the Burning Hills (1956)

by L'amour, Louis

  "You are coward. You afraid of him."

  Sutton stepped into the room. "No, not afraid of him. Just smart. Ben gets the work done. He keeps trouble off my shoulders, so I let him have his way."

  "You get out. You no business here."

  Jack Sutton smiled. It was not a nice smile. "I've plenty of business here. I'm going to teach you a lesson."

  He walked around the table and stopped in front of her. She made no move to escape. Her eyes watchful, she merely waited, showing no expression.

  He lifted his hand, palm open, and then he struck her. Maria Cristina's eyes widened but she merely stared at him, the print of the blow on her cheek. Her very impassiveness infuriated him. He doubled his fist and, as he did, she jerked the knife from under the cloth. He caught the gleam and whipped back just as the point of the knife ripped up through his shirt.

  Stepping back, he tripped over a chair and fell. Instantly Maria Cristina was around him and out of the door. He leaped up and grabbed at her but tripped over the chair again. Then she was through the door and running for the gully.

  Wes Parker sprang to catch her but she turned on him and slashed with the knife. He sprang back, swearing, blood streaming from his arm.

  The delay had given Sutton time to get to her.

  Evading the knife, he knocked her down. Before she could rise he kicked the blade from her hand.

  She got up, moving back, her eyes alive with hatred, but he moved in on her and, disdaining her blows, picked her up and carried her back to the house and dumped her. Instantly, she sprang back and stood panting, watching him like an animal at bay.

  Outside Wes was swearing, blood streaming from his arm. Buck Bayless stared at the house, his face sweating. He ran his tongue over his lips.

  "Don't stand there like a fool!" Parker yelled. "Fix up my arm!"

  Bayless started toward Parker but his attention was on the house. Inside, Maria Cristina stood against the sideboard watching Sutton come toward her.

  "I've been waiting for this chance," Sutton said. "And I'll use it." He struck her and then, methodically, he began to beat her. Blood trickling from a cut lip, she tried to escape him but he came after her, his fury mounting with each blow. "I'll kill you!" he said hoarsely. "You --"

  "Jack!" That was Buck's voice. Sutton stopped, fist lifted. Outside he heard the rattle of horses' hoofs. Angrily he struck out but Maria Cristina was watching and she sprang back, falling to the floor.

  As Lantz watched, Ben Hindeman was getting from the saddle. Sutton strode from the house. Hindeman and Sutton faced each other and for a long tense minute, neither spoke. Then Hindeman went past and into the house.

  Maria Cristina was just rising from the floor but she lacked the strength and fell back. Hindeman swore softly as he saw her bruised and bloody face. He took her arm to help her up but she jerked free and rose by herself. "You are animal! All are animal! Cowards! You fight women!"

  Hindeman's face showing his shame, he turned quickly and went outside. Jack Sutton was loitering, waiting for him. Hindeman saw the readiness in Sutton. He was ready for a showdown and the very idea made Hindeman impatient. This was no time for that kind of trouble. "Are you crazy?" he demanded. "We need that girl.You kill her and where are we?"

  Sutton turned on Lantz when Hindeman had passed. "It was you brought him back, damn you! One of these days I'll --"

  Lantz was chewing a blade of grass. His little eyes were utterly cold. "When you try, you better make sure. I ain't so fancy with a hand-gun but I'll kill you, Jack! I'll hunt you like I'd hunt a varmint an' I'll kill you!"

  Jack Sutton strode past him to his horse. The fools! The damned fools! He got into the saddle and rode out of the canyon at breakneck speed.

  Hindeman returned. "If he bothers you, Jake, you come to me."

  The old man turned black eyes to Hindeman. He spat, "You better take care o' him , Ben. Not me."

  Hindeman stared at his big hands. What was this chase doing to them? Tearing the outfit apart, that was what it was doing. And it had been Jack and Mort and their crowd who brought it all on them, stealing those horses. It was just that some men had the killer streak in them that nothing but death could stop.

  Those mountains down there, the Sierra de San Luis. That could well be where Jordan was. If he got away across the malpais into the Sierra Madre they must just as well forget him. But they did not dare. Nobody realized more than he how many were the enemies around them. Old Bob had ridden roughshod over people and his nephews had been worse. Moreover, there were people who wanted their range. The slightest evidence of weakness and the SB would be only a memory.

  Turning on his heels, be walked back to the house. Maria Cristina's face was swollen from the heavy blows. It was only barely recognizable. "Will you still cook?" he asked.

  She stared into his blocky granite-hard face. "I cook," she said and turned from him.

  Later he saw her walk from the house with her basket and go to the patch of squaw cabbage. He watched her, then let her go. She was in plain sight there and couldn't get away.

  She stooped to pick some bread-root, taking the starchy taproot from the ground. She moved on, then, and stopped for a moment near a dark-leaved plant with white flowers. And then she walked on. Returning to the house, she set about preparing a meal. Several times men came to the door for coffee but she turned them away, saying it was not ready.

  Wes Parker had been sent to town. Jack Sutton had not returned. Only Lantz, Buck Bayless and Hindeman were there.

  Finally she dished up the food and they ate. She watched them for a while, then poured more coffee. After that she hastily packed sandwiches and other food in an old flour sack and nobody watched her. She was always moving about, always busy.

  Frightened now, she listened anxiously for Sutton's return. Several times she glanced out, seeing cigarettes glowing in the dark. She heard a queer laugh, then a chuckle. Bayless called out to Hindeman but there was no reply. She waited until no cigarettes glowed near the barn, nor was there any sound of voices.

  Crossing to the barn, she found them sprawled on the ground, sleeping. She took a Winchester from one of the men, took cartridge belts from two and a box of .44 shells from inside the barn door. At the corner of the barn she untied a horse and, making every move count, led him to the house and loaded food and blankets. Getting into the saddle, she walked the horse away from the house and, when well away, broke into a trot.

  All was still... and then Jack Sutton rode out of the darkness. He glanced at the snoring men and then with a chuckle he turned to Maria Cristina's trail and started off at a walk. Behind him there was silence. The lights from the house shone on the men who slept heavily in their drugged sleep.

  Jack Sutton was only to a degree a family man. Many a man who dared not face him with a gun might have shot him down from ambush had he not been backed by the Sutton-Bayless outfit. The family was a protective cloak.

  Ben Hindeman, on the other hand, had a fierce loyalty to Old Bob, whose daughter he married, and to the brand. He was wise enough to know that at the first sign of weakness the wolves would close in for the kill.

  Jack Button was not thinking of this. He had lately undergone that final and subtle change that came to many gunmen. At first, such a man may suffer when he kills but the second comes easier and by degrees the gunman becomes contemptuous of his victims and kills casually or for the love of it. Yet his own danger increases, for now men wish to kill him. So he becomes a destroyer with a hand ever ready to grasp the gun.

  In Maria Cristrna he had found someone he could not frighten, nor could he believe she was innocent of blame during those visits on the shelf. What he wished now was to find Jordan and kill him before her eyes. He wanted to break her spirit and, at the same time, to prove his own superiority. So he was in no hurry to catch up, wanting her only to lead him to Jordan.

  It was very hot when the sun came up and the country through which Maria Cristina rode became increasingly dry. Yet by an
hour after dawn she was sure she was being followed.

  This was dry country and behind her she had seen a plume of dust. It was such a dust cloud as would be left by one rider. And that could only mean that Jack Sutton was behind her.

  Twice she varied her direction, choosing a likely route, then an unlikely one. She used every subtefurge she could think of and she deliberately avoided water holes. All that morning she refused herself even a swallow of water, although twice she paused to sponge the mouth of her horse.

  She told herself she was going to Trace Jordan for two reasons: because sooner or later she believed she would be killed by Jack Sutton and because she was afraid Jordan would return.

  Dust mounted in her nostrils. Dust caked her face and sifted over her clothing. Sweat streaked the dust. The horse plodded wearily on.

  Maria Cristina did not believe she could deceive Jacob Lantz for long but she might lose Jack Sutton. His very confidence might defeat him. Yet she must try to outwit Lantz as well and when they reached a long rocky shelf, she decided the time had come. She pulled up and dismounted.

  Jacob Lantz was the first to awaken. The sky was gray when he opened his eyes and then, as realization dawned, he sprang up. Swearing bitterly, he ran to the house. The light still burned but a quick search revealed everything.

  "Gone!" he shouted. "She got away! Tricked like a lot of tenderfeet!"

  Ben Hindeman's head ached violently but he hurriedly saddled up. There were extra horses in the barn and at the last minute, Joe Sutton returned to join them.

  Lantz went to his cup and found the dregs of what he had drunk. He touched his tongue to it, tasting. "Toloache!" he spat viciously and went swiftly to his horse.

  "Somethin' here," he said a few minutes later. "Jack's followin' her."

  Shrewd in the ways of hunted and hunting men, Lantz understood why Jack Sutton hung back. He believed she would lead him to Jordan. Would she do it?

  Through the hot still morning he worked out their trails, yet he noticed Jack's only in passing. It was the girl he must follow.

  When her trail finally petered out on the rocky shelf, Jack was already gone. Somewhere back along the route she had tricked him. Lantz worked patiently. He found the tiny white scar made by a hoof on sandstone but it was the last one.

  He circled, then circled wider still. Neither heat nor thirst disturbed him. The glare of the sun squinted his eyes but he continued to search. He stopped suddenly ... a tiny red thread. He chuckled as he picked it up.

  "What's so funny?" Bayless demanded irritably.

  "Gal's smart. Tied rags around her horse's hoofs."

  No use to try and follow her now. There would be few marks, maybe miles apart Working out such a trail might take weeks. But it would not be necessary.

  Cottonwood Creek was dry at this time of year. So was Cowboy Spring, Somebody had blown out the dam at millsite, so where, then, would she go?

  Jordan had been with her before he left. She knew she would be followed so she would try to lead them off the trail. So then, he could figure that the trail was faked. To circle around to a water hole in any other direction would not take a day or two days but a week. Therefore, somewhere in that vast expanse to the south, Trace Jordan had to be waiting for her.

  One by one he ticked off the possibilities, then ... "Got an idea," he said. They mounted and followed him. Yet three hours later when they rode up to Wolf Pen Tank there were no tracks around and green scum covered the water. Not even a stray steer ...

  Angrily Lantz bit off a chew of tobacco. Now where in tarnation!

  He swore bitterly, remembering. Old Chavero had once holed up for several days at that intermittent stream that came out of the ground near the pinnacles. "That's it!" he said. "That's it!" Bayless swore. "How long's this goin' on?"

  "Come on," Hindeman said, "well find 'em." They left Wolf Pen at a brisk trot. The afternoon was well along and in a short time it would be cool and they could move faster.

  At dusk Trace Jordan pulled the picket pin and saddled up. Then he led the red horse to the path that led out the back way. He was restless and worried, unable to sit down or relax. His wound was itching ... it must be healing. He drank more water and moved to where he could look down the trail. There was nothing in sight.

  Yet he had almost dozed off when he heard the sound of a walking horse.

  He came to his feet, Winchester in hand. Twice as he listened the horse stumbled. It was very tired. He shifted the rifle to his left hand and touched his pistol. He moved to the patch of meadow, passing soundlessly through the grass. The moon was just coming over the rocks and the meadow was bathed in pale light. Ghostlike the horse and rider materialized from the dakness.

  Jordan started to her, seeing her hair against the light. Then faintly, far or close he could not guess, he heard another sound.

  "You are here?" She spoke softly, yet her words carried. He did not reply. Somebody or something was out there in the darkness. Somebody who also listened.

  She walked her horse deeper into the clearing. She made a silent lonely figure, like an Indian woman on her horse. "You are here?" There was a plaintive lost tone in her voice that twisted his heart.

  He waited and in the stillness there was no sound. She sat still upon her horse, waiting for some response. He could almost feel the hope going out of her. Was he, as she must have believed, only another man who would ride away? Had he taken her help, let her get into a corner and then left her alone? Desperately he wanted to speak, to cry out, to --

  "No," it was another voice, "he ain't here. But I am."

  A tall man in a conical hat stepped from the shadows. She tried to start her horse as he grabbed at it but the horse was too tired to move quickly. Sutton grabbed the bridle and jerked the horse around and then he reached for Maria.

  Trace Jordan picked up a small stick and tossed it into the brash a dozen feet away. It lit in the brush and instantly the man by the horse turned and Jordan saw moonlight on a gun barrel.

  Sutton waited, his gun poised. Then he relaxed slowly. "Animal,'' he said aloud. He turned toward Maria Cristina. "Now I'm goin' to finish what I started,"

  She was still too close to him. There was too much risk of her being hit if shooting started. Jordan picked up a small stone and tossed it into the brush across the clearing. Sutton froze in place, listening. Then he holstered his gun. "Get down," he said, "or I'll pull you down."

  Maria Cristina had sat still, apparently too weary to move, too defeated to try. Now she moved suddenly. She threw her leg over the horse and dropped to the ground on the opposite side. She slapped the horse and he lunged. Sutton sprang back and Maria Cristina dropped into the blackness at the edge of the brush and was absolutely still

  Jack Sutton stood alone in the clearing, staring at the shadows, listening for her breathing. "Do you no good," he said conversationally. "I'll have it my way now. Ben ain't here to stop me."

  There was a faint whisper of grass around Trace Jordan's feet as he moved. Trace Jordan was going to kill a man. He had to kill and not be killed for she must not be left alone with Jack Sutton. He stopped and he knew Sutton could see him.

  "Who is it?" Sutton demanded. "Buck? Ben?"

  Tension was building but more for Sutton than for him. He knew whom he faced; Sutton saw only a shadow in the night. "Speak up!" Sutton said impatiently. "Who are you?"

  "I reckon I'm the man you been hunting," Jordan said, "unless you hunt only women."

  Chapter Four

  The night was cool. Jack Sutton stood very still, hearing the slow heavy beat of his heart. He wished he could see Trace Jordan. This shadowy figure worried him. There was no personality there, only something dark, indefinite, indistinct.

  Never, since the beginning, had he seen this man. His partner he had killed and he had helped to pursue him and bring him to this moment but never once in all that time had he actually seen Trace Jordan.

  You could not look into his eyes; you could not measure the man.
It disturbed Sutton but did not make him less confident.

  "I figure you're one of those who murdered my partner," Jordan said.

  Sutton wondered if Jordan could see his gun hand. It was dangling at his side but he began to inch it higher. "Sure." His voice was taunting. "I'm one of them. Fact is, it was my idea."

  His hand was at the bottom of the holster as he spoke. He had only to bend his elbow to grasp the butt. He bent his elbow suddenly. His hand grasped his gun butt and suddenly he was choking with the lust to kill. He drew --

  The bullets smashed him in the belly like two fists, a hard one-two that set him back on his heels. He put his left foot back to steady himself and started to lift his gun but when he got his hand up he found it was empty.

  Confused, he stared blindly at his hand and then his knees buckled and he fell. His body from the waist down was numb, yet his brain was alive and clear. He tried to speak, to see the face of the man who stood there, watching him. He tried to frame words but then the notion faded ... this then was how it felt to die.

  The last thing he remembered was the wet grass on his face.

  Trace Jordan walked forward, circling a little, knowing his bullets had gone true, yet wary as always, taking no chances, estimating the danger of the man who lay there.

  "Maria Cristina?" Then she was coming toward him. "We must ride now. They'll be coming." He gestured. "Take his horse. He hasn't covered the ground yours has."

  Into the desert they rode. Sand and more sand. Rock, Spanish dagger, yucca, ocotiflo and broken lava. It was a brutal heat-baked corner of hell.

  The cacti cast weird shadows in the moonlit night and a low wind moaned in the scattered clumps of brush. They rode in silence, knowing there was no returning now. Another Sutton had died and made another mark against them.

  The Sierra de San Luis pointed a rocky finger into the wastelands south of the border. It was Apache country and it was the desert and the desert can kill. This was the land that time and again had defeated armies of the United States. This was the land of the peccary and coyote, the land of the rattler and the scorpion, of the prickly pear and the cholla.