Last Train to Bannock [Clayburn 02] (11 page)

    There was now only one more boulder between him and his objective. He stared at the deep shadow under it for long precious seconds, goaded by the awareness that Adler and his raiders were getting closer with each one of those seconds. When he was as certain as he could be that no one was on his side of the boulder, Clayburn snaked across the intervening space toward it.

    Again he made it without anything happening. This time he did not pause when he reached the boulder, but continued around it in the shadow of its base, making sure there wasn't a guard against the other side of it.

    Now there was nothing between him and the boulder where he'd seen movement. Nothing to hide him the rest of the way but the night. The pale shine of the stars seemed suddenly very bright.

    In the shadow of the boulder where he'd seen movement before he could see none now. The man who had to be there was invisible. He might be standing or sitting; might be looking straight at Clayburn…

    Clayburn slipped his fingers inside his left sleeve and drew the knife from its sheath. Holding it point-forward, he began inching toward the boulder on knees and toes, his taut-held body almost brushing the earth as he moved.

    This time he did not move in a straight line, but angled off to his left so that the bulk of the boulder would no longer be directly behind the guard in its shadow. Halfway across the open space Clayburn finally saw the vague shape of a man, detached slightly from the boulder itself, outlined against the star-filled sky.

    The man was standing, leaning a shoulder against the side of the boulder, a rifle in the crook of his arm. He was tall, and seemed heavily built, but Clayburn couldn't be sure of his shape below the shoulders where it merged with the boulder. As Clayburn watched, the man's head turned. Clayburn froze against the ground. The man looked his way, but not down at the ground that close.

    The instant the man's head turned away Clayburn moved again, slowly closing the distance between them. The man unfolded his arms, dropped the rifle to his hand. Clayburn froze again, then resumed his movement when the man only stretched, flexed his big shoulders, and transferred his rifle to the crook of his other arm.

    The guard scratched the side of his face, glanced off toward the slope up which Clayburn and Blue had come, then looked past the wagons at the looming mesa.

    By then Clayburn was almost under the man's feet. He came up off the ground like a tightly wound steel spring suddenly uncoiling. His left hand fastened on the guard's mouth to stifle any outcry and his right drove the point of his knife between the man's ribs next to the spine.

    The guard's whole body convulsed. His rifle fell. Clayburn broke its fall with his boot to lessen the sound of it. He held the struggling man in an iron grip and forced the blade deeper in his back, twisting. The guard's struggles became weaker, uncoordinated, then ceased entirely.

    Clayburn held the sagging weight and lowered it silently to the ground. For a second he remained bent over the dead body, his breath coming fast through his clenched teeth, his legs rubbery, his throat dry and a bitter taste in his mouth. Then he pulled the knife free and wiped it on the dead man's sleeve. He straightened against the boulder and looked around. There was nothing to indicate that the other two guards had been alerted, wherever they were.

    Blue appeared beside Clayburn like a shadow. There was no need for whispers or motions between them now. Each new what to do next. Blue picked up the dead guard's rifle and held it ready. Clayburn left him, and the protection of the boulder, lowering himself to the ground and snaking toward the wagons.

    He was almost there when the report of a rifle somewhere off to his left broke the night silence. A lead slug gouged a spout of dirt from the ground six inches from Clayburn's face. He sprang to his feet and sprinted the rest of the way in a low crouch, zigzagging as he ran. As he hit the ropes stretched between two of the wagons, the rifle boomed at him again.

    The bullet chopped into the wagon tailboard next to Clayburn's shoulder. In the same instant Blue fired, aiming at the guard's rifle flash.

    Clayburn saw the shadowy figure of a man detach itself from a boulder. The man stumbled forward two steps, fighting to stay on his feet and bring his rifle around for a shot at Blue. Blue fired again. The man pitched sideways and became a motionless shadow on the ground.

    Another rifle crashed out from the rock rubble piled high against the base of the mesa. The slug spattered against the boulder behind which Blue had positioned himself. Clayburn turned swiftly to his job, slashing his knife through one of the ropes stretched taut between the two wagons, then cutting the other rope.

    He went in through the opening, entering the corral formed by all the wagons. The mules were already stirring nervously, frightened by the gunfire. Clayburn smacked and elbowed the nearest ones to start them out through the opening he'd made. Then he slipped on to the next opening, slashed the ropes, and got the mules started through there.

    Repeating this at a third space between wagons, Clayburn moved on and climbed up on a wagon wheel so he wouldn't get trampled. He drew his Colt and began firing it into the ground, showering dirt against the legs of the milling animals and terrifying them to more speed in their efforts to escape from the corral.

    Two more rifle shots cracked from the rock rubble at the base of the mesa. This time they were fired at Clayburn. Which was foolish. The guard there couldn't see Clayburn; he was just firing at the sound of Clayburn's Colt. All he accomplished was to kill one mule and start another stamping and screaming with pain-which hurried still more the terrified exodus of the rest.

    As the last of the mules stampeded out of the openings Clayburn had created, Blue began firing at groups of them that showed an inclination to slow down. The mules scattered as they ran, and the boulders scattered them still more. Some headed for the mesa, but not many. More ran into the canyons to the left and right. The largest number of mules headed straight for the slope, down it, and vanished from sight.

    Clayburn left the wagon corral and sprinted after them, joined as he reached the boulders by Blue. The guard at the base of the mesa fired after them. But distance and darkness were against him. None of his shots came near either Blue or Clayburn.

    They sighted the mules ahead of them as they went down the slope. Some were still running away, others were milling around. Several gunshots encouraged the milling ones to follow those that were racing away. They scattered in a number of directions, one group following the dry river bed, other groups dispersing into the area's maze of crosscut canyons and gullies.

    The first streaks of predawn grayness fingered the sky when Clayburn and Blue rode away. They'd done what they'd come to do. It would take Adler's men most of the day to track down all the mules and gather them in. And they'd be tired mules. By the time Adler got his wagon rolling again, Clayburn estimated, Cora Sorel's outfit would be at least a full day ahead of him.

    There was no longer any chance of Adler's outfit catching up and passing them.

    Unless something happened to hold up Cora's wagons.

    

    

    By the time they caught up to Cora's wagon train shortly after noon, Blue was beginning to look sick with fatigue and the need to sleep. Clayburn had a used-up feeling inside him, himself; and he ached from the steady riding. Their horses, in spite of being exchanged often, were almost finished when they finally sighted the wagons ahead.

    Cora Sorel had been riding the drag position, looking back anxiously more and more often as the day wore on. When she spotted them coming, she immediately wheeled her buckskin and raced back to meet them.

    She was no longer the woman she'd been back in Parrish, Clayburn reflected as she pulled up beside them. Her riding clothes were sadly trail-worn and her glamour was covered by layers of dust. Wind and sun had got to her face and hands, making them darker and roughening her skin. But she was still quite a hunk of woman.

    In a flat, tired voice Clayburn told her what they'd done with Adler's mules. Cora started to laugh, then checked herself and glanced back the way they'd come.

    "They'll come after us again for sure now," she said slowly. "They'll want revenge."

    "They'll want revenge," Clayburn agreed. "If they'll come after it I don't know. We've got about the same number of men now. They'd be bound to lose more in a fight, and they can't afford that any more than we can. Adler needs most of the men he's got left just to handle his wagons."

    "Couple more days north." Blue put in wearily, "and we can stop worrying about Adler givin' us trouble. He'll have to keep his men wherever his wagons are, to protect 'em. We're gettin' into Apache territory."

    "Damn!" Cora said softy. "Now we have to worry about Indians, too?"

    "I warned you," Clayburn reminded her, "back in Parrish."

    Cora sighed. "Yes. You warned me."

    "You could have stayed behind."

    Cora's soft mouth became stubborn, her dark eyes fierce. "I'm not afraid of your damn Indians. It's just that I don't like it. I don't have to
enjoy
the idea of an Apache attack, do I?"

    Lines appeared at the sides of Clayburn's mouth and eyes. "Nope. Don't enjoy it much myself."

    "What
I'd
enjoy," Blue announced irritably, "is for right now to climb into one of them wagons and get some sleep." He glared at Clayburn. "And that's what I'm gonna do."

    Clayburn nodded. "Go ahead. I'll be joining you."

    "And just how long you gonna let me sleep before I gotta ride back to watch Adler's outfit some more?"

    "You're not going back for a while," Clayburn told him, and looked away to the mountains looming ahead. "From now on we'll need you closer to the wagons. Like you said, we're getting into Apache territory."

    

    

    The wagons were moving through a long, mile-wide canyon a couple hours before sunset when a large bunch of riders came into the end of the canyon behind them. Clayburn, feeling himself again with five hours' sleep under his belt, was riding drag when he looked back and spotted their dust. He swung his horse around and swiftly brought up his field glasses.

    As he focused the lenses, the oncoming riders slowed, bringing their mounts to a walk. Ten of them rode in a straight line abreast, their rifles in their hands. Adler rode well ahead of them, with just a single man on either side of him. One of them was Dillon.

    Clayburn held his glasses on the other man with Adler for a moment, till he made out the red hair and was sure: It was Wilks. And he was carrying in his left hand a long stick with a white cloth fluttering from it.

    "Well, what d'you know," Clayburn murmured to himself. He lowered the field glasses and saw that Roud, Haycox and Cora had joined him.

    "Adler?" Cora asked tightly.

    "Uh-huh. They're carrying a truce flag."

    "Truce?" Roud stared down the canyon. "I don't believe it."

    "Neither do I," Haycox chimed in. "It's obviously a trick."

    "Maybe." Clayburn wheeled his sorrel. "Let's form up and find out."

    Within minutes he had the wagons drawn up for defense, with Cora and most of the men barricaded behind the wagons or big rocks, rifles ready.

    Adler's ten-man line of riflemen had pulled to a halt. Adler continued to come on a way, with Wilks and Dillon. He stopped just within range of his riflemen. And Clayburn's.

    Clayburn rode out to meet him, flanked by Roud and Haycox. He was sure that whatever Adler's eventual plans, he wouldn't start anything here and now. Their meeting place was halfway between the rifles of the two enemy groups. Whoever started anything, all the men in the middle could count on being hit.

    Wilks grinned at Clayburn as the two three-man groups met. "Nice seeing you again, gambler. How're the cards treating you?"

    Clayburn looked at him wooden-faced. "I'm not playing much-till I get my money back from you."

    "Figure to?" Wilks asked insolently.

    "Sure."

    "Now?"

    Clayburn shook his head slightly. "No."

    "Why not?"

    "You're carrying a truce flag. And it'll wait."

    Wilks laughed. "It'll wait, all right. Till hell freezes."

    "Not that long," Clayburn said, smiling thinly. "I'll have my money from you-if you're still alive when I come for you."

    Wilks stiffened in the saddle, losing his grin. "Any time, gambler. Any time."

    "Shut up," Adler growled at him. "We're not here to talk up more trouble between us."

    "What are you here for?" Clayburn asked quietly.

    "I need more men," Adler told him. "I've come to hire some."

    Clayburn smiled with his mouth.

    "It strikes you funny?" Adler said. "It shouldn't. I need more men and I'm willing to pay well to get them."

    Clayburn looked at Dillon's thin, surly face, then beyond to where Adler's ten riflemen sat their horses. His green eyes returned to Adler. "Seems to me you've already got enough to get your wagons to Bannock for you."

    Adler made an impatient gesture. "You know exactly what I'm after. And I want you, especially. I'll pay you exactly three times whatever you're getting now, to switch sides."

    Clayburn said, "No."

    "You make up your mind without thinking."

    "I don't have to think about it," Clayburn told him in a bored voice. "I chose sides back in Parrish. You made it a permanent choice when you had your men jump me in that alley."