He stopped and considered the situation.
These two bastards were smarter than he thought. This wasn’t going to be a pushover.
Now maybe they split up here and were meeting somewhere else. Maybe they had split up, one going after the girl and the other heading out of the country.
So which set of tracks did he follow?
He might as well toss a coin. No, he reasoned that if one of the men were heading back for Sarah, it must be the man who had turned left. Clay decided he could do worse than get after him. He rode up onto the left side of the creek and started following the sign into the brush. He was still following it when dark caught him almost unawares. He rode back to the creek, watered his horse, staked it out on the grass growing alongside the water and bedded down. His wound was hurting like hell, he had to lie on his face and he slept badly. He was kept awake by pain and by the thought of those men coming up with Sarah. Once when he fell into a fitful sleep, he dreamed that Jody and George lost her and she wandered into the arms of the two men. They were armed with knives and they stabbed her. They kept on stabbing her and Clay was watching, but was powerless to help her. His own cry woke him. He opened his eyes in the moonlight to find himself covered in sweat. He didn’t sleep again, but sat up till dawn, chewing on some jerky,
Before first light, he was in the saddle again so that when dawn came, he was on his way searching out the sign where he had left it the night before. Despair was settling on him. He knew that the men were well ahead of him by now.
He went on into the heat of the day, walk, trot, walk, nursing his horse’s strength, watching his own. Gradually, he became aware that he was slipping into a sort of waking doze more and more frequently. He became conscious too of the fact that his head was aching and that he was sweating more freely than usual. Now he was sure, with a turn of alarm, that he was on the brink of a fever. He hastened the dun’s pace.
He came to a sudden change in the country. He knew it without lifting his eyes from the sign he was following. Here, for a short distance, the brush came to an abrupt end. He halted and looked around. His vision, he found, was none too certain. The fact worried him.
Slightly to his right and front was a pile of rocks rising to some forty feet. Nature had spurned to grow anything there. They were bald and hot in the sun. To the left was another scattering of boulders, great slabs of solid rock, lying tilted crazily in the heat. Beyond was the blue haze of the brush.
He kneed the horse forward.
He was opposite the rocks when the shot came.
Even as he heard it and almost felt the lead whistle viciously past him, he knew that he should have followed his first inclination and circled them to the west.
A second later, he knew that he had been completely suckered and that both men had met up here with the intention of waiting for him.
The next shot came from the left and it missed his head by no more than an inch. He knew then that if he tried to break back or forward, they would have him where they wanted him - dead.
There was only one thing to do to stay alive in the next few seconds and he did it. He just dropped out of the saddle and reached the ground in the quickest way.
It hurt him considerably. He first wrenched his shoulder as he tore his carbine from leather, then he fell badly and hurt it again when he landed. The pain was so great that he thought he’d pass out. The dun was alarmed not only by the shooting but by his sudden departure. It scampered off forward.
Clay hugged dirt and started to crawl. They put lead all around him as he went. So he stopped crawling and lay flat. They stopped shooting and he thought maybe they couldn’t see him.
He lay there broiling in the sun, gritting his teeth against the pain of his shoulder.
Time passed and he seemed to float on a sea of pain and heat.
Maybe unconsciousness touched him, for he seemed to come to himself with a jerk as he heard a voice distantly shouting. He couldn’t make the words out.
Shortly after he heard a horse on the move and raised his head. He saw a horseman riding out of the rocks to the left. He got himself up on his elbows and tried to sight on him. He knew that the rider was headed for the dun. If they left him afoot in this country, he knew that he was finished. He might as well be dead for all he could do for Sarah.
He got off one shot and was reloading when the man left in the rocks opened up on him again. The fellow had a repeater and he didn’t seem to care how much powder he burned. Certainly he made it so hot for Clay that until silence came over the scene again, he dared not lift, his head. He lay there and listened to the rider leading the dun away.
He could have wept in his helplessness
The man in the rocks was shouting–’We have your horse, Storm. You’re afoot. Get up and let me put you out of your misery.’
It sounded like a good idea. Clay raised himself and took a shot at the sound of the voice. He got three shots back in return. He embraced dirt again, cursing weakly.
There was a long silence after that and finally he risked kneeling and taking a look around. No shots came. Far off in the heat haze, he could see the two riders going south leading his dun. They were going in the direction of the girl.
His situation was now a desperate one. He was afoot, he was sick, his food, water and ammunition were on the horse. His only assets were his rifle, his revolver, a few rounds of ammunition and some jerky in his pocket.
He trailed the rifle and started walking. He bore slightly south-east because that way he might strike water at this time of the year. He walked slowly and he stumbled a lot. Almost at once his mind started drifting and he began to forget what his objective was for ever increasing stretches of time.
He was still walking at noon. Every time he felt inclined to sit down and rest, consciousness would return to him with an ever growing reluctance and he would be aware that he must keep going. Often, for long stretches, he would forget Sarah completely. Then mercifully, around noon, he came on water. It was no more than a brown trickle, but it was water. He lay down and put his face in it, sucking the precious liquid into his desiccated body. He must have fallen asleep while drinking, for he awoke and found his face in the water. He rolled over on his back and discovered that the sun was moving across the sky. He knew that he had been there several hours. He was burning hot. He drank again and bathed his head and chest, then stood up and started walking again. He seemed to walk for ever. Then it was dark and he still walked, dragging one foot past the other, every step a supreme effort, only his will-power keeping him going.
During that long night and when his stumbles became more frequent and he began to fall more often, it started to rain. It surprised him vaguely when he discovered that he was soaked to the skin and shivering with the cold. Yet he was revived a little and his aching head seemed to clear somewhat. Certainly, his pace quickened a little. But finally his weakness got the better of him and he fell and stayed down. He slept with his head on his forearm.
When he woke, it was still raining.
The first thought was: ‘Sarah.’
Getting to his feet was a matter of will and nothing else. He used the rifle as a lever and somehow got himself on his feet. His head still ached and his shoulder was numbed. He trailed his rifle and started walking again. After a while he grew light-headed and he thought that he talked to himself. Sarah had become a sort of unreal, make-believe character, yet it was thought of her that drew him on, stumbling crazily through the brush.
Chapter Eighteen
Blessed halted his horse and said: ‘Those clouds could mean rain.’
Witney said: ‘Who knows in this damn country?’
Blessed was inclined to be pleased with himself. He thought that, considering they were strangers in this country, they hadn’t done at all badly. They had certainly suckered Clay Storm and put him out of the game. If he ever reached home again, the game would be played out and finished.
‘The house can’t be far ahead now,’ he said and urge
d his horse forward.
Witney took the lead and rode forward, using his eyes and ears. He reckoned that there was an almighty fight not so far off. He was a man who hired his gun and killed as part of his trade, but there wasn’t much profit in a stand-up fight. Only fools fought. A professional did his job neatly and cleanly from cover, reasoning that a dead man showed no profit. Blessed wanted this girl dead and he reckoned he, Witney, had best do the job so that it was over and done with. Then he could take his split and head back into Kansas where he felt at home. He was a saloon hero and he liked the confines of the town best of all. Texas was a wild and heathen country.
When they were within sight of the house, the clouds were lowering darkly overhead, but the rain held off.
Witney dismounted and said: ‘I’ll go ahead and take a look.’
By all accounts there couldn’t be more than a couple of men at the house with the girl. Maybe a couple of silently cut throats and then the girl would be at his mercy. Somehow, the thought of killing the girl appealed to him. He was a man who could get quite excited about his work.
‘All right,’ Blessed said. ‘But watch how you go.’
Witney left his rifle on his horse. He had with him his revolver and his knife. He reckoned they could take care of anybody who might come in his way.
He went forward carefully through the brush, watchful and cautious. He saw that he was approaching the house from the rear. Which was all to the good. He almost circled the place before he began to suspect that the Storms had pulled out.
What convinced him was when he realized that the corral was empty. He went back and told Blessed what he thought and together they stalked the place with their rifles in their hands. It took them some time to venture into the yard, encouraged by the silence and the deserted appearance of the place. Witney finally searched the barn as Blessed watched the house from the door. Then they advanced on the house itself and entered it, their nerves jumping and ready to shoot at the slightest sound. But the place was deserted.
On the table was a bottle of whisky. They each took a drink and Blessed said: ‘One brother comes after us. The other two smuggled the girl away.’
‘So what do we do now?’ Witney asked.
‘We follow them.’
‘How?’
‘They must have left tracks.’
‘You want me to trail them. This isn’t my kind of country, you know.’
Blessed slapped him on the shoulder.
‘For the amount you’re going to make on this,’ he said, ‘you could learn to follow ‘em over rock.’
Witney thought about that and he reckoned maybe he could at that. There was a certain professional pride about the man.
Blessed said: ‘Let’s get to it before the rain washes out their tracks.’
‘Don’t we have time to eat?’ Witney said plaintively.
‘Grab some food and put it in our saddlebags,’ Blessed said.
Witney obeyed and they went on their way, first circling and searching for sign. It was more than an hour before Witney had, with some difficulty, sorted out the mass of sign around the place and decided that a trail that went south to the east of the hill, showing sign left by three saddle-horses and a pack-animal was the one they wanted. In high hopes, Blessed rode after him.
The sign led them south for two hours as plain as the noses on their faces. The sky grew darker as they rode and Blessed started casting anxious eyes at it.
He needn’t have worried.
They came to water and the sign they were following ended there.
Witney made an exasperated sound and looked around at Blessed who wasn’t aware of what was wrong.
‘Now what?’ Blessed said.
‘They took to the water,’ Witney said in disgust. ‘That was what they had done themselves to lose Clay Storm for a while.
‘So what?’ Blessed said. ‘Storm picked up our trail. We can pick up theirs.’
‘I don’t know it’s as simple as that,’ Witney said. ‘I have a feelin’ these boys’re good.’
‘You said you were good,’ Blessed accused.
‘It don’t matter how good you are,’ Witney defended himself. ‘It takes time. Look at the sky. Do you think we have time?’
Blessed knew he was right. Just the same he didn’t like the tone Witney was starting to use with him. Witney said that the people they were following had gone up or down stream. He and Blessed should split up and look for sign in either direction. Blessed didn’t like the idea of splitting up and he didn’t know what to look for. A little anger flared between the two men.
Blessed said: ‘They’re heading south. All the time they’ve been heading south. You think they’re going to change direction now? They’re heading for a definite spot the quickest way they can go.’
‘I wouldn’t count on that,’ Witney opined.
‘We turn right,’ Blessed said and prayed that he was right. After all, he thought, it was a fifty-fifty gamble and he had taken greater chances than that in his life.
Witney said: ‘You take the other side an’ I’ll take this.’
The man was starting to give orders and Blessed didn’t like it. But he did as Witney said just the same. He’d settle Witney’s hash when the time came. Right now he needed him.
They started walking their horses along the edge of the creek, making their difficult way through the brush. As they went on, they were often out of sight of each other. Blessed hated every step his horse took. Thorny thickets tore at his clothes and his flesh. Several times he seemed in danger of losing his eyes. How men ever came to live in a country like this was beyond his understanding.
They went on in this way for upwards of an hour and the rain held off.
Suddenly, Blessed halted and stared.
Ahead of him, the brush came to an end for something like fifty yards. In front of him was a flat table of rock. He was no tracker, but he knew that if riders wanted to leave water without leaving a trail behind them, they would choose such a stretch. He called out for Witney and the man rode his horse through the creek and joined him.
Blessed said: ‘They could have left the stream here without leaving tracks.’
‘They could at that, ‘ Witney agreed. He looked east and saw that the rock stretched for several hundred yards before it stopped at a wall of brush. It looked impenetrable.
Suddenly, it started to rain. Both men glared up at the heavens in anger.
‘Come on,’ Witney urged. ‘We don’t have any time to waste.’
They clattered across the rock and Witney rode along the wall of brush that faced them at the other end, looking desperately for an opening through which horsemen might have gone. Suddenly, he went forward and disappeared from Blessed’s view. Blessed followed him through a thin veil of brush and found himself on a narrow trail. After a short ride, it opened out into a small glade. Witney halted and pointed at the ground.
‘Look,’ he said.
Blessed looked at the ground and saw the faint marks of several horses, now filling with water. He cursed. They had found the tracks and now they were about to be washed out by the rain.
‘Christ,’ he said, ‘the luck of it.’
‘We had more luck than we ought,’ Witney said. ‘A few more minutes an’ we wouldn’t have no idea which direction they went. Now we know they went east. Hell, there’s a trail here, ain’t there? It ain’t been used much for sure, but I reckon we can do worse’n follow it.’
‘All right,’ said Blessed. ‘Go ahead.’
Witney reined his horse around and they went on through the rain.
Chapter Nineteen
Clay woke with the rain pounding his face. He was vaguely surprised and for a few moments he couldn’t discover what he was doing there.
He forced himself to remember. He knew the moment was urgent. No more than that. He knew he was sick. He had only to attempt to lift his head to know that. He lay on his back and the upper part of that back hurt like hell.
&nbs
p; He looked around. It was night and it was dark. He didn’t have any idea where he was. He sat up with some difficulty and all he knew was that he was scared.
Then he thought of the girl and remembering her gave him the will to get himself on his feet. Then he remembered the rifle. He searched around for it, but he couldn’t find it. No matter. It was little more than weight that would hold him back. He had to head for home. But which way was home? There were no stars and no moon, nothing to guide him. It was too dark for him to see any landmarks. He knew that the terrible urgency in him would not permit him to stay where he was.
He started to walk and as he moved forward, he tried to assess himself. He thought that his head was clearer than it had been before. At least he seemed to be thinking sanely. He was clear-headed enough to be scared.
He was going down a gradual slope and as he went the slope took ahold of him and pretty soon he was almost running. The action was too much for his weak legs and he fell. He went down heavily and the fall knocked the wind out of him. He heard himself sobbing a little and told himself out loud: ‘You sound like a woman. Get up you soft sonovabitch.’
It took some time, but he made it. He stood swaying on his feet, the rain beating down on him. Slowly, he began walking again, toppling forward onto each step, always nearly falling, but not quite. He wondered a little fearfully how he could keep going like this. He also wondered if he were going in the wrong direction.
He got snarled up in some chaparral and fought his way feebly out of it. Then he stopped and thought. The brush didn’t seem to be too thick here. He had walked for some time without encountering brush. Did that mean something to him. Hell, he knew a dozen slopes where the brush was thin. He went on down the slope, sensing without reason that it would take him somewhere.
Lightning flashed lighting up his surroundings starkly for a brief moment and he glared around trying to recognize some landmark, but it was dark again before he could see anything. The scene it lighted had been too unreal for his hazy mind to accept. The thunder rolled like a vast cannonade. He stumbled over a root, staggered a few crazy steps, fighting to keep his balance and went down.
Hard Texas Trail Page 13
