The 38th Golden Age of Science Fiction MEGAPACK

by Chester S. Geier

  The expression of such of Pete Tatum’s wrinkled, leathery features as were visible above his scraggly gray beard turned from accusing to defiant.

  “It was worth a look,” he growled at his alter ego. “There might’ve been gold in the valley. An’ ’sides, you ought to be glad we got enough grub an’ water to reach Red Gulch—even if’n we do have to hurry some!”

  Tatum shook his untidy gray head and looked fiercely obstinate. He wasn’t going to give in—not even to himself. He puckered his almost lipless gash of a mouth, shot a stream of tobacco juice at a cluster of cactus, and pitched back into the verbal fray.

  With the melancholy patience of his kind, Jupiter the pack burro plodded at Tatum’s side. Occasionally Jupiter’s long ears twitched, as if to show a mild interest in the quarrel. Quite probably it was just a dutiful gesture, for it was certain that Jupiter had long since grown used to the endless wrangling that attended Tatum’s prospecting trips into the desert.

  It was late afternoon. The sun, which had as yet lost little of its fiery intensity, was lowering itself down the parched sky toward its bedroll of distant mountains. The desert rolled away in every direction, an undulating sea of hot, dry, yellow-white sand, strewn with occasional outcroppings of bleached gray rock and dotted with numerous varieties of cactus. The taller growths, with their spiny, upflung limbs, looked curiously like grotesque green scarecrows. A thick, burned-out stillness lay over everything, as though the scene were encased in a great block of clear glass.

  Tatum trudged over the sand, squabbling indefatigably. Words jumped out of him at each step of his worn leather boots. A listener might have detected the changes in his creaking, nasal voice as the strange two-in-one debate shifted sides.

  The present bone of contention was argued bare without either opponent conceding defeat. It was tossed aside, and another promptly started on.

  “Anyhow, you’re washed up—an’ you know it! You ain’t made a strike in years, an’ your stake at the bank is gone. You’ll have to get a job at one of the mines in Red Gulch, if’n you want to keep on eatin’.”

  “’Tain’t so! I know the right folks, see? They’ll gimme a grubstake for another trip. An’ this time I’ll find somethin’. Just you wait.”

  “Give you a grubstake? Why, you’ll be danged lucky if’n they don’t fetch the sheriff! Just a worthless old man, that’s what you are! A vagrant, even. No visible means of support.”

  “Now you lookee here, Pete Tatum—!”

  It went on. And on.

  Tatum reached a group of huge boulders. He paused in their shade a moment, glancing at the sun. The spot would have been ideal in which to pitch camp for the day. But it would be quite a while yet before night closed down. It would be wisest to continue on as far as he could. His supply of food and water wouldn’t hold out to Red Gulch unless he hurried.

  Tatum licked his caked lips at the thought of water. He unfastened the remaining canteen from Jupiter’s neck load and drank sparingly. He didn’t overlook Jupiter. The hardy little burro got along well enough on such moisture and nourishment as were to be found in tough, rubbery cactus leaves, but a little water now and then was always welcome. Obtaining a small pan from a canvas pack, Tatum poured into it a small but refreshing amount of the precious liquid. Jupiter drank eagerly, with grateful snuffles.

  Then, with a hitch at his sagging belt and a slap on Jupiter’s hairy rump, Tatum started out again. He had left the boulders a good distance behind, when the sound of a gunshot broke the desert silence.

  Tatum stopped abruptly, turning to squint in the direction from which the report had come. In another moment he glimpsed two men on horseback atop a sandy ridge less than a quarter of a mile away. As he watched, they began hurrying toward him.

  The shot wasn’t repeated. It had evidently been made solely to catch his attention.

  Tatum realized after several minutes that something was wrong with the mounts of the two riders. They were staggering and swaying drunkenly as they approached over the sand. All tired out, Tatum decided. Or half dead from thirst. He thought in sudden apprehension of his water supply—insufficient for his own frugal needs.

  One of the two horses suddenly stumbled and fell, throwing its rider to the sand. It didn’t get up again, but lay where it had fallen, not moving. The remaining rider didn’t check his progress or in any other way offer aid. Without so much as a glance at his thrown companion, he continued on toward Tatum. The man who had been thrown struggled to his feet and followed at a shambling run, cursing in rage and chagrin.

  “I don’t like this,” Tatum muttered to himself. “Nope, I don’t like it atall. These gents don’t ’pear worth sharin’ water with—’specially when you ain’t got a lot of it.”

  He shrugged as his other half considered the matter and formed a different opinion.

  “These gents are outta their heads from thirst, that’s all. Can’t ’zactly blame ’em for actin’ that way. ’Sides, Pete Tatum, don’t you try dodgin’ the fact that you should always share water with folks in the desert who ain’t got any.”

  In another few minutes the mounted man reached Tatum, jumping to the sand even before his now completely exhausted horse had come to a full stop.

  “Water!” he gasped. “Gotta have water!”

  Tatum looked the man over carefully. The other was just over average height, lean almost to skinniness, but with a suggestion of quick, wiry strength. His whisker-stubbled face was just a bit too narrow, his eyes set just a bit too closely on either side of his long, sharp nose. His clothing, travel-stained and dusty, hardly seemed the clothing of a man who lives and makes his living near the desert. Twin six-guns hung at each hip, thonged down and slanted back in the fashion of one accustomed to using them not only often but quickly.

  Tatum digested what he saw—and found he had a bitter taste in his mouth. He said slowly:

  “I ain’t got enough water to last the three of us very long, stranger, so you’ll have to go mighty easy on it.”

  The other nodded slightly, slate-gray eyes lidded. He rubbed the back of a hand across his cracked lips.

  “I heard you, old timer. Now suppose you rustle the water.”

  Filled with vague misgivings, Tatum unfastened the canteen, uncorked it, and turned with the intention of handing it to the other. He was given no chance to complete the gesture, for the container was abruptly snatched from his hand. In another instant the stranger had its mouth buried between his lips and was gulping greedily at its contents.

  Tatum watched jealously, counting the gulps. Anxiety mounted inside him as the other showed no indication of letting up. Unable to control himself any longer, Tatum reached out and pulled the canteen away.

  There was a whirl of movement. Blinking dazedly, Tatum found himself staring into the barrels of the stranger’s twin six-guns. The other was slightly crouched, slate-gray eyes wide open now, hard and cold as chilled steel.

  Tatum swallowed nervously. “Sorry I had to do that, stranger, but like I tol’ you, this is all the water I got. We have to be mighty careful with it.”

  The frigid, deadly glare faded from the other’s eyes. He nodded distantly and holstered his guns.

  “Guess you’re right, old timer—but I don’t take to bein’ treated tough-like, savvy? We’ll get along fine, if you’ll just remember that.” The thin, sharp-nosed man turned to gaze toward his approaching comrade. The other had slowed to a walk, and now was staggering noticeably as he came forward.

  “Damn you, Slade,” the latecomer snapped, between panting breaths. “Whyn’t you gimme a hand back there?”

  The sharp-nosed man lifted his spare shoulders and let them drop. “Use your head, Bull. My horse couldn’t have carried the two of us.”

  Bull wasn’t much taller than Slade, but his big-boned, heavy body made him seem huge by comparison. He had fleshy, blunt features burned red by t
he sun, and deep-set, small blue eyes. The lower part of his face was bristly with the beginnings of a straw-colored beard. Like Slade, he wore six-guns holstered at his broad hips, but his deliberate, plodding movements suggested that he had little if any of Slade’s speed at draw. Only a brief study of Bull’s thick, dull countenance was necessary to show that Slade was the leader of the two.

  Bull turned his scowling gaze at Tatum, running the tip of his tongue over his lips. He grunted impatiently: “Ain’t you got no manners? Shake the lead outta your pants and hand that water bottle over.”

  With trembling fingers, Tatum uncorked the canteen again, wincing as it was jerked a second time from his grasp. Bull was raising it to his mouth, when Slade spoke.

  “Take it easy on the water, Bull. It’s all this old timer has. It’ll have to last us until we reach a place where there’s more.”

  Bull nodded sullenly, but once he started pouring the water down his throat, it took another order from Slade, sharp-edged this time, to make him stop. Bull started to hand the canteen back to Tatum, but Slade reached for it.

  “I’ll take care of this from now on.”

  Tatum was about to indignantly object, but a glance at Slade’s determined, hard face changed his mind. At the other’s gesture, he handed over the cork.

  Slade turned to Bull and began speaking curtly. “We’ll have to shoot the horses. There’s ain’t enough water for them, and they’re too far gone anyhow. You go back and take care of yours, Bull. And bring back your rifle and bedroll. You’ll be needing them.”

  “Orders!” Bull muttered. “Allus orders.” But he turned and began to trudge toward his fallen mount.

  Slade turned to his own mount, standing nearby, head low in utter exhaustion. He began removing the articles fastened to its back, a pair of bulging saddlebags, a rifle, a bedroll, and finally the saddle. Then he led the horse a short distance away. Moving back several feet, he pulled out one of his guns. Two quick reports thundered into the stillness. The horse thudded heavily to the sand.

  Slade walked back to Tatum, stuffing fresh shells into his gun. His narrow features were expressionless. He asked:

  “Where you headin’ for, old timer?”

  “Red Gulch,” Tatum admitted grudgingly.

  “A town, is it?”

  Tatum nodded. “Minin’ town.”

  “Any water between here and Red Gulch?”

  “Mebbe.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Tatum turned his head and spat a stream of tobacco juice to hide the sudden, sly expression that had crossed his face. “Mebbe—if’n we run across somebody who has some water to spare.”

  “How far’s Red Gulch?”

  Tatum had his slyness well under control now. He gestured vaguely toward the south.

  “Plenty far, stranger. ’Bout three days steady walkin’.”

  Slade produced a tobacco sack and papers, and began to roll a cigarette. He said slowly:

  “I like to know just where I’m goin’, and just how to get there. Mind explainin’ how you reach Red Gulch?”

  Tatum pushed back his flop-brimmed hat, scratched his matted gray thatch, and looked uncertain. “Shucks, stranger, in the desert you either know where you’re goin’ or you don’t. Gotta know the country. Just you follow me, an’ you’ll get there.”

  Slade said nothing further. He sat down on the saddle he had removed from his horse and smoked his cigarette, looking thoughtful.

  Tatum glanced up at the sky. Two buzzards were circling high in the air. They were waiting, he knew. Waiting for the men to leave. Then they would come down and gorge themselves on dead horseflesh.

  Tatum considered the buzzards somberly. He wasn’t overlooking the possibility that he might become buzzard fodder himself. The chances that the three of them would reach Red Gulch on the present supply of water were mighty slim. Tatum had deliberately held back from Slade the information as to how to find the town. Slade and Bull were tough hombres. He couldn’t take the risk, once they knew how to find Red Gulch alone, that they would kill him so there would be one less with whom to share the water.

  Tatum jumped startledly as a shot broke the silence. That would be Bull, finishing off his horse. Several minutes later, the big man appeared, trudging toward them over the sand, the rifle and bedroll slung under one arm.

  Slade looked at Jupiter, then at Tatum. “How long will your burro hold out?”

  “He’ll hold out, all right,” Tatum insisted in sudden anxiety. “Ol’ Jupe is a tough critter.”

  “Then you’d better get rid of some of your stuff, so’s Bull an’ me can load our things on it,” Slade said.

  Reluctantly, Tatum removed his prospecting equipment. The remaining articles were necessary and couldn’t be abandoned. Slade and Bull piled their belongings atop Jupiter—with the exception of Slade’s saddlebags—and after Tatum had once more secured the lashings, they started off.

  At a gulley, partly enclosed at one end by upright slabs of basalt, Slade finally called a stop. The sun was well on its way toward setting.

  “Good place to pitch camp,” Slade explained tersely. “It’ll be gettin’ dark soon.”

  On orders from Slade, Bull grumblingly helped Tatum gather a load of brushwood for a fire. Slade sat and watched, the saddlebags close at his side. Realization came to Tatum that Slade was jealously careful of those saddlebags. He began to wonder what could possibly be inside them that required such protection.

  When enough fuel had been gathered, Tatum set about cooking a meal of flapjacks and bacon. He used his own supplies. Slade and Bull seemed to have exhausted theirs—if they had brought any along on their trip across the desert at all. Tatum decided they hadn’t. He already was certain that they were completely unfamiliar with desert country. What had prompted them to cross it in the first place was a mystery.

  As Tatum performed the familiar task of cooking, he forgot momentarily that he was no longer alone. He struck up an argument with himself, while he fried the bacon and mixed the flapjack batter.

  Slade and Bull watched him in puzzled surprise for some seconds. Then they glanced at each other significantly.

  “Desert crazy,” Slade breathed.

  Presently Tatum recollected himself sufficiently to bring up the question of coffee. Slade vetoed the idea on the basis that too much water would be consumed in boiling.

  They settled down to eat, helping themselves directly from the cook pans. Slade and Bull devoured the food voraciously. Each time Tatum reached for a flapjack or a strip of bacon, it was to find the hands of Slade and Bull already there before him. The food was gone even before he was able to blunt the edge of his appetite.

  Slade uncorked the water canteen and took several slow gulps. Then he handed it to Bull, who despite Slade’s watchful gaze, managed to swallow more than Slade had done. Bull gave the canteen back to Slade. The other corked it and placed it carefully behind his back.

  Tatum stared. “Ain’t…ain’t you gonna gimme none?”

  Slade glanced at Tatum from beneath lidded eyes. “You’ll get water in the morning, old timer. We gotta go easy on it, you know.”

  “B-but that’s my water, d-dang it!” Tatum sputtered in outrage.

  “Nothin’ wrong with me takin’ care of it for you, is there?” Slade placed a lean hand on the walnut butt of a six-gun.

  Tatum thought it over. “Guess not.” He fell silent, staring into the fire. The desert night pressed in all around, deep and still.

  Slade and Bull unslung their bedrolls and stretched out near the basalt slabs. After a moment Tatum followed suit, aware of Slade’s watchful gaze. Settling himself along the gulley wall some distance from the others, he pulled his shapeless hat down over his eyes and to all outward appearances promptly fell asleep. He even snored after a few minutes. But he had never been more widely awake at any time in
his life.

  Evidently assured that Tatum was deep in slumber, Slade and Bull began speaking in low tones.

  “The nearest town is Red Gulch, according to what the old cuss told me,” Slade said. “It’s a minin’ town. No water on the way, ’ceptin’ what we got.”

  “How far’s it?” Bull asked.

  “’Bout three days away. The old cuss don’t know ’zactly how far or where it is, but he knows how to get there.”

  Bull emitted a throaty curse. “That means we gotta share the water with him until—”

  “Until we’re near enough to find it alone,” Slade finished. “We can’t take any chances he might do some talkin’.”

  “Think we’ll be able to reach Red Gulch?” Bull inquired, after a short silence.

  “If we’re mighty careful with the water. We’ll be plenty thirsty when we get there—but we’ll be alive.”

  “I don’t like it!” Bull growled. “We should’ve stayed up north an’ not tried crossin’ the desert in the first place.”

  “What else could we do?” Slade demanded. “That posse was gettin’ too close for comfort. It was the only way to throw them off.”

  “Maybe—but I shouldn’t’ve let you talk me into pullin’ that bank job. Robbery ain’t so bad—but killin’ a sheriff and two deputies is too much.”

  “It was me or them,” Slade pointed out calmly. “What you cryin’ about, Bull? Once we get over the border into Mexico, we’ll live like kings with the bank money.” Slade patted the saddlebags at his side. “Twenty-five thousand dollars, Bull—think of it!”

  With a terrific effort, Tatum forced himself to keep snoring. Bank robbers! Twenty-five thousand in loot! The knowledge burned in his mind like a flame.

  He lay motionless, pretending to sleep. Slade and Bull talked a while longer. Then there was the rustling of blankets as the two settled themselves for slumber. Silence fell.