could be counted on to come down hard on Holt if he missed. Kale wondered if Holt had considered this. Would he risk an unsure shot?
Before Holt had a chance at the sure thing, Kale stepped out and dropped to the ledge directly beneath him. It was only a ten-foot drop, and he landed unsteadily on his one good leg on another ledge not more than three feet wide. Quickly he stabilized himself with his bad leg, tensing against another flash of pain.
He drew his six-shooter and took a moment to get his bearings. He listened for sounds from above; none came.
What about Newt and Saint? He’d give a spotted pony to know the whereabouts of those two right now. After a second he edged his way to the right, knowing only that one of them had disappeared to his left.
He decided Holt likely wouldn’t jump down the cliff after him, but he had little hope of escaping them all.
His shot-up leg objected fiercely as he made his way from one foothold to another. In some places he was able only to stand, his back to the cliff, and slide his feet along.
Every now and then he stopped to listen. Once he looked down to the river twenty feet below. The water was a ruddy color. Not far ahead it swirled as it left the bank. Behind this a grove of trees stretched their tops above the cliffs. From what he had seen from the opposite bank, he figured these trees marked the end of the cliffs. A spring must run out of the rocks there and feed into the river current.
He moved steadily toward the grove of trees, came to a dropoff about four feet wide, and prepared to jump across. He was within earshot of the trees now. Their shade spread over the part of the ledge he approached. His tongue touched dry lips at the sound of water trickling over rocks. A cool drink would be mighty satisfying about now.
Grasping the edge of the cliff, he shoved off. The instant he moved, a bullet slugged into the soft limestone where his head had been a second before. He lost his footing, fell to the rocks below, and struggled to get his feet back under him. Limestone splinters stung his eyes. He clawed at them, fearful of facing his enemy blinded.
The shot had come from the trees. He expected another, but it didn’t come. When he could see again, he scrambled up the side of the cliff, which at this point was one smooth slope of limestone. An outcropping of smaller size had stopped him from going straight into the Concho River.
He climbed over another boulder and found himself looking down into a shady nook beside the spring.
No sign of movement.
His assailant couldn’t have gone far or he’d have heard him. Three horses were staked back in the trees. The spring gurgled from the hill and gently merged with the river.
Suddenly, a trickle of rocks began to fall from the ledge above. He stepped back, saw a gun barrel above him, aimed, and fired.
Saint’s shot ricocheted from the rocks at Kale’s feet; the hired gunman fell from the ledge and rolled into the river, shot through the center of the forehead.
Kale dropped quickly into the spring area. All was quiet. Saint must have been left to guard this end of the cliffs. When he heard Kale coming, he climbed up on that ledge and took aim. Kale realized he’d been saved more by Saint’s clumsiness than by his own quick thinking.
Knowing the shots would bring the others, he hurried to swing up on the ledge, looked around, and started for the opposite end of the cliffs.
He must get to Ellie before the other two got to him. Where was Holt Rainey? Kale had figured on him being at the spring, but since he wasn’t, he could pop up anyplace.
Kale traveled warily, his shoulders tensed against the expected impact of a bullet. Moving from rock to rock, he came to a wall, shinnied it, and found himself again near the top of the cliffs. After a while this played out, so he dropped to a lower level and continued.
With all this climbing, his throat was getting dry; he recalled wanting a drink back at the spring. He paused to catch his breath and made a mental note to tell Carson where he could send a telegram the next time he got a hankerin’.
Continuing on, he passed several large rock shelters, all empty. The one where he and Ellie had found Benjamin’s silver buckle was at the far end of the cliffs, to the other side of the cleft where he had evaded Holt Rainey.
All around him were the markings of ancient man. The drawings of buffalo and turkey were obvious, but others he could only guess at. There must be dozens of outlines of various-sized hands—passing humans saying “I was here,” each in his own unique way.
He wondered what sign he would leave in this place…and Ellie. Already he’d killed one man on these rocks, so his handprint would be bloody. Would he kill again? Would he be killed? Had men before them swarmed over these cliffs with clubs and arrows and knives, intent on extinguishing the lives of fellow men?
Kale shook his head to clear away these unwanted thoughts, forerunners of guilt and emotion. He had come here to save a life, he reminded himself. If evil men died in the process, it was their own doing.
Finally he came to the draw where Holt had surprised him earlier. Making up his mind not to get caught again, he took his time before striking out across it. A little further he rounded the bend in the river. Here he was forced by a wall to lower himself. He picked his way among the rocks at the base of the cliff.
The hairs along his neck fairly prickled. Where were Newt and Holt? And Costello?
Then, not ten yards in front of him, he saw the place he hunted. And she had left him a sign—her boots on the ledge below the rock shelter. He suppressed a shudder, recalling how, when they’d climbed this cliff together, she’d tucked her boots into her backpack and carried them to the cave.
She’d left her boots for him to find, she was depending on him…and by everything holy, he would not let her down.
At the point where he stood, the cliff had another break in it, although he couldn’t tell how deep it went. He took a couple of steps back, looked up to get his bearings, and was instantly blinded by the afternoon sun, which had now reached the crest of the hill.
Instinctively, he stepped in close to the rocks. In his head he pictured a bead drawn from the top of this cleft to Ellie’s boots. His breath caught in his throat.
Someone was up there…he hadn’t seen sign, yet he knew. The setup was perfect, a surefire trap: bait to draw the victim, the sun to blind him. Even if he got off a shot, it would be neither fast enough nor accurate enough to do any harm.
Someone sat at the top of the hill waiting for him to come along and pick up Ellie’s boots, he’d bet his life on it.
He leaned back against the wall, his heart pounding. A close call for sure. Whoever was up there had deliberately set this trap and planned to shoot him on sight…in the back. Costello? Newt? He couldn’t rule out Holt Rainey, either. Although the man was hunting a showdown, his pride might be so wounded by now that he’d settle for an old-fashioned murder.
Quickly Kale ran through his inventory of possible moves. Only one appeared practical: retrace his steps, climb the cliff at the first opportunity, and try to circle around behind the man on top.
He saw one drawback to this plan: two other men prowled these cliffs, and they were also gunning for him.
Moving as quickly as the terrain would allow, he retraced his steps for fifty yards or so until he came to a place which looked possible—not the cinch he’d like, but possible. He started up, hand over hand, testing every hold before he trusted the weight of his body to it.
Reaching the crest, he chinned himself up and peered around in all directions, half expecting a fusillade of bullets to decapitate him. His climb appeared not to have attracted any unwanted attention.
A second later he had scrambled up and taken cover behind a live oak thicket. Then, moving quietly from cover to cover, he made his way to a position even with the point where he expected the gunman to be waiting.
A
bout this time he wished mightily for his rifle which lay back in that draw. Now he would have to get close enough to use a six-shooter, while his assailant would be able to use a rifle with ease.
The ground dipped, then swelled to the point. Kale crouched behind an agrita bush in the dip. He could barely see the man’s hat from here. Cover between them was scarce.
With a quick look around to be sure they were alone, he stepped suddenly into the clearing and called the man’s name.
“Newt…throw down that gun and turn around. I don’t want to have to shoot you.”
The man on the hill turned toward the sun, aiming his rifle as he did so, and Kale fired. He stepped to the side and fired again.
Newt’s knees buckled and his rifle fell from his hands. “Damn you, Jarrett. I had you dead-to-rights.” He pitched face forward to the ground.
Kale thumbed shells into the chamber of his Colt. “I had to do it, Newt. You were too good with the sun at your back.” And wasn’t this what you planned for me?
Ellie lay still on the cold floor of the rock shelter, pain and despair her only companions. The bodice of her riding habit fell tattered and torn across her body, victim to Armando Costello’s knife.
She lay quietly near the place where she was convinced Benjamin had been murdered, grief growing inside her like a tumor. “I want to live,” she cried through the cloth which gagged her. “I want to live, to live.”
As she said the words, a fierce determination to survive began to take hold of her, determination to defeat Costello’s evil plan. To get away from these cliffs. To see Armando Costello punished for his evil deeds.
But she knew the will to live was not enough. She couldn’t depend on anyone to save her. She would have to do that for herself.
She struggled with the ropes that bound her hands. Every movement brought pain to her ankle, pain so intense that her body became clammy and cold; waves of blackness pulsated through her brain. But her will was strong, and she was determined not to lose consciousness.
Sweet Autumn Surrender Page 30