Recalde’s horse stumbled again, and had Cowan not thrown out a quick arm, the Captain would have fallen. The horse stood, legs spread, head hanging.
Alone, without a rider, the horse might make it through. Mounted, neither the horse nor the wounded man could make it.
Ben Cowan swung down and helped Recalde, who was no longer aware of his surroundings, into his own saddle. Leaving the other horse behind, he started off, leading his roan.
Slowly, the long day waned. Shadows began to gather behind the shrubs and the rocks here and there along the trail. Ahead of them there seemed to be a small range of mountains, or a ridge of rocks.
Ben Cowan thought no more of time, he thought only of coolness, of shadow, of night, of water. What remained in the canteen, the wounded man would need.
They were stupid with heat and weariness, and they did not hear the hoofbeats muffled by dust. The four riders came upon them suddenly, no less surprised than Cowan; until that moment desert growth had masked their coming.
Four Apaches…not over sixty feet away.
Ben Cowan saw them and drew. He did not think, for he was at that moment beyond thought. This was danger, and his life had been geared to danger. He drew, and the speed of his hand was his margin of safety. The gun cleared his holster and the bullet ripped into the chest of the nearest Indian.
Completely surprised, the others broke for shelter, and Ben Cowan jerked the horse behind the nearby rocks. Reaching up, he took Recalde bodily from the saddle just as a bullet cut a notch in the cantle.
He dropped Recalde and swung the muzzle of his pistol, blasting into the nearest bit of brush. Leaping away from Recalde, he crouched down behind the clustering rocks, and snapped a shot at a brown arm—and missed.
Bullets flaked rock from near his head. One man was there…two would be circling him, and he had no defense from behind.
Then a bullet killed the roan. The horse lunged forward and fell, and Ben Cowan swore bitterly, for that had been a good horse, perhaps the best horse he had ever owned.
Ben turned at the shot, and was in time to see the Apache duck to change positions, and this time he did not miss. The Apache stumbled and plunged to his face in the sand, and Ben Cowan put another bullet into him as he hit the ground.
Rock chips stung his face. He glanced toward Recalde. The Mexican had come out of it; feebly he was trying to get at the Colt in his waistband. Dampness stained his coat and shirt…he was bleeding again.
There were no more shots. The Apaches knew night was coming, and they knew he wasn’t going anywhere without a horse. They could wait…and he shot too well.
Ben Cowan crawled to Recalde, got his left arm under the Mexican’s shoulders, and pulled him close behind the rocks. Then he clutched at slabs of rock and took them to build quickly a low, crude barricade around them. He reloaded his pistol, and got his rifle.
When darkness came the Indians might come for him; or more likely—for no Apache liked night-fighting—they would wait until daybreak and take him when he was dead for sleep. They had him, and they knew it.
Diego Recalde looked at him with pain-filled eyes. “I have killed you, señor,” he said. “I ask forgiveness, I ask it in the name of God.”
“Everybody dies,” Ben Cowan said. “If not this way, another. But if it is forgiveness you want, you have it.”
He looked up at the sky. The sun was gone. At least, he thought, death would be cool.
Chapter 13
HE CHECKED THE action of his rifle, wiping it carefully clean with his bandana. There were at least two Indians out there, and others might have joined them, drawn by the shooting. There could be no thought of sleep, for Recalde was in no shape to take over the guard for even a part of the night.
Cowan not only knew that the Apache does not like to fight during the hours of night, but he knew why. It is the Apache’s belief that if a man is killed in darkness his soul must forever wander, homeless and alone; but the love of loot can overcome even superstition, and there might be an unbeliever among these Apaches.
Moving with infinite care, he got several stones and eased them into place among the rocks to make a better barricade. As he slipped the last stone into its notch a bullet smashed against the rock, spattering him with a hail of stinging stone fragments. Then it was quiet again.
The last light faded, stars appeared, and the face of the desert became cool. His canteen with its small bit of water was tied to his saddle, but the dying horse had fallen upon it. For all the good it could be to them, it might have been a mile away.
The long night began. Recalde awoke, and the two men talked occasionally in whispers. Weariness lay heavily upon Ben Cowan, and he fought to keep his eyes open. He tried to moisten his cracked and bloody lips, but his tongue was like a stick in his mouth, for he had drunk little of the water, saving most of it for the wounded man. It was with an effort that he could make himself heard when he spoke.
Where was Catlow now, he wondered. Far to the south of him, no doubt, and not even aware that Ben was in Mexico.
And what would Cordelia Burton be doing now? He thought of her cool, quiet beauty, of the kind of wistful assurance that was so much a part of her. Bijah Catlow was a fool to be risking his neck in Mexico, with such a girl waiting for him back in Tucson.
Through the night Recalde’s muttering became disconnected; he talked of his home, of his father and mother, of his sisters. His head twisted from side to side, and once he cried out in the night.
At last day came with a feeble grayness over the far-off Sierra Madre…the fainter stars vanished, and the few bright ones faded—all but one, which hung alone long after the others had gone. His eyes red-rimmed from heat, dust, and exhaustion, Ben Cowan waited for what was to come, staring around him.
Recalde was sleeping…well, let him sleep then. If he was lucky, he would never wake.
They came out of the gray dawning like rolling clumps of tumbleweed, so swiftly and silently that at first he thought his eyes deceived him. Their feet made scarcely a whisper in the soft sand, and they ran bent far over to offer little target.
More had come up during the night…how many were there? Six? Eight?
They had not taken a dozen strides before his six-gun shattered the silence with its long, deadly roll of unbroken sound. Slip-shooting, he emptied the gun with no break in the roar of sound, then dropped the gun and caught up his Winchester.
Two Apaches were down…another was dragging a leg, seeking shelter. Cowan dropped the Winchester muzzle on the nearest man’s chest and squeezed off his shot; then he turned and fired without lifting the butt to his shoulder, and saw another spin half around.
Recalde came up on one elbow, firing.
An Apache sprang over the rock barrier and Ben Cowan struck with the rifle butt, holding the rifle shoulder high. He heard the bones in the man’s face crunch, and then he whipped the rifle around and shot into another—a running Indian.
Running?
With a thunder of hoofs, a cavalry detachment swept by their little fort, guns blasting. Even as the fleeing Apache neared the brush a saber cut him down, chopping through his skull to his eyebrows, so that the soldier had to put a foot on the Apache’s shoulder to wrench the blade free.
Recalde caught a rock and pulled himself erect, clinging to its top. “Señor!” he shouted. “I told you they would come! It is my soldier! My compadres!”
GENERAL JUAN BAUTISTA Armijo smiled tolerantly. “I thank you, my friend, but what you suggest is impossible. No such treasure is known to me, and even if it were, our soldiers would make theft impossible.”
Ben Cowan spoke again. “Señor, I do not wish to dispute you, but I have information that two millions in silver and gold are to be moved from its hiding place and transferred to Mexico City, by order of the President himself.”
The General’s expression was unyielding, but his eyes were not unfriendly. “I am sorry, señor. Such is not the case.” He paused. “I should be most curious to kn
ow the source of such a story.”
“It is a rumor, and only that.” Briefly, Ben Cowan outlined the story, and coupled it with Catlow’s boast and the appearance and disappearance of the Mexican soldier. Yet even as he repeated it, he realized on what a flimsy basis he had constructed his theory. He felt a little ashamed, for there could be no doubt that the basis of the story was weak.
“I am sorry, señor,” Armijo repeated, “but I do thank you for your interest. I also wish to extend our thanks for saving the life of my brother-in-law.”
“I do, however, have your permission to search for Señor Catlow and those with him? And to arrest them if I find them?”
The General waved his hand. “Of course! We have thieves enough of our own without wishing to keep any of yours. Take him, and welcome! If there is any way in which we can assist you, you have only to call on us.”
When they were outside, Recalde shrugged a shoulder. “You see? I was sure he would not believe you, and as for the treasure—”
“He knew about the treasure.”
Recalde looked at him skeptically. “Do you think so? He seemed amused by the amount. After all, amigo, two million dollars—it is a very great deal.”
“He would have been a fool to even hint at it. After all, there are plenty of men in Mexico who would not hesitate to try to steal that much. The fewer who know the better.”
“This man, this Catlow…you know him well, then?”
Cowan explained as best he could the strange relationship between himself and Catlow: never quite friends, never quite enemies; always a respect, each for the other.
Recalde listened, his pale face attentive. He nodded at last. “I see…it is, ah—delicate.” He glanced at Cowan. “He may kill you, señor. He may, indeed.” And then he added, “Or you may kill him.”
“I have thought of it,” Cowan said. And then he added, “I would like to get him out of this alive.”
“It will be most difficult. If he makes the attempt to steal it—always admitting the treasure does exist—he will be killed. The General, my brother-in-law, has small liking for bandits. He is a just man, but stern.”
Ben Cowan glanced at the Captain. Recalde had no business even being out of bed. It was exactly a week since they had arrived in Hermosillo, and this was the first time Recalde had been out. Even now he walked slowly, and with a cane.
Day after day and night after night Ben Cowan had searched the town, but he had found no sign of Catlow or any of his men, nor of Miller.
Where was the treasure? Where would the attempt be made? A dozen men against an army…Surprise would be needed, and time…rarely could they be found together.
All the while, Ben Cowan had the uneasy feeling that he himself was being watched, and he thought back to the night someone had taken a shot at him in Tucson—had it been Miller? It might have been Rio Bray, or Old Man Merridew…except that the Old Man would not have missed.
His mind reverted to the problem of the theft. Surprise, of course; but time…time to get away with a treasure that could not be easily carried. Gold and silver are heavy, easily noticed, and sure to cause comment. It is easy, perhaps, to imagine gaining possession of a treasure worth millions, but it is something quite different when one actually has to move it.
When Ben Cowan had seen Recalde safely home, he strolled up the street to a cantina he had chosen to frequent, and pondered the problem over a bottle of cold beer.
How could the bandits get away? Burros or mules would be needed, and an escape route that was foolproof. Of course there was no such thing, but Bijah Catlow would have a plan. Impulsive he might be, but he was cunning as a wolf when cunning was needed.
Ben glanced around the room. It was almost deserted, for the siesta hour was near. Soon even these few would be gone. Catlow might choose to make his strike at such a time, and it was a thought to be remembered. If he could move when most of the town, even the soldiers, were napping, he might have a chance, and it was just the sort of idea to intrigue him.
Despite the insistence of Recalde, Ben Cowan was living at the Hotel Arcadia. Recalde had relatives in the town, and it was with them that he was living and recuperating from his wounds; but Ben Cowan wanted to be in the midst of things where he could see and hear what was going on, and consider his problems without paying attention to the courtesies of a private home.
The last Mexican had now left the cantina, and the proprietor glanced hopefully at Cowan, obviously wishing he would go. Ben finished his beer, decided against suggesting that he be allowed to remain and drink another bottle, and strolled out into the sunlight.
Hermosillo, with a population of less than fifteen thousand, was a pleasant little city on the banks of the Rio Sonora, lying among orange groves and gardens. Outside the town the valley was dotted with grain fields, and all was green and lovely. Now the streets were deserted, and Cowan missed the slender, graceful girls of Sonora, noted for its beautiful women.
He loitered under the shade of the huge old trees in the Plaza, and deep within their shade he must have been invisible to the man who stepped suddenly from a narrow wooden door in a side street off the Plaza.
As the man emerged, he took a swift glance around him, then hurried up the street. His confidence that at this hour he would be unobserved made him miss seeing Ben Cowan standing under the tree only fifty yards away.
The man was Bob Keleher, who had been with Catlow on the trail drive, and who had been with him at the campfire when Catlow killed Mercer.
To attempt to follow Keleher in the empty streets would only betray Cowan’s presence in Hermosillo, of which they might not be aware, and to make the man wary of exposing the hiding place chosen by Catlow.
At the building Keleher had left, the shutters were up and the door closed, but Ben Cowan, who had spent his week getting acquainted with Hermosillo, remembered the place as a leather-worker’s shop. The man dealt, as Moss Burton did, in fancy bridles, saddles, hand-tooled boots, and such things, doing his work on the premises in full view of the passers-by, for the shop’s front was open when business was being carried on.
In one back corner there was a curtain of bridle reins hanging down from the thick cluster of bridles hung from hooks on the wall, near the ceiling. Those bridle reins made a perfect screen for whatever might lie behind. In the other corner there was a door leading to the living premises. But now the shutters were up, and aside from the door to the street, the shop front presented a blank wall to the eye.
Was Keleher only visiting in that house? Seeing a girl, perhaps? Or was this the hide-out of the gang, or some of its members?
Leaving the shade of his tree, Ben walked slowly to the next street. He glanced along it and saw that except for a large carriage gate there was only a blank wall. Walking up the street, he paused opposite the carriage gate and peered through the crack where the two doors of the gate met. He looked into a paved patio where an old wooden-wheeled cart stood, its tongue resting on the ground. The building just beside the gate was obviously, judging by the smell, a stable. He could see a part of the rear of the house where the leather-worker lived, but it was only a blank wall with one second-story window that was tightly shuttered.
Walking further on, Cowan satisfied himself that the place had only two entrances, one at the front, and the other through the carriage gate at the back.
He returned to the Plaza and sat down on a bench and smoked a cigar while he considered the situation. From where he sat he could look up the street where the shop was situated, and after a moment he turned his attention to the building across the street from it.
On the second story of that building there were windows from which the leather shop might be observed. He considered briefly the idea of renting a room there, if one was available, and then decided against it. Unless there was a back entrance, his own coming and going could be too easily observed—anyway, he was not yet sure he had discovered anything of importance.
The siesta hour was almost past when
Rio Bray came into the street and entered the door by which Keleher had left. Presently people began to appear on the street…after a little, shutters were taken down and life resumed its normal movement. Ben Cowan lighted another cigar and loafed in the shade, idly examining a newspaper.
The shutters of the leather shop came down and business, such as it was, resumed. From where he sat Ben could see part of the shop’s interior, but nobody else came or left whom he recognized.
He started to fold his newspaper, preparatory to leaving, when someone paused near him. He saw the polished boots, the obviously tailored uniform trousers, and looked up into the face of General Juan Bautista Armijo.
“She is lovely,” the General commented, “is she not?”
For a moment Ben Cowan did not realize what he meant, and then he saw the girl.
She was standing, poised and assured, on the street corner near the leather shop. Where she had come from he did not know, but he could see that she was, indeed, very striking-looking.
“I expect the General has seen her closer than this; but yes, I think she is pretty.” Cowan got up, and Armijo turned to smile at him.
“You are still with us, señor. We are honored. Have you located your man?”
“No, not yet.”
“You still believe he is here?”
“Perhaps not here, but certainly not far away.”
Armijo dropped a cigarette into the dust and rubbed it out. “There will be a ball at my regimental headquarters this evening. I have asked the Captain to bring you, señor.”
When he was gone, Ben Cowan looked thoughtfully after him. Had his sudden appearance here been an accident? Or was the General having him watched? Did General Armijo, perhaps, know of what was going on at the leather shop?
There was room enough in that stable for a dozen horses to be hidden.
The girl on the corner had turned suddenly and was coming toward him.
Chapter 14
Novel 1963 - Catlow (v5.0) Page 9