The beach, of the same kind of fine sand as that in the cove of Oceanville, stretched away in a graceful curve for perhaps a mile, gently sloping and with no ridge. There was a cliff behind it, not so high as that arcing around the cove, nor so sheer, and its top rose and fell in a series of sweeping undulations. There were several places along its length where the face had crumpled and he and Pruett could have climbed down with ease. But not the horse.
The cliff came to an abrupt end at a headland jutting, what seemed from this distance, about two hundred feet into the water. And where the waves hit the point, they created an area of broiling white foam. Far more angry looking than the line of whiteness which came and went with the breaking of the combers along the curve of the beach.
‘Far as I know, Mr. Pruett, I can’t swim.’
‘Me neither, kid. But a horse, it comes natural to him. And it won’t be as bad as it looks right now. Close to high tide. Last time I watched it, it ebbed out so that there wasn’t no more than a dozen feet of rock gettin’ wet.’
‘What’s it like on the other side of the point?’ He lit a cheroot and the aroma of the burning tobacco was a pleasant relief from the stink of rotting kelp that was scattered over the beach.
‘Four small inlets like the one where Oceanville is. Not as wide, though. Bone dry at low tide. All the way to that wall of rock that’s south of the town. Quarter mile out to the end of it and the same back to the other side, kid. But it ain’t no problem this side. Cliff don’t just go straight down into the ocean. Shelf of rock runs along the bottom, outta the water at low tide. For most of the way.’ He dropped the butt of his cigarette into the sand and buried it with a boot heel. ‘So we just got to make it in deep water on the other side. Like I told you, this is a fine horse. And maybe you noticed, kid, with the ocean calm as this, it wasn’t hardly making a ripple against that rock wall in the cove.’
When Warren Pruett had first outlined his plan during the initial stage of the trip from the cave, he had spoken simply of knowing how to get into Oceanville from the sea. Then, with the surprise element on their side, of how they could quickly and effectively even up the numerical odds against them.
Now, as he revealed the finer details of the entry into town, a subtle change had taken place in the bounty hunter’s attitude. His poker face was the same and so was his tone of voice, but this merely served to emphasize that his earlier demand that a debt be repaid had been reduced to a request. And he was not used to asking for help, did not like doing it.
Barnaby Gold knew the feeling well.
‘I think you’re crazy, Mr. Pruett.’
This time the other man’s smile was broad enough to be called a grin. ‘Same thing I thought about you when you make your break on that wagon, kid.’
‘I was trying to get out of Oceanville.’
Pruett continued to try to camouflage the dent in his self-confidence as the grin was replaced by a scowl. ‘With nothing but bad memories. I’m givin’ you the chance of somethin’ much more than that, kid. What I did for you this mornin’, you get for free.’ He spat into the sand. ‘Well, almost for free. I ain’t ready to give you fifty per cent of whatever bounty money I get on the Oceanville fellers. What d’you feel about fifteen per cent?’
‘No deal, sir.’
‘What?’
Pruett whirled toward him and streaked a hand to the butt of his holstered six shooter. But did not lift the gun a fraction of an inch. The gesture entirely of anger, without lethal intent.
Barnaby Gold’s voice remained even in tone and there was not a flicker of his deadpan eyes or the merest ripple in his nonchalant stance. He continued to gaze out across the moon-silvered ocean.
‘Went to that place for a horse, Mr. Pruett. Still need one. Also like to collect my gear, which I didn’t have the opportunity to bring out with me. And do a favor for the blonde whore if I can.’
The bounty hunter’s tension was released in a sigh that whistled faintly as the air rushed through his teeth. ‘You’re some strange kid, Gold.’
‘I am what I am.’ Now he looked along the beach to the north. ‘Think we should start. Before we waste too much of the night.’
‘Sure thing. Let’s get to it.’
It was hard work trudging across the fine sand of the beach, for each step sank a booted feet deep into it so that it had to be dragged free. Gold suffered most, for the exertion sparked alive the dull aches in his legs. But the going became easier along the tide line, where the constant advance and retreat of the Pacific Ocean had compacted the sodden sand into a more solid surface.
They moved in the same single file as before, with Pruett at the head, the stallion on a lead line of reins and Barnaby Gold at the rear.
The younger man’s cheroot lasted him for half the mile distance to the end of this stretch of beach. Pruett did not roll and light a cigarette until they were at the point. Where they sat on rocks, a little breathless, and looked back the way they had come. Saw where their progress was clearly marked by foot and hoofprints, veering gently seaward as they stayed close to the ebbing tide line.
Some forty feet of headland was still enclosed by white water when Pruett had finished his cigarette, and the bounty hunter eyed it bleakly as he growled, ‘Give it more time, it’ll go down.’
And the black-clad young man decided his earlier suspicion about Warren Pruett was correct. The prospect of entering the sea scared him.
Gold shook his head as he rose from the rock and unbuckled his gunbelt.
‘What d’you mean, no! I’m runnin’ this thing, kid!’
A click of the tongue against the roof of the mouth. ‘I spent a lot of time on the New York City waterfront, Mr. Pruett. Don’t claim to be an expert on oceans. Do know that tides vary from day to day. A lot from season to season. They can be really low or real high.’
Pruett shot an anxious glance at the white water. ‘Listen, kid...’
‘Two points, sir. Look at the line of kelp back there. It’s quite a way up the beach. I don’t figure the gap is going to get much wider.’
The bounty hunter licked his lips as he looked in the direction Gold indicated. Growled, ‘And the second one.’
‘We need to know just how good your horse is in the water before he has to tow us into Oceanville. Seems there are some strong currents across that cove.’
Pruett looked set to snarl again at Gold. But then got angrily to his feet and rasped, ‘Aw, shit, let’s go then!’
He removed his own gunbelt and followed Gold’s example in coiling it and fixing it to the saddlehorn. Gold took off his coat and wrapped the Murcott in it before he fixed it to the bedroll.
Then men and animal advanced into the sea, twenty feet back from where the water was churned into white foam by the headland.
The Stallion snorted his dislike for the Pacific’s ice cold bite, but responded with instant obedience to the commands which Warren Pruett snarled at him, the man’s fear clearly heard in his tone.
The seabed fell gently for half the distance to the end of the point, then shelved sharply when the men waded in to chest level.
The horse was instinctively ready for the unexpected in this totally alien environment. Gold had a firm, two-handed grip on the front rigging strap at the left side of the saddle. Pruett held on to the right side of the cantle with just one hand, his other arm extended across the surface of the water.
And he was swung violently around, beating at the water and shrieking his fear as he plunged out of his depth.
His terror was transmitted to the stallion and the animal tossed his head and flailed at the water for a firm foothold that was not there.
Barnaby Gold rasped, ‘Goddamnit to hell!’ through clenched teeth and let go of the rigging strap with one hand. To reach across the saddle and grip the wrist of Pruett’s free hand. ‘Easy!’ he yelled. ‘Take it easy! You’re panicking the horse!’
The bounty hunter’s hat had gone and his unshadowed face was a mask of terror as he st
ared wide-eyed across the saddle at Gold. The expression remained fixed for stretched seconds, but then the physical contact and steadying of the horse as he adopted a natural paddling action acted to calm Pruett.
The blue eyes squeezed shut and the man’s tongue came out to lick salt water off his lips.
Gold looked away from him to check that the stallion had not veered off course during the moments of terror. Saw that the animal was still heading out to sea, but in a southwesterly direction.
‘Mr. Pruett.’ His teeth began to chatter. He shouted the name louder but still got no response from the bounty hunter. Was only able to command the man’s attention by slackening his hold on his wrist. Which caused the blue eyes to snap open to their widest extent. They showed terror. ‘Listen to me! Can you understand what I’m saying?’
The man’s mouth came open, seawater splashed into it and he gagged, twisted his hand so that he could fasten a vice-like grip on the wrist of Barnaby Gold.
‘I can’t move! I’m friggin’ frozen from the neck down! We gotta get out of this friggin’ ocean!’
‘Shut up and listen to me!’
‘But.’
‘Shut up, you sonofabitch!’
Pruett squeezed his eyes closed again, but nodded.
‘You have to let go of me and grab the bridle, Pruett! Head the horse to the right!’
‘I ain’t gonna...’
‘Goddamnit to hell, we’re heading for Australia, man! Do as I told you!’
He opened his hand and Pruett clung even tighter to his wrist.
‘I’m not ready to die, you yellow sonofabitch!’ Gold roared at him. ‘If a dumb horse can swim, I figure I can! So I’m going to get loose from you and make a try on my own, Pruett!’
‘No!’ the bounty hunter screamed. And let go of Gold’s wrist. Tell me what to do!’
He clung to the rigging strap at the front on his side. His eyes open again, staring fixedly across the saddle at Gold.
‘Get the bridle.’
Pruett searched blindly for it, and located it. Gold looked behind the head of the man toward the cliff with the foaming water at its base.
‘Ease his head around! Easy! Too much and he’ll take us into the rock! That’s it! Let go now!’
The stallion swam steadily on the new course, across the tide at its turn. On a heading that took him across the point some ten feet clear of the waves breaking on the cliff’s base.
The extremity of the cliff was some fifteen feet across and as they rounded it there was an undertow that threatened to drag them against it. Gold tugged on the bridle at his side to encourage the stallion in his instinctive urge to keep clear of the white water.
‘My legs!’ Pruett screamed. ‘My friggin’ legs!’
Barnaby Gold had a momentary image of the bounty hunter’s legs being mangled on razor sharp rocks beneath the surface. But the horse was still swimming smoothly.
‘Cramp, Pruett! Keep moving them! Anyway you can! Keep the circulation going!’
The man’s face was ashen with fear and agony. A contorted mask. He held on to the saddle with both hands, incapable of doing anything even if he could comprehend an order.
But the horse needed no further urging from the men clinging to his saddle. For they were around the headland now. He could see the beach with its dark cliffs in back of it and he moved of his own accord toward this, his equine sense for danger keeping him well clear of the white water.
‘I can’t take this no longer!’ Pruett shrieked.
‘So drown, why don’t you!’ Gold countered as he felt the initial stab of searing agony from an attack of his own cramps.
But perhaps because of his recent experiences of pain, it did not blind him to what was happening around him, his senses remained alert enough to transmit messages to his brain. Which was able to interpret them.
His feet were dragging on something rather than through it. And the motion of the horse was different.
The animal was wading instead of swimming. And this needed greater effort, because the water was no longer accepting part of the weight of his twin burdens.
‘Goddamnit to hell, we made it!’ Barnaby Gold yelled. And let go his two-handed hold.
Fell face down into the sea and beat at the water to get to his knees. Then made it up on to his feet, the surface lapping around his hips. He blinked the salt moisture out of his eyes and saw the stallion as it came clear of the water, with Warren Pruett still clinging to the saddle.
Gold stumbled several times in response to the searing pain that shot through his left calf. Then was on the beach, out of range of the breaking waves. Sat down hard and tugged off his left boot. Began to knead at the source of this new pain with both thumbs. Eased it enough so that he felt capable to taking stock of the situation outside of his own discomfort.
Saw the winded horse standing some twenty feet away from him, with Warren Pruett sprawled out flat on his back nearby.
Became aware of the cold of the night air which felt close to freezing on his flesh encased in sopping wet clothing.
Shifted his gaze to look in the other direction - north to where the cliff which hid Oceanville jutted out into the sea.
Realized that unless he and Pruett continued what they had started very soon, they would be in bad trouble.
The stallion had made remarkably good time in swimming to the shore. Getting through the water faster and with more ease than if the tide was still ebbing. So it had turned and now it was rising. And in the chain of coves that stretched toward the final obstacle to Oceanville, there was no neat line of rotting kelp to mark high water. Neither, as far as Barnaby Gold could see, were there any rock falls to relieve the sheer faces of the curves of the cliff.
He got unsteadily to his feet and limped across to where Warren Pruett lay, grimacing with pain and gasping for breath.
‘Can you hear me?’
The bounty hunter cracked open his eyes.
‘What?”
‘We have to move.’
‘Shit; I never figured it would be that bad, kid. Soon as I’ve rested up, we gotta think of some other way to get into town.’
‘From here, there is no other way.’
‘What are you talkin’ about, kid?’
He struggled to rise on to one elbow and peer under the belly of the horse along the beach. Twisted his head around to rake his eyes over the cliff face.
‘Tide’s coming in now. When it’s high, the beach is under water. To go back, we have to fight the tide until we’re out beyond the point. If you’re right about there being rocks under the cliff this side of Oceanville, we won’t have to go into the water until we’re heading in the same direction as the tide.’
Pruett flopped out on to his back and groaned. ‘I won’t do it, Gold.’
‘So drown where you are,’ the black-clad young man countered flatly, and turned to reach for his coat on the bedroll.
The bounty hunter moved a hand toward where his holster was usually positioned, and his anger was beaten by despair. ‘What you figure to do, kid?’
‘Good chance of drowning whatever I do, sir. Staying here, going back or pushing on. If it’s going to happen, rather it be while I’m doing some…’
Warren Pruett folded up into a sitting position now, and reached down to knead his cramped legs. His head tilted back to direct a scowl at the younger man.
‘Leave the coat and put your other boot back on,’ he growled.
Gold moved to do this.
Pruett needed to grip one of the stirrups to drag himself to his feet. And he surveyed the situation again, spending the longest time peering anxiously out at the ocean.
‘You know somethin’, kid,’ he said sourly.
‘What?’
‘I bet when you was just a little brat, just startin’ to talk, you had a habit of bein’ right all the friggin’ time.’
‘Wouldn’t claim that, sir,’ Gold replied as he got to his feet after pulling on the boot. ‘Just that I’ve alwa
ys had a pretty clear idea of what I wanted to do.’
‘And friggin’ done it, I bet. Come hell or high water.’ He glanced out to sea again, thudded the end of a fist at his forehead and snarled. ‘Shit, that really ain’t funny.’
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
IT took them almost another two hours to reach the southern arm of cliff that protected the cove in which Oceanville was situated.
They both walked, the exercise helping to combat the cold of their wet clothing and to keep at bay the threat of renewed attacks of cramp. While the strength of the riderless stallion was conserved for the final approach to the town.
The gap between the breaking combers and the cliffs behind the beach had been reduced by more than half before they completed this section of their advance.
The makings in one of Warren Pruett’s shirt pockets were a soggy mess. Barnaby Gold’s cheroots and matches were dry inside his coat and the men lit one apiece before starting out across the uneven rocks that formed a kind of causeway between the cliff base and the water.
Most of the rocks were above the level of the sea, but there was a constant spray of spume as the waves broke against and among them. Which kept the stallion in a state of high nervousness until he got used to the sound and feel of the splashing water.
Since it was Pruett’s mount, Gold left the bounty hunter to lead and calm the horse while he moved out ahead, zigzagging back and forth across the fifteen-foot-wide area of rocks to show the way that was safest for the stallion. Staying clear of the widest gaps and the most slippery surfaces where a leg could be trapped or a hoof slip. And panic might lead to a broken bone.
Bright moonlight made this task easier. And they reached the seaward end of the point without mishap, both men gripping the cheroots between their teeth. Dead cheroots, the glowing tobacco extinguished by spray.
Pruett snatched his from his mouth and hurled it away. Allowed his teeth to remain exposed in a grin that did not reach his eyes.
‘So far, so good, kid. And if we stay close to this rock on the other side, we’ll be in shadow.’
Funeral By The Sea Page 11
