Flint (1960)

by L'amour, Louis

  He had been cleverly herded like a sheep into a cul-de-sac from which there seemed no escape. To go back the way he had come he must first advance, going directly toward Buckdun’s gun. And that was exactly what Buckdun would expect him to do. louis He was under cover. For the moment he was invisible to the hunter, and he glanced quickly around. There was a dip in the rock, a gully worn by water pouring down over the lava toward the depression at the foot of the wall. Ducking into it, he ran bent over, straight to the wall.

  To the right there was a blank wall, then one of those pits. He went that way, but there was a sheer drop, the edge running back under his feet. In the bottom was the jagged rock that had once been the roof of the pit. Among the rocks grew a few pines, some of them seventy feet, but their tops still below the rim.

  Turning, he went back in the opposite direction. He had but a few minutes, and there was no cover here, nor any concealment.

  He paused, knowing that a little thought was better than a lot of running. He could wait, but he could be butchered from cover if he waited, without ever seeing a target for return fire.

  He went on to the left, and there the wall took a sharp bend, falling back several feet before continuing on. Nowhere was there a break, nor was there any cover.

  And then he saw his chance.

  Here, where the rock wall jogged, there was a chimney. It was a crack in the wall that widened toward the top. Here at the bottom it was about level with his head, but only a few inches wide. Toward the top it became at least four feet wide.

  Yet, if he was in that crack when Buckdun came upon him, he would have no chance. He would be caught there, trapped like a rabbit in a snare, to be shot at will.

  And he did not even know if he could get into the crack and reach the top. He might fall. He had heard of rock climbers doing such things, but had never attemped it himself. But it was his only chance, and he was going to try.

  The corner of the wall was out of sight of Buckdun until he came far toward this side, and he would have to hope that Buckdun did not make it until he had reached the top … if he could do it at all.

  He looked up at the V-shaped crack. There was no place to get a proper handhold. The sharp V left no room for the fingers of even one hand.

  Somewhere behind him a foot scraped on stone. He took one quick glance up, slung his rifle, and jumped upward.

  Chapter 19

  With his left fist lifted high, Flint jumped and thrust the closed fist into the crack. The fist jammed there and he muscled himself up until he could get a hold on the side of the crack with his right hand. Releasing his fist, he took an opposite hold with it and worked his way higher until he could get a foot in the crack.

  When the crack was wide enough he put his back against one side, his knee against the other, and worked his way up until he could get both knees against the side of the rock chimney. He struggled upward, opposing his back to his knees until he could grasp the edge with his left hand.

  Below he heard the rattle of rocks, displaced by his exertions, and then the scrape of a moccasin or boot.

  Gasping for breath, he kept himself braced. He must swing his right arm, grasp the edge, then pull himself over. If Buckdun showed while he was hanging there, he would be killed.

  He had no time to waste. He swung his right arm across and up, and at the same time relaxed his pressure against the two sides of the crack. For an instant he hung there; then, with a tremendous heave, he pulled himself up and swung his leg over the rim.

  He caught a glimpse of a dark figure below, felt the rain beating on his face, then rolled up and away, even as a bullet nicked the rim where he had been a moment before.

  He lay flat on the wet rock, his lungs pumping at the air. Then slowly he pushed back a little farther and took the rifle from its sling. Only then did he look around.

  The terrain here was like that below: higher, and with a wide view of broken lava and pockmarking pits. He got up and looked off in the distance. The hideout was not visible from here. He could see green where the basin pasture was, and far off to the south and west, an even larger area of green, enclosed by lava, undoubtedly the Hole-in-the-Wall.

  He walked away from the rim, stepping carefully because of the knife-edged corrugations of the lava flow.

  Buckdun crouched in the partial shelter of an overhang and cursed the driving rain. It destroyed visibility, made hunting a hazard. And it was a cold rain.

  He made a small fire, considered what had happened so far, and felt a mounting depression. Nothing had been going right. With grudging admiration he reflected that he had never been sent after a man like this before. Who would think that a man could scale that cliff without wings? Yet Flint had done it.

  He made himself a cup of tea. Flint was not going anywhere. Ordinarily Buckdun would have been afraid the man he hunted would get clean away, but Flint meant to see it through. Chewing on a piece of jerky, Buckdun sipped his tea, and stared gloomily at the gray, rain-screened world.

  His shoulder was stiff and sore from the arrow wound, his pants were torn, and he was wet. There were a dozen cuts and abrasions on his hide from contact with the lava. Lightning flashed in the distance and he listened to the thunder roll its drums up a canyon, somewhere. He sipped his tea. Time to be getting on with it. He had a man to kill.

  The bullet smashed the cup from his fingers and smacked viciously into the stunted pine under which he was sitting.

  Buckdun rolled back quickly, his finger stinging from the violence that had smashed the cup from his hand. He reached out and grasped his rifle, snaking it to him. The bullet had surprised and shocked him deeply … he had been sure Flint would either remain atop the cliff or would take much more time in getting around it.

  He started to rise, and three more bullets beat a rapid tattoo of searching fire. The first smashed into his small fire, scattering the sticks and sprinkling his sleeve with embers, the second drilled into the solid blackness of the tree, which might at a distance have seemed to be his body, and the third cut across his knuckles.

  He crawled into the brush, and looked up to see Flint bearing down upon him. He whipped up his rifle and, springing free of the tangle, shot from the hip while he was still moving. Flint disappeared. Buckdun slipped into a deep crack in the lava, hung by his fingers, then let go and dropped to the bottom. He ran in the direction from which the shots had come, emerging in a rock-choked basin with high walls. Another bullet smashed near him; he squeezed between two rocks, gasping for breath and sobbing with fury.

  He stopped to reload, although there were still shells in the chamber. That Flint — there was a wicked bite to those shots he was firing, and his rifle obviously packed tremendous power.

  Buckdun looked at the back of his hand and there was a streak of bloody flesh across three knuckles.

  I’m getting out of here, he told himself suddenly. To hell with it, and to hell with them.

  Buckdun dropped to his hands and knees and crawled into the blackness of a cave in the basin wall. There was a shard of ancient pottery there, and an arrowhead of a kind he had never seen. He knelt with his rifle and waited. The rain fell unceasingly, although without its earlier violence. The thunder sulked in the distance, and the sky was low and gray, clouds swollen with rain. It could not be long until dark.

  He had no idea where he was.

  Flint was exhausted. He moved into the area from which he had driven Buckdun, and picked up the battered cup. The haversack which Buckdun had carried was there, and he found the small cache of tea and made a cup for himself. It had been sheer luck that he found a way down from the cliff, and happened to see the fault blue of smoke against the clouds and rain.

  Yet he dared not stay here. He gulped the tea, then dropped the cup and moved away. He limped badly, for his shin was black and hugely swollen where the rock had struck it. His palms were torn from scrambling in the lava, and his knees skinned. His muscles were heavy with weariness and he had no idea how much country he had covered.<
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  The rain still fell, and he felt as if he carried the burden of the storm on his sagging shoulders. The rifle was heavy and he had lost one of his pistols — somewhere back in the basin pasture, he thought.

  Flint wanted shelter and he wanted rest. He took a sight on the cliff from which he had first descended and started back, working his way with less caution than the situation demanded. He knew he had driven Buckdun to ground somewhere in the rock, but he was not up to standing by, keeping alert for any move.

  He dearly wanted rest.

  It was two miles to the basin pasture and he made it there, falling only once. He ripped his pant leg again and tore the flesh of his knee wickedly, ripping it deep this time.

  He climbed back down into the basin. The horses were huddled at the ice cave, and he avoided them. He would get back into the hideout and have a fire. He would be warm once more, even if it was the last time. He scarcely could remember a time when he had not been cold and wet.

  All through the bitter, long day they had run, climbed, and exchanged shots. He had come close … perhaps Buckdun was wounded.

  He got back to the rock house and built a roaring fire. He pulled off his clothing and rubbed himself dry with a blanket. Then he dressed again, in dry clothes, still shivering with cold. He made coffee, and put the beans on to warm up, dumping the can into the pot and then, after a thoughtful look, another can.

  He seated himself on the bunk and wiped his rifle dry, running a patch through the barrel. Then he dried the Smith & Wesson and checked the loads. He unloaded and reloaded the rifle after wiping the ammunition for fear some dirt had gotten on it during the wild flight of the day.

  He barred the door. The window was too small for anything larger than a cat, and the entrance through the manger next to impossible to find, but he blocked that door also.

  When at last he fell upon the bunk and pulled the blankets around him he was still shaking with cold, and he was exhausted.

  Nancy Kerrigan was in Alamitos when Buckdun rode into town. Along the street people stopped and stared or peered from windows. The big gunman was dog-weary and soaked to the hide. One hand was wrapped in a rough bandage and his face was drawn and haggard.

  He drew up at the general store and half-fell from the saddle. He stopped on the walk, under the awning on which the rain drummed, and looked up and down the street, then went inside. He bought two boxes of shells, then said, “Got any dynamite?”

  He bought fifty sticks, and the caps and fuses to go with them. Wrapped in an extra slicker to keep it dry, and with a new slicker for himself he was ready to go back. Instead he went to the livery barn, put up his horse and returned to the Grand Hotel. Within minutes he was stretched out and sound asleep.

  Nancy Kerrigan went to the store. “Howard, what did that man buy?”

  “Shells. He bought shells and he bought some dynamite, ma’am,” Howard said. “I’d say he had something holed up he wanted to blast out.”

  Nancy left quickly and went to the Divide Saloon. At the door she paused. No one was there whom she could send inside. Gathering her skirts, she pushed open the door.

  “Red,” she called, “is Milt Ryan in there? Or any of my outfit?”

  There was the scrape of a chair, and Ryan showed up in the door. “Howdy, ma’am. Something wrong?” Rockley and Gaddis were behind him.

  “Milt, could you backtrack Buckdun? He’s gone to the hotel, and from his looks I’d say he was dog-tired and ready for bed. I want to backtrack him. He’s got Jim Flint holed up somewhere and he’s bought dynamite.”

  “Dynamite? Well, now.”

  Ryan squinted at the street and at the rain coming down. “Reckon I could, ma’am. If the rain down that-away hasn’t washed his tracks plumb out.”

  “Pete,” Nancy said, “get your horses. Get mine, too. We’re going to find him. I’ll have no man blasted with dynamite. At least” — she looked at Pete and smiled — “not a man that good.”

  Pete Gaddis hesitated. He glanced at Rockley and at Milt Ryan. “There’s an easier way, ma’am,” Pete said. “We can go get Buckdun.”

  “No. You’d get him but one of you might be killed. No, we’ll find Flint and take him to the Kaybar.”

  Nancy Kerrigan had made one stop — at the general store — and bought a rifle. Her own was back at the ranch. Then they started south, holding to a space-eating trot.

  The men exchanged looks and Milt Ryan’s icy eyes showed a touch of amusement and of genuine pleasure.

  There was no trouble with the trail, for the Buckdun horse had been stepping out and its hoofs had taken a deep bite. Nor had anyone else been along since the rain. When the tracks ended they could see where the horse had stood for some time.

  “I’d say that there horse was here most of the day,” Milt said.

  “There were shots earlier,” Rockley said. “When I went back in the Hole after the horses I could hear shooting, off in the lava somewhere.”

  Buckdun had seen no necessity to conceal his trail. The tracks led to the lava beds and right to the crack in the rock.

  “We’re facing up to trouble, ma’am,” Rockley advised. “That Buckdun, he’ll come back down here. I figure he won’t sleep more than a couple of hours at most, because he figures he’s got his man where he wants him. He won’t take kindly to us messing around with his affairs.”

  “We will brand that steer when we get to it,” Nancy replied. “Let’s get inside.”

  They started along the crack, but coming to the fallen boulder, they halted, made doubtful by its presence. Then they went on, and entered the small basin.

  There was the garden, its neat rows of crops weeded and tended, but there was no sign of a horse, and at first they did not see the walled-up overhang where the house was. Milt Ryan worked his way over there and they gathered around.

  “A body would be a fool to go to pounding on that door,” Rockley commented, “with an upset man in there expecting trouble. Most likely he will shoot right through it.”

  Nancy did not reply. She walked up and, standing to the side of the door, she reached over and rapped loudly. “Jim! Jim Flint!”

  After several minutes she heard muffled sounds, and then Jim said, “Who is it?”

  “It’s Nancy, Jim. Nancy Kerrigan. I’ve three of the boys with me. Buckdun’s in town buying dynamite.”

  The door opened, and the first thing Nancy saw was the pant leg soaked with blood. The leg below was swollen, the material stretched tight.

  “You’ve been hurt,” she said. “Let me see what I can do.”

  “No,” he said. “If Buckdun’s bringing dynamite, you’d better get out. He’ll probably drop it down from above.”

  “He’ll do that,” Ryan said, “and if we all take out we’ll be better off.”

  “Go ahead,” Flint said, “I’m staying.” As Nancy started to interrupt, he added, “I’ve got to. If a man starts running there’s no place to stop.”

  She looked at him, her eyes clinging to his. “Jim … Jim, you’ll be hurt.”

  “When this is over, I’m planning to ride around to see you. Will you be home, Nancy?”

  “You do that, Jim. I’ll be home. You just come around, and you plan on staying awhile. We’re building again, and there will be a place for you.”

  “Pete,” Flint said, “get her away from here. If I know Buckdun he’s on his way back now.”

  When they had gone he went in the house. Others knew of it now. This place where he had come to die, so long a secret, was secret no more.

  He stuffed shells in his pocket and picked up his rifle and his slicker. The sky was overcast and there were rumblings of thunder. He walked outside and looked around, then went back in and through the manger.

  The horses came eagerly but he spoke to them. Then Flint climbed up on the lava, and started to work his way back toward the hideout.

  Night was coming, and thunder was rumbling. A spatter of rain started, threw a quick flurry of drops, and then raced
over the lava beds and away. In flashes of lightning he could see the fringe of dark trees along the mesa’s edge.

  Ahead of him was a wide, somewhat swelling expanse of open rock, part of it covering the tunnel that led from the hideout to the basin pasture. When he first saw the head he thought it was a rock. It was still for a long time but finally, looking past it so as not to blur his vision, Flint saw the object move and rise. And a man stood there, just beyond the swell, and he had a package in his arm.

  The man started forward, carrying the package in one hand and his rifle in the other, going toward the rim of the lava flow. Jim Flint lifted his rifle and Buckdun was dead in his sights, but he could not fire.

  Flint stood up, his rifle in his right hand. “Buckdun!” he said, and thunder rolled like far-off drums.

  Buckdun turned and looked at him. There was no more than forty yards between them, and Buckdun’s tall figure stood stark against the gray sky.

  “So this is the way it is going to be, is it?” Buckdun asked. “Well, you’ve given me a fair chase.”

  He spoke casually, but his rifle moved fast. Jim Flint tipped up the muzzle of his own rifle, caught the barrel with his left hand and shot from the hip. Buckdun’s shot was a split second too late. He staggered, dropped his rifle, and fell to one knee.

  Flint held his fire, but stood with his legs spread, rifle ready for a shot. “Well, you got me then,” Buckdun said. “I’d like a smoke … is it all right?”

  “Have your smoke.”

  Buckdun’s face gleamed momentarily in the glare of the match, the light showing the hard planes, then he bent his head, shielding the flare of the match with his body. When he turned the cigarette was between his lips.

  He stood up and a spark dropped away behind him. “You have given me a rough time of it, Flint. Tell me, is it true you were the kid at The Crossing?”

  Something in his tone was wrong, some sound, some faint suggestion of … another spark dropped away behind him, and another.