Shawn Starbuck Double Western 1

by Ray Hogan

  One day he knew it would all come to an end, and if asked what he had to show for the lifetime a tolerant Creator had granted him on earth, he could give no answer, for he felt there was none.

  Oh, there were those he’d had occasion to lend a hand and give aid to in their time of stress and trouble, but Shawn Starbuck considered such unworthy of special note, since, to him, to assist another at such moment was in the nature of duty—his duty as a human being. He could see no logic in accepting acclaim when he had done only what was right—what he believed any other man would have done had he been presented with a similar set of circumstances. And to those involved who looked at it differently and sought to thank him, he had, almost shyly, turned a deaf ear and ridden on, pricked by some strange sort of embarrassment.

  Just as each man is stirred by a different tune, and lives by his own set of values, Shawn, the product of an idealistic schoolteacher mother and a hard-bitten, practical, son-of-the-soil father, was no exception to that principle; he lived by a code that had been painstakingly instilled within him by that unlikely duo and saw no reason to take glory for something he considered the simple obligation of one man to another.

  He glanced at the Apache. Indians were on the move again—he’d heard that as far back as Magdalena, had seen evidence of the fact as he’d ridden deeper into Arizona on a southwesterly course that led him between the landmarks of St. Peter’s Dome and Green’s Peak and on to Big Mountain; from there he altered course slightly, now faced directly into the sunset, came finally to the Corduroy River and the Big Butte country where he presently was.

  The great, forbidding Mogollon Mountains, like a vast, dark barrier flung up against the clean sky, were to his right here—the north, and from that he knew he was drawing near journey’s end. Soon he’d enter the Rockinstraw Valley, then would come Lynchburg, and twenty miles or so outside that settlement he would find the Box C Ranch where Jim Ivory worked.

  He had stalled long enough. No other Apaches had appeared. It could be the buck was alone, but he still had his doubts as to that. Ordinarily they ran in parties, preferring to hunt both man and game in the company of fellow braves. Again Shawn lifted his head, swept the surrounding country with a hard, thrusting glance.

  Nothing. From where he lay, however, he could not see into the broad basin on ahead. There could be others there. If so, he could take comfort from the thought that they were unaware of his presence on the little plateau, otherwise they would have closed in on him by now.

  He’d be a fool to wait around any longer. The dead brave would be missed and a search instituted. Drawing his legs up beneath him, Shawn brushed sweat from his eyes and slowly came to a crouched position. Instantly he froze as motion down in the basin, now within his line of vision, caught his attention.

  An Apache brave, sun gleaming on his near-naked body, was directly in front of him in the brush-and-rock-littered sink less than a hundred paces away. The buck halted, became an immobile bronze statue as he listened intently for something—or someone.

  There were more. Shawn’s eyes, narrowed to cut down the blinding glare, picked up movement a short distance below the first brave. He saw three more along the opposite edge of the basin. Only two carried rifles; the others had feathered lances, or, like the one who had attacked him, a stone tomahawk and a knife.

  They seemed to be working toward a central point, as if closing in on some objective. The brave he had stumbled on had evidently been part of a shrinking circle.

  Starbuck frowned, again swiped at the sweat clothing his face, blurring his vision. What were they after? He could see nothing, no one in that tortured welter of blistered rock and starved, shoulder-high brush. But there was a reason—there had to be.

  Speculation came to a full stop. A man, dust-gray in the driving heat, head down and slightly staggering, broke into view. He was leading a starved-looking bay horse that favored its left foreleg.

  The question cleared instantly for Shawn; the Apaches were after the rider with the lame horse, were allowing him to work out onto a small flat a short distance ahead where he would not have protection of the rocks and dense brush.

  One of the braves with a rifle could have handled the problem at any point without difficulty, but they were wasting no bullets. Such were precious, hard to come by. It was much more practical to hold back, permit the lone white man to reach the open where a lance would be as accurate and every bit as deadly.

  Starbuck hunched lower, crossed swiftly to a thick clump of cedar. From that screened position he had a much more complete view of the basin. Crouched, he took it all in—the slowly unfolding drama of violence as the solitary, unsuspecting man, in a bad way himself, leading his crippled horse over the rough, broken ground, moved deeper into the gradually tightening noose of Apache braves.

  Shawn brushed at his jaw, glanced to where the sorrel was grazing. It would be a simple matter to drop back, work his way down the slight incline to the gelding, and mount up. By keeping well away from the rim of the sink he could continue his way unseen, soon put himself well in the clear of all danger in the basin.

  He brushed the thought aside. He had to consider the gaunt stranger and his horse. The man had ten, possibly fifteen more minutes of life remaining unless he was warned—and given help. The problem was how to reach him in time, stop him while he was still in the comparative shelter of the brush.

  Starbuck turned away, dropped back quickly to the sorrel. Thrusting a toe into the stirrup, he sprang to the saddle. For a moment he sat there, studying the land from his elevated vantage point, and then, again brushing at the salty brine clouding his eyes, wheeled the red gelding about and doubled back up the draw, across the flinty little plateau where the dead Apache lay, and angled for the upper end of the sink.

  By coming in from above he should be able to reach the doomed man without the Indians being aware of his presence. At least, he hoped that was the way it would work out.

  Two

  A narrow trail led off to the right of the plateau, going down into the sink. He bypassed it, realizing it would take him down onto a level with the Apaches, and place him opposite rather than behind the man he sought to help, and so continued on.

  Abruptly the flat dropped off into another fairly deep gully. He rode into it, cut right, and shortly entered the brush fringing the sink. The rider was below him now, but he could not be certain the same was true of all the Apaches; he had no idea how many braves were skulking about in the basin—how large the living noose that was tightening around its intended victim. He could only guess.

  He gave thought to dismounting to improve his chances for passing unseen through the undergrowth, then dropped the idea. He would be moving slower if such a plan were followed, and time was running out for the stranger. He had to be stopped before he got beyond the protection of the rocks and brush.

  Bent forward on the saddle, Shawn urged the gelding on, keeping to the narrow aisles between the rank growth and mounds of boulders. He saw no indication of additional braves, but took no confidence from that; he saw no horses either, knowing well the Apache’s ponies were somewhere nearby. If they could be successfully hidden, so could several more warriors.

  The sorrel’s ears flicked suddenly as he paused in stride. Starbuck drew in instantly, the understanding between man and horse strong. The gelding had seen something he, himself, had missed. For a few moments he remained motionless in the heat-blasted depths of the brush-filled sink, listening, probing the undergrowth with careful eyes.

  He could neither hear nor see anything suspicious. It could have been a bird veering through the shadows, or possibly a rabbit scampering out from beneath the sorrel’s hooves.

  Lifting the leathers a bit, he started the gelding forward, now at a slower gait and with more thought to silence. He couldn’t be far behind the man with the lame horse, and if the Apaches had worked in, closed the loop, there was every possibility there’d be two or three of them ahead.

  Starbuck saw the b
rave a split second before the coppery warrior, hearing the muted sound of the sorrel’s tread on the loose sand, wheeled. The Indian’s eyes flared in surprise and alarm; his mouth opened to yell just as Shawn, leaving the saddle in a low dive, hit him full on.

  The brave went down in a flailing of arms and legs. A stifled cry escaped his lips despite Starbuck’s fingers clamped about his throat, and then there was a muffled groan as Shawn, again using the forty-five, clubbed him hard on the side of the head.

  Instantly Starbuck was on his feet. He’d silenced the buck—but not soon enough. That one strangled sound would have been heard by others. They would hesitate, wonder, and then one or two were certain to investigate. He had only moments left now to reach the man somewhere just ahead, voice a warning, and then quickly find a suitable place where, together, they could make a stand.

  He swore silently, dashing at the sweat. If he could just yell—call out! But that was out of the question; there were the Apaches in the remainder of the circle to remember—and hopefully keep at a distance until safety was reached.

  The lame horse was suddenly before him. In the same instant he saw the dusty, dejected figure of the man. They were still in the brush, only paces from the clearing where the Apaches would undoubtedly strike.

  Starbuck halted, emitted a low whistle, pivoted to glance about, seeking a place where they could pull off and find some degree of protection. A butte to his right offered possibilities. It would give them something to their backs, and a fairly good-sized boulder would serve as a rampart in front.

  He swung his attention again to the rider. The man had halted, studied him with dull suspicion. His worn, pinched face was florid, marked with even brighter red splotches where the pitiless sun had left its mark on skin unaccustomed to stringency; it was a face that appeared too old for a body that could be no more than ten years Shawn’s senior.

  “Apaches—all around us!” Starbuck called in a hoarse whisper. “This way—we’ll make a stand at that bluff,” he added, pointing.

  Immediately he turned the sorrel for the reddish formation, urging him with a steady pressure of his rowels. Halfway he glanced at the rider. The man had not stirred. Impatience flared through Shawn.

  “Come on—dammit! They’re closing in on you!”

  In the next breath a lance, its feathers swirling brightly in the hot sunlight, soared across the open ground, struck point down and quivering an arm’s length back of the lame horse. The man delayed no longer. Pivoting, he started for the bluff at an awkward run.

  Starbuck, reaching the formation, hit the ground fast as the basin came alive with the yells of Indians. He saw a brave dart from a clump of brush a few steps beyond the rider, race toward him. Sunlight glinted on the shining steel blade of the knife clutched in his hand. Taking cool, deliberate aim with his forty-five, Shawn dropped the brave in his tracks.

  In the next moment man and horse were behind the rock, the rider dropping the reins as the bay sidled anxiously up to the sorrel as if seeking kindred companionship, while the haggard traveler, pistol in hand, took a place next to Starbuck at the boulder.

  Shawn, eyes sweeping restlessly back and forth, taking in both sides of the area fronting the bluff, swore deeply. Suddenly there were no Apaches—not even any yells. The braves had disappeared completely; it was as if it had all been an illusion. But they were there, silent as dark shadows, reorganizing, getting themselves set and planning their next move. There were two white men now.

  “Obliged to you, mister,” the rider murmured in a dry, raspy voice. He swallowed noisily as if speaking was a chore.

  Shawn shrugged. “Spotted you from above. Had you surrounded and I figured I’d better set in on the game. “My name’s Starbuck—Shawn Starbuck.”

  “Mine’s—uh, Mason. You get jumped doing it?”

  Shawn’s glance followed Mason’s line of vision. There was a streak of blood on his forearm, more on his sleeve.

  “Bumped into a couple. Keep watching the left. I’ll take the right—and we’d both best keep an eye out straight ahead. They’ll be hitting us again—soon as they figure out our weak spot.”

  “Whole damned place is a weak spot,” Mason said, looking around.

  “Won’t argue that—and I sure didn’t pick it on purpose! One thing for certain, we’ve got to get out of here before dark.”

  Mason was silent for a time, then: “How many Apaches did you spot?”

  “Eight, maybe ten. Hard to tell, way they were moving in and out of the brush.”

  “A God’s plenty of them. No way I can see that we can get away from that big a party.”

  The defeat in Mason’s attitude and voice was evident. A man who’s been through hell a couple of times, Shawn thought, and wondered if it had come about from being in the war; but the war had been over for ten years; you’d think a man could have shaken the terrible memories that possessed him in that length of time.

  He slid another glance at Mason, now turned from him, eyes on the brush and patches of open ground below. He had thin, straw-colored hair badly in need of trimming. His clothing—pants and shirt—were of some sleazy material, coarse and ill fitting. His boots were worn, although the heels appeared to have been repaired recently. The pistol in his gnarled hand was an old Colt forty-four-caliber Walker. No rifle was slung from his saddle.

  “Answer’s to get ourselves up and out of this sink,” Starbuck said, replying to the man’s resigned comment. “We make it to the flat above us, chances for slipping off are plenty good.”

  Mason twisted about, looked to the rim above them. “How’ll we do it?”

  “Trail behind us—between those two rock slabs. Saw it when I came off the plateau to warn—”

  “Warn—you mean you came down from there to warn me?” Mason broke in incredulously.

  “Couldn’t yell. Apaches would’ve cracked down on you fast then—and that would have ended it.”

  Mason continued to stare at Starbuck in a troubled, not-understanding way. His thin lips were set and his small eyes were dark and filled with a sullen bitterness.

  “Reckon I truly am obliged to you,” he muttered, almost resentfully.

  “Forget it. What we’ve got to worry about is staying alive. Next time—”

  Shawn’s words were cut off abruptly as the air once again was filled with yells. A half-dozen Apaches rushed into the open, breaking from the thick brush to the south and heading for a large mound of rocks and weed-covered earth a dozen strides away.

  Mason rested the old Walker on his left forearm, pressed off a shot. It was a clean miss. Starbuck, wishing he had grabbed his rifle before he turned the sorrel loose, steadied himself against the rock, dropped the buck in the lead as Mason thumbed back the hammer of his weapon, fired again. This time his aim was good. The brave spun, went down in a swirl of dust, feet beating a tattoo against the sun-baked soil. Those remaining, suddenly dissuaded, wheeled, rushed back for the shelter of the brush.

  Hastily reloading, Starbuck turned his attention to Mason’s bay. “What’s wrong with your horse?”

  He was calculating their chances for escape by making a run for it, assuming they could gain the plateau above.

  “Hoofs are split. Left fore’s in bad shape. Been leading him all day.”

  Mason could forget riding him—at least until the horse could rest and receive treatment. But the situation wasn’t too serious. The sorrel could carry double. He was a big animal, stronger than average—and Mason didn’t look to weigh much. The gelding, however, could not be expected to take on such a load for any lengthy distance. He’d had an ordinary day, covering quite a few miles in the intense heat, and was himself in need of rest. Again Shawn considered the trail leading up between the cleft in the rocks. It was their only hope.

  “Apaches’ll be trying something else pretty quick. We’ve got them in a stand-off right now, but they won’t let it stay at that.”

  “Why don’t they use their guns?”

  “Saw only a
couple in the bunch. Could be more but I doubt it—and they don’t want to waste bullets. Big reason they’re after us—they want our guns and ammunition.”

  Mason brushed at his eyes. “Was we to spot the ones with rifles, pick them off, maybe we could get past the others. Not too hard to dodge a lance.”

  “Would work only we don’t know for sure how many’ve got guns. Spotted a couple, but I’ve got a hunch there’re more braves out there, and that could mean more rifles.”

  “Then what—”

  “They’re trying to reach that pile of rocks. If they can get a couple of braves bedded down there, they can come at us from three directions. I figure we’d be smart, if we’re lucky enough to turn them back their next try, to make a run for that trail, try to get on top.”

  “Horses’ll slow us up—”

  “I’ll send the sorrel ahead. The bay’ll follow if we do a little persuading. No sense trying to lead them—and we’ve got to have them if we do get there.”

  “Bay of mine won’t be of any use. . . . You make a try for it—I’ll hold them off long as I can.”

  “No need for that. Sorrel can carry double, leastwise until we’re far enough to be fairly safe. Not long now until dark.”

  Mason brushed wearily at his sweaty face. “Glad of that. Be cooler. Heat’s about got me down.”

  “Moving toward the desert. Days won’t get any better.”

  And then once more the sink echoed with the piercing shrieks of Apaches. Three braves spurted from the brush, lunged for the rocky mound. They were not alone in the attempt. From the opposite side of the formation two more bucks appeared, running low, one carrying a rifle. The scheme was evident; they were endeavoring to split the fire of the men behind the rock, thereby increase the chances of the one with the rifle to gain protection of the mound.

  Shawn, again bracing himself against the rock, once more cursing himself for not having his own long gun, leveled his weapon at the dodging figure with the Army Springfield, squeezed off the trigger. The Apache threw wide his arms as the slug caught him in the chest while the Springfield went spinning into the dust. He pivoted then to aid Mason. He had stopped the lead man of the trio; the two others had slowed.