Long Ride Home (Ss) (1989)

by L'amour, Louis

  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 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 capitan!”

  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 where 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 g
unfighter? 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 Ibanez.” “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!

  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.

  After awhile, I heard riders and held myself from the path with a hand at my horse’s nostrils until they were by. One was a huge man. Wetterling. They had seen the smoke then.

  A gun! I must have a gun.

  Big Red ran like the wind, and I loved his easy movements. He ran and ran, and when day was not yet gray in the eastern sky, I was riding into the trees near the ranch house of Nana Maduro. Was she here, or in the hotel room above the saloon?

  In the last of the darkness I found her window, heard her breathing inside, and put a leg through, then another. I touched her arms, and her eyes opened. Her head turned.

  She did not cry out, but she sat up quickly. It was enough to take a man’s breath.

  “Lou Morgan!” she exclaimed in a startled whisper. “What are you doing here?”

  “I’ll need a gun,” I said, “or better, a pair of guns. Your lovers are snarling at each other at the mission where you left me.”

  Then I told her of the pitch slivers and the Yaqui. At first her eyes were hot with disbelief, but gradually changed to doubt. Then I told her of the ocotillo smoke that had brought Wetterling, and I laughed at my enemies.

  She dressed swiftly while I watched out the window and saw dawn throw crimson arrows into the sky. Out in the cool halls of her house she took me and got a pair of pistols, ornamented, beautiful two Russian .44s, a pistol made by Smith & Wesson. A masterpiece!

  With these belted on, plus a Winchester .76 and a belt of ammunition, I was ready.

  With her own hands she quickly made breakfast. I drank black coffee, and ate eggs and ham, and looked upon her grace and beauty, and forgot. Until too late.

  We heard them come. From the window we saw them. A half-dozen horsemen, one with a bandaged head, one with an arm in a sling, and three horses with empty saddles.

  But Wetterling and Borneman were riding together, side by side. My enemies had joined hands.

  What to do?

  It had to be quickly, and it had to be now. These men were conscienceless. They would kill Nana Maduro as soon as they would kill me, and if they forced from us the secret of the mission gold and silver, then we would die.

  Into the gray of morning I stepped, and saw the blood of dawn on their faces. My rifle stood by the door, my two guns lay against my thighs.

  “Good morning,” I said. “The thieves ride together.”

  Wetterling’s eyes were ugly, but those of Borneman were only cold. I made up my mind then Borneman must die. He was too cool, with his scholar’s face and his quiet voice, and his thin, cruel lips.

  “Let’s be reasonable,” he said quie
tly. “You and Nana are alone here, except for two riders who are old men, and even they have gone to a line camp. Your Indian woman cook is as helpless as you. Tell us where the gold is and we’ll leave.”

  “We’ll tell you nothing!” I said.

  “He speaks for me,” Nana said. “I hope he always speaks for me. And to think I had always believed you a famous scientist my grandfather called you were his friend!”

  Wetterling’s hatred was obvious. He still wanted Nana. “I’ll change you!” he said. “I’ll break you!”

  “With the gold,” Borneman said, “you can buy fifty women.”

  There was a silence then, while a quail called. Silence while dawn made a glory of the sky; and the dark pines fringed against the hills; and the air was cool and good.

  Six men, and one of them Clevenger, whose partner I had killed. One of them a Yaqui, hating me. And a girl behind me whom they would not spare even if I died, and whom I knew would suffer the tortures of hell before she’d die, for she had courage, and would not tell.

  That decided me. Numbers give courage, but they give it to the enemy, too. They gave it to me. Six men, and growing in me a terrible rage and a terrible fear. A rage against them, and a fear for her, for Nana Maduro whom I had loved since she was a child on her father’s ranch.

  “You want gold and you’ve come prepared to buy it,” I said, “with your blood.” I took a step forward. “The price will he high, my friends, and Borneman, you will owe me, in a few minutes, the five thousand you offered me to kill Wetterling.”

  Wetterling’s big blond head snapped around. “What?” he barked. “You paid him to kill me? Why, you-”

  He struck at Borneman and my guns came up shooting. As he struck, his horse swung broadside, cutting off a rider whose gun came up fast. That gave me an instant I desperately needed. Three men were out of the picture, but I saw Clevenger’s eyes blazing and shot into them. His scarred head seemed to blast apart as he slid from his horse. Behind me the Winchester barked and another rider was knocked from the saddle, not dead, but hurt.