CHAPTER XXXII
A CUP OF COLD WATER
The pursuers caught up with the Utes the third day out from Bear Cat. Itwas in the morning, shortly after they had broken camp, that Houck andBig Bill while scouting in advance of the troop jumped up an Indian outof the sagebrush.
He made across the mesa toward the river. Houck fired at him twice as heran, but the sentinel disappeared from sight apparently unhit. The soundof the firing brought up rapidly the main body of the troopers. BeforeMajor Sheahan and Harshaw could work out a programme another Indiansentry could be seen running through the sage.
The sight of him was like that of a red rag to a bull. Not waiting fororders, a dozen punchers instantly gave chase. The rest of the partyfollowed. Houck was in the lead. Not far behind was Bob Dillon.
The mesa bench dropped sharply down a bare shale scarp to the willowsgrowing near the river. The Indian camp below could be seen from the edgeof the bluff. But the rush to cut off the Ute was so impetuous that thefirst riders could not check their horses. They plunged down the bareslope at a headlong gallop.
Bob heard the ping of bullets as they sang past him. He saw littlespatters of sand flung up where they struck. As his horse slithered downon its haunches through the rubble, the man just in front of him divedheadlong from his horse. Bob caught one horrified glimpse of him rollingover and clutching at his breast. Next moment Dillon, too, was down. Hismount had been shot under him.
He jumped up and ran for the willows, crouching low as he sped throughthe sage. Into the bushes he flung himself and lay panting. He quakedwith fear. Every instant he expected to see the Utes rushing toward him.His rifle was gone, lost in the fall. The hand that drew the revolverfrom his belt trembled as with an ague.
Only a few of the riders had been unable to check themselves on the edgeof the bluff. The others had now drawn back out of sight. A wounded horselay kicking on the slope. It was the one upon which Bob had been mounted.The huddled figure of a man, with head grotesquely twisted, sat astride aclump of brush. Another sprawled on the hillside, arms and legsoutflung.
Below, in the sage not far from the willows, another body lay in thesand. This one moved. Bob could see the man trying to hitch himselftoward the shelter of the river bushes. Evidently he was badly wounded,for he made practically no progress. For a few minutes he would liestill, then try once more to crawl forward.
The popping of guns had shifted farther to the right. Bob judged that therangers and soldiers were engaged with the Indians somewhere on theridge. Only a few desultory shots came from the camp. But he knew itwould be only a question of time till some Ute caught sight of thewounded man and picked him off as he lay helpless in the open.
Bob did not know who the wounded man was. He might be Dud Hollister orTom Reeves. Or perhaps Blister Haines. Young Dillon sweated in agony. Histhroat was parched. He felt horribly sick and weak, was still shaking ina palsy of fear.
It was every man for himself now, he reasoned in his terror. Perhaps hecould creep through the willows and escape up the river without beingseen. He began to edge slowly back.
But that man crouched in the sunshine, tied by his wound to a spot wherethe Utes would certainly find him sooner or later, fascinated Bob's eyesand thoughts. Suppose he left him there--and found out too late that hehad deserted Dud, abandoning him to almost certain death. He could not dothat. It would not be human. What Dud would do in his place was not opento question. He would go out and get the man and drag him to the willows.But the danger of this appalled the cowpuncher. The Utes would get himsure if he did. Even if they did not hit him, he would be seen and laterstalked by the redskins.
After all there was no sense in throwing away another life. Probably thewounded man would die anyhow. Every fellow had to think of himself at atime like this. It was not his fault the ranger was cut off and helpless.He was no more responsible for him than were any of the rest of theboys.
But it would not do. Bob could not by any sophistry escape the dutythrust on him. The other boys were not here. He was.
He groaned in desperation of spirit. He had to go and get the ranger whohad been shot. That was all there was to it. If he did not, he would be ayellow coyote.
Out of the precarious safety of the willows he crept on hands and knees,still shaking in an ague of trepidation. Of such cover as there was heavailed himself. From one sagebush to another he ran, head and bodycrouched low. His last halt was back of some greasewood a dozen yardsfrom the ranger.
"I'll get you into the willows if I can," he called in a sibilantwhisper. "You bad hurt?"
The wounded man turned. "My laig's busted--two places. Plugged in theside too."
Bob's heart sank. The face into which he looked was that of Jake Houck.If he had only known in time! But it was too late now. He had to finishwhat he had begun. He could not leave the fellow lying there.
He crawled to Houck. The big man gave directions. "Better drag me, Ireckon. Go as easy as you can on that busted laig."
Dillon took him beneath the arms and hauled him through the sand. Thewounded man set his teeth to keep back a groan. Very slowly andcarefully, an inch here, a foot there, Bob worked Houck's heavy bodybackward. It was a long business. A dozen times he stopped to select thenext leg of the journey.
Beads of perspiration stood on Houck's forehead. He was in great pain,but he clenched his teeth and said nothing. Bob could not deny himgameness. Not a sound escaped his lips. He clung to his rifle even thougha free hand would greatly ease the jarring of the hurt leg.
Back of a scrub cottonwood Bob rested for a moment. "Not far now," hesaid.
Houck's eyes measured the distance to the willows. "No," he agreed. "Notfar."
"Think maybe I could carry you," Bob suggested. "Get you on myshoulder."
"Might try," the wounded man assented. "Laig hurts like sixty."
Bob helped him to his feet and from there to his shoulder. He staggeredover the rough ground to the willows. Into these he pushed, stillcarrying Houck. As gently as he could he lowered the big fellow.
"Got me as I came over the bluff," the Brown's Park man explained. "I waslucky at that. The Utes made a good gather that time. Outa four of usthey collected two an' put me out of business. Howcome they not to getyou?"
"Shot my horse," explained Bob. "I ducked into the willows."
It was hot in the willows. They were a young growth and the trees wereclose. The sun beat down on the thicket of saplings and no breezepenetrated it.
Houck panted. Already fever was beginning to burn him up.
"Hotter'n hell with the lid on," he grumbled. "Wisht I had some water."He drew out a flask that still had two fingers of whiskey in it, but hehad resolution enough not to drink. This would not help him. "Reckon Ibetter not take it," he said regretfully.
Bob took the bandanna handkerchief from his throat and soaked one end ofit in the liquor. "Bathe yore head," he advised. "It'll cool it fine."
As the day grew older and the sun climbed the sky vault the heatincreased. No breath of air stirred. The wounded man had moments ofdelirium in which he moaned for water.
There was water, cool and fresh, not fifty yards from them. He could hearthe rushing river plunging toward the Pacific, the gurgling of the streamas it dashed against boulders and swept into whirlpools. But between Boband that precious water lay a stretch of sandy wash which the Blancocovered when it was high. One venturing to cross this would be an easymark for sharpshooters from the camp.
It seemed to him that the firing was now more distant. There was a chancethat none of the Utes were still in the camp. Fever was mounting inHouck. He was in much distress both from thirst and from the pain of thewounds. Bob shrank from the pitiful appeals of his high-pitched,delirious voice. The big fellow could stand what he must with set jawswhen he was sentient. His craving found voice in irrational moments whilehe had no control over his will. These were increasing in frequency andduration.
Dillon picked up the flask. "Got to leave you a while," he sa
id. "Backsoon."
The glassy eyes of Houck glared at him. His mind was wandering."Torturin' me. Tha's what you're doin', you damned redskin," hemuttered.
"Going to get water," explained Bob.
"Tha's a lie. You got water there--in that bottle. Think I don't knowyore Apache ways?"
Bob crept to the edge of the willows. From the foliage he peered out.Nobody was in sight. He could still see a faint smoke rising from theIndian camp. But the firing was a quarter of a mile away, at least. Thebend of the river was between him and the combatants.
Bob took his courage by the throat, drew a long breath, and ran for theriver. Just as he reached it a bullet splashed in the current almostwithin hand's reach. The cowpuncher stooped and took two hasty swallowsinto his dry mouth. He filled the bottle and soaked the bandanna in thecold water. A slug of lead spat at the sand close to his feet. A panicrose within him. He got up and turned to go. Another bullet struck a bigrock four paces from where he was standing. Bob scudded for the willows,his heart thumping wildly with terror.
He plunged into the thicket, whipping himself with the bending saplingsin his headlong flight. Now that they had discovered him, would theIndians follow him to his hiding-place? Or would they wait till dusk andcreep up on him unseen? He wished he knew.
The water and the cool, wet bandanna alleviated the misery of the woundedman. He shut his eyes, muttering incoherently.
There was no longer any sound of firing. The long silence alarmed Bob.Was it possible that his friends had been driven off? Or that they hadretired from the field under the impression that all of the riders whohad plunged over the bluff had been killed?
This fear obsessed him. It rode him like an old man of the sea. He couldnot wait here till the Utes came to murder him and Houck. Down in thebottom of his heart he knew that he could not leave this enemy of his tothe fate that would befall him. The only thing to do was to go for helpat once.
He took off his coat and put it under Houck's head. He moistened the hotbandanna for the burning forehead and poured the rest of the water downthe throat of the sick man. The rifle he left with Houck. It would onlyimpede him while he was crossing the mesa.
None of us know what we can do till the test comes. Bob felt it wasphysically impossible for him to venture into the open again and try toreach his friends. He might at any instant run plumb into the Utes.Nevertheless he crept out from the willows into the sage desert.
The popping of the guns had begun again. The battle seemed to be close tothe edge of the mesa round the bend of the river. Bob swung wide,climbing the bluff from the farther skirt of the willows. He reached themesa.
From where he lay he could see that the whites held a ridge two hundredyards away. The Utes were apparently in the river valley.
He moved forward warily, every sense abnormally keyed to service. A clumpof wild blackberries grew on the rim of the bluff. From this smokebillowed. Bullets began to zip past Bob. He legged it for the ridge,blind to everything but his desperate need to escape.
The Fighting Edge Page 32