by Neil Hunter
‘Hey!’ Cord’s voice broke through to her, breaking her train of thought. ‘Come on, woman, let’s move.’
Time became lost in the mist of dust that swirled around them. The wind was much stronger now. It was hard to tell where they were. They could see neither above nor below. All around them was the yellowish haze of dust that stung their eyes and abraded their flesh. There was nothing else they could do but carry on climbing, hoping that somewhere, coming closer with every painful inch, was the top of the cliff. How far that cliff-top lay none of them knew. It was somewhere above them—it was their goal—and it was all they had on their minds.
Cord figured they must have been climbing for more than half an hour when he heard the flat crack of a rifle. The shot came from below. He heard the dull whack of the bullet striking the cliff yards away. More shots followed but none of them came even close to the climbers. It revealed one fact. The Apaches had moved in on the mission, found the defenders had gone, and had now figured out where they had gone. What would they do now? Cord tried to think as the Apache might. It was difficult. The Apache mind was a complex thing. They were a people liable to swift and unexpected changes in thought and action. It was one of the reasons why nobody had ever been able to pin down the Apache mentality. It was an even bet that the Apache himself couldn’t explain it. Of all living creatures there was nothing more contrary in behavior than the Apache. He could change moods quicker than a woman trying on hats in a shop. Any man who had fought them knew this and took it into consideration when it came time to anticipate Apache strategy.
Matthew Cord drew on his own experience as he pondered what the bunch down below might do. They might satisfy themselves by gathering the freed horses and gear that had been abandoned. On the other hand they might just take it into their minds to find a way to the top of the cliff and continue the fight. The Apaches wouldn’t be liable to forget that there were still plenty of weapons being carried by the whites, and weapons were, as always, of prime importance to the Apache. Also there were the women. Cord hadn’t forgotten them—nor would the Indians.
All in all it boiled down to the fact that there was no satisfactory way of being able to figure out just which way those Apaches were liable to jump. All they could do was get to the top and take it from there.
A few more shots rang out. This time some of the bullets came close. One of them smashed into the rock no more than an inch away from Cord’s right hand. He felt splinters of sharp stone tear at his flesh, flinched as more stung the side of his face.
From above him he heard a man yell out in pain. There was a moment of scrabbling—the sound of someone trying to hang onto the rock. Loosened stone rattled down the cliff. A scream of sheer terror rang out, a nerve-tingling sound. Cord sensed the falling shape before he saw it—a wildly twisting body that plummeted out of the mist above him and vanished into the unseen depths below.
One down—four left.
The thought flashed into Cord’s mind of its own accord. He cold-bloodedly acknowledged it. There was no getting away from the fact that Shelby’s bunch was why he was here, why he was stuck on this damned cliff. Despite the present distraction brought on by the intervention of the Apaches, Cord’s assignment was the removal of Ben Shelby and his bunch of killers. He wasn’t going to complain if a stray Apache bullet helped his cause along. Sooner or later he was going to find himself facing the remaining members of Shelby’s outfit. He expected it and he was prepared for it, so the lessening of the odds was in his favor. He wondered idly who it was who’d been hit? He had a feeling that it wouldn’t be either Shelby or Morgan LeGrand. He knew deep down that he was going to have to confront those two face to face. And in a sense that was the way he wanted it.
‘Cord? You all right?’ Kate’s voice floated down from above. He couldn’t see her through the swirl of gritty dust.
‘Yeah.’ He spat out the mouthful of dust he got through opening his mouth. ‘Quit worrying about me. Just keep climbing.’
He found the cliff above him falling back into a wide ledge. Cord dragged himself over the edge. He made out huddled figures pressed against the cliff at the back of the ledge.
‘Everybody here?’ he asked.
Ben Shelby lowered the canteen he was drinking from. He sleeved dust and sweat from his face. ‘Dunker ain’t,’ he growled.
‘Shame that,’ Cord said dryly and took the canteen from Shelby’s hand. He drank sparingly.
‘Every corpse a dollar in your pocket,’ Shelby spat.
Cord grinned tightly. ‘I figure your boys are even worth more than a dollar each.’
‘Shit, you cold-blooded bastard.’ Shelby looked towards the cliff-top. ‘I can’t wait for us to get clear of those Apaches, Cord. All I need is one quick chance at you.’
‘Any time, Shelby. Any damn time you feel lucky.’
Ben Shelby’s weathered face hardened, his eyes narrowing into cold slits. He stepped forward until he was almost touching Cord, but the big ex-lawman didn’t flinch. He returned Shelby’s gaze with a casual indifference that only added to the outlaw’s frustration.
‘Go to hell,’ Ben Shelby said finally. He couldn’t figure Cord out. That more than anything angered him. Know a man and you knew how to deal with him. Trouble was Matthew Cord was a hell of a man to get to know and Shelby still didn’t have enough knowledge to try and gain an upper hand. And anyhow, they had enough on their hands trying to get clear of those damned Apaches. No matter how strained personal relations might be, they all had to stick together until they’d dealt with the hostile threat. Every gun they could count on made that much difference—Irve Dunker was lost to them now, a hard man and a handy shot. So no matter how much Shelby hated Cord he wasn’t going to push too hard. He needed Cord as much as Cord needed him. It didn’t sit right, in fact it twisted up Shelby’s guts until they ached. But better an aching gut and being alive, Shelby thought. The time would come. The time for settling the differences and the festering hates.
Cord had moved across to where the others stood. He caught Kate’s eye and she smiled quickly. Only now did he notice the raw bruise down one side of her face, probably received during her near-fatal fall.
‘We’ll rest up a few minutes,’ he told them. ‘I figure those Apaches could be doing one of two things. They might decide that our horses are prize enough and leave it at that. But they might still fancy some extra guns. There’s every chance we could reach top and find them waiting for us.’
‘Looks to me like we’re stuck in the middle,’ Morgan LeGrand observed. ‘Between a rock and a hard place.’ It was an old phrase, one that Cord had heard many times, and it neatly summed up their position. Whichever way they moved they could expect trouble.
‘Nobody listened to me before,’ Eli Colton suddenly said. ‘But I was right. Damned if I weren’t.’
Morgan LeGrand sighed wearily. ‘Eli,’ he said, his voice almost a whisper, practically lost in the moaning wind.
Colton turned to look at him. ‘Yeah?’
‘For Christ sake shut your mouth! Next time I hear you tell how you could have saved us all the trouble of this climb I’m going to take you and toss you back down there.’
Eli Colton closed his mouth quickly. He’d ridden alongside LeGrand long enough to know when the big man had reached the end of his patience. Morgan LeGrand was capable of extreme and sudden violence and when he decided to move it took a damn good man to get out of his way. Colton had never seen one do it yet. He didn’t fancy having to try himself. He knew his limitations. He wasn’t as good as LeGrand, he admitted to himself, though he would never have put it into words to anyone else to hear.
The wind had started to ease off. Cord had noticed it first, the others becoming quickly aware. In one way it was a blessing. It would make their climbing that much easier. But it would also mean an end to the veil of dust that had concealed them from the Apaches.
The knowledge stirred them into action. One by one they moved to the rugged wall of rock a
nd pushed their strained, bruised bodies on and upwards, each of them now holding the fact that time was running out. They pushed at the gritty stone with hands and feet, muscles throbbing wickedly, flesh torn and bleeding. Fingers were torn by the sharp rock, leaving behind dark stains of blood. Clothing was ripped and shredded. But all these things were meaningless in the overriding concern for what lay above them, for what they might possibly find when they eventually reached the top of the cliff, when they completed their climb.
The wind dropped as quickly as the realization hit them. The haze of dust lingered briefly, then drifted away. Above them the azure blue of the empty sky was framed against the jagged rim of the cliff-top. Cloudless and brassy with the sullen orb of the sun hanging there like some orange ball of fire. Once again they were able to feel the furnace like intensity of heat that radiated from it.
Cord, bringing up the rear again, glanced towards the rim of the cliff. A few more minutes climbing and they would have completed what they’d set out to do. The problem was how sour their victory might turn out to be. Had they walked away from trouble at one end to meet it face to face again at the other?
It was an open question and he knew they would find the answer very soon.
Thirteen
With a vengeance, Chana had led his warriors to the top of the cliff. The Apache carried an anger that needed satisfying. Not only had he lost good warriors during the initial attacks on the mission, but when he had led his band in during the storm, they had found the mission deserted. The whites had seemingly vanished, though it soon became clear where they had gone. Using the dust storm for cover the whites had climbed the high cliff that backed the mission.
Though they had opened fire, and had brought down one of the whites, Chana knew that they were wasting too much valuable ammunition. He had no intention of giving up the whites—his dead warriors had not sacrificed themselves for nothing. He had thought about those warriors and one especially. The young warrior Nechtay, so eager for battle, so eager to destroy the enemy whites. Now Nechtay lay dead, his fighting spirit gone, his blood soaked into the dry land. Chana had clashed with Nechtay, but deep within he had been proud of the young Apache, for he saw himself years ago when he was ready to fight, ready to avenge the wrongs done to the people over the long years. Nechtay had been a great Apache and his passing would be paid for in white blood.
They had gathered the abandoned horses, searched through the debris left behind by the whites. Chana had left one warrior, carrying a bullet in one leg, to look after the horses. He had then left the area of the mission, leading his mounted warriors in a wide sweep round into the hills, a route that would eventually bring them to the place from where they would be able to ride up towards the top of the high cliff.
By the time they reached the cliff top the storm had begun to subside. But the hate in Chana’s heart lay heavy. He drove himself and his warriors along the rocky rim of the cliff without let up. The need to find the whites had taken on almost a fanatical desire.
Chana reined in his pony suddenly, yanking back on the braided rope. His mount sank back on its hindquarters, snorting in fright. Before it had stopped Chana had leapt from its back. He ran to the edge of the cliff and peered over the edge. Where were the whites? Had they already reached the top? Chana’s keen eyes searched the crumbling face of the cliff. He saw nothing, and a blackness swept over him. Chana turned away from the edge and stared out across the vaulted stretch of land that spread out from the cliff top. If the whites had already reached there they would have had time to conceal themselves, find places to fight from. Or perhaps they had decided to move on, to make good their escape. Not that it would do them any good, Chana thought. His warriors would find them—this was Apache territory. There were no living creatures on the land who knew this place as did the Apache. If the whites were out there they would not stay hidden long.
‘Chana!’
It was Kenchay’s voice pushing through his thoughts. Chana turned to look at his old friend. Kenchay was pointing far along the rim of the cliff.
‘See,’ he said. ‘Even my old eyes can see them.’
Chana followed Kenchay’s pointing finger and felt his body tremble with anticipation. They were there. The group of whites. Standing together and plainly ready to fight.
For whites they were worthy opponents, Chana thought. It would be an honor to go into combat against them. Had they not already shown wisdom in escaping from the trap that the mission had become, scaling a high and dangerous cliff in order to give themselves room to fight on? Chana acknowledged their bravery, their courage. It would be a worthy thing to kill them.
With his hot blood pounding in his heart Chana leapt back onto his pony. He lifted his rifle and turned to his assembled warriors.
‘Now we will show these whites how the Apache wages war. Let them feel the fury of our anger. See the shape of death before it strikes them down.’
He swept his arm forward, drumming his heels into the sides of his pony, and led his warriors in a headlong charge towards the tiny group of waiting whites.
Fourteen
There was little time to do anything but take cover behind the closest rock and wait.
Within minutes of their reaching the top of the cliff and gathering in a tired, ragged group, the Apaches had appeared. For an odd moment the two groups had stood facing each other across the rocky stretch of land, and then the Apaches had burst into violent motion, closing the distance with every second.
‘Find cover,’ Cord yelled. As he spoke he grabbed Kate’s arm and dragged her down behind a slab of crumbling rock. He laid his rifle across the top of the rock and watched the oncoming Apaches.
‘All that damn climbing and here they are, just awaiting for us.’ Eli Colton’s voice carried a whining tone that grated on Cord’s ears.
‘Colton, quit it,’ Cord said abruptly. ‘At least we got room to fall back if we need to up here. They haven’t got us boxed in.’
‘My, my, I just never looked at it that way,’ Kate said dryly and when Cord glanced at her he saw that she was smiling coolly. With deliberate intent she pulled back the hammer of the big Colt she was carrying.
‘Hold fire until they’re right on us,’ Cord said. ‘They’ll be expecting us to start blasting anytime. We let ’em get in close we stand a better chance of dropping more of them first time out.’
From somewhere off to Cord’s left Ben Shelby’s voice answered: ‘We’ll wait your word, Cord.’
Matthew Cord levered a round into his rifle’s breech, pressing the wood stock into his shoulder. He could already see the savage, yelling faces of the Apaches, make out the contorted features. Without thought his finger curled about the rifle’s trigger, starting to ease back. Cord held himself. He wanted the Apaches to get closer yet. He just hoped that the others could hold their fire in the face of the charging Apaches.
Shots crashed out. The gunfire came from the Apaches. They were firing wildly, again it was intended more to unnerve them rather than inflict much in the way of physical damage. Wild though it was, the gunfire came close in some cases, bullets whining viciously off the rocks that protected them. Beside him Cord heard Kate gasp. He glanced quickly at her. A splinter of stone had cut her left cheek and a thin finger of blood oozed across her pale face.
He turned his attention to the massed Apaches. The distance was closing rapidly now and surely the Apaches themselves must realize that they were getting dangerously near to their enemy. Cord knew the moment had come. There was no time left for waiting. He lifted his rifle, took aim, and in the second before he pulled the trigger, yelled, ‘Fire!’
The ragged volley of shots echoed heavily around them. The stench of burned powder filled the air. Horses screamed in pain and fright. The charge of the Apaches was broken as animals and men went down in a bloody tangle. Those behind, unable to hold back, rode over their fallen companions, and more ponies stumbled, throwing their riders to the ground. The Apaches saw that they had ridden in
to a trap and tried to pull back. Some stood their ground and returned the fire, and the crash of gunfire was loud and unceasing.
Cord pumped shot after shot at the milling Apaches. The trouble was there were too many of them. Even though he saw many of them fall, the remainder still outnumbered them. Already the Apaches were regrouping, leaving their horses to conceal themselves in the nearby rocks, and he knew that the conflict would settle into a shot for shot gunfight.
‘Fall back,’ he yelled, grabbing Kate’s hand. ‘Let’s move into those rocks back yonder. Once those Apaches get organized they’ll keep us pinned down ‘til we keel over from sunstroke.’
They turned and ran, risking the chance of an Apache bullet, knowing that their best bet was to keep it a running fight. If they did get themselves boxed in again, then that long climb would have been for nothing. What they needed to do now was to keep on the move and hope that eventually the Apaches would tire of the chase. It was a gamble but it was all they had.
A harsh scream cut through the air. Cord spun round and saw a mounted Apache close by. The Apache was leaning over one side of his pony, grinning all over his face as he thrust and twisted the long war-lance buried in the writhing body of Eli Colton. Even as Cord turned the Apache jabbed forward with the lance and the bloody tip burst through Colton’s chest, blood spurting onto the ground. Lifting his rifle Cord shot into the Apache’s lean brown body, the impact of the bullets lifting the screaming warrior off his pony and dumping his lifeless, shattered body in a crumpled heap on the ground.
Kate pulled away from him and started towards Colton. Cord caught her wrist and yanked her savagely back.
‘Where the hell do you think you’re going?’ he snapped.
