“Damn,” Swede said under his breath.
The man was very young and wore an Indian feather in his low-crowned hat. He looked ready to use that rifle, though—too damn ready. He had the angle on Swede. If Swede shot Kirby, this kid would have clear aim at him. Swede could try for the kid, but he’d have to move for a good shot, and there was a chance the kid would get him first. His position would be revealed in any case.
“Damn,” Swede said again.
He looked up the hill to the retreat he’d chosen earlier—a gigantic slab of dark granite that had fallen across a smaller, knob-shaped outcropping. There was a triangle of space underneath, just big enough to hold a man. He weighed his chances of making it. He’d have to go now—another second and the kid would see him. He gripped his rifle and leaped up—but his tired legs failed him, and he fell heavily.
Too late now; he was exposed. “There he is!” the kid yelled.
Swede took a deep breath. He steadied himself and got back up, keeping low. “There he is!” the kid cried again.
Swede tottered up the hill. He could no longer feel his feet, and he wondered if that was a good sign. A bullet droned past his ear, but he never heard the shot. Another bullet whined off a nearby rock. He heard shots now but could not tell where they came from.
He seemed to be in the open forever. Then he ducked around the knob of rock and wedged himself into the shady nook. He lay there for a moment, panting. God, he wished he had some water. His throat was so swollen he couldn’t swallow. It felt like he was choking on hot brick.
As he cooled down, he shivered. It was actually chilly in here. The stone was dank and slimy; the sun must never get in.
He looked out. He was protected on three sides, with a commanding view of the hill before him. His main worry was that they’d flank him, but he thought he could prevent that—for a while, anyway.
A bullet kicked up dirt in front of him, and he ducked back instinctively, even though he was safe. It would take a lucky shot to get him in here. This was a good spot to make a stand. It was as good a place to die as any.
* * *
At the foot of the hill, Rosie listened to the gunfire. She leaned wearily against the rock, head on her forearm, no longer able to cry.
35
The posse angled toward Swede’s new position, moving slowly on the wild hillside. Spud got Brazos’s attention and motioned the younger man over to him. Spud was puffing; his chest hurt. This kind of activity had been a lot easier twenty years ago.
He watched Brazos sidle across the hill. Strange how he’d let a raw kid like this get him in so much trouble. He didn’t even know anything about Brazos. Like most cowhands, Brazos kept his past to himself.
Brazos arrived in a slide of stones and pebbles, scraping his expensive boots. The curly-haired boy looked at the end of his patience. His brows were knit. “You think of somethin’ quick, Spud. ’Cause if you don’t—”
“I did,’’ Spud gasped. “I thought up a plan. You and me’ll go up the hill with Kirby. We’ll fire our guns—”
Brazos started to interrupt, but Spud overrode him, “—but not at Swede! We’ll just fire in the air. Kirby won’t be able to prove we ain’t tryin’.”
Spud looked hopeful, but Brazos said, “What good’s that? We won’t be savin’ Swede’s life. We’ll just be makin’ sure it ain’t us that kills him.”
Spud stood angrily. “Damn, Brazos, what do you want? Swede’s dead either way, and I don’t feel like doin’ time in prison for mutiny.”
“I don’t care what you—”
“Hurry up, you two!” Kirby was waving them on.
Spud gave Brazos a grim look. He spit tobacco juice and hobbled up the hill. “You come up with a better idea, you let me know.”
Brazos hesitated, then followed the older man. “I still don’t like it.”
As the members of the posse climbed toward Swede’s position, there was a rifle shot and they dove for cover.
Kirby crouched behind some rock. “That’s one,” he counted to himself, and his breath came in short bursts because he knew the shot had been meant for him. He snatched a look upward and raised his voice. “Does everyone see where he is?”
The men nodded, taking quick drinks from their canteens. Their faces were strained. Their already foul clothes had been blackened by another wave of sweat from the climb.
Young Harry unbuttoned his shirt in the heat. The sun flashed off the little gold crucifix he wore around his neck. Tired though he was, Harry had never felt so good in his life. His pappa would have been proud of him. He, Harry Ferrante, had put to flight one of the West’s most famous outlaws. He was in a hurry to finish the job, so when he saw Kirby looking over the posse, he divined that the grim lawman needed a volunteer. “I’ll do it,” he said eagerly, heedless of the duty.
But Kirby already had his man. “George, see if you can get behind Swede unobserved—up around the right flank there. We’ll pin him down, then you try and move him out of those rocks.”
Harry’s wispy mustache drooped with disappointment. Black George raised his eyebrows but said nothing. To the others, Kirby said, “We’ll keep moving forward, a bit at a time. Force Swede to fire. George, you ready?”
George studied the layout of the hill. He jammed his black hat over his bandaged head. He looked at Kirby and nodded.
“All right,” Kiiby said. “Open fire.” He aimed his pistol at the triangle of space between the rocks and squeezed off the first shot himself. The rest of the men began firing as well. Bullets whined off the granite boulders, while several more kicked up dirt in front of Burdette’s hiding place.
While Burdette was pinned down, George pulled out of line and dashed to his right, toward a large thicket of greasewood. A rolling dive brought him behind the thicket. As the fusillade slackened, he ventured a look up. Burdette was peering from his hiding place, searching to his sides, but George didn’t think he had been seen leaving the line.
Each time the posse’s gunfire made Burdette duck, George moved. It was a slow process. He used rocks, gullies, and brush for cover. He moved on his stomach when he had to. Once Burdette looked right at him, but George willed himself into the landscape, like the Comanches had taught him, and the outlaw saw nothing.
At last George was around the side of Burdette’s position, hidden from the outlaw’s vision by the flat slab of rock. George got his second wind, then stood and moved toward Burdette’s rear. Below, he heard the posse’s desultory firing. He saw the flashes and the gunsmoke, saw them climbing forward one at a time under Kirby’s watchful eye. Then, close at hand, Burdette’s rifle cracked in reply.
George crouched. He moved again, cautiously, careful not to dislodge any stones that might reveal his presence. He worked along the rock line, getting above Burdette and behind him. His steps slowed as he got closer. Then he stopped.
Burdette was just below him, stretched out, looking downhill. His head and shoulders were clearly outlined in the triangle of light, as the gunfire rang about him. Now and then he looked out to his flanks.
George knelt. It would be easy to kill Burdette from here; he had a perfect shot. He’d be doing the outlaw a favor, compared to what awaited him. Better quick like this than the humiliation of prison and a trial, then hanging. He steadied his rifle on a flat rock and drew aim.
He let the rifle down again. He had killed men before, but he would not do it now. Not this way. If he and Burdette had met face to face, it might have been different, but George would not shoot an unsuspecting man in the back. No, he would do only what he had been told—he would shift Burdette out of that rock fort. This was not his fight, anyway. He aimed his Winchester and fired.
The bullet splattered the rock next to Burdette’s head. George saw chips flying. The outlaw scrambled backward out of his position, drawing his pistol. He rose and snapped two shots at George, who ducked.
When George looked again, Burdette was staggering up the hill. George fired a wide shot after him.
&nbs
p; Down the hill, the posse blazed away at the exposed target. A puff of dirt appeared at Burdette’s feet, but he vanished behind a bend in the canyon wall.
Kirby stood and reloaded his pistol. He held the shotgun in one hand and the pistol in the other. “Let’s go. Drive him to the base of the cliff.”
Harry and the two cowboys rose behind him. They continued up the hill, slow and unhurried, just like before.
36
Twice more Swede was driven from hiding. The process became mechanical. The posse would advance while the black man circled behind Swede, forcing him to fire and retreat.
There was nothing Swede could do to stop the flanking movements. The posse kept him pinned down too well. He was using up all his ammunition just to get away, to buy himself a few more minutes of life.
He was high up the hill now, where there was not much cover. He made for a stand of scrub cedar, stunted and warped by the wind, that seemed to be growing out of the bare rock. The posse opened up on him again. They were terrible shots; it was a miracle he was still alive. Why couldn’t one of the bastards hit him and be done with it?
As if in answer, a ricocheting bullet burned Swede’s thigh, but he kept on up the hill, drawing closer to the cliff that would stop him in the end.
Another shot sounded up above. It was not over yet.
* * *
Rosie wondered what Swede would look like when they carried him down the hill. She hoped she wouldn’t have to see it. Wearily, she rested her hands on her hips, and she touched one of the wads of money.
She’d forgotten ail about the money. She took one of the stacks from her blouse and flipped through the sweat-stained notes. What good was any of this to her now—she’d lost the only thing she wanted. At the time, she had thought she went back for the money out of instinct; now she realized she’d done it in case they got through, in case they got to Mexico.
She put the money back in her blouse. Then she drank some water. She tried to conjure Swede’s image before her mind’s eye, but already the craggy features were indistinct. He was fading from view, like a man who was already dead.
* * *
As Burdette hid among the thick cedar, the posse settled to earth in a bowl-shaped hollow ringed with rocks and brush.
“He’s finished,” Harry said, marveling. “He must be.”
Save for his scratched face and the. cut on his forehead, Kirby’s lean, angular figure looked nearly as fresh as when they left Temperance. Kirby said, “He has two bullets left. One more rush should do it. Ready, George?”
Eyes half closed from the heat, the black man demurred. “Not me, Kirby, I been on that flank too long. I’m wore out.”
Kirby turned. The two cowboys sat together, sweating and drinking from their canteens. Spud’s feet looked played out; Brazos was brooding. Kirby knew they had been deliberately firing wide. He said, “All right—Harry, you go.”
The dark-haired boy jumped up with excitement, then hastily resumed cover. “I knew it! I knew I’d be the one to get him!”
Spud sighed at this statement. Brazos looked uneasy.
"I'll get him,” Kirby corrected. “You just flush him out.”
Harry looked at Brazos. He wanted to say something, to say they could still be friends, but the young cowboy turned away from him. Spud reached out and touched Harry’s shoulder. “Watch yourself, son.”
Harry nodded. He moved out on the flank. As the other men took their positions and raised their weapons, Harry started to rise.
“Don’t rush it!” barked Kirby.
Harry dropped back down. He waited till he heard enough gunfire to drive Burdette low, then made a good rush to get behind a hummock of earth.
There was a lull in the firing, but Harry couldn’t contain himself. Before the others were ready to start again, he left cover and began advancing up the hill. He was bent low, finger around the trigger guard of his father’s rifle, ready to fire. He forgot about the flank and headed straight for the cedars. The footing was rougher than he expected, and he slipped on a patch of bare rock.
Something smashed through his collarbone, knocking him head over heels back down the hill. He finished in a clump of boulders, unseen by the rest of the posse.
“Harry!” Kirby shouted.
“Harry!” shouted Brazos.
Behind the rocks, Harry was hatless, gasping for breath. He felt numb. He smelled hot dust and his own blood. Gritting his teeth, he raised himself to a sitting position. He touched his shattered shoulder and almost passed out from the pain. He’d never even heard the shot that got him.
“Harry!” Kirby shouted again.
Harry was scared. He was hurt bad, and he knew it. He had a feeling—a gut instinct—that he was not going to pull through. Madonna Santa , had never thought it would be like this. He had never imagined such pain—the same pain he had been trying to inflict on someone else with such misplaced idealism. He remembered how eager he’d been to shoot Swede Burdette, and a wave of bitter shame washed over him. He prayed to God that he would not die. He could picture his mother’s face when she heard the news.
“Harry, are you all right?”
“I’m fine, Mr. Kirby!” Harry spoke through clenched jaws, trying not to shame himself further by crying out.
“Where are you hit?”
“In the shoulder. It’s—it’s nothing.” Harry’s voice quavered. “I’m out of the fight, Mr. Kirby. I’m sorry.”
“That’s all right, boy,” Kirby called. “Just stay there. Don’t move. We’ll get someone to you as soon as we can.”
With excruciating pain, Harry eased his canteen around his shoulder and took a drink. He did not see his father’s silver-plated rifle anywhere.
On the other side of the rocks, Kirby looked at his remaining three men. “That shot that got Harry was number eight. He has one left.” There was a strange light in Kirby’s eyes. “Let’s make him use it.”
With that, Kirby rose and started for the stand of cedar. He walked slowly, shotgun in his left hand, pistol in his right. His thoughts were on Swede and on this moment of personal triumph. He didn’t realize that no one was following him.
With about fifty yards to go, Kirby reached a point of ground roughly level with the cedars. Summoning a burst of strength, he ran forward, firing his pistol into the trees where he thought Swede would be. He saw a flash of pale face against the green. He turned, but Swede’s pistol fired first and Kirby flung himself to the ground.
After a second, Kirby picked himself up. Swede had missed. Kirby let out his breath. What had he been thinking of, to get carried away and try a stupid play like that? He’d never done anything like that in his life. He didn’t want to get killed on his last chase.
He stood upright and brushed himself off. Smiling, he hefted the shotgun and walked toward the trees.
“Got you,” he said.
37
“Here’s some blood,” said Black George, examining the ground. “He’s hit.”
They were standing by Swede’s last position, a depression in the rock, a natural trench. The late afternoon breeze sighed through the stunted cedars. While Kirby had been on the ground, the others had seen Swede leave the cedars and stagger around another bend in the canyon wall.
“He sure don’t give up easy,” Spud said.
Kirby said, “Brazos, go back to your friend Harry.”
The young cowboy looked torn between two desires. Then he hardened. “No. I’m coming with you.”
Kirby’s eyes narrowed, but he said nothing. He turned and followed Swede’s path into the next part of the canyon. The others plodded after. It was not far to the cliff base now. Just above them, a rocky plateau jutted out from the hillside.
“There he is,” Kirby said.
Swede was climbing a dry streambed up the side of the plateau. He moved slowly, done in. Reaching the top, he paused and looked back, his tall figure caught in the sunlight. He waved his hat at them, then disappeared.
“Com
e on,” Kirby said.
The plateau was accessible only by the dry streambed. Brazos kept close to Kirby, who forced a relentless pace on the steep incline. George came after, followed by Spud, puffing on his bowed legs.
At the top, the streambed turned and cut through a rock wall. Beyond this barrier, Kirby and his men saw a wild, tangled area, with boulders and fallen trees everywhere. They also saw buildings—a cabin, a shed, and a corral—tumble-down structures, gray with weather and age.
“Miners’ camp,” George said.
Spud came up, stepping gingerly because his feet were sore. “Must have been silver here’bouts,” he wheezed. “Wonder why they left?”
The braided scout shrugged. “Maybe the ore gave out. Maybe there wasn’t enough water. Maybe Indians drove ’em out.”
Kirby put down the shotgun. He broke open his Smith and Wesson, ejected the spent shells, and began reloading. “No sense wasting time.”
Brazos had been watching Kirby intently. Now he stepped between the rocks, blocking the way onto the plateau. He held his rifle ready. “No,” he said.
Kirby slid another shell into the pistol chamber. “No, what?”
Before Brazos could say anything, Spud stepped between the two men. Spud’s bright blue eyes looked at Kirby. “No, we ain’t goin’ with you. We’ve had enough.”
When Kirby answered, his voice was very low. “You’re talking the crime of mutiny.”
“We don’t care,” Brazos said.
“We don’t care what it costs us, neither,” Spud added, fingering his rifle nervously. “I shot a man for you once; I won’t do it again.”
Kirby turned. “George, you in on this?”
The black man raised his eyebrows. He took a step backward, in case there was shooting. “Sorry, Kirby.”
“No need to be sorry,” Kirby said. He snapped the revolver shut and put the weapon in its holster. “It was never my intention to take you men in there with me. I do my own dirty work.”
The Bank Robber Page 14