Their feet would be punishing them cruelly now. Three of them still had their horses, leading them.
He rested his full hour, then got up. He had cut it very thin. Through a space in the rocks, he could see them, not three hundred yards away. Lopez, as he had suspected, was in the lead. How easy to pick them off now! But no, he would not kill again. Let their own anxiety to kill him kill them.
Within a hundred yards, he had put two jumbled piles of boulders between himself and his pursuers. A little farther then, and he stopped.
Before him was a steep slide of shale, near the edge of a great basin. Standing where he did, he could see, far away in the distance, a purple haze over the mountains. Between there was nothing but a great white expanse, shimmering with heat.
He slid down the shale and brought up at the bottom. He was now, he knew, seventy feet below sea level. He started away, and at every step, dry, powdery dust lifted in clouds. It caked in his nostrils, filmed his eyelashes, and covered his clothes with whitish, alkaline dust. Far across the Sink, and scarcely discernible from the crest behind him, was the Window in the Rock. He headed for it, walking steadily. It was ten miles if you walked straight across.
“So far that Navajo was right,” Shad told himself. “An’ he said to make it before dark…or else!”
Shad Marone’s lips were dry and cracked. After a mile, he stopped, tilting his canteen until he could get his finger into the water, then carefully moistened his lips. Just a drop then, inside his mouth.
All these men were desertwise. None of them, excepting perhaps Lopez, would know about the Sink. They would need water. They would have to know where to find it. By day they could follow his trail, but after darkness fell…?
And then, the Navajo had said, the wind would begin to blow. Shad looked at the dry, powdery stuff under him. He could imagine what a smothering, stifling horror this would be if the wind blew. Then, no man could live.
Heat waves danced a queer rigadoon across the lower sky, and heat lifted, beating against his face from the hot white dust beneath his feet. Always it was over a man’s shoe tops, sometimes almost knee-deep. Far away, the mountains were a purple line that seemed to waver vaguely in the afternoon sun. He walked on, heading by instinct rather than sight for the Window.
Dust arose in a slow, choking cloud. It came up from his feet in little puffs, like white smoke. He stumbled, then got his feet right, and kept on. Walking in this was like dragging yourself through heavy mud. The dust pulled at his feet. His pace was slow.
Thirst gathered in his throat, and his mouth seemed filled with something thick and clotted. His tongue was swollen, his lips cracked and swollen. He could not seem to swallow.
He could not make three miles an hour. Darkness would reach him before he made the other side. But he would be close. Close enough. Luckily, at this season, the light stayed long in the sky.
After a long time, he stopped and looked back. Yes, they were coming. But there was not one dust cloud. There were several. Through red-rimmed, sun-squinted eyes, he watched. They were straggling. Every straggler would die. He knew that. Well, they had asked for it.
Dust covered his clothing, and only his gun he kept clean. Every half hour he stopped and wiped it as clean as he could. Twice he pulled a knotted string through the barrel.
Finally, he used the last of his water. Every half hour he had been wetting his lips. He did not throw the canteen away, but slung it back upon his hip. He would need it later, when he got to the Nest. His feet felt very heavy, his legs seemed to belong to an automaton. Head down, he slogged wearily on. In an hour he made two miles.
THERE IS A time when human nature seems able to stand no more. There is a time when every iota of strength seems burned away. This was the fourth day of the chase. Four days without a hot meal, four days of riding, walking, running. Now this. He had only to stop, they would come up with him, and it would be over.
The thought of how easy it would be to quit came to him. He considered the thought. But he did not consider quitting. He could no more have stopped than a bee could stop making honey. Life was ahead, and he had to live. It was a matter only of survival now. The man with the greatest urge to live would be the one to survive.
Those men behind him were going to die. They were going to die for three reasons. First, he alone knew where there was water, and at the right time he would lose them.
Second, he was in the lead, and after dark they would have no trail, and if they lived through the night, there would be no trail left in the morning.
Third, at night, at this season, the wind always blew, and their eyes and mouths and ears would fill with soft, white filmy dust, and if they lay down, they would be buried by the sifting, swirling dust.
They would die then, every manjack of them.
They had it coming. Bowman deserved it; so did Davis and Gardner. Lopez most of all. They were all there; he had seen them. Lopez was a killer. The man’s father had been Spanish and Irish, his mother an Apache.
Without Lopez, he would have shaken them off long before. Shad Marone tried to laugh, but the sound was only a choking grunt. Well, they had followed Lopez to their death, all of them. Aside from Lopez, they were weak sisters.
He looked back again. He was gaining on them now. The first dust cloud was farther behind, and the distance between the others was growing wider. It was a shame Lopez had to die, at that. The man was tough and had plenty of trail savvy.
Shad Marone moved on. From somewhere within him he called forth a new burst of strength. His eyes watched the sun. While there was light, they had a chance. What would they think in Puerto de Luna when eight men did not come back?
Marone looked at the sun, and it was low, scarcely above the purple mountains. They seemed close now. He lengthened his stride again. The Navajo had told him how his people once had been pursued by Apaches, and had led the whole Apache war party into the Sink. There they had been caught by darkness, and none were ever seen again according to the Indian’s story.
Shad stumbled then and fell. Dust lifted thickly about him, clogging his nostrils. Slowly, like a groggy fighter, he got his knees under him, and using his rifle for a staff, pushed himself to his feet.
He started on, driven by some blind, brute desire for life. When he fell again, he could feel rocks under his hands. He pulled himself up.
He climbed the steep, winding path toward the Window in the Rock. Below the far corner of the Window was the Nest. And in the Nest, there was water. Or so the Navajo had told him.
When he was halfway up the trail, he turned and looked back over the Sink. Far away, he could see the dust clouds. Four of them. One larger than the others. Probably there were two men together.
“Still coming,” he muttered grimly, “and Lopez leading them!”
Lopez, damn his soul!
The little devil had guts, though; you had to give him that. Suddenly, Marone found himself almost wishing Lopez would win through. The man was like a wolf. A killer wolf. But he had guts. And it wasn’t just the honest men who had built up this country to what it was today.
Maybe, without the killers and rustlers and badmen, the West would never have been won so soon. Shad Marone remembered some of them: wild, dangerous men, who went into country where nobody else dared venture. They killed and robbed to live, but they stayed there.
It took iron men for that: men like Lopez, who was a mongrel of the Santa Fe Trail. Lopez had drunk water from a buffalo track many a time. Well, so have I, Shad told himself.
Shad Marone took out his six-shooter and wiped it free of dust. Only then did he start up the trail.
He found the Nest, a hollow among the rocks, sheltered from the wind. The Window loomed above him now, immense, gigantic. Shad stumbled, running, into the Nest. He dropped his rifle and lunged for the water hole, throwing himself on the ground to drink. Then he stared, unbelieving.
Empty!
The earth was dry and parched where the water had been, but only cra
cked earth remained.
He couldn’t believe it. It couldn’t be! It couldn’t…! Marone came to his feet, glaring wildly about. His eyes were red rimmed, his face heat flushed above the black whiskers, now filmed with gray dust.
He tried to laugh. Lopez dying down below there, he dying up here! The hard men of the West, the tough men! He sneered at himself. Both of them now would die, he at the water hole, Lopez down there in the cloying, clogging dust!
He shook his head. Through the flame-sheathed torment of his brain, there came a cool ray of sanity.
There had been water here. The Indian had been right. The cracked earth showed that. But where?
Perhaps a dry season.…But no; it had not been a dry season. Certainly no dryer than any other year at this time.
He stared across the place where the pool had been. Rocks and a few rock cedar and some heaped-up rocks from a small slide. He stumbled across and began clawing at the rocks, pulling, tearing. Suddenly, a trickle of water burst through! He got hold of one big rock and in a mad frenzy, tore it from its place. The water shot through then, so suddenly he was knocked to his knees.
He scrambled out of the depression, splashing in the water. Then, lying on his face, he drank, long and greedily.
Finally, he rolled away and lay still, panting. Dimly, he was conscious of the wind blowing. He crawled to the water again and bathed his face, washing away the dirt and grime. Then, careful as always, he filled his canteen from the fresh water bubbling up from the spring.
If he only had some coffee.…But he’d left his food in his saddlebags.
Well, Madge would be all right now. He could go back to her. After this, they wouldn’t bother him. He would take her away. They would go to the Blue Mountains in Oregon. He had always liked that country.
The wind was blowing more heavily now, and he could smell the dust. That Navajo hadn’t lied. It would be hell down in the Sink. He was above it now and almost a mile away.
He stared down into the darkness, wondering how far Lopez had been able to get. The others didn’t matter; they were weak sisters who lived on the strength of better men. If they didn’t die there, they would die elsewhere, and the West could spare them. He got to his feet.
Lopez would hate to die. The ranch he had built so carefully in a piece of the wildest, roughest country was going good. It took a man with guts to settle where he had and make it pay. Shad Marone rubbed the stubble on his jaw. “That last thirty head of his cows I rustled for him brought the best price I ever got!” he remembered thoughtfully. “Too bad there ain’t more like him!”
Well, after this night, there would be one less. There wouldn’t be anything to guide Lopez down there now. A man caught in a thick whirlpool of dust would have no landmarks; there would be nothing to get him out except blind instinct. The Navajos had been clever, leading the Apaches into a trap like that. Odd, that Lopez’s mother had been an Apache, too.
Just the same, Marone thought, he had nerve. He’d shot his way up from the bottom until he had one of the best ranches.
Shad Marone began to pick up some dead cedar. He gathered some needles for kindling and in a few minutes had a fire going.
Marone took another drink. Somehow, he felt restless. He got up and walked to the edge of the Nest. How far had Lopez come? Suppose…Marone gripped his pistol.
Suddenly, he started down the mountain. “The hell with it!” he muttered.
A stone rattled.
Shad Marone froze, gun in hand.
Lopez, a gray shadow, weaving in the vague light from the cliff, had a gun in his hand. For a full minute, they stared at each other.
Marone spoke first. “Looks like a dead heat,” he said.
Lopez said, “How’d you know about that water hole?”
“Navajo told me,” Shad replied, watching Lopez like a cat. “You don’t look so bad,” he added. “Have a full canteen?”
“No. I’d have been a goner. But my mother was an Apache. A bunch of them got caught in the Sink once. That never happened twice to no Apache. They found this water hole then, and one down below. I made the one below, an’ then I was finished. She was a dry hole. But then water began to run in from a crack in the rock.”
“Yeah?” Marone looked at him again. “You got any coffee?”
“Sure.”
“Well,” Shad said as he holstered his gun, “I’ve got a fire.”
AUTHOR’S NOTE:
THE SYCAMORE WILD AREA
AFTER WORLD WAR II, while living in Los Angeles, I would occasionally make up a backpack and head for the wild country, usually in Arizona.
One of my favorite places was what is called The Sycamore Wild Area in Sycamore Canyon. In those days there was a branch line railroad that ran from Clarkdale to Drake and the train crew would drop you off anywhere along the line and pick you up on the way back whenever you showed up. The train was known as the Verde-Mix.
The land was rough, wild, and beautiful. There were deer, mountain lion, and occasional bear, some beautiful springs and running streams all with nobody around to bother you. Usually I would spend three or four days hiking lonely canyons, climbing mountains, or wandering in the forests, sleeping under the stars or in caves that had sheltered Indians or outlaws in their time.
There were stories of ghosts, lost mines, horse thieves, and ancient Indians. Some of them I heard from Jim Roberts when he was a peace officer in Clarkdale. I first ran into him when I was doing assessment work in a mining claim not far from Jerome. Roberts was a survivor of the Tonto Basin War and we talked about it several times as I had known Tom Pickett who was also involved.
RIDING ON
“Good cowboys never run; they just ride away.”
—Old Saying
THE RIDERS MOVED forward in a body. “Strike a match, Reb!” Nathan Embree’s voice trembled with triumph. “We finally got one; I heard him fall.”
Reb Farrell slid from the saddle. “I see him! He’s right over here!” A match whispered on his jeans and the light flared.
All necks craned forward. The man on the ground had a bullet through his head, but his face was placid. It was a face seamed with care and years that had not been kind. The face of a man tired of the struggle of living. It was the face of Reb Farrell’s father.
Numb with horror, Reb stared down at the man he had killed, the man who had fought to give him some little education and a sense of honor, who had fought so hard and lost, and who now was dead, killed by the son he had loved.
“My God!” Dave Barbot’s exclamation was low. “Not Jim Farrell! It can’t be!”
Nathan Embree’s own shock changed to sudden, bitter fury. “So that was it? So that was why you couldn’t find any rustlers for me, Reb? Maybe this explains how they always knew when an’ where to strike! Maybe this explains why they were always one jump ahead of us!”
Reb Farrell stared unbelievingly at the body, shocked as much by his father’s presence here as by the feeling that he himself had shot him. He did not hear the words of Nathan Embree. He did not hear Dave Barbot’s refusal to agree.
“You don’t believe that, Nathan!” Dave’s voice was sharp. “Reb fought them harder than anybody. He’s recovered two herds for you.”
“Uh-huh.” There was cold certainty in Nathan Embree’s voice. “Why did he find ’em when nobody else could? Maybe it was because he knew where to look? When did this rustling start? Right after I made him foreman, wasn’t it?”
Reb Farrell looked up. “What was that? What did you say, Nathan?”
Nathan Embree was a just man, but he was also hard and merciless. The moon had emerged from under a cloud and showed him the face of his young foreman.
“You’re fired, Reb! Fired! Get your gear an’ get off the place. I can’t prove anything against you, but if you’re still in the country within twenty-four hours, we’ll hunt you down an’ you’ll hang.”
Astonishment held Reb speechless for a full minute and then, as the riders began to turn their hors
es to ride away, he found his voice. “You accusin’ me of rustlin’, Nathan?” His eyes seemed to flare. “I won’t take that from no man. Don’t call me a rustler unless you’re willing to grab iron.”
Embree turned on him. “Yes,” he said contemptuously, “you would try something like that. Dare me into a gunfight so you could kill me. Oh, we all know you’re a gunfighter, Reb, but now that you’ve killed your own father by your too free use of a gun, you should have some sense in that head of yours.”
Reb Farrell stared, unable to believe what he heard. Embree himself had shouted at him to fire when they heard the rush of hoofs, and he had shot at the silhouette of a man in the saddle.
“Either you figured your father was safely away from here, or thought you could miss in the dark an’ nobody the wiser. Well, you’re finished here. You’ve got just twenty-four hours!”
Bitterness mounted within Reb Farrell. “You mean I don’t get a chance to look into this? You’d condemn me an’ my father without a trial?”
“Trial?” Nathan Embree was beside himself with fury. “We catch the rustlers movin’ a herd. You shoot an’ one falls, an’ it’s your father. What more evidence would anybody need? By rights you should be hangin’, an’ it’s only because of my daughter that you ain’t! But get out, an’ don’t ever show your face around my place!”
Wheeling his horse, he led the group away, and only Dave Barbot lingered. “Sorry, Reb,” he said softly. “I’m really sorry.”
Alone in the darkness, Reb Farrell stood beside the body of his father and listened to the sound of their retreating hoofs.
Like a man walking in his sleep, he caught up his own horse and then his father’s. He loaded the body across the saddle and started for home, riding slowly, his head hanging, devoid of thought. It was the end of everything for him—the job on the ranch he loved, Laura, everything.
The old cabin where he had spent his boyhood was dark and silent. Dismounting, Reb went inside and lighted a lamp. Without waiting for daylight he got some loose boards and knocked together a crude coffin, lining it with an old poncho. Sodden with grief, he went to the green place under the trees and there beside the grave of his mother, who had died when he was a child, he buried his father.
Collection 1983 - Law Of The Desert Born (v5.0) Page 2