Supposing he had watched Fuentes, Hinge and Roper ride away? Supposing he had seen Ann leave earlier?
Then he surely knew I was alone. What he couldn't know was that, though I was weak from loss of blood and in no shape to straddle a horse, I was still able and willing to shoot.
Nobody lives long low-rating an enemy. You've got to give the other fellow credit for having as much savvy as you have, and maybe a little more.
Suppose he knew I was here, and was waiting for me to drift off to sleep, like I had almost done? Suppose--another thought came--just suppose he didn't have any plan of coming in on me, but just decided to wait up on the knoll, just waiting for me to come out?
Yet, me being sick and in bed, he couldn't expect me to come out and give him a target. Unless something drove me out.
Fire!
That was foolish. I was just imagining things. No doubt, whoever it was who'd shot at me was miles away with his stolen cattle. He had wounded me, put me out of action, and I wouldn't be trailing him for a while. If I was the kind who scared easy, he might figure I'd never try.
What sleep had been coming over me had disappeared. I was wide awake now, and scared. The trouble was, I was in no shape to move quick, no shape for a running battle--or for a battle of any kind.
I could get out of the cabin if I was lucky, I could get into the brush. But I knew what brush fighting meant. A man has to be ready to move, and if he moves too slow he's dead. He has to be alert, too, and I was kind of foggy. I could think, all right, but could I think fast enough? React with enough speed?
The door stood open, for the air was fresh and clear. There were two windows, one on each side of the cabin, but only that one door. And the windows were high as a man's shoulder. A body could hoist himself up and crawl through one, but there was no easy way to do it and no way that wouldn't, for a minute or so, leave a man helpless. And going through a window would be sure to break what scab had started healing over my wound.
Yet I was only easily visible from one window. The bed was close against the wall and hard to see except from the door or one window.
It was very still. I strained my ears for the slightest sound, and heard nothing. One hand was on my Winchester, but I withdrew it and slid my Colt from its scabbard. I needed a gun I could move quickly, easily, to cover any point.
Minutes passed ... Nothing. Whoever was out there ... if anybodywas out there ... might be waiting for me to move. So I would not move.
Yet I was being almighty foolish. I was getting scary as a girl alone in a house. I'd no reason to believe anybody would be coming after me here--except for my imagination.
The trouble was, I was a sitting duck and I didn't like the idea.
No sound, no movement. My horse was in the corral. If I heard a sound, it would probably be that horse, yet I heard nothing.
I dozed. Scared as I was and worried, I dozed. That was what weakness would do for a man. What snapped me out of it was a noise. It was a very small noise and maybe it was just inside my own head. Gun in hand, I rolled up on one elbow and tried to look out the open door, but I could see nothing but the gradually drying earth beyond the door, a distant hillside and a corner of the corral.
What had I heard? Had it been a step? No ... A step had a different sound? A horse bumping a trough, or something? No.
It had been a small sound, a kind ofplink . It might have been anything. The handle of the coffeepot lay against the side of the pot, and it might have been raised a little, and just finally settling down against the side of the pot as the lessening of heat cooled the metal.
It might have been that, but I didn't believe it was. I lay back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. Somebody wanted me dead ... The problem was still there. If I could figure out who, I might know why, and even figure how he--or they--would try to kill me.
Here I was, worried and all on edge just at the idea that somebody might be out there.
The sound ... What had it been? Carefully, I mentally sorted familiar sounds and tried to discover what it was I'd heard. In any event, I hadn't heard it again.
It had been a very small sound, anyway. Yet I could not relax. My muscles were tense, my nerves on edge. Something was wrong ... Something was about to happen. I forced myself to lie still, telling myself I was being silly. I could see out the door and all was quiet, and the one horse I could now see was browsing quietly on some wisps of hay left about the corral. What I needed was rest ... just rest. I had to calm down and relax.
I turned on my side, facing the wall. For a moment I lay absolutely still, petrified into immobility.
For as I turned on my side to face the wall, I found myself staring into the muzzle of a gun pushed through a crack where the chinking between the logs had been picked out. I stared, and then I came off the bunk with a lunge that sent a shock of agony through my wounded hip. I fell sprawling on the floor, the blast of the shot ringing in my ears. There was smoke in the room and the smell of singed wood and wool, and then I was on my feet, gun in hand, hopping toward the door.
Outside my horse had his head up, ears pricked, looking off to my right. I turned around the door post, gun poised ... and saw nothing.
I could feel the blood running down my side from my reopened wound, but I waited, clinging to the doorjamb with my left hand, my right gripping the gun, poised for a shot.
Nothing...
For several minutes I waited, and then I turned myself around and fell into a chair, back to the wall, looking at my bunk.
Somebody had picked the dried clay from the cracks between the logs, using a stick or a knife blade, perhaps, and then had thrust the muzzle through. Had I remained lying where I'd been, I would now be dead, for that bullet would have taken me right through the skull.
Again I got up, peering from the windows, but there was nothing to see. That faint, first sound I had heard was probably the dried mud falling to the ground, striking against a rock or something.
Whoever had tried to kill me had been in this cabin. Whoever had tried had known exactly where the bed was, exactly where my head would be laying on the pillow. He had known exactly the spot at which to pick away the plaster.
Whoever it was wanted to killme . Not just a cowhand who happened to trail a horse thief, butme , a particular person. It might be one of the Balch and Saddler outfit. For there was no doubt that my presence among the Stirrup-Iron riders stiffened their backs, and my death would weaken them considerably.
I limped along the wall. I looked out ... nothing, nobody. Now I must be very careful. I dared not trust myself anywhere without being careful.
Impatiently, I looked around. I had to get out of here. The cabin was a trap. As long as I was here, I was available to the planning of the would-be killer, and I had to get out. Yet how to escape with him out there? And he would be, I was sure, somewhere right outside, awaiting a chance.
In my present condition, moving swiftly was out of the question. I would have to get to the corral, get a saddle and bridle on a horse, get the corral bars down and mount up, then ride out. And during every movement I would be sitting there like a duck in a shooting gallery, waiting for the shot. After a moment, I took a chunk of wood from the fireplace and placed it in front of the hole in the wall. Then I lay down again, heaving a great sigh of relief.
Iwas tired. I lay back, exhausted. All my life I'd been a loner, but at that minute I wanted desperately for somebody to come. Somebody ... anybody ... Just somebody who could watch while I slept, if only for a few minutes.
I strained my ears for the slightest sound, and heard only the birds, the slight movements of my horse. I closed my eyes ...
Suddenly they opened wide. If I slept I would die.
Rolling over, I sat up. Fumbling with a cup and the coffeepot, I poured coffee. It was no longer hot, for the untended fire had gone down. I tasted the lukewarm coffee, something I'd never liked, then knelt before the fire and coaxed some flame from the coals with slivers of wood.
Would no one friendly ever come?
Hopefully, I continued to listen for the sound of a rider, and heard nothing. I could fix myself something to eat. That would keep me awake and busy. Again I pushed myself up off the bed, my hands trembling with weakness. At the cupboard, I got out a tin plate, a knife, fork and spoon.
In a covered kettle, I found some cold broth Ann had fixed for me, and I moved the kettle to the fire, stirring the broth a little as it grew warm. Again I looked from the windows, careful not to show my head.
What I needed more than anything was rest, yet to rest might be to die. Had I my usual speed of movement and agility, I would have gone outside and tried to hunt down whoever was trying to kill me, but my movements were too slow, I was too tired, and too weak.
Suddenly, I heard hoofbeats. A rider was approaching. Gun in hand, I moved cautiously toward the door, and peered beyond it. A moment later the rider appeared.
It was Barby Ann.
She rode right up to the door and swung down, trailing her reins.
She walked right in, then stopped, seeing me and the gun in my hand. "What's the matter?"
"Somebody took a shot at me. A little while back. Right through a crack in the wall."
When I showed her, she frowned. "Did you see him?"
"No," I said, "but it's likely the same one who tried to kill me twice before, and he'll try again. You'd better not stay."
"Joe Hinge said you were hurt. You'd better get back into bed."
"Thatbed?"
"You've covered the hole, so why not? He can't shoot through that wall. You need some rest."
"Look," I said, "would you stay here for an hour or so? I do need the rest, need it the worst way. If you'll stay, I'll try to sleep."
"Of course I'll stay. Go to bed."
She turned her back on me and walked outside the door, leading her horse to the corral trough for water. Sitting on the edge of the bunk, I watched her go. She had a neat, if too thin figure, and she carried herself proudly. It was in me to ask her about Roger Balch, but it would not do. After all, it was none of my business. I was only a cowhand working for her father.
She tied her horse to the gate, then turned to come back to the line-cabin. Inside the door, she looked at me, sitting there. "You'd better lay down," she said. "I can't stay too long."
Easing back on the bunk, I stretched out with a great sigh of relief. Slowly, I felt the tension ease from my muscles. I let go then, letting myself sink into the bed, just giving myself up to the utter exhaustion I felt.
The last I remembered was her sitting by the door staring out into the afternoon.
It was shadowed and still when I opened my eyes, but even before they opened I heard the low murmur of voices--of more than one voice. Danny Rolf and Fuentes were in the room. There was no sign of Barby Ann.
Fuentes heard me move. "You sleep," he said, chuckling. "You sleep ver' hard, amigo."
"Where's Barby Ann?"
"She rode back when we came. Or rather, when Danny got here. Then I came in. You've really slept. It is two hours since I came."
I lay still for a few minutes, then sat up. "You wish to eat? I have some stew ... very good ... and some tortillas. You like tortillas?"
"Sure. Ate them for months, down Mexico way."
"Not me," Danny said. "I'll take hot biscuits!"
Fuentes waved at the fireplace. "There it is. Make them."
Danny grinned. "I'll eat tortillas." He looked over at me. "Barby Ann said you'd been shot at?"
Indicating the chunk of stove wood I'd laid over the crack, I told them about it. Fuentes listened, but had no comment to offer.
"I'll not ride with you!" Danny said. "He might shoot the wrong man."
"Finding any cattle?" I asked.
"We rounded up sixteen head today, mostly older stuff. We got one two-year-old heifer, almost the color of Ol' Brindle."
"Seen him?"
"He's around. We saw his tracks along the bottom. He stays to the brush during the day, feeds mostly at night, I think."
We talked of horses, cattle and range conditions, of women and cards and roping styles, of riders we had known, mean steers and unruly cows. And after a while, I slept again, pursued through an endless dream by a faceless creature, neither man nor woman, who wished to kill me.
I awakened suddenly in a cold sweat. Danny and Fuentes were asleep, but the night was still and the door was open to the cool breeze. A horse moved near the corner of the corral, and I started to turn over. Then like a dash of icy water I knew.That was no horse!
I'd started to turn over and I did, right off the bed and onto the floor. And for the second time that day a bullet smashed into the bed where I'd just been.
Fuentes came off the floor with a gun in his hand. Rolf rolled over against the wall, grabbing around in the darkness for his rifle. I lay flat on the floor, my side hurting like the very devil, with a bruised elbow that made me want to swear, but I didn't. This was one time when a single cuss word might get a man killed.
All was still, and then there was a pound of hoofs from some distance off, a horse running, and then the night was still.
"If I was you," Danny said, "I'd quit."
"Maybe that is it," Fuentes said. "Maybe they want you to quit. Maybe they want all of us to quit, starting with you."
He struck a match and lighted the lamp, then replaced the chimney. I pointed to the rolled-up blanket I'd been using for a pillow. There was a neat bullethole there, neat and round and perfect, despite the fuzzy material.
"He doesn't want me to quit," I said, "he wants me dead."
Chapter 13
Headquarters ranch lay warm in the sunlight when I came down the slope, walking my horse. Fuentes and Danny rode with me, because three men can watch the country easier than one, and I was almighty tired when we reached the bunkhouse.
Barby Ann came out on the porch. "What's the matter, boys?"
Danny went up to the porch and told her, while Fuentes saw that I got safely inside. "You will be better off here, I think." The Mexican squatted on his heels near the door. "Joe will be here, and Ben Roper."
"I'm better," I said. "The fever's gone, all right, and now I'm only tired from the walk. Give me a couple of days and I'll be working again."
"You staying on?"
"Somebody shot at me. I'd like to find him and see if he'll shoot at me face to face. If I ride away now, I'd never know."
For two days I rested at the ranch. On the second day I walked outside into the sunlight, and when chow time came I went up to the house rather than have food brought to me. Nothing in me was cut out for laying abed, and I was itching to get into a saddle again. I'd been thinking, and I had some ideas.
There was nobody in the ranch house except Barby Ann. When I got to the table, she came from the kitchen. "I was just coming down to see how you felt."
"I felt too good to have you walking all the way down there."
She brought two cups and the coffeepot, then went back for some other food. She was still in the kitchen when I heard somebody coming. I slid the thong off my sixshooter. It was probably Rossiter, but after a man has been shot at a few times, he gets jumpy.
Suddenly Rossiter loomed in the doorway, stopping abruptly. "Barby? Barby Ann? Is that you?"
"It's me," I said. "It's Milo Talon."
"Oh?" He put out a hand, feeling for a chair. I jumped up and took his hand and led him to a place near me at the table. "Talon? Are you the one who's been having trouble?"
"I've been shot at, if that's what you mean."
"Who? Who did it? Was it some of the Balch crowd?"
Barby Ann came in from the kitchen, looking quickly from her father to me. "Pa? You want coffee?"
"Please."
Barby Ann hesitated. "Pa? Milo's been shot. He was wounded."
"Wounded? You don't say! Are you all right, boy? Can you ride?"
"I'll be back at work in a couple of days," I said cautiously. Something in his manner irri
tated me, but I was not sure what it was. And I had to remember that, due to my own discomfort, I was more easily irritated.
We drank coffee and talked while Barby Ann got something on the table. "Hope this won't make you leave us, son. Barby Ann and me, well, we'd like to have you stay."
"I'll finish the roundup. Then I'll be drifting, I think."
"Hear you bid for some girl's box at the social. Paid a good sum for it." He paused. "Who was she?"
"As a matter of fact, I don't know. She never told me her whole name, and she wouldn't let me ride all the way home with her."
Rossiter frowned, drumming on the table with his fingers. "Can't imagine that. Everybody around here knows everybody." He turned his head toward Barby Ann. "Isn't that so, honey?"
"They didn't know her, Pa. I heard talk. Nobody had any idea who she was or where she came from. She was ... well, kind of pretty, too."
After a while he turned and went into the next room. I sat over my coffee, half dozing. Yet my mind kept going back to those shots. Whoever had dug that hole between the logs in the cabin wall had known where to dig. Yet that might not be surprising, for line-cabins were often used by any passing cowboy who might stop overnight. The chances were good that every rider within fifty miles of the North Concho knew the place.
"How's the gather?" I asked Barby Ann.
"Good ... We've nearly four hundred head down there now."
"Seen Roger lately?"
She flushed, and her lips tightened. "That's none of your business!"
"You're right. It isn't." I got up slowly, carefully, from the table. "Just making conversation. I think I'll go lay down."
"You do that." She spoke a little sharply. No doubt what I'd said had irritated her, and she was right. I'd no business asking a personal question, yet I couldn't help but wonder if Henry Rossiter knew his daughter was meeting Roger Balch.
For those two days I rested, slept, and rested. My appetite returned, and it became easier to walk around. On the third day, I got Danny to saddle up for me, as I still hesitated to swing a saddle on a horse for fear of opening the wound. I rode down to where the herd was gathered.
the Man from the Broken Hills (1975) Page 10