by Nelson Nye
So he reined the roan gelding north for a bit in the direction of the street until he saw lights gleaming from what he took to be Babcock’s. He was twenty feet away before he found it wasn’t Nick’s at all but the dancehall two doors east of it. Even then he might not have guessed where he was except a leather-lunged voice abruptly bawled from the guts of it: “Grab yo’ podners fo’ chase that rabbit!” and a wail of fiddles rode the wind.
He eased Bugler off and wheeled him under the trees. He urged him into the thickest of shadows and held him there while he tried to decide if the advantage of recovering his Winchester would offset the time it might take him to find it. His need for such a weapon might become very urgent, especially if pressed or if driven to cover. But suppose he went back and then didn’t find it?
Time wasn’t going to stand around for nobody. With each passing moment Reifel’s danger was mounting for there was no way of guessing what a snake like Breen would do. He might be content to wait for the law but if the other boys showed he might decide to use them — and he could damn well do it. He had only to tell them he had caught Ben Reifel plundering their cache and he would have them hellbent to murder Ben for him. He could show them the empty hole beneath the floor and tell how he’d found Ben fighting with Turner. He could say he’d tried to stop him — that they’d exchanged a couple shots — he could tell them Ben was wounded.
Breen could do it all right.
Or he might even now be riding for the law with some other fine story brewed up to finish Ben. Whichever thing he did Breen would be right along with them, determined to make certain Ben had no damned chance to talk.
Nor would the law be picking any daisies, either. The star-packing tribe would be wild to avenge Schmole and, while it might take them weeks to associate this camp with the bunch they were after, if they happened on Breen’s trail they might be very near here now. It was a cinch Breen hadn’t stopped to hide his trail any.
The wind wasn’t cold yet Ben Reifel shivered. He had a moment of giddiness then when the moon-dappled shadows whirled round and round him and he thought by God he was going to pitch from the saddle.
After that he didn’t worry any more about the rifle. He concentrated what was left of his strength on staying in the oxbows and getting the hell away from this camp. If only his head would quit trying to float off he thought he might make it despite loss of blood and the white-hot ache of that hole in his chest.
The shock of impact had long worn off and each jolting step the gelding took was a searing agony impossible to avoid. The waves of nausea were getting worse and the intervals between them shorter and shorter. Even with both hands clamped to the horn he grimly doubted being able to stay another hour in the saddle. His face felt like it had caught a bad sunburn and was hot as fried leather.
He couldn’t recall getting clear of town but he was a long way out of it if he could judge by his surroundings; he couldn’t glimpse its light on his backtrail or catch the glow of their reflection against the star-studded sky. He morosely reckoned he’d dozed off for a spell and thought that damned careless in a man whose neck was near a rope as his was.
How far he may have come he had no means of knowing. He could not wholly be sure if he were still in the canyon though he was traveling low ground because he could sense the vague bulk of cliffs to the left of him.
He seemed to be following some kind of trail or, at least, the horse seemed to be, though it stopped now and again to crop at especially tempting clumps of sedge grass.
A crazy laugh cracked out of his swollen lips at the thought of sedge grass in country like this, but the damned stuff looked like sedge sure enough, and it was just about then that he became aware of the gurgling of a creek and pulled up, startled. There was no sedge growing along Silver Creek — so what water was this?
He peered owlishly about, trying to get his bearings.
If it wasn’t Silver then it must be Turkey Creek, though he had no recollection of passing the mesa where Bill Graham’s bunch had used to hang out. And this worried him, for if he were drifting off into spells like that there was no telling where he might wind up. No place good, that was certain!
Suppose he fell off his horse or got thrown or something? He knew how long he would last afoot in this kind of country in the shape he was in. About as long as a June frost in Texas.
God, but the splash of that water sounded good!
He was burning up.
He knew he should be thinking of how the hell he might stay in this saddle till the gelding fetched him to one of those isolated ranches scattered along the eastern slopes of this range, but all he could think of right now was water. Every burning inch of him cried out for it; and he was turning Bugler into the willow brush screening this trail from the creek bed when he caught the near tinkle of spur chains. He stopped Bugler sharply, clamped a hand to his nostrils, every fibre of him suddenly alert and hard listening.
There was no doubt about it. There were riders approaching along the creek’s farther bank. He could plainly hear the screak of their saddles, the splashing thud of shod hoofs in the shale of the ford.
He forgot about water. If he’d been given more warning he’d have tried to run for it. But it was too late for that; this bunch would blast him from the saddle before he’d gone forty paces. He dared not even attempt to hide lest, discovering him, these riders beyond the willows the more readily jump to the conclusion of his guilt.
Feverishly, in that split-second pause, Reifel scanned his chances and found them practically nonexistent. He was going to be discovered no matter what he did. This was the hard core of fact he was faced with. He fought the terrible urge to reach for his gun and then, gaunt-cheeked and tight of mouth, he took his hand from the gelding’s nostrils.
Bugler loosed one outraged snort and threw up his head in a trumpeting challenge. With that call still ringing through the startled silence Reifel kneed him from the screen of willows and into the moon washed brightness of the ford.
In the shallows of the creek six men sat their horses behind leveled rifles. A small five-pointed piece of tin gleamed coldly from the open vest of the one who was nearest.
5. THE DARK GODS LAUGH
BEN REINED up his horse in the middle of the stream and sat there a moment letting Bugler have his drink while he considered these men and said, without inflection: “Evenin'.”
The star packer nodded without lowering his rifle. He was a stocky looking man a little below average height, gray haired with lined features and shoulders sloped from the years he had spent herding other men’s cattle for thirty bucks a month. “Evenin',” he answered in the same brief manner with which Ben had spoken. “Mind tellin’ us where you come from, mister?”
Ben’s lips came apart in a remote and angular smiling. “Bein’ you have put the matter so politely I don’t mind sayin’ I have just come from Paradise.”
One of the others muttered something under his breath to the man beside him. Then the leader said, “Kind of a late time of night to be ridin’ through these mountains.”
Reifel let that pass and pulled the gelding’s head from water. The star packer’s mouth tightened. He said with a sharper edge to his tone: “Where you figurin’ to be headed for, mister?”
“I’m heading for home — ”
“And where would that be?”
They were watching him, all of them.
Reifel said testily, “Rocking Arrow. In case you don’t know, it’s a cow outfit that runs its cattle along the flanks of these mountains. And out on the desert when we get rain enough.”
“What were you doing in Paradise?”
Reifel wasn’t surprised by the questions but his expression implied he had got about enough of them. He let his reins sag and hooked a knee around the horn and sitting that way, slanch-hipped and unhurried, he fished tobacco sack and papers from one of Breen’s vest pockets. “You got a good reason for being curious about it?”
The lawman pecked his badge with a
thumbnail. “You’re talkin’ to the Sheriff of Cochise County — ”
“So I gathered,” Reifel drawled. “Expect you boys are out hunting for bear, considering the amount of artillery you’re packin'. Or maybe — ”
“You’re pretty free with your lip,” the sheriff said angrily. “As a matter of fact we’re huntin’ a murderer — ”
“Why the hell didn’t you say so?” Reifel scowled. He looked at them irascibly. “A tall kind of feller on a buckskin horse?”
The sheriff’s mouth opened. “You’ve seen him?” he blurted. “Where was he? What’d he look like? Was he carry-in’ any — ”
“The man I saw was carrying a rifle. He’d come out of this country and was heading west like hell wouldn’t have him. Doing a heap of looking back across his shoulder.”
“That’ll be him, all right,” one of the possemen muttered, and several of the others grunted scowling agreement.
The sheriff’s tongue crossed his lips. He leaned forward excitedly. “Could you tell what he was wearin'?”
So far as he went Reifel told the exact truth. Without telling them where those clothes were now he described the things he had sunk behind Foley’s. The star packer nodded. “That checks. You make out what this bird looked like?”
Reifel lit his smoke and tossed the stick in the water. “I remember his eyes. They were yellow. Like a cat’s.”
The sheriff and his men exchanged glances. The nearest pair lifted their shoulders a little and a big fellow reined his mount close to Reifel’s. “How the hell could you tell what color his eyes was?”
“When I see a man’s lamps behind a .45-90 — ”
“You mean this guy throwed down on you?”
Reifel’s lips stretched flat against the whiteness of his teeth. “What the hell did you think a damned killer would be doing?”
While they swapped looks again he unsnaggled his leg from its perch round the horn and made to pick up his reins. He thought smoke from his quirley must have got in his eyes when the night and these shapes began to fog and go blurry, and he spat the thing out. Stream, riders, the whole moonlit world commenced to reel round in a kaleidoscope whirl and he clutched the horn desperately.
When he could see straight again he didn’t like the way these others were watching him. The big guy particularly.
The sheriff said dustily, “What did you do?”
“I threw a couple back at him. He’d got past by then but I think I nicked an elbow. What did this rannihan do — rob a bank?”
“He made a stab at the stage carryin’ the Crown King payroll. He had a bunch with him snugged out in the brush but the shotgun messenger didn’t know that. He was new to this run. They’d already thrown the box off when this new guy reckoned to take chips with his sawed-off. He never knew what struck him.”
Ben could see that dumb bastard falling again, pitching down between the wheelers. It was a picture he guessed he’d be seeing forever. The skin of his face felt stiff and hot and the roof of his mouth was parched dry as cotton.
“This whippoorwill forking the buckskin killed him?”
“It don’t make no difference which one of ’em done it. He was a deppity marshal an’ them skunks rubbed him out. The Law in this country ain’t goin’ to ferget it!”
There was a growl from his men and the sheriff’s eyes glinted. “Which way do you suppose that buckskin was headed?”
“Looked to me,” Ben said, “like he was headed for Paradise. Way he was feeding the steel to that horse he could be ten miles west — ”
“How do you know,” demanded one of the others, “that wasn’t a rusty he was cuttin’ to fool you? For all you can tell he may have choused off to Charleston.”
“What the hell would he waste time going over there for? Ain’t nothing at Charleston but a bunch of wrecked houses.”
“Mebbe that’s what he’s huntin'. Some place t’ hole up at.”
Why the hell, Reifel thought, should I argue about it? All he wanted himself was to get away from them, a chance to get out of this country. If the fools wanted to go ramming over to Charleston why then so much the better for that would give him more leeway. But supposing they insisted he go over there with them? That big ox on the paint was still eyeing him, still weighing him inch by inch with a surly regard that was becoming more inimical with each passing moment. There was a bee in that bonnet and Ben reckoned he’d better take the play while he could.
He spoke to the sheriff. “How much would it be worth to get your hands on that jasper?”
The sheriff’s eyes narrowed. The big fellow’s likewise. He shifted weight in his saddle and the leather screaked dismally. The star packer said, “You figure you could find him?”
“I’m asking you a question. If you don’t run him down there’ll be a reward posted, won’t there?”
“Be one offered anyway. Butterfield’ll put up somethin'. Federal gover’ment too, mebbe. But — ”
“If I take time off my regular work I ought to get paid for it. How much of that reward could I count on if you was to nab him?”
One of the other men growled. “All this damn jawin' — ”
“How much?” Reifel prodded.
“These other boys here, they got to get theirs too.”
“I’m looking out for Number One.”
Ben could see the sheriff was tempted. He was no more anxious to spend a month in these mountains than any of the others. He had sworn them in to help him round up this bunch but he had no way to hold them if they were minded to go home. The longer this job took the more they’d get to fretting. They were all for law and order, they wanted its protection, but the law was too new in these parts to very long override personal problems which were closer to their living than any theory of abstract justice. He’d be in a hell of a shape if they pulled out and left him.
Scowling, he said abruptly: “Would a — ”
But the big man cut in ahead of him. “Lafe,” he said around his chaw of tobacco, “I think this jigger knows a heap more’n he’s sayin'. He’s too cool a hand t’ be plumb honest.”
The sheriff’s surprised look — and there was a kindling suspicion building up a brightness in it — passed from Reifel to the big man and back again. With a narrowing stare searching Ben’s face he murmured, “Put your cards on the table, Chet. Say what’s in your mind.”
“It don’t strike me as likely he could of seen that bird’s eyes close enough t’ know their color an’ be talkin’ to us now. He says the guy throwed down on him — ”
“Are you calling me a liar?”
“Your own words do that. You must of met him more’n a hour ago. Moon’s higher now — stands t’ reason it must be brighter. Yet I can’t tell what color your eyes are though I’m close enough to you t’ see the sweat marks on your shirt.”
The sheriff spoke out of a tightening silence. “Mister, what Chet says shows some pretty straight thinkin'. Had you met that guy before?”
Reifel’s reluctant nod was forced through doubt. “If he’s the guy I’ve got in mind,” he said, “we’ve swapped looks three-four times this month.”
“Where?” Chet asked.
“In Paradise.” Reifel tried to see where this line might be taking him but the burning agony of that hole in his chest made thinking an irrational process right then and he said, hoping truth might bolster his position, “Mostly around Cy Turner’s livery.”
It was only after he had made this assertion that the folly of his words flew back to mock and scare him. But big Chet seemed not to notice. He was tramping through his own thoughts. Their doggedness was in his voice, the distrust they bred was in his stare. “If he was close as you make out, an’ comin’ right at you, I still can’t see how that coyote missed. That shot oughter knocked you hell west an’ crooked!”
An edge of scorn cut through Reifel’s glance and brightened with the leaping conviction that at last this quibbler had kicked the door wide open.
Relief pulsed through him
like a heady wine. He could have laughed in their faces. For in his spiteful attempts to cut the ground from under Ben this blundering fool had shown the way to safety.
No longer was Reifel afraid to have the Law discover he’d been wounded. That wound, exposed now, would confirm his story. It would make this pumpkin-roller look like a ninny.
He grinned at them tightly. “It came near enough.” He yanked open the front of his shirt and pulled it back so the clumsy bandaging wrapped about his chest would be plainly visible. He sat back to enjoy the look on Chet’s face while those bloody rags did his talking for him.
But Chet didn’t goggle. His saddle creaked again as he abruptly leaned closer, intently staring. The expected bewildered chagrin didn’t touch him. No sign of disappointment reshaped his expression. With his eyes like fire opals he swept up the snout of his .45-90 and cried in a voice turned savage with triumph: “Lafe! Come alive an’ put a rope on this guy!”
Ben Reifel froze through an eternity of silence.
The sheriff was staring at big Chet stupidly. “Man, are you crazy?”
Chet’s laugh was an ugly sound in that stillness.
“You been complainin',” Lafe said, “because the guy wasn’t shot. Now he shows you he is — ”
“If his story was true I knew damn well he was shot. So I’ll ask you now what I been askin’ myself. How come there ain’t no blood on his shirtfront? How come there ain’t no bullet hole through it?”
6. HEART OF NIGHT
TOO LATE Ben saw the jaws of the trap.
The sickness of fear was in his soul and the desperation born of his danger. Through crashing heartbeats every jungle instinct of the man who’s been hunted wildly urged him to claw for his gun and drop fighting. But the soft part of him, that careful part which did not like violence and had all its hopes wrapped up in reform, kept his hands tightly clamped to the horn of his saddle.
The sheriff’s gray mare moved up alongside and stopped. The stab of Lafe’s glance was bright and hard now as Chefs.
