Novel 1959 - Taggart (V5.0)

by Louis L'Amour

  Two Apaches dead, one wounded, out of two dozen or more. Swante Taggart knew they had been lucky in taking first blood from the Indians, but he also knew what that number of Apaches could do, and they could not expect to be so lucky from this time forward.

  There were two alternatives. Stay and fight it out, or try to make a run for it. Either meant risk, either meant the odds would all be against survival. Nobody outside knew they were here, nobody was in a way to discover their presence and send relief, so whatever was done they must do themselves.

  The shadows were growing longer. The sun cast its final red lances into the sky, and the clouds lined themselves with gold. With darkness the Apaches might withdraw to their camp near Mud Spring … but they might not.

  Miriam had mentioned a back way out to which she could bring a horse, a route that led over the mountains and down toward Globe. He thought about that now.

  Taggart got to his knees and worked his way around behind a cedar that clung to the canyon’s rim. From there he studied the situation and liked none of it. Yet the time had come to get back into the canyon … if he intended to. Of course, he need not return at all. He could take his own chances, moving at night, hiding by day. His strength was built up again, and he knew what he could stand. It was no distance to Globe.

  He crouched, then ran in a crouching run for a clump of boulders ahead of him. He was almost there when an Apache raised up from the rocks and aimed a rifle at his chest, and another one started over the rocks toward him. He fired his rifle from the hip, but in the instant before he fired the Indian seemed to be struck from behind and he fell face forward, sliding down the rocks, and the report of a rifle thudded hard at close range.

  The other Apache was coming and Taggart jammed him in the belly with the muzzle, then jerked it up under the Apache’s chin. The Indian staggered back, clawing and gasping, and Taggart hit him a wicked butt stroke with his rifle, knocking him sprawling. From somewhere behind him a shot whiffed by his ears, and at the same moment a rifle ahead of him opened fire on the brush behind him.

  Ducking and running, he made toward that covering fire. It was Miriam. She was standing in a notch where two boulders left a slit between them and she was handling her rifle like a veteran.

  For a moment then, as he leaped and lit rolling, there flashed into his mind a picture of her there that reminded him of his mother, of his aunt … of all the pioneer women who had come west with their men. He sat up, and got slowly to his feet, shaken by the tumble he had taken.

  She was perfectly calm. Her cheeks were a little whiter and there was a wisp of red-brown hair hanging over her cheekbone. He brushed himself off, thinking about her as she stood there. This was a woman fit to mother a race of men … completely and entirely a woman, and with courage and coolness that won his amazed respect.

  “Are you all right?”

  He chuckled. “Now is that a fit question to be asking a man? I should be asking you.”

  They looked at each other, and then they both laughed. As one person, they turned to study the slope below and around them, but there was nothing in sight. An evening breeze moved over the slope with gentle fingers and rustled the dry leaves, but there was no other sound. Whatever Apaches were out there were lying quiet.

  “You’re like the ironwood,” she said suddenly. “You were bred for this country.”

  Then they were silent. The last gold was fading from the rims of the distant clouds. The Four Peaks loomed somber in the far distance, and Rockinstraw bulked hugely against the sky.

  Nothing stirred out there, and he lowered his rifle to wipe away the dust from the mechanism, and to check his guns. He fed a couple of shells into the Winchester, and waited. They could go … he was sure the Indians had drawn back for the moment, but neither was disposed to leave.

  “I like the desert plants,” she said suddenly. “They hold themselves back … so many of them have no leaves, no flowers, and then there is a rain and they leaf out and blossom. It’s as if they knew they needed just that much rain to make a go of it, and when they have it they blossom and seed, and then they retire within themselves very quickly.”

  “In the California deserts, along the washes,” he said, “they have smoke trees … they call them that because at a distance they look like the smoke of a campfire … and the only way their seeds can be made to sprout is after they have been battered and bruised and worn down by being carried down a rocky wash, because they need the occasional water to grow.”

  The flat top of Rockinstraw now had a crest of dull red from the fading sun. Somewhere a quail called into the night, trying its stillness for a response. A nighthawk flipped and dived overhead, and a lone star hung like a lantern in the blue-black sky.

  “We’d better go,” he said, but still they did not move.

  The desert was quiet … only the faint wind rustled among the juniper, humming a little, and a stone rattled in a rocky crevice somewhere beyond their range of sight.

  “I like this,” she said. “I’d really never want to live anywhere else. Not any more, I wouldn’t.”

  “If you look for them,” Taggart said, “and know them when you see them, there are old trails … they must be thousands of years old, for even the rocks in the trail are covered with desert varnish from the years of exposure to the sun. I’ve followed some of them for miles.

  “Sometimes when a man is right on top one of those trails he can’t see it unless he has a feeling for them, but from across a canyon they’re visible.”

  “Where do they go?”

  “Some of them to water, and some to piñon groves, and some just go on and on. I heard once they went clear to the Pacific coast.”

  “What are you going to do now?”

  “You mean what am I going to do about Shoyer?”

  “After that.”

  He chuckled. “Don’t seem to me like I’d better start rounding up my cattle until I’m sure I’ll have a brand for them. If Shoyer has his way I may do nothing from here on. He’s a mighty persuasive man with a gun.”

  “I hate him!”

  Taggart took her by the arm. “Unless we want to fall down that path instead of walk, we’d better light out.”

  They started, and descended into the blackness and coolness of the canyon. The path was a mere eyebrow of trail, switching over and back along the steep face, part of it along natural fractures, and part apparently cut from the wall.

  As they neared the pool they could hear the trickle of falling water, and then Adam Stark stepped from the shadow near the chapel and said, “I was getting worried.”

  “Anybody hurt?” Taggart asked.

  “We were lucky. Did you score?”

  “One gone, one hurt in this last scuffle. The same earlier.”

  “The one you hit with the butt is dead, I think.”

  “Maybe. Anyway, that’s at least three down, maybe four.”

  They paused at the door and waited for Shoyer, who was coming up the canyon. “Don’t anybody go down there without me,” Shoyer said when he was near. “I rigged a trip wire to a shot gun. Slightest touch and she’s gone. I figured we’d have to do some talking.”

  “I think we should pull out,” Taggart said, “all of us.”

  CHAPTER 10

  THE FIRELIGHT MADE shadow play upon the wall as they gathered in the room. Consuelo lighted a candle to give a better light and Adam sat down abruptly.

  There was no question in any of their minds as to what must be done, nor that it must be done immediately. There were two dozen Apaches out there, and when daylight came all escape would be cut off. Remaining where they were was out of the question, for once the Apaches reached the edges of the canyon the defenders would be pinned down to the buildings, and the roofs could be burned.

  To east, west, and north it was a great distance to any place where help or safety might be found, and if escape was to be made it must be toward the south, toward Globe. The quickest and easiest route lay past Mud Springs and ov
er to Pinal Creek where the Apaches had camped, or else around Rockinstraw Mountain. The only alternative was the escape route suggested by Miriam to Taggart.

  At best they would have but a few hours’ start, with about twenty miles to go if they took that roundabout route.

  “Pack food for four days,” Taggart said. “I’ll get the horses.”

  “Four days!” Shoyer exclaimed. “If we aren’t in Globe by tomorrow night we’ll be dead, or wishing we were.”

  “Four days,” Taggart repeated, “or even five. We might have to hole up somewhere, and if we hide out we’ll need the grub.”

  “Five mounts and a pack horse,” Shoyer said. “Do you have that many?” he asked of Stark.

  “Taggart has his own horse, but we’ll need six pack horses. And we have that many.”

  Outside the door Taggart paused to let his eyes adjust to the darkness. It was true that Apaches rarely attacked by night, for they believed the soul of a warrior killed in darkness must wander forever, lost in the vast emptiness of a night without stars. But Swante Taggart was not inclined to be killed by the one Apache who might be willing to take a chance.

  Swiftly he saddled his own horse and arranged the little pack behind the saddle, gathering his few belongings and putting his extra shells in his pockets. He checked the rifle taken from the Apache he had killed on the trail and added a couple of shells, then shoved it into the boot on his own saddle. His rifle he kept in his hands.

  Several times he stopped to listen, but there was no sound. He gathered the horses and mules and led them down to the stable, where he began saddling up. Pete Shoyer came out to join him and they worked in silence, then Pete went up the canyon to fill their canteens.

  Suddenly there was a movement behind Taggart and he turned swiftly, grabbing at the dark figure. It was a woman … Consuelo.

  “You are strong, Señor.”

  He let go of her arms. “You ought to be careful, slipping up on a man thataway.”

  “Swante Taggart,” she stepped closer to him, “I want to go with you. Take me now … take me away.”

  “You’re Stark’s woman.”

  “He will be kill. With him the Apaches get me, but you will escape. I know it.”

  “You’re a lot of woman,” Taggart replied, “but I’m taking no man’s wife.”

  She grasped his arm. “There is gold! Adam will bring the gold. Take it, and take me. You can go faster and you will escape. Adam will be dead. I know he will be dead. There is no chance for him because he is not strong.”

  “Ma’am,” Taggart spoke softly, “you aren’t thinking right. You’re excited and you’re scared, but you just slow down and think about this. Take it from me, you’ve got the best man you’re likely to find, and you run off from him and you’ll end up in a worse jack-pot than anybody. You just stand by Adam and you’ll come out all right.”

  “You are fool! You can escape. Why you stay? You owe these people nothing! And Pete Shoyer will kill you!” She paused. “Why not take the gold? He says he wants it for me, but he will die, and I want to live.”

  Swante Taggart had nothing to say. He knew what it meant to be frightened, for he had seen frightened people before this, and this girl was not afraid of shadows. She had been with Apaches and knew what to expect. Before she had been a child, and the Apaches loved children … but now she was a woman and she had witnessed what happened to women in the hands of Apaches.

  She was afraid, desperately afraid, and having no confidence in Stark, she was grasping at anything to get away.

  Shoyer came up in the darkness but Consuelo had gone, slipping away as silently as she had come. “Look,” Shoyer said, “you make one try at gettin’ away and I’ll pay no mind to taking a prisoner back when a head will do as well.”

  Taggart turned away, disgusted. “Oh, shut up!” he said.

  Stark was coming from behind the house carrying a sack. It was small, but very heavy. He lifted it to a sack on one of the pack saddles, and Shoyer watched him. When he had gone Shoyer went to the mule and hefted the sack. “Well, what d’ you know?” he said softly.

  Stark came out with another sack and loaded it on the other side, and returned to the cache behind the house.

  “Six pack mules, and five of them packing gold. I’d say he’d struck it rich now, wouldn’t you?”

  “I’d also say,” Taggart answered, “that it’s none of our affair.”

  Miriam came from the house, bringing her few belongings, and Consuelo followed. Taggart had completed the saddling of the horses and he turned to helping Stark load his gold.

  Reluctantly, they faced the necessity for moving. Now that the time had come they hesitated, for once outside the canyon all security was gone. It was Adam Stark who led off, followed by Shoyer and Consuelo, then the pack mules, and Taggart brought up the rear with Miriam.

  No such cavalcade can move without sound, and Swante Taggart, riding the drag of the small mule train, expected sound. Yet there was remarkably little. The black walls of the canyon soared above them, drawing closer like the closing jaws of some great beast, and the tiny strip of visible sky grew narrower with each step, and the visible stars were fewer.

  Leather creaked, hoofs clicked on stone, and occasionally a man sighed or grunted, but there was no other sound. Taggart put a hand to his brow and found himself sweating despite the night’s clear coolness. He was prepared to hear the sudden blasting of rifles at any moment, but there was nothing.

  Suddenly the trail grew steeper, and they mounted ever higher until they appeared about to come out at the rim of the canyon. Then they turned downward again into the abysmal blackness of the gorge.

  When at last they started up once more, they mounted to the canyon rim, with the mountain looming ahead to their right. They halted there in the starlight and Stark walked his mount back along the train to be sure all were present.

  “It’s southeast from here,” he said, “for about a half mile, and then south along the foot of the cliff. We’re up high now, only a few hundred feet lower than the peak of Rockinstraw, and further along we’ll have to go up the cliff to hit the trail that will take us into the Basin. If we’re all right at that point we’ve got a chance.”

  There was no question of making speed. To keep moving and keep together was all they could expect. They all sat their horses with care, prepared for the unexpected.

  Taggart kept looking back, although he could see nothing but the blackness. His rifle was across the saddle in front of him.

  Miriam dropped back beside him. “Do we have a chance?”

  “Sure.”

  “Adam isn’t sure about this trail, and he might stray. He’s worried himself, but he’s good at such things, and the man who told us of it gave us a pretty good description. Adam was up this way once, and followed it along for some distance.”

  “Things shape up mighty different at night. Landmarks don’t look the same … nothing does.”

  Drawn together by the companionship of night travel they rode in silence, each feeling the comfort of the other’s presence. But Swante Taggart was worried too. Her presence was pleasant but it was disturbing, and this was a time when he dare not be disturbed. He listened, and once he thought he heard a faint sound off in the night, but he did not hear it again.

  After a long time they halted again. Several minutes passed and there was no movement, and just when Taggart had decided to go forward to see what had happened, Shoyer came back.

  “Stark went on ahead to scout the trail. He’s afraid we missed a turn back there somewhere.”

  “Better to be sure.”

  Taggart sat silent, wondering what the other man was thinking. Each of them needed the other now, so each felt safe from the other, unworried about a sudden shot from the darkness. Or was it that way?

  “If we should be separated,” Shoyer said suddenly, “you go your way. You leave me alone and I’ll leave you alone,” and he went ahead again.

  Taggart sat still, starin
g after Shoyer. “Now what did he mean by that?” he demanded.

  “Maybe he has decided to relent and let you go.”

  “No.” Taggart felt positive about that. “It isn’t like him. He wouldn’t let me go. Not unless he found something better.”

  The mules started and they followed after, moving slowly through the darkness. Several times they halted briefly, and twice they changed direction in the darkness. Taggart looked at the stars and swore, and then he glanced at the bulk of the cliff on their right.

  He drew up sharply as the idea hit him, but at first it seemed impossible. Then he said to Miriam, “Wait here!” and rode swiftly forward.

  The mules were strung out far too much, and when he reached the head of the train, the mule there was calmly chewing at a clump of sage and there was no one anywhere near.

  “Stark?” he called softly into the night, but the night gave back no answer. He tried it again, just a little louder, and still there was no reply.

  He called Shoyer’s name then, and Consuelo’s, but no answer came. Turning swiftly, suddenly frightened for Miriam, he rode back.

  She sat her saddle waiting. “What is it, Swante?” she asked. “What’s wrong?”

  It was the first time she had used his first name. He realized that on a level of consciousness somewhere above and beyond the immediate problem.

  “We’re alone,” he said, “they’re gone.”

  “Gone?”

  The word had no meaning to her in that moment. They could not be gone. It was impossible.

  “I don’t understand. Who is gone?”

  “All of them … we’re alone.”

  She was silent for a moment. “I heard you call … but where could they go? Why would they go?”