The 38th Golden Age of Science Fiction MEGAPACK

by Chester S. Geier

Tatum’s agitated thoughts crystallized into a plan. Slade and Bull were worn out. Once they slept, nothing less than an earthquake would be able to waken them. If Tatum could stealthily obtain the water canteen, he could reach Red Gulch and tell the sheriff there about the two. There was certain to be a reward for the bank money, and this would furnish him with a new stake for further prospecting trips. As for Slade and Bull, they wouldn’t have enough strength left to put up a fight when the sheriff and his men came after them.

  Clutching the plan eagerly in the palm of his mind, Tatum waited. The fire burned down to a few sullenly glowing embers. The breezes of night blew their cold breath over the desert. Slade and Bull lay quietly, breathing with the steady regularity of sleep.

  Finally, assured that the two outlaws slept soundly enough for the success of his plan, Tatum pulled his blankets aside and crept toward Slade. He discovered that Slade lay almost touching one of the basalt slabs, with Bull on the other side of him. It was an awkward position for Tatum’s intentions. To reach the water canteen between Slade and the slab, he would have to reach precariously over both men. There wasn’t enough space between them for him to approach Slade alone.

  Bracing one foot against a rock imbedded in the sand and stepping carefully over Bull with the other, Tatum reached for the water canteen behind Slade. With infinite care, he began working it loose from where the outlaw’s back pressed it against the slab.

  The rock gave under the pressure of his weight, rolled aside. His boot slid through the loose sand.

  Tatum crashed down atop Slade and Bull.

  The two awoke with mingled exclamations of alarmed surprise. As Tatum began frantically to wriggle free, the outlaws recovered from their shock and in another moment pinned Tatum helplessly between them.

  “You, eh?” Slade grunted. He released Tatum and stood up. At a gesture to Bull, Tatum was hauled roughly to his feet.

  Slade studied Tatum grimly. “All right, old timer, just what were you up to?”

  “I…I just wanted a drink of water,” Tatum stammered. “Woke up an’ was powerful thirsty.”

  “Sure that’s all you wanted?” Slade demanded. “Sure you didn’t have any ideas of taking the water and leaving me an’ Bull?”

  “Course not!” Tatum insisted. “I wouldn’t do a thing like that. Just wanted a drink of water, like I tol’ you.”

  “Even if it’s true, old timer, I don’t think I better take any more chances with you.” With no warning change of expression in his narrow face, Slade abruptly swung a fist. The blow caught Tatum on the side of the jaw, and he plunged into unconsciousness as though a trapdoor had gaped suddenly beneath him.

  Slade obtained the loose lashings from Jupiter’s pack load, and securely bound Tatum’s arms and legs. Then he and Bull lay down once more and wrapped themselves in their blankets.

  “The old coot must’ve been awake all the time,” Slade said after some seconds. “Waited until we were sleepin’ before he tried that trick of his.”

  Bull’s response was grim-toned. “That means he heard what we was talkin’ about a while back. Slade… He knows about the money—an’ the killin’s.”

  Slade nodded bleakly. “We’ll remember that when the time comes. Right now, let’s try to get some sleep.”

  * * * *

  Slade was up shortly before dawn. He shook Bull awake, and then turned his attention to Tatum. He was untying Tatum’s bonds when the old prospector muttered and opened his eyes.

  “Shake a leg!” Slade ordered. “It’s time for breakfast. We got to get movin’ before the sun gets hot.”

  Tatum climbed slowly to his feet, leaden with despair. He had failed. The realization tore at him.

  Dejectedly, Tatum set about making breakfast. When the meal was over, Slade and Bull drank from the canteen. Tatum was pointedly ignored. He gazed bitterly at Slade.

  “No water for me, huh?”

  “Not after that dodge you tried to pull last night,” Slade snapped. “Now shut up an’ get movin’.”

  Jupiter’s load was fastened, and shortly they set out, Tatum and the burro in front, and Slade and Bull bringing up the rear. The sun began climbing a ladder in the sky, wiping the night shadows one by one from the desert floor. Slowly and perceptibly, the air grew warmer.

  Conflicting thoughts milled through Tatum’s mind as he plodded over the sand. Uppermost was the idea of circling aimlessly until the water was gone and Slade and Bull died of thirst. But that would mean sacrificing himself as well. Tatum didn’t intend to cash in his chips any sooner than was absolutely necessary.

  He couldn’t however, side-step the knowledge that Slade and Bull would kill him or leave him behind to die of thirst once they were able to find Red Gulch alone. He had to prevent that. Somehow he had to find a way to trick the two.

  Tatum’s steps led him inexorably in the direction of the town—nearer to his own death—while he pondered the problem facing him. As the miles unwound slowly underfoot, he came no closer to a solution. It seemed that only a miracle could save him.

  The sun reached its zenith, blazing down mercilessly. The progress of the group slowed to a listless crawling pace, and at last Slade called a halt. He and Bull drank once more from the canteen.

  Tatum watched wistfully. He already felt the growing ravages of thirst.

  Slade glanced speculatively at Tatum and shook the canteen. Its answering gurgles showed it to be about half filled.

  “You ain’t gonna give him a drink, are you?” Bull demanded. “We ain’t got enough for ourselves.”

  “The old timer will have to have some water if he’s goin’ to take us to Red Gulch,” Slade pointed out. “Can’t let him cash in on us.” He glanced at Tatum again. “We’re goin’ in the right direction, ain’t we? Sure you ain’t tryin’ to lose me an’ Bull?”

  Tatum shook his head emphatically. “I don’t aim to cut my own throat at the same time, stranger.”

  “Keep goin’ in the right direction, an’ you’ll get water,” Slade promised. “Try to lose me an’ Bull, an’ you’ll be the first to cash in, savvy?” At Tatum’s nod of understanding, Slade handed him the canteen. “Here—an’ take it easy.”

  The water was like a life-giving-elixir to Tatum. He felt renewed strength flow into him. Handing the canteen back to Slade, a sudden thought struck him. He asked:

  “What about Jupiter?”

  “He’ll have to get along on his own. Men is more important than burros, old timer.”

  They rested for a while. After another meal of flapjacks and bacon, the trio started out again. Heat devils danced over the sand as the sunlight reached its afternoon intensity. The steps of the men once more grew laborious and plodding.

  Step after dragging step. Minutes that seemed like hours; hours that seemed like days. The sun, beating down at them with bright, hot hands. The desert, rolling away and away in dry, dreary vistas of sand, rock, and cactus.

  Evening came at last, and with it food and rest. Tatum fell almost immediately into exhausted slumber. He had been forced by Slade and Bull into a pace far beyond the ability of his aging muscles.

  In the afternoon of the second day, Slade called a halt in the shadows of a rocky ravine. By now Tatum was too weak to do any cooking. He sat sprawled against a rock, eyes covered with a dull film, thin chest rising and falling quickly with a shallow, irregular breathing. His lips were as dry, cracked, and brittle as old parchment. The pace set by the two outlaws had taken its final toll. Tatum had been given water from time to time—but not as much as his exertions required.

  Slade ill-naturedly took over the task of cooking. Barely enough flour and bacon were left for the meal. Tatum was ignored when Slade and Bull finally gathered about the fire to eat. He was ignored again when the canteen was passed around.

  Slade shook the canteen before he corked it, listening with anxious intentness. Hi
s slate-gray eyes grew bleak.

  The rest did Tatum good. The dullness gradually faded from his eyes, and his breathing became more regular. His mind cleared. He looked around him slowly, lingeringly, knowing it was the end.

  A movement caught his notice as a small object emerged from behind a rock some twenty feet away. It was a desert tortoise. Blinking its lidded eyes, it remained there for a moment, gazing curiously at the three men.

  Tatum pointed incredulously, his body shaking in sudden excitement. “Water!” he gasped. “Water!”

  Slade and Bull stared from the tortoise to Tatum. Their glances met. Slade tapped a forefinger meaningfully against his temple.

  With a sudden burst of strength, Tatum climbed to his feet. Obtaining a blanket with frantic haste from Jupiter’s pack load, he hobbled toward the rock. The tortoise had ducked back out of sight at Tatum’s cry, and now was trying to scuttle away to safety. But with frenzied speed, Tatum pounced upon it, whipping the creature into the folds of the blanket.

  He was gathering the ends of the blanket together, when his gaze fell upon another tortoise several yards away, frozen into inactivity by the sheer wonder of this unusual break in the monotony of its placid desert existence. After a short chase, Tatum caught this one also, and it went into the blanket with the other.

  The effort proved too much for Tatum. He slumped down on the sand, heart pounding dangerously, the breath coming raggedly through his lips.

  “Crazy!” Bull muttered in disgust. “Plumb crazy!”

  Slade got up and went over to Tatum. “What was the idea, old timer?”

  Tatum looked up at Slade, grinning foolishly. “Water,” he mumbled. “A regular lode.” Then: “You’re crazy, Pete Tatum! What you doin’, talkin’ like a demented idjit?”

  An argument developed that lasted for some seconds. Slade listened, shaking his head. At last, with a grimace of impatience, he turned away. He grunted:

  “Time to start movin’.”

  They left the relative shelter of the ravine and struck out once more into the furnace-like glaring expanse of the desert. Tatum clutched at his blanket, muttering and cackling to himself as he staggered uncertainly along. Jupiter plodded slowly at his side, head low, ears drooping like wilted leaves.

  Less than an hour later, Tatum fell limply to the sand. Bull jerked him to his feet, but had to hold him up to keep him from falling again.

  Tatum shook his head. “Can’t make it,” he husked. “I’m done for.”

  Motioning for Bull to lower the old prospector to the sand, Slade uncorked the water canteen. “Look, old timer, you’d like a drink, wouldn’t you?” Tatum’s eyes fixed upon the canteen as though it were an object of the most intense fascination. He tried to speak, but could only nod.

  “Before I give you a drink,” Slade said, “I want you to tell me where Red Gulch is, an’ how far from here.” Tatum got out words with an effort. “Straight ahead…like we was goin’. Can’t…can’t miss it. You’ll make it, late tomorrow…if you push along steady.”

  Slade nodded and stood up. He corked the canteen. “That’s all I want to know.” He gestured to Bull. “All right, let’s get movin’.”

  Bull said, “You gonna leave the old coot here?”

  Slade nodded curtly. “We’ll find the town alone, now.”

  Bull dropped a big hand to the butt of a six-gun. “We oughtta finish him off. Can’t take no chances.”

  “He’s already finished,” Slade pointed out. “Red Gulch is a day off. Without water, he’ll never make it.”

  Bull finally shrugged. Slade turned to where Jupiter squatted in the sand, and prodded the burro with a boot. Jupiter tried to rise, but fell back weakly. The animal seemed as far gone as Tatum.

  Slade gave up. He and Bull piled their belongings into their blankets, and slung these sack fashion over their backs. Without so much as a backward glance at Tatum, they started out. The old prospector dwindled into the distance that Slade and Bull put behind them. He lay very quietly under the fiery sun.

  The two outlaws reached Red Gulch in the evening of the third day. The last of the water had given out that morning, and they were barely able to stagger into the little mining town. They slaked their thirst at a pump over a horse trough. Later they ate and obtained a room at Red Gulch’s only hotel. They slept until late the following morning.

  Slade and Bull wasted little time thereafter. Mexico was only a short distance away now, and Slade was in a hurry to get over the border. They began their preparations for leaving, purchasing horses, new clothes, and the equipment and supplies they would need.

  * * * *

  In the afternoon they were finished. Checking out of the hotel, they started for the stable where they had left the horses. They were resplendent in their new finery, well fed, and smoking cigars. Slade carried the bulging saddlebags. He spoke eagerly to Bull of the things they would do when they reached Mexico.

  Halfway to the stable, a knot of men moved from one side of the street and into their path. The leader of the group was a tall man with flaming red hair. He had a sheriff’s badge pinned to one pocket of his faded flannel shirt. At his side was an all-too-familiar figure.

  Slade and Bull stared in utter disbelief.

  It was Pete Tatum.

  Tatum pointed. “That’s them, sheriff!”

  With a grave nod, the tall man strode forward, thumbs hooked casually in his gun belt. “I’d like a look at them saddlebags, boys. Pete Tatum, here tells me you robbed a bank somewhere up north. If it ain’t true—”

  Snarling, Slade went for his guns. An instant later, panic giving him a swiftness that he ordinarily lacked, Bull went for his also.

  The tall man whirled to one side, moving very fast, yet with a deliberate, machine-like precision. His guns cleared leather as he moved, and their thunder blended with that from the guns of Slade and Bull in a roar like a string of firecrackers going off.

  Silence came abruptly, a silence underscored by powder smoke and italicized by the smell of cordite. The tall man stood swaying a little. Blood was beginning to well from a crease in his shoulder. A bullet had knocked his hat off, and a hole showed in his flannel shirt at the waist where another had passed harmlessly through the slack cloth.

  Bull lay sprawled on his side in the dust of the street, staring up at the sky with eyes that no longer saw. A grimace of surprise and pain was frozen on his heavy face. Just over the bridge of his blunt, thick nose was something that hadn’t been there before—something that looked oddly like a black button sewed on with crimson threads.

  Slade was on his knees, clutching intently at his chest, as though he sought to keep something incalculably precious imprisoned there. But his fingers couldn’t hold back the flood of life that leaked inexorably away, from the two bullet holes near his heart. His face was white, shocked, incredulous. In another moment he toppled over into the dust. He lay there, and then his eyes, moving slowly over the semi-circle of faces before him, found Tatum.

  “You!” he whispered. “You did this! But…but how? You should have died of thirst without water, back there.”

  Tatum shook his slovenly gray head. His bewhiskered features were solemn.

  “I had water, all right—enough for Jupiter an’ me, both. Found a regular water lode.”

  Slade closed his eyes a moment, clutching a little tighter at his chest. Then he looked at Tatum again.

  “I…I don’t get it. What’s this water lode? Where’d you find it?”

  “Remember the two desert tortoises I caught?” Tatum asked rhetorically. “Well, they was my water lode. If you knew the desert ’stead of bein’ a stranger from up north, you’d of known that desert tortoises got a bladder under their shells that hold nearly a pint of good, clear water. With the two I caught, Jupiter an’ me had plenty of water to reach Red Gulch on. I had desert tortoises in mind when you asked m
e if’n there was water ’tween Red Gulch and where we met, but the way you was actin’ up at the time, I thought it best not to say anythin’. ’Sides, desert tortoises is where you find ’em, and I didn’t think I was goin’ to be lucky. ’Nother thing, I just played like I was cashin’ in, so’s you’d leave me behind an’ give me a chance to get at the water bladders.”

  Slade’s lips were curled bitterly. A sudden spasm twisted his face as Tatum finished. Then it relaxed, and a blankness crept into it. His hands fell away from his chest. His eyes closed. Slade didn’t move again.

  Holstering his guns, the sheriff bent to pick up his hat and the fallen saddlebags. He nodded in grim confirmation as he opened and peered into them. Then he turned to the crowd behind him, calling for volunteers to carry away the bodies of Slade and Bull. He got plenty of help.

  The sheriff was turning to follow the procession, when Tatum plucked detainingly at his sleeve.

  “You…you think there’ll be a reward, sheriff?”

  The other grinned slightly. “There’s bound to be. This is a lot of money, Pete. You’ll get what’s comin’ to you, don’t worry. If you hadn’t used your head like you did, those two coyotes would of got clean away.”

  Later, after he had explained every-thing to the satisfaction of a mob of curious Red Gulch townsfolk, Tatum used his newly-won prestige to obtain on credit a fresh supply of bacon and flour. Then, with his water canteen full, he started out with Jupiter for the edge of town to make camp for the night.

  He was content. With the reward money furnishing a new stake at the bank, there would be more prospecting trips—a lot of them, in fact. And he’d make a strike. He was sure of that.

  As he walked along with Jupiter at his side, he tried to strike up a quarrel with himself. The effort proved a complete failure.

  For once Pete Tatum was completely at peace with Pete Tatum.

  THE FINAL HOUR

  Originally published in Weird Tales, January 1947.

  The clock on the fireplace mantel began to strike eleven, softly, as if regretful of the necessity for doing so. Professor Edward Crendon’s long, thin fingers stilled in their dance over the keys of the portable, and for a moment the other sounds which filled the dim book-lined study faded into the background as he listened to the chiming of the clock.