Ambush on the Mesa (15 page)

“Hold your fire!” called out Hugh. “It’s Kinzie!”

Hugh waited a moment or two and then crawled up to the wall. He crawled quickly over it and dropped on the terrace floor. His breath came hot and thick in his throat. He rested his head on the paved terrace. Then he looked up into the dim face of Abel Clymer. The big officer was holding a carbine in his hands.

“Well, that was a fiasco,” said Clymer.

Hugh sat up and nodded.

Someone moaned in the shadows. “Who’s that?” asked Hugh.

Clymer spat over the wall. “Phillips. He caught a slug in his left thigh.”

“Bad?”

“Thigh bone is broken.”

Hugh wiped the sweat from his face.

Nettleton came to them. “You’re all right, Kinzie?” “Yes.”

“Who would have thought that mad preacher would have done that?”

Hugh shrugged. “At that, maybe he’s smarter than the rest of us.”

“How so?”

“He trusted in a miracle. He got one.”

“But they’ll torture and kill him.”

Hugh shook his head. “Mind-gone-far,” he said.

“Meaning?” asked Clymer.

“They’ll know he isn’t right in his mind … or is he? No matter. It’s a profanation to kill such a one.”

“But he’ll die out in the mountains!” said Nettleton.

“Does it matter?”

Clymer looked toward the dwellings. Phillips groaned. “Now we’ve got another burden,” he said sourly.

Nettleton touched his throat. “Why did Hastings attack them?” He shook his head. “It was madness.”

Hugh nodded. “Matt never could stand this type of stuff.”

“But he was so strong.”

“The type that cracks suddenly. The
heshke
came over him — the wild killing craze. He’s better off, like Morton.”

Hugh got up. He walked to the tower and threw the snake into the lower room. Then he climbed to the water pan and bathed his face and raw hands. He went down to the small dusty room where Darrell Phillips now lay. Katy Corse had cut away the trousers and under drawers from his left leg. Great beads of sweat dewed Phillips’s white face. Now and then he gritted his teeth to keep from moaning.

Hugh knelt beside the wounded officer.

“The femur is broken,” said Katy quietly.

Hugh glanced at her. There was little hope on her face. Hugh examined the leg. The slug was still embedded in it. “We’ll have to get that slug out.”

She nodded. “We have alcohol, knives, and I think there are some surgical implements in Nettleton’s baggage.”

“Get them. We’ll need a fire in here to heat the water.”

“Yes, Hugh.”

He looked quickly at her. She smiled. “I knew you’d take charge,” she said.

Hugh bathed Phillips’s face after Katy had left. Phillips opened his eyes. “Where’s Katy?” he asked.

“She’ll be back.”

Phillips closed his eyes. “I’m sorry I panicked,” he said. “It must have been hell up there on that cliff.”

“It was.”

He opened his eyes again. “How bad is it?”

“Bad enough. The bone is smashed, I think.”

He beat a fist against the blanket. “Helpless,” he said softly. “It was bad enough before; now it’s sheer hell.”

“They won’t get you, Darrell.”

The officer eyed Hugh. “You won’t let them, will you, Kinzie?”

Hugh shook his head.

S
WEAT
soaked Hugh’s clothing as he finished with Phillips.

They had tried to soak him into insensibility with alcohol, but even so the young officer had groaned and writhed under the knife. Then he had fainted.

Hugh sat back against the wall watching Katy bandage the thigh. The fresh blood quickly stained through the fine cloth. Hugh fingered a ruffle which Katy had ripped from the last of Mrs. Nettleton’s petticoats. Katy glanced at him. Hugh flushed and then stood up. “I’ll get some food,” he said.

“Where?”

“Never mind. I’ll get it.”

There were only six mouths to feed now. Hugh walked along the terrace. Clymer stood in the shadows with his carbine across his left arm. “How is he?”

“Are you really interested?”

“We’re in bad enough shape without a cripple holding us back.”

“There’s a way out, Clymer.”

“There is?”

Hugh nodded. “Put a slug into his head.”

Hugh walked away. Clymer gripped his carbine and raised it. Then he lowered it. “Not time yet,” he murmured.

Hugh wiped the sweat from his face and began to cut the cooked meat into equal portions. He placed it on a tin plate and then kicked dirt and debris over the fire. He looked up at the mysterious walled-in fault above the fire. He wiped his knife on his filthy trousers, resisted the temptation to gnaw at a portion of meat, and then walked out onto the terrace.

‘ Clymer eyed the plate. “Meat! By Jesus, Kinzie! I can’t wait.”

“We’ll eat together.”

They gathered in the room where Phillips lay. Hugh silently passed out the succulent meat.

“You’re a miracle worker!” said Nettleton. “By Heaven, Kinzie, this is delicious!”

They ate quickly. Clymer wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Any more?”

“No,” said Hugh. He finished his meat.

Marion Nettleton picked at her portion, eying Hugh whenever she was sure her husband wasn’t watching her. Katy judiciously fed Phillips the best parts of her portion and his. The sick man ate a little and then lay back covering his pale face with his right arm.

“What is it?” asked Nettleton. “By Heaven, the father-in-law would love this. I must get some for him.”

Hugh stood up. “There’s plenty available,” he said.
“I
should have thought of it before.”

Marion Nettleton stopped with her fork halfway to her mouth. “Hugh! What is it?”

“Never mind. Eat.”

Clymer stood up. “Answer the lady,” he said.

Hugh started for the door. Clymer gripped Hugh’s shoulder and whirled him about. “Answer the lady,” he said.

Hugh spat. “Listen, you big tub of guts: she’s eating, isn’t she? It’s food, isn’t it? Take it and be thankful.”

Katy stood up and looked from one to the other of them. “I know what it is.”

“Well?” demanded Marion.

“Rattlesnake,” said Katy.

Marion Nettleton threw her plate across the room. She turned pale and suddenly jumped up and ran to the door, holding her hand over her mouth.

Clymer set his jaw. “Damn you, Kinzie!”

Hugh grinned. “The Lord will provide,” he said. “Best damned diamondback steaks I ever ate.”

Hugh walked outside. Marion Nettleton was bending over the terrace wall. Always the lady, thought Hugh. He walked to the tower and picked up the coiled picket lines. Then he walked around to the place where the fault had been walled in. His carbine leaned against it. He thumped the mortared rocks with his Sharps butt. It was as solid as Gibraltar, or so it seemed. He climbed up into the second floor of the tower and tried it again. He was rewarded with a hollow sound.

Hugh eyed the wall. A pick might break through, if he had one. A sledge might crack through, if he had one. He squatted at the window, studying the wall. Somewhere, in his past, he had once read a book on medieval siege operations. “Why not a battering ram?” he said aloud.

Hugh began to gather his materials. A heavy roof beam would do for the ram, but he needed a means of suspension. He went out on the terrace. Nettleton and Clymer were talking in low voices. They stopped as Hugh approached. Hugh explained his plan to them.

Nettleton rubbed his dirty face. “Do you think we can break through?”

Hugh shrugged. “We can try.”

“If the Mimbrenos hear the noise they’ll be suspicious.”

“Do you have any other ideas about a way of escape?”

Nettleton shook his head. “Let’s try it,” he said.

It had taken them all of two hours to rig the device. Beams had been braced in the upper floor of the tower, and they had been extended through the window to rest against the wall. Hugh rigged plaited picket lines from the beams and from them they depended a solid beam, even with the second-floor window. There was hardly enough room to swing the beam in the little room, but they had no other choice.

Nettleton passed around a bottle after they finished. “Now what?” he asked.

Hugh took a good slug. “We’ll have to figure out the best time to begin smashing the wall.”

“We won’t have much time once the Mimbrenos hear us,” said Nettleton thoughtfully.

“Supposing we
don’t
smash the wall?” asked Clymer.

“That’s a damned silly question,” said Hugh.

Nettleton took another drink. “I’ll have the ladies ready,” he said.

“What about Phillips?” asked Clymer.

Hugh stood up. “We’ll worry about that when the time comes.”

“I’m worried about it now,” said Clymer.

“You mean you’re worried about getting out of here yourself and to hell with everybody else.”

Clymer reached for the bottle. “Some day …”

• • •

Darrell Phillips opened his eyes as Katy wiped his forehead with a damp cloth. “How are they doing?” he rasped.

“They’ve been up there for a couple of hours.”

“We should have thought of that before … before this happened.”

“We won’t leave you, Darrell.”

“I know you won’t. But what about them?”

She patted his bristly cheek. “I’ll stay with you,” she said.

• • •

Marion Nettleton gathered her things together. Her stomach still rebelled at the thought of the horrible food she had partially eaten. She tied a scarf around her head and
tucked in a loose strand of hair. Still, it had been Hugh Kinzie who had held them together thus far. Phillips would die. Maurice would bumble and fumble as he always had. Clymer, instead of paying his usual attention to Marion, had become preoccupied with something else. That left Hugh Kinzie. He would get her out. He’d get her back to civilization. She sipped a little water to get rid of the taste of the meat. “And if he dies on the way,” she said aloud. “so much the better!”

• • •

Maurice Nettleton, in his meticulous way, went about making sure everything was ready. Not that there was much to get ready, but it salved Nettleton’s conscience. He knew he had lost command of the party even before they had been trapped in the canyon. Man after man had died or disappeared. It wouldn’t be easy to explain, now that First Sergeant Hastings lay dead out in the canyon, for he had kept all the records. Nettleton shook his head. There would be a great deal of explaining to do. Still, they might look upon him as somewhat of a hero for getting the remainder of his party to safety. If only that loudmouth Abel Clymer had gone the way of the others.

Nettleton padded about. He gathered up the extra weapons and carried them to the tower. He filled the canteens and placed them with the weapons. He looked up at the ram and nodded in satisfaction. This would make a good story to tell in the officers’ clubs when he got back to duty in the east.

He came out of the tower and heard a scrabbling noise further up the triangular passageway. He walked east toward the noise. A big figure bulked in the darkness. It was Abel Clymer, down on his hands and knees, digging in debris. Nettleton opened his mouth and then closed it. Kinzie had accused Clymer of caching food for his own use. Nettleton stepped in between two buildings and raised the flap of his holster.

Clymer pulled something from the hole and dusted it off. He looked up the passageway and then felt in his pockets. He opened the saddlebag he had unearthed and lit a match. Swiftly he began to take something from the bag and stow it inside his shirt.

Nettleton walked forward. He drew and cocked his Colt. “Mr. Clymer,” he said.

Clymer turned quickly. He held a fold of papers in his big hand. The match flickered out.

“What is that, Mr. Clymer?”

“Personal papers.”

“You’re sure?”

“Certainly!”

“Let me see.”

“You have no right to see them.”

Clymer extended the papers.

“Light a match, Mr. Clymer.”

Abel Clymer produced and lit a match. Nettleton looked at the papers. Then he looked up coldly at Clymer. “The government drafts from Fort Buchanan. How came you by them, sir?”

“I was protecting them, Captain.”

“So?
I
am in command here. Give me the rest of them, sir!”

Clymer looked past Nettleton. There was no one else in sight. He slid a hand inside his shirt. Then he moved swiftly. He knocked Nettleton’s hand up into the air. His right fist smashed fully against Nettleton’s jaw. Nettleton staggered against the wall. Clymer snatched the Colt from Nettleton’s weakened hand. Nettleton swayed toward Clymer. Clymer thrust out his big right hand and closed the massive fingers about Nettleton’s soft throat. Nettleton struggled. Clymer forced the smaller man to his knees. Carefully he placed the cocked Colt on the debris. Then he closed his other hand about Nettleton’s throat. There was no sound but the frenzied scraping of Nettleton’s feet on the gritty earth and Clymer’s harsh breathing.

Clymer lowered the lifeless man to the ground. He stowed away the drafts. Then he picked up the captain and carried him into a dwelling. He piled debris over the body. Then he stepped back and spat on the rude grave.

Hugh Kinzie looked at Marion Nettleton. “I just can’t find him,” he said.

“He must be somewhere around here.”

“He isn’t. I’ve looked high and low.”

“Perhaps he went out into the canyon?”

“If he did, he’ll stay there.”

“Yes.” She came close to Hugh. “There is a chance for us, isn’t there?”

“Who knows? We can try. He looked down at her. “I’ll look for him again.”

“Do so,” she said coldly.

Hugh walked outside. Clymer stood by the crumbling wall. “He isn’t to be found,” said Clymer. “Last I saw of him he was poking about on the slope at the west end.”

Hugh eyed the big man. There was something wrong somewhere. “We’d best get ready,” he said.

• • •

Katy Corse was binding a splint about Darrell Phillips’s smashed leg. The man was in agony, she knew, but she would see to it that he went along.

Darrell Phillips placed a hand on Katy’s soft dark hair, vaguely wondering what it would be like freshly washed and combed and with a ribbon in it. “A red ribbon,” he said.

She looked down at him. “What was that?”

“Nothing.” He raised his head. “Is there any hope, Katy?”

“We’ll get you out.”

“I mean, any hope for us together?”

She pressed him back on his blanket. “I’m sorry, Darrell.”

He nodded his head. “I thought so.”

She stood up. “I’ll see how the others are,” she said.

He waited until she left and then drew his Colt out from under the blanket. It was freshly loaded and capped. He cocked it and slid it under the blanket again….

It took time to get Darrell Phillips out of the room and onto the terrace. He stifled his groans, and mercifully fainted when Clymer bumped hard against his smashed thigh.

They placed him in the passageway below the water seep. Hugh wiped the sweat from his face. “We’ll block the other passageways,” he said, “so they can’t break through.”

Clymer nodded.

They piled debris in the triangular passageway to the east of the tower, piling it high and forming a rude abatis with shattered beams, six feet higher than a man’s head.

Hugh checked everything. The two women stood in the passageway. Katy Corse held a carbine in her left hand. A gunbelt circled her slim waist. She tied the canteen straps together and placed the canteens inside the lowest room.

Marion Nettleton shook her head as Katy extended a pistol to her. “I’ve never learned to use one,” she said.

“It’s simple. Cock the hammer so … point the muzzle and pull the trigger.”

“I’m afraid.”

Katy shrugged. She slid the extra pistol under her gunbelt.

Hugh looked at the three of them. “We’ll wait until just before dawn.”

“Why?” demanded Clymer.

“Two reasons. One, we’ll have light to see. Second, we’ve got to give Nettleton every chance to get back.”

“If he does.”

Hugh looked at Marion Nettleton. She seemed unconcerned.

Hugh had gathered together a pile of sotol stalks. “We can use these for light in there,” he said.

They all eyed each other. There was one thought uppermost in their minds: was it a dead end?

• • •

The hours dragged past. There was no sign of life from the Mimbrenos. They could afford to wait another day and then move in without trouble.

Hugh paced the terrace with his carbine in the crook of his arm. Now and again he looked up at the darkened roof of the huge cave, wondering about that mysterious walled fault. There was no sign of Maurice Nettleton….

The sky was lighter now. Hugh looked down into the canyon once more. He could see Matt Hastings’ body lying there. “So long, amigo,” he said quietly….

Hugh stopped beside Phillips. “We’re about ready,” he said. “I’ll carry you into the lower room so that you won’t get hit by debris … if there is any.”

Phillips moved quickly, drawing his revolver out from under his shirt. “I’ll stay here,” he said.

“You’re loco!”

Phillips shook his head. “No, I can’t burden you. Get on with your work. Good luck.”

Hugh moved a little.

Phillips raised the Colt. “No. Don’t try. You’ve got Katy to think of.”