Collected Works of Zane Grey

by Zane Grey

  “Through the belly.”

  “Hank, I’m done fer,” said Bridges, weakly.

  “Lemme see.” And the leader, kneeling beside Bridges, tore open his bloody shirt. He had been shot in the back, the bullet going clear through. “Wal, I should smile! Say your prayers, Jeff. . . . Somebody take his gun.”

  “Take it yourself, Hays,” rejoined Mac, sullenly.

  “Hank, you go hide with your lady prisoner an’ we’ll do the fightin’,” added Slocum, who had crawled back from the edge of the brush.

  “Hide! — What’n hell’s eatin’ you?” roared the chief.

  “You know what, you —— —— —— !”

  “Hays, we’d a damn sight rather die fightin’ than owe our lives to one bullet of yours,” said Happy Jack, in a cold contempt Jim had not thought possible of the man.

  “Wal, I’ll take you up,” rasped Hays, after a moment of assimilation. He had degenerated to a point where he let passion sway him utterly.

  “You stay here, Hays,” ordered Jim, hotly. “You got us in this mix. You lied and cheated. You betrayed us. And you’ll fight, by Heaven! unless you’re as much of a coward as you are betrayer.”

  The chief grew livid where he had been gray. Only then had he grasped the significance of this fiery scorn of his comrades.

  “You-all double-crossed me!”

  “Shore. Same as you did us. If we git through this deal, which I’ve a hunch we never will, there’ll come a reckonin’ with me, Hank Hays,” declared Smoky.

  “I meant to make a clean breast of it — divvy all the money,” said Hays, in a strangled voice. “But I got crazy about the gurl. I couldn’t think of nothin’ else.”

  “Haw! Haw! fer thet first crack, an’ okay on the second. . . . Now!”

  A bullet thudded into the wall and spanged away, followed by the report of a rifle.

  “Duck back! Thet was from somewhere else,” shouted Hays.

  They dove twenty feet farther back. Here they were apparently safe, except from the grassy ridge of the oval in front, which it was unlikely any sharpshooters could reach in daylight. Smoky peeped around the west corner, Mac round the one opposite. Hays knelt on one knee, rifle in hands, peering out. Jim went back to the apex of the notch, and bracing one foot in each side, clinging with one free hand, got up to a shelf from which he could peep out of the hole. He was exceedingly wary. In front was thick, low brush; on his right a thinner fringe, and the left was open. The rocky ground ridged away from the oval and the deep gorge below. A sharp scrutiny in that direction failed to discover any of the attackers Hays had affirmed were attempting to surround the oval. But there might have been some crawling behind the rocks or down the fissures.

  After a careful study Jim crept out into the brush, stirred by a renewal of firing from the west rim. Wisps of white cloud, thinning on the light wind, located the position of the shooters. First Jim peered through the growth of brush directly in front. He did not espy any men, but half a mile over the hummocky rocks he saw a little cove full of horses. The packs had not yet been removed from some of them, nor saddles from the others. Heeseman had come to make a siege of it.

  Jim did not move hastily. A ragged section of cliff, quite high, above and to the left of the south exit, gave him misgivings. That was a likely place for ambush. Farther to the west, however, where the shooting came from, there was some hope of locating an enemy.

  Lying flat, Jim wormed his way a few yards to the fringe of brush, and took another survey. Almost at once he caught a movement of a dark object through a crevice in the rim. The distance was far for accurate shooting at so small a target. But with a rest he drew a coarse steady aim and fired.

  The object flopped over. A shrill cry, unmistakable to any man used to gunplay, rent the air. Jim knew he had reached one of the Heeseman gang, to disable him if not more. Next instant a raking fire swept the brush on both sides of him. Like a crab he scuttled back, almost falling into the hole. Bullets had hissed only a foot above his head. He dropped down into the cave.

  Smoky stood there, in the act of climbing.

  “Fire in your eye, Jim,” he drawled.

  “They damn near got me,” rang out Jim. “I hit one of them way over where they shot at Bridges. There’s a bunch of them hid on that cliff to the right of the outlet, you know, where Jeff went up to scout.”

  “Ahuh. Thet’s way this side of the smoke I seen.”

  “Yes. It’s pretty close. But they can’t do us any harm from there, if we keep low bridge.”

  “Jim, they got us located,” replied Slocum, gravely.

  “Sure. But so long as they can’t line on us in here—”

  “They can move all around. An’ pretty soon Heeseman will figger thet men behind the high center in front can shoot straight in hyar.”

  “Smoky, you’re right. One of us ought to be on the far side of the oval.”

  “I can work round there without bein’ seen. Along the cliff wall hyar, ‘crost the gorge, round under the cottonwoods, an’ up thet draw on the far side.”

  “You might. But suppose some of Heeseman’s outfit are below, as Hays said?”

  “Thet’d end history for Smoky Slocum.”

  “Wait, then. Don’t risk it. I believe I can see over that high center.”

  “Whar from?”

  “This hole above. The side towards the oval is a foot lower. It’d be reasonably safe.”

  “I’ll go up with you.”

  Bridges lay groaning, his big hands clutching his clothes, his face a bluish cast. Mac sat helplessly beside him. Hays knelt out by the corner of wall, with Jack whispering behind him.

  “Hold my rifle. I’ll go up,” said Jim. Without encumbrance he readily climbed to the shelf, finding to his satisfaction that he could stand on it and look out over the oval without being seen from the cliff.

  “Hand up both rifles.”

  Smoky complied, and was soon beside Jim, but owing to his smaller stature he could not see over the rim. However, he found steps for his feet, by which he surmounted the difficulty. Like a general he swept the lay of the land. “Jim, there’s only one place we couldn’t see, an’ thet’s straight back of the center. If they savvy it they’ll almost shore try to work in from the west.”

  “You’re right, old-timer,” replied Jim, grimly, and pointed to the western entrance, where two stealthily moving figures could even then be discerned slipping, like Indians, from bush to bush.

  “Jim, you’re a right fine fightin’ pard,” quoth Smoky, delighted. “Now, ain’t thet jest a shame? They won’t have sense enough to run like hell, givin’ us hard shots. They’ll sneak it. . . . Shore, look at ‘em. I could almost bore one already.”

  “It’s nervy of them at that,” admitted Jim, “after I shot from the top of this bank.”

  “They might not know thet. It takes a good quarter of an hour to grade round thet cliff an’ down. . . . Where’d they go, Jim?”

  “They’re below the ridge now. Look sharp, Smoky, or they might get a couple of shots in first.”

  “Wal, if they do, I hope both bullets lodge in Hank’s gizzard.”

  “My sentiments exactly. . . . Smoky, I saw something shine. Tip of a rifle. Right — to the right. . . . Ah!”

  “Take the first feller, Jim. . . . One — two — three.”

  The rifles cracked in unison. Jim’s mark sprang convulsively up, and plunged down to roll and weave out of sight. The man Smoky had shot at sank flat and lay still. Next moment a volley banged from the cliff and a storm of bullets swept hissing and spanging too uncomfortably close.

  “Low bridge, Jim,” chuckled Smoky. “Gimme your gun. Drop down. They’re shootin’ lower.”

  Jim slid and leaped to the floor of the cave below. Smoky, by lying down, lowered the rifles to him, and then came scrambling after.

  Hays had slouched back to them, followed by Happy.

  “What’d you shoot at?” he queried, hopefully.

  Jim did not deign to
notice him. “Smoky, I winged mine and you hit yours plumb center.”

  “Two more. Heeseman ain’t havin’ a walk-over. By Gawd! if we can kill two or three more, an’ particularly Heeseman, we’ll have thet outfit licked!”

  “Yes. But how, Smoky? We’re stuck here. And they’ll take less risks now.”

  “Wal, luck’s with us. An’ in a pinch I can work way round behind them.”

  “Smoky, I don’t want you to try that.”

  “Wal, Jim, I ain’t carin’ a lot what you want. The thing is we can’t let night overtake us in hyar.”

  “Why not? It’s as safe for us as for them.”

  “Safe nothin’. We can’t make no light. This green brush wouldn’t burn. An’ Heeseman has us located. He’d be slick enough to station men after dark. Behind the center an’ the rocks. In thet wash, an’ shore above us watchin’ our hole. Then when daylight come we’d be snuffed out. No, if we don’t end it before dark we shore gotta sneak out of hyar after dark.”

  Hays swaggered closer. “Thet’s a good idee, Smoky.”

  “Air you talkin’ to me?” asked Slocum, insolently.

  “Shore I am, you spit-cat! What’n hell’s got into you — an’ all of you?” shouted the robber, hoarsely.

  “You wanta talk, huh?”

  “Course I do. I’m boss hyar, an’ what I say—”

  “Hey, fellers, the boss wants talk,” interrupted Slocum, fiercely. “You, Happy an’ Mac, talk to the skunk who used to be our boss. An’ you, Jeff, air you able to talk to Hays?”

  The dying man raised a haggard, relentless face, which needed no speech to express his hate for the fallen chief.

  “Hays, when I — meet you in hell — I’ll stamp your cheatin’ — guts out!” whispered Bridges, in terrible effort to expand all his last strength and passion in one denunciation. Then he sank back, his head fell on his breast, and he died.

  “Gone! Thet makes three of us,” ejaculated Mac, twisting restless hands round his rifle.

  “Talk to Hays, damn you,” yelled Smoky. “He wants talk.”

  “I wouldn’t talk to him if it was my last breath, like Jeff, an’ talkin’ would save my life.”

  “Jim, can’t you oblige our former chief an’ pard?” asked Smoky, turning to Jim.

  “I’m past talking to him, Smoky — that is, with my mouth.”

  “Wal, so it’s left to me,” declared Slocum, bitterly. “Me who ranged Utah with you fer ten years! Me whose life you saved an’ who cottoned to you as to a brother! Me who slept with you, fought with you, robbed an’ killed with you!”

  How potently significant that rifle barrel of Smoky’s almost aligned with Hays’ body! Jim felt a cold thrill of expectancy — Smoky would kill the chief. Hays might have held himself proof against words, but not against bullets.

  “Hank Hays, some of us will live long enough to tell the Utah border what you sunk to,” went on Slocum. “An’ this place, which I bet a million will be your grave, won’t be forgot in history. Robbers’ Roost? It oughter be Robbers’ Grave. For many years, outfits like ours used to be will hole in hyar. An’ many a low-down rustler or common hoss thief will laugh an’ say: ‘Hank Hays croaked in hyar, after doin’ dirt to the best men who ever throwed a gun for each other. An’ all fer a white-faced slip of a woman who was sickened near to death at him!’”

  “Aw, you go to hell!” shouted Hays, malignantly. “I ain’t croaked yet.”

  “Wal, if Heeseman doesn’t do it, I will.”

  “Man, air you drunk or crazy?” burst out Hays, in dazed incredulity.

  “Neither. An’ thet’s my last talk with you, Hank Hays,” concluded Slocum, in cold finality.

  Jim, sitting back on a bulge of wall, watched and listened. He could not have asked more, though he had hoped Smoky would finish the chief then and there, despite the pressure of the peril from without. Hays’ bravado did not deceive Jim. The foundations of Hays’ manhood had been torn asunder, as indeed they had decayed during this last wild enterprise. He realized it, and the effect seemed tremendous. He was in his last ditch. Heeseman, an enemy of years’ standing, was there to kill him. And if he and this remnant of his outfit succeeded in beating off the attackers, even then his doom was imminent. Smoky did not make idle threats. And if he failed to kill Hays, then this stranger, this mysterious gunman from Wyoming, would do it. Thus Hays’ mind must have worked. Only one chance in a thousand for him! It looked as if he meant to take it in desperate spirit.

  “Jack, gimme Jeff’s gun an’ belt,” he said, and receiving them he buckled them over his own. Next he opened his pack to take out a box of rifle shells, which he broke open to drop the contents in his coat pocket on the left side. After that he opened his shirt to strip off a broad, black money-belt. This was what had made him bulge so and give the impression of stoutness, when in fact he was lean. He hung this belt over a projecting point of wall.

  “In case I don’t git back,” he added. “An’ there’s a bundle of chicken-feed change in my pack.”

  There was something gloomy and splendid about him then. Fear of God, or man, or death was not in him. Rifle in hand, he crept to the corner on the left and boldly exposed himself, drawing a volley of shots from two quarters.

  “Ahuh. I’ll upset thet little party,” he muttered, and crossing the front of the cave he passed his men and started to glide along the zigzag wall on that side. He had to dodge out around the end of the corral, which move, however, did not draw fire. Then he disappeared.

  “Wal, we set the old devil up, didn’t we?” said Smoky, his tragic mien softening. “Hangin’ thet money-belt there showed Hank with his back to the wall. I seen him so far gone once before. Gawd Almighty! . . . Heeseman is standin’ on the verge this minnit, Jim.”

  “What’s Hays’ idea?”

  “He must know a way to sneak around on them. . . . Jim, if he makes it an’ they git to shootin’, I’m gonna try my plan.”

  “You’ll cross around on the other side?”

  “Shore. One day I figgered out the thing I mean to do now.”

  “If Hank gets them all shooting, you might risk it, Smoky. But wait. Let’s see what—”

  A metallic, spanging sound, accompanied rather than followed by a shot, then a sodden thud right at hand, choked Jim’s speech in his throat. Before he wheeled he knew that thud to be a bullet striking flesh. Happy Jack had been cut short in one of his low whistles. He swayed a second, upright, then, uttering an awful groan, he fell.

  Smoky leaped to him, bent over.

  “Dead! Hit in the temple. Where’d thet bullet come from?”

  “It glanced from a rock. I know the sound. Was that an accident?”

  “Shore. How else could a bullet reach us in hyar, unless from straight across behind that mound?”

  “No. The bullet came—”

  Spoww! The same sound — another shot, and another heavy lead, deflected in its course, struck the stone above Jim’s head and whined away to whip at the gravel.

  “Thet rock thar,” shouted Smoky, pointing. “See the white bullet mark. . . . Jim, some slick sharpshooter has figgered one on us.”

  Twenty feet out, a little to the left of the center of the cave, lay a huge block of granite with a slanting side facing west. This side inclined toward the cave. On its rusty surface showed two white spots close together.

  Another spang and shot followed, with a banging of another heavy bullet from wall to wall. It narrowly missed Mac, who was quick to flop down with a surly yelp.

  “Come on, Jim, it ain’t healthy hyar no more,” said Smoky, hugging the wall and working to the extreme left-hand corner. “It do beat hell. Thet’s Heeseman. He’s a bad feller to fall out with. I remember once hearin’ Hank tell when he an’ Heeseman was pardners in cattle-raisin’. Funny, ain’t it? Wal, some rustlers made a cattle steal. Hank trailed tracks into what’s called Black Dragon Canyon. There was a cave high off the bottom, an’ Hank told how he an’ Heeseman, an’ their riders, shot ag�
�in’ the wall of the cave an’ shore routed out them rustlers.”

  “Smoky, if they’re loaded with ammunition they can rout us out, too. That infernal rock! We couldn’t move it, even if we dared try.”

  “We gotta kill Heeseman.”

  “I had somewhat the same hunch myself. . . . Bing! There’s another.”

  “I seen the smoke then. Look, Jim. There’s a rock sticks up like a owl’s head. An’ it come from left of thet, out of thet wide crack. He’s back in there, the bugger. Let’s give him a dose of his own medicine. We got shells more’n we’ll ever use.”

  “Wait till he shoots again. Then you empty your rifle and give way to me.”

  Soon the little white cloud puffed up, and a crack instantly followed. Smoky, on one knee, fired deliberately, and thereafter worked the lever of his rifle steadily until the magazine was empty. Jim saw the red dust of bullets strike here, there, everywhere in that crack on the rim. And before that dust settled Jim emulated Smoky’s feat.

  “Mebbe thet’ll hold the sucker fer a spell,” muttered Smoky, as he reloaded.

  But it increased the ricocheting of the bullets, to the growing embarrassment of the besieged.

  “I’m goin’ up in thet hole,” declared Mac, furiously, after another leaden missile had chased him around the cave.

  “Mac, it ain’t any safer up there,” warned Smoky.

  “All I’m lookin’ fer is to kill one of them cusses.”

  He laboriously climbed up out of sight, and presently Jim heard him shooting. No volley answered him, only a single shot. Conditions were changing up on top. Mac fired again, then bellowed down the hole:

  “Smoky, I crippled one runnin’.”

  “Don’t cripple nobody, Mac. Kill ‘em!” yelled Smoky. “Keep your head down.”

  Other shots pattered out from the cliff. Jim heard a scuffle above, then the clang of metal on stone. Mac had dropped his rifle. A shock of catastrophe affected Jim, and flattening himself against the wall, he stared at the aperture. A sodden crash did not surprise him. Mac had fallen back into the hole to lodge upon the shelf. His shaggy head hove in sight over the edge. It dripped blood. Then he slid heavily off the shelf to fall like a loaded sack into the bottom of the notch.