“Better give up!” he said. “No use dying there!”
There was silence and then a slight movement of gravel. Then a six-shooter flew through the air to land in the open space between them.
“What about that rifle?” Sandifer demanded cautiously.
“Lost … for God’s sake, help … me!”
There was no mistaking the choking sound. Jim Sandifer got up and, holding his rifle on the spot where the voice had sounded, crossed into the shadows. As it was, he almost stumbled over the wounded man before he saw him. It was Dan Mello, and the heavy slug had gone into his body but seemed not to have emerged.
Working swiftly, Jim got the wounded man into an easier position and carefully pulled his shirt away from the wound. There was no mistaking the fact that Dan Mello was hit hard. Jim gave the wounded man a drink, and then hastily built a fire to work by. His guess that the bullet had not emerged proved true, but, moving his hand gently down the wounded man’s back, he could feel something hard near his spine. When he straightened, Mello’s eyes sought his face.
“Don’t you move,” Sandifer warned. “It’s right near your spine. I’ve got to get a doctor.”
He was worried, knowing little of such wounds. The man might be bleeding internally.
“No, don’t leave me,” Mello pleaded. “Some varmint might come.” The effort of speaking left him panting.
Jim Sandifer swore softly, uncertain as to his proper course. He had little hope that Mello could be saved, even if he rode for a doctor. The nearest one was miles away, and movement of the wounded man would be very dangerous. Nor was Mello’s fear without cause, for there were mountain lions, wolves, and coyotes in the area, and the scent of blood was sure to call them.
“Legs … gone,” Mello panted. “Can’t feel nothing.”
“Take it easy,” Jim advised. The nearest place was Bill Katrishen’s, and Bill might be some hand with a wounded man. He said as much to Mello. “Can’t be more’n three, four miles,” he added. “I’ll give you back your gun and build up the fire.”
“You … you’ll sure come back?” Mello pleaded.
“What kind of coyote do you think I am?” Sandifer asked irritably. “I’ll get back as soon as ever I can.” He looked down at him. “Why were you gunning for me? Mont put you up to it?”
Mello shook his head. “Mont, he … he ain’t … bad. It’s that Martin … you watch. He’s pizen mean.”
Leaving the fire blazing brightly, Jim returned to his buckskin and jumped into the saddle. The moon was higher now, and the avenues through the trees were like roads, eerily lighted. Touching a spur to the horse, Jim raced through the night, the cool wind fanning his face. Once a deer scurried from in front of him and then bounded off through the trees, and once he thought he saw the lumbering shadow of an old grizzly.
The Katrishen log cabin and pole corrals lay bathed in white moonlight as he raced his horse into the yard. The drum of hoofs upon the hard-packed earth and his call brought movement and an answer from inside: “Who is it? What’s up?”
Briefly he explained, and after a minute the door opened.
“Come in, Jim. Figured I heard a shot a while back. Dan Mello, you say? He’s a bad one.”
Hurrying to the corral, Jim harnessed two mustangs and hitched them to the buckboard. A moment later Bill Katrishen, tall and grayhaired, came from the cabin, carrying a lantern in one hand and a black bag in the other.
“I’m no medical man,” he said, “but I fixed a sight of bullet wounds in my time.” He crawled into the buckboard, and one of his sons got up beside him.
Led by Sandifer, they started back over the way he had come.
Mello was still conscious when they stopped beside him. He looked unbelievingly at Katrishen.
“You came?” he said. “You knowed who … who I was?”
“You’re hurt, ain’t you?” Katrishen asked testily. Carefully he examined the man, and then sat back on his heels. “Mello,” he said, “I ain’t one for foolin’ a man. You’re plumb bad off. That bullet seems to have slid off your hip bone an’ tore right through you. If we had you down to the house, we could work on you a durned sight better, but I don’t know whether you’d make it or not.”
The wounded man breathed heavily, staring from one to the other. He looked scared, and he was sweating, and under it his face was pale.
“What you think,” he panted, “all right … with me.”
“The three of us can put him on them quilts in the back of the buckboard. Jim, you slide your hands under his back.”
“Hold up.” Mello’s eyes wavered, and then focused on Jim. “You watch … Martin. He’s plumb … bad.”
“What’s he want, Mello?” Jim said. “What’s he after?”
“G … old,” Mello panted, and then suddenly he relaxed.
“Fainted,” Katrishen said. “Load him up.”
All through the remainder of the night they worked over him. It was miles over mountain roads to Silver City and the nearest doctor, and little enough that he could do once he got there. Shortly before the sun lifted, Dan Mello died.
Bill Katrishen got up from beside the bed, his face drawn with weariness. He looked across the body of Dan Mello at Sandifer.
“Jim, what’s this all about? Why was he gunning for you?”
Hesitating only a moment, Jim Sandifer explained the needling of Gray Bowen by Rose Martin, the undercover machinations of her and her tall son, the hiring of the Mellos at their instigation and of Art Dunn and Klee Mont. Then he went on to the events preceding his break with the B Bar. Katrishen nodded thoughtfully, but obviously puzzled.
“I never heard of the woman, Jim. I can’t figure why she’d have it in for me. What did Mello mean when he said Martin was after gold?”
“You’ve got me. I know they are money hungry, but the ranch is …” He stopped, and his face lifted, his eyes narrowing. “Bill, did you ever hear of gold around here?”
“Sure, over toward Cooney Cañon. You know, Cooney was a sergeant in the Army, and after his discharge he returned to hunt for gold he located while a soldier. The Apaches finally got him, but he had gold first.”
“Maybe that’s it. I want a fresh horse, Bill.”
“You get some sleep first. The boys an’ I’ll take care of Dan. Kara will fix breakfast for you.”
*
The sun was high when Jim Sandifer rolled out of his bunk and stumbled sleepily to the door to splash his face in cold water poured from a bucket into the tin basin. Kara heard him moving and came to the door, walking carefully and lifting her hand to catch the doorjamb. “Hello, Jim? Are you rested? Dad and the boys buried Dan Mello over on the knoll.”
Jim smiled at her reassuringly. “I’m rested, but after I eat, I’ll be ridin’, Kara.” He looked up at the slender girl with the rusty hair and pale freckles. “You keep the boys in, will you? I don’t want them to be where they could be shot at until I can figure a way out of this. I’m going to maintain peace in this country or die trying.”
“You’re a good man, Jim,” the girl said. “This country needs more like you.”
Sandifer shook his head somberly. “Not really a good man, Kara, just a man who wants peace and time to build a home. I reckon I’ve been as bad as most, but this is a country for freedom and a country for things to be done. We can’t do it when we are killing each other.”
The buckskin horse was resting, but the iron gray that Katrishen had provided was a good mountain horse. Jim Sandifer pulled his gray hat low over his eyes and squinted against the sun. He liked the smell of pine needles, the pungent smell of sage. He moved carefully, searching the trail for the way Lee Martin’s horse had gone the day Grimes had followed him.
Twice he lost the trail and then found it only to lose it finally in the sand of a wash. The area covered by the sand was small, a place where water had spilled down a steep mountainside, eating out a raw wound in the cliff, yet there the trail vanished. Dismounting, Sandifer’s care
ful search disclosed a brushed-over spot near the cliff and then a chafed spot near the cliff and then a chafed place on a small tree. Here Lee Martin had tied his horse, and from here he must have gone on foot.
It was a small rock, only half as big as his fist, that was the telltale clue. The rock showed where it had lain in the earth but had been recently rolled aside. Moving close, he could see that the stone had rolled from under a clump of brush; the clump rolled easily under his hand. Then he saw that, although the roots were still in the soil, at some time part of it had been pulled free, and the clump had been rolled over to cover an opening no more than a couple of feet wide and twice as high. It was a man-made tunnel, but one not recently made.
Concealing the gray in the trees some distance off, Sandifer walked back to the hole, stared around uneasily, and then ducked his head and entered. Once he was inside, the tunnel was higher and wider, and then it opened into a fair-size room. Here the ore had been stoped out, and he looked around, holding a match high. The light caught and glinted upon the rock, and moving closer he picked up a small chunk of rose quartz seamed with gold.
Pocketing the sample, he walked farther in until he saw a black hole, yawning before him, and beside it lay a notched pole such as the Indians had used in Spanish times to climb out of mine shafts. Looking over into the hole, he saw a longer pole reaching down into the darkness. He peered over, and then straightened. This, then, was what Dan Mello had meant. The Martins wanted gold.
The match flickered out, and, standing there in the cool darkness, he thought it over and understood. This place was on land used, and probably claimed, by Bill Katrishen, and it could not be worked unless he were driven off. But could Sandifer make Gray Bowen believe him? What would Lee do if his scheme was exposed? Why had Mello been so insistent that Martin was dangerous?
He bent over and started into the tunnel exit, and then stopped. Kneeling just outside were Lee Martin, Art Dunn, and Jay Mello. Lee had a shotgun pointed at Jim’s body. Jim jerked back around the corner of stone even as the shotgun thundered.
“You dirty, murdering rat!” he yelled. “Let me out in the open and try that!”
Martin laughed. “I wouldn’t think of it! You’re right where I want you now, an’ you’ll stay there!”
Desperately Jim stared around. Martin was right. He was bottled up now. He drew his gun, wanting to chance a shot at Martin while yet there was time, but when he stole a glance around the corner of the tunnel, there was nothing to be seen. Suddenly he heard a sound of metal striking stone, a rattle of rock, and then a thunderous crash, and the tunnel was filled with dust, stifling and thick. Lee Martin had closed off the tunnel mouth, and he was entombed alive!
Jim Sandifer leaned back against the rock wall of the stope and closed his eyes. He was frightened. He was frightened with a deep, soul-shaking fear, for this was something against which he could not fight, these walls of living rock around him, and the dead débris of the rock-choked tunnel. Had there been time and air, a man might work out an escape, but there was so little time, so little air. He was buried alive.
Slowly the dust settled from the heavy air. Saving his few matches, he got down on his knees and crawled into the tunnel, but there was barely room enough. Mentally he tried to calculate the distance out, and he could see that there was no less than fifteen feet of rock between him and escape—not an impossible task if more rock did not slide down from above. Remembering the mountain, he knew that above the tunnel mouth it was almost one vast slide. He could hear nothing, and the air was hot and close.
On his knees he began to feel his way around, crawling until he reached the tunnel and the notched pole. Here he hesitated, wondering what the darkness below would hold. Water, perhaps? Or even snakes? He had heard of snakes taking over old mines, and once, crawling down the ladder into an old shaft, he had seen an enormous rattler, the biggest he had ever seen, coiled about the ladder just below him. Nevertheless, he began to descend—down, down into the abysmal blackness below him. He seemed to have climbed down an interminable distance when suddenly his boot touched rock.
Standing upright, one hand on the pole, he reached out. His hand found rock on three sides, on the other only empty space. He turned in that direction and ran smack into the rock wall, knocking sparks from his skull. He drew back, swearing, and found the tunnel. At the same time, his hand touched something else, a sort of ledge in the corner of the rock, and on the ledge—his heart gave a leap. Candles!
Quickly he got out a match and lit the first one. Then he walked into the tunnel. Here was more of the rose quartz, and it was incredibly seamed with gold. Lee Martin had made a strike. Rather, studying the walls, he had perhaps found an old Spanish working, although work had been done here within the last few weeks. Suddenly Jim saw a pick and he grinned. There might yet be a way out. Yet a few minutes of exploration sufficed to indicate that there was no other opening. If he was to go out, it must be by the way he came.
Taking the candles with him, he climbed the notched pole and stuck a lighted candle on a rock. Then, with a pick at his side, he started to work at the débris choking the tunnel. He lifted a rock and moved it aside, then another.
An hour later, soaked with sweat, he was still working away, pausing each minute or so to examine the hanging wall. The tunnel was cramped, and the work moved slowly ahead, for every stone removed had to be shoved back into the stope behind him. He reached the broken part overhead and, when he moved a rock, more slid down. He worked on, his breath coming in great gasps, sweat dripping from his face and neck to his hands.
A new sound came to him, a faint tapping. He held still, listening, trying to quiet his breathing and the pound of his heart. Then he heard it again, an unmistakable tapping!
Grasping his pick, he tapped three times, then an interval, then three times again. Then he heard somebody pull at the rocks of the tunnel, and his heart pounded with exultation. He had been found!
How the following hours passed Sandifer never quite knew, but, working feverishly, he fought his way through the border of time that divided him from the outer world and the clean, pine-scented air. Suddenly a stone was moved and an arrow of light stabbed the darkness, and with it came the cool air he wanted. He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with air so liquid it might almost be water, and then he went to work, helping the hands outside to enlarge the opening. When there was room enough, he thrust his head and shoulders through and then pulled himself out and stood up, dusting himself off—and found he was facing not Bill Katrishen or one of his sons, but Jay Mello!
“You?” he was astonished. “What brought you back?”
Jay wiped his thick hands on his jeans and looked uncomfortable.
“Never figured to bury no man alive,” he said. “That was Martin’s idea. Anyway, Katrishen told me what you done for Dan.”
“Did he tell you I’d killed him? I’m sorry, Jay. It was him or me.”
“Sure. I knowed that when he come after you. I didn’t like it nohow. What I meant, well … you could’ve left him lie. You didn’t need to go git help for him. I went huntin’ Dan, when I found you was alive, an’ I figured it was like that, that he was dead. Katrishen gave me his clothes, an’ I found this …”
It was a note, scrawled painfully, perhaps on a rifle stock or a flat rock, written no doubt, while Jim was gone for help.
Jay
Git shet of Marten. Sandfer’s all right. He’s gone for hulp to Katrisshn. I’m hard hit. Sandfer shore is wite. So long, Jay, good ridin.
Dan
“I’m sorry, Jay. He was game.”
“Sure.” Jay Mello scowled. “It was Martin got us into this, him an’ Klee Mont. We never done no killin’ before … maybe stole a few hosses or run off a few head of cows.”
“What’s happened? How long was I in there?” Jim glanced at the sun.
“About five, six hours. She’ll be dark soon.” Mello hesitated. “I reckon I’m goin’ to take out … light a shuck for Texas.”
Sandifer thrust out his hand. “Good luck, Jay. Maybe we’ll meet again.”
The outlaw nodded. He stared at the ground, and then he looked up, his tough, unshaven face strangely lonely in the late-afternoon sun. “Sure wish Dan was ridin’ with me. We always rode together, him an’ me, since we was kids.” He rubbed a hard hand over his lips. “What d’you know? That girl back to Katrishen’s? She put some flowers on his grave. Sure enough.”
He turned and walked to his horse, swung into the saddle, and walked his horse down the trail, a somber figure captured momentarily by the sunlight before he turned away under the pines. Incongruously Jim noticed that the man’s vest was split up the back, and the crown of his hat was torn.
The gray waited patiently by the brush. Jim Sandifer untied him and swung into the saddle. It was a fast ride he made back to the ranch on Iron Creek. There he swapped saddles, explaining all to Katrishen. “I’m riding,” he said. “There’s no room in this country for Lee Martin now.”
“Want us to come?” Bill asked.
“No. They might think it was war. You stay out of it, for we want no Pleasant Valley War here. Leave it lay. I’ll settle this.”
He turned from the trail before he reached the B Bar, riding through the cottonwoods and sycamores along the creek. Then he rode up between the buildings and stopped beside the corral. The saddle leather creaked when he swung down, and he saw a slight movement at the corner of the corral.
“Klee? Is that you?” It was Art Dunn. “What’s goin’ on up at the house?”
Jim Sandifer took a long step forward. “No, Art,” he said swiftly, it’s me.”
Dunn took a quick step back and grabbed for his gun, but Jim was already moving, expecting him to reach. Sandifer’s left hand dropped to Art’s wrist, and his right smashed up in a wicked uppercut to the solar plexus.
Dunn grunted and his knees sagged. Jim let go of his wrist then, and hooked sharply to the chin, hearing Dunn’s teeth click as the blow smashed home. Four times more Jim hit him, rocking his head on his shoulders, then he smashed another punch to the wind and, grabbing Dunn’s belt buckle, jerked his gun belt open. The belt slipped down and Dunn staggered and went to his knees. The outlaw pawed wildly, trying to get at Jim, but he was still gasping for the wind that had been knocked out of him.
Glory Riders Page 5