Then I was out the back door, going up the outside stairs, running lightly and through the door, ducking into the first room, luckily empty. I climbed out the window, stood up on the sill and, catching the roof edge, pulled myself up and over.
Men rushed by between the buildings, footsteps pounded in the hallways below. The chase was in full cry. Lying there, stone still, I waited.
Movement in the room below alerted me. Then voices spoke, near the window, and I could hear every word plainly.
“You knew him before?” That would be Wetterling.
“In Mexico,” Nana’s voice answered. “He rode for my father, and when Sanchez killed my father and took me away with him, Lou Morgan followed. He killed Sanchez in the street, then took me home. He was tried for it and sent to prison.”
“You love him?”
“Love him?” Her voice was careless. “How could I? I was a child, and he was a boy, and we scarcely knew each other. And I don’t know him now.”
“You’ve been different Since he came.”
“And you’ve been insistent.” Nana’s voice was edged. “I’m not sure which it is you really want—my ranch or me.”
He evidently started toward her, for I heard her move back. “No!”
“But you told me you’d marry me.”
“I said I might.” She was right at the window now. “Now go away and find some more gunmen. You’ll need them.”
He started to protest, but she insisted. I heard the door close then, and I heard Nana humming. She came to the window and said distinctly:
“Next time you use my window for a ladder, please clean your boots.”
Swinging down by the edge of the roof, I went through the window and away from it.
She was wearing a blue riding outfit, her hair beautifully done. I’ve never seen a girl look more desirable. She saw it in my eyes, for I was making no effort to conceal what I felt.
“What are you, Lou?” she demanded. “An animal?”
“Sometimes.”
My blood was heavy in my pulse. I could feel it throb, and I stood there, feet apart, knowing myself for what I was—a big, dark man hunted in the night, looking at a woman for whom a man would give his soul.
“When I’m close to you I am,” I added.
“Is that a nice thing to say?”
“Maybe not. But you like it.”
“You presume too much.”
I sat down, watching her. I knew that the amusement which must be in my eyes bothered her. She knew how to handle men and she was used to doing that. She had been able to handle me, once. That was long ago. I’d left tracks over a lot of country since then.
“You’re not safe here,” she said. “Twenty men are hunting you. You should go—ride on out of here.”
“Know a man with thin hair, nice-looking, like a college professor?”
The question startled her, but the sharpening of her attention told me she did. “Why do you ask?” she said.
“He hired me to come here. To stop Wetterling.”
“You lie!”
It flashed at me, a stabbing, bitter word.
An angry word.
“It’s true.”
She studied me.
“Then you didn’t come because I was in trouble?”
“How could I? How could I know?” I smiled. “But the idea of a job to keep a man away from you was attractive. I liked the idea.”
Despite her wish not to show it, she was disappointed. She had been seeing me as a knight-errant, come to her rescue. As if she needed it! Most men were toys for her. Yet she did need rescue, more than she guessed.
It was not Wetterling who made me jealous now, but the unknown man, my employer.
“He would not do such a thing,” she insisted. “Besides, he doesn’t even know about—about Henry.”
“He knows. That isn’t all he knows. He’s after your ranch, too, you know.”
She was wicked now. “Oh, you liar! You contemptible liar! He’s not even interested in ranching! He’s never been on a ranch! He wouldn’t think of hiring a—a killer!”
The name had been applied before. To an extent, it was true. I shoved my battered hat back on my head and began to build a smoke, taking my time.
“Wetterling doesn’t care about the ranch, either,” I said slowly. “He’s interested in only part of it.”
It went against the grain for her to believe that any man was interested in anything but her. Yet she accepted the accusation against Wetterling, but against the other man, no.
That was why the other man bothered me most.
“I don’t know what you mean,” she said.
“Nana Maduro,” I said thoughtfully. “It’s a lovely name. An old name. So old there was a Maduro among the first to come to New Spain. He had a brother who was a Jesuit.”
“There were Jesuits in your family, too.”
“How’d you come to buy that ranch? Because of your grandfather, wasn’t it? He left you the money and told you to buy it? That if you did you’d never want?”
She was genuinely puzzled.
“And so?”
Sitting with my big forearms on the back of the chair I straddled, I could see somebody down below, between the buildings. I lit my cigarette and inhaled, tensing slightly.
“Have you forgotten the old stories?” I asked. “Of the conducta?”
She paled a little. “But that was just a story!”
“Was it? Your grandfather insisted on this place. Why? When it was so far from all you knew?”
“You mean—it’s on this place? My place?”
“Why do you think they want it?” I shrugged. I heard a boot grate on gravel and got up, keeping back from the window. “Wetterling, and your scholarly friend?”
“That’s ridiculous! How would they know? How could he know?”
I moved toward the door, but stopped suddenly. “So beautiful!” I said softly. “Little peasant.”
Her face flamed. “You—you call me, a Maduro, a peasant! Why, you—”
My smile was wide. “A Maduro was a mule driver in the expedition. My ancestor was its capitán!”
III
DUCKING OUT THE door before Nana could throw something, I glanced quickly up and down the hall, then swiftly stepped back through. Before she realized what was happening I had an arm about her. I drew her quickly to me. She started to fight, but what are blows? I kissed her and, liking it, kissed her again. Was I mistaken or was there a return of the kiss?
Then I let her go and stepped quickly out and shut the door. “Coward!” I heard her say, as I ran lightly down the hall.
Then they were coming. I heard them coming up the back stairs, coming up the front stairs. I dodged into the nearest room, put down my cigarette and dropped two more cigarette papers upon the glowing end; then, ripping a blanket from a bed, I touched the end to it. Instantly, it flared up.
Quickly I crossed the room. The fire would give me only a moment of time before they put it out. I was at the window when I heard a yell as somebody smelled smoke.
“Fire!”
Running steps in the hall outside, then stamping feet. Glancing out the window, I saw only one man below. He had turned his head slightly. Swinging from the window, I dropped the eighteen feet to the ground.
He wheeled, swinging up his rifle, and I grabbed the barrel end and jerked it toward me. Off balance, he fell forward. On one knee I grasped his shirt and crotch and heaved him over my head and into the wall. Then I was up and running.
A shot slammed at me. I grabbed the top pole of the corral and dropped over it. Horses scattered. Running to the gate I ripped it open and, swinging into a saddle, lay far down on the other side of the horse I had grabbed as we came out together. All the horses in a mad rush, and me among them.
Shots rang out, curses, yells. The horses charged down the alley. A guard tried to leap aside, almost made it, then we were racing on. Swinging the horse I rode from the crush, I headed for the stable w
here Big Red was waiting.
Dropping from the horse, I had started forward when, too late, I saw them waiting there—three men with guns. I felt a violent blow, my leg went from under me, thunder broke around in a wave, and then—pure instinct did it—my guns were shooting, shooting again.
Then somehow the men were gone and I was in the saddle on Big Red, and we were off and running and there was—odd, so close to town—the smell of pines.…
Only it was not close to town when the pine smell came to me. The pines were on a far mountain, and I was on the ground. Not far from me Big Red was feeding. Rolling over, I sat up, and the movement started me bleeding again. My head throbbed and a wave of pain went through me. I lay back on the grass and stared up at the sky where clouds gathered.
After a while I tried again, and got up to the stream which had attracted Big Red. I drank, and drank again. Under the low clouds I ripped my jeans and examined my wounds. Then I bathed and dressed them as best I could, thankful that I knew the ways of the Indians and the plants they used in cases like this.
Back in my saddle I rode deeper into the hills. Far behind and below me was the ranch, but I kept riding, looking for a rock shaped like the back of a head. Twice I stopped to look back. Riders were spread across the country below, searching for me.
A spatter of rain came. It felt cool against my face. Lightning darted, thunder crashed. Feebly I struggled into my slicker. Humped against the pound of the rain, I went on.
The rain would wash out my tracks. I would be safe. Big Red plodded on, and thunder rolled and tumbled among the great peaks, and once an avalanche of rocks roared down ahead of us, but we kept on. And then in a sharp streak of lightning, I saw the head!
Rounding it, I rode right into the tumbled boulders, weaving my way among them. Twice I ran into blind alleys. And then, after retracing my steps, I found the right one and a way opened before me.
Trees, their blank trunks like bars of iron through the steel net of the rain. My body loose in the saddle, somehow guiding the red horse. A dip downward, a mountain valley, a steep trail. Then grass, water, trees—and the arched door of an ancient Spanish mission!
In an adobe house we took shelter, Big Red and I. From amolillo and maize I made a poultice for my wounds and rested there, eating only a little at a time from the jerked beef and bread in my saddlebags.
Here I slept, awakened, changed the poultice on my wounds, then slept again.
I would be safe here. No one had found this place in two hundred years, and no one was likely to find it now. And then night came and the wind howled and there was a long time when the rain beat upon the ancient roof, leaking in at places and running along the ancient floor.
There was a long time when there was only lightning, thunder, and the wind. Then came a time when hands seemed to touch me and caress me, and I dreamed that I was not dead and that the lips of my loved one were on mine again.
Morning came and I was awake. Sunlight fell through the ancient door. Outside, I could hear Big Red cropping grass, and his saddle and bridle were in the corner. I could not even remember taking them off.
My head was on a pillow of grass, and a blanket covered me. My wound would need care and I rolled over and sat up. But I saw then that the dressing was fresh and of white cloth that I had never seen before. There were ghosts in this place.
And then I heard someone singing, and a shadow was in the door, and then Nana came through it, bearing an armful of flowers.
She stopped when she saw I was awake.
“So,” I said, “you came.”
“Who else would come? Who else could find you?”
“You told no one?”
“Not anyone at all.”
She came over to me, remaining a respectful distance away because despite my illness there was a hunger in my eyes when I looked at her.
“I’m going back now,” she said. “You must rest. I brought food, so there is plenty. Rest, recuperate, then ride away.”
“Away?”
“Wetterling has hunted you like a wild animal. He will not listen. You killed Mack. You killed two other men and wounded several. He is determined to hunt you down.”
Then I told her quietly and honestly that I would not ride away, that I would stay there, that her kisses were so rich they had spoiled me for other kisses. I must remain.
She was furious. She told me I was a fool. That she had never kissed me, would never let me kiss her again, that I must go away. She did not want me dead.
“You love me?”
“No!” she spat at me. “Love you? A killer? A hired gunfighter? A no-good? Go away! I just don’t want you dead after what you did for me long ago.”
Sadly I shook my head. “But if I am gone I will not be able to make love to you. That is bad.”
She got up, holding her chin high. It was lovely to see her like that, but she went away and left me.…
Days passed into a week, and a week into another. I walked, I snared game. I ate what food was left. I searched the old mine, looked about. I found a place under the floor where—
I heard them coming too late. My guns were across the room.
It was my employer, and he was not alone. With him were two Yaqui Indians. Two of the wild ones. They all had guns and they were definite with them.
“I did not know,” he said, “that you are an Ibañez.”
“How did you get here?”
“Watched Nana. It was simple. You vanished. You had to be somewhere. What more likely place than here? So I watched her, for if anyone knew, she would. And now I have you.”
He sat down. The Yaquis did not. “You failed in your job. Now tell me where the silver was buried, and the mission vessels.”
“Who knows?”
His smile was not nice. “You have heard of pinning needles of pitch pine through the skin and lighting them? The Yaquis understand that sort of thing. That is the way we will start unless you talk.”
It was a bad way to die. And I was not ready for it. Yet how strong was I? How much recovered?
“We might make a bargain.”
“Only one. I’ll give you your life if you tell me.”
Of course, he lied. The cold ones are the dangerous ones. He would kill me when he had picked the meat from the shell of my story. It was better to die. “All right,” I said. “I’m not anxious to die.”
He would be difficult to fool, this one. Wetterling would have been easier. I looked at my hand upon my knee. How much of my strength had I lost? How much of my agility? During the snaring of game, the walking, the searching, my strength had seemed to come back, but two weeks was not much, and I had lost blood.
“It is late,” I told him, “for we need the morning sun.”
He frowned. “Why? This is the place.”
My shrug was tolerant. “Here? Such an obvious place? How could they know it would not be found? The trail was good then. No, the silver is not here, nor are the vessels.”
Reluctantly, he listened. More reluctantly, they began to bring in blankets and food for the night. They allowed me to help with the fire, and I remembered Nana saying that Wetterling was searching for me feverishly. His men were scouring the country. I thought of that, and of the fire.
It was late afternoon, an hour before darkness. The air was still. Moving slowly, to make them think my strength had not yet returned, I helped gather wood.
So you know the ocotillo? Candlewood, it is called. A rare and wonderful plant. Not a cactus, although it is thorny, its stems are straight like canes, and it blossoms with brilliant flowers of scarlet.
We of the desert know it also as strong with resin, gum, and wax, that it burns brightly, fiercely, and has still another quality also.
Rarely does one find a dead ocotillo. This plant knows the secret of life. Yet sometimes single canes die, or sometimes one is broken off, or blown down by winds. There was a dead one near, uprooted in a slide. Gathering fuel, I gathered it. Helping to build the fire, I added the
ocotillo. The Yaquis were not watching, and Borneman, for that was my employer’s name, did not know the ocotillo. And we were inside the building.
On the fire it crackled, fierce tongues of flame ran along the canes, the fire burned high, and up the fireplace went billows of intensely black smoke!
IV
WE ATE WELL that night, for Borneman traveled well. He had plenty of blankets, for he was a man who liked comfort. As who does not? But there are times and times.
They bound me well. He did not trust the Yaquis to do that. Not Borneman. He bound me himself and the Yaquis could have done it better. A blanket was thrown over me, and soon I heard them breathing regularly in sleep. Borneman and I slept near the fireplace. The Yaquis were near the door.
Large as I am, I am nimble, and my insides are resilient. And there was a trick I knew. My wrists were bound behind my back, but by spreading my arms as wide as possible, I backed my hips through them. Like most riding men, my hips are narrow, but it still was a struggle. I got through, though, then drawing my knees high under my chin, I brought my bound hands under my feet so they were in front of me. My teeth worried the knots until they were loose. Two hours it took me, and careful work.
Then I was free. The breathing of my captors was still even, regular. In my blanket I got to my feet and, like a cat, moved to the door. As I moved to the open space a Yaqui’s breathing broke. I heard a muffled gasp, and he started to rise. But my right fingers quickly had his throat and my left sank into his wind. He was slippery, like a snake, but I had him off the floor.
He struggled desperately, silently, but my hand remained at his throat and the struggles grew weaker. I took him outside, dropping his body like carrion where they would find it. A killer he was, one who would have tortured me. I felt no regret.
And then I fled—into the trees and to the grassy park where Big Red was concealed. With a hackamore made of the ropes they had used to bind me, I bridled him. My saddle was back there, but I had ridden bareback many a time. I crawled upon, him, and rode into the darkness of the night.
Collection 1989 - Long Ride Home (v5.0) Page 11