By the second day, he lost count of how many times Pete had lost the sign of the man they sought. Expert as Pete was he could not prevent time being lost while he searched for sign that simply seemed to disappear by magic. It became pretty clear that Storm was no slouch at losing posses.
It was on that same second day just when Pete had ridden back from searching the country ahead to announce that he had found sign and they could come on as fast as they could make it when the catastrophe happened. How it happened that the posse did not lose half its number killed, the sheriff would never know.
They were riding along a steep-sided and fairly wide gully, most of them travelling in single file when Hank Tristem, who was riding in the van immediately behind the tracker, gave a yell of alarm, whirled his horse and started forcing his horse back past the men behind him.
In the first second or two of the confusion he caused nobody there could make out what had spooked the veteran top-hand, but a rumble from above turned all their eyes to the sky. A few small loose rocks rattled about the feet of their horses. Then it seemed that a large part of the gully-side to the right of them heaved down toward them. That was enough to put the fear of God into every man there.
Horses were brought around untidily in a raking of spurs and lashing of quirts, a horse screamed and men yelled. The dust rose and the rumble above them became a roar. Every man there was headed east fast when they heard the landslide hit bottom. It did so with a roar like a battery of cannon. Trembling, they halted at the far end of the gully, turned their horses and looked back.
What they saw stilled them all to silence for a moment.
Some twenty or thirty yards ahead of the spot where Tristem had turned and yelled his first warning was a heap of stone composed of whole boulders and smashed rock. Dust rose on the still air in an impenetrable fog.
‘My God,’ a man said and spoke for them all.
Ransome in that moment, to everyone’s surprise, most of all his own, showed that he had not lost his presence of mind.
‘That wasn’t no landslide,’ he said grimly. ‘There’s some murderin’ bastard up there. Follow me.’
Some of the men gazed at him in shaken astonishment as he rode for the north side of the gully. Here it was steep, but not too steep to be tackled by a good horse and a fearless rider. The sheriff spurred his mount at it and shouted encouragement to his men like a gallant officer of cavalry. A number of the posse members reacted automatically to the example shown them and went after him. A few, considering that caution and safety were better choices than valor, stayed right where they were. However, there were five of the hardiest spirits following in the lawman’s wake. One of them lacked in skill as a horseman what he gained in courage and permitted his horse to fail the steepness of the slope and to fall over backward. The poor fellow was able to get his feet out of the stirrup irons in time to fall clear of the horse. Neither man nor beast was seriously injured, but both were so badly shaken that they immediately opted out of the reckless charge.
The five remaining riders fought their way up the dangerous slope, scattering rocks to right and left, somehow keeping their horses on their feet and shouting encouragement to each other. However, the climb was long and arduous and the sheriff for one was a little less enthusiastic when he reached the top than when he had started. All five men reached the top almost as exhausted as their horses. They found themselves on rocky broken ground adorned with a scattering of trees and bushes. Not a man there doubted that whoever had sent the avalanche of stone down on them had ample hiding places to choose from.
‘Fan out,’ croaked the sheriff and they urged their tired horses into action, drawing their belt-guns and preparing for action.
It came a little sooner than they expected.
It came in the form of a hail of lead. It whined through the air about their heads, it hit rock and whistled into the blue, it kicked up dirt in their faces when they flung themselves down from their horses and took cover.
The boldness went out of the charge at once. Every man there felt excessively mortal and every man there came to the conclusion that he was not cut out for this kind of work. In short, their minds worked like any other set of men who find themselves under fire from a man who held an impregnable position.
The firing stopped as suddenly as it had begun. But they stayed where they were, just in case. None of them felt favorable about getting his head blown off. They lay prone and they kept their heads down.
Hank Tristem was the first to come to the conclusion that not much would be gained by their staying where they were all day. He called across to the sheriff: ‘I’m goin’ to work my way around north.’
Without lifting his head one half-inch, the sheriff said in a somewhat muffled voice: ‘Good man, Hank. Go ahead.’
Tristem crawled away and disappeared into the rocks and trees.
Some time passed. The other Broken Spur man, maybe shamed a little by the enterprise and courage shown by his fellow hand, said that he was going to work his way forward.
‘We’ll cover you, son,’ the sheriff said encouragingly.
After fifteen minutes some shooting broke out ahead. When it stopped Tristem and the Broken Spur man appeared looking a little shamefaced and walked openly back to the prone men. Tristem told them that he and Twiney, the other man, had been shooting at each other.
The sheriff got to his feet and looked a few more years than he could rightly claim. But he got a grip on himself and said: ‘All right, men, search the area.’
Cautiously, the man started to move around, tense, guns held ready.
Ransome now became aware that he did not have his full posse with him. He went to the edge of the gully and saw those who skulked below. He poured shame and a few naughty words down on them and told them they could safely come up now the shooting was over.
They came up looking not so much ashamed as pleased to be alive. It was about this time that Ransome realized that though a powerful amount of lead had been thrown their way by a rifle at pretty short range not a man had been touched.
He was just trying to put a scare into us, he thought.
At that moment, he heard the flat slam of a rifle and a bullet seemed to flirt for a brief moment with the crown of his hat. With a howl of alarm he moved with an agility which did great credit to his years and gained comparative safety behind a tree. A second bullet told him how wise he had been to take such action and a third convinced the whole posse that the sheriff’s example was a good one to follow.
The shooting this time came from the other side of the gully, which proved that there either were two marksmen at work or that the fellows sure could move.
But even bad things come to an end and after the area had been well and truly dusted with thirty-thirty slugs, silence once more took over that section of Colorado and for the second time that day the members of the legally constituted posse were glad to be still alive. This time, however, they took a little longer to venture out of cover.
When they did, Hank Tristem, much to Ransome’s annoyance, for the sheriff felt that his high office had already received enough ridicule for one outing, insisted that the situation was one to provoke laughter.
The lank top-hand from Broken Spur sat himself down on a boulder and slapped his lean thigh.
‘By crackey,’ he cried, ‘that bastard sure had the whole bunch of us buffaloed. Hell, you shoulda seen your faces, boys.’
‘Maybe I’m odd or somethin’,’ the sheriff said, ‘but I don’t think it’s so funny nearly gettin’ my butt shot off.’
The iciness of the lawman’s tone did nothing to curb Tristem’s laughter. In fact, he had a real fit of the laughs. Maybe it was the relief at being still alive. His laugh was contagious apparently, for man after man of the posse flopped down on the ground helpless with laughter.
When there was a lull, the sheriff said coldly: ‘When you gals’re through gigglin’, we’ll git on. We have a killer to catch, remember.’
So
bered a little, they staggered to their feet.
They climbed down into the gully, mounted their horses and followed Yewdley as he searched for a way around the blocked trail, determining that no matter what they wouldn’t ride again into a gully where they could be smashed to death by rocks. Which did them some credit, when you come to think of it. They were volunteers and they could have turned around and ridden home again.
Hank Tristem expressed the thoughts of them all when he said: ‘This Mart Storm is sure goin’ to take some takin’ before he’s took.’ That may not have been strictly grammatical, but it was true.
Chapter Eleven
Mart Storm thought that if a woman could look beautiful in the cold light of dawn after sleeping in the open all night then she must be beautiful right through to her bones.
Vanessa Hargreaves came from her blankets smiling, fresh as a newly awakened child and with a lock of hair dropping fetchingly over her face.
Mart just sat there and stared. Not only was Miss Hargreaves not annoyed by his rudeness, she was totally unaware of it. Or so it seemed. She stretched luxuriously, thus revealing a fact to him that he already knew—that her body was as superb as her face. Which was saying something. She threw back her blankets and pulled on her boots. That done, she deigned to become aware of his presence, threw him a slightly superior but not unfriendly smile and said: ‘Good morning to you, Mr. Storm.’
‘Sleep well?’ he enquired.
‘Admirably,’ she replied. ‘I am more than ready for breakfast. But I would like a wash first.’
‘No breakfast,’ he said.
‘But I—’
‘And no wash.’
‘I certainly—’
‘No time an’ no water.’ He rose to his feet, adding: ‘Roll your blankets while I catch up the horses.’
She came up to him and put her hands on his arm.
‘Mr. Storm,’ she said, ‘if I asked you nicely. I do like to start the day with a cup of coffee. If you do that for me I promise that I shall behave and do all that you tell me.’
He looked around. The trees were pretty thick here. He might safely build a fire over yonder. He could drink a cup himself. Maybe there was no harm. Which goes to show just how soft a tough man can be with a woman like Vanessa Hargreaves.
He put off fetching in the horses, he built a fire that did not give off much smoke and he boiled some water from his canteen. They sat by the fire and sipped together in companionable silence. After a while, she said: ‘What will you do, Mr. Storm, when you have delivered me to my aunt?’
‘Ride.’
‘I didn’t presume that you would do anything else considering that it is the means of locomotion in this country,’ she told him.
‘Head for New Mexico,’ he said. ‘I have friends down there.’
‘Won’t the law find you there?’
‘It’s local county law that wants me here,’ he said. ‘Distance will most likely solve that problem.’ Would it solve his problem? he asked himself. How far would the friends of Pat Shaw and Stu Aintree be prepared to ride in search of him?
‘You’re a strange man.’
Mart didn’t know whether that was meant as a compliment or not.
‘You’re a strange woman,’ he said.
She smiled. She took that as a compliment.
From some thirty yards away, Darky whickered softly. Mart sat up. That could mean anything or nothing. He took it to mean something. That was the safest way.
He touched her on the arm and said softly: ‘Stay right where you’re at.’
He gave her credit. She was still. She merely turned her head and looked at him as if she wanted to judge the moment by the look on his face.
Then his sharp ears heard a faint sound. That told him that Darky was in the right. It also told him how far distant at least some of the danger was.
He signed her to lie down flat under a deadfall. Somewhat to his surprise, she obeyed him without a word.
He reached for his carbine.
The rumble of Darky’s whicker came again. Mart heard both horses moving, though he could not see them. He wondered if he himself had been spotted and decided to take a chance that he had not. He half rose, ran three quick paces away from the deadfall and dropped to the ground. Now he listened with enormous care.
A twig snapped.
He rolled gently into better cover, braced one leg under him for a quick movement. He was listening now to know if he was being advanced upon from another direction.
Another sound. A gun-hammer was being brought back to full cock. He squinted through the foliage in front of him, caught a slight movement. He could fire now and kill. Maybe for the sake of the girl he should. But he held back. Maybe it was curiosity that made him do that.
They were starting to move past him now. Suddenly, he had brief and partial but clear view of part of them. Now he was certain that there were two and they were close together. No more than a dozen paces from him. They crouched forward, guns in hand, one slightly beyond the other.
They passed him slowly, came in sight of the fire and halted.
‘Christ,’ one said, ‘the woman.’
He should have fired on them. It was too late.
He twisted himself and came up on one knee.
‘H’ist ’em,’ he called softly.
The next few seconds would take all his concentration or the physical and mental control he possessed. One of those guns was cocked. The girl could be hurt. Or killed.
One man was partially covered by the other. The far man moved, using the other, the older of the two.
‘No,’ said the older man, ‘no.’ There was a deathly apprehension in his voice.
Mart moved as the shot came. It tore at his sleeve and he fired the carbine.
The bullet hit the far man and turned him, hurling him to the ground.
The older man went into action as Mart fired. The fastest reaction Mart had ever seen in his life. One second the man was there, the next he wasn’t in sight. Mart knew he was on the far side of the bush behind which he had taken cover himself. He levered and fired as fast as he knew how. Again and again, levering in a kind of fury. The bullets ripped the green savagely. He heard them strike the other side and go whining away. But he knew he’d missed the man.
He leapt two long paces, missing the two bullets that were aimed at him. Then he heard another gun and knew that they were fired by the man he’d hit. Something caught him in the shoulder and jerked him back against the trunk of a tree, jarring him breathless.
Sudden movement beyond the leafy wall. He knew he was caught in a crossfire at close range. A veteran like him suckered like a greenhorn.
Then another gun sounded to his right.
He saw the wounded man on his knees, the carbine slipping from his nerveless fingers.
Mart found he had dropped his rifle.
The man beyond the bush fired and the lead hit the tree with a dull thunk. Mart found that the carbine refused to be he held with his right hand. His gun-hand was useless. Another shot and he felt the wind past his face.
A desperate urgency tore at his nerves. He let the carbine fall to the ground and swung himself left-handed around the tree. Reaching across his body, he awkwardly drew his gun.
A curious thing—a right-handed man often shot better with his left hand. Not so fast, but more accurately. He could only hope that he would do so now. He hadn’t practiced with his left hand for years.
He dropped to one knee, bracing his left wrist against the tree.
Leaves rustled. He held his fire. He was going to get this bastard with the next shot.
The man fired. The lead flirted with the tail of his coat.
Mart fired on sound.
The man grunted as the bullet went home. Mart cocked awkwardly with his left thumb and fired again immediately.
There was a soft crash. A branch snapped. A man groaned gently. Then there was silence, smoke drifted, the air was thick with the smell of burned pow
der.
Softly, almost fearfully, he heard the girl call: ‘Are you all right, Mr. Storm?’
He stood up and said: ‘Stay right where you are, Miss Hargreaves.’ It was nice keeping it formal, even at a time like this.
Then he added: ‘I’m all right, thanks. And you?’
‘Perfectly well, thank you.’ Her voice shook a little.
He walked forward, quietly, like a big cat, putting his feet down with care. His shoulder did not hurt, but there was a numbing weight tied to his right arm.
He rounded the bush and came on the man lying half in it on his face. Mart raised his gun and cocked it. He’d been caught like this before.
‘If you don’t move,’ he said, ‘I’m goin’ to blow your head off.’ The man didn’t move. Mart put his gun into the top of his pants, caught the man by his collar and turned him over on his back. He was shot through the brisket and the face. He didn’t make a pretty sight.
Mart started to walk back to the girl. His legs were starting to cave under him. He had run so there would be no more killing. But the opportunity to kill chased after him.
The girl was standing watching him out of large dark eyes. She was very pale and she was shaking.
The whole scene seemed to shift uneasily and crazily before his eyes. The final shame would be to faint in front of a woman. A Texan’s nightmare.
As he reached the girl, she said: ‘I think I’ve killed a man. It’s the first time I’ve ever done that.’
He laughed hollowly.
‘There’s a first time for everythin’,’ he said.
‘I think I may faint,’ she said.
‘You can’t do that,’ he said.
‘Why not?’ she asked in vague curiosity.
‘One, it’s not allowed,’ he told her. ‘Two, I’m goin’ to pass out first.’
She dropped the gun and reached out both hands for him.
One Notch to Death Page 9
