by John Benteen
He scouted the willows, found nothing to alarm him. He was just turning back toward camp when he brought the shotgun up, lined it. “Who’s there?” he rasped.
“Don’t shoot, it’s me,” said Sara Raven softly. She came through the screen of brush, a dim figure in the moonlight. “The others have already turned in. I couldn’t rest...”
Fargo lowered the sawed-off Fox. “What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know. I just … never felt like this before. It’s the first time in so many years I’ve been free of Dogan ... the first time I’ve been with men who weren’t Dogan’s kind, long riders.” She hesitated. “Fargo, you said you’d take me to a city.”
“I said that, yes. If I come out of this, I will. I always keep my promises.”
“I thought you would. It’s part of what you are.” She moved closer to him. “I have so much to thank you for... few minutes more back there in Brown’s Hole and Garfield would have ... I don’t think I could have lived with myself then.”
Fargo cradled the shotgun in his arm. “He hadn’t, when I killed him?”
“No. I had just been ... delivered to him before you got there. I fought him and he knocked me around, and then you came ...” She took his hand. “I don’t mean that I am ... you know. There was a boy I thought, when I was younger, that I loved. But Dogan killed him...”
“I’m sorry,” Fargo said.
“The past is past. I’ll live for the future now.” Her face, caught by a ray of moonlight, was very white, her hair combed down around it, glinting, her eyes enormous, her lips parted. “Neal...”
“Yes,” Fargo said, and he bent and kissed her.
She came against him desperately, arms encircling him.
They were like that for a long time, locked together, her body moving subtly against his. After a while, she wrenched away. “Neal,” she whispered again.
“Yes,” Fargo repeated. He laid the shotgun aside. As she began to unbutton her shirt, there on the grassy flat in the willows, a huge rock fell from the rim into the river. But they did that all the time and he ignored it, as she sank down on the grass and he went to her.
Chapter Seven
They raced downriver, through white water and sometimes calm, often at express train speed, occasionally rowing and paddling where the current slackened. Sometimes they had to line the boats, hard, dangerous work; sometimes they portaged, which was even harder. But only as a last resort; for they knew their race was against time. “All this back country,” Sara told them, “is full of long riders hiding out. Both sides of the river, from Brown’s Hole to Cord’s Park, wherever there aren’t any settlements. But Dogan supplies and rules them all, and when he gets words that Garfield’s dead and I’ve run away, he’ll have these canyon rims crawling with them. We’ve got to make it to Cord’s Park before riders can cross country. Or we won’t make it at all!”
So they ran on, never slowing, setting, so Vane claimed, a new run for the navigation of the Colorado.
Past the Yampa’s mouth and Echo Cliffs; through the mad race of Whirlpool Canyon and the magnificence of Rainbow Park: Split Mountain Gorge and Desolation Canyon: deserted gold dredges and a ghost town; past lonesome ranches and past the junction of the Grand, which, with the Green, formed the Colorado proper. Through Cataract Canyon and past the old Dandy Crossing of the Robbers’ Roost bunch. And they faced dangers and encountered marvels that none of them, not even Fargo, had dreamed of before. Rapids, falls, whirlpools, always those, and sometimes a boat would capsize, but by good luck they lost no men and no equipment of importance. Or one would splinter on a rock, but Randall always managed a quick, deft repair … But the water was not the only threat: there were the canyon walls themselves, from which ancient boulders that had held their grip for centuries suddenly let go and fell at random, like great missiles hurled by playful, careless gods. There was never any knowing when one might crash squarely on a boat; near-misses were far too plentiful.
Worse were the landslides, when a whole segment of canyon wall gave way and rushed thousands of feet down a slope into the river. Wherever that massive bulk of dirt and rock hit—and one nearly engulfed them, would have, if Fargo had not heard its growl just in time and seen its terrible movement ahead of them—it changed the navigation of the river, altering channels, creating brand new rapids.
Thunderstorms were frequent, too, and, with lightning playing back and forth between cliffs a thousand feet in height, whole storms were trapped inside the gorge—no human could not be terrified by the fire and tremendous echoing thunder. High water followed, floods rushing downstream and carrying their boats like chips. Even Fargo was awed by the magnitude of the great gash the river had carved in earth: here was nothing he could fight with guns or fists; this was the Colorado, and it gave not a damn for the nine ant-like creatures on its roaring surface, trapped within its walls.
But often it rewarded their bravery with splendor: breathtaking bursts of color as sun struck the striated, mineral-filled cliffs about them; whole lost cities and forgotten palaces of wind carved rock that glowed like jewels, and real cities, too, lost and abandoned: ancient cliff dwellings, vast mud towns clinging high up on the canyon walls, unreachable, the chain of wooden ladders that once had led to them long since dust, like their inhabitants. How humans could have built such marvels in such a place and survived in them was something the imagination could not grasp, but Clyde Birdsong, the Ute, was proud of them. “My ancestors,” he said, eyes glowing, “put those there. How’s that for engineering, Captain Vane? And you call us savages ...”
By now, each man knew the other and respected him. They were all fine white water men and outdoorsmen, tough, courageous, and reliable; but Sara Raven was the real marvel. There was not a twist or turn of this river she did not know, not a channel nor a campsite. She was as much at home on the Colorado as a fish. But on occasions when she and Fargo found time to be alone, she was all woman, too.
And now they were sweeping down Glen Canyon, hemmed in by towering walls, some bearing ancient pictographs Birdsong’s ancestors had climbed high up the walls to paint. In the immensity of this gorge, the faces of Vane and Michaelson lit up with the fervor of engineers. “What a place for a dam,” Vane whispered. “Fargo, they’ll put one here someday. They’re bound to, if this region’s ever to grow.”
“The hell with you and your dams,” Fargo growled, as they sat around the fire. “You want to settle up the whole country?”
“That’s what the Corps of Engineers is for.”
“Then the hell with the Corps of Engineers. Sometimes I can almost sympathize with Dogan. Leave something for us who like it wild.”
“Don’t worry. You’ll be dead and gone before it’s built.”
“I hope so. I’m beginning to like this river. It’s an outlaw river, and no wonder there’s outlaws all along it. But at least they’re men. What’ll you bring in? Potbellied bankers, motor cars and ladies’ sewing circles?”
“That’s progress,” said Vane.
Fargo answered him with an obscenity. Then he turned to Sara. “How many days to Cord’s Park?”
Sara considered. In the firelight, she was, Fargo thought, a beauty; somehow, at the end of every day’s run, she found time to comb her hair until it glittered, and the damp clothing outlined every curve of her thoroughbred figure. “We can make the Crossing in three days.”
“All right.” He unfolded a map. “Then let’s go over the layout again.”
“It’s just below where the San Juan River comes in, a few miles above the Arizona line. They used to call it the Crossing of the Fathers because, way I heard, the old Spanish missionaries used it. There’s a side-canyon comes in from the west, and the Navajos used to cross the river there to raid the Mormons. So did the Utes, and they call it Ute Crossing sometimes. Anyhow, in the old days, the Mormons got tired of that, and they blasted the canyon closed so the Indians couldn’t get down to the Colorado. It stayed closed until Dogan came along. He cleared
a passage through it big enough for men on horseback. But it’s still a rough trip through. Anyhow, the side canyon leads back up to Cord’s Park. It’s about a third the size of Brown’s Hole, and there used to be some ranchers there. Dogan chased them out, he and Cord, and they named it after Cord, who came up with the idea in the first place. Dogan made it his headquarters, because there were warrants out for him in Wyoming, Utah, and Colorado, all three, but none in Arizona. In Cord’s Park, he can dodge down to Arizona if the lawmen come and they can’t touch him. So can most of the others with him who’re in the same position.”
“Go on,” Fargo said.
“He gets in supplies through a front at Lee’s Crossing down in Arizona. The long riders on the southern Colorado buy from him at double price. He’s gotten richer that way than he ever did robbing trains. He won’t let anybody in there who’s wanted in Arizona, so the authorities from there don’t bother him. And … he’s made a fort out of Cord’s Park.”
“I want your notebook and a pencil, Vane,” Fargo said.
Vane passed them over. “Draw it,” Fargo said, handing them to Sara and watched closely as she did.
“The only way in is up through the Crossing. Dogan has that guarded night and day, and he’s planted dynamite there so he can blow it shut, if he has to. Otherwise, it’s ringed in with cliffs, and there’s only one back trail through, and that’s guarded, too, and ready to be blown if necessary. He always keeps about three months supply of food there, and there’s lots of water, so if anybody ever did move against him, it would take an army, like he says, and artillery, to blast him out, and there’s no way anybody could bring artillery in.”
“How many men there?”
“Anywhere from twenty to forty, depending who’s come in for supplies. But the ones who live there are picked, Dogan’s men, through and through. Twenty of those, anyhow, and all ready to fight and die if he says so.”
“It’s a fantastic operation,” Michaelson said. “Who’d have thought that in these days, fifteen years in the Twentieth Century—”
“The Army has a saying,” Fargo answered wryly. “Old soldiers never die, they just fade away. That holds for outlaws, too, boy. You’ve made a living all your life with guns and a damned long lasso, you don’t turn yourself in just because the country’s settlin’ up. You find some place you can keep on livin’ and workin’. Dogan’s smart. He saw the need, and he’s provided that.” His hands stroked the ever present Fox sawed-off on his lap, and he felt again that sick eagerness.
Sara’s eyes caught the motion and perhaps the expression on his face. “Neal,” she said quietly, “he couldn’t have done it without that shotgun of his. He had a lot of rivals, but that shotgun took care of all of ’em. I ... he’s terribly dangerous with it.”
“I know that,” Fargo said. “Good.”
“And I … thought I wanted him dead, wanted you to kill him. But ... maybe that’s not so important any more. Maybe there’s some way to get Colonel Knight and his men out of there without you having to come up against Dogan and his shotgun.”
“No,” said Fargo. “There’s no way.”
“Neal.”
“No way,” he repeated. He took the sketch she had drawn, looked at it. It was all there: the cliff-rimmed bowl, two entrances, only one of which he was interested in. A scattering of cabins just inside the river entrance. “Where’s Knight?”
“There.” She pointed with the pencil. “He keeps Knight and the other four penned up in cabins, treats them like animals .. . makes sure they stay alive to bargain with, no more than that. I felt so sorry for them, the way he starved them...”
“But they can still move around.”
“He gives them exercise every day, yes. Just enough to keep them going.” She jabbed the pencil again. “His cabin’s right there, the biggest one. He’s got an Indian woman with him, a Ute. Just a girl; he found her and her family gathering food back in the hills and blasted her parents with his shotgun and took her the way he took my mother...”
Clyde Birdsong made a sound in his throat.
“Anyhow, at the river entrance, there are always four guards, day and night, two on either side of the canyon that leads up from the Colorado to the Park. And they can blow the entrance from each side.”
“All right,” Fargo said. “Well, we’ve lost three rifles in the rapids. We can replace those and one to spare.”
Vane said, “Fargo. What have you got in mind?”
“We make two more runs in daylight. The last we make at night.”
“Impossible!” Vane exploded. “You can’t run this kind of water at night!”
Fargo looked at Sara. Comprehending, she smiled faintly. “I can. I’ve traveled this part so many times I could do it with my eyes closed.”
“We run at night,” Fargo repeated. “Then it’s up to me and Birdsong to get the rifles. After that, it’s up to you and the rest to cover us, and—here’s what I’ve got in mind.” He spread the sketch Sara had drawn before them and began to talk.
~*~
Two more days, running down Glen Canyon.
There were rapids, but none so fierce as those they had already navigated. It would almost have been a pleasure cruise, thought Fargo, if—he watched the canyon rims—if they were lucky, and there were no guards there. Undoubtedly, through Cord, Dogan knew there was another expedition on the river. Likely he and Cord had set an approximate date for its arrival at the Crossing—and its destruction. What he could not know, unless somebody had ridden a horse with wings, was that Cord was dead, Garfield dead, Sara freed, and that the expedition had hurtled downstream faster than any other in the Colorado’s history. He was expecting Cord to deliver it to him in a package on a certain date; they were far ahead of time, and the package, thought Fargo wryly, was a ticking time bomb. Still, he was always watchful.
But it was all right. They found a campsite in some willows on a sandbar, hid the boats. Sara said, “The last run’s easy. Only a few hours. I could have you at the Crossing by midnight.”
“That’s good,” Fargo said. “Absolutely the right time. Now. Tell us about the cliffs again.” He and Birdsong listened carefully as she did, and Fargo felt his palms begin to sweat. There was very little he had faced in his life that truly frightened him, but he had one in-built fear that he had never completely overcome: a fear of heights. He could face shotguns, Colts, knives; but high places strained his nerves. Still, there was no help for it; the fear would be there, but he would have to ignore it to do what he must do.
When she had finished, he wiped his hands on his pants. “That’s all right,” he said. “That’s good. Birdsong—?”
The Ute smiled, teeth gleaming in the fire shine. “I’ve got it, Fargo. Nothing to it.”
John Michaelson stood up. “Fargo, I don’t understand. I’m an experienced mountain climber. Why Birdsong? Why not me?”
Before Fargo could answer, the Ute bounced to his feet. “John, I’ll tell you why. I’m an Indian, you’re a white man. This is my country, it isn’t yours.”
“I don’t see—”
“I grew up in this country,” Birdsong went on softly. “Climbing cliffs like those. Stalking animals. I’ve seen the time when whether we ate or starved depended on whether we could get close enough to a lousy jack rabbit to kill it with a stick or the only bullet we owned among us. Myself, when I was fourteen, I stalked a deer and jumped on its back and cut its throat, and it never knew I was there until my knife dug in. I know what Fargo wants and I can do it. Four years at Carlisle didn’t take the Injun out of me. Fargo and I are going hunting—in the canyon country. This time it’s men. That makes no difference. A man is like a deer, only duller, sleepier. And besides—didn’t you hear Miss Raven the other night? Dogan has taken a Ute girl. No, John. I go with Fargo.” Suddenly, as if embarrassed at talking too much, he turned, strode into the willows.
Fargo said quietly: “Birdsong’s the man I want. But you’ll all get your chances. Now, see to your
weapons. Tomorrow night, we make the run.”
And then he broke the shotgun and meticulously cleaned and oiled it.
~*~
Like shadows, the boats glided through the moonless dark in the bottom of the great canyon. In the stern of each, a down pointed flashlight guided those behind. Sara, in the bow of the lead boat, navigated expertly through water slack by comparison with that which they had run already. Behind her, shotgun slung, rifle across his lap, Fargo used the oars to brake and guide as necessary.
They kept in close to canyon walls. Once a huge rock hurtled down, but it landed in midstream with a mighty splash. Fargo ignored it; if there were another one, it might mean they were spotted and under attack; but none came.
Normally, just before going into combat, he was cool, almost icy. Tonight, though, his hands sweated on the oars. He kept thinking about the cliffs. Well, he told himself, this was when he would really earn his pay. Anybody could take ordinary risks; you were a man when you overcame the kind of fear that shrank your belly and wet your hands and went on to do what had to be done regardless.
Then he was aware of the boat changing direction. Sara’s whisper came through the darkness. “Neal, we’re almost there.”
“You’re putting in?”
“Long enough to let you out. The path is right there—” she pointed. “Where that big willow grows.”
“All right,” Fargo said. The boat grated on sand; he stepped out, shrugged off the bandolier of Winchester cartridges, passed Sara the rifle.
“I’ll run past the crossing,” she whispered, “let Birdsong out on the other side. Then wait ’til you come back.”
“Unless you hear gunfire,” Fargo said. “If you do, run on downriver and hole up. Birdsong—”
The Ute put out a small, strong, hard hand. “Good luck, Fargo.”
“Same to you. Don’t forget the signal.”