Novel 1962 - High Lonesome (v5.0) (13 page)

Across the small circle Dutch and Spanyer lay side by side, sleeping.

Hardy had found a high perch among the rocks where he could see all around, so far as the darkness permitted, but where he could not be reached by any prowling Indian with a knife.

Lennie worked over the fire, making a broth from jerked beef, throwing in some squaw cabbage and wild potatoes. There was no light but the red glow of the fire, purposely kept small, invisible outside the circle. A faint breeze came between the rocks and fanned the embers, and for a moment a blaze leaped up, lighting the girl’s face. She turned her head and saw Considine watching her. Their eyes held, and then she looked away.

Up on the rock, Hardy shifted his feet. “Wonder what became of the Kiowa?” he said.

Considine shifted his shoulders, trying to find a better place to lean than the sharp rock where they were.

Hardy answered his own question. “Mexico, I reckon.”

“Not the Kiowa. That Indian loves a fight.”

Hardy made no comment. After a moment he asked, “How many do you think are out there?”

“Dozen to twenty. There’ll be more, come daybreak.”

Hardy thought of the bags of gold.
Sixty thousand in gold
. He had never seen so much money. Yet he would gladly have shared it with a dozen if they were here to help.

He looked around, although he could see nothing. So this was High Lonesome. He had heard of it. Another canyon led out of the basin toward the southeast…he had seen the opening.

“Halfmoon Valley,” Considine said, in reply to a question from Hardy. “Opens into a wide valley and a straight shot into Mexico.”

Lennie passed a cup full of stew up to Hardy, and gave another to Considine. He took his and went back to the rocks. The Apache does not like to fight at night, but some of those Indians out there were renegades from other tribes, and he did not trust them.

Lennie was beside him before he realized it. “It is so quiet!” she said.

“They’re out there.”

“Do you think we can hold them off?”

“Maybe.”

He ate the stew slowly, enjoying every mouthful. But while he ate, he listened.

“I’m glad you’re here,” she said.

“Well…”—he was at a loss for words—“I came.”

They were standing close together in the darkness, each conscious of the other, yet wanting no more than this now.

The call of an owl quavered lonesomely in the night. Then again.

“Don’t the Indians frighten them away?” Lennie asked.

“That was an Indian.”

“That owl? How can you tell?”

“Something in the tone. Any sound a man makes will echo. A real owl’s call has some quality a man can’t put into it…its call doesn’t echo.”

Suddenly there was a shrill, high-pitched scream, breaking off sharply. Lennie turned in startled horror.

“What…what was
that?
”

“A man died.”

Her father came up beside them in the darkness. “Did you hear that?” he asked.

“Uh-huh.”

There was no further sound. After a few minutes Considine said to Spanyer, just loud enough for Hardy to hear too. “The Kiowa is out there.”

“The Injun?” Dave Spanyer looked around. “Could be.” His eyes searched for Considine’s in the darkness. “You think they got him?”

“No, he got one of them…maybe more. Maybe only one of them had a chance to yell.”

There was no further sound. The wind rose, and after a while Hardy came down from his perch and wakened Dutch. Dave Spanyer took Considine’s place, and the two younger men turned in.

Lennie watched them roll up in their blankets, then prepared stew for the two older men.

Considine opened his eyes in the gray of morning. The sky was overcast and dull. He sat up, combing his dark hair with his fingers, then reaching for his boots. Spanyer was standing guard at a place where he could watch a wide area, and Lennie was asleep on her blankets. Dutch was nowhere in sight.

The grass seemed gray, the trees were a wall of darkness, the brush was black. It was shivering cold.

Standing up, Considine slung his gun belt about his lean hips and picked up his Winchester. He checked his guns, one by one.

“Quiet?”

Spanyer nodded. “Yeah…too quiet.”

Considine saw Dutch then. The big man was wedged between two rocks, somewhat forward of their position. Dutch motioned and Considine ducked behind a rock and went up to him, crouching low.

“What do you make of that?”

Dutch indicated an Indian, standing bolt upright and still on the edge of the brush. He seemed, at this distance, unnaturally tall.

The Indian made no move. Considine stared hard, straining his eyes to see better. “Dutch,” he whispered, “that Indian’s dead.”

“
Dead?
”

“Look…he’s tied to a tree, his feet off the ground.”

“Is it the Kiowa?”

“Not heavy enough in the chest. No, it’s one of them.” Considine glanced at Dutch. “I figure the Kiowa’s had a busy night.”

They watched in silence. A gust of wind brushed the grass and bent it. A tumbleweed detached itself from the brush and rolled over several times, then stopped in the clearing near the dead Indian. Another gust, and it rolled over again, then again.

Both men studied the dead Indian.…The wind blew, and the tumbleweed rolled over again.

Considine shifted his eyes from the dead Indian to the tumbleweed. It was a great, dark clump of weed, large, but no larger than some others he had seen. As he watched, it rolled over again.

“That’s big enough,” he said aloud, “to hide a man.”

Dutch lifted his rifle, but Considine touched his arm. “Hold everything,” he said. “I’ve got an idea.”

Dutch waited, watching.

The wind struck again and the tumbleweed rolled over, bringing it within twenty yards of the rocks where they crouched. A gust caught it and rolled it once more.

“I think,” Considine said, “we’re going to have company.”

Suddenly a gun flashed at the edge of the brush. Both Considine and Dutch fired at the flash, and in that instant the Kiowa broke from the tumbleweed, and lunged for the rocks.

“Maybe thirty out there,” the Kiowa said. “I kill two.”

Spanyer fired suddenly, the sound of his rifle cut sharply across by the report of a second.

“You boys come to breakfast,” Spanyer said. “We’re havin’ company.”

The Apaches came with a rush, and Considine held his rifle centered on the chest of a big Indian who looked more like a Yuma than an Apache. He held it, then fired.

The Indian was caught in mid-stride. One foot pawed at the air, then he turned on the ball of the other foot as though doing some grotesque ballet, and he fell and lay still.

The attack broke, but the attackers did not run; they dropped to concealment on the ground.

The sound of firing ceased, and the air was still. The gray clouds hung low, hiding the morning. The dark red peaks of the mountains were touched by a shroud of mist or cloud. The grass bent before the wind.

Dutch fired suddenly, and they heard the ugly
thud
of a bullet striking flesh.

Considine built himself a cigarette and shoved a cartridge into the magazine of his rifle. This time the Indians would rush from a closer position. He thought he heard a faint, almost inaudible scratching sound. Listening, he heard nothing more. Some small animal?

When they came again it was suddenly, and from all sides. Considine whipped his rifle to his shoulder and felt the slam of the recoil and the bellow in his ears. The smell of gunpowder drifted into his nostrils. He levered his rifle desperately, firing again and again.

All around there was heavy firing. A bullet whacked sharply against the boulder at his side and ricocheted with an angry, frustrated whine. The attack broke and the sound rolled away along the cliffs under the low clouds.

Considine turned at a coughing sound. Hardy was down, choking on his own blood. Lennie was beside him.

“You…you stick to Considine…he’s the…best. Hope you make it.”

Considine came over to him. “You’re a good man, Hardy. I’m glad we’ve had this time together.”

“This’ll save somebody…better a bullet than a rope.”

A few spatters of rain fell. Considine went back to the rocks. The firing continued, only intermittent shooting now, but the Indians had the range, and they had found positions where they could fire into the circle of rocks, so every bullet was a danger. The openings had been located and they were firing into them.

Considine shifted his feet. He smelled of sweat and his unwashed clothing, and he needed a shave. He was a man who had never liked a stubble of beard.

He felt a tug at his shirt, and saw the shoulder was split and a trace of blood where the bullet had burned. He caught a stir in the brush and fired, and instantly three bullets smashed against the rock, one of them glancing upward with a wicked, snarling whine.

Lennie brought him coffee again. “This is the last of it,” she said. “And there’s only half a canteen of water.”

In the east the clouds had broken a little and there was sunlight on the far-off peaks. “How’s Hardy?” he asked.

“He’s gone.”

Her voice sounded very thin, and he glanced at her quickly. She looked drawn and pale, and her eyes were unnaturally large. He dropped a hand to her shoulder and squeezed it gently.

He gulped his coffee and handed her the cup; she looked quickly up into his eyes, then turned away.

An hour of desultory firing passed. Nobody on their side was hurt, but every shot was a near miss. They themselves did not kill anyone, or even see a good target.

Suddenly, from away back, they came on horseback. They charged from the brush on a dead run, with only a moment’s warning from the pounding hoofs, and as the defenders opened fire the Indians close by rose up suddenly and threw themselves over the stones of the circle.

Considine fired, and saw a horse spill headlong, throwing his rider; then a bloody Indian came over the rocks. Considine, gripping his rifle by the barrel and the action, ruined his face with a wicked butt stroke. He swung it back, fired at another, and was knocked sprawling by an Indian who came through a gap in the rocks. He lost his grip on his rifle, drew a .44, and shot the Indian as he crouched over him, tomahawk in hand.

A bullet caught Dutch and the big man fell back against the rocks, gripping an Indian’s throat in his huge hands. The warrior struggled wildly, desperately, but Dutch clung to his throat with crushing force.

Dutch went to his knees, still gripping the dead Indian’s throat, and the attack was over again—only Dutch was down on his knees, his shirt drenched in blood, his big face gone an ugly gray. He started to speak, but could not make it. He died like that, on his knees with the Indian’s throat in his hands.

Two gone…and the day was young.

Chapter 13

U
NDER A LOW gray sky and a spattering of rain the posse, now mounted on fresh horses, pushed along the trail. The outlaws were undoubtedly far ahead, and might have reached the border, but there was no slacking off in the pursuit. The honor of Obaro was at stake, and Pete Runyon himself had been flaunted.

“Wherever they are,” Ollie Weedin said, “they’re in trouble. I just can’t figure Apaches this far west.”

“Renegades…mixed tribes.”

Pete Runyon was worried. There were too many Indians out, and his band numbered only twenty-five—a strong force under ordinary circumstances, but the situation was far from ordinary. It was one thing to lead a posse after outlaws, but quite another if he got his friends killed by marauding Apaches.

He turned the idea over in his mind and reluctantly decided that if there were no results by noon they would return home. And it was not far from noon now.

He said as much to Weedin.

“Maybe that’s the best thing,” Weedin agreed. “But a man hates to give up.”

Pete Runyon studied the situation and tried to recall everything he knew about Considine. The others were also known men, but it would be Considine he would have to outguess if the outlaws were to be caught and the money recovered.

Without doubt Considine knew the country as far as the border, and from all reports Dutch did also. And Considine had daring enough to ride right off into the heart of Indian country. Where four men might slip through if they knew the
tinajas
and the seeps, a large party like the posse could not.

Weedin considered the matter and agreed with Runyon. “If he turns toward the border we might as well give up. What I can’t understand is why he is so far west if it’s the border that he figures on.”

Mack Arrow, the Indian tracker who was riding ahead checking the trail, turned his horse and waited for the others to come up.

“No turn,” he said. “Follow man and girl.”

Runyon scowled thoughtfully and studied the tracks indicated by the Indian. They had noticed the tracks of the couple some time back, and they had seen a few of their tracks around the Chavez store, where they were sure Considine had kept his spare horses.

The safety of Considine lay south across the border, so why were they continuing on west? Runyon thought this over, remembering Considine. He looked over at Arrow.

“Are you sure that’s a girl?” he asked.

“Small tracks, light foot, quick step. It is a girl, all right. I see where she sleep, also. Very small, like girl or child.”

If Mack Arrow said it was a girl, it was a girl. The Indian added, “First man and girl, then many Indians, then Considine and other men.”

Weedin eased himself in the saddle and bit off a corner of his plug of tobacco. “We know Considine,” he said quietly; “what else would you expect? He must have seen those folks back there at Honey’s place…then he sees the Indians are on their trail.”

“Two people on one horse,” Pete Runyon said. “Believe me, they’d have no chance.”

Mack Arrow indicated the ground. “Men talk, horses very active…want to go. Then one man goes off…the others follow, one at a time.”

The members of the posse glanced at one another. All of them but one were western men, and they understood how Considine was thinking. Sure, he had made a big strike. He had sixty thousand in gold and a clear run to the border—but here was a man and a girl on one horse, with Indians on their trail…and they might not even know it.