by Peter Dawson
He put his back to the pressing heat coming out of the trees, took her by the shoulders, shook her. “Cathy, what’s happened?”
“He’s in there.” She nodded toward the spot where he had first seen her as she staggered into the open. “I think he’s dead.” Abruptly her voice grew louder, touched with hysteria. “Bill, get him out!” She tried to struggle to her feet.
“Get who out?” he asked curtly.
“Kincaid!”
Sudden fear struck through Bill. He wheeled and ran in on the trees, ignoring the wave of heat that seemed as tangible as a solid wall, ignoring, too, Kelso’s shout behind him. When he was four paces in past the first tree, he saw the rope wound around the sapling. He dragged in a deep breath that smarted his lungs, ran to the rope, and pulled on it. Ahead, it disappeared into a gray wall of smoke. So close to right and left that it scorched his shirt, solid sheets of flame were devouring the drought-dried timber.
For a moment, as he pulled on the rope, Bill could feel a weight on its far end. Then that weight suddenly let go and the empty end of the rope snaked out of the smoke fog ahead. Just as suddenly Bill realized that Streak must have had a hold on that rope. Shielding his face from the heat by an upthrust arm, he staggered into the smoke. Within two steps he caught the pinkish glow of the tree ahead, felt its added fiery breath without understanding what it was. For a moment the heat was so intense that it drove him backward a lurching stride. But Streak was in there somewhere and that thought finally drove him on again.
He stumbled over something soft and yielding and looked down to see a huddled shape lying at his feet. His lungs crowded for air, he lifted Streak’s loose weight and turned to stagger back toward the tree margin. But for Kelso coming to help, he wouldn’t have stayed on his feet.
Cathy was farther out toward the foot of the rim now, holding the two frightened horses. Together, the sheriff and Bill carried Streak there and stretched him out in the flat, narrow bed of the wash. Kelso took the horses while Cathy came to kneel beside Bill.
They looked at Streak in awe. His face was blackened, mostly by grime, his high forehead blistered in patches and the shirt along his back burned to tatters. Beneath the remnants of his shirt the skin was splotched redly with livid welts. At the left side of his head the hair was burned away in two places.
Kelso said urgently in a loud voice to carry over the roar of the fire: “We’ve got to get out of here . . .” He broke off abruptly as he came up and looked down at Streak. His mouth fell open. “Is he dead?” he breathed.
Bill put his hand on Streak’s chest to feel for a heartbeat. His glance went savagely toward the flame-streaked margin of the trees, as though by that grim look he could silence the pulsating air and deaden the sound that made it hard for him to tell whether or not the wide chest under his hand was moving, whether or not he could feel that faint beat of the heart there.
Cathy and the sheriff watched him with fear-patterned faces. His look gradually became bleak, unpleasant. He took his hand away and put his ear to Streak’s chest in a sudden despairing gesture that had its eloquent meaning. For a moment Cathy and Kelso could see that he wasn’t sure, for the beginning of a light of hope came to his eyes. Then that died out and he straightened slowly and even more slowly shook his head.
All at once Cathy reached out and struck him sharply across the face. Her eyes were ablaze with a wild and hysterical anger. When she tried to strike again, he caught her wrist, calling sharply: “Cathy! Don’t! Get a grip on yourself!”
She seemed not to hear him, for her voice was shrill as she cried: “You were his friend! Why weren’t you with him?” Then, as abruptly as that violent emotion had struck, it left and her shoulders sagged. She said lifelessly: “I’m sorry, Bill. But I tried so hard.”
“We all did,” Bill said tonelessly. His look went up to the trees and down along the line of the timber, seeing that the fire was now racing to enclose the lower end of this long pocket footing the rim. All at once he took Streak by the arm, half lifted him, and managed to throw his limp weight over his shoulder. “We’ve got to get out of here.”
Kelso held his shying, frightened pony while Bill lifted Streak and laid him across the animal’s withers. Then, handing Bill the reins of the second horse, the lawman swung up into saddle. Cathy seemed apathetic, staring at Streak’s head listlessly hanging down, seeming unaware of their danger. Not until Bill caught her by the arm and pushed her toward his horse did she seem to realize what they were doing. Then with a last glance toward the flame-sheeted trees where she had fought to reach Streak and failed, she let Bill help her into the saddle. He mounted behind her.
Two hundred yards below the point where they started, they had to turn and ride back a few rods, for a sudden gust of wind whipped streamers of live flame out of the trees and barred their narrowing path. Bill’s horse started pitching and Bill vaulted aground to hold the fear-crazed animal, Cathy still in the saddle.
It was during their brief halt here that Cathy’s glance lifted to the rim. “My mare!” she called to Bill. “She’s up there! We can’t just leave her!”
Bill’s glance followed hers. Here the rim had lost some of its height and its line wasn’t so sheer. In abrupt decision, he handed her the reins and shouted to Kelso: “Meet you on the trail above!” Before the sheriff understood, he was climbing the talus that footed the bare rimrock.
Cathy watched him until Kelso reined in alongside. “We’ll make a run for it,” he told her. “You’re first.” He struck the Fencerail animal hard across the rump with reins.
For a few moments as her pony ran wildly down along the last narrow open finger of the wash, the orange line of burning trees terribly close, Cathy could feel the dry and blistering hot breath of the flames. A cloud of acrid smoke engulfed her for an instant. Then she was in the clear, the untouched timber close ahead, and the air was fresh and good to breathe. She caught the echoed pound of Kelso’s running pony close behind.
The sheriff rode around her as they entered the trees, evidently having guessed Bill’s errand, for he swung right and up the timbered slope of the rim’s lower line in the direction of the trail Cathy had ridden in. Within five minutes he cut sharply left through a clump of pine seedlings and found the faint line of the trail. It seemed only a minute or so as they sat there wordlessly, listening to the now muted roar of the downward fire and the labored breathing of their winded ponies before they caught the sound of a fast-running horse. Shortly Bill came toward them along the narrow aisle of the trail, astride Cathy’s black.
As he drew rein close to Kelso, the sheriff nodded down to the body ahead of his saddle. “We’d better use that rope of yours,” he said soberly. “I nearly lost him back there.”
He and Bill dismounted, Bill loosening the coil of rope thonged to the horn of the saddle. Cathy sat staring at them dully while the lawman gingerly slid Streak’s loose bulk off his horse and stretched it out on the ground.
As Bill started across to the sheriff’s pony, Cathy spoke abruptly: “What’s that?”
At first Bill didn’t catch her meaning, for she was looking down at Streak, who lay face up on a matting of pine needles close by. Then he saw the torn pocket of Streak’s shirt, the deputy marshal’s badge sagging from the inside of its ripped front, and understood.
“Streak was a federal officer. He came in here to look for a partner of his who disappeared a couple weeks ago,” he told her.
“Then he wasn’t . . .” Cathy’s voice caught before she could go on. “He wasn’t really this Kincaid?”
Bill shook his head, playing out a loop through the hondo of his rope. “No. His handle was Mathiot, Ned Mathiot. We called him Streak.” He sensed the intensity with which the girl was taking in his every word and explained further. “He didn’t know who to trust when he drifted in. Couldn’t figure how Kelso stood in this mess. So he thought up that dodge of using Kincaid’s handle to get busted out of jail.”
Cathy’s face went pale. “Wh
y was he fighting Dad? Why did he help bring in the sheep?”
Bill shrugged. “Buchwalter told him a fancy story about your old man hiring the drygulching of Dallam and Sternes. He was as twisted on things as I’ve been. Guess he figured he’d wade right in and by stirring things up find out what had really become of Church, his sidekick.”
“And did he ever find out?” Cathy asked in a hushed voice.
“No.”
Bill had once more started across toward Kelso’s pony, intending to toss his loop over the horn of the lawman’s saddle, when Cathy spoke again. “I know what happened to him.”
Bill stopped in mid-stride, swung around on her. “Happened to who?” he asked flatly.
“Streak’s partner. He’s dead. Pete killed him.”
“Dallam?” Kelso put in. “Who told you that?”
“No one. I just know. There has to be someone else down there in Pete’s grave.”
A look quite plain in its meaning passed briefly between the sheriff and Bill. “Why don’t you get down and rest a spell, Cathy?” Kelso said mildly.
“But I know I’m right!”
“Sure,” the sheriff drawled. He limped across and reached up to offer her his hand. “You can sit over there under that tree while we do this job.” When she didn’t move, he went on as though explaining a simple known fact to a child: “I was down there when they buried Dallam, girl.”
“So was I,” Bill put in.
She looked at them angrily. “But you’ve got to listen.” Her voice rose even though she tried to speak calmly. “It was Pete who shot Streak Mathiot. Shot him and carried him into the forest, then set the trees afire. I was up there on the rim and watched him do it.”
Again, a glance passed between the two men. Only now it was unsure. “Say that again, Cathy,” Bill said tonelessly.
“Pete shot Streak’s horse from under him and Streak was knocked out when he fell. When Pete rode away, I climbed down to help Streak. I got down too late.” Now her voice was calm, matter-of-fact, heightening the effect of her words on the two men. “His legs must have been hurt somehow. He couldn’t stand, couldn’t help me when I threw him that rope.”
For a brief moment they were wordless. Then Bill breathed: “Dallam alive?” He looked at Kelso, whose startled expression betrayed hesitant conviction.
“Don’t you see, Fred?” he went on suddenly, his voice raspy with excitement. “Dallam isn’t dead, never was. It’s been him all along. He’s the one that made the try at Bishop, that slugged Streak up there at the hide-out yesterday. It wasn’t him we buried down there at Agua. She’s right, Fred. It was Streak’s partner.”
“But that can’t be,” Kelso’s voice was hoarse. “I was there. I helped nail Dallam in his coffin, watched ’em shovel dirt onto him.”
“How do you know it was Dallam? He had his face shot away, all of . . .” A low, startled cry from Cathy cut in on Bill’s words. She swung aground in such haste that she stumbled and went to her knees. In a moment she was up again and ran across to where Streak lay and knelt beside him.
“He’s alive,” she cried softly, almost prayerfully. “I saw his hand move. Streak? Can you hear me?”
Bill let out an incoherent shout and ran over to go down beside her. Together they began working over the unconscious man.
Once, Bill queried, his tone edged and sharp: “You’re sure he moved?”
“Yes! Yes!” she sobbed frantically, as though the assertion would bring about the fact of Streak’s living. Meantime Kelso watched in mute wonderment, still too stunned by the impact of what he had just heard to help.
Not quite five minutes later, Streak opened his eyes to stare at them in a look of pain-dulled panic. For, briefly, he didn’t understand what he was seeing and his whole being was filled with the sound that had roared an accompaniment to his approaching death in his last conscious moment.
Then Cathy spoke to him, quietly, tenderly, again calling him by the name she had heard Bill use. “It’s all right, Streak. You’re safe now.”
His look at once became more natural. He took in Bill and Kelso, really seeing them for the first time. A hint of his contagious smile played over his lean, blackened face and he drawled in a surprisingly strong voice: “Won’t this make Dallam sore.”
“It’s true what she’s been tellin’ us?” Kelso said hoarsely. “Dallam’s alive?”
Streak had momentarily closed his eyes, his face grimacing in pain. But he managed a nod that sealed the lawman’s belief of the seemingly impossible truth.
“Lay off the talk, Fred,” Bill said. He looked down at Streak. “Just take it easy, fella. We’ve got all the time in the world to get you away from here now.”
Streak opened his eyes. “How bad is it?”
“Nothing to cry over,” Bill told him. “I’ve et beef a lot rawer than you are right now, but that’s nothing to worry about. You’re too damned tough to cook clear through. Lie here until you feel better. Then we’ll get you in to Doc Swain.”
“I don’t mean that,” Streak said impatiently. “What about the fire?”
Bill shrugged. “No use worrying about that, either. It’s caught. With this wind, it’ll cover the slope before the day’s out.”
“Here, give me a hand.” Streak abruptly pushed up onto one elbow and held a hand out.
“No, you don’t.” Bill drew away. “You couldn’t stand if you had to.”
Streak reached out, put his hand on Cathy’s shoulder, and sat up. They could see that the effort cost him acute pain. Cathy choked back a cry of alarm and did what she could to steady him.
He looked at her, trying to smile as the pain eased off. “There isn’t much a man can say to thank anyone for . . . for pulling him back out of the grave, is there?”
“Don’t try, Streak,” she said.
“You didn’t have to stay there, working to get me out,” he insisted. Then, lifting his shoulders in a faint shrug, he reached for her shoulder again, adding: “You’ve got me this far. Finish the job.”
He tried to stand. Bill, convinced there was nothing he could do to fight this rangy man’s ingrained stubbornness, took him by the armpits and lifted him erect, an arm around him.
Streak’s glance went down to his legs. His blackened face was tight and strained as he lifted his right leg and took a halting, feeble step. Surprise was in his eyes as he moved his left leg next. Then, with a low laugh, he looked at Bill and said: “You never know how handy your legs are till you need ’em real bad.”
“What good’s this doing you?” Bill growled. “Sit down. Let me and Fred think about getting you in to the sawbones. We can rope you onto a hull if you can’t sit one.”
“We’re not headed for town,” was Streak’s answer. “How much time have we got before the fire hits the creek?”
“Not much,” Kelso said. “An hour, maybe two. But there’s nothin’ we can do, friend. Like Bill says, you better sit and let us do the worryin’ about gettin’ you in.”
“But there is something we can do.”
“What? Hell, the whole slope’s goin’! Nothin’ on earth can stop that blaze, Streak. Nothin’ but rain. There’s clouds off to the south and it may rain tonight. But that’ll only turn what’s left into a stinkin’ sorry mess after it’s over.”
“We could get the dynamite Bill lugged up to the hide-out. We can at least blast a lane through that neck of timber along the creek above Bishop’s. It ought to save his layout. Maybe by the time we get to work up there we’ll think of something else.”
The lawman’s glance swung quickly around on Bill. “We could try,” he said in a moment. “That is, you can, Bill. You get down there after the dynamite while Cathy gets on home to gather Frank’s crew. Tell your dad to hitch up a light rig and haul up axes, buckets, and some gunny sacks, girl. With luck they can keep that fire from jumpin’ the creek there. With more . . .”
“And what’re we doing all this time?” Streak asked. “You and me.”
&nb
sp; “We’re headed for town.”
Streak shook his head. “And miss the fun? Unh-uh. Bill, you get started. You, too, ma’am. Kelso and I will meet both of you up there along the creek.”
“Mathiot, you got your head screwed on backward,” Kelso growled. “You can’t do this. You wouldn’t be on your feet an hour.” He saw the look on Cathy’s face and asked: “What’s wrong?”
“I just remembered that the crew’s gone,” she told him. “Dad’s there alone.”
“Then that settles it,” Streak put in. “You’ll need all the help you can get, even if I am a cripple. Get going, Bill. And you could go on ahead and get me a horse, miss.”
The urgency in his tone had its effect on them. Bill went into saddle at once, Cathy following him shortly. But something made Bill hesitate to leave. He reined over and looked down at Streak. “What about Dallam?”
“He’ll keep until we’ve finished this other,” was Streak’s level reply.
“I’d give a lot if this hadn’t happened, Streak. It’s tough about Church.”
“Ed was doing a job.”
Those sparse words did more than anything to ease Bill Paight’s worry over Streak as he abruptly touched his pony with spur and ran down along the narrow aisle of the trail. For in that reply he read a grim resolve he knew would carry Streak through this day, would keep him on his feet until he could find Pete Dallam. What was to happen after that he didn’t know.
Chapter Twenty-Three
When Pete Dallam struck the timber footing the rim from which Cathy watched, he had been undecided for the first time that morning. The thing that brought on his uncertainty was that he, too, had his memories of that old meeting spot, and they were memories too pleasing to fit in with his bleak and vengeful mood this morning. Even with this long run of unbelievable luck, he felt a strange lack of something. He’d been a little drunk down there at Agua that night when he planned the killing of Sternes and that stranger who looked so much like him—a little drunk and more than a little angry at Cathy for her mentioning his drinking there in the hotel dining room. He had blamed Frank Bishop both for Cathy’s attitude and for his own impossible circumstances. Bishop had made him an outcast, denied him his rightful place in the affairs of the valley. So his sole object in that double killing had been to disappear completely, to become officially dead so that when Bishop, in turn, met a mysterious death the law couldn’t possibly discover who had killed him.