Desert of the Damned

by Nelson Nye

  It all fell together into a beautiful pattern, a pattern designed to smash Boxed Y — a pattern that could do it unless Ben interfered.

  That much he saw clearly, and several other things as well. Burt Mossman had given him a job to do and he could do it with much less risk to himself by letting the Kavanaughs solve their own problems. All Mossman wanted was enough dirt on Lamtrill for the law to get at him, and he could probably get that by wringing a few mouthfuls of truth from Kid Badger.

  That the Kid might not find it convenient to cooperate did not even remotely occur to him; he was not concerned with this aspect of the matter because, even with his thoughts prowling over these things, he was grudgingly aware that he could not save his neck at the expense of one who had — however mistakenly — befriended him. That she’d had her own reasons for taking him in had become all too amply apparent. But she had helped him. She had helped him against her own father’s advice at a time when he’d used up the last of his strength. He could not turn his back on that knowledge now.

  He rode without hurry, the picture of these things so completely engrossing him that much of his habitual caution was forgotten.

  He saw the shadows turn darker as the lowering sun fell behind the Rincons. He realized the meandering approach of late evening and the stillness which came with it and the scorched smell of trapped heat which he found beneath the trees. But his awareness of these was the awareness of a miner who sees the formations which enclose the elusive vein without any interest in their actual significance.

  He could recapture every shading of Gert Kavanaugh’s strong features but only in the haziest fashion was he able to recall the remembered appeal of the girl he’d determined to make his wife.

  This angered him and he bitterly cursed Gert’s peculiar ability to intrude on his thinking. She had set herself deliberately to trap him with her woman’s wiles, to trade him one bare look at her flesh in exchange for the gun she hoped he would throw between her ranch and Lamtrill’s greed. What kind of girl would do a thing like that? Not the girl in the stage — not Marta May who was sweet and chaste as a prairie rose.

  Somewhere back of the oak fringed hills a coyote’s wail increased immeasurably Reifel’s sense of aloneness. A faint wind whispered through the manzanita and the seed pods rustling on a yucca’s dried stalk seemed someway to epitomize the story of his life. He said, “A man carries with him his fortune — and his fate.”

  Bugler let out a sigh and the white-barred wings of a night-hawk flashed out of a juniper’s dark green foliage and he found a kind of symbolism in that. All the waste of his talents unfolded before him like a desert that reached from horizon to horizon; and he remembered the look of Gert’s face as she asked, “Have you ever in your life done one single thing which — even for the tiniest instant — did not hold out the promise of some personal advantage?”

  He could see now how his decision to go straight had not been the result of any desire for right living. He’d been moved by the dictates of caution, by anxiety arising from the fear he might be called upon to foot the price of past follies. His sudden urge to reform, while sincere enough in all conscience, had sprung from a realization that crooks and thieves could not exist in any society which desired their destruction, that their nefarious schemes and lawless activities were manifestations of tolerance amounting practically to indifference on the part of the people who provided their spoils.

  He found nothing in his past to feel proud about. He reckoned he was a pretty good sample of what this country was coming to if guys like that banker were allowed to maneuver the affairs of the region.

  In the midst of these unusual reflections he was suddenly glad that he had met Burt Mossman who had impressed him more than he had cared to admit. Perhaps, through service, he might come to realize — and to understand — his rightful place in this country’s transition. He guessed he owed this Territory a considerable debt.

  In this uncomfortable excursion into self-analysis he even felt like maybe he might have been a mite hasty in his appraisal of Gert … that perhaps, after all, there was a deal more back of her bold actions than he knew about.

  He was reaching for the makings when the crash of a shot wildly hurled the roan gelding far back on its haunches. Reifel’s arms fanned air and he went out of the saddle.

  16. DIVE FOR THE OYSTER

  HE LAY with his head turned downslope, trying to find in that brush-darkened hollow the covert from which the drygulcher had fired. But the twilight was too far advanced to make out much. There was a capsized pine away down to the left which he watched several moments without visible result.

  He had not been hit and his mind, swinging wickedly to thoughts of reprisal, hotly ignoring his lack of a rifle urged him onto his feet in a run for some cedars. He plunged into these, breathless, and flung himself flat. But no further reports came out of the pocket and, a second or two later, he caught the fast travel of a hard-running bronc.

  He was pretty damned sure which skunk wore the spurs. Only Crowdy and Gert had known where he was going, and Crowdy could have found out from Gert all he needed. Gert wouldn’t have left till she knew what the score was; she would have walked up this trail with her gun cocked and ready. So it had to be Crowdy, and now he was packing the word to Kid Badger.

  If Badger was going to relay it to Lamtrill — and this was almost a foregone conclusion — Reifel thought it might be interesting to be on hand when Badger got there. But there were other things more pressing. There’d been more behind Crowdy levering that shell at him than feelings aroused by that lifted cache roll. The power that was rod-ding this squeeze against Kavanaugh didn’t want Cog Wheel backing Gert’s hand.

  Because he’d been there this morning to find out the price, Reifel was aware that he had not far to go to reach Pryor’s headquarters. He set out without bothering to hunt for the roan.

  Looking down at the layout from the chopped-bare crest of the hogback protecting the place from east winds he had the same impression he’d got before — that the builders hadn’t expected to be throwing any picnics. These buildings, constructed of logs and roofed with tin, had not been erected more than a couple of years. They were low, squat and solid but they did not have the appearance of dwellings. In that treeless landscape they looked like the units of a carefully planned fort. Evidently the syndicate had heard about Lamtrill.

  There were no hands in sight. Only two ponies were drowsing in the horse trap but a saddled mare stood hitched before the verandah which marked Pryor’s quarters for the main establishment.

  There were several kinds of cowmen but none ever heard of by Reifel would care to be caught throwing a leg over a mare. Mares in the cow country were used only for stock horses so it seemed pretty obvious that Pryor had company and that his company wasn’t from a cow crowd. Some townsman probably or a drummer selling ranch supplies.

  But, if that was how it was, why all the damned stillness?

  It would soon be full dark yet no lamps showed their light behind the uncurtained windows.

  He circled the mare without discovering any brand.

  He thought: There’s something uncommon odd about this, and put a hand on her gently, finding her hide hot and steamy with sweat. But it was sweat that was drying. She would still be panting if Crowdy had used her.

  Reifel scowled at the house, not quite understanding all he knew about this. Only one thing was plain. Pryor’s caller wasn’t caring to have this visit talked about.

  Or was it Pryor who was so anxious to have this call kept secret?

  Reifel scrinched up his eyes and went over the angles. The polite thing, of course, would be to let out a yell and let them know he was out here, but Reifel wasn’t interested in politeness right now. He was a lot more interested in discovering whether Pryor’s stealthy caller was a bird with yellow eyes. He had Gert’s word for it that Pryor had mighty little use for the Kavanaugh’s, so wouldn’t it be in character for Lamtrill to take advantage of this and make a pla
y to fetch Cog Wheel in on his side?

  Reifel moved toward the verandah.

  He put a foot on the bottom step and stopped, thinking to have caught some kind of a groan, hard to hear yet prolonged, sort of shuddery, gasping. He stood with muscles cramping for a handful of heartbeats and then, lifting the other foot, he showed his teeth in a sheepish grin as the warped plank set up an eerie screak. But stepping onto the verandah he froze stiff in his tracks as a hushed voice, plain through the half-open window, gasped: “My God, Bill — what was that?”

  For the next couple seconds there was no sound at all. Then Bill Pryor snorted. “Kid,” he said, “you got a case of the jitters. There ain’t nobody round here. I packed the whole crew off to ride that east fence.”

  “I tell you I heard something — ”

  “Sure you heard something. What you probably heard was ol’ Blue comin’ up to lay down by the door — ”

  “I thought you told me that dog got killed last week …”

  “Yeah. That’s right. He got killed in that bear hunt. Hell — I dunno; there’s a couple loose planks on them steps mighta done it.”

  The girl’s voice said, “Bill, I think there’s someone out there — ”

  “Oh, for chrisakes,” Pryor growled, and there was the sudden sound of springs and the slithering of cloth. Bare feet scampered over the floor and somewhere a door shut. Then the door in front of Reifel was abruptly yanked open and Bill Pryor, clad sketchily in pants whose galluses were dangling, was scowling at him crustily above a leveled six-shooter.

  “What the hell do you want?”

  “I came back to close that deal — ”

  “Is it so goddam important you got to wake a guy up in the middle of the night?”

  “Take it easy,” Reifel said. “I got a temper myself and I ain’t minded to take any gab that ain’t called for.”

  Pryor glared a while longer then he lowered his gun. Pretending to knuckle the sleep from his eyes, he thrust the gun in his waistband and backed off a few feet, ungraciously grumbling, “All right, I’ll fetch a light — but I don’t see, by Gawd, what the hell’s the tearin’ hurry.”

  Reifel could hear him muttering under his breath as Pryor moved around in the darkness of the room. Presently a light sprang up and he could see the manager’s shadow lifting a lamp up into its bracket.

  “Okay,” Pryor finally grunted. “If you don’t mind dis-turbin’ a man’s rest, come on in.”

  The place didn’t look much different than Reifel remembered it except the blanket on the bed looked a lot more tousled and a glove — much too small for Bill Pryor’s big fist — lay on the floor near a door at the back of the room.

  Reifel’s glance, coming up, saw the manager’s jaw clench. “Kind of shrunk on you, didn’t it?”

  “If it’s any of your business that belongs to my niece — she came out this afternoon. I guess she must have dropped it.”

  Reifel cared less than nothing about the manager’s affairs with women but it struck him this Bill Pryor was just a little too uncomfortable. There was a sullen, badgered look about the edges of his eyes; and they were much too bright, too watchful. The muscles of his shoulders looked as tight as coiled springs.

  Trying to make his voice sound casual, Reifel said, “You’ve got those papers?”

  “Can’t we talk about this tomorrow? I … uh — ”

  “Look,” Reifel drawled, “I didn’t come out here to pry into your private affairs. You know what I came for; we discussed it this morning. You said you owned stock and could act for the — ”

  “All right,” Pryor growled, “have you fetched out the money?”

  “I’ve fetched you a draft on the bank at Douglas — ”

  “I don’t want no damned draft. It’s either hard cash or nothing.”

  Reifel looked at him. Pryor’s hand moved half an inch nearer to where the gun made an up-and-down dent in his belly. “Hard cash,” he said, sneering — “an’ if you ain’t got the cash then you had better go get it.”

  “You made a deal with me, Bill. In acknowledgment of it you got two hundred bucks that came out of my pocket. Here’s the rest,” Reifel said, and carefully deposited a slip of pale olive paper in an uncluttered place on the manager’s desk.

  Pryor’s glittering gaze touched the check and whipped back again. A nerve commenced to twitch an inch below his left eyelid. He grabbed up the check and tore it across and grinned and dropped it.

  “Pryor,” Reifel said, “I guess you don’t hear well.”

  “Beat it,” Pryor scowled. He put his hand on his gun butt. “Fork your horse an’ get out of here.”

  “I’m going’ to make myself plain,” Reifel told him. “I don’t know and don’t care who’s behind that closed door. What’s between you an’ her ain’t no part of my business. But I’ve paid for this ranch and I want a deed to it. If you aim to stay healthy grab a pen and get busy.”

  Pryor looked at him and spat. “Any time,” he began, and pulled up his head, listening. Boot heels thumped the verandah floor boards in a steady progression of hollow pounding sounds. The front door flung open and a girl in a riding habit stood there eyeing them with a cold contempt blazing out of her stare.

  Sweat poured through every fold of Pryor’s skin. He let go of his gun butt and half wheeled around to catch hold of the table with the paint on his lips standing out red as blood. But Reifel wasn’t seeing this, nor did he notice the way all the lines of Pryor’s face abruptly twisted together.

  Reifel’s eyes, suddenly sick, were incredibly fixed on the girl in the doorway. There was horror in his stare and then a rage black as Pryor’s. With savage strides he crossed the room and hurled the back door wide. For one terrible moment, his gaunt shape stiff with outrage, he peered into the blackness of the outside night and then, catching up the dropped glove, he came bitterly back with his look hard as granite.

  He thrust the glove at the girl. “You came back for this, didn’t you?”

  Marta May’s smeared lips pulled away from her teeth. Her eyes seemed trying to get at Pryor’s throat and his cheeks were the color of rain-dampened ashes. She started to tremble but it wasn’t from fear. She didn’t look much like the girl on the stage — she didn’t look at all as Ben Reifel remembered.

  But it was her. And it was her dulcet tones that hate-filled and vibrant curled around Bill Pryor like the song of a lash. The man’s face turned livid, and then she said, cursing him, “So you were going to sell us out — just like that — just like Judas!”

  Pryor’s shoulders came up and tipped his chest forward and globules of sweat trickled down to his belly, and his eyes rolled around like a stallion bronc’s. “You heard me turn his deal down!”

  “Yes! Because I was here — because you hadn’t the guts to take his money with me listening! What do you think that will buy you? When I tell my father — ”

  “You ain’t gettin’ me killed!” Pryor shouted. He reached for his gun, whirling sideways, and pulled it. Reifel, flinging himself forward, caught Pryor’s wrist with both hands and turned with it, swinging the man headlong into the table. The table collapsed and Pryor lost his gun but he was up again instantly, coming for Reifel with a lifted chair.

  Reifel caught the glint of it and got both arms above his head before it hit him. Even so, that impact staggered him and as he swayed, off balance, Pryor brought the chair crashing into him once more. Reifel heard the crack of its landing with pain knifing raggedly down to his bootheels. The splintered rungs hung about his neck and he was down on his knees seeing Pryor’s approaching shape through a scarlet fog.

  He finally got a foot under him but he hadn’t the strength to lever himself upward before Pryor was onto him. Pryor’s chair, though dilapidated, was still a fine weapon and, with the legs broken off, he had shifted his hold. He tried, swinging it scythe-fashion, to smash in Ben’s ribs with the edge of its seat. Reifel rolled away groaning into the wreck of the table.

  He could hear the
hoarse grunt of Pryor’s winded breathing, he could feel the floor shake to the tramp of Pryor’s feet and he knew he had got to do something quick. He knuckled the bloody sweat from his eyes and rolled over and came up with a stout piece of table leg. He swung at the same instant Pryor swung the chair again.

  The remains of the chair fell apart in Pryor’s hands. Reifel lurched to one side and swung his club at Pryor’s knee. He heard bone snap and Pryor loosed a wild yell and went down. Reifel said, standing over him, “That makes it about even — you wantin’ to go on with this?”

  Pryor got his elbows propped under him and levered his torso up off of the floor. Strange noises came out of him and the pain, Reifel reckoned, must have been pretty terrible. Pryor’s face loosened up, all its muscles sagging flabbily, and abruptly a shudder shook the elbows out from under him. As though propelled by steel springs his good leg flashed upward, the heel of his boot plunging wickedly into Reifel’s belly.

  It hurled Reifel backward, reeling, off balance. His left shoulder rammed a wall and the impact spun him around and he got tangled in his spurs and the floor whirled up and stood on end and he slid down it.

  He shook his head, gasping, trying to clear the dust from his vision, but his eyes wouldn’t focus and he could not locate Pryor. There was a roaring in his ears but even through this he could hear a kind of pounding coming toward him, growing plainer as it neared him into a series of shuffling thumps. He knew then it was Pryor inching along on a knee and his elbows and he tried without luck to find the club he had used to smash Pryor’s leg.

  Then his eyes began rather groggily to focus and he caught the shine of Pryor’s gun on the floor some six feet away; and just beyond it was Pryor with his pale eyes glittering and his forward-stretched hand only inches from its grip.

  With spurs still locked Reifel rolled toward it frantically. But he knew before he’d made three revolutions that unless he got loose of those spurs he was done for. With Pryor’s fist closing about the butt of the pistol Reifel got one foot yanked free of its boot and, swapping ends like a cat, he smashed the other foot — spurred boots and all — into Pryor’s snarling face with all the strength he had in him.