He fell down again, and when he started to push himself up, he saw red blood on the sand. The wound had stopped bleeding some time ago, but now it was open again.
Behind him he heard a clattering among the rocks and glanced back, panic-stricken. Something…somebody was coming.
Chapter 13
A BOOT GRATED in the sand, and Kris woke. She saw the boot, close beside her, and then another boot, and somebody laughed.
“Now ain’t that funny? No trouble…jest none a-tall! She a-layin’ there, fell to sleep!”
“Man, that there’s a woman! Neerland says after he’s through with her he’ll leave her to us. I say that’s mighty nice of him. She’s no skinny little whisper of a woman…this one should last!”
She lay perfectly still, in a half-reclining position against the parapet of rocks. She had failed. Utterly and completely failed. She had been so careful, she had tried to do everything right. She had found this place and she had arrived in good time. And they had somehow followed her, and then…then she had fallen asleep.
How many sleepless hours had there been? How many nights before that, of too little sleep? How much bone-weary traveling? She did not really ask these things of herself, for she sought no excuses. The only thing now was to find a way out of this.
Her rifle was not beside her…they had taken it from her. Although only two had spoken, she knew there were three of them. What could she possibly do against them?
She heard boots strike on stone. Then Oskar Neerland spoke. “No sign of him. He’s dead, or he would have been here.”
“She ain’t.”
Neerland looked down at her, and nudged her with his boot. “Get up. There is no use pretending.”
She got up quietly, coolly. She made no protest, no demand to be let alone. She simply looked from one to the other. But she was thinking…and she found no help in Muley’s face.
The other one, the stocky, thick-set man—now there might be a possibility. A moment later, feeling his eyes on her, she was less sure. He was certainly a tough man, a killer, but she thought he was a man of temper rather than one with the cold brutality of Oskar Neerland or the sadistic evil of Muley.
She knew she was in desperate trouble, but she was thinking clearly. Above all, she must divert them from any expectation of Matt’s arrival, and she must keep their attention away from the canyon up which he must come—if he came at all.
“Where is he?” Neerland asked the question as if he did not really care.
“They killed him. Those other men did. He rode down to meet them, and two of them were off to one side. They shot him. I think I killed one of them.”
“You did?” The heavy-set man showed his surprise. “How?”
“With this.” She indicated the rifle. “I would kill the other one if I could.”
He chuckled, and glanced at Neerland. “We better watch this one, Oskar.”
“I will watch her. Do not worry, Bob.”
Neerland walked away a few steps, looking around curiously at the cliffs, and at the brush and trees. The notch at the back where water fell after rains was partly screened by trees and undergrowth, and beyond it a white scar of bared rock could be glimpsed. He merely glanced that way, then walked back.
“If he is dead, why did you come back here?”
“Why?” She seemed astonished. “Why, I mean to find the body and bury it, of course. When those others have gone, I will go down and bury him.” She looked Neerland straight in the eyes. “I could not think of him left for the coyotes or buzzards.”
“Maybe he is dead…maybe he is not. We will wait.” Neerland watched her. “You will help us to wait.”
Her eyes were on the far off valley; there was one small area of open flat down there that was clearly visible. Her eyes were there when the horses came into view, and the golden stallion was leading.
Suddenly her heart began to pound. The wild horses! The faint breeze was from them and toward this place. If nothing turned them aside they would be coming here!
What would happen then? Would they turn aside first? Or would they rush into this little area, suddenly find it occupied, and dash away? Would they swirl around in a panic? Or charge on through?
“I was just going to fix something to eat,” she said calmly. “Do you mind?”
“All right.”
She went to the pack horse and began selecting what she would need. She took her time, wondering how long it would take for the horses to get here, if they were coming. They did come to this place, she knew, for she had seen their tracks, and Matt had told her so.
The men who had been looking for Matt would be down there somewhere, she was thinking; all the more reason for the horses to turn up the canyon.
She left the few things where they were and went about, picking up sticks. Nobody offered to help, and she knew they enjoyed watching her. They were anticipating…but so was she. Down inside the pack for emergency use was a knife.
She put the sticks together for a fire, then returned to the pack, delaying lighting the fire as long as she could. She put her hand down into the pack and felt the knife hilt. Her own mount was close beside her.
Just then there was a wild shout from down the canyon, and then a thunder of rushing hoofs. She turned swiftly, knife in hand.
She saw the cloud of dust, and suddenly with a burst of inspiration she grasped the pommel and threw herself into the saddle.
Neerland shouted at her, and at that moment the wild horses rushed into the camp. Neerland wheeled and sprang back, stumbling and falling among the rocks. Muley was out of the way, up in the cedars, but Bob was right in the line of the charging horses.
He grabbed wildly for his gun, but another gun rapped a sharp report and Bob, whirling, fell under the pounding hoofs.
Kris, her mount caught in the rush of horses, was swept along. The wild horses, led by the great stallion, plunged through the cedars, straight toward the sheer wall of rock, then swung abruptly around a boulder and rushed up a narrow track. Kris’s horse, frightened by the stampede, was running all out, right up the path with the others. He switched back into the trees and she ducked just in time to go under a low branch. Suddenly her horse was scrambling over the rim, and then he was running free. They were atop No Man’s Mesa!
Taking a tighter grip on the rein, she swung her horse around.
Matt was there!
He was not only with her, but he was astride the buckskin. Dropping to the ground, she ran to him, and he almost fell from the saddle into her arms. The front of his shirt was covered with blood, and he looked ghastly.
“Rifle,” he gasped. “Stop them!”
He clung to the buckskin, and taking the rifle from his hands she ran to the head of the path. She saw no one, but she fired anyway, fired a warning shot to let them know what to expect.
He came to her, walking his horse beside him. He dropped to one knee, the other leg extended, then pulled himself to the rocks.
The wild bunch had scattered away under the trees. The top of the mesa was covered with pine and cedar, and other trees with which she was not familiar. There were open meadows here and there, and from the droppings it was easy to see the horses came here regularly.
One horse, with three white stockings and a scarred hide, had lingered not far away, watching them with pricked up ears. Nothing stirred below.
Kris passed the rifle to Matt, then turned toward the pack animals. All of them, caught in the stampede, had been swept along the trail.
Quickly, she built a fire, starting with dry grass and bits of bark and twigs from the trunks of nearby trees. When the fire was going she put water on to boil; then she unbuttoned Matt’s shirt and stripped it off.
The chest wound was inflamed and looked ugly, but she bathed it carefully with warm water. The wound on his hip was less serious, though it was a gash that had cut to the bone. The leg was black and blue from a heavy fall, and the wound looked bad. She started to bathe this too, but he stopped her.
“See that plant?” he said. “The one with the cream-colored flowers? You get some of that, crush it up, and boil it in the water.”
“What is it?”
“Cliff rose. It grows all over some of these mesas. The Hopi wash wounds with it, and it seems to work.”
She did as he directed, and noticed that to the westward the great wall of Piute Mesa was bright with sunset colors. In the valley below the shadows were reaching out from No Man’s Mesa.
“What will we do?” she asked him later.
“Keep the fire going, then pull back from it.” A lightning-struck tree some fifty yards away offered some cover and a good field of fire. “Over there. You let me sleep until trouble comes, or until two hours pass. Then wake me up, and I’ll watch, but we’ve got to keep that fire going. Nobody can top that cliff without showing themselves in the light.”
They waited a while, and she reached out for his hand, and held it tightly.
“Old Buck,” he said suddenly, “he fell in with the wild bunch and trailed along behind. They were horses, and they were company, and he may have figured we had stayed close to them before, so there must be a reason.
“I was all in…I couldn’t have made it another foot. You should have seen him when he found me…like a playful pup. It was all I could do to get up on him.”
“Will they try to come up here, Matt?”
“Kris…you watch. I…” His words trailed off into a mumble, and he was asleep.
The sun had gone. Far away across the desert land the sandstone ridges and cliffs still held the sun’s fire, but here on the mesa the light was a dusty lemon. Under the trees it was shadowed and still. She went to the mules and loosened their packs, letting them fall; then she removed the saddles. The grateful animals rolled in the grass, shook themselves, and rolled again. Keeping a careful eye on the head of the trail, she unsaddled the horses and picketed them on the grass.
It was very quiet. She carried several armloads of fuel to the fire and placed it within easy reach. Around the lightning-blasted tree there was a good bit of fuel—broken limbs, dried and seasoned, as well as a good-sized piece of the tree itself that had broken off and fallen to the ground.
The horse with the three white stockings showed no disposition to leave them. This was an old horse, and some nostalgic memory of campfires and the man smell kept it close to them. Running with the wild bunch was probably growing increasingly difficult.
She checked his rifle, reloading the fired cartridges, and checked her own. She got his pistol and reloaded the empty chambers. She was somewhat frightened of what might come, and yet it was not really fear. Injured he might be, but this was her man, and where he was there could be no real fear.
The sky became a deep, dark blue; the first stars came out. The nearby ridges were black, mysterious. The coolness of night had come, and it felt good. She got a ground sheet from the packs and ever so gently drew Matt onto it; then she got a blanket and covered him.
She was restless, and walked away from the fire to the dark edge of the cliff to listen. There was a fire down there.
Her eyes moved off toward the south, remembering the great, silent cave houses where they had stayed, and where she had so hopefully planted a garden.…
They would come tonight, she was sure they would. And when they came, she would be ready.
Chapter 14
NEILL RODE INTO Freedom with Short tied over a saddle.
Somebody shouted, and people came out into the street. Sam, drying his hands on his apron, emerged from the saloon just behind Hardin and John Ware. Taplinger was there, too, and George Benson.
Neill drew up. “Yes, it’s Short. He’s dead, and we’ve played hell. If we don’t stop them, they’ll murder that man Keelock, and his wife, too.”
“Wife?”
“She’s with him. In fact,” he added grimly, “she was the one who killed Short. Keelock was talking to Chesney, and it looked as if they were going to settle it between them, and then McAlpin and Short cut loose and shot Keelock out of the saddle.”
“They didn’t kill him?”
“Not by a long shot! But if we don’t get back in there and stop them, they will; and if they do, they will have to kill her.”
Neill saw Taplinger then, and his fury mounted. “Yes, and that damned marshal you hired is in there with two murdering thieves.”
Taplinger’s face flushed, and he started to protest, but Neill broke in. “You’d no right to hire that legal murderer and give him a right to kill a man and his wife.” His tone was harsh, and his voice carried a new authority.
“Now, see here!” Taplinger began. “I—”
Neill turned his back on him. “Hardin,” he said quickly, “if you’ll come with me, we’ll go back in there and stop this. If they kill those two it will be a disgrace this community will never live down.”
“Tell me just what has happened,” Ware said. “I’ve heard little about it.”
Neill dismounted and Taplinger started forward, but Neill pointedly ignored him and went into the saloon, followed by Ware and Hardin. As briefly as possible he outlined the trouble from the beginning. Finally he said, “By the time we get back it may be too late, but I could do nothing alone short of killing some of them myself.”
Hardin studied Neill thoughtfully. After a moment he said, “You’ve changed, boy. This business has changed you.”
“Maybe…and maybe that’s why I spoke out against it. And while I tried to get Short back here alive, I thought more and more about it. We’ve got to get back in there and stop this.”
“Do they still believe Keelock murdered Johnny Webb?” Hardin asked.
“No, and that’s the worst of it. They know he didn’t, but they are still trying to kill him. Partly because they are afraid of what will happen if they don’t.”
“What about this man Neerland?” Ware asked.
“That’s a grudge affair. What Neerland may have in mind, I don’t know or care, but he simply wanted a legal cloak to cover him while he committed murder. The man’s far from a fool, and he’s dangerous.”
“What about Mrs. Keelock?”
“Skin told me at Tuba that she was a lady, every inch of her. We were for getting her out of there. At least Bill and I were for it—yes, and Kimmel, too, I think. I looked for her, I didn’t find her.”
“All right,” Hardin said, “we’ll ride back in there and put a stop to it.” And Ware agreed. “You’re right, Neill. It must be stopped.”
Nine men rode out of Freedom, nine men with just one idea, to reach the scene before their community could be branded for murder. They left in the cool of the evening and they rode fast, changing horses twice before they reached Tuba City.
Neill, hoping and expecting that the men of Freedom would be with him, had arranged for horses to be waiting for them at Tuba. Yet swiftly as they rode, he knew there was hardly one chance in a thousand that they would arrive in time.
But he was banking on the courage of the man Keelock, and of a woman whom he had never met.
TWO HOURS HAD passed, but she did not wake Matt. He was resting easily for the first time since he was wounded. He did not even wake when she gently changed the dressing on his chest, using more of the crushed cliff rose. He muttered in his sleep, but slept on.
Twice she added fuel to the fire near the cliff edge, approaching it with care, and each time she listened from the dark rim beyond the range of the firelight, but she heard no sound.
The night wore on, and her weariness grew. It was long past midnight when she at last knew she could wait no longer. If she fell asleep again, as she had when on watch below the cliff, it would be the end—they would be killed in their sleep. She dared not chance it. She went to Matt and touched his shoulder. “Matt? Matt, wake up.”
He stirred under her hand, then his eyes flared open. When he sat up, she went to the fire and filled a cup with coffee. A soft wind stirred the fire, bending the long flames.
He
took the coffee, and when she looked down at him as he sat there on the ground she was shocked by the gauntness of his features. But when he had finished the coffee, he got up by himself.
The wind guttered the fire again, and off in the distance thunder rolled. Matt turned his head around sharply. A great bank of black clouds had rolled up; and even as he looked, a streak of jagged lightning struck a distant ridge and made a vivid, momentary fringe of light along the crest.
He caught up the rifle. “We’ve got to get the horses in and keep them close,” he said. A few spattering drops of rain fell. “This will put out our fire.”
Limping to the buckskin, he led the animal close, and then on a sudden inspiration he picked up the saddle and threw it on the horse’s back. Swiftly he tightened the cinch and slipped on the bridle. Then he saddled Kris’s horse. When she brought the pack animals in, he strapped on the pack saddles and loaded up.
He heaped more fuel on the fire, and then pulled himself into the saddle and they started north along the mesa. Moving over close to her he leaned nearer and said, “From down below I saw some rough, broken country about a mile north of here. We might find some shelter there.” And he added, “There’s less chance of getting struck by lightning on lower ground.”
The few spatters of rain had turned into a quick downpour, but both of them had donned slickers, and they rode on in the rain, the mules on a lead rope.
In the light of the lightning flashes, they found a place where the surface rock broke off, and descended almost two hundred feet by an easy route. To the east they could see where the break was sharper, and turned that way to get under the lee of the escarpment.
Once there, they found another descent and went lower still to a place where the ledge of rock had been undercut by water and wind to make a deep shelter.
The rain ceased, and in the quiet that followed they secured the horses under the shelter, and the mules beside them. Then they stripped off the packs and saddles. Kris was just shaking out a bed for them when the rain came again.
Novel 1965 - The Key-Lock Man (v5.0) Page 12