I could see, not well, but enough. With the rifles butt I’d butted a hole in the boulder, through which hole I could look. The field of view was limited, but whenever I put down the boulder to rest — which was pretty often during the final two-hundred-yards — I could move to the peephole and peep about. To this point, nothing calamitous had befallen me, except that my arms felt as if they might be falling off. There remained, I guess not more than seventy-five or eighty yards between me and the cabin. I rested, pooped, eyes at my peephole, near another, smaller, boulder. I had been inside the cabin on those weekends I’d spent there with Russ and knew what it was like inside. It was two stories, with a big rugged living room below, a kitchen, bedroom and bath; upstairs two more bedrooms and a den. So far the only sign of life I’d seen was a man sitting on the porch fronting the cabin.
Now I could see who it was. Big, lumbering Dodo, the Twentieth-Century diplodocus. His face was marked up and puffy, forehead cut, one eye blackened. As I watched him he got up and stretched, then stepped off the porch, scratching himself vigorously. I waited. He looked around, yawned, rubbed his chin, and looked straight at me. I thought he looked a little longer than seemed normal for a guy looking at rocks, but finally he shrugged, then turned and went into the cabin.
Well, if nobody was looking out the windows, this was a good time for me to roll. As soon as the door closed behind Dodo I hoisted on the two-by-fours again and staggered forward. I made thirty yards, rested, had at it some more, and had covered a good fifty yards all told before Dodo came out again with a can of beer in his hand. Unfortunately, I was still moving at the time.
I had become so exhilarated by my success that I suppose I would have just gone clattering right up on the porch if nothing had stopped me. But Dodos appearance stopped me. And vice versa. When he clumped through the doorway and over the porch I spotted him through my little peep-hole and stopped as quickly as I could, squatting and letting the boulder down suddenly, and immediately stepping forward to the hole and unslinging the loaded rifle from my shoulder. But Dodo was staring right at me, even when the boulder hit the earth and skidded a couple feet.
Well, Dodo didn’t really know what to make of it. The first thing he did was drop the can of beer. Then like a man entranced he just kept walking ahead, eyes very wide and stary and his mouth a great cavern, jaw hanging down loosely. He missed the first step off the porch, stumbled, caught his balance, but not for an instant did he take his eyes off me — or, rather, off my twenty-ton boulder.
He took three or four steps toward me, then stopped. He leaned forward. His lips moved as he mumbled something. Hey! he said to the scenery. Hey!
Then he straightened up, gave a little laugh, a little flip of his hand. He dug fingers into both eyes and rubbed them about. Then he looked all around, suspiciously. My rifle was loaded, pumped up, ready to shoot — or squirt, or stab, or whatever it did — but the distance was still a little great for real accuracy, especially when I’d never shot this contraption before. So I waited.
Dodo looked about, then glanced very casually toward my boulder. Apparently satisfied he turned and stepped back toward the house. Now, I thought. And forward I went again. I cut the distance in half, got even closer, narrowed the distance between us. For a wild moment I thought maybe I could just roll right over him, like an avalanche, crushing him, smashing into the house! — my head was hurting quite a lot, thumping, thumping. But I stopped — because Dodo heard me.
I must have been no more than forty feet from the big ape when he heard my feet smacking the ground behind him. I let the boulder down with a thud.
Dodo just froze. After what he’s seen, or thought he’d seen, I guess he was afraid to look. As the sound penetrated his consciousness he stopped and was immobile for a long second, then his hands jerked up — over his ears. Slowly he inched his neck around, rolling his eyes. When he saw me, I realized I’d gone too far. Coming up the canyon I had been merely one boulder among many, but here, now, I was a boulder where never had a boulder been before.
Dodo opened his mouth again and out of it came one of the strangest sounds I had ever heard. It was like a very deep, low, hollow scream. HOOOOOooooOOOOO — or something like that.
Then he turned his back to me, still emitting that noise. It rose and fell for four or five full seconds, then stopped.
Hey, fellows, he yelled. Come look!
Then he bent over and put his face in his hands. Bent way over. And that, of course, was asking for it. Even using a bean-blower, from this distance I couldnt have missed the vast, magnificent target he presented — magnificent, naturally, only when considered as a target.
I thrust my rifle through the hole, sighted quickly, and pulled the trigger. There was a little spat, and the projectile went straight and true as I dug into my pocket, got another cartridge, loaded and pumped the gun.
Dodo straightened up with real violence, clapping both hands to his rear end. Fellows, quick! he yelled. Ohmigod! Quick!
Farmer came running out, gun in his hand. What in the He’ll is comin off? he yelped. He snapped his head around, didn’t immediately notice anything unusual, and gave all his attention to Dodo.
Dodo had turned to face me and was pointing at me with a quivering finger, and with the other hand he started banging Farmer on the shoulder, in a high state of excitement. You wont believe this, he said. But that rock just shot me in the ass!
Farmer started to speak but then took another look. He knew very well he hadn’t seen this boulder before, and he got an expression approximating Dodos. Well, all He’ll was soon going to break loose anyway, so I shoved my re-loaded rifle through the hole again and aimed.
As I sighted down the barrel at Farmers middle I could also see his face. It was worth seeing. I guess to anybody, under any circumstances, too see a gun poking out of a rock would jar you, but I thought Farmer was going to have a hemorrhage, a bowel movement, and a seizure, all at once. I pulled the trigger. Zip, and I got him with my no-zip gun.
He clapped a hand to his middle, then looked at his hand, then shook his head rapidly. But then he yanked up his gun and shot at my rock. Maybe he didn’t know what the He’ll it was, but it was alive and dangerous, and he was going to kill it. He damn near did. The slug ripped through the papier mâché no more than six inches from my head and I jumped backward, hitting one of the crossbeams and toppling over it, dropping the rifle. It’s job was already done, anyway, and more speedily effective firearms were called for now.
I lifted the back edge of the boulder and crawled out, not yet seen from the house, but by now there was all kinds of yelling — and shooting. Three or four slugs bit through the mâché behind me, one kicking up dirt an inch from my hand, but then I was on my feet, bent over with the .38 in my fist.
I couldnt stay behind the rock now, not with bullets tearing through it, so I jammed my teeth together and took two steps forward and then one long leap, landing well to the boulders right, in a crouch, gun raised and right elbow pressed against my hip. And I landed firing.
My first shot missed. Along with Dodo and Farmer, there were now Pete and Green, Pete swinging a .45 toward me and Green just leaping off the porch steps. I aimed at Pete, fired and missed and fired again, and saw him stagger. But he didn’t go down, and I triggered the gun once again, saw the puff of dust as the slug slammed his chest just left of his breastbone. He turned slowly and started to fall.
Three guns — their guns — cracked almost at once. Both Dodo and Farmer were still on their feet — even with enough soup in them to stop a fifteen-hundred-pound bull — and both fired but missed. Tay Green, however, was cooler than they. He’d stopped running, stopped moving, and stood with his legs spread wide and bent, gun thrust before him. There was no expression on his face whatever, just the usual cold mask, and the cold dead eyes staring. His first slug snapped past my middle; the second one smacked my side, high on the left. The slug didn’t knock me down, it passed between my chest and left biceps, pressed tight
against my chest, but the impact spun me around, sent shock slamming through me.
I dropped to my left knee, raising the Colt, firing. The first bullet went right over Greens head; I saw it actually flip his hair. But I got the second one down. The second one went through his throat.
I pulled the trigger again and missed and then the hammer clicked on an empty cartridge and I dropped the gun, turning to my right toward Farmer and Dodo, grabbing for the pearl-handled .38 on my hip. I didn’t even get my hand on it.
Dodo stood over me, gun two feet from my head. Beyond him Farmer still held his revolver, but his arm was drooping as the drug in his blood hit him. He fired but hit the ground between us, two yards from me. Then Dodo, looming above me, pulled the tirgger.
He must have fired several shots into the boulder earlier, because there was only a dull click. He dropped the gun, fell on top of me, slapping his hands around my throat. He had already been weakened by the drug, even though not as much as Farmer, because normally he would have been almost strong enough to squeeze his fingers through my neck. Even so, he cut off the wind completely and red and black dots swirled before my eyes.
I threw both hands up, got them around a thick wrist but couldnt pull it loose, grabbed for one of his fingers and pried it from my neck. Then I got that one finger in both my hands and bent it back till it snapped. Dodos grip loosened and I banged his other hand away, got to my feet, and kicked him in the head. As he rolled over on his hands and knees I yanked the pearl-handled .38 from it’s holster — and a gun cracked behind me. The slug hissed past my ear and I spun, tightening my finger on the trigger.
Hal was ten feet from me, gun in his raised right hand. He was standing straight, tall, sunlight bright on his golden-blond hair. I fired twice, saw him bend in the middle, saw the gun drop from his hand. I jerked around, flipping my gun toward Dodo. But he was still on his hands and knees, head hanging down. Farmer lay on his face in the dirt. It was silent.
Then, suddenly, and with a queer shock, I realized I’d shot Hal. It affected me strangely, cutting, like something tearing inside me, that queer shock leaping through my nerves and seeming to cool my blood.
As I turned, he was just starting to fall.
chapter nineteen
He didn’t pitch forward. Hal Calvin went down slowly, sank to his knees, both hands pressed against his middle. He landed with a slight jar, swayed but remained erect, a red stream of blood spilling between his fingers. Slowly he settled back on his haunches, legs bent beneath him.
I moved to him, dropped on one knee next to him. Shock showed on his face, but his eyes were still bright.
He managed a grin and said, Youll never believe this, Scott. I aimed . . . right at you. But I didn’t really try to hit you. Not . . . He winced slightly. Not in the back.
For once, and against all logic, I believed him. Right then I forgot about what else I still had to do, even about Garbin. Maybe it didn’t make sense. O.K.; so it didn’t. A slim line of blood oozed from the corner of Hals mouth. He felt it, moist and warm on his chin, raised a hand and with the back of it mashed the blood away. I swore, softly but fervently. Finally I said, Goddamn it, Hal. I didn’t want —
Never mind, he said. No time. I know what you mean. No time. His voice had gotten a little thick.
How bad is it? I asked him.
It’s — it . . . All the way this time, Scott. All those questions . . . hows it go? His eyes werent so bright any more; and he was rambling a little. I knew, in a minute, he’d be dead.
Tell all the girls goodbye, he said. Tell the world, tell the . . . Somethins gainin, like the man . . . Uh, that goddamn ulcer. Hey, I . . . This time his mouth stayed open. He just slumped a little, fell to one side.
I looked at him a moment, then stood up slowly.
It was a damn fool thing to do, I suppose. But sometimes a man’s entitled to be a damn fool. I took the pearl-handled gun, grabbed it by the barrel, and threw it as far as I could.
Something moved near me. It was Dodo. He was sitting up, still conscious, but not very. Farmer was out cold. Pete looked done for. I stepped over by Tay Green. He lay on his back, the cold eyes staring blankly at the sky, a pool of blood caught in the hole in his throat. As I looked at him his heart pumped one last time, very weakly. The blood didn’t spill, just rose up a little way in the hole, then sank back down. It didn’t rise again.
Finally, then, I started thinking about Garbin. It was a wonder he hadn’t shot me by now. I bent, picked up Tay Greens gun, a short-barreled .357 Magnum, straightened and turned back toward the cabin. Something moved in an upstairs window, but as I glanced that way movement much higher up caught my eye. And that higher movement explained why Jules Garbin hadn’t shot me.
Behind the cabin, the end of the canyon was a jagged cliff, a wall that appeared to be straight up and down. But Garbin had clambered up it, was almost at it’s top.
Garbin! I yelled.
His head snapped around. I raised the .45 automatic, aimed at him. He turned, scrambled up the last few feet. I fired. It was a long shot, and I missed. The bullet struck the cliffs face beneath him. Then he was over the top and out of sight.
There was the crash of window glass breaking. Feminine voices started yelling. That was the spot where I’d first noticed movement — the gals at the window upstairs. I ran toward the cabin, jumped onto the porch and on inside. The stairs were to my right and I went up them three at a time, ran down a hall to the room at the front of the house. The door was locked. I kicked it open and stumbled inside.
Well, it was pandemonium. I had no time to jaw with these gals, and had merely wanted to be sure they were alive and well — and still had their clothes on, if youve got to know — and then get going. But with all of them talking at once, it took a full minute before I could even make myself understood.
They were ecstatic, I’d rescued them, they knew I’d gallop up on a horse or something, theyd been watching from the window, but oh theyd been so scared — the gunsters had grabbed them right away, before they could even get undressed, and been very rough, but they hadn’t done anything really, you know, except with Ed, whom they shot, and yak-yak-yak.
QUIET! I said.
Boy, it was like when I’d yelled Silence. I continued, Youre all right, then?
They were all right.
I asked if any of them could handle a gun.
Zia said, I can. I’ve shot an automatic revolver.
Great. I gave Zia the nine-shot automatic pistol I’d taken from Clyde, explained about the safety and pulling the trigger, cautioning her to aim it well away from herself.
I dont think, any of those guys out front will be leaping in here for a frolic, I said, but there may be a hood or two around here I missed, unlikely as that may seem. If so, dont you miss him. Just keep pulling the trigger.
Zia was nodding her head in vigorous agreement, pointing the gun at her leg. I looked at her. I looked at the others. Goodbye, I said. I was actually leaving these four gorgeous tomatoes. Life shouldnt do this to a man, I thought.
Well, I said, I’m off! And away I went again.
By the time I reached the top of that cliff, the exertion — plus the neural and glandular catastrophes of the past hours — had caused every one of my internal glands to shoot too much of everything into my blood stream and at each other, and my blood was bubbling like brew in an electric percolator. Also by that time I had heard something whinny.
And what it it that whinnies?
Well, unless it was something new — which might possibly be true, here in dreamland — it was a horse.
Standing at the top of the cliff, wobbling about, blood hissing and perking in my veins, it looked to me as if there were horses all over the landscape. One was only about ten yards away, and farther off — I counted them — were four others. In the distance I could hear the faint drumming of hooves.
I guessed the horses had been brought here by Garbin, in case he and his pals had to leave by the back ex
it. Which meant he was even now, undoubtedly, out there where those drumming hooves were. Numbly, I walked toward the nearest horse, so beat I was actually glad to see him. He was saddled, reins trailing on the ground, and at that point I didn’t care if he was Diablo. He didn’t run; I climbed aboard, got settled in the saddle, reins in my hand.
O.K., I said. Lets go, horse. He just sat there, no more wild about going anyplace than I was. But I kept talking to him, and kicking at him, and pretty soon we were moving, gaining speed, and finally flying over the ground. Far off in the distance I could see the dot that was Jules Garbin on his horse. I aimed my mount that way.
It required, I would guess, about ten minutes to get close to Garbin, though it seemed hours longer. Suffice to say, it was the longest localized beating I ever took. After the first minute or two I began getting the hang of it, but most of the time I was bouncing a lot, and my bouncer was pretty well-ruined to begin with.
But finally I was close to Garbin and it was obvious my animal was much the speedier and soon wed catch him. Then Garbin turned in the saddle, raising his right arm and pointing it at me and: blam. The bullet whistled past a few inches from my head and I ducked, digging for the Magnum I’d crammed into my holster.
Blam, Garbin fired again. I could see his face clearly enough as he turned and aimed at me. No dark glasses this time. I got the gun out, leveled it at his body, squeezed the trigger. The revolver bucked in my hand. But shooting from a horse, I found, is like shooting during a collision on the freeway. Any approach to even minimal accuracy is, to put the best possible light on it, absolutely impossible. I must have missed him by three yards. This was ridiculous.
Garbin fired again. So did I, leaning over the neck of my horse. And a weird feeling swept over me, mingling with the coffee in my arteries. This was just like a movie. A lousy movie. There was Jules, here was I. Here I was, chasing the villain over the desert plains. He had to be the villain — he was wearing a black sombrero, obviously a slicker. But I — ah, I was resplendent in all the honest hero’s regalia, and I had a white sombrero.
The Cockeyed Corpse (The Shell Scott Mysteries) Page 15