High Lonesome Part 9

That old hideout on High Lonesome ... It was a good place to defenduif they had made it that far. But it was a good place for four or five to defend, not two.

Three ... even three might have a chance. Considine remembered the firm wet body he had held in his arms, the quiet, proud eyes, the eyes that had waited while he held her, confident of him.

d.a.m.n it, what did she have to be confident about? What did she expect of a man, anyway? And how could she be so sure of him?

He fumbled with the piggin strings that tied the bag on his saddle. He tossed the sack to Dutch. "We'll split this south of the border!" He swung his horse around. "You'd better high-tail it, boys! I'm a d.a.m.ned fool!"

He wheeled the big buck and went up High Lonesome on a dead run.

Dust rose and settled; it drifted back from where he had gone, and settled slowly in the hot, heavy air. They sat their saddles, listening to the drum of hoofs fading away.

"Why, that d.a.m.ned, hare-brained fool!" Dutch said. "He'll go blasting right into the middle of them! That's no way to fight 'Paches!"

The Kiowa wiped off the mechanism of his rifle and said nothing to anyone, but the Kiowa never had anything to say. He was a square, solid young man, with a square, solid face and black eyes that were flat and steady.

Dutch gathered his reins. "All right, south to the border then."

The Kiowa looked at him, then slid his rifle back in the scabbard.

"If he rides into the middle of 'em," Hardy said, "G.o.d help the Apaches!"

Dutch had let his horse walk four steps. Now he turned and tossed to Hardy the bag Considine had given him, then the one he himself had carried. Then he jumped his horse, not at the canyon opening but at another draw that led up into the hills. It was a worse climb, but it would put him up there almost as fast as Considine could make it.

a Considine ran his horse for half a mile, then slowed to a trot. You could kill a horse running it in the heat like this, and he had a feeling he was going to need a good horse if he got out of here alive.

There was small chance of an ambush in the canyon unless they heard him coming, and they would not be expecting an attack. He carried his Winchester in his right hand, and he rode carefully.

Ahead of him he heard the flat, hard report of a rifle, then several shots close together. Suddenly he went fast up that last hard climb and was racing his horse across the gra.s.sy meadow toward the hideout.

Another shot sounded, and he wheeled his horse, standing in the stirrups. They had stopped short of the hideout, then. They were there ... in that circle of rocks!

An Indian came out of the rocks near him and threw a rifle to his shoulder, but before Considine could get his own rifle up, a shot nailed the Indian and he fell over the rocks into the gra.s.s.

Startled, Considine looked around to see Dutch sliding his horse down a steep gravel bank. "Run for it!" Dutch yelled. "I'll cover for you!"

Considine slammed the Winchester back in the scabbard and grabbed his six-shooter. He put spurs to the big black and went across the flat in a wild run, reins hanging loose. Behind him, Dutch was laying down a heavy fire from his Winchester.

He saw an Indian dead ahead of him lift a rifle to fire, and then the big black was riding him down, the terrible hoofs tearing the Indian's body as they trampled him under foot. Considine fired and fired again. He saw another Indian fall, and then he felt the black's muscles bunch under him and knew he was going down.

Kicking free of the stirrups, he grabbed the saddlebags with their spare ammunition and as the horse fell he left him, hit the ground, and rolled over. He saw an Indian break cover near him and start for him, and then a bullet from the rock circle ahead stopped him in mid-stride.

Considine knew they would have marked where he fell, so he lay still, flattened out in the gra.s.s. Behind him he heard Dutch firing.

Suddenly the shooting stopped, and the echoes cannonaded off down the canyon and lost themselves in the still, hot afternoon.

He smelled the sun-hot gra.s.s under his nostrils, smelled the crushed creosote brush near him, the warm, good smell of the earth under him, and he knew he loved life as never before.

He lay very still. Dutch was no longer shooting. Had they gotten the big fellow? He doubted it ... Dutch would die hard ... and long.

A bee, undisturbed by the fighting, buzzed near a cactus blossom. Considine rolled on his side and emptied the sh.e.l.ls from his pistol and reloaded. Then he thrust a couple of sh.e.l.ls into the magazine of the Winchester. The '73 would carry seventeen bullets, and he would need them.

He dearly wanted to lift his head and locate himself, get his exact position, but he dared not. In this deadly game the first to move was often the first to die, and he did not want to die. He did not want to die at all.

The Kiowa had sat very still, waiting. He glanced out of the corners of his eyes at Hardy. "You rode partners with Considine," he said.

"That's why I'm going to look after his share. He will want it if he ever gets out of there alive."

"Always said you had no guts."

Hardy glared at the breed. The Kiowa was taunting him, but there was no malice in the taunt. He just seemed to be waiting for something he knew would happen.

Hardy felt cold and empty inside. He knew what fighting Apaches meant, and he had seen what they did to men they captured alive. He had fought them before this, had seen his friends die in their hands.

It gave him a sick feeling to think of it ... he knew he was afraid of them.

Considine was a fool, but then there was something between Considine and that girl. He had seen the way they looked at each other.

He took the saddlebags and tossed them to the Kiowa. "Cut it four ways and wait for us!" He wheeled his horse sharply and lit out on the trail Dutch had taken.

The Kiowa chuckled. None of his three companions had ever heard him chuckle.

He tied the bags in place, then turned his horse into the mountains. He took his time, thinking it out. He was more Indian than white now, and he knew what he was doing.

But he laughed when he reached the crest.

He had no G.o.d, no people that were really his own; he had no wife, no hero, no brother anywhere. He was a man who rode alone, even when in company with others. But he liked to fight and he liked men who fought, and he knew that if Hardy had not gone he would have killed him.

When he reached a place where he could look into the basin of High Lonesome there was nothing to see, nothing to hear. The afternoon was breathless. The gra.s.s stood motionless under the sunuand then within the circle of rocks he saw sunlight on a rifle barrel.

He watched, and presently he saw the girl. She was alive, then. And the man, too.

He could see no sign of Considine, of Dutch, nor of Hardy. He loosened the reins and rode down the mountain, a square, dark man the color of the desert near lava, sitting easy in the saddle. Horse and man seemed one.

His Winchester was held out from his body. The flat black eyes were alert. He felt the sweat on his neck and chest.

Suddenly he chuckled again. He would have liked to paint his face. After all, he was an Indian and he was riding into a fight.

His sombrero was tilted back a little, and he swung his horse over to an easier descent, and then he saw two Indians crouched close together among some brush.

He drew up, not looking directly at them for fear his continued gaze would attract their attention. He lifted the rifle and sighted down the barrel, one eye closed, the other eye centering the muzzle on an Indian's spine.

He sighted first at one Indian, then at the other. A fly buzzed near him and he brushed it away. His horse s.h.i.+fted its weight under him and he held still, waiting. When its feet were planted solid again he settled the stock against his shoulder, took a quick sight, eased back on the trigger ... the rifle leaped like a thing alive, and the Indian screamed ... a shrill, horrible scream. The second one leaped up, but the sight was already on him and a tearing bullet opened his throat and laid it red to the sky.

Lowering his rifle, the Kiowa walked his horse on down the hill.

Chapter XI.

Considine hugged the earth, but he drew one knee up slowly and dug his toe into the sand. His right hand slid the rifle forward. He tried to estimate the distance to a heap of brush and rocks just a bit nearer to the hideout.

He heard a rifle boom behind him ... that would be Dutch's heavier rifle. From somewhere farther away, he heard another shot, then another. Suddenly he felt a strange warmth within him ... that would be Hardy, or the Kiowa.

Digging the toe a little deeper, he pushed up suddenly and went forward in a charging run. He made four fast steps, then hit the ground and rolled over four times. He brought up behind the rocks with the memory of bullets snapping about his ears.

Considine lay still, gathering his strength and wind. Above and to his left, a little farther in front of him, he heard another shot. The rocks behind which he was hidden concealed all movement.

Sweat and dust streaked his face. His skin p.r.i.c.kled and itched. The sun was hot on his back. He slid his rifle forward and searched for a target. Now, through the rocks, he could see the place where Lennie and her father were ... only the smallest crack offered a view.

One more quick dash ... A bullet from behind smashed against a rock ahead of him and he slid back hurriedly, his face stinging from granite fragments.

He waited, and for a long time there was no sound. This was the hardest part of battle, the waiting, the uncertainty of what might have happened or might be happening elsewhere.

Were they all dead? Was Lennie dead? Was Spanyer dead? And what of Dutch?

He glanced at his own brown hand, gripping the rifle. It was a strong hand, skilled with rope and branding iron, a hand that had used an axe, a saw, many kinds of tools. It was a hand that could build as well as destroy, and with a kind of odd surprise he realized he had been and was a destroyer. He had been destructive of the labor of other men, and what had begun in the excitement of youth, almost as a lark had turned into an evil thing.

And he had nothingunot a cabin of his own, not an acre of ground, not even a horse. For the big black was dead behind him.

There was a sudden burst of firing and he left the ground as if shot from a gun himself, knowing instinctively that any Indian who was watching where he lay would be disconcerted, diverted by the sound.

He rushed, and saw an Indian rise up before him. He smashed upward with the barrel of the Winchester and took the Indian in the throat, the sight ripping a gash even as the muzzle jammed up into the juncture of throat and jaw.

Whipping the rifle down and round, he swung the b.u.t.t with a solid chunk against the Indian's skull, a short, wicked stroke. The Apache, a squat man with an evil face, crumpled before him, and Considine sprang past him. He dropped a hand to the top of a rock and vaulted over and came down within the circle, and as he landed he saw Dave Spanyer facing him, his rifle trained on his stomach.

And Spanyer had said that the next time he saw Considine he would kill him.

For an instant they stared at each other, and then Dave Spanyer lowered his rifle. If anything happened to him, this man would have his daughter, and suddenly deep within him he knew this was good ... this man would do.

"Pull up a chair, son. I'm afraid there's enough for all."

Considine grinned. "I'll do that, Dave. But we've company coming ... unless they ran into too many Indians."

Dutch was next. He came charging his horse, vaulting the rocks at the lowest place, and throwing himself to the ground. There was an angry red gash alongside of his neck, and his sleeve was torn and b.l.o.o.d.y.

Spanyer looked at him affectionately. "You never could stay out of a fracas ... and n.o.body was ever more welcome."

Dutch moved to the rocks and carried an extra bandolier of cartridges with him. He found a place and settled down for a fight. And then out of a canyon mouth came Hardy.

They knew the horse, even though they could not see the man. The horse was running all out, nostrils spread wide, and Hardy was clinging to the flank, Indian fas.h.i.+on, with one hand and a foot.

Even as the horse seemed about to sweep past the hideout, Hardy let go and came sailing into the open s.p.a.ce, one boot flying off by itself. He skidded to a halt, then looked down at a big hole in his sock.

He grinned widely at Lennie. "Got to speak to my women folks about that!"

He turned and limped to the barrier. From that barrier four men now faced outward, awaiting the attack. And none came.

The basin on High Lonesome was a lovely place, and for outlaws it had long been an almost perfect hideaway. There was water, there was gra.s.s, and without doubt there was game. In some more peaceful time some wandering man would stop and build a home here, and start a ranch. He would stay, rear children, sink roots deep within the spa.r.s.e soil.

In this place something would belong, something not hidden, not stolen, something built by work and strength. And that man would sit quietly of an evening with his ch.o.r.es done and see his own cattle grazing out there where Indians now lay.

That would be after the Apaches were gone, or when they had found peace themselves. It would be when men no longer rode by the gun and lived by the gun.

"Smoke," Spanyer said suddenly.

Their eyes followed his pointing finger, to where a tall column of smoke lifted easily into the sky, a smoke that broke, then broke again. A signal calling more Indians, railing them in for the kill.

Behind them a stick broke, and as one man they turned.

Lennie was building a fire. "I thought you'd want some coffee," she said, "and there's a little meat."

Considine glanced at her, and then away, his throat tight. She was so much the daughter of Dave Spanyer, and too much the child of rolling wagons and Indian fighting not to know what awaited them; yet she went quietly about the business of making coffee, a woman's business. But her rifle lay close at hand.

What man would not want such a woman? Not one to follow only, but to stand beside him during the dark days, to work with him, plan with him, share with him, making their life a whole thing together.

High on the mountainside' still, the Kiowa lay in the brush, his horse concealed. He had crawled after leaving his horse, but he carried his saddlebags, his canteen, and his rifle.

He had found a place where there were no rocks and but little gra.s.s. The earth was discolored by a scattering of rusty, quartz-streaked rock. It was perfect cover for him, and he settled himself deeper.

From where he lay he could see the hideout, but he could see nothing within it Occasionally he saw an Indian.

It was growing late. Already the afternoon sun was over the western hills. That sun was still hot and bright, the air was very clear. But night would come, and the Kiowa could wait.

Waiting was the first thing an Indian learned, and now, more than ever, the Kiowa was an Indian. He carried his white blood casually, without ever thinking of it He was a man of simple, elemental tastes, taking food, whiskey, and women as he found them, and when he did not have them he neither fretted nor worried. He knew there was an end to everything. So one waited.

Lying here like this in the spa.r.s.e gra.s.s he liked best of all. The sun was warm, the position good, and soon he would be fighting ... if he decided to fight.

Yet that decision had never been hisuit was made long ago, it was deep in his flesh, in his blood, bred deeply into the bone. It was the manner of man he was.

And being a true fighting man he knew there was a time to fight and a time not to fight.

He could have killed several Indians during the time he lay where he now was, but the time was not yet. He could wait, and when the proper time came he would do what was necessary.

From his pocket he took a dusty bit of jerked beef and, biting off a piece, he began to chew. He rolled it in his wide jaws, letting it soak with saliva, and chewed it with his strong white teeth. From where he lay he was visible to nothing but the buzzards, but they were not interested in him ... yet.

The Kiowa watched the shadows crawl out from the cracks and the canyons, and watched the sunlight retreat up the mountainside and crown the ridges with golden spires and bal.u.s.trades.

Coolness came to the desert. He watched the signal smoke rise to call more Indians, but he merely chewed his beef and waited.

Fainter smoke came from the hideout. The girl was alive, then. No man would take time to cook in such a place at such a time. This was a woman's work, a woman who even under stress did not forget her men or the work there was to do. She was not spoiled, this one. She was a man's woman.

The Kiowa did not know the word for love. His people had songs, but they were songs of war, and he had no books or poetry to condition his mind for love. He knew what a woman was worth by the looks of her body and the way she worked. And sometimes there was another feeling, the warm, pleasant feeling when a certain girl was near.

He had known that feeling several times, once for a girl in Mexico, and a long time later for a Navajo girl in whose hogan he had stayed for a time. When he rode away he felt strangely lost and alone without her and he had returned, but in the meantime she had been killed by a grizzly she accidentally cornered in a canyon.