The outlaws 5, p.10
The Outlaws 5, page 10
They had him in a trap. He realized that just after full darkness when the horse stopped and he discovered that he was flush against the base of a high barrier cliff. There was no way through or over the cliff, except for a fly or a bird; and half an hour’s casting about to right and left only proved to him that he had come as far as he could in this direction.
The trouble was that the posse behind him had been spreading out all afternoon into a wider and wider semicircle, and he had been swept helplessly before it. He didn’t know whether they had consciously planned to force him against the cliff, but it was probable; at any rate, it had worked out that way.
He hadn’t much time. They were closing in on him; even if he couldn’t hear them yet, he knew they were not many miles distant. The marshal’s horse was pretty jaded, and there wasn’t a long sustained chase in it. If he were detected and chased, Chris knew he would be run down.
He had caught glimpses of them during the late afternoon, spreading wide in a firm cordon, pressing forward in their relentless arc. The four groups from the badlands must have joined forces and then spread out under central leadership—probably Boyd’s leadership, since Carlos Riva was none too adept at man hunting.
The night was deep and still. A frigid wind sluiced down off the higher pine slopes and chilled him through. He felt the damp touch of it and looked up to see that most of the sky was blanketed with storm clouds. The storm wouldn’t break for hours yet, but at least the clouds obscured the moon and stars, and that was one break in his favor.
He had no jacket to warm his chilled flesh, but that was the least of his troubles. He patted the horse on the neck while he tried to plan a way out.
He didn’t seem to have much choice. The only alternatives were to sit it out in hopes the storm would break and cover his movements or to head back the way he had come and hope to filter silently through the posse’s lines in the darkness.
He couldn’t count on the weather, so he made the obvious choice, pointing the horse westward and heading back toward the valley whence he had fled.
Tight with strain, he listened for sounds ahead of him as he put his horse through a stand of timber and ran along in comparative silence on the pine-needle forest floor, dodging trees that loomed up suddenly out of the deep night.
From the top of a ridge, he caught no sign of pursuit and descended again toward the gurgle of a bubbling creek. He took time out to water the horse and take a few swallows of the cold, fresh water, then crossed over and rode into a thin woods which masked a trail heading upslope.
With taut alertness, he watched the shadows ahead and keened the night for the rumor of advancing riders.
He reached the crest of a bald hill and saw below him a long ribbon of meadow, bare of cover, deep in grass. It would have been a pretty little place under other circumstances; as it was, the vale was all but invisible in the pitch blackness, yet he was half afraid to cross it because it was open and there was no cover in sight.
He put the horse down the hill at a canter and ran steadily across the width of the meadow, pulling up in the farther trees to blow the horse and listen. Nothing stirred. He turned to the right, on impulse, and pressed north into the hills. If he continued in that direction, ahead of him lay perhaps twenty miles of rugged mountains, at the end of which lay the desert flats; but in that direction also was one arm of the outflung posse.
Still, it was as good a tack as any. He had never made the crossing, did not know the country, but he decided to keep aiming in that direction in order to nourish the idea in Boyd’s head that he was clearing out. That was not his real intention; he had to return to the valley as soon as the posse was eluded, in order to regain his hold on Denver, or capture Pete Ramirez, and prove his innocence as well as Boyd’s guilt.
He rode forward, winding through the mountainous black alleys, while the night ran on noncommittally silent and the storm clouds held off exasperatingly.
He came across a scratch of a game trail, not much used. It took him to the edge of timber overlooking a meadowy corridor, up that, and then wound by a pine stand and crossed a shallow creek. Very dimly, he could see the ragged upthrust of the serrated peaks ahead and to the east.
The faintly perceptible trail dropped him into an overgrown pocket at the base of the highest peaks, yet to be crossed, and he had the strange feeling that he was all alone in the night. Yet he knew that armed riders rode within a mile of him, perhaps within yards. He drove the bay into the brush.
The horse carried him through to another stream, and here—just in case—he turned upstream, northeastward, and covered his tracks in it for a quarter-mile, after which he rode on well back in the trees. Hunger began to saw at his vitals; he had not eaten in more than twenty-four hours.
He ascended the reaches of a narrowing canyon. Ahead of him, it narrowed to a twenty-foot passage between cliffs. He passed a spring bubbling out of the base of one wall, rode through the opening, and suddenly saw a rider loom up close by and loose a loud bellow, muzzle-flame stabbing from his gun.
Chapter Eleven
THE BULLET FANNED air by Chris’ cheek, going by. Chris bent low over the horse’s withers and allowed its momentum to carry it crashing into the startled posse man.
They all went down in a tangle of horses, arms, and legs. As he fell, Chris dragged his rifle from its scabbard. He saw the other lifting his gun muzzle, and without time for thought, Chris swung his rifle in a flat arc that landed with a loud slap against the side of the man’s head.
The man fell back with a strange sigh. Chris bent over him. The man was bleeding at the temple. Chris recognized him: Pablo Ortiz, one of Cavanagh’s old-time cowhands. Chris knelt to put his ear on the man’s chest; Ortiz was still breathing regularly.
Chris helped himself to the unconscious man’s gun belt and revolver, unloaded Ortiz’s .44-40 rifle, and pocketed the ammunition. Then he tugged Ortiz’s boots off and flung them far into the brush, one in either direction. It would take Ortiz quite a while to get back into the fight after he woke up.
Then Chris mounted up, picked up the reins of Ortiz’s horse, and led it away into the night. It was good to have a remount: he might yet need it.
He pressed northward with increased vigilance; the presence of Ortiz meant he was in the thick of the posse now, and there was no question but that Ortiz’s gunshot would bring others on the rim.
He swept down across a loosely timbered hillside. Some sound touched his consciousness and he pulled up, instantly alert.
Down below, at the fringe of the trees, two galloping riders almost collided. “Who’s that—who’s that?”
“Me—Ramirez. Who the hell are you?”
“Carstairs—Concho.”
“Save me a ride, Carstairs. Tell Boyd McLean I’ll sweep as far as Bald Mountain by sunup. I’ve got eight men on this sector.”
“All right. Say, you didn’t hear something funny a while ago?”
“Like what?”
“Sounded like a shot. It was pretty far off, though. I couldn’t swear to nothing.”
“Maybe. Nothing we can do about it now.”
“I’ll give your boss your message.”
“We’re wasting a lot of time back here,” Ramirez complained. The two riders separated and departed swiftly.
With grim excitement, Chris pressed northward on the trail of Ramirez. Here was his chance to ride the man down and force him to talk. For a moment, though, he had to admire the gall of the man. Ramirez had joined the posse that was hunting for a man innocent of the crimes Ramirez himself had committed.
But Ramirez eluded him. It was impossible to pick up the man’s trail in this intense darkness, once Ramirez had ridden beyond earshot. Cursing his luck, Chris pushed north, resolving to wait on Cavanagh’s doorstep, if necessary, until Ramirez showed himself again.
He had a rough time finding trails, but managed to aim generally northeast, relying on his particularly strong sense of direction and letting the horse pick the easiest passage, leading the riderless horse of the downed Pablo Ortiz.
He picked a careful path through a dismal chasm until the vaguely visible trail opened out onto a flat stretch. A mountain reared its massive tower above; he crossed a high saddle and penetrated the thick timber of a rangy plateau.
Something disturbed Ortiz’s horse: it threw back its ears and whickered. Sensitive to such signs, Chris halted and waited just within the trees until, suddenly, a small knot of riders broke into the open a quarter-mile away across the open.
Chris stayed put. The group of riders milled to a halt, talking among themselves, and then without warning the led horse of Ortiz threw up its head and neighed loudly, probably having scented a friend among the horses yonder.
“What’s that?”
“Somebody in them trees.”
They started to come ahead. Chris cursed, reining his horse around, and then one of the horsemen saw him. They all began to shout and one or two fired their guns. Chris faded quickly back into heavier timber and ran for it. Those shots, he knew, would be a gathering signal for every rider within miles.
Urging the marshal’s bay, he felt the horse falter and knew it didn’t have much steam left. It had been going steadily for altogether too many hours, even though he had been careful to conserve the pace. He hoped fervently that Ortiz’s horse was fresher; it looked long-winded and sturdy enough, at least.
Ramming into the open on an uptilted slope, he ran along the side of the mountain, hauling forward on the reins of the led horse until it was running beside him. Behind him, the riders had dissolved into the impenetrable shadows, but he could still hear them crashing after him. He gathered his legs atop the saddle and made a leap from one horse to the other, never losing stride.
He settled with a jar, almost losing his balance, and slid down into the saddle. While his feet sought the stirrups, he released the reins of the now-riderless bay and whipped it off downslope while he himself, lying low over the horses withers, angled uphill.
The ruse had its desired effect: the riders behind him, confused by his maneuver, slowed down and milled around for precious seconds of time, trying to decide which one of the shadowy horses to follow. Finally, they split into two groups of about three each and pounded away from each other.
Chris went over the top of the ridge at an angle, immediately making a right-angle turn when he went over the top. He plunged into thick brush and plowed through the growth, unable to avoid making a terrible racket. Branches tore at his clothes and exposed flesh. A whipping branch raked him across the cheek and drew a trickle of blood.
His one consolation was that the thick brush would hinder his pursuers just as much, perhaps more, since there were three of them.
He rammed in his heels, sending the horse forward in labored heaves until the dim mass of timber broke through ahead. He wheeled into its cover, halted within forty yards, raised Riva’s Winchester, and stood fast.
His breath was lunging in and out of his chest; he fought himself calm, to listen. Night winds shook the pine branches overhead: the storm was rising and he prayed for rain. It must be near morning. He felt fatigue, hunger, the lacerated pains of his brush-scratched cheek and rope-cut wrists. Yet, in spite of all that, he felt a heady excitement that always uplifted him in times of danger.
Somewhere in the gully, he heard a voice call out tentatively. A horseback shadow broke into view, advancing with cautious uncertainty.
Chris brought the Winchester up, laid his cheek along the stock, and aimed low when he fired. He saw the man’s horse stumble and go down at the forelegs. The rider flung when Chris put another rifle shot near him. He heard the approach of other pummeling riders not too far away.
The unhorsed man reared up and scrambled to cover, calling loudly. From the trees beyond, a rifle started talking in harsh steady signals: the crowd was drawing in, homing on that sound. Chris glimpsed the dotted muzzle-flame and fired once at it, then swung his horse up the ravine and climbed out of it, not hurrying: he didn’t want to make noise.
His shooting the man’s horse, and drawing rifle fire, had been a deliberate act, designed to lump the pursuers together: if they could be drawn away from their posts in the line, he would have a far easier time getting around behind them.
The rifle down below was still coughing gutturally; Chris wondered what the man thought he was shooting at. Chris walked the horse around in a half-mile circle, curling in a path that would take him back toward the source of the signal shots. He could hear men calling back and forth, but couldn’t see anyone.
Then, as he threaded the timber atop the ridge, the riders below began to emerge on the fringes of the trees in the gully, never fully taking shape but nonetheless recognizable. They drifted carefully across the gully and stopped on the near side, talking among themselves half-fearfully. Chris kept moving steadily to the west, along the line of the ridge top.
Then he had passed them; they were behind him, going away, and he had broken through the cordon.
Basing his course on the assumption that he was now clear, he turned squarely south and threaded the canyons of the middle peaks for an hour, after which he swung west and aimed for the valley.
The gray, overcast dawn caught him descending through a narrow gorge, riding warily for it would be a good place for a trap. It suddenly occurred to him to examine Ortiz’s saddlebags, and he was rewarded to find several strips of smoked, cooked thick bacon, which he ate greedily, washing them down with water from Ortiz’s canteen.
He reached a maze of little cross canyons and dismounted in a thick clump of trees; shaking with fatigue, he resolved to rest until the storm broke, which promised not to be long from now.
He settled down under a tree and closed his eyes.
“All right, Chris. End of the line.”
The words awakened him with a start. He opened his eyes to see a giant of a man looming over him, gun in hand.
It was, it had to be, Boyd.
Chapter Twelve
CHRIS PROPPED HIMSELF up on one elbow and nodded with the resignation of exhaustion. “How’d you come on me?”
“Figured you’d try to sneak back through us. When you started that hullabaloo, I knew that was the way you planned it. You and I think pretty much alike, kid brother. I knew you’d head for the valley, so when daylight came along, I just posted myself on the highest spot of ground I could find and waited for you to ride into sight.”
“Smart,” Chris commented.
“Uh-huh. All right. You ready to ride back to jail?”
“You’d be better off killing me. In jail, I can still talk.”
“What of it?”
“I had a nice conversation with Carson Denver last night. I mean night before last, I guess it was.”
“Good for you,” Boyd said. “What’s that supposed to make me do, fly into a jealous rage?”
“You’re holding the gun,” Chris observed. “I guess you can make the jokes if you want to.
“What about Carson Denver?”
A peal of thunder broke across the mountains, shattering the morning. Chris propped his back against the tree and said, “Denver told me who he’s been working for.”
“Did he, now?”
“He admitted that he and Pete Ramirez were the ones who bushwhacked me—three times all told. It was Ramirez who killed Santee and Anse Fuller.” Chris paused and looked Boyd in the eye. “On your orders, brother Boyd.”
“Hogwash.”
“I had a gun on him,” Chris said. “He had no reason to lie.” But just then the thought occurred to him: he had been holding an empty gun on Denver, and Denver had known it. Sudden indecision furrowed his brow.
Boyd said, “You came into this valley primed to tear me apart, Chris, and you’ve been doing your damnedest ever since. It’s all backfired on you, through no fault of mine. I don’t know if you killed Santee, in fact I kind of doubt it, but the evidence is there, and you’re going to stand trial for it. For that, and breaking jail, and for stealing a couple of horses, and shooting another one last night. I’ve had about enough of your wild stunts. It’s about time you paid the tab.”
“That’s a laugh, coming from you.”
“Hold on a minute—”
“You ordered Santee shot because you wanted the money back, the cash you’d paid him for his ranch. Then, you ordered Anse Fuller shot because you thought Anse knew too much. Who are you to—”
“Damn it,” Boyd roared, “I didn’t kill anybody, and I didn’t hire anybody killed. What the hell do you think I am? Sure, I bought Santee’s outfit. I paid him for it, and that was that. I’m no killer—you ought to know that.”
Chris looked at him strangely. When he spoke, his ‘words were uttered slowly, half-reluctantly:
“The damnable thing is, all at once I believe you.”
“It’s about time,” Boyd said, glowering. “If you hadn’t rammed around like a clumsy bull, blinded by your half-baked opinions of me, maybe we’d all have got to the bottom of this mess a long time ago.”
“You may be right,” Chris murmured with a troubled frown. For suddenly, with an all but audible click, the pieces suddenly had fallen into place, and the picture was almost complete, He said, “Boyd, give me ten minutes before you drag me in. Listen to what I’ve got to say.”
“I’m interested,” Boyd said. “Go ahead.”
Then Chris talked. It was in the nature of thinking aloud. He went right back to the beginning.
The whole thing had to be an ingenious device of someone behind the scenes, someone who stood to gain by the breakup of the McLean clan. Denver and Ramirez had planted the brand-blotched cowhide on Chris in order to make him suspicious of Boyd. Then they had shot his horse to get him mad. When he had come riding away from the Concho after his fight with Boyd, they must have thought he was giving it up, leaving the valley—and they had beat him senseless, to arouse his wrath again and make him stay and fight.
