Dark Shadow

by Roy F. Chandler

  As he had no pack to carry his essential equipment, Logan created a compact bundle wrapped in the saddle blanket and rested it across his chest, held there by his hands gripping the Spencer beneath the load. The saddlebags hung awkwardly from a shoulder and bumped annoyingly against the heavy Sharps slung across his back. The load was heavy and clumsy, but the trail to the top was close, and he started for it.

  Because he looked directly into the black of the rising cliff, his feet found the path better than his eyes. Logan swore softly at his ungainly struggles to feel his way along, but there was no other way. An hour or so would see him on top, and then he could take an extended rest

  Pedro Morales had placed his man Chico at the bottom of the path up the mountain because Chico was the least dependable. If Sombra Preta came north he could not pass the Zapata Water. Certainly he could not enter the mountains without filling his water gourds from the Zapata because there was not a drop of agua above the valley floor.

  Pedro and his best man waited within the Zapata thickets. They had lassoed the already stinking bodies and dragged them far away. While it was light they had watched to the south, and men had come, but all were bounty hunters like themselves. Finding the Zapata already occupied, the latecomers had moved on.

  Morales' plan was that one of them would stay awake throughout the night. If by some chance Sombra Preta escaped them, Chico would shoot him at close range as he attempted to climb into the mountains. If the Dark Shadow chose to continue north, the three of them would run him down in daylight.

  If Sombra Preta came to them, Pedro Morales had no doubt about the outcome. They had guns and could shoot. They were not wild buck Apaches carrying muzzle loaders and spears and running around on foot. If the gringo Logan appeared, he would die, and Pedro Morales would have his dreamed of ranchero.

  Chico, who had no last name, knew why he was sent to guard the trail. The others would shoot Sombra Preta and he would not share in the reward, but he followed his orders and tied his horse well to the north where it would not scent and nicker at another animal. He chose a comfortable spot to sleep, close to the path where he could almost poke his rifle into the ribs of anyone attempting to pass.

  Chico was hard asleep when he heard someone stumbling about in the dark. He wondered if Morales was trying to sneak up and catch him asleep. Chico lay unmoving, expecting that he could speak at the last instant and scare a year from the life of his Jefe.

  When the dimly seen figure muttered in English, Chico nearly wet himself. It was Sombra Preta walking straight into his rifle. The reward was his--only Chico's rifle was not cocked, and he could barely make out a silhouette against the sky.

  He could still do it, Chico knew he could. The trick would be to thumb back the hammer while raising the rifle and shoot the instant the hammer cocked.

  Stories told by old ones about how Sombra Preta had slaughtered the wild Apaches flitted across Chico’s mind, but the thousand dollars in gold shined far brighter, and he prepared himself. He would wait until Dark Shadow was even with him, then he would uncoil like a snake and the bullet would be in Sombra Preta before he knew he was not alone.

  Logan wondered if the load he was carrying on his chest would touch the trail once the path steepened. He was sure he would be able to rest without hardly bending his knees, just lean forward and let the weight hit the path, breathe a few restful moments and straighten a little to be good for another dozen or so steps.

  If he cocked his head far back, Logan could see the cliffs against the sky, but otherwise he was as blind as a bat in daylight. He stuck a foot out, made sure it was on flatter ground, and brought the next one forward. It was slow, but he would plug along, and eventually he would be on top. Well, maybe a rest or two on the way up would not hurt.

  Chico made his move. He raised his rifle soundlessly, but could not disguise the clicks of his hammer cocking. He aimed for the center of the human mass almost at his rifle muzzle and snatched the trigger.

  The rifle kicked ferociously, and muzzle blast lit the night further blinding him, but Chico heard Sombra Preta grunt, and he rolled open his rifle's chamber and fumbled for another cartridge.

  The blast jarred Josh Logan to his core. Muzzle flames reached for him almost at his elbow. A searing rip of fire savaged his chest and a bicep suddenly burned. He dropped his load and strained to see, but the night dark hid whatever was out there. His ears identified the click of a rifle action, near, within reach, and Logan swung his Spencer like an ax at the sound.

  Chico could see a little against the night sky, and the figure he had fired at appeared to loom directly above him. His eyes dropped to help fit the live cartridge into his Remington and the mountain itself collapsed on him.

  A blow too terrible to bear sledged into his shoulder driving away air, and he heard bones breaking within his body. A scream rose in his throat, and he attempted to scramble away. Only one arm worked, but he raised it protectively barely an instant before another giant blow smashed it into his face and drove consciousness from him.

  Logan swung in desperation, driving with all of the force he could muster. He felt the Spencer's barrel smash into something yielding. He felt it sink in deep, but he could not tell where he had landed or on what. He snatched the rifle back and slammed it into the place where a scratchy scream was starting. This time the rifle vibrated with the force of the blow, and Logan believed he heard something crush. And a third stake-driving swing into the blackness struck something not moving, and Logan felt he might have smashed whoever had shot at him.

  But there could be more. Logan dropped tight to the earth, stilled his breathing, and laid his thumb ready against the hammer of the Spencer.

  He lay unmoving for many minutes, but no human sound or other breathing reached him. The shooter could be playing the same game, and Logan hated to risk movement, but he could not wait the night away. He imagined tireless Indian trackers being sent ahead on foot by his pursuers. They could be close, or whomever had shot him could be one of them.

  And he was shot. He could feel the seep of blood within his shirt and his chest burned ferociously. His arm too had been hit, but everything still worked. If he was seriously bleeding he could do nothing about it until he escaped his current predicament, and he could not wait longer.

  Rifle ready, Logan got to his knees. He again waited but heard nothing. He scrabbled around, located his pack and saddlebags, renewed his grip, and dared to stand erect. No shots met him. Logan resumed his climb.

  He had killed or seriously injured someone, Logan knew that. He also guessed that the pack at his chest had saved him from a fatal wound. In the dark, the shooter probably aimed for the center of what he saw. Instead of puncturing Logan dead center, the bullet had cut through muscle and perhaps more serious things across his chest. Logan doubted the ambusher was alone. He could have a sleeping companion who was even now creeping closer, or the shooter might be one of a line of bounty hunters strung across the valley or stationed at each path into the mountains.

  Might there be another ambusher at the top of the path? Logan cringed at the thought and realized he was not as clear of his enemies as he had believed.

  16

  Logan fought the mountain as if it were an enemy, but halfway to the crest he suspected the mountain might win.

  Old muscle does not regain strength quickly. A youth can exhaust himself and within minutes be ready to try again, but an old man? Logan proved what he already knew. Once he tired out he stayed tired out, and renewing strength required days rather than minutes.

  Progress up the unseen path was so slow that Logan's lungs barely labored. His thighs, however, were exhausted beyond burning and barely answered his demands, but he kept trying. He pushed a foot forward and leaned against it. If he could, he raised the next one, and in so doing he moved forward a little. When a foot failed, he flopped forward onto his armload and lay there until he regained enough power to try again.

  His weary mind played tricks, and at
times Logan was certain he heard the panting breaths and scratching gravel of climbers coming after him. Mostly, his thoughts roamed, and he would come to himself to find that he was still plugging up the path, or sometimes, that he lay face down on his pack apparently just resting.

  Logan was pleased that his grip on the Spencer remained strong, and when he checked he had not lost his big rifle or his saddlebags. If he gained the heights, he could need all that he carried.

  If it had been daylight, the weary horse could have carried the burdens, and later he might have been able to start the animal back down the trail to where it could find water, but in the black of this night he had to struggle on his own.

  He wondered at the darkness. Usually, starlight could have shown him footing, but the sky was overcast as if rain threatened. That was an improbable condition for this desert where water seldom fell, but there were no stars this night.

  He lost track of time, and when he found he could see a little, Logan feared that the night had fled and that morning would find him still on the upward trail.

  But that was not it. He had finally risen above the shadowed valley to heights that allowed the feeble night light to strike the mountain path. Immediately Logan was heartened, and his advances became longer before he again had to rest his load.

  Once he slept, until the grinding pressure of the heavy Sharps rifle across his back wakened him. How much time had he wasted? Without stars to read, Logan could not tell, but he felt a hint fresher, and judging the angle of the slope he believed the summit could not be much further.

  Finally he broke over the top. The relief was so great that he staggered a dozen yards across the flatter surface before dropping his arm load and shrugging off saddlebags and rifle. Carrying only his Spencer carbine, Logan limped back to the trail head and sat down with his back against a boulder. Ecstasy! And safety. Now he could rest, and no one could catch him straining like a pack animal, unaware of who might be closing in on his back.

  His eyes sought the horizon searching for the first hints of morning light, but the night was dark all around. He would have to be away with the first rays that allowed walking because those who hunted him would not wait, and they would be mounted.

  He looked for firelight in the valley and found some at the Zapata Water. Fires could be expected to die into coals during a night, but this one blazed brightly. The men at that fire would be enemies, and they rested and prepared only two miles away. He wondered if the man he had sledged with his rifle was among them, or were the fire keepers’ companions who had found the man's battered body and who waited only for their own riding light.

  When his enemies discovered his ascent into the mountains would they dare to attempt the same trail, perhaps to meet his gun part way up? They were a hungry crowd, and probably some were as reckless as the climber on the now distant mountain. Logan wondered idly if the fool had yet found his way down.

  Logan's chest burned as if a hot brand still lay across it, and his arm muscle was no better. Still, he could not have been bored through, or he would have been unable to continue. He could not examine the wounds in darkness, but it now felt as if he had been sliced across the chest and perhaps deeply grooved in the biceps. His probing fingers told him nothing more, and poking himself only added to the burn. Given daylight and an hour's walking time he would be in a place where he could sleep and examine his wounds at leisure.

  He wished vainly that he had held back a little of his water. He had not foreseen being shot or the agony of climbing when exhausted. Now he could only tough it through. He ran a thirst thickened tongue over parched lips and thought about all the water that awaited him. Water that was there, if he could find it after a twenty year absence. Water that could have been forever buried by one of the earthquakes that rumbled through this country or disguised by a simple rock fall that hid the concealed entrance.

  The Apache Water. He had closed the entrance with the intent that no man ever again find it. But, had they, and perhaps disguised the entrance to all but their own eyes? Or might the spring have failed long ago leaving nothing but a dry cave?

  If it were so, Joshua Logan expected he would die. Without water, he could not stay in hiding, and within a few hours these mountains would be trampled and crowded by bounty hunters.

  His exhausted mind wondered if it would be all that bad to die, to join Erni and old companions long gone? He tried not to question whether his lengthy killing would let him join his friends, but in the quiet dark he rethought his man hunting and decided that he could not seriously fault himself for taking those lives.

  Certainly his killing on this hunt would not be held against him. Human jackals could not be in God's plan, and like the bronco Apaches, this band of marauders needed eliminating.

  He thought of the wet sweetness of the canned peaches he enjoyed a day before, but the memory only taunted. Way back there in Perry County, Pennsylvania, his friend Billy Sweger raised peaches and competed for markets with his brother, Henry Logan.

  Good old Billy, friend from their youths, the same age in fact. Billy had named his son Joshua, after his best friend, Logan claimed. From the Bible, Sweger maintained. Eleven children Billy and Mary had brought forth. Logan marveled and wondered if his travels and adventures substituted even a little for the richness of a loving family.

  Here he lay, half dying on an unnamed mountain with buzzards both human and winged waiting to feed on his lonely carcass. He had not planned it this way, but Erni's death changed everything. Logan decided again that if he were to go down on this hunt it would be all right, but he would like to take Punto the bandit leader with him. That would satisfy and make all of his efforts worthwhile.

  The first light in the east caught him dozing, and he jerked himself awake and forced stiffened joints into movement. His wounds and injured hip complained with renewed torment, but he could begin to distinguish the rocks and earth, and he had no time to waste. The valley would remain dark for nearly an hour more, but that did not mean that the hungriest of the predators might not be starting their hunts.

  Logan hastily examined his wounds. There was a ragged tear completely across his chest where a bullet had gouged away skin and flesh. A half inch deeper and he would have been shot through from side to side. He could have complained that a half inch further away and he would have been missed entirely, but Logan knew he had again been fortunate. He supposed that in the dark the shooter had aimed for the middle of what he could see. Instead of Logan’s body, the middle had been between the pack and his chest.

  The bullet gouge in his biceps was deep and the wound had bled heavily, but it was crusted now, and movement of his arm was nearly normal. It was time to move out.

  Logan gathered his load and headed into the mountains. He knew the way. Each of these ridges was forever ingrained in his memory. There he had sat with a scout whose name he no longer remembered. Down in that hollow he had shot an antelope. The pronghorns roamed where there was no water, and Logan believed they did not have to drink. He had followed the almost invisible trail of a passing Apache along this ridge, and only a few humps over he would find the Apache Water that he and Barkley Sweet had stumbled upon.

  As he struggled along, Logan thought about that strange time. Usually he and Sweet had hunted deep within the twisted mountains. Yet, when the end came, the Apache had been found only a pair of miles from the valley rim. How often he and Sweet must have hurried past the Apaches' hidden water. Never had they suspected that their enemies could be holed up almost beneath their noses.

  Logan had chosen to spend their final hunting days remaining close to the rim in the hope that Apaches going to or returning from raiding would pass within their sight. If Logan and Sweet had not been waiting, the last of the wild ones would have survived and been into the valley within hours.

  He still had to rest too often, and when the ground rose or dropped steeply, the strain on his worn body was overpowering. Logan fell increasingly often, and while struggling erect
found himself studying his back trail in fear of an enemy appearing before he gained sanctuary.

  He crested his last ridge with a sense of triumph, and the Apache Water lay before him. He saw nothing, of course, only jumbles of broken rock like those in a thousand other hollows.

  Logan oriented himself without lowering his burdens. There was the shadowed boulder where he had hidden in wait, and over there was Sweet's position. If he looked, their empty cartridge cases would lay where they had fallen. He saw the rock slide that still concealed Sweet's body, and stepped the few remaining yards to where the entrance to the water should be.

  Logan experienced no panic when he did not immediately detect the rock-closed opening.

  He knew the spot, and he would find the entrance.

  Logan lowered his loads and laid the Spencer where he could grab it quickly. The lid of the Apache Water was a large irregular stone, and when he had closed the hole, Logan had dribbled other rocks over the edges hiding the lid's size and shape.

  His first guess was wrong, but a moment later Logan moved a few small stones and gazed down on the cover to the Apaches' secret well. No wonder he and Sweet had never found the place. Even when knowing its exact position, the hole was difficult to locate.

  Logan gripped an edge and tilted the lid out of place. Cooler and damper air rushed at him. He sniffed for the smell of stagnation and death, but the air smelled wholesome.

  He would not waste time examining the cave. Even if the water had dried up, the secret well was his only chance of escaping capture and certain death. Logan gathered his bundle and his saddlebags and lowered each into the hole, letting them drop the last few feet onto the small flat at the natural ladder base.

  Carrying both rifles Logan stepped in himself. He paused only an instant to examine the ridge and hollow, but nothing living showed. It made no difference, he was going to stay in the belly of the earth no matter what lurked outside.