Novel 1962 - High Lonesome (v5.0)

by Louis L'Amour

  “That’s one, Pa.”

  “Good girl.”

  Three Indians rose at once and started toward her. She fired…too quick. All three disappeared into the brush, a good fifty feet closer.

  Spanyer had not turned his head, and suddenly they came out of the desert where nothing had been a minute before. He fired carefully…once…twice…a third time.

  One down, and one possible.

  He wiped the sweat from his eyes. There was nothing in sight, nothing anywhere. They were out there, but they were invisible.

  He wanted a drink desperately, for his mouth was suddenly very dry, but he dared not move from his post. They would get close, for there was no possible way to keep them off for long.

  He glanced at the sun. It was still early. How long had they been watching out there? He shot suddenly at a suspicion of movement, then threw a wild shot into a vacant area to let them know that he knew what they were doing.

  It came to him suddenly that he would never see the sun go down this day.

  Well, he had lived a full life, if a hard one. What worried him was Lennie. She deserved better than this, to die in a lonely circle of rocks, die by a bullet…for he would save a bullet for her. He owed her that, more than anything. He had given her life; now, to save her from what might come, he would also give her death.

  His eyes were red-rimmed from staring. Lennie…God knew he had wanted better than this for her. What kind of a man was he that he had got her into such a position? He had expected to die this way himself…all the odds were in favor of it—either in some such place as this, or in the dust of a western street, or on the sawdust of a barroom floor.

  But Lennie was young, her life only just begun. Only the other day, only hours ago, she had first looked at a man with anything but casual interest, and he, her father, had almost destroyed even her dream of him. And Dave Spanyer, frontiersman and outlaw, knew what it was to dream. He had done some dreaming himself.

  Why did the young think that dreams were only for them? The old dream also, with less hope, less anticipation, yet they dream.

  And he had dreamed for Lennie. He had dreamed of a good marriage for her, a good home.

  He dried his palms by running his hands down the front of his pants. “You all right, Lennie?” he asked.

  “All right, Pa.”

  “If we can stand them off until night, we might slip out of here and get away.”

  They might…but the chances were not good. And the chances of surviving that long were not good either. He knew how slight those chances were. Those Indians were not going to take much more time, and they had cost them blood. Those Indians had patience, but they also would be eager, each one of them, to be the one to capture the girl.

  “Make every shot count,” he said, and then to give her something to die with, he added, “I shouldn’t have been so rough. I think Considine is a good man. I hope he comes west.”

  “Thanks, Pa.” She ran her eyes over the rocks and brush. “He was good to me…he really was. I…I think he liked me.”

  “He’d just better!” Then Spanyer was silent. Well, why not? If he was to have a son-in-law, why not Considine? He would understand Considine…they would understand each other. “Of course he liked you! I could see it.”

  Nothing moved…but they were out there. Dave Spanyer thought of his wife…Was she watching them now? Did the dead know how the living fared? He had never thought much about such things before.

  God, but the sun was hot! It was high now, blazing down upon them, and there was no shelter.

  “Californy’s quite a place, Lennie. We’ll get ourselves a place there. I’ve been thinking…maybe I could get word through to Mexico…invite that young man to come callin’.”

  There was silence.

  “You all right, Lennie?”

  “Yes, Pa, but—”

  The report of her rifle took over. She shot rapidly, three times, and then he saw an Indian come out of the grass where there did not seem to be cover for a rattler, and he shot him through the chest before he was off the ground. He could smell powder smoke, and fear…yes, he could smell the fear that was in him.

  “Get one?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “They lost one over here.”

  He snaked the canteen to him and took a quick drink, sloshing the water around inside his mouth before he swallowed. He fought off the desire to drink and drink and drink, and put the canteen down.

  Tension and fear always made a man thirsty. After a fight sometimes he would drink until it seemed there was no bottom in him.

  He glanced at the sun. They would be lucky if they lasted until noon.

  He looked around at Lennie. She was all right, but their horse was down. A bullet had got him, and he was kicking out his last breath.

  Well, he would have been hard to get out of here at night, anyway.

  But Spanyer felt something go out of him. How could they tackle the desert on foot? And it was a nasty piece of travel before they could get to Yuma.

  He lifted his rifle, searching the brush out there, and waiting. How much longer now? An hour? Two hours?

  *

  “IT ISN’T FAR now,” Dutch said. “We can make the cave by sundown.”

  They started on again, and then they heard the far-off solid blast of a shot.

  They drew up sharply, tense and listening. Then more shots, a lull, and another shot.

  Dutch spat into the dust, avoiding the others’ eyes. “They’re up on High Lonesome. I know that place.”

  Another shot, and then a ragged volley. That last would be the Indians.

  They sat their mounts, staring at the hills. Hardy looked away toward the border. It was close now. If the pursuit was still after them, it would end when they turned south, for there was small chance of any pursuit catching up before they were safely across.

  Sixty thousand dollars…in gold!

  Considine looked at the mountains. He felt all hollow and empty inside. The damned old cantankerous fool! What got into a man that he would get his daughter into something like this?

  But he knew. Spanyer was running away. He wanted to take her somewhere where he would not be known for what he was, he wanted to give her a chance, a start in life.

  No start in life now. If they were cornered up there, off the usual trails, there was no hope of rescue. There was no hope of anything.

  The posse would be closing in by now. They had probably brought extra horses. Trust Runyon to think of that. And they might have been riding most of the night. By the time the posse got here, Spanyer and Lennie would be gone.

  “It ain’t far to the border now,” Hardy said. “I can almost see that Mex gal’s eyes ashining!”

  That old hideout on High Lonesome…It was a good place to defend—if they had made it that far. But it was a good place for four or five to defend, not two.

  Three…even three might have a chance.

  Considine remembered the firm wet body he had held in his arms, the quiet, proud eyes, the eyes that had waited while he held her, confident of him.

  Damn it, what did she have to be confident about? What did she expect of a man, anyway? And how could she be so sure of him?

  He fumbled with the piggin strings that tied the bag on his saddle. He tossed the sack to Dutch. “We’ll split this south of the border!” He swung his horse around. “You’d better high-tail it, boys! I’m a damned fool!”

  He wheeled the big black and went up High Lonesome on a dead run.

  Dust rose and settled; it drifted back from where he had gone, and settled slowly in the hot, heavy air. They sat their saddles, listening to the drum of hoofs fading away.

  “Why, that damned, hare-brained fool!” Dutch said. “He’ll go blasting right into the middle of them! That’s no way to fight ’Paches!”

  The Kiowa wiped off the mechanism of his rifle and said nothing to anyone, but the Kiowa never had anything to say. He was a square, solid young man, with a square, s
olid face and black eyes that were flat and steady.

  Dutch gathered his reins. “All right, south to the border then.”

  The Kiowa looked at him, then slid his rifle back in the scabbard.

  “If he rides into the middle of ’em,” Hardy said, “God help the Apaches!”

  Dutch had let his horse walk four steps. Now he turned and tossed to Hardy the bag Considine had given him, then the one he himself had carried. Then he jumped his horse, not at the canyon opening but at another draw that led up into the hills. It was a worse climb, but it would put him up there almost as fast as Considine could make it.

  Considine ran his horse for half a mile, then slowed to a trot. You could kill a horse running it in the heat like this, and he had a feeling he was going to need a good horse if he got out of here alive.

  There was small chance of an ambush in the canyon unless they heard him coming, and they would not be expecting an attack. He carried his Winchester in his right hand, and he rode carefully.

  Ahead of him he heard the flat, hard report of a rifle, then several shots close together. Suddenly he went fast up that last hard climb and was racing his horse across the grassy meadow toward the hideout.

  Another shot sounded, and he wheeled his horse, standing in the stirrups. They had stopped short of the hideout, then. They were there…in that circle of rocks!

  An Indian came out of the rocks near him and threw a rifle to his shoulder, but before Considine could get his own rifle up, a shot nailed the Indian and he fell over the rocks into the grass.

  Startled, Considine looked around to see Dutch sliding his horse down a steep gravel bank. “Run for it!” Dutch yelled. “I’ll cover for you!”

  Considine slammed the Winchester back in the scabbard and grabbed his six-shooter. He put spurs to the big black and went across the flat in a wild run, reins hanging loose. Behind him, Dutch was laying down a heavy fire from his Winchester.

  He saw an Indian dead ahead of him lift a rifle to fire, and then the big black was riding him down, the terrible hoofs tearing the Indian’s body as they trampled him under foot. Considine fired and fired again. He saw another Indian fall, and then he felt the black’s muscles bunch under him and knew he was going down.

  Kicking free of the stirrups, he grabbed the saddlebags with their spare ammunition and as the horse fell he left him, hit the ground, and rolled over. He saw an Indian break cover near him and start for him, and then a bullet from the rock circle ahead stopped him in mid-stride.

  Considine knew they would have marked where he fell, so he lay still, flattened out in the grass. Behind him he heard Dutch firing.

  Suddenly the shooting stopped, and the echoes cannonaded off down the canyon and lost themselves in the still, hot afternoon.

  He smelled the sun-hot grass under his nostrils, smelled the crushed creosote brush near him, the warm, good smell of the earth under him, and he knew he loved life as never before.

  He lay very still. Dutch was no longer shooting. Had they gotten the big fellow? He doubted it.…Dutch would die hard…and long.

  A bee, undisturbed by the fighting, buzzed near a cactus blossom. Considine rolled on his side and emptied the shells from his pistol and reloaded. Then he thrust a couple of shells into the magazine of the Winchester. The ’73 would carry seventeen bullets, and he would need them.

  He dearly wanted to lift his head and locate himself, get his exact position, but he dared not. In this deadly game the first to move was often the first to die, and he did not want to die. He did not want to die at all.

  *

  THE KIOWA HAD sat very still, waiting. He glanced out of the corners of his eyes at Hardy. “You rode partners with Considine,” he said.

  “That’s why I’m going to look after his share. He will want it if he ever gets out of there alive.”

  “Always said you had no guts.”

  Hardy glared at the breed. The Kiowa was taunting him, but there was no malice in the taunt. He just seemed to be waiting for something he knew would happen.

  Hardy felt cold and empty inside. He knew what fighting Apaches meant, and he had seen what they did to men they captured alive. He had fought them before this, had seen his friends die in their hands.

  It gave him a sick feeling to think of it…he knew he was afraid of them.

  Considine was a fool, but then there was something between Considine and that girl. He had seen the way they looked at each other.

  He took the saddlebags and tossed them to the Kiowa. “Cut it four ways and wait for us!” He wheeled his horse sharply and lit out on the trail Dutch had taken.

  The Kiowa chuckled. None of his three companions had ever heard him chuckle.

  He tied the bags in place, then turned his horse into the mountains. He took his time, thinking it out. He was more Indian than white now, and he knew what he was doing.

  But he laughed when he reached the crest.

  He had no God, no people that were really his own; he had no wife, no hero, no brother anywhere. He was a man who rode alone, even when in company with others. But he liked to fight and he liked men who fought, and he knew that if Hardy had not gone he would have killed him.

  When he reached a place where he could look into the basin of High Lonesome there was nothing to see, nothing to hear. The afternoon was breathless. The grass stood motionless under the sun—and then within the circle of rocks he saw sunlight on a rifle barrel.

  He watched, and presently he saw the girl. She was alive, then. And the man, too.

  He could see no sign of Considine, of Dutch, nor of Hardy.

  He loosened the reins and rode down the mountain, a square, dark man the color of the desert near lava, sitting easy in the saddle. Horse and man seemed one.

  His Winchester was held out from his body. The flat black eyes were alert. He felt the sweat on his neck and chest.

  Suddenly he chuckled again. He would have liked to paint his face. After all, he was an Indian and he was riding into a fight.

  His sombrero was tilted back a little, and he swung his horse over to an easier descent, and then he saw two Indians crouched close together among some brush.

  He drew up, not looking directly at them for fear his continued gaze would attract their attention. He lifted the rifle and sighted down the barrel, one eye closed, the other eye centering the muzzle on an Indian’s spine.

  He sighted first at one Indian, then at the other. A fly buzzed near him and he brushed it away. His horse shifted its weight under him and he held still, waiting. When its feet were planted solid again he settled the stock against his shoulder, took a quick sight, eased back on the trigger…the rifle leaped like a thing alive, and the Indian screamed…a shrill, horrible scream. The second one leaped up, but the sight was already on him and a tearing bullet opened his throat and laid it red to the sky.

  Lowering his rifle, the Kiowa walked his horse on down the hill.

  Chapter 11

  *

  CONSIDINE HUGGED THE earth, but he drew one knee up slowly and dug his toe into the sand. His right hand slid the rifle forward. He tried to estimate the distance to a heap of brush and rocks just a bit nearer to the hideout.

  He heard a rifle boom behind him…that would be Dutch’s heavier rifle. From somewhere farther away, he heard another shot, then another. Suddenly he felt a strange warmth within him…that would be Hardy, or the Kiowa.

  Digging the toe a little deeper, he pushed up suddenly and went forward in a charging run. He made four fast steps, then hit the ground and rolled over four times. He brought up behind the rocks with the memory of bullets snapping about his ears.

  Considine lay still, gathering his strength and wind. Above and to his left, a little farther in front of him, he heard another shot. The rocks behind which he was hidden concealed all movement.

  Sweat and dust streaked his face. His skin prickled and itched. The sun was hot on his back. He slid his rifle forward and searched for a target. Now, through the rocks, he could
see the place where Lennie and her father were…only the smallest crack offered a view.

  One more quick dash…A bullet from behind smashed against a rock ahead of him and he slid back hurriedly, his face stinging from granite fragments.

  He waited, and for a long time there was no sound. This was the hardest part of battle, the waiting, the uncertainty of what might have happened or might be happening elsewhere.

  Were they all dead? Was Lennie dead? Was Spanyer dead? And what of Dutch?

  He glanced at his own brown hand, gripping the rifle. It was a strong hand, skilled with rope and branding iron, a hand that had used an axe, a saw, many kinds of tools. It was a hand that could build as well as destroy, and with a kind of odd surprise he realized he had been and was a destroyer. He had been destructive of the labor of other men, and what had begun in the excitement of youth, almost as a lark had turned into an evil thing.

  And he had nothing—not a cabin of his own, not an acre of ground, not even a horse. For the big black was dead behind him.

  There was a sudden burst of firing and he left the ground as if shot from a gun himself, knowing instinctively that any Indian who was watching where he lay would be disconcerted, diverted by the sound.

  He rushed, and saw an Indian rise up before him. He smashed upward with the barrel of the Winchester and took the Indian in the throat, the sight ripping a gash even as the muzzle jammed up into the juncture of throat and jaw.

  Whipping the rifle down and round, he swung the butt with a solid chunk against the Indian’s skull, a short, wicked stroke.

  The Apache, a squat man with an evil face, crumpled before him, and Considine sprang past him. He dropped a hand to the top of a rock and vaulted over and came down within the circle, and as he landed he saw Dave Spanyer facing him, his rifle trained on his stomach.

  And Spanyer had said that the next time he saw Considine he would kill him.

  For an instant they stared at each other, and then Dave Spanyer lowered his rifle. If anything happened to him, this man would have his daughter, and suddenly deep within him he knew this was good…this man would do.