Sliding to the ground, Winchester in hand, I took a running dive to shelter among some rocks and snapped off a quick shot. A horse stumbled and his rider went over his head. I opened up, firing as rapidly as I could squeeze off the shots. They scattered for shelter, one man scrambling with a dragging leg.
Several of the horses had raced away, and a couple of others stood ground-hitched. On one of these was a big canteen. A bullet emptied it, and, when the other horse turned a few minutes later, I shot into that canteen, also. Bullets ricocheted around me, but without exposing themselves they could not get a good shot at me, while I could cover their hideout without trouble.
A foot showed and I triggered my rifle. A bit of leather flew up and the foot was withdrawn. My position could not have been better. As long as I remained where I was, they could neither advance nor retreat, but were pinned down and helpless. They were without water, and it promised to be an intensely hot day. Having no desire to kill them, I still wished to make them thoroughly sick of the fight. These men enjoyed the fighting as a break in the monotony of range work, but, knowing cowhands, I knew they would become heartily sick of a battle that meant waiting, heat, no water, and no chance to fight back.
For some time all was still. Then a man tried to crawl back toward the cañon mouth, evidently believing himself unseen. Letting go a shot at a rock ahead of him, I splattered his face with splinters, and he ducked back, swearing loudly.
“Looks like a long hot day, boys!” I yelled. “See what it means when you jump a small outfit? Ain’t so easy as you figured, is it?”
Somebody swore viciously and there were shouted threats. My own canteen was full, so I sat back and rolled a smoke. Nobody moved below, but the sun began to level its burning rays into the oven of the cañon mouth. The hours marched slowly by, and from time to time, when some thirsty soul grew restive at waiting, I threw a shot at him.
“How long you figure you can keep us here?” one of them yelled. “When we get out, we’ll get you!”
“Maybe you won’t get out!” I yelled back cheerfully. “I like it here! I’ve got water, shade, grub, and plenty of smokin’ tobacco! Also,” I added, “I’ve got better than two hundred rounds of ammunition! You hombres are riding for the wrong spread!”
Silence descended over the cañon and two o’clock passed. Knowing they could get no water aggravated thirst. The sun swam in a coppery sea of heat; the horizon lost itself in heat waves. Sweat trickled down my face and down my body under the arms. Where I lay, there was not only shade but a slight breeze, while down there heat would reflect from the cañon walls and all wind would be shut off. Finally, letting go with a shot, I slid back out of sight and got to my feet.
My buckskin cropped grass near some rocks, well under the shade. Shifting my rifle to my left hand, I slid down the bank, mopping my face with my right. Then I stopped stockstill, my right hand belt high. Backed up against a rock near my horse was a man I knew at once although I had never seen him—Rollie Pinder.
“You gave them boys hell,” he said conversationally, “an’ good for ’em. They’re Bar M riders. It’s a shame it has to end.”
“Yeah,” I drawled, watching him closely. He could be waiting for only one reason.
“Hear you’re mighty fast, but it won’t do you any good. I’m Rollie Pinder.”
As he spoke, he grabbed for his gun. My left hand was on the rifle barrel a few inches ahead of the trigger guard, the butt in front of me, the barrel pointed slightly up. I tilted the gun hard and the stock struck my hip as my hand slapped the trigger guard and trigger.
Rollie’s gun had come up smoking, but my finger closed on the trigger a split second before his slug hit me. It felt as if I had been kicked in the side, and I took a staggering step back, a rock rolling under my foot just enough to throw me out of the line of his second shot.
Then I fired again, having worked the lever unconsciously.
Rollie went back against the rocks and tried to bring his gun up. He fired as I did. The world weaved and waved before me, but Rollie was down on his face, great holes torn in his back where the .44 slugs had emerged. Turning, scarcely able to walk, I scrambled up the incline to my former position. My head was spinning and my eyes refused to focus, but the shots had startled the men and they were getting up. If they started after me now, I was through.
The ground seemed to dip and reel, but I got off a shot, then another. One man went down, and the others vanished as if swallowed by the earth. Rolling over, my breath coming in ragged gasps, I ripped my shirt tail off and plugged cloth into my wounds. I had to get away at all costs, but I could never climb back up to the cliff house, even if the way were open.
My rifle dragging, I crawled and slid to the buckskin. Twice I almost fainted from weakness. Pain was gripping my vitals, squeezing and knotting them. Somehow I got to my horse, grabbed a stirrup, managed to get a grip on the pommel, and pulled myself into the saddle. Getting my rifle back into its scabbard, I got some pigging strings and tied myself into the saddle. Then I started the buckskin toward the wilderness, and away from my enemies.
Day was shooting crimson arrows into the vast bowl of the sky when my eyes opened again. My head swam with effort, and I stared about, seeing nothing familiar. Buck had stopped beside a small spring in a cañon. There was grass and a few trees, with not far away the ruin of a rock house. On the sand beside the spring was the track of a mountain lion, several deep tracks and what might be a mountain sheep, but no cow, horse, or human tracks.
Fumbling with swollen fingers, I untied the pigging strings and slid to the ground. Buck snorted and side-stepped, then put his nose down to me inquiringly. He drew back from the smell of stale clothes and dried blood, and I lay there, staring up at him, a crumpled human thing, my body raw with pain and weakness. “It’s all right, Buck,” I whispered. “We’ll pull through. We’ve got to pull through.”
Chapter 4
Over me the sky’s high gray faded to pink shot with blood-red swords that swept the red into gold. As the sun crept up, I lay there, still beneath the wide sky, my body washed by a sea of dull pain that throbbed and pulsed in my muscles and veins. Yet deep within beat a deeper, stronger pulse, the pulse of the fighting man that would not let me die without fighting, that would not let me lie long without movement.
Turning over, using hand grasps of grass, I pulled myself to the spring and drank deep of the cool, clear, life-giving water. The wetness of it seemed to creep through all my tissues, bringing peace to my aching muscles and life to my starved body. To live I must drink, and I must eat, and my body must have rest and time to mend. Over and over these thoughts went through my mind, and over and over I said them, staring at my helpless hands. With contempt I looked at them, hating them for their weakness. And then I began to fight for life in those fingers, willing them to movement, to strength. Slowly my left hand began to stir, to lift at my command, to grasp a stick.
Triumph went through me. I was not defeated! Triumph lent me strength, and from this small victory I went on to another—a bit of broken manzanita placed across the first, a handful of scraped up leaves, more sticks. Soon I would have a fire.
I was a creature fighting for survival, wanting only to live and to fight. Through waves of delirium and weakness, I dragged myself to an aspen where I peeled bark for a vessel. Fainting there, coming to, struggling back to the place for my fire, putting the bark vessel together with clumsy fingers. With the bark vessel, a sort of box, I dipped into the water but had to drag it to the sand, lacking the strength to lift it up, almost crying with weakness and pain.
Lighting my fire, I watched the flames take hold. Then I got the bark vessel atop two rocks in the fire, and the flames rose around it. As long as the flames were below the water level of the vessel, I knew the bark would not burn, for the heat was absorbed by the water inside. Trying to push a stick under the vessel, I leaned too far and fainted.
When next I opened my eyes, the water was boiling. Pulling myself
to a sitting position, I unbuckled my thick leather belt and let my guns fall back on the ground. Then carefully I opened my shirt and tore off a corner of it. I soaked it in the boiling water and began to bathe my wounds. Gingerly working the cloth plugs free of the wounds, I extracted them. The hot water felt good, but the sight of the wound in my side was frightening. It was red and inflamed, but near as I could see, as I bathed it, the bullet had gone through and touched nothing vital. The second slug had gone through the fleshy part of my thigh, and after bathing that wound, also, I lay still for a while, regaining strength and soaking up the heat.
Nearby there was patch of prickly pear, so I crawled to it and cut off a few big leaves, then I roasted them to get off the spines and bound the pulp against the wounds. Indians had used it to fight inflammations, and it might help. I found a clump of amolilla and dug some of the roots, scraping them into hot water. They foamed up when stirred and I drank the foamy water, remembering the Indians used the drink to carry off clotted blood, and a man’s bullet wounds healed better after he drank it.
Then I made a meal of squaw cabbage and bread-root, not wanting to attempt getting at my saddlebags. Yet, when evening came and my fever returned, I managed to call Buck to me and loosen the girths. The saddle dropped, bringing with it my bedroll and saddlebags. Then I hobbled Buck and got the bridle off.
The effort exhausted me, so I crawled into my bedroll. My fever haunted the night with strange shapes, and guns seemed crashing about me. Men and darkness fought on the edge of my consciousness. Morgan Park—Jim Pinder—Rud Maclaren—and the sharply feral face of Bodie Miller.
The nuzzling of Buck awakened me in the cold light of day. “All right, Buck,” I whispered. “I’m awake. I’m alive.”
My weakness horrified me. If my enemies found me, they would not hesitate to kill me, and Buck must have left a trail easily followed. High up the cañon wall there was a patch of green, perhaps a break in the rock. Hiding my saddle under some brush, and taking with me my bedroll, saddlebags, rifle, and rope, I dragged myself toward an eyebrow of trail up the cliff.
If there was a hanging valley up there, it was just what I wanted. The buckskin wandered after me, more from curiosity than anything else. Getting atop a boulder, I managed to slide onto his back, then kneed him up the steep trail. A mountain horse, he went willingly, and in a few minutes we had emerged into a high hanging valley.
A great crack in the rock, it was flat-floored and high-walled, yet the grass was rich and green. Somewhere water was running, and before me was a massive stone tower all of sixty feet high. Blackened by age and by fire, it stood beside a spring, quite obviously the same as that from which I had beer drinking below. The hanging valley comprised not over three acres of land seemingly enclosed on the far side, and almost enclosed on the side where I had entered.
The ancient Indians who had built the tower had known a good thing when they saw it, for here was shelter and defense, grass, water, and many plants. Beside the tower some stunted maize, long since gone native, showed there had once been planting here. Nowhere was there any evidence that a human foot had trod here in centuries.
A week went slowly by, and nothing disturbed my camp. Able to walk a few halting steps, I explored the valley. The maize had been a fortunate discovery, for Indians had long used a mush made of the meal as an hourly application for bullet wounds. With this and other remedies my recovery became more rapid. The jerky gave out, but with snared rabbits and a couple of sage hens I managed. And then I killed a deer, and with the wild vegetables growing about I lived well.
Yet a devil of impatience was riding me. My ranch was in the hands of my enemies, and each day of absence made the chance of recovery grow less. Then, after two weeks, I was walking, keeping watch from a lookout spot atop the cliff and rapidly regaining strength. On the sixteenth day of my absence I decided to make an effort to return.
The land through which I rode was utterly amazing. Towering monoliths of stone, long, serrated cliffs of salmon-colored sandstone, and nothing human. It was almost noon of the following day before the buckskin’s ears lifted suddenly. It took several seconds for me to discover what drew his attention, and then I detected a lone rider. An hour later, from a pinnacle of rock near a tiny seep of water, the rider was drawing near, carefully examining the ground.
A surge of joy went through me. It was Olga Maclaren.
Stepping out from the shadow, I waited for her to see me, and she did, almost at once. How I must look, I could guess. My shirt was heavy with dust, torn by a bullet and my own hands. My face was covered with beard and my cheeks drawn and hollow, but the expression on her face was only of relief. “Matt?” Her voice was incredulous. “You’re alive?”
“Did you think I’d die before we were married, daughter of Maclaren? Did you think I’d die before you had those sons I promised? Right now I’m coming back to claim my own.”
“Back?” The worry on her face was obvious. “You must never go back. You’re believed dead, so you are safe. Go away while there’s time.”
“Did you think I’d run? Olga, I’ve been whipped by Morgan Park, shot by Rollie Pinder, and attacked by the others, but Pinder is dead, and Park’s time is coming. No, I made a promise to a fine old man named Ball, another one to myself, and one to you, and I’ll keep them all. In my time I’ve backed up, I’ve side-stepped, and occasionally I’ve run, but always to come back and fight again.”
She looked at me, and some of the fear seemed to leave her. Then she shook her head. “But you can’t go back now. Jim Pinder has the Two Bar.”
“Then he’ll move,” I promised her.
Olga had swung down from her horse and lifted my canteen. “You’ve water!” she exclaimed. “They all said no man could survive out there in that waste, even if he was not wounded.”
“You believed them?”
“No.” She hesitated. “I knew you’d be alive somewhere.”
“You know your man then, Olga Maclaren. Does it mean that you love me, too?”
She hesitated and her eyes searched mine, but when I would have moved toward her, she drew back, half frightened. Her lips parting a little, her breast lifting suddenly as she caught her breath. “It isn’t time for that now…please!”
It stopped me, knowing what she said was true. “You are sure you weren’t trailed?”
She shook her head. “I’ve been careful. Every day.”
“This isn’t the first day you looked for me?”
“Oh, no.” She looked at me, her eyes shadowed with worry. “I was afraid you were lying somewhere, bloody and suffering.” Her eyes studied me, noting the torn shirt, the pallor of my face. “And you have been.”
“Rollie was good. He was very good.”
“Then it was you who killed him?”
“Who else?”
“Canaval and Bodie Miller found him after they realized you were gone from the mesa where you pinned them down. Canaval was sure it had been you, but some of them thought it was the mountain boys.”
“They’ve done no fighting for me although they wanted to. You’d best start back. I’ve work to do.”
“But you’re in no shape! You’re sick!” She stared at me.
“I can still fight,” I said. “Tell your father you’ve seen me. Tell him the Two Bar was given me in the presence of witnesses. Tell him his stock is to be off that range…at once!”
“You forget that I am my father’s daughter.”
“And my future wife.”
“I’ve promised no such thing!” she flared. “You know I’d never marry you! I’ll admit you’re attractive, and you’re a devil, but marry you? I’d die first!”
Her breast heaved and her eyes flashed and I laughed at her. “Tell your father, though, and ask him to withdraw from this fight before it’s too late.” Swinging into the saddle, I added: “It’s already too late for you. You love me and you know it. Tell Morgan Park that, and tell him I’m coming back to break him with my hands.”
Riding into Hattan’s Point, I was a man well known. Rollie Pinder was dead, and they knew whose gun had downed him. Maclaren’s riders had been held off and made a laughingstock, and I had taken up Ball’s fight to hold his ranch. Some men hated me for this, some admired me, and many thought me a fool.
All I knew was the horse between my knees, the guns on my thighs, and the blood of me pounding. My buckskin lifted his head high and moved down the dusty street like a dancer, for riding into this town was a challenge to them all. They knew it and I knew it. Leaving my horse behind Mother O’Hara’s, I walked to the saloon and went in.
By then I’d taken time to shave, and, although the pallor of sickness was on my face, there was none in my eyes or heart. It did me good to see their eyes widen and to hear my spurs jingle as I walked to the bar. “Rye,” I said, “the best you’ve got.”
Key Chapin was there and, sitting with him, Morgan Park. The big man’s eyes were cold as they stared at me. “I’m buying, gentlemen,” I said, “and that includes you, Morgan Park, although you slug a man when his hands are down.”
Park blinked. It had been a long time since anyone had told him off to his face. “And you, Key Chapin. It has always been my inclination to encourage freedom of the press and to keep my public relations on a good basis. And today I might even offer you a news item, something to read like this…Matt Sabre, of the Two Bar, was in town Friday afternoon. Matt is recovering from a bullet wound incurred during a minor dispute with Rollie Pinder, but is returning to the Two Bar to take up where he left off.”
Chapin smiled. “That will be news to Jim Pinder. He didn’t expect you back.”
“He should have,” I assured him. “I’m back to punish every murdering skunk who killed old man Ball.”
All eyes were on me now, and Park was staring, not knowing what to make of me.
The Lawless West Page 15