The aspen line was indeed inclining downward as it described an arc around the slope, making way for the fir and spruce that thickly covered the mountain almost to the peak. Higher, there was only windswept bare rock.
McBride, worried about his slow progress, stepped out of the aspens and walked along the tree line. He was exposed, but away from the underbrush he could make better time.
He followed the bend of the aspens for several minutes, gradually heading lower on the slope, until he saw the cabin directly below him. There was no firing for the moment, unless the roar of the guns had been silenced by the greater roar of the thunder.
Lighting streaking across the black sky above him, McBride made his way down the mountainside. He reached the pines again and slid most of the way through them on his rump. Below him loomed a narrow ledge of bare rock, and he slowed his descent by grabbing onto trees and brush. He hit the ledge feetfirst and hard, then stayed where he was, his back against the slope, every inch of his aching body complaining.
Now he heard a rifle fire, followed by a high-pitched whine as the bullet caromed off a rock. The ricochet sounded like it came from somewhere beyond the ledge and McBride got stiffly to his feet.
The ledge was only about thirty-six inches wide. He stepped gingerly to the edge, glanced over quickly and ducked back. In that instant he learned much.
The rifleman was holed up among a pile of boulders about twenty feet below. Beyond the ledge a talus slope of sand and gravel dropped at a fairly steep angle to the man’s position. Huddled next to him was Julieta, her face bruised, the top of her dress torn from her shoulders. The rifleman wore a canvas slicker, soaked with rain, and a low-crowned, flat-brimmed hat decorated with a wide band of Indian beadwork. The man’s black hair spilled over his shoulders and McBride had no doubt he was the Apache—and that he’d be hard to handle.
But in that brief glimpse, what caught McBride’s attention more than anything else was Tashin’s horse. The paint pony stood on three legs beside a scrub oak, its front right foreleg from the knee down dangling loose, white with splintered bone. It was a bad break and the horse must be in considerable pain.
McBride stepped back from the edge and considered what to do next.
Remorse was pinned down in the cabin and, shooting uphill, his chances of hitting the Apache were slim. All Tashin had to do was wait until dark and make his escape with Julieta.
Suddenly McBride realized he had only one option. He had to kill the Indian. It was as straightforward as that.
He had to study the angle of the talus slope again. Used up as he was, it looked too steep for him to climb down. Leading with his left foot, he shuffled cautiously to the rim of the rock shelf—and plunged headlong into disaster.
Chapter 30
For a single split second of horror, McBride felt it happen. Soaked with rain, the soft sandstone of the rim crumbled away from under his foot and suddenly he was off balance and falling.
He tumbled down the talus slope feetfirst in a rattling shower of rock and gravel. Fast, vivid impressions sped past him . . . Julieta’s wide, horrified eyes . . . the Apache turning, snarling, his rifle coming up . . . a bullet thudding into the slope near him as Remorse fired at Tashin and missed . . . the legs of the Indian’s horse . . .
Then he was crashing into timber, cartwheeling head-over-heels through thick brush, cactus and stinging nettles.
McBride came to a jarring halt as his back fetched up solidly against a tree, raindrops showering over him. The wind knocked out of him, he looked groggily around. He was on a steep incline somewhere below the Apache’s position. His hand reached under his slicker for his gun. It was gone. He must have lost it in his wild plummet down the slope. Slowly McBride struggled to his feet and tested his battered body. He had added more cuts and bruises but thankfully no bones were broken.
Then he saw his Colt.
When his two-hundred-and-fifty-pound body had tumbled down the slope, he’d gouged out a hollow in a patch of sandy ground that had quickly filled with running rainwater. His gun lay in the middle of the stream.
The distance between McBride and the Colt was only about ten yards . . . but it was a long enough distance to kill him.
The Apache, the Volcanic rifle across his chest, was stepping down the slope toward him. They saw each other at the same moment at a distance of fifty paces. Tashin threw the rifle to his shoulder and fired. But McBride was already moving and the bullet smashed into the trees behind him. He took a couple of running steps and dove for the gun. Grabbing the Colt by the barrel, he rolled to his right into brush. The Indian fired again. This time he was closer and the .38-caliber slug kicked up an exclamation point of stinging mud into McBride’s open mouth and eyes.
Panting with fear and exhaustion, McBride righted the Colt, sat up and fired at the Apache. A miss. But the shot drove Tashin to duck into cover behind the thick trunk of a tree.
McBride rose, planted his feet and took up the NYPD shooting position, his eyes on the Douglas fir where the Apache had sheltered. For a few seconds the only sounds were his own labored breathing, the hiss of the rain and thunder echoing around the mountain.
Suddenly the lower branches of the fir heaved and tossed, as though a bear were climbing through them. The Apache staggered out into the open, Julieta clinging to his back, her arms wrapped around his neck. Her white teeth were bared, trying to reach his throat. Tashin twisted his body and threw the woman off him. Julieta landed on her back, then sat up, her face filled with angry defiance.
McBride saw his chance and fired. He hit the Apache in the left shoulder, rainwater and blood erupting from the wound. Tashin screamed and fired from the hip. The bullet split the air beside McBride’s head and the Indian levered another round into the chamber. McBride shot again. The round smashed into the Volcanic’s brass receiver, ranged upward and hit Tashin under the chin. The man staggered backward on rubber legs, his eyes wild. McBride took careful aim and shot the Apache in the middle of the forehead. Tashin fell on his back without a sound, rolled on his belly and died.
‘‘That,’’ McBride said, ‘‘was for not shooting your horse.’’
He climbed up the slope, walked to the paint and with one shot put the suffering animal out of its misery. Only then did he turn his attention to Julieta.
The lamps were lit in Julieta’s cabin as she and McBride sat at her table drinking coffee. Outside, rain was still falling, but the thunder was now a ghost whisper in the distance. Coyotes were yipping among the foothills of the mountains, lifting dripping heads to a darkening sky, and a driving wind thumped against the door and windows.
‘‘We missed them by how much?’’ McBride asked.
‘‘Not long,’’ Julieta answered. ‘‘Maybe thirty minutes before you arrived.’’
‘‘This will sting,’’ Remorse said. He was standing behind the girl, dabbing stuff from a brown bottle on the scratches that raked across her shoulders and the top of her breasts.
‘‘It feels good,’’ Julieta said. ‘‘The Apache’s fingernails were not clean, I think.’’
‘‘And Harlan stayed outside with the wagon?’’ McBride prompted.
‘‘John,’’ Remorse said, ‘‘the girl is exhausted. She’s already told you all this.’’
‘‘It’s all right. I don’t mind,’’ Julieta said. ‘‘Yes, only Jared Josephine, his son and the Apache came inside.’’
‘‘And you’re sure you didn’t see Clare O’Neil?’’
‘‘I didn’t see her. But I’m certain she was in the wagon and that’s why Harlan was outside.’’
‘‘Did Jared give any indication of where he was taking the baby?’’
‘‘No, but Lance said the silver mine was as good as theirs now that they could use Clare’s bastard as a bargaining chip. Bastard was his word, not my own.’’
‘‘What do you think he meant by that, a bargaining chip?’’
Julieta shook her head. ‘‘I don’t know.’’
&n
bsp; Remorse capped the bottle and the girl looked up at him and smiled her thanks. After a while she said, ‘‘I think Jared brought the Apache along to force Clare to sign the mine over to him and Lance.’’ She shuddered. ‘‘Apaches have ways of doing such things.’’
‘‘I thought the Apache hired on to find your cabin,’’ McBride said.
‘‘I think that was just insurance in the event Clare didn’t tell him where the baby was hidden. I don’t know if the Indian found the cabin himself, or if Clare told him. Maybe she did, because when the Apache asked Jared if he could have me, Jared said something like, ‘You’ve already had fun with one white woman and there’s more waiting for you. Isn’t that enough?’ ’’
Julieta looked down at her clenched hands, her shoulders shaking as she sobbed. Remorse put his arm around her and made soothing, whispering sounds, as though he were comforting a hurting child.
‘‘But apparently it wasn’t enough,’’ Julieta said, looking at McBride with tear-red eyes. ‘‘Before Jared and the others left, they paid the Apache what they owed him and told him he could do whatever he wanted to me. Jared said when he was finished he was to rejoin them. They went out the door laughing, father and son. Jared was carrying the baby and he was talking about me being left to the Apache as a human sacrifice.’’
‘‘But then we arrived and Tashin took you with him,’’ McBride said.
‘‘Was that his name, Tashin? No, after Jared Josephine left’’—she hesitated, as though reluctant to say the name—‘‘Tashin told me to cook him food. Then he left with his rifle. He must have been worried that someone might find him here. He came back after a while and told me I was to leave with him. When I refused, he grabbed me and ripped my dress. He then dragged me to his horse. He was taking a trail along the mountain when the horse broke its leg. Soon after that the shooting started.’’
Remorse had been quiet, but now he spoke up. ‘‘Logically, there’s only two places Josephine could have gone without us seeing him—back to Rest and Be Thankful or to the O’Neil ranch. If he suspects that there are lawmen in town, the ranch would be his obvious choice.’’
‘‘Jared knows everything that’s happening in his town,’’ McBride said. ‘‘A dozen new faces, even if they were lying low for the time being, would not have escaped his notice. After the years he’s spent among some of the worst outlaws in the West, I believe he has the animal instinct to smell a peace officer at a hundred paces.’’
Remorse nodded. ‘‘If he was suspicious, he knew he could lie low at the ranch until the Rangers left. Then he could ride back into town a rich man, the deed to a silver mine safe in his pocket. After that, well, the world is his oyster.’’
McBride rose and stepped to the window and looked into the darkness. Light from the cabin windows transformed the closer raindrops into slanting steel needles. Beyond there was only a wall of black. Without turning he said, ‘‘We could be at the O’Neil ranch in a couple of hours, maybe less.’’
‘‘We could,’’ Remorse agreed, ‘‘but Rest and Be Thankful is closer. Shouldn’t we try there first?’’
McBride turned, his face half in shadow. Unshaven and haggard, his sweeping mustache untrimmed, he looked tough, enduring and a hard man to kill.
‘‘I’ve spent time among outlaws myself,’’ he said, ‘‘and I have my own instincts. I think Jared Josephine is at the ranch. He may have murdered Clare O’Neil and the baby already. I’d say it all depends on how much Clare can stand.’’
‘‘Pain, you mean,’’ Julieta said, her voice small, her gray face revealing that she knew what the answer would be.
McBride nodded, but said nothing.
‘‘Woman, will you be all right here alone?’’ This from Remorse, who was building a cigarette.
‘‘Yes, I’ll be fine.’’ Julieta’s eyes lifted to McBride. ‘‘John, whatever Clare is, whatever she has done, she is still my friend. Bring her and the baby back here.’’
Again McBride merely nodded. He had no reassuring words. Clare had tried to kill him and even if she’d been insane at the time he could not get over that.
Remorse lit his smoke, rose to his feet and took down his and McBride’s slickers from the hooks behind the door. He tossed McBride’s slicker to him and said, ‘‘You did well up there on the mountain today. The Apache was not easy.’’
‘‘Thank Julieta for that,’’ McBride said, smiling at the girl. ‘‘If she hadn’t grabbed him I wouldn’t have gotten the clear shot I did.’’
‘‘You didn’t tell me that,’’ Remorse said, the cigarette bobbing between his lips. His eyes lightened. ‘‘When the Apache came at you, were you standing straight up and down like a city detective at a police shooting range?’’
McBride absorbed the barb, smiling to show that it didn’t hurt a bit. ‘‘As a matter of fact, yes, I was. I assumed the official NYPD shooting position.’’ Now he recalled the words of his instructors and repeated them by rote. ‘‘Such a shooting stance provides a steady platform for the police officer’s weapon when he needs must apply deadly force when confronted with an armed and murderous felon.’’
Remorse glanced at McBride, then at Julieta. ‘‘Lucky you grabbed the Apache when you did, young lady. He would have killed McBride for sure.’’
Sunset Peak was lost in darkness, but McBride felt its brooding presence looming over him as he and Remorse angled to the southeast, turning away from the mountains.
They rode across forested plateau country, five thousand feet above the flat, and their horses held their heads nervously high, intent on the endless tunnel of darkness ahead. The rain fell steadily, drumming on the hats and shoulders of the riders, and a restless wind whipped through the surrounding junipers and piñons, setting them to whispering.
‘‘This is rough enough country in daylight,’’ Remorse said. ‘‘Ten times rougher at night.’’
‘‘We should see the lights of the ranch soon,’’ McBride said. He didn’t believe that himself. He didn’t even know if they were headed in the right direction.
‘‘Good, then maybe we can get out of this infernal rain.’’
McBride felt rather than saw Remorse turn his head to him. ‘‘How do we play it?’’
‘‘I don’t know.’’
‘‘Well, that’s honest, if less than inspiring.’’
Lightning lit up the clouds ahead of them and, despite the rain, the hunting coyotes were calling.
‘‘Saul, you’re the feller who doesn’t shoot straight up and down like a city detective,’’ McBride said. ‘‘Maybe you’re the one to have inspiration.’’
Remorse’s laughter was a soft sound in the darkness. ‘‘You’re so easy to tease, John. I’ll have to ask forgiveness for that.’’ He fell silent for a few moments, considering, then said, ‘‘Is there a back door to the ranch house?’’
‘‘As far as I can recall, yes.’’
‘‘Then one of us hits them from the back, one from the front.’’
‘‘You mean just blindly charge inside?’’
‘‘Yes, with guns blazing.’’
‘‘That’s your inspiration?’’
‘‘It’s all I’ve got. You?’’
McBride thought it through, but could find no better plan, at least right there and then. ‘‘Very well, that’s how we’ll play it,’’ he said.
‘‘You’re wise, John, very wise. My way is the only way.’’
Lightning flashed directly above them, a firebolt of searing white. Under his low hat brim, Remorse’s eyes were suddenly sockets of shadow, the cheekbones prominent and yellow. For one fleeting moment, McBride saw the face of a grinning skull, surrounded by floating white hair. It was there. Then it was gone.
Ralph Compton Blood on the Gallows Page 22
