Suddenly, running at full tilt, he saw the ravine narrow before him, a rocky place, solid rock underneath. He ran at the opening, saw the rock vanish almost before his eyes and he was on the lip of a cliff, a dry waterfall!
He tried to slow down, to stop himself, but his impetus was too great. He felt himself go over, his fingers clawing for the rocks. He caught a corner of stone and for a moment thought he had saved himself, but the rock pulled loose and he fell, struck some brush, crashed through, and the last thing he knew was a faint circle of light above and then darkness closing in.
A half mile away, Brennan with thirty riders pullecl up on the brow of a low hill. They could see nothing. Off toward the mountains he heard the bark of a gun from the hunters.
"Well," he said, "they're still--" At that moment Parley's men came up the bank in their wild charge, which had started too soon and too far from their objective.
"Take 'em, men!" Brennan slapped spurs to his horse and started forward. And they opened fire.
The shock of the unexpected flank attack was too much. Parley's men, poorly disciplined at least, broke before it. Brennan's hard riders, most of them cavalry veterans of the Civil and Indian Wars, relishing this sudden call to action, charged into the fleeing renegades with flaming guns.
In a moment, it was over. Half a dozen men were on the ground. Several fled, barely clinging to their saddles, and Silver Dick, one of the last ones up the bank in the ill--considered charge, had turned sharply at the first shot and gone back into the river bottom, Del Robb beside him.
There was a crashing in the brush, and Murray ran out on foot, eyes bulging with anger. "Where'd he go?" he yelled. "Did you see that mick?"
"Forget it, Murray! Get your horse and come onl We've been hit... hard!"
Turning sharply, within fifty yards of the dry waterfall over which Mayo had fallen, they rode back up the ravine under the cover of the trees. On the way they picked up Watkins and two more. Gradually others joined them until there were a dozen or so. There was no sign of Justin Parley.
Chapter Fifteen
Holly Barnes looked nervously toward the sound of the shooting. What had happened to Parley? He had kept the hunting group as close to the river as he dared insist, and then that other bunch of buffalo had drifted nearer, diverting them from the route he planned. And now the shooting... what had gone wrong?
Suddenly he wanted to be away from here. He wanted to be riding, and riding fast, yet there was no excuse he could give for leaving. He had contracted as a guide, and if there was still an attack, and he had tried to leave--
It could be a hanging matter. Grant seemed pleasant enough, and Sheridan also, but Sherman was a hard man and one given to asking questions.
Colonel Seymour rode up, accompanied by McClean. "Barnes, what's all that shooting about?"
"I don't know, Colonel. Maybe some cowboys play--actin', tryin' to scare you, more'n likely. You know how it is, that would make a great story after you boys left the country, how they scared you--all."
Seymour was irritated, "We are not scared, as you put it, Barnes. We are not at all scared. Ride on!"
Barnes wet his lips. "Colonel, I think--"
"Barnes, we came to hunt. So let us hunt."
Barnes glanced again over the bland, unassuming prairie, broken with occasional rocks and patches of timber in the lowlands. It told him nothing. Once he thought he glimpsed a dust cloud.
What was going on over there? What had happened to Parley?
He led the group on toward the buffalo, then hung back as they moved out to the hunt. He wanted to get away, but for some reason McClean seemed more interested in him than in the hunt. Did McClean know him? How could he? When McClean had been a prisoner, Holly had been in Laramie scouting for information.
He was nervous, and he was afraid it showed. McClean was no fool, and the colonel was watching him. Somehow, too, McClean always seemed to have that rifle in his hands pointed in Holly's direction.
Suddenly Barda McClean came riding up. "Father! Look!"
McClean turned. A party of horsemen were approaching. Colonel McClean, who had the memory of a cowboy when it came to horses, recognized several that he had seen at the fort or in town. He took up his glass and leveled it. Brennan, that saloonkeeper from town, what was he doing out here? Singleton, Cooney, storekeeper Clyde Dixon... what was this?
"Let's ride over, Seymour. There's something wrong about this."
Swinging their mounts, Barda beside them, they rode swiftly toward the approaching band.
Behind them Holly Barnes took one look. That was none of his outfit. About a hundred yards away there was a shallow draw; he rode at an angle, then suddenly did a vanishing act into the draw.
It had been a crazy idea anyway, trying to kill all those generals. Why had he ever let himself get into a Stupid thing like that?
Holly Barnes was not an enlightened man, but he had a good bit of practical sense when he settled down to use it, and at this moment it told him that Nevada was a beautiful, extraordinary land uniquely situated to benefit by his talents, a land that was waiting, gasping for his arrival... an arrival too long delayed.
"If you keep ridin', Holly," he told himself, "you can camp thirty miles from here, and the sooner you get to that there camp, the better!"
Crispin Mayo of County Cork, of Skibbereen, Clonakilty and Rosscarbery, opened his eyes upon a star. It was a single star, straight above him, and there was no other he could see. For several minutes he lay perfectly still, hoping the star would not go away; and when it did not, he moved his head.
His neck was stiff, and his head felt thick and heavy. He rolled over onto his face and pushed himself up to hands and knees. He was one great lump of pain. Memory came back slowly. He had been shot at from close up, he had been running in blind panic for the first time in his life, and he had taken a bad fall. That must have been hours ago.
His fingers closed on sand... a creek bed, no doubt. He remembered of a sudden that he had fallen off a dry waterfall, and he thought he'd landed in some brush. He must have crashed through the brush to this sand.
It was night, and whatever had been about to happen when he'd blacked out had happened long since. That had been around noon. And now it was dark, or all but dark--the sky was a cobalt blue just shading into sapphire.
He had lost his horse and rifle.
His side felt stiff; he touched it and found dried blood caked with sand. His shirt was stuck to his side. When he got up, he stood uncertainly, testing himself for what else might be wrong.
He had been shot before he fell, then. The wound in the side could have come only from a bullet. It didn't feel too serious, just stiff and aching. He was bruised and sore all over from his fall, and he felt shaky as a leaf in high wind. But his head was the worst.
He stumbled over to a polished boulder and sat down, touching his skull gently here and there. It hurt badly, but he could not find a wound. Not a gunshot, then. The fall... no, the two falls! He'd gone over that log when he'd been shot, and hit the side of his head hard on ground or rock. Then he'd panicked, a thing so foreign to his nature that he could not understand it.
He had run like a hare; he, Cris Mayo, who'd have died before he disgraced himself so. He felt his natural pride drain way to leave him hollow, a husk, a coward.
He'd run till the dry waterfall dropped him into blackness. Maybe he'd hit his head again that time, to sleep so long?
They did say that a good knock on the skull could send a man crazy for a time, so that he'd do daft things. Cris took a long breath. That must have been it. He surely wasn't the bravest of men, but by the powers he wasn't a man who ran from danger, either! It had been the terrible blow. It had addled his wits.
They seemed to be returning to him now. He got to his feet. His hand went to his holster: his six--gun was there, miraculously. The cool butt in his palm was reassuring.
His eyes were growing accustomed to the darkness and he saw an opening in the canop
y of brush that showed light. Bent over, he went through and stood in the open, under a low--riding moon. He was on the bottom of a dry creek bed with high rock walls. The waterfall over which he had dropped was behind him and no more than fifteen feet in height. Still, if he'd gone down that drop and smacked his thick Irish skull a second time, it was sure little wonder that he'd slept for hours!
He heard no sound. He sat again, studying the walls. He must get out of here, but he had no desire to pitch over another cliff in the process. There was a lot of broken brush and branches littering the place, and one of the latter he chose for a staff. Limping, he started down the creek.
It was Murray who had shot him, he was certain of that from his remembrance of the roaring voice he'd heard; and Murray was a vengeful man who might still be prowling this neighborhood looking for him.
Cris had walked only a few yards when he found the walls of the ravine no longer sheer. Yet he was also finding new pains in his battered carcass. He stopped and rested again.
His eyes were used to the early night now and he could see the dark shapes of rocks, clumps of brush, and along the side of one wall a narrow trail going up... probably made by deer, buffalo or wild horses.
He started hobbling along. His right leg hurt abominably, not broken, he was sure, but no doubt badly bruised. His maimed left hand throbbed, so did his head. He looked up the narrow, angling path. There was no danger in it, but he dreaded the effort needed. Yet he started on, and after a while came out on top.
There were many stars. The sky was clear, the lifting moon just past the full. His eyes sought out and recognized the shapes around him. How far was he from Laramie or Fort Sanders? The fort was closer, he believed, but his sense of direction was twisted. He found the North Star easily enough. It seemed to be in the wrong place, yet he knew it must be he himself who was turned around.
He waited a minute, leaning on his staff and trying to place himself. Was his rifle still on the ground back there? And the black horse? If they had not found that fine stallion he might still be tied there, in that hidden place!
He hobbled along, swearing a little at his own near--helplessness, but the movements gradually came easier as his stiffened muscles loosened up. How long had he been lying back there? He looked at the stars, trying to estimate time by the Big Dipper.
If he was judging correctly it was about nine. That meant nine hours lost in unconsciousness, indeed, as he'd guessed by the moon's height. He found his way to the place he had hidden in to send his searching bullets down the ravine. He could see little there, but he felt around in the darkness with his toe.
Nothing. He moved to the log over which he had fallen. They must have been right on top of him, and then there had been the attack, he thought, recollecting the spate of firing. Had they followed Parley? And what had happened out there on the buffalo range? Were the generals dead? Or Barda McClean?
Suddenly his eye caught a gleam of starlight on metal. He dropped his staff and reached down and picked up his rifle. Next to it lay his hat. He put it on his sore head gingerly.
Luck... pure luck. Now, if only his horse was still there!
Why not? He had tied the knot pretty tight, and the hiding place had been good. Moreover, they had been in a hurry, thinking only of killing him and getting on with their dirty plot.
Everything was different in the dark. He listened. Far off, in a tree near the stream, he could hear a mockingbird, awake for some reason at this hour. Had it been disturbed by someone besides himself?
He crouched near a boulder, wiping the dirt from his rifle with his hands. If the muzzle were stopped up, the gun might explode in his hands. He wanted to tap it against a boulder but worried about the sound it would make, an unnatural sound in the night, if anybody was listening.
He felt on the ground for a small twig, found one, tested the gun muzzle. It seemed to be clear of obstruction.
He knew about where his horse had been. By now of course it might have broken free and gone back to Laramie. Then Brennan would probably be hunting him by daylight or soon after. But would he? How well did he know Brennan, after all, and had not Brennan one thousand dollars he had promised to Cris Mayo?
He shrugged. He had a feeling that Brennan would be looking, when he knew that his prizefighter had vanished.
Cris was wary of the night. How many times had he crouched so, and listened? Not only for the gamekeeper, either, for there had been other enemies. He listened, straining his ears for the slightest sound.
Nothing...
He straightened to his feet and carrying the rifle under his arm he limped toward where he believed his horse to be. Yet all was different. Landmarks seen by day are too often invisible by night, and the trees he had selected yesterday had merged with each other in the blackness. He went a short way, moving as quietly as he could, then sat down again, partly to rest and partly to get the outline of trees and hills against the sky.
Suddenly, he heard the faintest of sounds... something was out there. His horse? Murray? Brennan? Rep, maybe?
He waited, listening for a repetition of the sound. There was none. He tried to place it in his mind... a click of hoof on stone? The bump of a rifle against a branch? After a moment he moved on, trying desperately to make no sound.
He stopped again. He had heard nothing, yet he was sure something was out there, and not just his horse. Irish nerves are sensitive to unheard things in the night. Something was out there, waiting. He moved into the shadow of a juniper and dropped his right hand to his six--gun and slid the thong from the hammer. Could he get it out fast enough? Rep had said that the secret was not speed, but just to be sure that you got it out, levelled it steadily, and fired. To take that extra whisper of time... his uncle had said the same thing about a rifle. Had he loaded his rifle, after emptying it that day? He couldn't remember. If only his blasted head didn't throb so!
He stood thinking. He had been able to see into the ravine from the place where he'd left his horse. Or he had before he dismounted, which was different. Yet he was sure that right at this moment his horse should be within sixty yards or so of where he stood. If the horse was still there.
Suppose Murray was stalking him? Suppose Murray had found the stallion, left it where it was, and just pulled back to wait for him?
Then the instant he untied the horse, Cris would take a slug through the spine. The thought had no appeal.
He touched his six--shooter again. Murray and two others had been hunting him. He had nailed down one of them, certainly; if that man was alive he was in no condition to be poking around in the dark. But what of Murray and the other one? Had they ridden on with Parley?
The night was still. Scarcely a leaf moved as Cris Mayo stood by the juniper and listened. Then finally he heard a faint stirring, not far off, a small rattle--the sound of a horse mouthing his bit He was closer than he'd believed.
Lifting a foot, he placed it gently down, making no noise. He moved forward a step, and then another.
Something stirred faintly on the left; and the rattle of the bit had come from his right front. He listened, straining for the slightest sound. He took a sudden step to his right, tested the ground and put his foot down gently, then shifted his weight.
Above him a nighthawk dipped and circled, then whisked away through the trees. All was white and still in the moonlight, every object standing out in bold relief, yet the shapes were strange to him. The boulders cast shadows, as did the trees, shadows as dark as themselves, giving them weird, malformed aspects never seen by day.
Somewhere down the slope a pebble rattled. Natural? Or disturbed by something... somebody?
He could feel the trickles of perspiration despite the coolness of the night. Who was it who lurked nearby? He dared not simply shoot, for it might be Rep or Brennan, somebody searching for him but wary of Parley's men.
Cris Mayo took another careful step to his right. He was still shadowed by junipers, but this would be his last such move. He squatted down, pee
ring ahead.
The black horse should be less than sixty feet downslope and to the right. He was closer than he had at first believed... or had the rattle of the bit come from another horse?
He eased the rifle into his two hands after checking his revolver again. He was growing irritated by the suspense, the waiting. He knew it was a dangerous feeling, for it might betray him into a move that would be the death of him; yet he had no idea whether there really was somebody out there. The imagination can play tricks, aided by natural movements of the earth and of animals. Sounds that occur all day long may be noticed only in the stillness of night. But pains and aches that wrench at a man from toes to crown, they make him impatient.
He took up a small stone from near his foot and tossed it thirty feet back up the slope. He heard it hit, then rattle as it rolled down among rocks. Silence.
There was a gap of a dozen feet between himself and the next juniper downslope and to the right. He moved, lunging suddenly from the ground and throwing himself toward the tree.
He was seeking only another protective shadow, but what he smashed into was something quite different. He had started down in his crouching position and moved low and fast. His brogans grated on pebbles and then his shoulder hit hard against an obstacle that gave way before him. A hand clawed at his face, and a man rolled onto his back, into the open moonlight.
The man he had seen with Murray!
Knocked sprawling, Watkins lost his grip on his gun and it fell. He scrambled for it and Cris Mayo shot from where he crouched. No more than eight feet away and the rifle in his hands, he simply fired. And the rifle had been loaded, despite his worries. Watkins grunted, started to rise up. "Damn you!" he said clearly, and then he fell.
Instantly a bullet struck within inches of Cris Mayo. He ran, crouched, fired, levered his rifle, fired again. Then he charged directly at the hidden marksman, working the lever as he moved. A gun blasted almost in his face and the stab of flame half--blinded him, but gripping the rifle in his two hands he took a wicked jab with the muzzle into the darkness where the flame had shown.
the Man from Skibbereen (1973) Page 14
