Boone rose. ‘‘I am going to stretch my legs. We have been in the saddle for so long, I have plumb forgot how to walk.’’
Drub cackled and slapped his big thigh. ‘‘I will have to remember that one to tell Pa.’’
Wagner swore in disgust. ‘‘The world is full of simple—’’ he started, and then his eyes darted toward Boone’s ivory-handled Colt. ‘‘That is, I reckon I will take a nap.’’
Boone strolled off. As he went deeper into the oaks, birds chirped and warbled and somewhere a jay squawked. A doe bounded off. He saw sign of other wildlife that used the spring. Bear tracks caused him to dip onto a knee to study them. They were in a patch of bare dirt, and the claw marks were as clear as could be.
‘‘That would be Methuselah.’’
The voice startled him. Not so much because Boone had not realized he was no longer alone but because it was female and of such pitch and tone that it sent a shiver down his spine. He glanced up and was thunderstruck.
She was no more than five feet tall, but every inch of her was superb. Sandy hair cut below her small ears and swept back added a dash of pixie to a face that was as smooth as a baby’s bottom but as bronzed as an Apache’s. Eyes the same green as the forest peered at him with interest. She had a small, perfect nose, and a small, perfect mouth. Her clothes were a duplicate of her father’s, only hers were cleaner. She was barefoot. Cradled in her arms was a Spencer rifle. ‘‘How old are you?’’
‘‘What?’’
‘‘Don’t your ears work? I asked how old you are.’’
Boone rose. ‘‘I don’t know as I should say.’’
‘‘Why not?’’
‘‘Some think I am older than I am and I would like to keep it that way,’’ Boone explained.
She nodded toward the spring. ‘‘By some do you mean the Radlers and the rest of those serpents?’’
‘‘They gave me the impression they are friends of yours.’’
‘‘I like Drub. He is the only worthwhile one in the bunch.’’ She waited, then said, ‘‘Well?’’
‘‘Well what?’’
‘‘Are you going to tell me or not?’’
‘‘Why do you want to know?’’
‘‘Damn, you are contrary. But you look to be about my age and I hardly ever meet anyone as young as me. I am sixteen.’’
‘‘Promise to keep it a secret?’’
‘‘May I be shot if I don’t.’’
‘‘I am the same age as you.’’
The girl smiled and stepped boldly forward and offered her small hand. ‘‘Sassy Drecker. What is yours?’’
Boone opened his mouth, then hesitated.
‘‘Don’t tell me you have forgot.’’
‘‘It is another secret.’’
‘‘You sure as hell have a lot of them.’’
‘‘And you sure do cuss a lot. My ma says that ladies should not cuss like men do.’’
‘‘If you want your mother I am wrong for the part. So will you tell me or should I make a name up? Because if I have to make a name up, I think I will call you Silly. How would that be?’’
‘‘I am called Lightning but my real name is Boone. Boone Scott.’’
‘‘Lightning?’’ Sassy said, showing teeth as white and even as teeth could be. ‘‘Why in creation would anyone call you that?’’
Boone’s hand moved, and the ivory-handled Colt performed its magic. ‘‘This is why.’’
Sassy’s green eyes widened in appreciation and she whistled softly. ‘‘Land sakes. I am impressed and I do not impress easy.’’ She looked him squarely in the eye. ‘‘There is a lot about you that impresses me.’’
‘‘The way you talk.’’ Boone coughed and twirled the Colt into his holster with a flourish. ‘‘What did you mean by Methuselah?’’
‘‘That is the name of the bear. He is big and fat and getting on in years and I always wave to him when I see him.’’
‘‘You named a wild bear?’’
Sassy gazed fondly at the surrounding oaks and undergrowth. ‘‘I give a name to every critter. They are my friends.’’
‘‘A bear is no friend to anyone. Aren’t you afraid he will decide you make a tasty meal?’’
‘‘I have this,’’ Sassy said, patting the Spencer. ‘‘And I am a damn good shot, if I say so my own self.’’
‘‘There you go again.’’
‘‘There I go again what?’’
‘‘Cussing.’’
‘‘Are you a preacher or something?’’
‘‘Hell no.’’
They looked at each other and laughed.
‘‘Why don’t you come for a walk with me and I will show you around?’’ Sassy suggested.
‘‘I can think of nothing I would like to do more.’’
Sassy’s cheeks tinged pink as she turned and headed away from the spring and the cabin. ‘‘These wilds are my home. We came here shortly after Ma died. Pa took to the bottle and has not climbed back out. Most of the time I am all alone, if you don’t count the Apaches.’’
‘‘Apaches?’’ Boone said in sudden alarm.
‘‘I find their tracks and camps from time to time,’’ Sassy said. ‘‘I suspect they know we are here, but I reckon we are not worth their bother or they would have gouged out our eyes by now.’’
Boone had a thought, an ugly thought, and his trigger finger twitched. ‘‘When you are a little older maybe they will not think you are so worthless.’’
‘‘There is that,’’ Sassy said, and placed a hand on the knife at her hip. ‘‘But I will slit my own throat before I let any man, red or white, do that to me without my say-so.’’
‘‘God, you are frank.’’
Sassy bestowed another smile on him. ‘‘Do I scare you?’’
Boone looked at the ground and at the sky and finally said, ‘‘More than anything has ever scared me in all my born days.’’
‘‘Good,’’ Sassy said. ‘‘Can I tell you something?’’
‘‘Will it scare me more?’’
‘‘Probably.’’ Sassy did not wait for him to give his consent. ‘‘I am glad we met. More glad than I have been about anything in all my born days.’’ She laughed, and her laughter was music.
‘‘Are you poking fun?’’
Sassy stopped, so he stopped. She put a hand on his arm and leaned close and said so quietly he barely heard her, ‘‘I would never do that. Not now. Not ever.’’ Her hand stayed there. ‘‘Don’t you feel it?’’
‘‘Feel what?’’
‘‘Feel what I am feeling?’’
‘‘Oh, hell,’’ Boone Scott said.
‘‘And you say I cuss a lot. If your ma were here I would tell on you.’’ Sassy grinned and they walked on, her hand brushing his.
Boone Scott broke out in a sweat that had nothing to do with the heat.
A Secret Place
Boone Scott had not smiled this much since that awful night in Ranson. He walked with a lighthearted tread, his arm occasionally touching Sassy’s. Or her arm would touch his.
Sassy knew the valley from end to end, every tree, every boulder, every shadowed nook and shaded cranny. She showed him a tree the black bear she had named Methuselah liked to scratch, and a squirrel nest, and a fox den. She showed him where grouse liked to roost and the tracks of wild turkeys. She took him to where deer liked to lie up, and the trail the deer used when they went for their evening drink at the spring. She showed him, in short, everything there was to know about her valley.
Boone lost all track of time. He listened to her wonderful voice, and drank in the sight of her with sly glances, and he was content.
They came to the far end of the valley. A cliff wall loomed, a barrier that kept the wildlife from drifting into the mountains beyond, and Sassy suddenly clasped his hand.
‘‘I have a treat for you.’’
‘‘You can take me anywhere,’’ Boone said.
Sassy pulled him toward the cliff. ‘‘It’s my special place.
The place I come to when I want to be alone. I have never brought Pa or anyone else. I have never wanted to.’’
‘‘I am honored.’’
‘‘You should be.’’
Soon they emerged from the oaks. Above them reared the cliff, sheer and unbroken, reaching to the sky.
‘‘Is this it?’’ Boone asked.
‘‘No, silly. What is so special about here?’’ Sassy grinned and pulled him to the right.
For a good five minutes they hiked along the base of the cliff. Then Sassy stopped and pointed. ‘‘What do you think of those?’’
Boone looked, and was puzzled. Hand and foot-holds had been carved into the rock face. Their rounded edges suggested they had once been well used. They were old, very old, maybe as old as the valley itself. ‘‘I’ll be.’’ Stepping back, he craned his neck and saw that they went up the cliff for as high as he could see. ‘‘Who made them?’’
‘‘How would I know?’’ Sassy shrugged. ‘‘Indians, I reckon. They are long gone.’’ She slung her rifle over her back by the rawhide cord that was tied to the barrel and the stock, then began to climb. ‘‘Come on. My special place is higher.’’
‘‘Is it safe?’’
‘‘Are you yellow?’’ Sassy teased, gripping the next niche.
Had a man said that, Boone would have pistol-whipped the culprit.
Now he grinned and said, ‘‘I will show you how yellow I am.’’ And he followed her.
They climbed until they were higher than the oaks, and went on climbing. Boone glanced down once and did not glance down again. When a bird swooped past his head, he nearly lost his grip.
Sassy was not the least concerned. Several times she looked down at him and smiled. ‘‘It is not much higher,’’ she said at one point.
Presently Boone heard a scratching noise. He glanced up and was startled to find she had disappeared. ‘‘Sassy?’’
There was no answer.
‘‘Sassy?’’ Boone said again in concern.
‘‘Not so loud. This high up, voices carry. Do you want them to hear you at the spring?’’ A hand appeared, beckoning. ‘‘Keep on. You are almost there.’’
Boone climbed quickly, not caring that if he slipped, he would plummet to his death. He reached up, and instead of another niche his fingers closed on the rough edge of what he took to be a ledge. But when he raised his head above it, he was shocked.
Sassy clapped her hands and laughed at his expression. ‘‘Isn’t it something?’’
Before them was a fair-sized cavern. Worn by erosion, the sides and ceiling were smooth, so that it resembled a bowl tipped on its side. Filling the bowl, to Boone’s amazement, were houses. Made of sandstone and mortar, they were stacked one on top of the other like boxes. The dust of great age covered them, and there were other signs of antiquity. He climbed up and stood, agog.
‘‘Have you ever seen the like?’’ Sassy asked breathlessly.
Boone shook his head. ‘‘I have heard tell of places like this. My pa saw one once. If I recollect right, it was bigger but not as old.’’ He moved past her and then turned and gazed out over the valley. ‘‘How is it we couldn’t see it from down below?’’
‘‘It is in shadow during the day. Almost as if whoever lived here did not want to be found.’’
‘‘A whole village in the cliff,’’ Boone marveled.
‘‘I was out hunting one day and I spotted those cut marks. I went on hunting, but I got curious, so I came back.’’ Sassy motioned. ‘‘This is what I found. I never told Pa.’’
‘‘Why not?’’
‘‘He wouldn’t care. And he hates Injuns. Hates them worse than he hates anything.’’
‘‘I wonder what happened to the people who lived here.’’
‘‘That is a mystery,’’ Sassy said. ‘‘Maybe their enemies drove them off. Or maybe they got tired of toting water up here.’’ She took his hand. ‘‘Come on. I want to show you something.’’
In places the sandstone had crumbled and there was other evidence of the stress of centuries.
Boone was dubious about entering, and said so.
‘‘It has not collapsed on me yet,’’ Sassy said as she bent slightly to go in a doorway.
The dust smell was strong. Openings permitted enough sunlight to filter in to see by, but it was too dark for Boone’s liking. He kept his right hand on his Colt.
Sassy moved with the sure tread of familiarity. ‘‘See these?’’ she said, pointing.
On the plaster walls were paintings rendered in shades of yellow, green, white and red. Many were scenes that depicted the life of the Indians who had lived there. One showed women making baskets. Another depicted warriors fighting a mountain lion. Still others were of symbols.
Sassy was leading them down, not up. She went along a narrow passage and turned right and walked down another, bringing them at last to a large circular chamber. Sunlight streamed in slits high up. She moved to the center and spread her arms wide. ‘‘Isn’t this glorious?’’
Looking at her and not at the paintings or the ceiling, Boone said, ‘‘It is more than that.’’
‘‘I would live here if Pa would not have a fit. It is so quiet, so peaceful.’’ Smiling, Sassy turned in a circle. ‘‘That is silly, I reckon.’’
‘‘Not if you want it, it isn’t.’’
Sassy faced him and bit her lower lip, then asked, ‘‘Be honest with me. Do you have a girl off somewhere you are powerful fond of?’’
‘‘I would never lie to you. And no, not unless you count my ma.’’
‘‘By girl I meant sweetheart or wife.’’
Boone laughed. ‘‘I am too young to be married off.’’ He quickly amended, ‘‘That is, I haven’t met the right girl yet.’’
‘‘Are you particular?’’
‘‘What kind of question is that?’’ Boone rejoined. ‘‘But since you ask, I reckon I am.’’
Sassy’s mouth curled down. ‘‘Oh.’’
‘‘I would like for her to have all her teeth. And to be able to cook. And it would be nice if she was real pretty although she doesn’t have to be if she is sweet and nice.’’
Brightening, Sassy said, ‘‘I can be nice when I put my mind to it.’’ She looked down at her feet and poked at the dust with a toe. ‘‘Do you find me at all pretty?’’
‘‘You are a sunrise and a butterfly rolled into one,’’ Boone answered before he could stop his mouth from moving.
‘‘Really?’’ Sassy moved a few feet away so her back was to him. She coughed and did more dust scraping. ‘‘That is just about the best thing anyone has ever said to me.’’
‘‘If you lived in a town you would have suitors crawling out your ears,’’ Boone predicted.
‘‘The hell you say.’’
‘‘There you go again.’’ Boone walked up behind her. He started to reach for her but lowered his hands.
‘‘Would you be one of them?’’
‘‘I would be the first and only,’’ Boone said hotly. ‘‘There are two things in this life I will not share. One is my horse. The other is my girl.’’
‘‘Do you think you could grow to care for me?’’
‘‘It is too late for that.’’
Sassy turned. Her eyes were limpid pools of worry and confusion. ‘‘Too late how?’’
‘‘You can’t tell?’’
‘‘Oh.’’ Sassy bowed her head. ‘‘Oh,’’ she said again, and her bronzed face grew darker. ‘‘I bet you say that to all the females.’’
‘‘Not ever!’’ Boone replied, more loudly and harsher than he intended. ‘‘There has only ever been one girl who—’’ He caught himself, aghast.
Sassy’s head jerked up. ‘‘Another girl? But you said there wasn’t one. Who is she?’’
‘‘Was,’’ Boone said. ‘‘She is dead. Her name was Lucy. I hardly knew her, but she was nice and she died taking a bullet meant for me.’’
‘‘Was it a lawman’s bullet
?’’
‘‘Why would you think that?’’
‘‘You ride with the Radler gang. Every tin star in the territory is on the lookout for them. Twice that I know of the Radlers have shot it out with posses and been lucky to get away.’’
‘‘I am not an outlaw,’’ Boone said. He began to explain how it was that he was with them, and once he started, he couldn’t stop. He told her everything. About the Circle V. About going to Ranson. About Jarrott. About Condit. About drifting to Porter’s, and the rustling in Mexico. ‘‘And here I am.’’ He ended his account with a gesture at the chamber made ages past by a tribe long dead.
Sassy had not said a word during his recital. Her eyes, alive with interest, grew bright with something else. ‘‘Then you are not really one of them.’’
‘‘They act like I am but I am not. I only stayed with them because I like Drub.’’
‘‘So do I.’’
Suddenly Sassy grabbed his hand again and wheeled toward a doorway on the other side. ‘‘There is one spot left to show you. The most special spot of all.’’
The next passage was lined with clay pots. Some were cracked. Others lay in shards. A mouse went skittering away in fright. Soon they were at the foot of a wooden ladder that reached up into darkness.
‘‘Will it hold us?’’
‘‘It has always held me. But to be safe we will climb one at a time.’’
The ladder creaked and shimmied. Boone stood ready to catch her should it collapse. Sassy disappeared into the shadows and a few moments later called down out of the ink.
‘‘Your turn.’’
Boone placed his right boot on the bottom rung and carefully applied his full weight. ‘‘Will wonders never cease?’’ he muttered, and cautiously ascended. A square of pale light at the top turned into an opening onto the roof.
Sassy was over at the edge, hands on her hips, staring down at the cliff homes and the valley beyond. ‘‘Isn’t the view wonderful?’’
‘‘It is more wonderful than anything.’’
Curling her legs under her, Sassy sat and patted the roof. ‘‘Have a seat. I reckon we should rest a spell before we start down.’’
Boone did not need to rest, but he sat cross-legged with his elbows on his knees. The sun was streaming into the mouth of the cavern, but at such an angle he doubted anyone on the valley floor could see the secret village.
Ralph Compton Bullet For a Bad Man Page 12
