from the Listening Hills (Ss) (2004)

by L'amour, Louis

  "I'm not splittin' anything, Butcher," Murphy said quietly. "If you shorthorns want to be paid for draggin' me out of that hole, there it is." He gestured to what was on the table. "But I worked down in the heat and misery for this gold. I aim to keep it."

  "We're holdin' the best hand, Brad," Schaum said. "So set back and make it easy on yourself. You divvy up, or we take it all."

  "No," Murphy replied, "I'm holdin' the only hand, Butcher. You three got me cornered. You might get me, but that wouldn't help you--you'd be dead!"

  "Huh? What do you mean?" Butcher sat up, his lips tight.

  "Why, the six-shooter I'm holdin', Butch. She's restin' on my knee, pointin' about an inch under yore belt buckle." He tapped the underside of the table with the barrel.

  He shoved back in his chair a little, then stood up, the Frontier Colt .45 balanced easily in his hand. "I'm takin' a horse, boys, an' I wouldn't figure on nothin' funny; this gun's mighty easy on the trigger."

  Waving Asa around with the other two, he gathered his sack with his left hand and edged around the table toward the door. Slowly, he backed to the door, his gun covering them.

  He stepped back. Butcher Schaum, his face swollen with fury, stared at him, his right hand on the table, fingers stretched like a claw, and stiff with rage.

  He stepped back again, quickly this time. His foot hung. Too late he remembered the raised doorsill, he fell backward, grabbing at the air. Then a gun blasted and something struck him alongside the head. With his last flicker of consciousness, he hurled the sack of gold at the slope that reared itself alongside the cabin. It struck, gravel rattled, and he felt blackness close over him, soft, folding, deadening.

  THE FIRST THING he realized was warmth. His back was warm. Then his eyes flickered open, blinding sunlight struck them, and they closed.

  He was lying, his head turned sideways, sprawled facedown on the hard-packed earth outside the cabin door. It was daylight.

  Butcher Schaum's voice broke into his growing realization. "Where'd he put that durned sack?" he snarled angrily. "My shot got him right outside the door, he didn't have no more'n two steps, an' now that gold is plumb gone."

  "You sure he's dead?" Asa protested.

  "Look at his head!" Cornish snapped. "If he ain't dead he will be. I couldn't get no pulse last night. He's dead all right."

  "Should we bury him?" Asa suggested. "I don't like to see him lying like that."

  "Go ahead, if you want to," Schaum snarled. "I'm huntin' that gold. When I get it, I'm leavin'. You can stay if you want to. The buzzards'll take care of him. Leave him lay."

  His head throbbing with pain, Brad lay still. How bad was he hurt? What was wrong with his head? It felt stiff and sore, and the pain was like a red-hot iron pressed against his skull.

  Something crawled over his hand. His eyes flickered. An ant. Horror went through him. Ants! In a matter of minutes they'd be all over him. If there was an open wound--yet he dare not move. His gun? He had lost it in falling. No telling where it was now. If he tried to move they would kill him.

  He could hear the three men moving as they searched. Schaum began to curse viciously.

  "Where could it get to?" he bellowed angrily. "He didn't go no more'n a few feet."

  Other ants were coming now, crawling over his arm toward his head. He knew now that he was cut there. The bullet must have grazed his skull, ripping the scalp open and drenching him with blood, making it appear that he was shot through the head.

  Piercing pain suddenly went through him. The ants had gone to work. He forced himself to lie still. His teeth gritted, and he lay, trying not to tense himself.

  "I'll bet he throwed that sack down the gully," Cornish said suddenly. "It couldn't be no place else."

  He could hear them then, cursing and sliding to get to the bottom of the gully that curved close to the cabin from the left. The bank against which he had thrown the sack was to the right.

  Two of them gone. The ants were all over him now, and he could not stand the agony much longer. It was turning his head into a searing sheet of white-hot pain.

  Where was Moffitt? He could hear no sound. Then, as he was about to move, he heard a step, so soft he could scarcely detect it. Then another step, and Asa Moffitt was bending over him.

  "In his shirt," Moffitt muttered. "Where the gun was!"

  Moffitt caught him by the coat and jerked him over on his back. "Ants gittin' him," he muttered. "Too bad he ain't alive." Asa knelt over him, and pulled his shirt open, cursing when he saw no sack. Then he thrust a hand into Brad's pants pocket.

  It was the instant Brad had waited for. He exploded into action. A fist caught Asa on the head and knocked him sprawling. Lunging to his feet, Brad jumped for the man, slugging him twice before he could get to a standing position, and then as Asa grabbed at him, Brad jerked his knee into the outlaw's face.

  Asa cried out sharply, falling over on his back, and Brad stooped over him, slugging him again as the man continued to yell, then he jerked Asa's gun from his holster and wheeling, ran for the rim of the gully.

  His own gun lay nearby, and then he saw the standing horse. Grabbing up his own gun, he raced for the horse.

  A shot rang out, and he saw Cornish come lunging over the rim of the gully. He tried a shot, saw that he'd missed. Realizing all chance of escape was gone, he ran for the house. Another gun roared, and then he plunged through the door and slammed it shut. Panting, he dropped the bar into place.

  Outside he could hear shouts of anger, and Butcher Schaum fired at the door. From beside a window he snapped a hasty shot at Schaum, and smiled grimly as the man sprang for cover.

  There was a tin pan filled with water near the door and he ducked his head into it, rinsing out his hair and washing the wound. From time to time he took a glimpse from the window. Obviously, there was a council of war going on down on the edge of the gully.

  Freeing himself of some of the ants, he reloaded his pistol. A rifle stood by the door, and he picked it up. Digging around he found some .44-.40s and shoved cartridges into the magazine.

  Hastily, he took stock. He had enough grub here for days. He had ammunition enough. They would know that as well as he. From the front the place was almost invulnerable. He glanced up, and his face tightened. The roof was made of rough planking and piled over with straw thatch. Fire dropped from the shelving cliff behind could burn him out.

  How long would it take them to think of that? They wouldn't leave without the gold, he knew. And regardless of where it had gotten to, he wasn't leaving without it either.

  The bank was in view of the window. He could cover it. The fact remained that they would never let him get away alive, and it would not take them long to resign themselves to burning him out. Much of their own gear was inside, which would cause some hesitation. It would be a last resort for them--but the end of him.

  His only way out would be straight ahead, across that fifty yards of open space. Not more than one would go to the shelf above, and the other two would be waiting to cut him down.

  Not more than one? His eyes narrowed. Was there a way to the top of the cliff? Hastily, he took a glance outside, caught a bit of movement in the brush, and put two quick shots into it with his rifle. Then he tried two more shots, spaced at random along the edge of the gully, merely as a warning.

  Reloading the rifle, he went to the back of the cabin. The back wall was the cliff itself. Trying to recall the looks of the place, he remembered there had been some vines or brush suspended from the shelf. Perhaps he could get up under the edge of those vines! Taking a hasty glance through the window, he went to the back of the house.

  There was a place where a plank was too short. Standing atop a chair, he began pulling at the thatch. It was well placed, and his fingers were soon raw from tugging at it, yet he was making progress.

  From time to time he returned to the window. Several times, shots came into the cabin.

  "Give yourself up, Murphy, and we'll split that gold anyway y
ou want it," Schaum yelled.

  "You go to blazes!" he roared back. He was seething with anger. "It's you or me now, so don't try none of your tricks! I ain't leavin' here now until all three of you are dead or my prisoners. Unless you want to hightail it out of here, I'm gittin' you, Schaum!"

  A volley of rifle shots was the reply. He crouched below the stone sill, and when the volley ended, he tried a quick shot. A reply burned his shoulder, and he shot again, then put down the rifle and returned to his digging at the thatch.

  Soon he had a hole he could peer up through. A wild grapevine hung down from the brush overhead, trailing down from the bending branches of the brush. Up in back of it was a hollow in the rock. It might offer a foothold. The hollow was right under the very shelf of rock he had seen on nearing the cabin. It would be invisible from in front of the cabin if he could get up behind that brush. There would be an instant when he would be half revealed. The instant when he reached up to get his hands on the brush or rock.

  The day wore on, and he dug up some biscuits and munched them cheerfully. He found a couple of cartridge belts and slung them to his hips, holstering the guns. Then he stuffed his pockets with rifle shells.

  "Gettin' hungry out there?" he yelled. "I got lots of chow!"

  A string of vile curses replied to him, and he studied the terrain ahead of him through the crack of the door. A dozen bullet holes let little swords of light into the shadows inside.

  He went to the bucket and drank, then he stripped and brushed more ants from him. Dressing again, he glanced from the window. The saddled horse was gone. As he listened, he heard the sounds of a rapidly ridden horse leaving. Then a shout from Schaum.

  "Yore last chance, Murphy!" Schaum shouted. "Come out or we burn you out."

  He did not want them to think that he had planned for that. He fired two quick shots from the window, and drew one shot in reply. Then he heard something hit the roof. Hastily, he got up on the chair. Smoke came to his nostrils. He thrust his head up and got a whiff of smoke, then a blast of flame and heat! Thrusting his rifle through the hole, he struggled to pull himself up.

  He got his shoulders through, then his six-guns hung. The thatch in front was roaring now and the fire was spreading toward him. Wildly, he ripped at it to make the hole larger. Then, getting a hand in a rock crevice, he tugged himself up.

  The rock crumbled in his fingers, and with a wild gasp of despair he felt himself sliding back. Desperately, his hand shot out, caught a handful of brush. His arms jerked in their sockets, and then, slowly, he dragged himself up.

  With his feet clinging precariously to a tiny ledge, he glanced back. His rifle lay where he had left it and as the fire spread across the roof the shells in the magazine began to explode...he heard yelling, what they thought was going on he couldn't imagine, maybe they thought he was still shooting at them. Hand over hand, he pulled himself up into the hollow under the shelf.

  The roof below was a roaring furnace now. The slightest slip would send him plunging into the flames. Smoke rose in a stifling cloud. He pulled himself higher until the shelf was directly over his back. As he clung there, fighting for breath, he heard footsteps grate on the rock only a few inches over his head.

  There would be no chance to get over the edge of the shelf as long as that man remained there. Clinging to the brush, his feet resting on a small ledge, only a couple of inches wide, he turned his head. A black hole gaped in the stone face. A hole scarcely large enough for a man's body, a hole under the shelf of rock.

  Carefully, taking his whole weight on his arms, he lifted his feet and thrust them into the hole. Catching his toes behind a minor projection of rock, he drew himself back inside.

  Dropping his feet, he felt around. Inside the opening, the hole was several feet deep. He drew back until he was on his knees, only his head in the opening. Less smoke was coming toward him now. He could hear shouts from below, and one from above him.

  "See him?" The voice was that of Cornish.

  "Blamed fool burned to death," Schaum said in astonishment. "He never even showed."

  "I'm coming down!" Cornish shouted.

  "You stay there," Schaum bellowed. "I don't like the look of this!"

  Brad felt of the walls and top of the hole he was in. At the back it slanted down and around. But feeling at the top in back, he felt earth and roots. It was probably not more than two feet to the surface there, or very little more.

  Where was Cornish? The question was answered when he heard the man shout another question at Schaum. He was probably at least thirty feet away.

  Removing a spur, Brad Murphy dug at the earth. He worked carefully, avoiding sound. He dug at the soft earth, letting it fall to the bottom of the hole. Much of it fell on his own legs, cushioning the little sound. He had worked but a few minutes when taking a small root, he pulled down, a tiny hole appeared, and earth cascaded around him. Pistol ready, he waited for an instant to see if Cornish had heard him. There was no sound or movement, and he tugged at another root. More dirt cascaded around him. That time there was a muffled gasp and he heard pounding feet.

  His gun was ready and it was all that saved him. Dave Cornish, his eyes wide and frightened, was staring down into the hole at him, gun in hand.

  The man was petrified by astonishment. The man they thought had burned in the cabin below was coming up through the earth. Before Cornish could realize what was truly happening, Brad acted. The gun was ready. He shoved it up, and even as Cornish started from his shock, the six-gun bellowed.

  The close confines of the hole made a terrific blast, and acrid fumes cut at Murphy's nostrils. Cornish fell forward, and bracing his shoulders against the earth atop the hole, Brad shoved himself through. He scrambled out, rolling over flat.

  ONE LOOK AT Dave Cornish was enough. The man was dead. He had been shot right through the heart. Excited shouts came from below. The shot, muffled by the earth, had reached them but dimly. Yet they were alarmed.

  "Butcher!" Murphy yelled.

  Schaum was walking toward the smoldering cabin, Moffitt a few feet behind him.

  Butcher Schaum froze, terror had turned his face to an ugly mask as he raised his eyes.

  He dropped a hand for a gun, and Brad Murphy whipped up his own. Shots stabbed into the hot still air, something struck his shoulder, and he staggered one step, then fired. Schaum swayed drunkenly, tried to get a gun up, and then Brad fired again.

  Behind him, Asa Moffitt swept up a pistol and emptied it in a terror-stricken blast of fire. Then he turned and ran for the gully.

  Remorselessly, Brad Murphy waited an instant, then fired. Once, twice! The outlaw and murderer fell, rolled over, and lay sprawled out on the lip of the gully.

  Calmly, Brad Murphy reloaded. He found the paint horse standing not far away, and mounting, rode down to the smoldering ruins.

  A few minutes of search and he found his gold. The bag had hit and slid down the bank. It was lying there covered partially by dirt, visible but not likely to attract attention.

  Shaking his head, he swung into the saddle and turned the horse toward town.

  "Horse," he said, "you're takin' me home. I got to buy me a ranch for Ruth and my boy....I reckon," he added, "they'll be right glad to see me."

  He turned the horse down the trail. The nearest town was thirty miles away. Behind him the smoke lifted slowly toward the sky where a buzzard circled lazily in the wavering heat. Gravel rattled, and the horse felt good between Brad's legs, and he liked the heavy feeling of the gold.

 

 

 
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