They headed south for a couple of hours and by now the horses were starring to show signs of feeling the strain of the pace. Spur himself was at the end of his rope. But he was determined that it would not be he who slowed the pace. He wanted Blaxall and Smith before they crossed into Mexico. He was glad, however, when Ben suggested that they rest the horses and got a bite to eat themselves. They rode on a short way further and they came to water in country that was part stony and part brush-covered. The water was no more than a trickle, but it was enough for men and beasts. Here, Ben said, the fugitives had stopped, but not for long. They must, he opined, be killing their animals. Spur knew that the mare and the mule could keep up, but he wondered about Damyon’s sorrel. The animal looked as if it had no more than a few more hours in it. All right, he thought, they would leave Damyon behind to be picked up on their way back. He and Ben could do this alone.
Then he wondered. Could he do it? Could he stay in the saddle much longer?
The answer to that was that he damned well had to.
They ate. They rested the horses for an hour. Then they went on again. Ben’s hunch was that they’d catch sight of the fleeing men before long. Damyon prayed it would be before his horse played out.
They were still hammering south by noon and the intense heat was getting to them. Men and horses suffered equally. It seemed that every ounce of moisture was wrung out of them. Spur was starting to think that before he caught Blaxall and Smith, the mare would be ruined by the pace. He knew that she would run as long as he demanded it of her. The mule Ben rode was made of iron.
When they halted at noon to loosen cinches and rest the animals a little, there was no shade for miles. They still hadn’t sighted the fugitives. Damyon’s horse was as good as finished. It stood with hanging head and splayed forelegs.
They sat in the little shade offered by their animals.
‘This is where we leave you, Clance,’ Spur said.
Damyon looked disgusted.
‘Hell,’ he said.
He had good reason. He wanted to help take the runaways. It was also daunting to be left but here on your lonesome.
Ben said: ‘We’ll be headed back this way tomorrow.’
‘We’ll need you then,’ said Spur.
When they were rested, Spur and Ben rose. They decided to change mounts. Such an arrangement often rested men and beasts. Damyon wished them luck and they went on.
They rode for a couple of hours before Ben stopped. Spur pulled up alongside him and the Negro pointed to the ground.
‘They stopped here, Sam,’ he said, ‘A couple of their mounts is nigh finished. They rested a while and then went on slow.’
Spur looked over the country.
Ahead of them the land gradually rose and became more broken. There was a chance that the men they followed were no more than five miles ahead of them. They might risk stopping in broken country where they could find cover. He put it to Ben and the Negro said, yeah, he reckoned that was on the cards. With luck they would come up with Blaxall before dark.
They went on.
The mare’s hide was now covered with sweat and dust. The snap had gone out of her pace, but the was keeping bravely on. Ben knew as well as Spur how to get the best out of a horse. The mule hammered on, his ugly head thrust doggedly forward, his great legs pacing, looking as if only a bullet between the eyes would stop him.
When they came to the edge of the broken land, Ben had one of his hunches. He was in the lead, eyes watchful. Now he held up his hand and they both halted.
‘Sam,’ he said, ‘we ridin’ into trouble. I done feel it in my water.’
Spur swung down from the mule.
‘Mind if I ride Jenny now?’ he said.
Ben grinned. He knew Spur and the feeling he had for the mare. Spur and Jenny had been through hell and high water together. Ben reckoned the little animal knew the man’s thoughts.
‘Sure,’ he said and slipped from the saddle. As Spur went up to the mare, she turned her head and nuzzled him. He stroked her sweating head. Ben said: ‘Best thing we can do is circle east.’
‘How about splittin’ up?’
Ben shook his head.
‘We do that when we sure where they’s at,’ he said.
They mounted and angled southeast, going cautiously their eyes wary. They knew the men ahead of them could be holed up. Certainly their horseflesh was giving out.
Pretty soon they were in broken country, a good distance from the tracks of the fugitives. Only Ben’s keen sense of country and the behavior of men could aid them now to find Blaxall, Smith and the third man.
‘One thing for sure,’ Ben said. ‘If we don’t find them. They find us.’ He nodded his head toward the tumbled mass of rocks and brush. ‘They in here someplace.’
They reduced their pace to a walk.
Suddenly, Ben halted and Spur followed suit.
‘Heard a horse,’ Ben said. Spur hadn’t heard a sound. ‘Over yonder.’ He pointed his chin, Indian-fashion, toward the west. They turned in that direction. They worked their way forward through a scattering of rocks and brush, crazily slanting ridges and dry washes. Here and there were patches of dried out grass. But as they advanced it seemed that the grass grew greener and, rounding a corner, they came on water finding its way through the rocks. The sight seemed incongruous in such dry country. It would make an ideal place to fort up. They sat their horses, looking around, deciding whether it was time they dismounted and went forward on foot.
When the shot came, Ben was out in front. The bullet struck the saddle and raised a tiny puff of dust. Ben didn’t need any second warning. His life depended on speed and he hurried. He came out of the saddle fast, ripped his rifle from leather and dove for the rocks to his right. Albert, the mule voiced his usual bad-temper and swung away to the left. He knew as well as Ben when it was time to move away from trouble.
Spur, regardful of Jenny, turned her and spurred back the way he had come, turned her around a large boulder and halted to slip from the saddle. He pulled his rifle from the saddle-boot and said, ‘Stand, girl.’ Then he started to work his way forward off to Ben’s left. He had the feeling that the shot had come from above, but he couldn’t be sure. Rocky country played hell with sound. He and Ben were at a distinct disadvantage. Whoever was ahead knew roughly where they were, but they had no idea where the enemy was. For all Spur knew, he was outflanked already.
He came in sight of Ben, crouched low behind a boulder. When he managed to catch the Negro’s eye, he signed that he was going to work his way forward further south. He saw the Negro’s sign of agreement and went south at a crouch through the boulders. The heat thrown off by them was intense; it fell upon him like a series of physical blows. He felt as though every ounce of moisture had been wrung out of him. The hard ride had taken it out of him and he was in poor physical shape. But he knew he had to keep going.
He moved with the greatest of caution. To the best of his knowledge there were three men around here some place and they all wanted him dead. He had absolutely no idea of their locations. As he swung west from the south, he saw that ahead of him was a bluff-like rise in the land, rearing up a hundred feet or more above the rocks through which he moved. The rifleman who had shot at Ben could be up there.
A pall of silence hung over the land. Every sound he made seemed to fill the whole world.
Ahead of him was a fairly open stretch and he stopped, hesitating to cross it. He was now soaked in sweat and he regretted leaving his canteen on the mare. The creek, he reckoned, was far off to his right. The horse Ben had heard might well be on the grass growing near the water. Where there was one horse, there could be all three. He and Ben would hold strong cards if they could capture those animals and put the men on foot.
As he could no longer go east without exposing himself, he started to work his way a little further south, hoping to find better cover. Still no further shot had been fired. Blaxall realized he might have a long fight on his hands and he
didn’t want to waste ammunition. That went for both parties.
Now he came to thick brush that would give him cover almost to the foot of the bluff, or so it seemed to him from where he was. He started to make his way through it. He was thinking about Smith and how silently the man could come to you with that knife of his. Spur, a man accustomed to guns, had a deep hatred and fear of knives.
The silence was broken briefly by the flat slam of a rifle to the north. That could be Ben shooting.
Spur halted and listened.
Silence held the scene again. He looked for gunsmoke and could see nothing.
Then again came the sound of a rifle. This time the report came plainly from above. Raising his eyes he saw the telltale whisp of smoke moving slowly on the sluggish air. That placed one man for sure. He was on top of the cliff. So, Spur decided, if a man wanted to dominate this action, he would have to take the cliff-top.
He went on directly east, all the time searching for a way up to the height that offered some cover.
He was feeling pretty weak by now and wondered if he could make the climb even if he could find a way up. However, he reached the foot of the bluff without hearing or seeing a man. He stopped and rested for a moment, searching still for a way up.
The shot when it came was close.
It hit the rock behind him and whined away into the blue. He threw himself down and cursed gently and with some skill. He reckoned he had been missed by no more than a couple of inches. When he had recovered himself, he turned and started south, hoping that he could get sight of the marksman from a new position without being seen himself. He crawled some twenty yards then raised himself for a look around. He reckoned the other man had moved also, for the next shot came from the west and this time removed his hat from his head. He didn’t like that much. It occurred to him that there might be two men against him. And it was a good hat. He reached out for it, inspected the two holes in it with some disgust and put it back on his head. The only way he could go with any degree of safety was south again, so he did that, going with great caution, but at the fastest pace he could make.
Here he found the rocks in even greater confusion and the length of vision greatly lessened. That might or might not be to his advantage. Now he thought that he could be a fair distance from the other man, he turned east, hoping to catch him unawares from another direction. That is, if the man wasn’t doing the same in reverse. He had a very uneasy feeling that the fellow was pretty good at this kind of thing. It might even be Smith himself. That wasn’t a comforting thought and he didn’t take to it too kindly.
He went about forty yards east, then turned north.
This time the shot came from the northeast, just as he was working his way through some thick brush. He retreated hurriedly for twenty yards and dropped to the ground among some boulders. By now he was slightly unnerved. The fellow he was up against must be a damned Indian. Still he had heard no other sound than the shot.
Now he started west again.
He covered maybe twenty-five yards when he heard the loose stone rattle. That saved his life. He whirled, took in the charging man, the open mouth, the insane eyes, the knife flashing in the sunlight.
Smith.
He then did something he had not done in years.
He fired and missed.
The knife came around in a belly-ripping sweep. He arched himself away from it. It ripped through the front of his shirt. He brought the brass-bound butt of the rifle hard into the man’s side, received no more than a grunt in compensation and then was forced to retreat from that terrible knife. He tried to lever the rifle and fire, but the man was on him, driving the hard bulk of his body into his lighter one and throwing him off his feet.
He went back against rock, hard. His damaged ribs sent a wave of consuming agony through his body. He managed to get a foot into the man’s belly and kick him away.
But it would take more than that to stop the berserk creature. He came back quick and light as a panther. Spur managed to fire, but never knew if he made a hit. The man was on him, panting with ferocity. Spur rolled desperately and. heard the knife clang on rock. He staggered to his feet.
Smith turned.
Frantically, Spur levered as the man charged.
The shot seemed to catch him in mid-air, half-turning him. The knife clattered on stone. Smith halted and grasped his shattered arm, glaring at him wildly like some wounded beast. His eyes dropped to his knife.
Spur levered another round into the breach and said: ‘Back up.’
Eyeing him, the man took two paces backward.
Spur pondered if Smith was the only one near here. He should have killed the man. This was no time to take a prisoner. He stood panting, feeling like hell and wondering what he did next.
Smith decided for him.
It was so simple and so fast that when Spur fired the man was no longer there. He took one easy pace sideways and was gone. He seemed to disappear into thin air.
Spur started forward, running through the rocks, levering the rifle. He wanted one shot at Smith’s wide back and he would make amends for the miss back there.
He ran twenty yards and found nothing. The man had gone like a ghost.
Spur had forgotten the rifle above and it opened up now. Three shots came, warming up the air around him. He swerved and hunted cover. He heard Ben shooting. The rifle above fell silent.
He stayed where he was for a moment, filling his tortured lungs with air. He knew that Smith was around here somewhere and wounded. More dangerous than ever. His ribs felt as if they were cutting holes in his lungs. He hoped that was no more than the work of his imagination. He wanted nothing better than to get out of these rocks and get up on the height above. That was the only thing that would settle this fight.
His searching eye now caught what looked like a goat track angling steep up the face of the cliff. He assessed it. There would be a hell of a risk going up there. But the short hard trip could settle all this foolishness in short time. And his strength was running out.
The main snag was that while he was on the track, he would be exposed to the fire of anybody below. If Smith could no longer shoot and if, as Ben reckoned there was a third man with Blaxall and Smith, he would come under fire from one man. He must leave it to Ben to pin that fellow down. Meanwhile, of course, the man up above would also be in on the play.
What the hell, he thought. Either you had the luck or you didn’t. So he hoped this was his lucky day and headed for the base of the cliff.
On his way, he was shot at once from above and once from below. This discouraged him a little, but not too much and he went ahead.
When he reached the foot of the narrow trail he stopped, lay flat and tried to gather his strength.
Now, he thought. He gave a brief thought to the girl waiting for him in the Cimarron country and hoped he’d live to see her again.
He crawled onto the narrow trail and started up it. He thought that at least he was momentarily out of sight of the man above.
That might well be, but in the next few seconds, he was sure that he was in sight of a man below.
Two shots came. One passed above his shoulders and hit the cliff face, throwing dirt over him. The other fell low and did no more than chip rock. Right then, it seemed a good idea to go back.
He saw gunsmoke drifting below. Now for the first time, he glimpsed a man. No more than the part of a face and a shoulder. But that was something. Spur was now on higher ground and had something of an advantage. It wasn’t easy shooting from the narrow path, but he drove two shots at the man and he disappeared hastily from view.
That made Spur feel a mite better and he crawled on, eyes sharp for movement below, prepared for a quick shot.
He stopped crawling when he saw the man racing for a new position. He got off another shot and at the same moment Ben must have seen the man too, for he began shooting.
Now the man above joined in.
Then the shooting stopped.
&nbs
p; From below came a yell—
‘Spur’s coming up.’
Spur swore. Now the fellow above would be waiting for him. Just the same, he went on. He was about halfway now, so there was nothing to be gained by going back.
He knew that his strength was going. He hoped that it would last long enough to get him to the top. He didn’t like the idea of pitching down a hundred feet onto the rocks below.
He crawled on.
He hadn’t gone far before he heard the rattle of loose rocks from above and knew for certain that the man above him was moving toward him. Spur now had to keep his eyes on the man above and the man below.
The man below fired. Spur stopped crawling, flattened himself on the narrow sloping ledge and looked down. Gunsmoke floated lazily on the still air. He saw the marksman moving to a new position. He must be out of sight of Ben, for the Negro didn’t fire.
Spur went on. His sweat was running into his eyes. His rifle was so hot that it was almost unbearable to hold.
Now the ledge widened a little and he sought some cover for his right side. If he kept his head down, he would be out of sight of the man below. He quickened his pace. There was no further sound in front of him. He reached the top of the cliff and found himself a tumble of boulders on the edge of a flatfish plain. To his left was some brush and a scattering of boulders and from this cover now came the rumble of a horse’s neigh. To him it looked as if the man up here was Blaxall. He had put the other two out below as a screen between himself and danger, keeping the one strong horse for himself. His plan was now to kill Spur and ride out of there to the safety of Mexico.
Over my dead body, Spur thought.
A shot came. It was well wide of the mark.
Spur raised himself up and saw the man running. He lifted the rifle butt into his shoulder and fired as the man flitted from view among the boulders. He started forward. He could hear the man’s feet pounding now. There was panic in his speed. The man came briefly into sight again and he saw that it was Blaxall. He tried another shot and lost the man as he triggered. He started to run feebly, shouting for the man to give himself up. He knew that he was wasting his breath. Again the man came into view. Spur tried another shot and found that his rifle was empty. Hastily, he shoved a new load up the butt. His eyes were turned to the spot where he guessed the horse was located. He saw the man’s head rear into view above the rocks as he mounted.
The Brave Ride Tall (A Sam Spur Western Book 9) Page 15