Where was Armando Costello? Was he below this floor even now? For an instant Kale wondered whether he might be mistaken about the treasure. He moved the bed and tarp and tugged at the trapdoor.
He stared in disbelief. The entire entrance to the tunnel, which he had crawled through only days earlier, was now filled with fallen rock and debris.
He studied the debris-filled opening. Costello had surely been here, but where was he now?
Whether intentional or not, and Kale was now of the mind that everything Costello did was well thought out, it was a clever idea. Say he closed off access to the tunnel at this end—then he could come and go as he pleased from the other end. With the right timing, any sounds he made extracting the treasure would be covered by the branding and other ranching activities Rainey had going on above ground.
Kale eased the trapdoor back in place. From a rear window he studied the area between the house and creek. Although he could see no indication of it, he knew the opening to the tunnel had to be somewhere near the creek.
Everything he recalled hearing about the tunnel was vague. No one had ever said exactly where it led, only that it had been dug as an escape route from the house in case of Indian attack.
After a cursory search of the creek bottom turned up no clues, Kale decided it would be better for his health if he retreated and planned his attack. No sense sending Costello an engraved invitation to use his back for target practice.
Also, it was getting close to dark, and he had made a promise to Ellie. If he was to get back to her before midnight, he’d best get a move on.
He could look for Costello tomorrow.
Or could he? The man surely wouldn’t tarry any longer than necessary. By tomorrow any trail he left could be cold. And neither he nor Ellie would be safe until Costello was apprehended. Now that they could finger him for killing Benjamin, Costello couldn’t leave them alive.
Pulled by his promise to Ellie, as well as by his own heightening aversion to this confrontation, Kale walked out on the porch. He wanted nothing more than to climb aboard the bay and head to town—to the Lady Bug and Ellie.
But something equally strong fought against his leaving, compelled him to hang around a bit longer.
Instinct. He recognized it. His old friend. That thing folks called instinct had saved his bacon many a time.
Right now it was telling him to stay put, act natural, and see what fell into place.
From the porch he scanned the valley, the part of it he could see from here, all the while checking the loads in his Colt. His gaze fell on Benjamin’s grave.
Benjamin’s grave and the rose clipping Ellie had struggled so hard to get started. Since he was here, the least he could do was water it for her.
Drawing water from the well, he walked up the hill. Ellie’s presence filled him; her absence…her absence was a blessing, he countered, bringing himself back to the present.
The desperate present. Instinct told him to be glad Ellie was well away from this valley tonight.
Instinct, he scoffed, recalling how his sixth sense had deserted him when Holt Rainey confronted him from that cleft in the painted cliffs. Instinct? Or stupidity?
He squatted on his heels beneath the old oak tree. Where was Costello? Pulling a blade of grass, he chewed on it and wondered what the hell to do next.
While he contemplated the situation, he surveyed the valley as though he were searching for the proverbial needle in the haystack, alert to any sign of the tunnel or of the man he was fixing to have to face.
The evening star came out. He rolled a smoke and leaned his head back, watching the fire at the end of the cigarette glow in the deepening dusk. Then an idea came to him.
Same old trick, he thought as he made his way back to the house, watered the bay, and headed out for Summer Valley. Once over the hill, he cut back, passed the cave where Rainey’s men had camped, and picketed the bay in a grove of trees on the opposite side of Plum Creek from the house.
If Costello hadn’t retrieved the treasure, Kale felt his plan had a fair chance of working. The last time he playacted leaving the ranch was with the Rainey hands. Likely Costello didn’t know about it.
If he didn’t, and if he were here—a hell of a lot of ifs for Kale’s mind—the gambler might come out in the open and try to finish the job. It was a longshot, but maybe…
Kale stationed himself in a thick stand of scrub oak from which he had a good view of the creek and house.
The moon was a mere sliver, a crescent, and the night grew dark. Kale thought he had never seen so many fireflies for this time of year. He was reminded of the game they played as kids, catching fireflies to keep in jars filled with grass.
He yawned. The events of the past few days were fast catching up with him. His body was exhausted, and he became drowsy. Several times he caught his head dropping to his chest, then bobbing back up. Once when he shook himself awake, the lights by the creek seemed to flare up, then as quickly die down.
He came fully awake. What had he seen? Had it been merely more fireflies, seen through eyes only half awake? He waited, scarcely breathing. Not half a minute later, the light flared again across the creek and down a good ways.
This time he knew what he saw: someone was trying to strike sulfur matches. His plan had worked.
The night was pitch dark now, and Kale made his way mostly by sound. He crossed the creek where water gurgled and trickled over rocks above the pond, which itself wasn’t more than four or five feet deep this time of year. After a good rain, though, it would run higher, he knew.
In front of him, not thirty yards away, the shape of the house stood out a shade blacker than the night. Off to his left he saw the still smoldering embers and smelled the acrid odor of burning hair and flesh from the branding Matt Rainey had done this day.
He tried to align himself with the house and judge exactly where the tunnel might run.
Fireflies still flitted, and crickets chirped their messages back and forth across the creek. A bullfrog karoomped from a lily pad. Kale thought of Ellie, standing there in that green silk thing, letting it fall to the ground.
Then he knew where to look.
Easing himself into the cold water, he shuddered when it reached his skin. He held his gun above water with one hand and groped his way along the edge of the bank with the other, searching for an opening well above the water level, but still covered by the growth of lilies.
That was the only place he hadn’t searched during daylight, and he decided it would be a logical place, allowing the residents of the house to escape to the lower side of the embankment, swim across the creek, and come up in the weeds on the other side.
Logical, but probably wrong, he thought as he searched back and forth in the matted lilies with no luck.
Then, just when he began to wonder whether he’d seen the light at all, he got a whiff of sulfur, and a new sound rang through the night air. It seemed to come from the earth itself. It was followed by several more blows.
Striving to steady his racing emotions, Kale located the tunnel just under the crest of the embankment at the base of the cottonwood tree. The slab of limestone where Ellie had placed his clothes—an event that seemed as if it must have happened years ago instead of only a few weeks—stood white in the surrounding darkness. Something about it looked wrong.
The slab still partially covered the mouth of the tunnel, which was probably as far as Costello had been able to budge it from its place among the exposed roots of the tree. Kale recalled sitting on the slab that wretched night his brothers had decided to draw straws for Ellie. And how many times before and since had he walked past it on his way to bathe? Never had he suspected a thing.
He was still dripping wet from wading through the lilies. Before entering the black hole in the ground, he checked his handgun and wished his shot-up leg wasn’t so stiff. With his left hand he grabbed hold of the cottonwood tree to swing himself into the tunnel.
The trunk was oddly cool to his touch. The thin bro
wn bark curled beneath his hand; he felt the smooth trunk beneath, which he knew to be white—alive. Suddenly he felt very tired.
All he wanted was to live in peace with Ellie, but inside this tunnel was a man who would not allow that. Inside this tunnel was the man who had killed his brother, who had badly abused Ellie, both physically and emotionally. And Kale had no doubt that Costello would kill both Ellie and himself unless he were stopped now.
Like it or not, this was one last hurdle he had to overcome before either of them could live in safety again.
Kale gave the tree an affectionate pat, hoping he’d come out of this hole in the ground as alive and well as he’d been going into it, and dropped himself gingerly into the tunnel.
A few feet inside he found standing room. A pinpoint of light showed ahead; the echo of the pick rang clear.
Shadows from a stubby miner’s candle danced against the wall. Costello was hard at work. The air was musty, hot. Kale fought the urge to break and run for fresh air.
He made his way carefully. When he was within twenty yards of the light, he saw that Costello had done an enormous amount of work.
The second branch of the tunnel, which he’d found sealed off before, was now dug out for three or four feet, the debris piled against the trap door. Clever…it appeared as a cave-in from above and would not be likely to attract anyone’s curiosity, unless that person had reason to be suspicious.
Suddenly, as he watched, Costello’s shadow dropped to the ground. Kale heard the sound of metal struggling with metal, then Costello’s voice, guttural but clear.
“¡Madre de Dios! I have found it!”
Kale stopped short. As he did so, his foot struck a loose stone and sent it rolling. He froze where he stood, his gun aimed toward the flickering shadows.
“I’m here to take you in, Costello. Come along peaceable.”
Instantly the candle was extinguished. Kale fired twice at the opening. His shots ricocheted off the metal spike where the candle had been secured and thudded into the rock wall.
His thoughts came fast and furious. What did that opening look like? How far back did it go? What chance did he have of hitting Costello in the dark?
He had lost his advantage of surprise. If he fired now he’d only show Costello where to aim that bowie knife.
Kale recalled the story told throughout the West about Jim Bowie’s fight in the dark warehouse in New Orleans. Thing was, Bowie’s opponent had used a sword which sang through the air, giving away his position. It had been a matter of waiting for the man’s patience to wear thin, for his nerves to snap. And Jim Bowie had had his knife.
Here in this dank tunnel, Kale faced a different situation. He had a handgun, and somewhere in the bitter darkness Costello had the Bowie knife.
Kale had used his six-guns so often he hadn’t realized how much he depended on them for protection. Now, with the advantage of light removed, he felt naked, vulnerable.
Right then and there, he made up his mind about two things: nerves were not going to get the best of him, and Costello wasn’t going to get him in the back.
With that decided, he placed his back squarely against the wall and began to inch his way forward along it. Costello might get him, but it would be face to face. That way, he would get off enough shots to take the gambler with him. He had no intention of leaving the man alive to seek out Ellie.
His ears strained for any sound. He breathed deeply and slowly, trying to still his pounding heart. All his senses were alert for the presence of another body. He knew when the moment came, it would be only a moment, no more. The first man to sense the other would have the edge, however slight. He reckoned it would be plumb foolish to figure on either of them leaving this tunnel untouched.
The flesh along his back quivered as he took yet another step. His movement made some sound, yet Costello would make the same sound.
That was what Kale awaited. A sound, any sound. He would point and fire…and keep firing, trying to stop Costello before that knife could be thrown. He wished for two guns—twelve shots. Instead of six, and only four of them remaining.
He had the overwhelming feeling of being entombed. If he was killed here, if Costello escaped—or was killed along with him—this tunnel would become their tomb.
It was impossible for him to judge how far he had moved. The darkness obliterated all sense of distance.
He stopped to listen, then took another step.
The knife struck suddenly. Kale moved forward. His left hand clutched at the handle, at the hand holding the handle, gripping the wrist, pushing it backward.
His right hand shoved the Colt into his opponent; raising the muzzle, he fired through the body which bore down upon him. He fired again and again and again.
He fired until the gun clicked empty. The body fell backward, pulling Kale along. A deep burning in his side raced down his body, and he collapsed on top of the other man.
How long he lay there, he didn’t know. When his mind began to function once more, he became aware of something wet and remembered wading in the creek. Hands on the ground to either side of his body, he pushed himself up. The knife was still in his side, and his arms were so weak he had trouble removing it. Once it was out, fresh blood flowed into his hand.
Stuffing his shirttail in the wound, he held a hand over it and tried to stand up, but pressure, as of two giant hands on his shoulders, bore down on him. His legs wobbled; two steps later he fell flat on his face.
When he came to again, his one thought was to get out of this hole in the ground. He must see how badly he was wounded, and he must not die in this tunnel.
But he was so weak he couldn’t stand again, so he ended up half crawling, half dragging himself toward the creek.
How many times he collapsed, he couldn’t say, but when he finally awoke, his body was draped over the roots of the cottonwood tree. Cool, fresh air filled his lungs and bathed his damp, hot body.
The night was still dark, but it looked much lighter since he’d been inside the tunnel. Kale dragged himself along the bank to a place near the springhouse where the creek bubbled through the rocks, and where he knew, if he passed out, at least he wouldn’t be likely to drown.
His wounded side throbbed with every beat of his heart. Finally, while passing back and forth from consciousness to unconsciousness, he managed to remove his shirt and wash his wound.
The slash was wicked, no doubt about it. It started with just a scratch at his heart, then became an ugly gash below that point for a good five inches down his side. He was unable to tell whether anything vital had been damaged. Time would take care of that.
He found some dried grass within reach, which he stuffed into the wound to try to stop the flow of blood. Then he wrapped his shirt around his makeshift bandage and tied it as tightly as he could manage. He had seen enough wounds to know he was in trouble. Unless he got help soon, he wasn’t likely to be around come sunup.
He thought of the bay staked across the creek. He couldn’t cross the creek, but if he could make it up the hill, he could ride the packhorse to town.
But right now he had to rest. He was so tired…in a while, he promised himself, he would crawl up the hill. Then he would saddle the horse and get to town. After a while. Right now, he had to rest.
When he opened his eyes again, the morning sun shone brightly through bare branches overhead. As he awakened more fully, he became aware of a burning pain which radiated from his wounded side, penetrating all parts of his body.
Then he heard the sound which had awakened him. Footsteps…someone was walking down the path to the creek. He listened. Two steps, a pause. Three steps, a pause. Whoever it was was looking for something…or for someone.
Vaguely he recalled the previous day: he’d been alone out here except for Armando Costello. Alarm spread through his pain-wracked body when he tried to rise, to reach for his guns. Now both were missing.
He looked around again to get his bearings. He was lying in back of the spri
nghouse on rocks beside the water. As soon as that person rounded the corner, Kale would be in plain sight.
The footsteps came closer and stopped, and then a voice called. “Jarrett? Are you around here someplace? Jarrett?”
The voice sounded vaguely familiar.
“Jarrett?” The man called again.
It wasn’t Costello. Maybe it was help. Surely even Matt Rainey wouldn’t let a man die in his own blood. He tried to call out, but a wave of blackness engulfed him.
When the voice called again it was closer, and Kale opened his eyes to see Snake’s furrowed brow.
“Well, I’ll be damned!” Snake gave a low whistle through his teeth. “Miss Ellie! Come a-running.” He grinned at Kale through those awful tobacco-stained teeth. Only at this moment, Snake’s teeth looked pearly white. “Is the other feller as bad off as you?”
Kale managed a feeble smile. “Worse, I hope.”
Snake knelt beside Kale to get a closer look at his wound, while Kale’s ears attuned themselves to the trail, listening for footsteps.
For Ellie’s footsteps.
“You know womenfolk,” Snake was saying. “Nothing would do for Miss Ellie but that we ride out here and have a look-see. And danged if she wasn’t right.”
Kale smiled again, then he passed out still listening for Ellie’s footsteps.
Epilogue
It took three weeks for Kale to recover. He had lost a lot of blood, but as Lavender told Ellie, Costello’s Bowie knife hadn’t damaged anything necessary to life, limb, or the pursuit of happiness.
When Snake and Ellie found him, Kale was still bleeding, and Ellie had been afraid to move him any farther than the house.
After she spread a clean sheet on the bed in the spare room, she had Snake lay him there. While she cleansed and dressed his wound, then fixed him broth, she sent Snake back to town for Doc Lowell.
Kale passed out again while the doc sewed him up, and it was a week before he realized where he was.
Lavender and Poppy rode out the next day, bringing food and medicines. Although Lavender tried to persuade Ellie to return to Summer Valley with her patient, Ellie refused. She never wanted to leave home again…especially not now, with everything settled, with Kale here beside her.
Sweet Autumn Surrender Page 34
