by Paul Lederer
Noon found me under a blistering white sun following the single set of tracks leading across a broad playa. The salt flats glared into my eyes like a well-polished mirror reflecting light and heat. I couldn’t understand where Corson was trying to go. I swung down from time to time to take a drink of water and give Buck a rest. I let him have his own drink out of my Stetson. As urgent as my mission was, I wasn’t going to push the big horse beyond endurance. That would leave me afoot again on the broad, empty land.
I knew I was gaining, if ever so slowly, on Corson. The gait of his pony had slowed, and anyway his horse could not match the long strides of Buck. I wondered if Corson had some water with him, at least a canteen. But if he had not known that he would find himself out in this desolate country, he might not have. That meant that he, his horse – and Beth – would already be suffering from deprivation.
I don’t know what the temperature was, but I know the number would have had three figures in it. The sun was a burning brand across my back. The pale distances shimmered and danced through veils of heat waves.
Where did he think he was going!
My only thought was that he had knowledge of some sort of secret outlaw camp out here. I wondered more than once if there were Yaqui Indians prowling, but there was no shelter, no water for them either, and it seemed improbable.
I wondered once or twice if he was heading toward Coyote Wells, still thinking that there was water there!
I rode on at a slow gallop. The sun began to cant over toward the Western horizon, but there was no cooling promised yet. The land slowly began to change. I saw now red-rock mesas, not large, but low and angry looking against the white skyline, and now again there was volcanic rock underfoot. Now and then a crooked, sage-clotted canyon would open up to the west and the terrain began to grow more familiar. I began to feel more certain that Corson was heading in the direction of Coyote Wells.
Why?
There was only one plausible explanation I could come up with. I considered that it was possible that Beth had convinced Corson that if the key to the bank’s safety-deposit box had been taken by Henry Tyler, that he must have hidden it in his tiny cabin. Why she might have taken that tack was impossible to speculate on. Maybe she thought that the longer the ride, the better chance she would have of somehow making an escape. But when Corson did not find the key, what then?
Maybe, I continued to conjecture as the slow heated miles passed slowly beneath my horse’s hoofs, she was hopeful that I could catch up, given enough time. It was even possible, I considered, that her intent was to let him lead me far enough away from Flagstaff so that I might be safely away from the waiting hangman’s noose.
But Beth, after all, was a woman, and I could not really guess at the labyrinth of her thoughts.
The sun sank with incredible slowness, now hiding half of its face behind the bulk of a fluted mesa. Twilight would settle quickly to darkness on the desert. I made sure that I had a clear reading of Corson’s direction, made sure that I had a landmark I could follow into the near-darkness.
Buck was beginning to show signs of weariness, faltering ever so slightly, and I knew that Corson’s pony must be run nearly into the ground by now. He would have to halt soon, and I would be there to greet him before the following dawn could see him on his way again. He would not escape, and if he had harmed Beth in any way, the coming dawn would be the last he would ever witness.
The moon was rising later these nights and approaching Coyote Wells from this direction, it kept its face hidden shyly behind the shadowed bulk of the mesa. When it became obvious that I could not go on without risking injury to the buckskin or possibly riding into an ambush, I began searching for a place to wait out the dark hours.
At the head of the canyon where I now found myself there was a small teacup valley, nearly grassless. Perhaps Buck could find enough graze to sustain him. There was no choice. I made my dry camp in near-darkness, a shoulder of the black mesa towering over me. I could not sleep and did not intend to. I wanted to orient myself again by moonlight and try to pick up the trail left by Corson’s horse. In the meanwhile there was nothing to do but sit on my blanket, my Winchester across my lap, listening to the small ruminating sounds my horse made as it nibbled at the scant dry grass.
They came when I least expected it. At the moment the moon had lifted its yawning head above the mesa and begun to illuminate my way.
There were two of them. Yaqui Indians who burst suddenly from the shadows and rushed upon me on silent moccasined feet. I rose out of my near-slumber, my rifle in both hands. The first Indian grabbed the rifle’s barrel and we struggled for it. He had nearly wrested it from my grip when I stepped even nearer to him and stomped down hard with my boot heel. The thin deerskin of his moccasin was no protection against that maneuver and he howled with pain, breaking his grip on the rifle.
I wielded the Winchester by the barrel and swung with all of my might against the Yaqui’s head, catching him solidly. He fell to the ground silently like a pole-axed steer. I spun to defend myself against the second raiding Indian, but he was gone.
And so was my buckskin horse.
I could hear the Indian yell out in triumph as he raced back up toward the head of the canyon, Buck’s hoofbeats fading away. I heard the first Indian rise and I levered a round into the chamber of my Winchester. He heard the unmistakable sound clearly in the night and took to his heels. I lifted the butt of the rifle to my shoulder, aimed, and then lowered it again. Shooting the Yaqui would have accomplished nothing.
They had won the little skirmish. I stood defeated, in the deep shadows cast by the mesa. My inattention had cost me everything. Buck was gone and I was afoot on the desert once again. Could I now catch up with Corson? It seemed unlikely. Beth who had been counting on me to rescue her, who perhaps lay awake in the night, listening to every small sound, hoping that I would soon be arriving, could not know that her bumbling hero would not be coming to her aid.
I breathed a series of small oaths, and by the meager light of the pale moon, started walking down the long canyon. Hoping somehow to catch up with Corson and his small captive.
If they had made camp somewhere ahead of me, I thought I still had a slim chance of catching up. If Corson had decided to ride on through the night, all hope was lost. The narrow path along the canyon floor was rock-strewn. It seemed to be nothing more than a game trail. Certainly not many riders ever passed this way. The scent of sage was heavy in the night air. The moon cast a long crooked shadow before me. The canyon walls shoved big shoulders up against the starry skies.
I was perspiring despite the chill of the night. My boots had a tendency to want to roll away from under me as I followed the rocky trail. I wanted to jog, to break into a run, but I knew I would only tire myself out needlessly – if I didn’t fall and break my neck. An hour down the trail I stopped abruptly, lifted my eyes and gripped my rifle more tightly.
I could smell woodsmoke on the night breeze.
I moved on a little more slowly, keeping to the deep shadows as much as possible. Sweat trickled into my eyes, burning them. My shirt was pasted to my chest. Every few yards I paused, trying to locate the source of the woodsmoke. There was no tell-tale wink of fire to be seen across the dark landscape, but the campfire might have been doused hours ago, leaving only its signature on the wind.
I had gone another hundred yards down the broken trail before I heard it. A horse nickered in the night and I held stock-still, my eyes searching the darkness desperately. The sound had not been far away, had carried in the still of the night as if the horse were only feet from me. I crouched down, listening for other sounds: a human voice, the shuffling of boot leather over the ground.
Then someone did speak, not in a whisper but in a deep-throated grumbling tone and I found myself shivering with eagerness. Beth was there, just ahead of me. I had to reach her. I crept on, measuring each step, not wanting a twig to break underfoot, a stone to roll beneath my boots. I had been holding my
breath without realizing it. My hands on the rifle were slick with perspiration. Pressed close to the massive shoulder of the mesa, I rounded a bend in the trail.
And nearly walked into Sheriff Tom Driscoll’s camp.
SEVEN
There were four of them in the camp. I recognized Driscoll even in the near-darkness by the red vest he always wore, and by his flowing silver mustache. He was standing beside another man who was seated on a boulder fallen from the mesa’s walls. Two more men lay rolled up in their blankets, trying to find a comfortable enough position against the cold, rocky ground so that they could sleep.
This then was the posse that had been sent out to find me, capture me and take me back to Flagstaff for a brief stroll up the gallows steps – if they intended to bother with such niceties. Much simpler to take care of their duties out here on the wide desert. Why bother dragging me all the way back to Driscoll’s town?
Were they intending to go up the canyon or down, I wondered? No matter, I couldn’t get around the searchers either way.
Where was Beth!
She and Corson must have met the sheriff if they had come down the canyon, but there was no sign of either. Why? Surely Corson would have been happy to reunite with his partner in crime if he feared I was on his trail. Five men against one surely would have appealed to Art Corson more than making a lone run on a weary horse. I was deeply puzzled.
I discounted the notion that Corson had taken another route. I was not that poor at reading trail sign. The only other solution was that Corson had intentionally slipped past the sheriff, perhaps hidden in an unseen nook or feeder canyon, letting Driscoll and his posse pass by, then continued on his way alone.
Why would he do that? I rubbed my perspiration-glossed forehead with the heel of my hand. I knew nothing at all of what was going on around me, what machinations were in play. Beth had been right about one thing.
I would not make a detective.
None of my conjecture mattered at the moment. I had to find a way to get past Tom Driscoll and his posse if I was to survive and have a chance at catching up with Beth and Art Corson.
I remained crouched in the darkness, uncertain as to my next move while the yellow moon rose higher. It was a time for desperate measures, I knew. I had to get past the posse camp and get down the canyon to the flats where Beth remained a prisoner. When Corson discovered that she had no idea of what the box number was, that the key was not where she had pretended it to be, but tucked down inside her blouse, there was no predicting what he might do.
I took my clue from the real desert fighters, the Yaquis.
Looking into the camp now I could see that three of the men including Driscoll, were asleep, that the single guard they had posted was looking down the canyon from his perch on the boulder and not toward my position. Their horses stood in a small group just toward the mesa. I took a deep breath, reminded myself that there was no other way out of this trap and then rushed into the middle of their camp.
I triggered off a shot from my Winchester and shouted, ‘Indians!’
Men rose from their beds in groggy confusion. No one knew who had cried out. No one took the time to count heads. I fired two more shots up the canyon, shooting at nothing.
‘How many?’ someone yelled.
‘Can’t tell,’ I answered. ‘I’ll get the horses.’
With all eyes on the maw of the canyon, guns drawn and ready to fight, that’s exactly what I did. Rushing toward the startled ponies, I grabbed the first one I came upon by the mane and swung aboard, firing my rifle again. I stuck my spurs to the flanks of my stolen horse and started it racing down the winding trail. The other ponies followed.
Clinging to the unsaddled horse’s neck I rode as hard as I ever had. No shots followed me. The posse was still readying itself for an Indian attack which would never come. No one had expected a stranger to be among them; every man had known there was a possibility of an Indian raid. They still had not caught on.
I rode my horse, a stubby gray, wildly down the canyon trail, the other ponies following until suddenly the draw fanned open and I found myself on the desert flats once again. The gray was flecked with sweat; my heart was racing crazily, beating against my ribcage. Allowing the gray to slow, I looked back up the dark canyon. No one followed; no running man no matter how swift could have caught up with me in the night. Still, my shoulders trembled slightly, a small shudder rippling through me.
The other horses began to wander aimlessly, confused and frightened. I left them to roam where they might. Perhaps I had given the Yaquis yet another gift, who knew? I patted the little gray horse’s neck and sat there a moment trying to orient myself. I had seen the desert from this side of the mesa too recently, and was able to pick up a few landmarks in the moonlight. I was still convinced that Beth had talked Corson into believing that the key to the safety-deposit box was in old Henry Tyler’s cabin. If I was wrong I had failed her again, but it was the only solution that made sense to me.
I started ahead on the gray. Riding its knobby spine I came to appreciate what a great invention the saddle had been.
The gray – whoever’s horse he was – showed pluck and stamina and we drifted southward throughout the night as the moon skyed high and then began to tumble toward the far horizon. We were in white sand country once more. At least the devil winds weren’t blasting, but water was once again a major concern.
It was a drear and lonely landscape I now rode across. I wondered about Beth. I wondered if the posse could have caught their horses up by now and resumed their pursuit with renewed determination. Were there more Yaquis around me, hidden in secret places?
The stubby gray horse began to falter noticeably as the night crept toward dawn, and I had caught myself nodding off several times. I wondered if I had the strength for another searing desert day. I both feared the rising sun and prayed for its coming, hoping against hope to cut Corson’s sign once again.
The dawn was a red promise against a still-star-cluttered sky when I spotted the plodding, halting steps of a horse in the drift sand. I knew the tracks well. I had followed them all the way from Flagstaff. Corson’s horse was still struggling forward at what seemed to be a dazed, stumbling pace.
Toward Coyote Wells.
To what end? He and his men had ambushed Ray Hardin there. He must know there was no water to be found. I could not understand this at all. Unless … they had ambushed Ray before he had managed to reach the wells. I recalled Ray telling me that. Maybe Corson did not know himself that the wells were dry. Beth would, but why should she offer him any help or guidance? I touched the weary gray lightly with my spurs and he picked up his pace slightly. He didn’t have much left in him, but surely more than Corson’s staggering animal had. And that was enough.
Dawn rose colorfully across the eastern skies, dull scarlet and brilliant gold. The long flats were flooded with pinks and deep purple where the dunes had been wind-gathered. Within an hour it was hot as Hades.
I found the dead pony a mile on.
Corson had ridden it into the ground, and it lay on its side with blow-sand drifting over it, its eye wide and dusty, with perhaps a question of why it had been so mistreated lingering there. I swung down heavily and went to the dead animal. Its saddle remained strapped to its body and I needed one.
Struggling, I managed to remove the saddle from the heavy animal. After saddling the gray and fitting a bridle, I searched the area carefully. Even in the soft white sand I found the two sets of imprints. A man’s large boots and a parallel set of much smaller footprints.
I was no more than half a mile from Coyote Wells. I spurred the balky gray horse forward, an ominous foreboding riding with me. The dawn light was harsh in my eyes, half-blinding me, but topping a sand dune, I still was able to see what I had feared. A bundle, like discarded old clothes tossed to one side of the trail. I couldn’t catch my breath; tears flooded my eyes. I recognized the clothing.
Not a second time!
I swung down
from the gray before it had come to a halt and rushed, stumbling, to where Beth lay. I lifted her head and then sat beside her, placing it on my lap and ever so slowly she seemed aware of my nearness and opened her eyes. Her smile was vague, distant as she recognized me.
‘Corson said I was too much trouble,’ she murmured.
‘Well, you can be,’ I answered with relief and her smile improved. Beth was alive, and that was all that mattered.
‘Water?’ she asked and I shook my head much as I had when I had come upon a dying Ray Hardin. Except Beth would not die. I would not allow it!
‘We have to go on to Henry Tyler’s farm.’
Beth gripped my wrist with feverish despair. ‘That’s where I sent Corson! He may be waiting for you.’
‘Then,’ I said grimly, ‘I will have to kill him.’ Not for my sake, not for the sake of the contents of the safety-deposit box, but for what the animal had done to Beth. Had tried to do, leaving a young woman alone on the desert. ‘I have a horse,’ I said, ‘let’s get you to your feet.’
‘I feel so weak,’ she said wearily, but together we managed to get her to her feet and eventually on to the back of the gray which was growing increasingly recalcitrant, with good cause. I started the horse forward, toward the Tyler place.
‘Where’s Buck?’ Beth asked as she looped her arms around me and leaned her head against my back.
‘Desert got him,’ I said.
As it might still get us. For awhile I was able to follow Art Corson’s footprints, and then the trail reached the rocky flats I knew too well, and I lost them. I slowed our progress knowing that the horse was over-used, knowing that Corson, if he suspected I was following him, would be wary and might set up an ambush.
It could be that Corson could not go on and even now lay out on the desert, a dead man himself. It could have been that he was uncertain of his direction – nevertheless we reached Henry Tyler’s dry farm without a sign of him. I approached the cabin carefully, from the side of the dilapidated building, swung down and eased to the door, kicked it in, and found the house empty.