Bishop never moved. He just glanced over at Loomis and said, “You better be happy, old man, that you ain’t got a gun. Nolan Sackett would kill you.”
So we rode out of there and started west again. But I was worried. Noble Bishop would be wanting that gold, and how much of my story he believed I didn’t know.
Only thing I was sure of was that he hadn’t wanted a shootout down there by the creek. There were too many people and too many guns, and it would be a matter of luck, not skill, if a man survived. There were too many chances of a wild bullet doing what you didn’t mean an aimed bullet to do.
We rode fast. We were going to pick up that gold and ride out of there, and I was hoping I’d seen the last of all of them.
Chapter 13
We were northeast of the Rabbit Ears now, and the peaks were red with the dying sun. There was a dull glow over the canyon and we could hear, even at this distance, the roar.
We headed for Rabbit Ears Creek, and from time to time I turned in my saddle, but nobody was following us that I could see. By the time we were due south of the mountain the stars were coming out and it was well on toward dark.
“They won’t leave it alone, Sackett,” Mims said. “They’ll come.”
“Sure, they will.”
Penelope had not done any talking, and I was just as pleased. I was still mad over her riding out and leaving us in the night that way.
Taking the bulk of Cienequilla del Barro Mountain for a landmark, I kept on west and when it was well after dark I changed direction several times until we were close under the shadow of the mountain. Then we switched and turned northeast toward the creek where the gold had been buried.
Mims drew up suddenly. “Sackett, I don’t like the smell of this. Something’s wrong.”
Of course it was … but what? It had gone off too easy, altogether too easy. I was sure we had not been followed, but what if there had been no need? Supposing we had been observed earlier in the day? Observed in the vicinity, even if not while burying the gold.
Maybe they knew approximately where we had gone, but not exactly. There was a good deal of smoke, the clouds were low, and there might have been intervening trees or brush. As I thought of it, it was plain enough to me that they might have been watching from up on the Rabbit Ears.
“What’s wrong?” Penelope asked.
“Mims has got a hunch we’re walking into some land of a trap.”
“How could that be? They’re all back there.”
“Are they?”
A faint breeze stirred across the bunch grass levels, but it brought with it none of the canyon’s smoke, for that was all to the east of us now. The clouds were heavy and it was now full dark. A horse stamped impatiently. The horses wanted water, they wanted rest, and they wanted grass. I had a feeling it would be hours before they were that lucky.
“All right,” I said, “let’s go on.”
Moving ahead, I walked the dun slowly, pausing often to listen, but there was no sound beyond those to be expected—the sound of the horses’ hoofs in the grass, the creak of saddle leather.
We were within two hundred yards of the Cienequilla when I drew up again, but again I heard no sound. Flinch would have been the one on the mountain, of course, whether it was their idea of his. He would have been Indian enough to go up on the Rabbit Ears where he could watch everything that took place. He could not have seen us get the gold, but he could draw some conclusions from the way the pack horses moved.
So what would they do now? Wait in hiding until we had the gold out and loaded again? That would be what Bishop would want, but would the others be patient enough for that?
Suddenly I knew what I was going to do.
“Harry, do you know the peak called Sierra Grande? Due west from here?”
“I know it.”
“Six or seven miles south of it there’s an outcropping of lava and there’s a peak there about four hundred feet high. When we get the gold loaded, you and Pen head due west for that lava flow and hole up somewhere south of the peak.
“You can water your norses on the Middle Fork of the Burro, but water won’t be a problem. There are scattered ponds all over that country. Go on to the Carrizo if you want to, but it’s about thirty miles, probably nearer forty the way you’ll have to go to the peak. I wouldn’t go out of my way if I can help it.”
“What about you?” Penelope asked.
“It’s dark. You move off quietly and they’ll never know. I’ll stay behind and tumble rocks around, cave in the bank here and there, make them think we were digging or hunting for the place. I figure I can give you an hour’s start before they close in.”
“And after they close in?”
“Why, there’s liable to be a little difficulty, Penelope. I sort of doubt if they’ll take my word, but I figure to be convincing.”
“And then?”
“I’ll come and join you.”
There was a long moment of silence, and then she said, “There will be six of them—seven counting Sylvie … and just you.”
“Maybe I can slip away before they close in.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“That’s a lot of gold.”
“Wouldn’t it be easier just to shoot Mr. Mims and me? There’s only two of us.”
“We’re wastin’ time talking like this. Anyway, I was never much on doing things the easy way. We’ll ride in now. If we’re lucky we’ll get the gold loaded and you out of here before there’s trouble.”
With that, I turned my horse and rode on to the creek. I felt pretty sure that they were close by, and that they would wait until we had the gold uncovered … it all depended on that. But you couldn’t be sure about Sylvie and Ralph. Nobody knew when they’d go off half-cocked.
We dug the sand away with our hands, loaded the pack horses, with me counting the ingots as I had when we hid them. When they were all on the pack saddles I pushed Mims’s shoulder as a signal for him to go.
Then, loud enough so a listener might hear if close enough, I said, “I tell you it was further this was!”
“You try it,” Harry said, catching the drift. “I’ll look down the creek.”
Penelope had stopped beside me, and I turned and, putting my lips close to her ear, whispered: “Go on! I’ll need every minute!”
She turned her head then and kissed me quickly on the lips, and I was surprised as if she’d stuck a knife into me … which I was half expecting. Then she was gone.
Reaching up, I caught hold of a rock stuck in the sand at the top of the low bank, tugged it loose, and let it fall with a little cascade of sand.
“Ssh!” I hissed. “You want to start the whole country moving?”
Then I fumbled around in the dark, managed to step on a dried branch, to tumble some more dirt, and with a piece of the broken branch I dug at the dirt.
“Over further,” I said. “It was over the other side about ten feet.”
The minutes dragged. All of a sudden I knew myself for a damned fool. This wasn’t going to fool anybody anywhere near long enough. My eyes went to the dun.
The horse was standing there, ground-hitched. One quick jump and I’d be in the saddle and riding out of here. How much was money worth, anyway? A man’s life?
Particularly when it was my life?
Suddenly, I heard a faint stir of movement on the far bank. Without waiting, I moved toward my horse. There was that movement again. After all, I had no friends over there. I palmed my six-shooter and let drive a shot right at the sound. Then I dropped to the sand, scuttled quickly five or six feet and came up running as two guns crossed their fire toward the point I’d just left.
There came a sudden crackle of flame and the brush across the creek exploded.
Somebody had dropped a match into a dead juniper. The flames soared high, and the area was brightly lit. Instantly I heard the hard bark of pistols, the sharper report of a rifle, and a spout of sand leaped in front of me. Just behind me something slapped
the water sharply and, turning, I saw a leaping figure and fired.
The man, whoever he was, caught in mid-jump, jerked oddly, and fell. He started to get up, then rolled off the bank into the shallow water.
Something seemed to tug at my sleeve, and then I was running, falling, running again. Another tree burst into flame ahead of me, and just beyond it I saw my horse.
Starting up the sloping bank from what was evidently a ford on the stream, I saw Ferrara. He had a rifle and was taking aim, not more than sixty feet away. My six-shooter was in my hand, and I simply fired, threw myself to one side, and fired again. He went down, tried to bring the gun around, but I had ducked from sight and was back in the stream bed running for my horse. Crawling up the bank, I grabbed the reins and jumped for the saddle, mounting without touching a stirrup.
The dun, not liking either the flames or the shooting, took off at a dead run.
Behind me there were a few wasted shots, and then silence.
Riding north, I headed for the breaks along the North Canadian, knowing my first problem was to try to lead them away from Penelope and Mims, and the gold.
Also, I was going to have to find rest for my horse. Any wild mustang will travel for days, run a good part of the time, and get along on very little water, but carrying a rider is another thing.
After a brief run I slowed the dun, changed direction, and then reloaded my pistol and rifle. An hour or more later I holed up in a little hollow on a creek that fed into the North Canadian, stripped the gear from the dun, let him roll and then picketed him where he could reach the water. When I stretched out on the grass where I’d spread my blanket, I told myself I would not be able to sleep. A minute later I must have proved myself a liar, for when I awakened it was bright sunlight and I could hear the birds twittering in the willows.
For a long time I lay still, looking up to where the sunlight fell through the leaves, and listening. There was a magpie fussing on a branch nearby, but after a few minutes he flew off. I sat up, put on my hat, shook out my boots, pulled them on, and stood up.
Slinging my gun belt around my hips, I buckled the belt, then walked over and talked to the dun for a while, all the time listening for whatever my ears could pick up. I tied my gun down with the rawhide thong around my leg, and went back and rolled up my blankets and ground sheet. Then I dug into my saddlebags for a busted box of cartridges and filled the empty loops in my belt.
I was hungry, but the little grub I’d had was used up, except for a little coffee, and I had no urge to hunt anything and draw attention by shooting. It wouldn’t be the first morning I’d ridden off with no breakfast, nor would it be the last. I went to the creek and drank, watered the dun again, and saddled him up.
Riding west along the Corrumpaw Creek, I held to a line that would skirt Sierra Grande on the south. The clouds of the last few days were finally giving up some rain, which began to fall in a cold, steady shower, and I put on my slicker.
From time to time I studied my back trail but saw nothing.
Had they gone off after Penelope and Mims, then? The two had a fair start, but with two heavily loaded pack horses they were not going to move very fast.
However, Harry Mims was an oldtimer, and a man who should know something about losing pursuit.
On the other hand, the hits I’d scored on two men might have cooled the others off somewhat. They could not know I was not with Penelope and Mims, or about to join them. I had no idea what the results of my shooting were. Both men were hit, and I hoped they were not killed, though wounded men are a sight more trouble than the dead.
That night, just before sundown, I sighted a sheep camp. There must have been over a thousand sheep in the lot, and three Mexican herders, with their dogs.
The three were well-armed men, for this was Indian country, although we were getting closer to the settlements. I joined them, and soon learned that they were out of Las Vegas.
After I’d eaten I told them I was pushing on a ways. “No reason for you to get into grief,” I said. “There may be some men following me.”
One of the Mexicans grinned slyly. “Si, amigo. Men have followed me also. Vaya con Dios.”
Leaving them, I followed the south branch of the Corrumpaw until it lost itself in the steep slope of Sierra Grande, and made camp for the night. When daybreak came I found a bench and worked my way along it around the base of the mountain until the lava beds and their lone peak were due south of me.
The bench was five hundred feet or so above the land below and gave me a good view of the country toward the lava beds and the peak. Seated on a flat rock, I gave myself time to contemplate the country around that peak, which was a good five miles from where I sat. And that was a good mile south of the peak of Sierra Grande.
It was still early morning. Nothing moved down there. No dust clouds … nothing. When I’d watched for at least an hour, I mounted up again and let the dun find his own way down the mountain. We rode across the valley floor, raising as little dust as possible; after the light rain of the day before, that was no problem.
When I reached the lava beds I rode with caution, with my Winchester ready to hand.
There was nobody there … and no tracks.
Either they had never gotten here, or the tracks they’d left had been wiped out by the rain. For a while I scouted the country, and only once did I find anything like a track, and then it was only a slight indentation under the edge of a bush, such as a horse might have made in stepping past the bush.
Finally, I rode back to the peak. I’d told them to hole up somewhere south of the peak, so I tied my horse to a mesquite bush and climbed up on the lava.
I knew what lava would do to a pair of boots, and mine weren’t in very good shape as it was. Scrambling around over lava, those boots could be done for in an hour or two, so I simply climbed the highest bulge I could find short of the peak and looked around.
The first thing I saw was an empty cartridge shell, bright in the sun. And a little beyond it, projecting from behind some brush, I sighted a boot and a spur.
It needed only a couple of minutes for me to get there. It was Harry Mims, and he was dead. He had been shot in the back at fairly close range, but he was a tough old man with a lot of life in him and he had crawled—his scraped and bloodied hands showed that—trying to get away over the lava.
He must have lost his gun when they shot at him. I didn’t see it anywhere around and did not look for it. They had followed, caught up with him, and then standing over him had emptied a gun into his chest.
There were no other bodies, no horses, no gold, no Penelope.
Penelope? … A little chill caught me in the chest. Suppose she had killed him?
Suppose it was she who’d shot him in the back, then followed him up and shot him in the chest to make sure of his death?
Who else could get that close? … And where was Penelope?
Chapter 14
I left the place and rode to the west, cutting back and forth for sign. Almost a mile out I found where several horses, two of them heavily loaded, had crossed a wash, their heels sliding in the mud.
At intervals then I. found sign; but I’d been following for scarcely another mile when in, glancing around to study my back trail, I thought I saw another trail off to the right. Riding over, I did find another trail—a lone rider keeping well off to one side, and often stopping beside a mesquite bush.
Obviously, somebody had been scouting along the trail of the bunch of horses. I had no idea who the lone rider might be, but I knew Penelope had the horses, and I was sure there were no strange tracks among that lot.
Of the original group against us, I did not know which ones had survived, and were able to ride. Perhaps all of them.
It was just shy of noon when I found the other trail.
The new trail showed four riders coming in from the south, and a couple of the tracks were familiar ones. They belonged to some of the Bishop crowd. Who, then, was the lone rider following Penel
ope?
The trail held steadily west, then suddenly it ended in a maze of tracks.
Drawing up, I stood in the stirrups and gave study to the ground.
The pursuers had lost Penelope’s trail, and in trying to find it again had chopped up all the ground with hoof marks. Circling, I tried to pick up the trail of the lone rider again. From the way he had been acting I had an idea that he was a good tracker, and as he had been ahead of them, he was most likely to discover where Penelope had gone.
She had ridden into a belt of soft sand where tracks leave no clear impressions.
Then she had evidently seen some herders coming with a flock of sheep and had simply ridden on ahead of them, keeping track of the direction they were taking and staying ahead so their tracks would wipe hers out.
The herd had been headed west, which was her direction, but I wasn’t satisfied.
She would not want to go north, for in that direction it was too far to any town where she could be sure of protection from the law. West was all right for her, but it was almost too obvious. Cimarron was over west, and she might head for there … but she might not. I found myself wishing I knew what she and Mims had talked about before he was killed. That old man knew this country and he had probably told her a good deal.
Those sheep were a good cover for her tracks, but it was likely Loomis, Bishop, and the rest of them would follow right along until they caught up with the sheep, and then they’d find her tracks. Yet I could not be sure of that. Suppose she turned off?
This girl was showing herself uncommonly smart. She was all alone now with three hundred pounds of gold, two pack horses, and a spare saddle horse, for she must have Mims’s mount with her. She would outfigure everybody if she could, and I had a hunch she would leave that sheep herd at the first chance. She was, without doubt, riding a good way ahead of it. With that much gold she would be suspicious of everybody and taking no chance even with the herders.
So I held to the south edge of the herd, keeping an eye out for tracks. The herd was heading for a patch of junipers and pifion that lay ahead. There was good grass and. A lot of good grazing on the slopes around those trees. A mile or more this side were twin peaks, with a low hill standing north of them.
Mustang Man (1966) Page 12
