The Crimson Hills

by L. P. Holmes

  “Shut up,” rapped Hippo again. But this time that wild, killing note was gone.

  Silent as a shadow, Dave Wall inched back from the rim of the wash until he had a couple of yards of leeway. Then he lay, thinking things out. Luke Lilavelt, he realized didn’t count at all any more. But Hippo Dell—Big George Yearly—did. He had to get Hippo Dell to Basin, and get him there alive. But how to do it?

  Throwing a gun on the man wouldn’t be enough. The man was smart, he was desperate and a fighter. Even with a gun leveled at him he’d take his chance and go for his own. Besides, in the tricky night light, anything could happen in gun work.

  As far as Wall could see, there was only one way. Let the camp quiet down, get deep in sleep. Then circle a bit, drop into the wash, and sneak up on the camp. Locate the sleeping Dell and cool him with a gun barrel—pistol-whip him. Then tie him up before consciousness returned.

  This had its risks, too. There was always the chance of discovery, of alarm. Dell and Lilavelt had horses somewhere, either up or down the wash from the camp. A snort from one of them, even an uneasy stirring could do the trick. But these were chances that had to be taken, for there was no other solution.

  It was characteristic of Dave Wall that once he had cast up all the possibilities, he made his decision without further hesitation and then set about figuring out all his moves. First things first. Where were those horses?

  Wall pushed himself up to a kneeling position and strained his ears against the noiseless pulsing of the night. Below the wash rim a few low murmured words passed back and forth, but these weren’t what Wall was interested in just now. He listened until there was a roaring in his ears and he dropped his mouth open to ease the pressure. At long last he got it, faint but definite. Down the wash it was, to his left, the stirring of weary hoofs on hard-packed gravel.

  Wall dropped down, prone again, letting the tension run out of him. So much for that. The horses were below the camp, so it would be his move to come in from above. But not yet—not for a long time.

  He rolled over on his back, face to the white moonlight. He knew a swift hunger for a cigarette, but put this thought aside instantly. His mind went back across the past several days, recalling the long and empty miles he had ridden in his search for Luke Lilavelt. A blank trail, promising nothing until an old, one-eyed ranch cook who had listened and remembered, and who valued an old friendship, had given him a lead to follow.

  So now the trail’s end was here, out in this lonely desert country. Within short yards of him was Luke Lilavelt. But of so much greater importance, so was Hippo Dell—and Dell was the one he wanted. Wall marked the slow sweep of the moon and waited it out.

  He was chill and stiff as he started his stalk on the camp. He worked back up the wash for a good fifty yards before lowering himself carefully down a shelving break. He had left his rifle behind, for it would be of no aid to him at all in this sort of affair. This would be close, fast work and Wall knew the grim hope that it would be fast enough.

  He went down the wash with a tensing caution that was more exhausting than hard physical effort would have been. Here in this depression the light was vastly tricky, for there were smears and lines of moon glow, but there were also figures of dark shadow, close to the banks of the wash and this varied as the height of the banks varied.

  To his probing eyes the moonlight seemed to take on the quality of fluid, to flow and coil and shift. This, Wall knew, was purely illusory, but it was an illusion that persisted. Every cautious step was an effort full of strain, for it had to be a noiseless one, the toe touching first, testing what was underneath before full weight could be put upon the foot. The all-over strain settled in the pit of Wall’s stomach, tying it up in a knot.

  But he was there at last. On the alkali-whitened gravel of the wash, the area where the fire had burned was a dark smear. Small bulking piles of equipment lay about. And the men—the two men.

  Motionless, Wall reconstructed things. Lying up there on the rim of the wash, Lilavelt’s voice had been a little to the right and that of Dell to the left. It was reasonable to figure they had been lounging on their respective bedrolls. And that would be how they were sleeping now, Lilavelt the nearer to him, Dell that bulk yonder, half in the glow of the moon, half shrouded by the shadow cast by the wash rim.

  It would have been supremely easy to have handled Luke Lilavelt first. Two long, swift strides, the slash of a gun barrel, and Lilavelt would be taken care of. But that would have meant a certain degree of sound, and who could tell how Hippo Dell would react? Remembering the man and his sly, soft ways, his deceptively light movement despite his bulk, it had always seemed to Wall that there was something feline about him. And maybe he slept like a cat, just as lightly and unpredictably.

  So it had to be Dell first. It didn’t matter if Lilavelt woke after that. Wall had little fear, and only a vast contempt for Luke Lilavelt’s physical prowess. He started on toward Hippo Dell.

  * * * * *

  For the past weeks, Luke Lilavelt’s periods of sleep had been fitful and uneasy. In his first black, blind anger on hearing from the lips of Joe Muir what had happened up at the Crimson Hills spread when Dave Wall had first arrived there to take over, of the firing of Nick Karnes and Whitey Brewer, and later, of the killing of them, Lilavelt had gone straight to Judge Masterson in Basin and opened the case against Jerry Connell’s past. This was what he had threatened to do if Wall ever turned against Window Sash interests, and this was what he had done.

  Yet, only minutes after the fact, when cooler reason had begun to replace blind anger, the realization hit Lilavelt that in making this move he had lost his hold on Dave Wall, and that he had turned loose the forces of retribution. He recalled the threats he had made and the answering threats Wall had given him. And he knew that Wall would try and make good.

  That was when the great fear had started to gnaw at him, and it was something that had remained and grown until it rode his shoulder endlessly. His plans and schemes to have Wall removed permanently from the picture hadn’t worked out and that fact didn’t lighten the load of fear in any way. And so the haunting cloud had grown heavier and darker with every passing day until Lilavelt couldn’t get rid of it even when he slept. More than one night since then he had awakened, sweating and shivering at the same time, hag-ridden by his own fears.

  He awoke now, opening his eyes to the white beat of moonlight. He blinked, recalling where he was, then knowing a cooling rush of reassurance through the night’s vast stillness. He stirred a little under his blanket, took another look around, went still and stricken.

  Was he seeing things? That out there—was it the tall figure of a man, or just an illusion of disordered fancy? Panic rose in Lilavelt, caught him by the throat. He fumbled under his blanket for the gun he kept there constantly.

  No—it wasn’t fancy—it was real. That figure out there … Lilavelt’s throat unlocked and fear shrilled out. “George … George …!”

  He pushed out with his gun, pulled the trigger. There was jumbled fear in that move, too, for the weapon was not clear of his blanket. So the lead flew wide, but the bellow of report was a thunderclap in the night. Lilavelt clawed the weapon free of the muffling blanket, fired again and again, blindly, frantically.

  And then, from where that shadow figure loomed came the pale lash of answering gun flame. A stunning blow hammered Luke Lilavelt in the center of his scrawny chest. It brought with it a crushing force and one thin, deep drag of agony. And these let in a flood of everlasting blackness.

  * * * * *

  Dave Wall had heard that first stir of Lilavelt’s. It had brought him half around, gun drawn, his breath locked and held. Men stirred in their sleep—this could mean nothing. But it proved to mean everything. For there had come Lilavelt’s fear-driven cry of discovery and after that the hammering bellow of a gun. Clear and raw, realization came to Dave Wall what he had to do. The issue w
as forced now. So far none of Lilavelt’s shots had come close. But there could always be another—and there was still Hippo Dell. Wall drove a single shot into the center of the rearing bulk that was Luke Lilavelt, then whirled and drove for that far more dangerous and valuable bulk that was Hippo Dell.

  Hippo was half clear of his blankets and chopping down with his gun when Dave Wall crashed down upon him. Hippo’s right arm, coming down, was met just short of the elbow by Wall’s driving shoulder. The gun roared uselessly and the leverage of impact spun the weapon out of his hand.

  Wall had no better luck. He swung his weapon savagely at Hippo’s head, but his initial dive had been a little long and the gun struck past Hippo’s head, crashed on the unyielding gravel beyond. And then Hippo’s bunched knees, driving up, tossed Wall completely clear and face foremost into that same gravel. Wall turned completely over, right arm doubled under him, wrenched so savagely that it went numb.

  Wall came struggling up, knowing two things. He’d lost his gun and he had the fight of his life on his hands. It came swiftly but clearly to him, the things Tom Burke and Tres Debley had told him about this man, Hippo Dell. Strong—strong—and cat-fast. Wall lunged in at a man just rising from his knees. Wall’s left fist, curving up, skidded off the side of Hippo’s beefy face. Then one of Hippo’s fists crashed into the middle of Wall’s body. It was like a ponderous club, it hurt him all through, seemed to drain him of all breath.

  Wall staggered back, marveling that his feet were under him. But this was jungle warfare, no rules, no mercy. Wall kicked at Hippo, felt his boot sink into Hippo’s gross torso. It brought Hippo forward, bent over. Wall clamped his left arm around Hippo’s neck, hung on desperately. It was like trying to cling to a grizzly bear. Hippo had his feet fully under him now and he lurched back and forth, whipping Wall about like he was worrying a sack. His ponderous fists beat and pounded and all that saved Wall at the moment was that he clung too close for Hippo to get full, driving length to the blows.

  The numbness was leaving Wall’s right arm now, so he brought his hand up, drove the heel of it under Hippo’s chin, and put all he had into a savage upward lift. He could feel Hippo fighting back, all the power of his thick neck bent to the effort. But the leverage was in Wall’s favor here and inch by inch he drove Hippo’s head up and back. There was a critical point in this, and when it was reached, Hippo’s head snapped all the way back and he loosed all hold on Wall and tried to lunge clear.

  But it had come to Wall what he had to do, his only chance to win this affair. And he acted now on the knowledge. His right hand slid down under Hippo’s chin and his fingers dug into Hippo’s throat. He snapped his left hand in to join the right. Then he sat down. It was big and round, that throat, with a surface layer that was soft, but with thick muscles inside. Wall’s digging fingers became the focal point of all the strength and energy he possessed. And now came some savage moments that were pure nightmare. For a little time Hippo beat at Wall like some insensate animal, but Wall had his head jammed tight against Hippo’s chest, his shoulders hunched to protect the angles of his jaw, so Hippo’s clubbing fists had little to hammer at except Wall’s arched back. Even so the blows shook Wall all through and made him realize that his only chance was to keep his grip on Hippo’s throat.

  Abruptly Hippo left off trying to club Wall off him. He locked his arms about Wall’s body and clamped down. Here, Wall realized, was that tremendous strength that Tom Burke and Tres Debley had warned about. It was as though bands of steel had suddenly wound around him, drawing tighter and tighter with a power calculated to crush and rend everything.

  Wall called on the sinew and rawhide in his tempered body to fight off that ghastly pressure. For he could feel his ribs spring and his spine start taking on a slow numbness. His heart pounded wildly, like a thing caged, and his breath piled up in his throat. But his fingers stayed in Hippo’s throat and gradually sank deeper, biting through the protecting muscles, cutting off the big man’s wind. But a deep and deadly agony was building up in Wall and he wondered, a little dimly, how long he could stand this.

  Without warning, Hippo fell sideways to the hard gravel and whitened cobbles of the dry wash bed, carrying Wall with him. And then Hippo started rolling over and over, throwing his ponderous weight on Wall with each turn. What punishment Wall took was brutal. Cobbles ground and dug at the back of his head, at his shoulders. Hippo let go his grinding grip, rolled faster and faster, arms and legs beginning to thrash wildly. Yet that grip on his throat was doing its deadly work. His fight for air became a thin, agonized whistling.

  Over and over—back and forth—they rolled through the spot where the fire had been. They rolled over a tin coffee pot, crushed it flat. And each time Hippo’s wild bulk rolled over him, Wall thought he was done for. There was a vast roaring in Wall’s ears, the taste of blood in his mouth and throat. Hippo quit rolling. They lay on their sides. Gathering a final gust of strength he marveled at possessing, Wall swung himself on top of his man. Now, with a betraying wildness, Hippo began clawing at Wall’s arms, trying to tear that deadly grip from his throat. Wall fought back, hanging on—hanging on, breath sobbing through set teeth.

  Hippo’s gross torso began to arc up and up, like some spring under dreadful torment, taut with a terrible, shaking intensity. His efforts for breath was a horror to which Dave Wall was insensate. And then, like something that had broken all the way through, Hippo Dell went completely still and flaccid.

  Feeling all the resistance run out of his man, Dave Wall relaxed his grip, lurched to his feet. He immediately fell down again, for all the world was reeling and crazy. He got up and fell down twice more before, on another try, he managed to hold his feet. Then he stumbled about, only dimly understanding what he was searching for.

  He found them presently, piled to one side. Saddles, with coiled ropes strapped to them. Only some deep and driving instinct kept Wall at it. He tipped Hippo Dell on his side, pulled his limp arms behind him, looped rope around them, and drew them savagely tight. He tied Hippo’s ankles together, pulled them up and back as far as he could, and so, with a short length of rope between them and Hippo’s wrists, had his man helpless.

  Then Wall flattened fully out, his head on his folded arms, and fought back the nausea and weary sickness that tried to engulf him. He felt the savage pounding of his heart, the deep hunger in his aching lungs for air, would never cease. But it did, gradually, and the wicked pulse behind his eyes slowly stilled.

  He was weary and beaten when he finally straightened up, and he marveled that a man could exhaust so much of himself and still live. How about Hippo Dell? Had he held onto Hippo’s throat too long?

  The thought brought a sudden start of worry. For Hippo dead would mean nothing, but Hippo alive meant Big George Yearly. He leaned over the man and knew a swift rush of relief. Hippo was breathing, roughly and hurriedly. It was like quickening drops of water, building to a fullness of a steady flow.

  Wall went over to where another man lay. He scratched a match and had a look, sure of what he would find even before the faint light bloomed. Luke Lilavelt was as unlovely in death as he had been in life. The match went out and Wall straightened, staring away over the still and lonely night.

  He knew no triumph over this particular feat. How long ago had it been since he’d promised such an ending for Luke Lilavelt—promised it directly to Lilavelt himself? Well, it didn’t matter now. When it came, it had been a thing of desperate necessity, rather than choice. What would Cole Ashabaugh and Judge Masterson have to say about it? Would they believe him? He pushed a weary hand across his face and quit trying to think.

  Chapter Eleven

  Driving a buckboard that he’d hired at the livery barn in Basin, John Ogden came up to the Connell Ranch on Magpie Creek. The afternoon was well along and the little ranch layout seemed to drowse contentedly against a background of its own forming shadows.

  Judith Connell, a
slender figure in gingham, was puttering among the flowers in the little garden along the south side of the ranch house. The twins were playing beside her and in a homemade cradle, standing just at the borderline of sunlight and shadow, their baby sister slept peacefully under a canopy of mosquito netting.

  Brushing back a wayward lock of hair, Judith turned at the sound of the buckboard’s approach. She looked very girlish as she stood there with the slanting sunlight warming her face and throat and shining on her bared head. She wondered who this tall, grizzled, stern-faced man might be. She moved out to meet him, the twins plucking at her skirt, big-eyed and curious.

  John Ogden stepped from the buckboard, took off his hat. “You,” he asked quietly, “are Missus Connell … Missus Jerry Connell?”

  “Yes.” A flicker of alarm showed in Judith’s eyes. “Jerry … he’s all right? Nothing has happened …?”

  “No,” said Ogden gently. “Nothing has happened to Jerry. But I think it has to me.” He paused, looking at the twins with a strange, quick yearning in his deep eyes. “I find myself a man without direction or purpose and I think … no, I know I’m glad.”

  Judith was puzzled. She had a trick of crinkling her nose slightly when she frowned. “I don’t understand, Mister …?”

  “Ogden. John Ogden.”

  Judith gave back a step. She’d heard about this man—heard plenty. She grew very straight and her eyes grew hard with an accusing light. “So you are … John Ogden. The man who wants to … to hang my husband. You …”

  John Ogden winced slightly, spun his hat in his hands. He looked past Judith, as though seeing other days, other years. “At one time … yes, Missus Connell,” he said quietly. “But no longer. I have found that there is a limit to hate, both in time and quantity … that no matter how a man clings to it and tries to keep it alive, it becomes a shriveled and empty husk. Under different circumstances this might not be true. It is in this case.”