“Maybe,” Jody said. “Or he could head for Uncle Enrique’s place, knowing that you would want the girl in a safe place.”
Cold dread touched Spur.
He said: “Yeah.”
Jody stood up. “I’ll have to leave this end of the business to you, but for God’s sake don’t lose your head because of the girl and do somethin’ crazy. I’ll concentrate on Randerson.”
Spur’s mind was still on the girl. “Where’ll we meet an’ when?”
“Two days from now. Dead Horse Canyon like we fixed.” They collected their horses and walked them out of the rocks, Spur’s mind still preoccupied with the girl. They mounted and Jody said: “Watch yourself now, there’re others in this beside you.”
“I’ll remember.”
Jody lifted a hand in farewell and turned north, going quickly from sight. Spur sat on the quiet black, lost in thought, wondering what the hell he should do. Finally, he made his decision. Gomez might spend some time trying to pick up Spur’s trail and then head for the canyons. It was all assumption, he had nothing firm to go on. But he couldn’t get the girl out of his mind. Sure, he owed something to Ben and he was in this business because of his brother, but he owed something to the living too. And if Gomez had gone after Inez, that would bring he and Spur face-to-face. That might not be a bad thing and as useful at Enrique’s as in the canyon. So he lifted the lines and headed the black south-west.
The stud made good time and did not tire himself. By now Spur knew that Inez’s uncle had been right and he had loaned Spur a treasure of a horse. The knowledge was a comfort. He went trot, walk and lope into the hours of darkness, coming up into the chill of the higher country and felt refreshed by it. A new sprightliness came into the stallion’s pace. Spur came within sight of the white house near midnight; all was quiet in the starlight. At a distance the stud and a horse in the corral exchanged greetings.
Spur didn’t ride in openly. His years of ridge-riding had taught him caution. He tied the black in the motte of trees several hundred yards from the house and, taking the rifle from the boot, he went forward on foot. He came in from the east along the edge of the starve-out and stood for a moment surveying the house. There was no sound but the stirring of restless horses in the corral. He went forward. The house lay directly in front of him and to his right on the far side of the corral was a long low building which Enrique’s riders used as a bunkhouse.
“¡Alto!”
There came the small sharp sound of a gun coming to full-cock. Spur halted.
“¿Quien es?”
“Spur.”
A soft exclamation and a man stepped out of the shadows with a rifle in his hands. More movement to Spur’s left and another man stepped from the shelter of the house. He too was armed.
“Don Enrique?”
The first man said in Spanish: “He is gone.”
“The señorita?”
“She is gone too.”
Enrique must have hidden her away somewhere, a line camp maybe.
“She is safe?”
There was a moment’s silence and the men looked at each other quickly.
“No, señor,” one said, “she is not safe. The deputy-sheriff came with two men and they took her.”
Cold clay settled in Spur’s belly.
His sudden rage was prompted by a sickening fear. If his assumption about Rick and the sheriff was right, this could mean ... what? Would they hold her till he gave himself up? Or would they kill her because she might now be in possession of his knowledge. Another thought came to him - she had his papers sewn into her skirts. If Rick searched her thoroughly and found them, she would have to be killed.
He shouted at the two men: how in God’s name could they let three men take her? Christ in heaven, weren’t they men? They fell back before him, trying to explain, resorting in the end to shouting back at him to make themselves heard. A girl came from the house, white blouse showing against her dark skin. Volubly, she joined her voice to the men’s. There had been a fight. A man had been killed defending the señorita. Was that not enough? Jose, here, had been beaten insensible with the barrels of the men’s guns.
Spur subsided. Jose talked. Don Enrique and Juan Barca had saddled their horses and gone after them. Both were fighting men; they would bring the girl back.
Spur was shaking as he turned away from them, running back toward the black and getting into the saddle and not realizing till then that he had no idea in which direction Inez had been taken. He swore violently, fear for her forcing the words from him. He could not move till dawn. Raging impotently, he rode back to the house. Here, the girl fed him and gave him the don’s bed to sleep in. The vaqueros took care of the black. Spur gave orders that he must be in the saddle by first light.
He thought that he would never sleep until he had the girl again, but, tired as he was, he was asleep almost as soon as his head touched the pillow.
The Mexican girl woke him before dawn and gave him hot coffee and steak. With a little smile, she told him that a man fights and makes love better on a full belly. He ate and drank morosely, nothing on his mind but the need to be on the black and hurrying after Inez.
The black was tied in front of the house when he stepped out into the first cold light of the day, supplies tied to the saddle, the canteen filled with water. He thanked the two men and the girl. Now he could see the ugly marks on Jose’s face where Inez’s abductors had beaten him. They said God go with him and he rode out, covering a half-mile and then riding an arc between east and north, guessing that Rick would go either to the canyons or back to town.
In a short while he picked up not only the tracks of the three men and the girl, but of the two Mexicans who had followed them. He could not be sure from the sign how far behind the followed were the followers, but he reckoned it couldn’t be far.
He prayed that Enrique knew the kind of man he was after. Rick was not a man to ride without an eye on his back-track. If the Mexican wasn’t damn careful, he would run into an ambush. Judging from Enrique’s character, Spur reckoned the man would be riding in anger, not being too careful, thinking of nothing but getting his niece away from the men who held her.
Rick was heading for town, going almost directly north and not hitting too hard a pace. That added; the horses were tired. Spur kept the black at a steady lope and the animal looked as though it could hold it all day. He kept his eyes open, but he didn’t ride with any great caution; Rick was a good many hours ahead and Spur had the uneasy feeling that he might not catch up with him before he reached town.
Inez could be dead by then. Spur thought.
But by noon, he knew that he was drawing considerably closer. The pace of the horses in front was growing slower; one of the animals seemed slightly lame. The droppings were fresher.
Then suddenly, so suddenly that Spur was nearly unhorsed, the black came to a sharp stop and reared. Spur quietened him and spurred him forward, but he wouldn’t budge. With a curse, Spur got down and went forward on foot, leaving the trembling horse standing.
He didn’t have to go far.
In front of him lay two men, twisted in the grotesque postures of death, Enrique lying across his vaquero. Spur went forward and turned Enrique over onto his back. The dark eyes were open, staring blankly. The face and the front of the shirt were covered in blood. The man had been shot several times, once at close range. Barca was no better off.
Spur stood for a moment, stunned, before thoughts of Inez got his heavy limbs on the move again. He knew that he should bury them both, but there wasn’t time. As he had thought before, he owed the living first. Hastily, he dragged the two dead bodies among the rocks and piled rocks over them, after he had closed their eyes. Running, he went back to the stud and vaulted into the saddle, showing no patience with the animal when it did not want to go forward. The spurs moved it shying past the spot where the two men had lain, then the black tried to bolt and Spur had to hold him in. After that he settled down once more to a steady lop
e.
When he left the rocky surface, Spur studied the sign again, slowing the black. Alarm touched him. He was riding along the tracks of only three horses.
He halted.
Inez could be dead back in the rocks there.
Pie turned around and searched again, finding where a horse had turned aside and gone east. He sat the saddle in an agony of indecision, not knowing which way to go, wondering if he should search the rocks, dreading what he could find.
He did not know how long he stayed there. It was the black that decided him. His head was up and his ears forward. Something lived ahead on the trail.
Spur looked around. The country rose to the west and fell away slightly to the east, broken and wild, a scattering of timber and brush, rocks strewn untidily. He turned the black west and started to climb. Pretty soon the way became difficult and he was forced to dismount and lead the horse. Soon he found that he was on the crest of a high ridge that ran north-south. He turned along this, his eyes watching his old line of travel.
He picked his way awkwardly for about a quarter of a mile and then the black started a trumpet, but Spur clapped a hand over his muzzle and cut the sound off short. Carefully, he led the animal down the western slope of the ridge and tied it to a stunted oak. He debated whether to take the rifle with him, but decided against it, for it was only a single-shot and might not be of much use to him. He climbed back up the ridge and walked north along its spine.
There was such a tangle of timber, brush and rocks below him that he would never have found them if it hadn’t been for the horse. Maybe it had smelled him, maybe the stud. The sound was almost directly below him. He could see nothing.
Drawing his Remington and quickly checking the loads, he started down toward the sound. He had gone no more than twenty yards, when he saw the crown of a light-colored hat. Another ten and he saw the men. There were two of them and they were saddling horses. Spur guessed that they were abandoning their own tired animals for those of the two dead Mexicans. At first, he couldn’t find Inez and for a few terrible moments, he thought that she could not be there. He already feared her dead again when suddenly the men reared into view as they mounted and she appeared.
The distance was too long for him to see her features, but even from where he was she looked disheveled and wretched.
The men were on the move, walking their horses out into the open, the girl in between them.
His desperate feeling of anxiety for her, gave way to the urgency of the moment, as his darting mind searched for ways to act. He was here on foot with no time to fetch his horse; he was a long and difficult pistol shot from the men. If he managed to drop one of them, the other would have the opportunity to gun the girl down. Hastily, he looked around, decided and acted.
Scrambling back to the spine of the ridge, he went north along it as silently and as fast as he could. Whatever happened, the men must not see or hear him. They had probably had orders to kill the girl if there was any risk of her being re-taken. As he ran, he wondered if his calculations were right. Below the horses were moving at no more than a walk, which was a help. He ran on, dodging brush, leaping rocks; suddenly the ridge ended. In front of him was a steep drop. He was he reckoned no more than fifty yards in front of the men and the girl now. His impulse was to slide down the slope as fast as he could, but he knew that they would hear him.
He started down cautiously.
No more than halfway and he heard the horses distinctly. He dove behind a rock, saw that he was shielded from their view by rock and wisp of brush. Good.
A moment passed; one of the men was talking to the other in a tone that showed that the other was a fair way off. Hope rose in Spur.
When the first man came in sight, he knew he had a chance; a chance, that is, if he was ruthless. Behind the first rider, three horse-lengths to the rear, rode the girl. Good again. Her face was strained, unwashed, her hair all over the place, her clothes torn by brush. Her shoulders drooped. In that brief moment, he could have wished to hold out a hand to her.
The second man was further back: five horse-lengths to the rear. Even better.
Spur’s mind clicked, measuring his actions for him. The man in the lead would have to turn in the saddle if he wished to shoot the girl, but when Spur fired his attention would surely be on the man who fired. Therefore, first shoot the man in the rear. Kill him. No time now for mercy and fancy shooting. Both men had to be dead and the girl wholly safe.
The first man passed him, the girl was almost opposite to him. He must fire quickly at the rear man, then swing and shoot the lead man before Inez was in the line of fire.
The rear man was a black-bearded fellow wearing shotgun chaps, a faded blue shirt and a red bandanna; a battered Stetson shaded his face. A carbine held in his right hand was held across his saddlebow. This man who once a woman had borne, who had laughed, joked and maybe loved and been loved, was dead.
Spur thrust the Remington out hard on a taut arm, clenched the butt tight, aimed and fired.
There was hardly time to see the effect of his shot. It had to be a kill, there was no time for a second. He saw the man jerk sideways in the saddle as the big slug tore into him and then Spur was turning, momentarily depressing the muzzle of the gun, right arm still braced tight. Past the girl, her eyes wide and startled, her horse starting to shy sideways away from the gunshot. The sights covered the forward man as he jerked around in the saddle, the rifle coming up, his horse spooking a little and unsettling him in the saddle.
Spur fired.
The horse jumped and the shot missed.
Urgency screamed in Spur’s mind. He yelled to the girl to get down, never taking his eyes from the man on the pitching horse. He fired and missed again; the distance was too great to hit an erratically moving target.
The man, unable to control the horse’s pitching, spurred him fiercely and the animal jumped forward. Spur fired again and knew, even though the man disappeared over the side of the horse, that he had missed again. The horse ran free and the man was out of Spur’s sight. He turned his eyes quickly, searching for the girl and saw that she was scrambling for cover.
Spur ran down the gradient, a rifle slammed, a bullet passed within inches of him and he hurled himself into cover. At least he knew where the man was and thought that he was too occupied to try to shoot at Inez. Hastily ejecting the empties, he rammed home fresh shells, knowing that he would need a full gun against a rifle.
When the gun was full and he had regained his breath, he carefully wormed his way to the left. The man fired two shots, they ripped viciously at brush near, but no more. Silence. Gun-smoke drifted.
Brush broke crisply, a kicked stone clattered, Spur saw the blur of a man moving quickly from one cover to another, snapped a shot and missed. He was going toward the girl.
Spur was sweating, grinding his teeth together. He craned his neck, eyes searching brush and rocks desperately. Don’t let him get in sight of the girl.
Brush broke again.
Spur shouted, rearing to his feet. He felt his wound open and smart. Stumbling forward, he tripped and went down. The rifle was fired and the bullet did not come in his direction. God! The girl was hit.
On his feet, he blundered forward, yelling.
The head and shoulders of the man appeared to his left, twenty paces. The rifle was up and firing. Spur dodged right, turned, fired and moved left. A slug tore at his sleeve. A scream cut through the sound of gunfire.
How many shots left in the Remington? He didn’t know; he was slipping. He cocked and squeezed the trigger, praying there was a shell under the hammer. The Remington bucked in his hand.
The man seemed to flick his rifle away from him and to stand staring wide-eyed at Spur, walked a pace backward and fell slowly and stiffly with a crackle of dry brush.
Spur stood, his heart pounding, ejecting empties and thumbing in fresh rounds. The girl - was she alive?
“Inez?”
For one terrible moment there was no re
ply, then she called: “Sam.”
She stood up and he shouted: “Stay down.” He went forward slowly, treading like a dog on cinders. When he came within sight of the man to his astonishment he saw that he was dragging himself away into the brush.
“Hold it.”
The man stopped. He looked over his shoulder and his eyes met Spur’s. He rolled onto his back and said: “Get it over with.”
Spur walked up to him, took his revolver from its holster and stuck it in his own belt. It was a single-action Colt .44 with a cedar wood butt.
He said: “I ain’t goin’ to kill you - yet. Get up.”
“I’m hurt bad,” the man said.
“That’s only a start. Up.”
The man’s face puckered in pain; he pushed at the ground with his hands and strained. His vest and shirt were bloody. When he was on his feet, his face became ashen and Spur expected him to fall at any moment.
“Inez.”
The girl came, running. She would have run into his arms, but Spur stopped her. He had seen men worse hit than this kill another.
“You all right, girl?”
“Yes.”
“Catch up the horses.”
She nodded, gave him a wavering smile as if she could not believe that he was with her and hurried away.
Spur holstered his gun.
“You touched her,” he said, “an’ you’re goin’ to wish the Yaquis got you, hear? Now ... we’re goin’ to ride some. Then we stop an’ I light a fire. Only we don’t boil coffee, we heat an iron and I get to work on you. Unless you talk, of course. Then, maybe you’ll live if the girl talks up nicely for you.”
The man could scarcely stand. His eyes were slits, his face grey against the black of his stubble, mouth shapeless. He sweated a lot.
“I didn’t harm the girl. I swear it.”
“No call to. I aim to ask her.”
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