Dawkins went back to Lobo and the two filled up on the tepid water, which tasted delicious to both of them. “What do you think?” Lobo asked with obvious impatience. “We can’t hang around here all night! That bunch could come in any time!”
“You’re right,” Dawkins nodded. “So here’s what we’ll do. Soon as it gets good and dark, I’ll sneak down front, and you go around to the back. You peep in the window, and if you can see the two men, break the glass and let ’em have it. I’ll rush the front door when I hear your shot. Risky,” he shrugged, “but so’s hangin’ around like this.”
Lobo didn’t like it. “No. I don’t think it’ll work, Lorenzo,” he argued. “I don’t know about Pratt, but Río’s quick as a cat. First sound he hears, he’ll be pulling his iron and blastin’ away. That girl could get killed easy.”
Dawkins was silent for a while. Finally he said, “Well, let’s try to get closer, anyway. Maybe them two will come out on the porch to get some cool air. They gotta come out together sooner or later.”
They waited until darkness fell and the lantern glowed through the cabin window. As they crept closer, they could smell meat cooking. “Look, Lorenzo,” Lobo said, “you stay here. I’m gonna go around and try to catch a look at the layout of that cabin. But if it looks bad, we’ll pull back and wait for morning, right? I don’t think we ought to bust in, too much danger to Betsy.”
“You may be right, son,” Dawkins agreed reluctantly. “All right. I’ll wait here while you go take a look. If you get a good shot, take it. If not, come on back.”
Lobo nodded and slipped away into the darkness. He took a roundabout way, staying well clear of the cabin, knowing that even in the fading light the sharp-eyed Río might be able to spot him. Finally he found a vantage point behind the cabin where he could see one small window with a yellow light beaming out into the night. He moved carefully across the ground until he reached the side of the house, then silently flattened himself against it. He could hear muted voices inside. Holding his breath, he removed his hat and slowly crept so that his head was below the window.
Looking inside, he caught a glimpse of the girl he had been seeking. She was standing before an ancient iron cookstove, frying meat. Across the room, at the table, Mateo Río and Bob Pratt sat playing cards. He did not see the woman and assumed that she was down the hallway, in one of the bedrooms. Deliberately he drew his gun and held it in his left hand.
Lobo had no false modesty; he was a swift, sure shot and he knew it. But in order to get the shots off, he would have to break the glass in the window, and he well knew that every second mattered if he were to be successful. He knew also that if he missed, one of the two men might easily shoot the girl. Tense and silent, he stood in the darkness, weighing the risks.
Finally Lobo decided that it was not his risk to take. He slowly sheathed the gun and stepped back from the window. All of a sudden, the sound of gunfire screamed through the night, somewhere in the front of the house. Instinctively he leaped to one side, clearing the window, and dashed around the corner of the house. When he reached the front he saw the winking spots of fire that revealed several men shooting. It was almost pitch dark, but he could see that they were firing at the spot where he had left Lorenzo Dawkins.
They’re back! The thought hammered Lobo’s brain.
The two men inside the cabin burst out the door. Lifting his gun, Lobo pulled off one shot and missed. Mateo Río shouted, “Over to the side, Bob! They’re over there! Take ’em!”
Lobo ran forward, holding his gun ready, and Río and Pratt opened fire on him. He heard the lead whistling through the air all around him and tossing up dust almost at his feet. He laid a heavy fire on the two men, but knew that he was missing them; he was shooting blindly at the flashes of their revolvers. Their fire returned even heavier. He loosed one final shot, then ducked and ran across the desert toward where he had left his friend.
As he neared their hiding place he yelled, “It’s me! Lobo! Don’t shoot!”
Instantly Woman Killer, who had joined them after seeing Perrago’s gang ride in, was at his side. “No good, no good! We leave now!”
“Good idea,” Lobo gasped. “C’mon, Lorenzo, let’s move!”
Lobo couldn’t see the marshal, but the older man’s hoarse voice sounded out, “I’m coming!” Then Lobo realized Dawkins was busy returning the fire of the group across the ravine. The sound of gunfire continued to split the night air.
“This is hot work,” Lobo grunted. “We’ve gotta lead that bunch outta here, away from everyone. C’mon, Lorenzo! We’ll fade over to those rocks over there. They won’t charge us there.”
“Right! I’m—” Suddenly Lorenzo’s voice broke off and Lobo’s heart sank.
“I think they got Lorenzo!” he muttered to Woman Killer. “You wait here.” He dodged through the darkness, feeling his way through the brush; a low cloud cover obscured the moon and stars. He found Lorenzo Dawkins lying in a heap, and gently rolled him over. “Are you hit bad?” Lobo asked, trying desperately to see where the old man was bleeding.
“Don’t—know. Somewhere—low down,” the old man gasped.
Lobo knew he couldn’t help him there, crouched down in the darkness and surrounded by flying lead. He picked up the old man and slung him over his shoulder, grunting, “This is gonna hurt, Lorenzo, but I’ve gotta get you outta here.” Dawkins didn’t answer.
Despite the heavy weight he carried, Lobo moved swiftly back toward Woman Killer. “Don’t shoot,” he warned when he got close. “They’ll know where we are if they see the muzzle flashes. C’mon, let’s get back to the others.”
The two men moved cautiously, their moccasined feet silent, but shortly Lobo began to gasp from the effort of carrying Dawkins. Woman Killer took the slight form without a word and Lobo drifted slightly behind. He could hear their pursuers getting closer. Got to slow them down, he thought.
He stopped and waited until he could see the vague outlines of the men; then he let off a round into them. Instantly he heard a shout of pain and someone yelled, “This way! C’mon, we got ’em, Vic!”
Perrago’s voice ordered, “Spread out! Now! Surround them!”
Lobo grimly lifted the rifle and began to lay down a heavy fire, but knowing that he was being quickly cut off, he retreated. He caught up with Woman Killer and said, “I’m worried about the others! They’re liable to blunder right into the middle of Perrago’s bunch! We’ve got to cut ’em off!”
The men made their way through the blackness, stumbling, falling, scrambling to their feet and running, until the sound of yelling and crashing was behind them. Then they heard a shaky voice call out, “Who’s there?” It was Wesley.
Lobo said, “It’s us, Stone! Don’t shoot!” He and Woman Killer came staggering into the camp, where Lanie and Wesley were waiting.
“Oh no! What happened?” Lanie cried. Woman Killer laid the still form of Marshal Dawkins down and knelt by the small man.
“Perrago,” Lobo spat out. “Came back and surprised us. Dawkins got hit. C’mon, we’ve gotta get out of here, get Lorenzo to Fort Smith, to a doctor.” He looked back, motioning for silence, then turned back to the group. “You and me’ll have to stay here and hold ’em off, Woman Killer. Stone, you and Lanie take the marshal. Lanie—go. Now.”
Lobo and Woman Killer instantly picked up Dawkins, who was still unconscious but groaning faintly, and laid him on the back of his horse, securing him with a rope from the saddlebag. “I’m staying,” Lanie said, but was seized roughly by Lobo and shoved forward.
“You get going with them,” Lobo growled, “and we’ll take care of this end.”
Perrago and his men were closing in fast. Lobo loaded his rifle and Woman Killer did the same. “We’ll hold ’em off for a while,” Lobo told him, “and give Stone and Lanie time to get a clean start. Then we’ll make a break for it.”
“Too many,” Woman Killer said impassively.
“I know,” Lobo said, “but all we have
to do is hold ’em for a little while.”
Five minutes later the fight began in earnest. Perrago was a good general; he had sent his men around in a semicircle so that Woman Killer and Lobo were caught in a crossfire and were slowly forced backward. As they retreated, Lobo’s mind raced desperately, trying to think of a way to throw them off. He heard a sound directly behind him and almost shot it, but then a voice whispered.
“It’s me—Stone. We couldn’t leave just yet.” The tall form of Wesley Stone materialized, Winchester cradled awkwardly in his arms. “I’m not much of a shot,” he said ruefully, “but I’ll do the best I can.”
Smith thought with fleeting amusement that Stone sounded as if he was apologizing for some breach of courtesy at a tea party, and a feeling of warmth swept over him for the young man. Lobo knew that Wesley Stone had never been in a situation like this before and that it took more courage for him to come than for a native westerner.
He told Stone, “Don’t shoot until you see a rifle flash; then just shoot in the general direction. You’ll hit something.”
That was the way it went. They backed up until the sounds of pursuit seemed to fade; but even as they did, Lobo heard Stone grunt and he jerked around to see Stone’s tall gangly figure slowly slump to the ground. Lobo cursed under his breath and called hoarsely, “Are you hit, Stone?”
“Uh—think so—but it’s not bad.”
Lobo moved cautiously but quickly to him, scanned the landscape carefully, then knelt down. “Where? Where is it?”
“Here, in the arm.”
Lobo could see nothing in the murky darkness, and he hoped it hadn’t hit the bone in Stone’s arm. “Get back,” Lobo urged him quietly. “Just leave the rifle. Go back to Lanie and you both just take off. Me and Woman Killer can track you in the morning. Get as far as you can, as fast as you can. Got that?”
“Yes,” Stone gasped and scrambled to his feet. Lobo rose with him, his hand running lightly over Stone’s limp right arm.
“Here,” he said, yanking the bandanna from around his neck, “I’m gonna tie this around your arm, up here. This’ll keep it from bleedin’ so bad.” In the blackness, lit only by spasmodic fire from scattered guns, Lobo bound up Stone’s arm. “Doesn’t seem to be too bad,” he assured him, squinting closely at the arm, “just a flesh wound. Now, get on back as quick as you can.”
“All right, Lobo.”
Stone disappeared and, with grim determination, Lobo said to Woman Killer, “We’ve gotta cover for ’em, Woman Killer. Let’s move in.”
Woman Killer nodded; Lobo couldn’t see him but he felt the Indian’s assent, and the two men stopped retreating and stood still, listening. Then they started forward like dark ghosts, flitting soundlessly from rock to rock, until finally both of them faced a shadow in the darkness. A man appeared in front of Lobo; a huge form hulking before him, and he recognized Honey Ward, a giant of a man. Ward fired in Lobo’s direction, and instantly Lobo drove a shot toward the looming form. It struck dead center. Ward screamed a wild cry that was cut off abruptly, threw his hands toward the sky, and was driven backward to the ground.
At the same time, Lobo heard someone else call out, “I’m hit! I’m hit, Vic!” Woman Killer had found a victim.
Lobo began to methodically lay a volley in the direction of the men as they approached him—more cautiously now—and finally was rewarded for his coolness when he heard a panicked voice call out, “We’ve gotta get out of this! Too many of them! They got Honey!”
“Pull back, then!” Vic’s harsh voice called, strain and disappointment obvious in the curt order.
It was the moment Lobo had been waiting for, and he made his way back, knowing that Woman Killer would hear Perrago’s retreat. As soon as Woman Killer appeared beside him, Lobo muttered, “Let’s get on back to the others. They’re not coming any farther tonight.” The two men ran lightly across the broken, dusty ground and found Lanie and Wesley with the wounded marshal securely tied on the back of his horse, Lanie leading the way.
“Let’s go, as fast and far as we can,” Lobo ordered calmly. “They’ll be after us as soon as it’s light enough to track us. But we can be clear by then. Woman Killer, now that we’ve found ’em, I hate to lose these rascals. There’s no way Vic’ll stay here now that he’s been found out—I need you to track ’em until they settle on a new hideout. Then you can meet us in Fort Smith.”
“Yes. I go. Back soon.” The Indian nudged his horse’s flanks and forged ahead into the night, ready to follow Perrago and his gang.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Death in the Desert
“We’ve got to get back to Fort Smith,” Lanie said desperately.
She had drawn Lobo aside from where Marshal Lorenzo Dawkins was lying flat on the blanket they had thrown down beside the small fire. The sun was now high in the sky, and the horses had been pretty winded by the inexorable pace all last night and half the day.
They had reached a small creek and decided it would be best to rest the wounded men and the horses before going on. All of them were dead tired. Lanie’s face was drawn and pale as she glanced back at Dawkins and Wesley. “How far is it?” she asked Lobo worriedly. “How long is it going to take?”
Lobo shook his head. “Best part of two days,” he answered, “at least, riding slow enough to keep from shaking ’em to death. We need to make a travois so Lorenzo can at least lay down instead of bouncing along on the back of that horse.” He looked around the barren landscape and the one indigo eye narrowed. “But you’re right, we sure can’t stay out here.”
“Do you think Lorenzo will be all right?” Lanie’s eyes were large, pleading.
An apprehensive look crossed Lobo’s face, and he chewed his lip nervously, not meeting her gaze. “I don’t know, Lanie. He wasn’t too strong to begin with, and that bullet’s hit something around his lower back. Last time he woke up, he said he didn’t feel any pain.” Lobo sighed softly, “Bad sign. . . .”
They stood talking quietly, trying not to let the others overhear their anxious words. Lobo finally made a decision. “All right. We’ll rest here until it cools off. We’ve got plenty of food, but no grain for the horses. I’ll take ’em out, find some graze, and then rub ’em down and let ’em rest tonight. We can make it in two days, I think.”
Lanie was worried. “Wesley’s arm looks bad, too, Lobo. I’ve heard of gangrene coming from things like that.”
“Yeah, I’ve seen it happen,” Lobo admitted, “but we got it cleaned out pretty good. If we keep puttin’ fresh bandages on it and keep him quiet, I think he’ll be all right. I’d rather he saw a doctor, though,” he went on almost to himself. His eye searched the rising hills they had struggled over the night before, and thought of what they had left behind. He looked back at Lanie and said shortly, “Sorry we didn’t get your sister. I made a bad play.”
Lanie sighed deeply and shook her head. “No, Lobo, it wasn’t your fault.” She lifted her eyes to his questioningly, “By the way, what is your name? It can’t be ‘Lobo.’ Makes you sound like the big bad wolf.”
Despite the strain and weariness that had engulfed him, Smith grinned suddenly. “I’ll tell that only to one person, Lanie.”
“One person? Who?”
“When I stand in front of a preacher and say ‘I, Something Smith, take thee to be my lawful wedded wife . . . ’ That’s the one time I’ll let my name slip,” he teased.
Lanie’s full lips curved upward, soft and gentle. She was so tired and scared of what lay ahead, but suddenly her heart lightened and new strength seemed to surge through her. “Let’s go back to the others,” she said softly. “And please quit beating yourself up. You did the best you could, Lobo. No one could have known that Perrago would return at the wrong time.”
“All right. It’s hard not to think about it, though.”
During most of the day, Lobo busied himself making the travois. He cut two saplings down, tied them together at one end and secured a blanket between the tw
o poles, creating a triangular stretcher for Lorenzo to rest on as they traveled.
They stayed beside the cool trickle of water all that day and night. Early, before dawn, they loaded up and continued on again as fast as they could. The stop had given the wounded men some respite. At about eleven o’clock that morning Lobo, who was pulling Lorenzo on the travois, suddenly reined in his horse. “Stop!” he cried out to the other riders. “Stop the horses!”
As they obeyed, Lanie asked, “What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know,” Lobo said. “I just felt I needed to check on him.” He pulled the stretcher down, looking worriedly at Lorenzo’s gray face. “Something’s gone wrong. I’m not even sure he’s breathing.”
Holding his breath, he put his hand over the frail chest of the old man. Lorenzo did not move. Lobo leaned over with his head on Dawkins’ still chest and listened for a moment, then straightened up. “Heart’s beating like crazy,” he said quietly, “real fast, then not at all. I don’t know what that means.”
Stone, who was hunched over on his horse, whispered, “I think he’s dying, Lobo. That’s the way the heart does sometimes when it’s giving out.” Then he slowly dismounted.
“Let’s get him into the shade,” Lobo said. “At least bathe his face with some cool water.” The only shade they could find was under two sickly looking pine trees. They quickly detached the travois from the horse and carried it to the cooler spot, trying not to jog Lorenzo too much.
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