by Robb White
When Ben saw the man’s shoes he knew it wasn’t Les. Les wouldn’t be caught dead in the desert in a pair of low-cut white shoes.
Still trying to attract their attention, Ben could feel something dying inside him.
This was where Madec would be good. His lies would be smooth, logical and convincing.
The man shook hands with Madec and went back to the chopper.
Still yelling and knowing that it was useless, Ben watched the chopper swirl up, emerge from its cloud of dust and go away.
It disappeared so fast, so fast, leaving only the fading sound of Denny’s always running engine to taunt him for a moment longer.
Ben walked slowly into the tunnel and stood at one of the biggest of the water-worn holes looking down.
Madec was walking briskly back toward the butte.
Ben watched him until he was out of sight under the overhang. For a long time he just stood there, defeated, listening to the hammer, hoping the chopper would come back, but knowing that it would not.
Then, finally, he wandered out of the tunnel, out onto the ledge and along it to the end. There he leaned out as far as he could, keeping one hand firmly on the cliff face, and looked down.
Whatever Madec did he did well. He was braced now, the rope around his waist, about fifteen feet above the ground, his boots firmly planted in the footholds he had chopped out, the rope secured around a tent peg driven into a crack in the rock.
He was chopping a new handhold, the hammer head glinting in the sunlight.
It would take Madec the rest of the day to chop his way up to the first ledge. From there the rest was just a stroll up the butte, no problem.
Madec wouldn’t come up there at night. He was too cautious to do that.
He would finish cutting his little holes in the rock and finish driving his spikes where he needed them and then, when all was ready, he would wait out the night and come in the morning.
Returning to the tunnel, Ben looked out through its stone mouth, which seemed to frame a picture and make it more vivid.
The far mountains were masses of purple, rugged and alive looking. These were not the old, worn, tree-covered mountains he had seen in other places. These were tough, young mountains, their peaks sharp and strong against the deep blue of the sky, their ridges full of vigor.
And the desert itself was not the bleak and arid place it seemed, but a place full of life. A place where a plant might lie dormant for years and then, with the first drops of rain, spring to full life, produce its flowers, cast its seed and die—all in twenty-four hours.
The hammer had stopped.
It was insulting; the thought of being killed here in the desert where he had always lived by this man from the city was insulting and outrageous.
Ben got to his feet slowly and walked down to the narrow end of the tunnel. As he did so, he made his decision.
Ben sat on the edge of the stone, his feet hanging down in the bisected funnel and leaned over, looking down at the steep, smooth surface of the funnel, studying it down and down until the top of the funnel spout, also bisected, narrowed sharply, going straight on down to the breccia. He noted every wrinkle in it, every rough patch, every stratum. He studied each change in the basalt’s texture and memorized every tiny fissure in the surface of the stone.
After an hour he got up and went back to the other end of the ledge. There, not exposing himself, he stood and looked down at the desert, his eyes ranging from the jumble of rock at the base of the butte out across a sandy area and then into a harder, rock-strewn stretch where the Jeep was parked.
During a few seconds in, perhaps, ten million years a slab of the butte had cracked off. Shaken by an earthquake or moved by the force of some great wind or shrunk by cold, the slab had fallen, one enormous solid slab of stone.
When it had hit the desert, it had broken all to pieces.
One piece, as big as a pickup truck, had apparently bounced or rolled out beyond the breccia and lay isolated on the floor of the desert.
Madec, going back and forth between the butte and the slab of stone, had skirted it, his tracks a clear path around one end.
Ben looked down at these tracks and at that great chunk of stone for a long time and then carefully searched the other areas.
There were no other tracks, only those leading from the Jeep, around the slab, and onto the butte.
Judging from the mark of Madec’s feet, just traces on the hard surface, but deep prints in the sand, and almost invisible in the breccia, it looked to Ben as though the wind had piled up four or five feet of blow sand all around the slab.
Going back again to the narrow end of the tunnel, he resumed his study, noting now the position of the slab in relation to the spout of the funnel and the camp Madec had made around the Jeep.
The position, Ben decided, was very good.
The sun was setting now and Madec, evidently finished for the day, appeared walking back to the Jeep.
Ben sat there studying him, studying every step he took and what effort he had to exert to take it.
Madec carried the rope coiled on his shoulder; the canvas bag was in his hand; two canteens bounced on his hips; and the gun was cradled in his arm.
He walked where he had walked before, going around the eastern end of the slab and on toward the Jeep.
Ben watched some Gambel’s quail strolling into the tunnel for their evening drink. He did not move as they dipped and raised their heads, murmuring to each other. The slingshot lay gleaming dully in the fading light but he did not reach for it.
The birds wandered out again and then, as though recess was over, gathered in an almost military fashion and suddenly, all together, took off in a small, soft explosion of wings.
Ben picked up the slingshot and began working with it. Strips of tough leather with slots in the ends held the rubber tubes to the yoke and pouch. It was easy to slide the leather back through the slots and release both ends of the tubes.
The hollow in the tubes was about three-eighths of an inch in diameter, the rubber a thick wall around it.
He blew through both tubes and then laid them down on the stone.
Putting the four little leather thongs and the leather shot-holder into the bullet pouch, he drew the drawstring tight and tied it to a sotol fiber.
With another fiber he bound the rubber tubes to the yoke and tied the yoke to the first fiber. Then, as the last light died, he strung four fibers together into a stout cord and tied the slingshot and pouch to it, putting the loop of it over his head so that his little kit of equipment hung down on his chest.
In the dark now, he went to the far end of the tunnel, got the still-warm carcasses of the birds and the lizard and, forcing himself not to think about it, sat beside the water and ate them all, pulling the meat of the lizard away from the tough, sandy-feeling skin with his teeth.
Finished, he leaned down to the water and drank. He kept on drinking long after he had reached his fill, drinking until he ached.
Then, his naked body ghostly in the dark tunnel, he went back to the funnel and sat down, his feet dangling.
The Coleman lantern below on the desert seemed very bright, a hard, white, unblinking light. Occasionally he could see Madec as he moved around.
Madec, Ben said in a whisper, you’re tired. You’ve done a bang-up job today; you’ve worked hard and lied well. You deserve a good night’s rest. You need a good night’s rest because you’ve got a big thing to do in the morning.
Ben saw the Coleman moving under the tent awning and into the tent and then the entire tent glowed.
At last the glow faded and suddenly died.
Ben never took his eyes off the camp which, almost invisible at first with the Coleman out, slowly began to take shape again in the starlight. He saw no movement and was sure, as time passed, that Madec was still in the tent. Asleep by now, he hoped.
He had decided that it was time when he suddenly jumped up and went back into the tunnel.
Feelin
g around among the bird droppings, he found the last of his sotol leaves and, as he walked back to the funnel, tore it into four wide strips.
Sitting down again, he slipped the yoke over his head and strung the torn leaf to it, pushing the strips down until they hung with the slingshot and pouch.
Now it was time. He turned, his legs sliding down, his back to the stone and eased himself over the edge until he was hanging by his hands, his toes on the stone slope below. Then he let go.
12
HIS SPEED in the darkness was terrifying. Lying on his back now, he slid feet first down the steep stone funnel.
He had thought that even in the dark he would recognize the features in the stone, and would know, feeling one, where the next rough spot would be.
But his hands and skin and heels and back recognized nothing as he skidded downward, the hard rock flaying him.
Along with the terror of his speed there was the knowledge that he could not stop, could not even slow the rate at which he was moving. Worst of all he could not see where he was going. He could see only the rushing stone face opposite him and the star-pricked sky.
The slingshot yoke tinkled on the stone and the sotol brushed dryly on it, and his own body, sliding, made a dry, rushing sound, and he could feel patches of blow sand as hot as coals grinding into his skin.
His feet hit the top opening of the spout, jamming his legs back, folding them at the knees, before skidding on down.
Then he was entirely in the spout of the funnel, his feet flat against one side, his buttocks and back against the other.
He slid in this position for ten more feet before he could stop himself.
Then he sat suspended, the friction of his feet and back the only things holding him from falling on down the long, dark, narrow spout of rock.
Leaning toward his bent knees until he could feel that the loss of pressure on his back was getting dangerous, Ben looked down between his legs.
He could make it if he wasn’t careless.
Ben had no idea how long it took him to get down to the desert but, at last, he stood in the shadow of the butte, his muscles slowly relaxing, his breathing slowing, his pain coming down from a high scream to a sharp ache.
In the moonlight the camp seemed far away and very still, nothing moving anywhere.
And suddenly Ben began to doubt himself. Standing there, only a few minutes’ easy walk to where Madec lay sleeping, was different from being up there in the tunnel. Up there the first and biggest problem had been simply to get down.
Now, with the tent and Jeep in clear view, he began to wonder whether the plan he had so carefully made on the butte was really the best thing to do.
That plan was so slow, so time-consuming and dangerous.
Wouldn’t it be simpler and less dangerous just to walk quietly over to the camp, pick the Hornet out of the scabbard on the windshield and walk into the tent, shoving the muzzle of the Hornet in Madec’s face as he woke up?
Unless Madec heard or saw him coming and was waiting in the dark, and the big gun blasted him before he even reached the Jeep.
Or wouldn’t it be a better idea to wait, hidden by that solitary slab of stone, until Madec came to the butte in the morning and, as he passed, nail him with the slingshot?
But what if Madec just happened to choose a different route?
Or, Ben thought, now that I’ve got forty-eight hours of water in my belly, why not just take off for home? Go as far as I can until the sun begins to hurt me, hide and then start out again after sunset.
Hide—where? Go—on what? Forty-five miles on sotol leaves?
No. The plan he had made on the butte was a good plan. Slow, yes, but careful. And with danger reduced to only one thing: the .358.
Moving along beside the base of the butte, Ben deliberately stepped on the flattest, grayest stones he could see and, having stepped on them, stooped and looked at where he had stepped. He knew his back was bloody from the grinding on the rock, but apparently there were no serious gashes in his skin, for he was leaving no sign of blood on the stones, and as he went on he could almost feel the desert air drying the blood on his back, forming a layer of dried blood which seemed to pull gently at his nerve ends.
Moving slowly and keeping out of sight of the camp he followed the base of the butte around to where he could see Madec’s tent pegs and footholds in the sheer wall.
Here he turned and looked out at the slab of stone imbedded in the sand. It lay about halfway between the butte and the Jeep and completely blocked his view of the camp.
Ben found some consolation in knowing that the slab also blocked Madec’s view.
Reaching around behind his back, he tore the sotol strips loose and bundled the ends in his hands.
Ready, he started walking toward the Jeep along the path Madec had made.
Ben walked backward and stooped over, stopping frequently to look toward the Jeep and to listen, and, as he walked, brushing his tracks with the leaves as he made them. He didn’t try to brush them out entirely but only to blur them so that the prints of his bare feet didn’t lie like signals on top of the boot prints below them.
The passage between the butte and the slab took longer than he had expected. It worried him, for he had much to do, and it could only be done while Madec slept.
Reaching the slab at last, he left Madec’s path and, ignoring the tracks he was making in the deep, soft sand, went along the slab, the great gray mass of it between him and the Jeep.
Halfway along it he stopped and dropped to his knees.
It was good sand, loose, dry—and deep. There would be no problem.
He went back to the path and, again walking backward, completely erased the footprints he had made alongside the slab, hating the time it took but knowing that he must do it and do it carefully and well.
Then, at the end of the slab farthest from Madec’s tracks, he began to dig, using his hands like a scoop and piling the sand carefully beside the hole.
After a while he tested the hole, found it too shallow, and dug some more until it was deep enough.
Standing in the hole he had dug, he reached out with the strips of leaves and erased every mark he had made around it, wishing all the time that the dry sotol leaves would not make so much noise.
Finished, he laid the strips carefully in the hole and then pulled the yoke over his head.
He untied the rubber tubes from the slingshot and then laid the slingshot and pouch, still on the yoke, down in the hole on the left side.
He was ready now and yet he hesitated, unable to overcome the feeling of terror which suddenly struck him, making him literally sick.
He had to force himself to do it, but at last he got down in the hole and slowly rolled over until he was lying on his back in the bottom of the grave-shaped hole in the sand of the desert.
The slingshot pressed against him and was uncomfortable so he moved it away an inch and then, sitting up, began to scoop the sand in over himself, starting at his feet and working on up his legs.
When he could no longer do it sitting up, he lay back down again and pulled the warm, dry stuff in on top of himself, up his belly, across his chest, up until he felt it dry and gritty in the hairs of his beard.
He stopped then and got the two slingshot rubbers.
With his left hand he fitted one end of one of the rubbers in his left ear. When it was well in, he held it there with his left hand as he carefully scooped sand in around the left side of his head and ear. He continued scooping, moving his fingers slowly up the tube, keeping it erect, until the sand was at the level of his eyes.
Then he took the other tube in his right hand and put one end in his mouth. Holding it there with his teeth, he swung it over a little until his left hand was holding both tubes upright.
Moving his head, he got his chin down on his chest, the tubes still in his ear and mouth, so that his nose would not be clogged too badly.
Ben looked up once again at the clear, high sky. The moon ha
d set and the stars were dimming.
Ben closed his eyes and with his right hand began to pull the sand down on his head, up around his right ear and on, the sand rolling in tiny waves of dryness across his face, covering his eyes, nose and forehead.
When he was sure that the two tubes were firmly held in place by the sand, he turned them loose with his left hand and worked his hand and arm down below the sand until it lay along his side.
With his right hand he kept on pulling the sand over him, feeling occasionally with his fingers for the tube ends.
When there was only an inch or so of the tubing above the level of the sand he stopped, suddenly panicked. If he left that much tube exposed, Madec could easily see it. On the other hand, if he piled sand right up to the tube openings, hiding all sign of them, it would not take much of a wind to start sand blowing across them.
Then sand would come down the tube in his ear and cut off his only contact with the outside world. Worse, that windblown sand could cut off his air and force him to push his head up into full view.
Fighting the panic, Ben again began moving the sand very carefully, piling it up around the tubes in a little mound. That way, he hoped, they would be hidden and at the same time the wind would not blow sand down into them.
With the tubes set, he brushed blindly and for as far as he could reach across the sand covering him, hoping he was leaving it so that Madec would not notice that it had been disturbed.
At last, putting his right arm at full length beside his body, he began working it gently downward.
When his right arm was down alongside him, he realized that there was nothing he could do about the mark it had left on the surface of the sand. He could only hope that it was a confused, indistinct sand formation which would tell Madec nothing if he happened to glance over at it on his way to the butte.
For a time—-he did not know how long—Ben was so concentrated on the small things that there was no room for the horror.
First it was the tube in his mouth. Although he had been breathing through it for some time, he suddenly began to think about it, to wonder if he could keep on breathing through it, for as many hours as it took.