They came at a walk into the trees at the rear of the house, Juanita slipped to the ground and Mart dismounted. He took his rifle from its boot and loaded his pockets with shells from his saddlebags. He then took a deep breath and wondered, not for the first time in his life, why he seemed to have dedicated his life to violence and the risking of his hide. There seemed no answer to that, so he gave his pants a hitch and said to the girl: “Juanita, you will now return to the house as if nothing has happened. If you can get word to the señorita or my nephew that I am around, do so. But be careful to keep out of the hands of the gringos. If you do not, I don’t doubt that your virtue will be in some considerable danger. You should not have been born so beautiful.”
She liked that and purred a little.
“We shall save the señorita and your handsome nephew,” she declared bravely.
Mart wondered about whom she was speaking for the moment. If Jody was handsome, he, Mart, must look like a Greek god to this girl. In his opinion, Jody was about the homeliest sonovabitch he’d ever known. There was no accounting for tastes.
He gave the little Mexican beauty a kiss of encouragement, a slap on the behind and sent her toward the house. He himself stayed where he was, wondering what he should do next. The house was big and he had no idea where the woman or his nephew was. Really, the only thing to do was to go in there and look, which, he knew, could mean a bullet in the brisket for him. If he could find that Gregorio, the odds might be changed somewhat. His estimation of the Mexican was that he was a good man to have along. Aragon was no fool and if she had Gregorio walking around with a gun on his hip, it meant that he knew how to use it.
From where he was standing among the trees, he could see the faint glimmer of lights in two of the upper rooms. There were several on the lower floor. He could hear no sound. It was as if the place slept. Rifle in hand, he circled the house. This took him a little time and brought him to the small collection of houses where Linda Aragon’s people lived. They were scattered fairly widely and he approached them with the greatest of caution. He found that they were gathered roughly around a wide plaza in the center of which stood several trees. Here, too, was a walled well. Between him and the well he saw a large number of people sitting on the ground, their cotton clothing showing palely in the moonlight. Now he could hear the soft murmur of their voices. They all faced the house and between them and the house stood a man. He was tall and from the shape of his hat he was probably an Anglo-American. So far as Mart could see, he held a rifle in the crook of his arm. So the Aragon folk had been rounded up and were being held under guard. Mart might be able to do something about that.
Now, Mart never believed in moving without watching his back-trail. Years on the owl-hoot had taught him that. He also wanted to know what lay between the guard and the house.
So he scouted briefly back the way he had come and, using all the cover that was offered to him in the shape of a cart or two and a low adobe wall that seemed to be there for no other purpose than to offer him cover, he reached the open space before the house. Here, there was no sign of life. That didn’t mean there was not an armed man hidden there, but Mart decided to move against the guard. A man could be so cautious that he never got anything done.
He went back to the low adobe wall, moved along it until he was within fifty paces of the guard who stood with his back to him and gave the situation some consideration. He decided that if he tried to Indian up on the fellow his very posture could arouse suspicion, so he concluded that the safest approach was an open one. Nothing would be more natural for a man to come from the house to relieve the guard. So he rose to his feet and started toward the guard.
He had taken no more than a dozen paces when the man turned.
Mart continued on forward.
The man called: “Who’s this?”
Mart used the first name that came into his head—
“Charlie,” he said, mumbling.
He knew that the man was instantly suspicious. Mart was about to call out for the man to throw down his weapon when he saw that same weapon slapped down into the palm of the man’s left hand and turned in his direction. The last thing in the world Mart wanted was for the men in the house to be warned by a gunshot, but he had no choice. He fired and shot the man through the body.
Knowing that a man stood a better chance of staying alive if he tried to place a second shot better than the first, Mart levered and fired a second time, driving lead into the guard again before he hit the ground.
Reaction on the part of the people there was instantaneous. In a second, every man, woman and child was on its feet. A babble of talk broke out. Some women picked up small children and ran off into the night. Confusion was extreme.
Mart ran forward to claim the arms of the fallen man, shouting: “Run all of you, except those that can fight.”
Before he could reach the guard, however, there was a man there before him. This was Jesus Maria who scooped up the rifle and started to pull the bandolier of fresh shells from the dead man’s body. Another man was fumbling with the buckle of the gun-belt. Mart reckoned he had at least two men who were willing to make a fight of it. By now the crowd was running, fleeing in all directions except that of the house.
When the two men were armed, Mart said: “Follow me.” He set off at a jog trot into the west and the men came after him. A few minutes later, they were in the shelter of the sparse timber there. From here they saw the armed men burst from the house and run onto the plaza, watched them stop at the dead body of the guard. A furious and worried shout or two came, men moved this way and that indecisively. Then came another man, giving terse orders.
“That,” said Jesus Maria, “is the man called Styree.”
Mart knew that already.
“I think,” said the other man who was dressed in the leather clothes of a vaquero, “that it would be wise to kill him from here with your rifle, señor.”
“No,” Mart said, “we would have the whole bunch of them down on us. We have to save the people in the house. It’s our job right now to stay alive.”
The vaquero, whose name was Ignacio Valdez, said: “That sounds like excellent thinking to me.”
The men on the plaza were walking back toward the house, carrying the dead body of the guard with them and casting anxious glances all around them, expecting shots. Soon they disappeared into the house and the heavy door closed behind them. Mart was left with the impression that not all the men had entered, but that one or two had been left scattered outside as pickets in the yard. He couldn’t be sure, because he couldn’t see too well in the poor light. He made a mental note that he would have to approach the house with extra caution.
“Men,” he told the two Mexicans, “I’m going to scout the house. You remain here and give me covering fire if I have to make a break for it.”
Jesus Maria said: “It is not right that you should go to the house alone. At least allow one of us to come with you.”
“It is better that you remain. If anything happens to me, then you will still be here to help the señorita.”
“That is true,” Valdez said, “but I think it wise that I should take up my position over near the corrals. Then, whichever way you go, you will have support. Also, if these men in the house are going, they will need horses. I could prove a great embarrassment to them.”
“That makes sense. You work your way over there south of the plaza so that you are not seen from the house. I shall approach the house from the west. Do me the favor of not shooting off my head in mistake for an enemy.”
The man flashed his teeth.
“I shall take care, man,” he said. “You are of value to us.”
Mart liked this man.
“Luck,” he said.
The two Mexicans said: “Con Dios.”
Mart started to circle west to come at the house from that side. Valdez at least, he felt sure, would be steady under enemy fire. He hoped that Jesus Maria would prove as good. But there was no telli
ng with men and flying lead.
There was some brush growing to the west of the house and this gave Mart cover to within three hundred paces of the building. After that he was forced to take advantage of the natural breaks in the ground surface. He worked himself slowly forward on hands and knees and within the space of some fifteen minutes, he found himself beneath a glassless window. The opening, however, was small and covered by a strong iron grill. It was also a long way from the ground. He worked his way north toward the rear of the house and here he found that the wall was blank lime-washed adobe with not a window in it. The place on the lower floor must be lit from the patio. To the east end of the north wall he came on a stout wooden door and found it closed tight against him. There was a small window to the right of it, higher than a man’s head.
He rested his rifle against the wall and leapt for this with his hands, caught the sill and pulled himself up as silently as he could. His muscles straining under his weight, he managed to peek into the room below him. It was lit by a single lamp and it was empty. He swore with some skill and dropped to the ground again.
How the Hell did you get into a Mexican house of this kind? That door would take a battering ram to force it.
He moved off to his left and found what he wanted.
Some former owner of the house, no doubt in the days of the Indian raids, had built a small, high-walled corral of adobe so that the fourth wall was the house itself. Mart didn’t doubt that it could be entered from the house and that it possessed a gate at the far end.
He measured the height of the wall and reckoned he could make it. The rifle would now prove an encumbrance. He pulled back the tails of his coat and pushed the barrel of the weapon through his belt to the back of him. He leapt for the top of the wall, but the edge of the adobe was rounded and crumpling and he fell back to earth again. He tried again and again until his ringers were grazed and he had almost exhausted himself. He leaned against the wall, wiping the sweat from his face.
Godammit, he thought, he wasn’t going to be beaten by a wall.
He drew his knife and attacked the adobe, making a toehold for himself. That done, he tried it out, pushed his left toe into the hole and reaching upward. His bent left knee knocked against the wall and pushed him off balance. This time, he fell badly and fell on his back, knocking the breath out of him.
He sat up and said to himself: “Don’t tell me I’m gettin’ too old for this game.” But maybe he was. Maybe this kind of thing was for the kids. Maybe he’d played hero long enough.
He picked himself up and walked to the east end of the corral. There in front of him was the gate. It looked like it was made of massive oak planks—Navaho-proof.
Like Hell, he thought. It wasn’t even Mart Storm proof. It was slightly lower than the walls it adjoined and its top was adorned with short iron spikes.
He jumped up and caught one of these with his hand, swung and gripped another with his other hand and hauled himself onto the top of the wall to the right. He knew that there could be a guard on this side of the house, prepared for just such an entry as he was making and what he had to do had to be done quickly.
It was just as well that he was aware of this because no sooner was he on top of the wall than a rifle slammed out its deadly note. Even as the report came, he was launching himself forward and down. He heard the lead smack into the adobe and, crouching down, he ran to the right along the wall.
There were a few horses in the corral and they spooked away from him, frightened both by his sudden entry and by the gunshot. They tore around the inside of the wall in front of him, swung along the wall of the house and then raced along the southern wall. They bunched in a corner, blowing and shaking their heads.
Mart stopped and flung himself flat.
His first thought was that he had gotten himself precisely nowhere by entering the corral. Maybe that was wrong, though. He could be in a trap that would prove the end of him.
He did not know exactly where the rifleman was located, but he reckoned that he would be above him. He hoped there was one only there, but he didn’t doubt that he would be joined by another or more brought by the sound of the shot.
Now was the time to sweat and he sweated. He wanted nothing better than to be on the other side of that stout wall. There was such a thing as being too smart and he had proven himself just that. He wondered if the marksman could see him in the dim light.
His question was answered almost instantly by a shot from above that splattered adobe dust all over him. This, he at once knew, was one of those situations which called for valor instead of discretion. He would be safer if he went forward. So this he did, lurching to his feet and running toward the house as fast as he could move his legs. Two shots came instantly, but he reckoned that neither of them hit him because he kept on going forward. A moment later he reached the wall of the house and dropped to one knee, breathless.
He could hear men shouting above him. At least he had them rattled. Which was something.
He looked around him. To his left was a door and beyond it a small construction of adobe, used maybe for storing gear. Between him and the door was a small window a little higher than a man’s head and probably originally put there to offer the inhabitants the opportunity of shooting into the corral against Indians attempting to steal horses.
He still felt that he was in a trap. He pulled the rifle from his belt, levered a shot into the breech and took a pace out from the wall. He could see the dark shape of the window above him and the dark line of a rifle-barrel as it poked out over the sill. If that window was barred like the rest, the men up there would have difficulty shooting at him at such an acute angle. He raised his rifle and fired at the dark rectangle above. As he ducked back to the wall, he was satisfied to hear the yell of alarm from above him.
Then there was silence.
He waited.
As if from a long way off, muffled by the thick walls of the house, there came the long-drawn-out scream of a woman in pain or terror.
My God, he thought, that could be Aragon.
He jumped out from the wall. A shot came at him and kicked dust up behind him. He fired in return, stood and levered and fired again and again.
A man howled.
He ran forward, hurtling himself at the door of the house.
He nearly broke his shoulder, but the door cracked noisily under his violent assault. He knew that he had found the house’s Achilles’ heel. He backed up again, but this time no shots came his way. He reckoned he had done the defenders some substantial damage. When he hit the door this time, the bar gave a little and the hinges to the left seemed to have torn loose. One more, he thought, would do it. No doubt the men inside were now aware of his attempt and would be coming to stop him. His life and the lives of the people depending on him rested on what he accomplished in the next few brief seconds. He backed up and charged forward again.
This time the door was torn loose and fell away before him. Carried forward by the violence of his charge, he fell full length across it. Half-dazed by the fall, he was aware of the roar of a gun in a confined space.
He shoved the rifle forward and triggered blindly into the maw of darkness in front of him. Then he got his legs under him and threw himself hard to the right. He crashed into some article of furniture and made enough din to raise the dead. He reached out and found that he had collided with a table. With his left hand he turned it over on its side. A shot thudded into it and he was happy to discover that the wood was thick enough to stop it.
He crawled the length of the table to the right as two more shots were driven in his direction. The thunder of the reports was deafening. The air was thick with the fumes of the burned powder. He poked the rifle around the right edge of the table and waited. He reckoned there were at least two men crouched down, shooting from either side of the doorway. They both fired together. One bullet smacked into the tabletop, the other blasted plaster from the wall no more than inches from his head.
He fir
ed at the left-hand flash because he calculated that behind it crouched the man most exposed.
He was right.
A man cried out and he heard a body fall to the floor.
There was silence. Mart lay stunned and almost deaf from the din. He heard a man’s voice murmuring hoarsely—
“He’s killed me. The bastard’s killed me.”
There came the sound of a man being dragged. Mart moved silently back down the length of the table, round it and started crawling across the floor, angling in the direction of the door, Near the doorway, he stopped and listened. One of the men was dragging the other down the passage to the left of the doorway.
Mart went on and reached the opening, paused for a moment with his breath held, nerves taut, ready to shoot at the slightest whisper of sound.
Peeking around the doorjamb he saw that the corridor was faintly lit by moonlight. Dimly he could see the form of one bending man. He glanced to his right and found total darkness. Rising to his feet, he slipped out of the room and into this darkness. Pressed back against the wall he listened again.
There were more men coming. How many armed men were in Aragon’s house? She must have an army cached away here. They were coming down the stairs on the far side away from him of the two men he had exchanged shots with. He could not tell how many.
He started along his darkened corridor in the opposite direction to them.
He had turned a corner and entered a corridor faintly lit by a lamp at the far end when he heard the sound of voices. They came from a door on his right. He stopped and pressed his ear against the wood. Carefully, he lifted the latch, rifle held ready.
The room he peered into was large and lit by several lamps. It contained a long table and several chairs. Two of the chairs lay on their sides. At first he thought the room empty and wondered if he had been mistaken about the voices, but, on going forward a few paces, he saw that there were two men lying on the floor, both bound hand and foot.
The Storm Family 6 Page 10
