Without waiting helplessly for the second shot, Sam glanced up, caught a glimpse of gray rifle smoke and fired a quick one-hand shot in its direction. It was a million-to-one shot and the Ranger knew it, but as they raced along, he heard the sharp whine of his bullet ricochet off a rock as he levered a fresh round one-handed. When the rifleman’s second shot came, it did not fall short but neither did it hit its target.
The two raced on. Another shot struck the rock trail beside the copper dun’s hooves, but the dun didn’t waver. Neither did the Ranger. He returned fire, not getting much of an aim, but having the low end of the rising rifle smoke on which to concentrate his fire, and he could pressure the rifleman enough to affect his aim.
Behind him Mattie’s horse had closed the gap between them by the time they rode off the narrow exposed trail and onto the other rocky side of the gorge. Another rifle shot pinged off a boulder at head level just as the two ducked into cover and slid their horses to a halt. They both leaped from their saddles, Sam’s Winchester smoking in his hand, and he slapped the horses’ rumps, sending them farther onto the boulder-strewn hillside.
Another shot rang out, but it was too late; the rifleman had missed his chance. The Ranger moved quickly around the edge of the boulder covering them and fired three shots as fast as he could lever his rifle. Three bullets whined off the rocks at the point of the rising gun smoke.
“Are you all right?” Sam asked Mattie as he levered up another round.
“I’m all right,” she said, her face flush with a combination of fear and excitement. “Are you?”
“Yeah, I’m good,” Sam replied. They looked each other up and down as if checking for wounds they might have missed.
After a tense second Mattie let go of a tight breath and looked back along the narrow trail.
“We did it,” she said, sounding almost surprised.
“Yes, we did,” Sam said, keeping an ear tuned to the direction of the rifle fire. He knew that whoever was up there realized they had made it across. Now they had cover, but the word of them being here would soon be out. “We best get the horses and get moving,” he said.
“Yes,” she said, looking around, “they know we’re here and we’re not backing off.”
As they moved away from the boulder and walked up-trail, they both stopped when they saw their horses standing over a sweat-frothed horse lying at the edge of the trail.
“Oh no,” Mattie said, looking at the downed animal, seeing one of its forelegs twisted at a bad angle. The horse rolled pained eyes up at them and whined pitifully.
“Stay back,” Sam cautioned, already drawing his Colt as he looked back and forth along the rocky trail. “Somebody must be looking for a horse out here.”
Mattie stood watching the trail, rifle in hand, as Sam stepped forward, gathered their horses’ reins and pulled the two animals away from the downed horse. He handed Mattie both sets of reins, turned and walked back to the faltered horse, the look on his face showing he didn’t like what he had to do.
Mattie waited until Sam held his Colt out at arm’s length, pointed down at the hapless animal. She managed to look away at the very second he pulled the trigger and kept looking away until Sam stepped over to her and took the dun’s reins from her hand. He started to say something, but before he could a harsh voice called out from across the narrow trail.
“Neither of you move,” said Deacon Jamison, standing up suddenly from behind a waist-high rock. “I’ll be taking those horses—your guns too.” He waged a big Remington at them.
Sam noted the big revolver was not cocked, as it should have been upon making such a demand. Still holding his Colt down his side as if having foreseen such a situation, Sam stepped away from Mattie and raised the Colt an inch, his thumb going over the trigger.
“You’re one of the men who robbed the mine payroll, the bank in Goble?” he asked in a mild, almost conversational tone of voice. Mattie stood watching, stunned into silence.
“I am,” said Jamison. “I told you to drop that gun.”
Ignoring his demand, Sam raised the Colt level, not fast but steadily, cocking it on the way.
“I’m Arizona Ranger Sam Burrack,” he said in the same mild voice. “You’re under arrest for two counts of robbery.”
“Are you deaf, Ranger?” Jamison growled. “Did you hear what I told you? I said drop that gun!” But even as he repeated his demand, he saw his mistake had been made, and there would be no correcting it. Whatever edge or surprise he thought he’d taken, the Ranger had just taken it away from him.
Sam saw a desperate look come over the man’s face, his eyes. As Jamison tried to throw his thumb over the Remington’s hammer to cock it, Sam’s Colt bucked once in his hand and sent him flying backward to the ground. The Remington fell from his hand.
“You will forever . . . rot in hell for this, Ranger. . . .” His words fell away in his throat; his eyes glazed over in death and stared straight up at the endless sky. A long breath came from his lips and stopped short.
Sam stepped forward and picked up the Remington. He looked out and up across the hillside in the direction the rifle fire had come from. Mattie watched as he raised the big revolver and fired it twice in the air, then paused and fired again.
Mattie gave him a curious look.
“That’ll give them something to think about while we climb this trail,” he said. Lowering the Remington, he walked to Mattie and took the dun’s reins from her hand.
—
High up on the rugged hillside, Stan Liles and Dallas Burns made room for a gunman named Manning Thomas as he climbed down using a rope dangling from the trail above them.
“I heard shooting and came running quick as I could,” Thomas said, crouching against a short rock, his rifle pulled in close to his chest. Liles cocked his head around and looked up at the edge of ground above them.
“Is anybody else coming, or are you it?” he asked.
“Yeah, I’m it,” said the rough red-faced gunman. “Everybody else pulled out over an hour ago. What have you got going on down there anyway?”
“A couple of riders wearing trail dusters came flapping their tails out across the gorge, but they never made it up this side,” Dallas Burns said with a dark grin.
“You got them both?” asked Thomas.
“No,” said Burns. “But we saw Deacon Jamison down there earlier. We heard shooting—sounded like Deacon’s Remington. We’re thinking he must’ve lain in wait and stopped their clocks for them.”
“How do you know they didn’t kill Deacon?” Thomas asked bluntly. “Have you seen him since?”
“No sign of him yet,” said Liles, he and Burns gazing out down the rugged hillside.
“Not a glimpse,” Dallas Burns put in. “Of course, if Deacon doesn’t want to be seen, he ain’t going to be. Could be he knows there’s more posse coming and he’s going to drop them too.”
Manning Thomas just stared at the two as if in disbelief for a moment. Then he rose into a crouch and dusted off his trousers and coat.
“Boys, this will never do. See you,” he said to the two men. He turned and reached for the rope.
“Wait a minute. Where are you going?” Burns asked.
“Down the trail to see what happened,” said Thomas. “I don’t want Dad or Barcinder asking me about it, and I don’t know who’s dead and who ain’t.”
Burns and Liles looked at each other.
“Hold on. We’re coming with you,” Liles said, both of them standing in a crouch and moving over to the rope.
“We’re talking about an ambush, right?” Burns asked to be clear on the matter.
“Absolutely,” said Thomas, “it’s the only way to go.”
Burns and Liles both breathed easier as they climbed up to the steep path, gathered their horses and rode down the tr
ail toward the gorge. Ten minutes down the hillside, at the sound of slow-walking hooves against the hard ground, they cut off the trail and took cover behind a low stand of rocks.
As a figure walked into sight, leading two horses, Burns reached down and cocked his rifle slow and quiet. Liles did the same.
“Damn,” he whispered, “Deacon must’ve got one of them, but it looks like they’ve killed him.” He nodded at the body lying across the first horse’s saddle, wrapped in Deacon Jamison’s coat. “Yeah,” said Liles, “and this one left his dead pard behind so he can haul Deacon in and show off his kill.”
“I hate a show-off son of a bitch,” said Thomas. “Let’s go.” Standing, his rifle aimed, he walked sideways onto the middle of the trail.
Let’s go?
“What about the ambush?” Burns whispered in protest even as he and Liles hurried to keep up with him.
“End of the road, mister,” Thomas called out to the figure clad in a long duster and low-pulled hat. “Throw your rifle aside. We’re having ourselves an Apache- style skinning party.”
Jesus . . . ! Burns looked at Liles, wild-eyed.
They watched the tall figure swing the rifle to the side as if to throw it away. But instead of turning it loose, the figure ducked away with it, jerked the reins of the first horse, pulled the animal sidelong to the gunmen, swung the rifle up and fired.
Across the horse’s back, the Ranger rose, his big Colt in one hand, the Remington in his other, firing both guns at once.
—
Mattie’s first shot hit Manning Thomas dead center and sent him flailing backward, his feet scrambling to find purchase like a clown on ice. He hit the ground as she quickly levered another round and aimed at the other two outlaws in a mad exchange of gunfire.
The Ranger’s first shot had hit Stanley Liles and knocked him to the dirt. Liles’ rifle flew from his hand. The Ranger’s second shot did the same to Dallas Burns, but while Burns hit the ground dead, Liles managed to struggle up onto one knee, draw a revolver from his holster and attempt to take aim.
Mattie’s rifle shot rang out above the sound of Sam’s big Colt. Both bullets hit Liles at once. Red mist jetted from his back as the shots lifted him from his knee almost onto his feet before hurling him backward to the dirt.
Mattie stood dry-mouthed in a ringing silence, smoke curling up around her from her rifle barrel. She watched Sam walk forward, the Colt leading him as if he held some small yet deadly animal on a leash.
Stepping sidelong, Mattie picked up the reins to both horses, pulled the Ranger’s duster down from across the dun’s saddle and carried it to him.
Standing over the dead, reloading his Colt, Sam looked surprised when he saw Mattie hold his duster out toward him. But he thanked her and took it. Holstering the Colt, the Remington shoved down in his belt, he took off Jamison’s bloody coat, dropped it to the ground and put on his duster.
“They know we’re coming,” he said. He looked at the bodies on the ground, then at Mattie. He started to say, “Good work.” But something about the look on her face advised him against it. “They’ll be ready for any surprises from now on.”
Mattie only nodded. Sam took the dun’s reins from her hand and noted that it took a second for her to release them.
“If all goes well, when we top the hill, we’ll stop and rest awhile before we go on—”
“No, please,” she said grimly, turning her eyes to the dead on the ground. “I’ve got to finish this as quick as I can.”
“I understand,” he said, realizing the killing had begun to wear her thin.
He swung up into his saddle and waited for her to do the same.
Chapter 13
The Ranger and Mattie rode the rest of the way up the thin trail to Munny Caves with caution, expecting the worst. Yet, as they approached the tall black crevice in the waning evening light, they were relieved to find the place had been abandoned by Orwick and his followers. The three riflemen they’d encountered along the top of the trail must have been the only men left behind to offer them any resistance.
Out in front of the crevice, a fire burned inside a circle of heavy stone. It seemed as if countless fires had burned there for centuries past. Beside the fire stood an elderly Mexican wearing what was left of a frayed and ragged black cape over threadbare peasant clothes. A battered straw sombrero hung in his hand. He held his free hand up in a welcoming gesture.
“Welcome, señor y señora,” the old man called out. “Feel free to sit by the fire. I will water your horses.”
The two rode closer and then stepped down from their saddles. Sam let the man see the badge on his chest.
“You realize I’m pursuing the people who just left here, don’t you?” he said.
“Yes, this I do know, Ran-jur,” the old man said, “but here there is only me and the dead, and we take no sides in the matters of man.” He grinned and gestured a weathered hand at the dugout hovels on the sides of the surrounding hills, remnant signs of life that had once clung to the place for thousands of years.
“How many armed men does Orwick have traveling with him?” Sam asked.
“Even here among the dead, lies and loose talk are cheap and worthless,” the old man said, his eyes turning sad with such a revelation. His wrinkled palm turned upward deftly.
Sam pulled a small gold coin from his vest pocket and laid it in his palm.
“How many?” he asked again.
“As they have come and gone, there are over a dozen men,” the old man said, “all of them armed. All of them prepared for trouble, as they have been this past year that I have come to know them.” He eyed the Ranger up and down as if realizing the trouble Orwick’s men had been anticipating now stood before him. “With him also are seven women. These are the older wives that Señor Orwick will be replacing.”
“How do you know this?” Sam asked, testing him.
“Aw, Ran-jur,” the old man said, giving Sam and the woman the sad, wizened trace of a smile, “what man who can afford many wives will not replace them when he decides it is time to do so?”
“Oh, like so many horses, or field cattle?” Mattie said in a clipped tone.
Seeing the resentment in her eyes, the old man shrugged his bony shoulders.
“Por favor, señora,” he said, again sadly. “Only if you are bitter at rain for falling from the sky, will you ever take solace in despising man for following the path man’s nature bequeaths itself.”
All right. . . . Sam nodded. The old cliff dweller had to be acknowledged.
“I see you study the ways of the ancients, the nature of man?” Sam said. “But what good does all this do me when I need to hear what’s going on right now?”
Again the old man gestured a hand around at the dugouts on the cliff walls, the footpath worn low across a flat stone ledge leading to the black crevice.
“I thought myself a holy man—a priest, no less—until I journeyed here and saw this place and communed with those who whisper to me from within these ancient stones.”
“Easy, now,” the Ranger said. “Ours is not a spiritual quest.”
“But still, it is sacred here, Ran-jur,” the old man said, not to be swayed, “and its sacredness must be acknowledged. In this holy place you must take what wisdom is handed down to us and decipher from it that which will—”
“Okay, that’s enough,” Sam said, cutting him off. “Tell me something useful, or I’ll take back the piece of gold.”
The old man looked aghast at the prospect.
“Take back the piece of gold, my small pitiful coin?” he said in disbelief.
“Yep,” Sam said, “in about one second, even if I have to turn you upside down and shake it from you—”
“Wait!” the old man said, holding up a stopping hand toward him. “I will tell you this
.” He pointed to the black crevice. “One of Orwick’s men is inside. His esposa tends to him.”
Sam and Mattie looked at each other.
“All right,” Sam said, “lead us to them, por favor.” He reached into his vest pocket and took out another small gold coin and held it out to him.
“Sí, of course,” the old man said. “Follow me.”
Sam and Mattie walked along close behind the old Mexican cliff dweller, their rifles in hand, through the black front crevice and down into the first chamber of the large cave. Before they were halfway down the narrow, torchlit hallway, they began to hear a man’s string of mindless babbling interspersed with the calm, soothing voice of a woman.
Glancing back over his shoulder, the Mexican said, “I’m afraid the señor has been beaten into idiocy. He speaks of incidents from his childhood, and from the great civil conflict.”
“What happened to him?” Mattie asked.
But before she could receive a reply, the babbling voice echoed off the stone walls.
“Whose dog is that? Whose dog is that?” the injured man cried out. His voice sounded as if it were stifled by a mouthful of rocks.
The woman spoke quietly, trying to settle him, but the beaten man would have none of it.
“Will somebody tell me whose dog is that?” he demanded even louder. “He’s licking the churn! He’s licking the churn. . . .”
His voice trailed down beneath the woman’s soothing pleas as the three stepped into sight. Upon seeing the Ranger and Mattie, the woman looked away from the man, panicked, ready to bolt. She raised a handful of wet cloth from the man’s bloody, welted and split forehead.
“Please,” Mattie said, “we’re not after you. Don’t be afraid.”
“You’re—you’re after Dad, though,” the woman said, sounding frightened, distrustful. She looked from Mattie to the Ranger with her head lowered, her face almost out of sight, eyeing his badge in the flicker of torchlight.
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