Kid Rodelo (Louis L'Amour's Lost Treasures)

by Louis L'Amour

  He felt the bullet hit and went to his knees. He felt it as one feels a sharp blow in the back at the waistline. He felt no pain, nothing. Puzzled, he started to get up, and could not. Slowly he wilted to the ground, looking unbelievingly at his legs, which no longer seemed a part of him. He tried to rise again, and felt a twinge of pain. He put a careful hand around to his back and it came away bloody. He reached a second time, and his questing fingers found the hole. The bullet had smashed through his spine, and it was now lodged somewhere inside him. He lay back and looked up at the sky. The buzzards were there, waiting.

  Hat was puzzled. Somebody else had entered the fight, somebody he had not seen. There might be only one, but his common sense warned him there were more. There had been some shooting, but he had no idea who had shot, or why.

  He gave the quail call that would withdraw the Indians, and slipped back to the place where they had left their horses. The Indians joined him. Four were missing….

  * * *

  DAN RODELO CAME up to the little group, walking easily with his Winchester cradled over his arm. Another hung by a strap to his back, and he wore two extra cartridge belts. He had his own canteen and a water skin taken from a dead Indian.

  He came to them out of the desert, and they watched him come. All had seen the Indians withdraw, but they knew it was only a temporary respite.

  Rodelo looked around quickly. Only two horses were there, the grulla, loaded with the gold, and one other. Badger had been wounded slightly, and had bled quite a bit. He looked drawn and pale.

  “We’d better get out of here while the going’s good,” Dan said, keeping his eyes on Harbin.

  Harbin watched him, his eyes deep-sunken beneath his shaggy brows. “So you made it? I got to hand it to you, Danny. You got guts.”

  “I made it,” Rodelo said. “And I’ll make it all the way.”

  Harbin grinned at him, but it was not a pleasant grin. He took the bridle of the grulla and started off.

  “Wait,” Rodelo said. “You’d better have a drink.”

  Badger reached for the bag, grabbing it thirstily. Harbin held off, watching Badger drink. Rodelo knew what he was thinking—that he might have poisoned the water.

  After a bit, Harbin drank, while Nora drank from the canteen.

  They started on, but it was stumbling, bitter going. They walked steadily, Dan Rodelo bringing up the rear. A fine white dust rose from the plain. Weird dust devils danced in the distance, and the sun was lost in a brassy sky. They plodded on, and there was no sound but the shuffling of their feet—only occasionally a mumbled curse or their hoarse panting. The ground before them was flat, their course straight except for minor deviations because of creosote or cacti. The two horses hung back, wanting to stop. There was no sign of the Indians.

  The Indians knew they were going, and knew what was at the end of it—they could still afford to wait. They knew the white men had no place to go. Rodelo’s unexpected appearance had spoiled their plan for the moment; they had tried too soon, and had tasted the bitterness of the white man’s bullets, and now they would wait.

  Overhead, also waiting, were the buzzards.

  At last the sun was going down behind the mountains to the west behind the Gulf, spilling crimson and gold over the sky and turning to flame the rugged peaks of the Pinacate. The edge of the dunes became a dark, unending line behind them.

  The sun had set when they reached the shore….The boat was not there.

  They stared out over the blue water. In their exhaustion and despair, they had no words for the emptiness that lay before them. They just stood silent in utter defeat.

  The boat had been their goal, leading them on, drawing them, keeping them going. A haven they would reach, where they could rest, have a drink, eat cooked food once more.

  Had the boat gone? Or had it never come?

  “There’s another bay,” Nora said in a few minutes. “Right south of here.”

  “How far?”

  “I don’t know. Five miles—maybe ten miles even.”

  Ten miles! An impossible distance in their present condition.

  The grulla tugged at his lead rope, and Harbin released his grip, almost without thinking. Trailing the rope, the mustang walked away along the flat plain where the tides came, and at a somewhat higher point he stopped and dipped his head out of sight.

  “Water,” Badger said flatly. “He’s found the water hole.”

  They followed the mustang and gathered around the pool. It was small, the water was brackish, but it was wet and they could drink it.

  “We could send up a smoke,” Harbin suggested.

  “They’d think it was Indians.”

  “What then?”

  “We go on,” Rodelo said. “We have no other choice. We go on tonight.”

  He looked at the packs. There it was, the gold he had come so far to get. There was the gold for which he had served a long, bitter year in prison—the gold he had told himself he would return to those to whom it belonged.

  But what of these men? They had stolen it, or one of them had; and they had gone through a hard struggle to get away with it. How was he going to tell them what he meant to do?

  The moment was near, and when he spoke he must be ready to shoot. Joe Harbin had counted too long on that gold, and no doubt Tom Badger had done his own figuring. Poor Gopher had been out of it from the beginning.

  “We’d better dig in,” Badger said. “Those Injuns will be comin’ back.”

  “Can’t you talk to ’em? They’re your people.”

  Tom Badger looked at Harbin. “Are you crazy? I’m part Cherokee, and the Cherokee were eastern Injuns until the government took their land. We never even knew about these Yaquis. As far as that goes, the Injuns were always at war with one another—it was their favorite sport. They’d take my scalp as quick as yours.”

  They worked with pieces of shell and scooped out a trench, throwing up a wall of sand. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

  Badger glanced over at Rodelo. “You know where they’ll camp?”

  “North…that’s the only place I know of with water. There’s two or three springs on the shore to the north of here.”

  “D’you think that boat might be in the other bay?”

  “If it came at all, and if it hasn’t gone back, that’s where it will be.”

  Joe Harbin drank the brackish water. He studied Dan Rodelo. “I don’t figure you,” he said. “You’ve come a long way for nothing.”

  Rodelo looked at him and said nothing, but he could feel the showdown coming.

  “You figured we might cut you in for a piece of it, is that the idea? You want a piece of the take?”

  Rodelo smiled. “I want it all, Joe. Every last bit of it.”

  Harbin chuckled. “Well, you’re honest. I’ll say that for you.”

  “That’s just it, Joe. I’m honest.”

  They looked at him now. “What’s that mean?” Badger said.

  “I went to prison for a year simply because when they caught Joe Harbin I was riding alongside of him…I just happened to meet up with him on the trail. I didn’t know there had been a holdup, but I had worked at the mine, I knew the gold was going up the trail. The jury figured it was too much of a coincidence.”

  “So you got stuck,” Joe said. “Well, what of it?”

  “I am going to take the gold back to them, Joe, and I’m going to rub their noses in it. I’m going to show them what a bunch of two-bit fair-weather friends they were, and then I’m going to ride away.”

  They stared at him, nobody speaking. Nora Paxton could hear the slow, measured beat of her heart. Suddenly Joe Harbin said, “You figured to murder us and take the gold?”

  “No. I figured the Indians might do that for me, or the desert. Failing that, I thought I might come up with a plan
that would get the gold without anybody being hurt.”

  “Now, there’s a good lad,” Harbin said. “He’d take our gold and not hurt us! Why, you damn fool! Who would buy a story like that?”

  “I might,” Badger said. “Or once upon a time I might have.”

  “Tell you what,” Rodelo suggested. “Suppose I give you each a thousand dollars? We’ll call it reward money for helping to recover it.”

  “Generous, ain’t he?” Harbin sneered. “You ride off with our gold and leave us settin’ with a thousand each! You got gall, kid, but you’re in the wrong business. You ought to be a con man or a gambler.”

  He looked over at Nora. “Did you know about this?”

  “Some of it. I believe he’s telling the truth. I believe he intends to return it.”

  Harbin had the saddlebags behind him on the sand. He put a hand on them. “You forget it, Rodelo. You’ll never lay a hand on a cent of this.”

  “How about some coffee?” Nora suggested. “We could take a chance on a fire. They know where we are, anyway.”

  Nobody paid any attention. Harbin was looking at Rodelo, and Dan could see he was ready. “How about it, kid? You going to try me? You want a piece of the action right now?”

  Dan Rodelo smiled stiffly. It was an effort to smile because his lips were cracked and his face was stiff with dust, but he made it. “No, Joe, not yet. I’m going to need you for those Indians, and you’re going to need me.”

  “We’ve got to get out of here,” Badger said. “I think the coffee is a right idea. We’ll have us a fire, make coffee, and then we’ll build up the fire some an’ ease out of here. We can walk in the water…those tide flats stretch quite a ways out. We can get on over to that other bay.”

  They kept well back from the fire, although it was screened by the mound of sand they had piled up. Nora made coffee, and they drank it slowly, savoring every drop. All of them needed food, but thirst had taken the edge from their appetites. What they wanted was liquid, in any form. The coffee brightened them up, and when the time came to move out they started cautiously, Tom going first and taking the horses. They reached the edge of the water together and started along, walking single file.

  The Indians came out of the night suddenly. There was a flash of a gun and a horse went down, and Dan Rodelo swung his Winchester, firing at the flash. He sprang aside, hit the ground flat-footed and fired at another flash, then dropped to the sand and rolled over behind the dead horse, firing again quickly.

  He emptied his rifle and fired the Indian’s gun, and when that was empty, calmly reloaded his own. Then came a lull. Somebody was beside him and suddenly the man spoke. It was Tom Badger.

  “That straight about you comin’ after the gold?”

  “I told the truth, Tom.” He paused and then added, “I never had much, Tom, but I was working into something back there. I was making a place for myself, and then I had to fall in with Joe on the trail after that holdup.”

  “Tough,” Badger said.

  They waited a moment. Then Badger asked, “D’you think we got anybody?”

  “Uh-huh…one, maybe two.”

  “No tellin’ in the dark, like this.” After a pause he added, “I got a hunch, kid. I got a hunch I’m not goin’ to make it.”

  “You’re crazy. If anybody makes it, you will.”

  A few hundred yards east of them the Indians drew together. Yuma John was feeling disgusted. “I think it is finish,” he said. “I want no more. Too many die.”

  “They are but men,” Hat said.

  “We are men also,” Yuma John replied. “I think it is well to wait for another time.”

  “No,” Hat said. “These I will have.”

  “I go,” Yuma insisted. “Who goes with me?”

  Two of the Indians joined him. When they had gone, Hat looked at the others. Four were still with him. Well, it was fewer with whom to divide, but it would go hard with him when he returned home. He had always been successful, and the young men had sought every chance to ride with him. Now they would say his luck was gone.

  Hat led the way back toward the beach, where they found a dead horse and a few tracks. Their quarry was gone. Hat started on, leading the way.

  The ambush should have succeeded. He had recognized the trick of the fire for what it was, and they had gone ahead and waited for the white men to come. They heard them walking at the water’s edge but had miscalculated in the darkness. Several of his men must have shot at the horse, wasting bullets. The return fire had killed another man.

  “Look,” one of the young Yaquis said.

  There was a darkness on the sand…blood. Hat lifted his head and looked after them. One of them was wounded, and had been hit hard.

  Joe Harbin discovered it at almost the same instant, and a quarter of a mile further along the beach. Tom Badger was lagging, hanging to the side of the grulla.

  “Tom? What the hell?”

  “I caught one.”

  Harbin paused. “Bad?”

  “Don’t let them get me, Joe. I don’t want them to cash me in.”

  “They won’t.”

  “I mean it.”

  Dan Rodelo fell back. They had reached the point—what was it called? Sea Lion Bluff….

  “Let’s stop here,” he said. “We can see the bay. It’s high here, and we can run up a signal, make a fire, or something.”

  “Them Injuns,” Tom said, “they’ll be comin’ along.”

  “Why not lay for them?” Joe Harbin said. “We ain’t likely to find a better place.”

  There were rocks along the shore, and on the outer edge of the bluff some sea lions had gathered, justifying the name of the point. Among the rocks and brush, with the bulk of the bluff rising behind them, they waited.

  There was a rustling of surf…the tide was out…there was muttering and movement among the sea lions only a short distance away. Nora huddled close to Rodelo and whispered, scarcely moving her lips. “What will we do?”

  “Wait,” he said.

  “Tom?” It was Harbin. “Where you hit?”

  “In the belly.”

  Harbin swore.

  Suddenly Nora spoke. “Dan, there’s a light out there! On the water!”

  They all saw it then. It was well out, and plain to be seen. Undoubtedly the boat lay at anchor and in swinging with the tide it had turned, showing the light.

  “We made it,” Tom said. “That’ll be Isacher’s boat.”

  Minutes passed. There was subdued movement from the sea lions, but nothing else. The blackness of the bluff would give perfect concealment for their small party, and any sound of movement would be laid to the sea lions.

  Rodelo shifted his Winchester. He had only the one rifle, fully loaded now. The other, a poor sort of weapon, he had left back on the beach. He had examined the belts with his fingers and knew he had at least seventy rounds of ammunition, all .44’s, and they could be used in either the rifle or the six-shooter he carried.

  They heard the whisper on the sand before the Indians came into view, and when they did come they were only a suggestion of movement in the darkness, a shadow on the pale sand. No figure was distinct.

  Nora whispered suddenly, “Joe…don’t! The boat is out there. Maybe in the morning we can get aboard without a fight.”

  He shook her off. “Not now…we wouldn’t have a chance.”

  He lifted his rifle, and Tom Badger, lying on his stomach in the cold sand, did likewise. Behind a rock Rodelo eased his own gun into position.

  It might have been some movement, some glint of light on a gun barrel, but suddenly Hat hissed a sharp warning.

  Instantly, Joe’s rifle roared, followed by smashing reports, like echoes, from Badger and Rodelo.

  A man screamed, a horse plunged, snorting, and the answering fire came quick
ly, stabbing flame toward the thundering rifles of the three men on the beach.

  There was no question of picking targets, for there were no targets, only a confusion of movement and the flames as the Indians fired. The three men were on the ground, offering only their own gunfire for target, their bodies merged into the blackness of the bluff behind them.

  Suddenly the firing ceased, there was the drum of racing hoofs. Joe shot once more, after the vanishing horse.

  Then silence….

  Only lapping water, a faint stir of wind. Overhead bright stars that hung in the darkness above them.

  “What do we do now?” Nora asked.

  “We wait,” Joe Harbin said grimly.

  From the sand there came a low moan, then a subdued gasp….

  “Joe?” Tom Badger’s voice was weak. “Joe, let the kid have the gold. Let him take it back. It ain’t worth it.”

  “Sure,” Harbin replied easily. “Don’t worry about it. I was thinkin’ the same thing.”

  CHAPTER 14

  THE GULF LAY like a sheet of steel in the first gray light. Far out on the water lay the low black hull of a ketch, her two black bare poles pointing thin fingers at the sky.

  On the sand, their bodies twisted in death, lay four Indians. Hat was not there.

  Dan Rodelo stood up slowly, his muscles cramped from his position and from the dampness of the night. He picked up his rifle and wiped the moisture from the barrel.

  “We’d better light a signal fire,” Nora suggested. “They might leave without us.”

  They gathered driftwood. Only Tom lay still. “How is he?” Rodelo asked.

  “Gone. You heard him—that was when he passed on.”

  Joe Harbin looked down at Badger. “He was a good man, and a good partner. I’d never have made it through the first year without him. He was always talkin’ me down when I was ready to blow my top.”

  He glanced at Rodelo. “You seen me enough. You know I got a short fuse.”

  He lay the sticks in position, ripped a corner from his shirt for tinder, felt in his pockets. “You got a match?”