“The call didn’t get through,” Doris said. She began edging around the table to try to get closer to Seward, but I motioned her back. Suddenly, there was a roar of a motor close by, and I realized I had been hearing it for several minutes; now a car came charging into the yard.
“It’s the police,” I said, but I didn’t believe it.
Seward lowered the shotgun and turned his head toward the window. That was all I needed. As his head turned and the shotgun muzzle lowered, I was moving. On my second step my shoulder hit him and knocked him off balance back to the wall. He lost his grip on the shotgun and it fell, and I went out of the door where I’d come in, catching up the rifle as I left.
I was on the opposite side of the house from the arriving car. The corral was out there, bathed in light. Somebody inside the house was yelling, and suddenly the car roared into action and backed up, throwing light past the corner of the house. I heard it lunge forward and sweep around, and I knew that in a moment I would be caught in the full glare of the headlights.
Dropping to a knee close to the terrace wall, I emptied Doris’ pistol into the glare of light. The glass of the headlight tinkled, and beyond the light someone screamed.
Then the light had me and I was running. But I ran toward them, not away, feeling that the quickest way into the concealment of darkness was behind the car.
As I ran I fired the rifle, levered a bullet into the chamber, and fired again. Then I was past the jeep. Somebody grabbed at me and I caught him in the face with a butt-stroke from the rifle, and then I ran on, straight into the darkness.
Behind me I heard the jeep smash into the wall, heard the tires scream on gravel as it turned; but the place was tight and the jeep had to be backed and turned again before the light could be thrown toward me. They were one moment too late, for by that time I was in the brush beyond the corral.
There I lay still, gasping for breath and listening to the confusion at the house. A babble of voices someone swearing, and the strident, angry voice of Doris. She was shouting hoarsely, but under the sound of her voice I could hear Benton Seward, protesting…arguing.
Just then there was a rifle shot. It was fired from high up, behind me and on my left, from somewhere up on the ridge. The bullet smashed into the jeep.
A scream sounded and I could hear them all running for cover. Doris shouted, “That’s not him! That’s not him, I tell you! It couldn’t be!”
A second shot came, and then a third…Suddenly the jeep exploded in a burst of flame, and the flame ran along the ground, following the line of spilled gasoline.
Lying still, I waited. That must be Pio, somewhere up in the rocks. Pio would be wanting to immobilize them, to tie them down.
Waiting no longer, I turned, and ducking from bush to bush, I started up the steep ridge. I wanted to find Belle, to reach her and get out of here together, away from the Wells ranch and all it meant.
I crouched for a moment on the hillside and watched the burning jeep. The dark figures around it had disappeared. Floyd Reese hadn’t been down there, nor Colin. Mark Wilson had been—Mark Wilson, the stocky, powerfully built man who had followed me in the city.…How long ago had that been?
Then I went on climbing the slope in the darkness, and for the first time I realized how tired I was. Whatever else happened, I must find some place and sleep.…And I’d had nothing to eat—somehow, somewhere, I must get food.
Suddenly I remembered the sign left beside the trail. Hadn’t that sign indicated that there would be a camp? And hadn’t it meant that I was to come when I could? It surely could not be far, perhaps no more than two or three miles away.
There was no way of knowing whether the operator had believed me or Doris…Doris might be known to her, for operators usually knew the people on rural lines; if so, it would be Doris she would believe. If she heard the shot she might report it to the authorities, but there was no certainty of that.
In the meantime, I needed rest and food, and needed to find Belle. Rest and food I might find wherever Pio was.
His leaving the sign for me was typical of him. It was at once a reminder of the old days, and of the old way of designating a company or battalion area. He probably discounted the chance of Colin or Reese knowing what it indicated, but more than likely he didn’t care. If I knew Pio, he would be holed up in some place that could only be approached across an open area that offered a good field of fire…or one that offered opportunity for ambush.
When I reached the summit of the ridge I was all in, and sat down. It was cold, and a wind was blowing. Far below I could see the lights of the ranch house. Off to the north I could see specks of light that must be the Wells ranch.
It was almost daybreak, and far away in the east beyond the Tonto country the sky was growing lighter. Finding a crevice in the rocks on the summit, I crawled in, and huddled there out of the wind, I slept.
When I woke it was broad daylight. A glance at my watch…it was just past seven.
For a minute or two I lay still and listened. At first there was no sound but the wind. Then I sensed a vague whispering, rustling sound. I lifted my head cautiously.
A covey of blue quail were not ten feet away from me. I held still, and they moved off slowly. If aware of my presence, they were not disturbed by it.
Easing out of the crack in the rock, I lay on my stomach, looking down at the ranch. In the yard were the charred remains of the jeep, but there was no person in sight. After a few minutes a man came out of the bunkhouse, stretched, and walked away toward the corral. He stopped once, studying the ground…looking at tracks, no doubt.
After giving careful study to the slope of the mountain to see if anyone moved there, I turned around and looked over my present position. The mountain that fell away so steeply on the side overlooking the ranch, on the other side fell gradually into a valley where cattle grazed. At the bottom I could see a trail…evidently the one from Belle Dawson’s ranch to the Wells place.
Pio Alvarez had been on this summit last night, of that I felt sure. That he was still here was doubtful: Knowing Pio, I knew he would never trust himself to only one hideout. He would have several, and would move around from one to the other, probably never sleeping in the same place two nights in succession.
Moving back from the crest, I stood up and started down the other side of the mountain, angling northwest toward the place where Pio had left his sign.
Soon I was among the trees, for the top of Cedar Mountain was well covered, the cedars giving way here and there to tall pines. In places the trees were scattered, in others they were quite thick. Deer trails were here, and because of the carpet of needles, it was easier walking. I moved warily. Several times I saw tracks, apparently fresh.
“Hiya, keed!”
The greeting stopped me in my tracks. Though I was glad to hear that voice, I was not too pleased at being taken unawares.
Pio Alvarez had always been more Apache than Mexican, and he showed it now in the ease with which he came down through the trees. He was a stocky, powerful man with a tough, reckless grin. I had always been a little wary of him in the old days, for as close as we had been, I knew him for a dangerous man with volatile, uncertain moods. How he felt toward me I had never really known, but there was one thing I did know: With any lesser man I’d never have made it back to our lines in Korea.
“You have troubles, hey?” He squatted on his heels and dug out the makings, offering them to me.
“I don’t smoke.”
“Ah? This I remember. I don’t have to share tobac’ with you.” He looked up at me out of flat black eyes. “You get away now, hey? You go?”
“They’ve got Belle Dawson. They’ll kill her, Pio.”
“Sure.” He shrugged. “They have to keel her. The rancho belong to her.” Then he added, “They keel her sister.”
“They said it was an accident.”
He grinned wickedly. “Plenty accident happen. Plenty. She keel him, too.”
“She did?”
; “Sure. I see it. Two, three days they scout around to decide where the car go—Aukie, Colin, an’ Jimbo. I see them—I watch. One day Aukie comes in the car with her. I see door on his side swing open. He say somet’ing to her, start to jump. She grab him and hang on. She good one. Plenty good. She die, he die.”
“You saw it?”
“Sí.”
“You didn’t report it?”
He looked at me as if I were a fool. “The Law look for me. Colin Wells is after me for rustle steers. I report him?”
He smoked in silence. He had a Winchester, and he wore a belt gun. His hat was old and battered and he had on a scratched and cracked leather jacket, with worn Levi’s.
“I’ve got to get Belle Dawson away. I’ll let the law do the rest.”
“They are the law,” Pio said contemptuously. “They make the law.”
“I don’t think so, Pio. And that officer who is investigating Manuel’s death—Tom Riley—I think he’s on the level.”
“Sure, I know Riley.”
He stood up suddenly and said, “Let’s go.” He started off through the trees at a swinging stride. He was shorter than I was, but he had always been one hell of a walker.
We were half an hour reaching Pio’s nearest hideout. It was a good one, on top of the ridge, with no approach that could not be covered by a good rifleman. Moreover, there were several escape routes, for the hideout itself was a nest of boulders, moss-covered for the most part, in a cluster of stunted pines and cedars.
The escape routes were winding passages, almost like tunnels, among the boulders. There was a dripping spring—“About a gallon an hour,” Pio commented. Two of the boulders were canted enough to offer a fair shelter for not more than two men; down among the rocks at a lower level there was another hollow, a sort of cave formed by boulders that would have sheltered twenty.
“My grandfather told me of this place,” Pio said. “The Apaches used it.”
In the cave, which was perhaps thirty feet across, there was an opening at the top that was a dozen feet wide and was partly shielded by a gnarled cedar’s limbs and leaning trunk. The walls in some parts of the cave were black with ancient cooking fires, and in some places there was some almost illegible Indian writing.
“Is this on the Wells ranch?”
“No…they don’t even know. That Floyd, he won’t go anywhere he can’t ride a horse. Jimbo’s a lazy one. I t’ink nobody comes here but me. The Old Ones, they know. Maybe somebody at Fort Apache knows.
“That Jimbo…he don’t even walk. Colin, he used to walk when he was a boy—no more. None of them come up to the ridges.”
He grinned slyly. “They not Indian like me. Indian walk on the mountains.”
Chapter 9
PIO STARTED A fire, then went down into a small dark cave and cut two steaks from a side of beef that hung there. He grinned slyly as he emerged. “Wells beef. You want?”
Without waiting for a reply he squatted by the fire and prepared to broil the beef. “You never have to worry about meat. Wells beef is good beef.”
Seated beside the fire, I found myself dozing, resting at last. For the first time I realized how exhausted I was. There, under the warm sun and near the fire, my eyes closed. The heat soaked into my weary muscles until slowly the tension was gone.
“You int’rested in them Toomeys?”
My eyes opened. The steaks were done. “What do you know about them?” I asked.
“They come up the country with a herd of cows. My grandfather saw them come when he was a little boy. He was lyin’ up on the mountain to watch. He figured he’d never seen so many cows in the world. They kept comin’ and comin’ like it was forever, and the cowhands let them spread out along the river where the grass was good. Then the hands rode up to the wagon and got down from their saddles—like they’d come home. There was good grass along the Verde that year. Local rains, falling at the right time.
“Up where Grandfather was lyin’ with two other boys they could smell the meat. They saw John Toomey turn his head and look up toward where they lay. They figured if he had seen them he was a canny one, but they lay quiet, curious like squirrels.
“John Toomey he stepped into the saddle and rode his horse over to the foot of the slope. They didn’t know whether to run or stay.
“John Toomey he called up to them to come down, and he put presents out there on the ground, a row of five or six things, and then he rode off a ways an’ waited.
“They came down, all right. They came slow like deer or antelope, sizin’ up something they didn’t understand. They found a sack of tobacco on the ground and a small packet of salt, and a jackknife…they’d never seen a fold-up knife before.
“He called out to them and told them to come back and bring their fathers—told them to say John Toomey wanted to smoke with them.”
That, I remembered, had been in the journal. The Toomeys knew they could never live in that country without the friendship of the Indians; and besides, they had an idea in their heads, a good idea.
They had met with the Indians, and with the chiefs. They made them gifts, and they talked; and the upshot of it was that John Toomey had bought land from the Indians. Bought land with well-defined boundaries, and received a deed on a buckskin in Indian writing.
Nor was that the end. The Toomeys knew that the times were changing, and they had learned a good deal during the war, talking with Yankee soldiers who had been in business. They were shrewd enough to see that the old ways of settling on land in the West were on the way out. They wanted land, but they wanted a solid claim to it.
That was the real secret of those pages from the journal, for they not only told of the purchase from the Indians, but also told how Clyde Toomey had ridden south, found the last survivor of the Mexican family that once held a Spanish grant to this land, and bought his claim from him.
Pio knew a part of the story. He did not know that Clyde Toomey had bought the land again from the Mexican claimants. He only knew that Clyde had ridden away, and after some days had returned.
In the meantime, there had been trouble. Some of the hands—he did not know how many—had quit and drifted west. Two had been killed night-herding.
They had not been killed by Apaches, though the intention had been to make the others believe Apaches responsible.
“Was there a Wells in the outfit that killed them?” I asked.
“No Wells…the Wells name came later, by marriage. Teale’s daughter married a Wells—Marvin Teale. He was the one who done it. He was a little man, but strong. He came from California. We heard the talk.” He grinned at me. “Most Indians stand quiet, say nothing, hear plenty.
“Teale had had to leave California…murder, we heard. He had known Reese somewhere, and Reese had already been thinking about all that land and those cattle. Reese knew nothing about the purchase of the land, or why Clyde went to Tucson that time.
“Teale and Reese, they ambushed Clyde Toomey and two hands. Killed them and hid their bodies, then they brought in some outlaws from Tucson and Tubac…and they killed the rest. It was white man’s trouble. The Apache had trouble of his own.”
The Apaches were always around, in the mountains, in the valleys, and like all wild things, they were curious. From up on the ridges they would spend hours watching the actions of the white men—actions that from their viewpoint were peculiar. And there was little they did not see. The motives for such actions they did not know, but what happened they had known.
“What about Belle Dawson? Where does she stand in this?”
“There was a boy—a very young boy. When the fight was over, Bal Moore…he carried him off. Later he came back and claimed a half section—a grazing claim—in his name and the kid’s. Him I knew. He was a tough old man.”
“They said he was killed by Apaches.”
“They always say that. Apaches liked him. He got a bullet into Teale once…tried to kill him, but Teale lived. After that they dry-gulched Bal.”
&nbs
p; The meat was done, and it was good. When we had finished our coffee I got up. In spite of the bit of sleep I’d had during the night, and the rest now, I was still tired. But there was no time now to rest any longer.
“I’m going to get Belle from them,” I said.
“You gone on her?” Pio asked.
“It isn’t that. They’ll want to kill her. She knows too much now, and they can’t afford to have her around. I just hope I’m not too late.”
“If you like her, you keep her away from Jimbo.”
He got up. “All right, Cap, I’m with you. Only I’m shooting for the record.”
“Give yourself a chance, Pio. You’re out of prison—you can stay out. Don’t shoot unless you have to. You can help me, but leave that to me, and when the showdown comes I’ll speak for you.”
“Nobody’d believe you, Cap. Nobody at all. They know Pio—they know me, and they know how I’ll feel, them killing Pete and Manuel.”
“Reese killed Pete—Belle told me. The point is, Pio, if you get convicted for killing any one of them, they’ll have made a clean sweep. Play it smart, stay with me, help me, but don’t shoot unless we’re backed into a corner.”
He looked at me. He dug into his shirt pocket and took out a square of tobacco and bit off a chunk. He had always been a chewer, even in Korea.
“All right, we’ll see.”
“Think about it Apache-style, Pio. You kill Colin, and he’s out of it. But suppose we get Belle away from him? Then suppose we go into court and prove that he doesn’t own all this land? Suppose we can go into court and prove that he killed Manuel, or conspired to have him killed? Which would hurt him worse?”
“Yeah,” he agreed reluctantly. “Yeah, I see what you mean.”
We went along the mountain toward the northwest, keeping to the high country as an Indian does, watching the trails below.
As we walked I thought of Doris. She was cold, and she liked violence. Belle would be in her greatest danger when in Doris’ hands…perhaps even more so than in the hands of Jimbo, who was a spoiled boy who had never grown up, and one whose strength as well as his wealth had given him all he’d ever wanted.
Novel 1966 - The Broken Gun (v5.0) Page 9