The single shot seemed to decide the marksman. Blade heard the desperate clatter of loose rocks and saw the dim shadow of a man break away in a westerly direction. Blade had no wish to ride his animal into rocks, so he changed course and rode back along the narrow beach, keeping his carbine trained on the wrecked boat. But when he reached it, there was no sign of the man he had taken the gun from.
Figures seemed still to be milling about in mid-stream.
‘Come on across,’ Blade called. ‘Anybody hit, George?’
An indignant voice piped back: ‘You bet your goddam life somebody’s hit. Two of us—me and Annabel.’
McMasters, the tension evident in his voice, was shouting for them to get on. Riders urged their animals forward. The animals lunged violently against the stream and the spray flew. Blade dismounted and waited for them to come ashore.
As McMasters came near, Blade told him to go straight ahead for the cabin. That would provide cover for the women while the men checked the packs.
McMasters grunted and went ahead. The other riders passed Blade, old Charlie groaning with great dramatic effect and Annie muttering: ‘You poor brave little bastard, you.’
The last in the line was the Mexican girl. She halted her dripping horse and stretched out her hands to Blade who helped her down.
When her feet were on the ground, she stayed in his grip and her teeth flashed a smile in the moonlight. Her lean handsome face was bright. Her eyes were large in the thinness of her face.
‘Sometimes,’ she said, ‘it is good to have mercenarios around, I think.’
He smiled back:—‘Just so long as they earn their keep.’
She made a soft click with her mouth and jerked her head in comical agreement. Then she released herself and led her horse up the beach.
In the house, she inspected Charlie’s wound while the men checked the animals. The old man had been hit in the thigh and Pilar declared it broken.
‘This is all we need,’ McMasters decided when told. He sounded near to despair. ‘Look here, Joe, there’s no sense in going on tonight. We don’t know where the enemy is. They could be behind the next ridge for all we know. We daresn’t move the old man. We’ll rest here till dawn and then see what’s what.’
Blade agreed that they were offered no alternative. He doubted they would be hit tonight. At least one of the enemy was hurt, possibly two. In the morning either he or McMasters would make a scout. But they would keep a strict watch tonight, just to be on the safe side.
‘You’re right,’ McMasters said. ‘We’ve gotten ourselves in one hell of a mess. You wouldn’t think grown men could start in on a damn fool business like this.’
They unpacked the burros and toted the packs into the shell of a house. McMasters cut a splint for Charlie’s leg while the women did what they could to stop the bleeding. Blade put the animals on grass not fifty paces from the water’s edge and hobbled some of them as best he could. When he returned to the house, old Charlie was in considerable pain, but McMasters claimed he had set the leg while the women held the prospector down and, if they could keep the wound clean, there was a good chance of recovery. McMasters had a small amount of whisky with him and had washed the wound out. The Indian girl said that she would look for medicinal herbs to pack in it as soon as it was light. Blade stood first watch, thinking uneasily on the fact that most likely they would not be able to push on the following day.
Before she slept, the Mexican girl sought out Blade where he stood guard among the rocks, halfway between the house and the grazing animals.
‘I know why I am doing this crazy thing,’ she said. ‘But why do you do it, Blade?’
‘Isn’t the killing of the Indians enough?’ he said.
‘I think there is something else.’
He sighed.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘Put yourself in my position. A professional. Along comes this shirt-tail penny-thief outfit and gets away with not only my animals, but my guns as well. Think what happens to my reputation if a story like that gets around.’
She smiled ironically.
‘You have reassured me,’ she said. ‘I thought perhaps you actually had a heart and were doing this for sentimental or moral reasons.’
She headed back for the house.
Blade said: ‘Women,’ and filled his pipe with rank tobacco.
Eight
Lon Southey was satisfied. The outlaws did not have the gold yet, but the situation could have been worse. The party with the gold had been slowed. The old man was hit. Lon knew exactly where everybody was. While the main party were in the house, there was one man between the house and the animals. These animals could be reached by a rider from inland and from the river. They could be stampeded either way.
He walked back to his horse through the darkness, untied it and rode south. It wasn’t easy to find the small camp in the dark and for a while he searched too far west, but finally his whistle was answered by Duke and he found himself once more back with his companions. He unsaddled, hobbled his horse and left it contentedly rolling.
Duke sounded grouchy, as well he might. The old woman’s Sharps rifle packed a wicked punch. Duke had his own rifle smashed into his arm by its heavy bullet. He’d lost a lot of blood. Worse for a while he had been scared that his arm was badly damaged. Showing he was scared hurt a man’s pride. So he barked the single word ‘Well?’ at Lon. Southey described what he had discovered.
Ike Mannion said: ‘You got to hand it to these bastards—they sure are salty—an’ they got luck.’ Southey reached for the coffee pot.
‘Let’s have it, Duke,’ he said as he sipped. ‘What’s on your mind?’ This showed he was willing to take some lead from Duke who looked at him and then Weyland and Mannion, measuring their moods. Maybe Weyland didn’t count any more. He was the man Blade found hiding by the boat. Weyland looked as if he had been run over by a herd of buffalo.
Duke said: ‘This is how I see it. Two of us run off their horses. That sets ’em afoot. So they stay right where they’re at. Gold’s heavy. Maybe one of ’em’ll go for help. Same time, one of us takes Bill home and gets help.’
Weyland lifted his head. He lay on the ground wrapped in a blanket.
‘No chance,’ he said. ‘I’ll slow down anybody that heads for the Elbow. We got to get help fast. I stay right here. I aim to kill the son-of-a-bitch that did this to me. There ain’t nothin’ wrong with me two-three days’ rest won’t put right.’
‘Ike?’ said Duke.
‘I’ll go along with it.’
‘Lon?’
‘Makes sense. Who goes an’ who stays?’
‘Cut for it,’ Ike suggested.
Duke produced the cards which he was never without. They were like worry beads to him. They cut. Lon Southey drew the highest card. The other two thought it best that he waste no time at all and ride through the night.
‘Two or three of the best boys,’ Duke thought. ‘Quality rather than quantity. We don’t want to share with every damned runaway cowboy at the Elbow. We want ammunition and supplies, too.’
‘I’ll take a couple of horses,’ Lon said, ‘an’ ride change and change about. Say one and a half days there, two days back. The gold ain’t goin’ to be that much nearer Taos in that time.’
‘We ain’t sure they’re headed for Taos,’ Ike put in. ‘So don’t bank on it.’
Southey threw the dregs of his coffee away, nodded to the three of them and walked away in the moonlight to catch up his horse. Ten minutes later they listened to the hoofs of his horses drumming away into the night.
‘We’ll stampede the horses at first light,’ Duke said. ‘We’d best get some sleep.’
When they had killed the fire and settled into their blankets, there was silence for about ten minutes before Ike Mannion spoke.
‘You know who I reckon we’re up against?’ he demanded.
‘No, who?’ Duke said.
‘It was him shouting back there by the river,’ said Ike, ‘th
at give me the idea. Then I recollected he had gray hair, but he ain’t old. Christ, why didn’t I think of it before?’
Duke said: ‘All right, you have us in suspense. Spill it.’
‘You know who we robbed? You know who’s been chasin’ our goddam butts off?’
‘Oh, for crissake,’ said Duke.
‘Joe Blade.’
There was dead silence.
Bill Weyland said: ‘That makes me feel better. It don’t make me feel good, but it makes me feel better. At least I wasn’t beat up by no punk.’
Duke was raised up on one elbow.
‘Joe Blade,’ he said. ‘That puts a different bird in the pot. Maybe I should of told Lon to bring us a half-dozen.’
Ike hawked and spat into the darkness.
‘I ain’t denyin’ Blade’s kind of special,’ he said, ‘but he’s flesh an’ blood like the rest of us. You can blow his goddam head off like anybody else.’
‘That’s a fact,’ Weyland agreed. ‘An’ I aim to do it.’
Mannion and Weyland heard a strange sound in the darkness.
‘What’s up with Duke?’ Mannion demanded.
‘He’s laughin’,’ said Weyland in a kind of disgust. ‘I wish to God I could find somethin’ to laugh at. What the hell’s so funny, Duke?’
Duke said, hardly able to get his words out: ‘The great Joe Blade—we took his guns, his horses, every goddam thing.’
The other two saw the joke, then, and they laughed too.
Nine
The weather was turning cold. Blade sat huddled in a corner of the house trying to sleep. His growing beard itched. He was hungry. In that moment before first light, his patience was thin. He was sick to the back teeth of this whole business. He should stop playing the part of an avenging angel and go about his own business, looking for the man he had been hired to find.
He stood up and stretched his aching limbs; looking around him, he saw in the first light of morning the peaceful sleeping face of the Indian girl. That brought back to him the awful sight of the massacred Indians —her people. Then he turned his head and saw Pilar Pelaez. The girl was awake and her green eyes met his. She smiled a little.
He returned her smile and walked over to old Charlie Hedges. Annie was snoring beside him.
‘How you feelin’, Charlie?’ he asked.
‘I can’t lie about it, Joe,’ the old prospector said. ‘I didn’t sleep a minute last night, what with the pain. I feel like hell. Annie and the rest of you should take the gold on to Taos. It ain’t goin’ to do me much good now. I just hate to think of it bein’ spent by them devils.’
‘That gold’ll get to Taos with you,’ Blade promised.
He walked outside and saw the cold light of dawn hitting the surface of the water like frozen silver. The sky was grey. Winter was closer by another day. Snow was not far off. Blade felt low. He knew that he was on the brink of telling McMasters that he would go after the outlaws and settle their hash then and there. He didn’t know if he could do it, but he reckoned he should have a damn good try. He fetched his rifle from the house and started to walk toward the rocks where McMasters was doing guard.
As he came in sight of the rocks, he heard a sound from the north further along the edge of the river. It was a horse running. The animal was out of his sight, so he angled toward the river, hitting a hard run himself. Dimly, about one hundred yards away, he caught sight of the misty figure of a horse and rider coming toward him. In the same second, he heard the sharp crack of a carbine to the west.
The rider suddenly swerved to his right. Alarm blossomed in Blade. The man was heading straight for the horses.
McMasters’ rifle sounded from the rocks.
Blade changed direction for the horses.
He could hear McMasters yelling his alarm. He glimpsed the rider over the tops of the bush and watched the man disappear as he dismounted. Blade ran past the guard rocks and at once came under fire from the marksman to the west. Lead started to miss him narrowly. He reached the comparative cover of the brush and the rifleman at once turned his attention back to McMasters. Brush tore savagely at Blade’s clothes and flesh. His naked feet were lacerated by rocks and thorns. But he did not slacken his pace. He had to get the man among the animals or they were all afoot. He guessed the fellow was cutting hobbles. There came a loud cry followed by the sound of a blow. Hoofs sounded as an animal ran.
Blade burst into the open, gasping for breath.
There was a thousand feet of rough pasture stretching away to a mass of scattered boulders, brush and trees. The animals were scattered out over it, all slightly spooked by the shooting and noise, except for the burros that stood stoic and calm. Blade spotted his own horse, head up and alarmed. Blade whistled and it started gratefully toward him, shuffling against the hobbles.
The man was working frantically, slashing a hobble and striking at the freed animal. It kicked up its heels and ran.
Blade shouted.
Still down on one knee, the man whirled and the gun in his right hand produced smoke. The range was long for a belt gun and the bullet passed far to the left of Blade who pulled the butt of his purloined Winchester into his shoulder and fired one careful shot.
The man jumped to his feet and seemed to dance a fantastic jig of agony for a couple of seconds before he threw out his arms and pitched forward on to his face.
Blade advanced on him, holding the Winchester aimed until he stood over him and turned him over with his toe.
The man had taken the bullet through the center of his chest and was dead. Blade had never seen him before in his life.
He heard hoofs near him and, turning his head, saw that his horse was near. Hurrying to him, he slipped the hobbles from him and struck him lightly on the rump. The animal trotted quietly in the direction of the river.
A rifle cracked on the edge of the pasture. Blade turned quickly and saw gunsmoke drifting idly. A warning sounded in his head, telling him to go carefully with the ammunition. He was sharply aware that McMasters’ gun was silent. Had George been hit? How many attackers were there? His mind flitted to the women in the house. At least Annie was there with her cannon and Pilar had the revolver. He became abruptly conscious that he was standing unprotected in the open as a bullet hummed viciously past him and kicked up dirt behind him.
There was another shot and another. At first, he naturally thought the shooter was cutting down on him. But he knew his mistake when a horse behind him sank to its knees and rolled over on the ground.
The next shot found his own horse, taking it clean through the head. Blade knew that the horses that could not be stampeded were being killed. What else could he expect from men who could kill humans without thought?
His eyes searched the brush for movement and saw none.
He briefly turned his eyes to his own horse and watched it kick its life away. Bitterly he saw something he loved die.
It was anger that drove him to his feet, knowing that he would have to take risks if he did not want to lose the rest of the animals. He ran directly north where there was a light sorrel Indian pony fighting its hobbles in its effort to get away from the shooting.
The rifle sounded again. A fleck of blood appeared on the horse’s rump. It squealed and started pitching violently. Blade managed to get around to its head and grab the crude hackamore that adorned its head. The little horse fought him savagely, but he fore footed it with his own naked foot and brought it down. It was not the easiest task in the world to get the hobbles off the animal while it was kicking and while the man in the brush was shooting. Somehow he managed it and was astride the sacred animal as it reared to its feet and jumped.
Blade clung to its back like a burr, the fingers of his left hand entwined in the coarse hair of its mane.
It ran north until he forced it around by sheer physical strength. It galloped at full stretch across the open stretch of grass and hit the brush like an exploding shell. The tangle of brush slowed it and he managed to turn it
east toward the river and, presumably, toward the marksman. Above the crashing of the brush, Blade could hear the repeating rifle still firing. Glancing left, he saw another horse go down.
He had almost reached the open stretch of ground by the river when he saw the dark figure of a man darting through the brush. He tried to turn the Indian horse toward him, but the animal jibbed and refused. He kicked it and yelled to it, then tried to reach McMasters with a shout to warn him that the fellow was going back west past his position.
Finally, he got the horse around. He heard a loud crashing in the brush. Annie emerged with her massive rifle in her hands. Blade pointed, yelling for her to make a try for the fleeing man. The old woman at once clambered on a boulder and shouted that she had the sonuvabitch in her sights. Blade got his horse on the move and the big gun went off with a roar.
It was as if the little horse were trying to make up for its bad behavior. It ran with a will, getting its legs under it and pushing through the undergrowth like a Texas brushpopper, putting its rider’s life at risk almost every jump it took. He passed the guard rocks and caught sight of the man rearing into the saddle. A moment later, the fellow was spurring away south. Blade turned after him and at once found the man was on the better horse. He started lengthening his lead markedly.
Blade at once called off the chase. He did not know how many men he was up against and he could not leave his own party unprotected. He reluctantly turned back.
He came on the three women searching through the rocks for McMasters. At first he was nowhere to be seen. Finally, however, the Indian girl traced him by a trail of blood from the rocks to the edge of the pasture.
McMasters lay on his back and his face looked, on first inspection, as if it had been shattered. Together they lifted him onto the back of the Indian pony. The animal did not like the smell of blood and acted up badly, but it apparently knew the girl and quietened down when she spoke to it and handled it.
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