Joe opened his eyes and looked around, then started to rise. "Take it easy, Joe," Fuentes said. "You caught a bad one."
"Will I make it?"
"You're damn right!" I said flatly. "Just take it easy." Then I said, "Joe? Think you're up to being moved? We've sent for a wagon, but I mean now ... down into the canyon?"
He looked at me. "You think they'll come back? It was Tory shot me. Damn it, boys, he never gave me a chance. Just rode up and said if they wouldn't do it, he would, and then he drew on me."
We waited for him to continue. "Hell, I can shoot, but I never was no gunman! He just shot me down, and then Ben topped out over yonder and Benton taken off, yelling. I never figured on him shootin'. He come ridin' up--" His voice trailed off weakly and he closed his eyes. Then they opened. "You got a drink of water? I'm bone-dry."
Fuentes picked up his canteen. He held it while Joe drank. Then Joe slowly closed his eyes. After a moment, he opened them. "I'm up to movin' boys, I don't like this here no better'n you do."
There was water down there, fuel, and some shelter could be rigged if it started to rain. And down there we could at least heat up a place for him, but keeping a fire up on the mesa in the wind wouldn't be easy.
We brought up his horse and lifted him into the saddle. Joe was a typical cowpoke. He had spent more years up on the hurricane deck of a bronc than he had afoot, so he latched onto the old apple with both hands while we led the horse down the cliff.
Glancing at him, I saw his face had gone white. But his lips were drawn thin and tight and he made no sound. There was nothing but hooves against rock and the creak of the saddles as we went down, Fuentes leading, me coming right along behind.
Once on the ground near the cottonwoods I'd seen, and among the willows, we got busy and made a bed for him out of willow boughs, leaves and such-like. Knowing there would be no buckboard wagon there much before morning, we rigged up a lean-to above him. We staked out the horses, and gathered fuel for a fire.
Hinge was mighty quiet, sometimes asleep, maybe unconscious, and sometimes wandering in his talk. He kept mentioning a "Mary" I'd never heard him speak of when he was himself.
"Be gone a while," I said, "come daylight. I'm going to gather our stock and drift it down this way and give it a start toward home."
"Si,"Fuentes had been turning the idea around in his own head. I was sure of that. "If the buckboard comes we can bring them in."
Fuentes slept and I kept watch, giving Hinge a drink now and again, easing his position a mite, sponging off his forehead or his lips with a bandana. Hinge was a good man, too good a man to go out this way because of some hotheaded young no-account. Mentally, I traced Ben Roper's route as he rode toward the ranch, trying to pace him, trying to figure out when he would arrive and how long it would take him to return. We had our fire in a sort of hollow where there were some rocks, and we let it die to coals but kept it warm. It would be a comfort to Joe if he happened to awaken.
At midnight, I stirred Fuentes with a boot. He opened his eyes at once.
"I'll sleep," I said, "call me about three."
"Bueno,"he agreed. "Do you think, amigo, that they will come?"
I shrugged. "Let's just say they will. I don't know. But if we figure it that way we'll be ready."
For several minutes I lay awake, listening. There was a frog somewhere nearby in the creek or near it, and there was an owl in one of the cottonwoods.
A hand on my shoulder awakened me. "All is quiet. Joe is asleep."
I shook out my boots in case they had collected any spare spiders, lizards or snakes, and then pulled them on, stamping them into place. Fuentes lay down and I went to the sick man. He lay with his head turned on one side, breathing loudly. His lips looked cracked and dry. I walked to the fire and added a few sticks. Sitting down in darkness with my back to a huge old cottonwood, I tried to sort the situation out.
Balch was not stealing, nor were we. I doubted if the major was ... but what about Saddler? I had never trusted the man, never liked him, yet that was no reason to believe him a thief.
An unknown? And was the unknown some connection of Lisa's?
What do do?
First, try to find where Lisa came from, locate her, study the situation, possibly eliminate her as a possibility. Perhaps the next thing would be to scout the Edwards Plateau country.
From time to time I got to my feet and prowled about, listening. I stopped by the horses, speaking softly to each one. The night was very still, and very dark.
My thoughts went to Ann Timberly, and to China Benn. It was rare to find two such beautiful girls in one area. Yet, on second thought, that wasn't unusual in Texas, where beautiful girls just seem to happen in the most unexpected places.
Moving back to the small fire, I added a few sticks, then went back to the shadows at the edge of camp, keeping my eyes away from the fire for better night vision. A wind stirred the leaves, one branch creaked as it rubbed against another, and far off under the willows something fell, making a faint plop as it struck the damp ground.
Uneasily, I listened. Suddenly I shifted position, not wanting to stand too long in one place. I did not like the feel of the night. It was wet and still ... but something seemed to be waiting out there.
I thought of the unseen, unknown marksman who had shot at me. What if he came now, when I was tied to this place and the care of a wounded man?
Something sounded, something far off ... A drum of hoof beats ... A rider in the night.
Who ... on such a night?
Again the wind stirred the leaves. A rider was coming. Moving back to the edge of darkness and firelight, I spoke softly: "Tony?"
He was instantly awake. There was a faint light on his face from the fire, and I saw his eyes open. "A rider ... coming this way."
His bed was empty. As suddenly as that, he was in the shadows and I caught the gleam of firelight on a rifle barrel. He moved like a cat, that Mexican did.
The rider was coming up through patches of mesquite, and I could almost hear the changes of course as the horse moved around and among them--but coming on, unerringly. This was no casual rider, it was someone cominghere , to this place.
Suddenly the horse was nearer, his pace slowed, but the horse still came on. A voice called from the darkness. "Milo?"
"Come on in!" I called back.
It was Ann Timberly.
Chapter 19
She stared at me, shocked. "But ... but I heard you were wounded!"
"Not me. Joe Hinge caught one. Tory Benton shot him."
"Where is he?" She swung down before I could reach out a hand to help her, bringing her saddlebags with her. Before I could reply, her eyes found him and she crossed quickly to his side and opened his shirt.
"I'll need some hot water, and some more light."
"We've nothing to heat it in," I protested.
She gave me a disgusted look. "Tony has a canteen. Hang it over the fire and it will heat fast enough. And don't look at me like that. I've treated wounds before. You seem to forget that I grew up in an army camp!"
"I didn't know." Tony was stripping the covering from his canteen, and rigging a forked stick he could prop it over the fire with. I broke sticks, built up the flame.
"How'd you get here?" I asked.
"On a horse, stupid. They're bringing a rig, but I knew it would take too long. So I just came on ahead to see what I could do."
She was working as she talked, cleaning the wound as best she could, using some kind of antiseptic on a cloth, after bathing it with water.
Nobody had any illusions. She might know a good deal about gunshot wounds, as well as other kinds, but doctors themselves knew mighty little, and there were no hospitals anywhere near. Survival usually meant reasonable rest and a tough constitution--and mostly the latter. Yet I'd seen men survive impossible injuries time and again.
Tony had taken her horse, walked him around a little and was rubbing him down. That horse had been running, all-out an
d too long. Seeing her there bending over the fire, I could only shake my head in wonder. She hadn't hesitated, but had come as fast as a horse would carry her.
I asked about that. "Switched horses twice," she said, "at the Stirrup-Iron and at the Indian camp."
My hair stiffened on the back of my neck. "Indiancamp?Where ?"
"About twenty miles east. A bunch of Kiowas."
"You got a horse fromKiowas ?"
"Why not? I needed one. I just rode into their camp and told them a man had been hurt and I needed a horse, that I carried medicine in my bags. They never asked another question, just switched horses and saddles for me and watched me ride off."
"Well, I'll be damned! Of all the gall!"
"Well, what could I do? I needed the horse and they had a lot of them, so I just rode right in."
"They had their women with them?"
"No, they didn't. It was a war party." She looked up at me and grinned. "I startled them, I guess, and they just gave me the horse without any argument ... Maybe it was the medicine bag."
"More likely it was your nerve. There's nothing an Indian respects more, and they may have thought some special kind of magic rode with you."
I looked at Fuentes, and he merely shrugged and shook his head. What could you do with a girl like that? Nevertheless, we both felt relieved. Neither of us knew too much about wounds, although Fuentes was better than I. We had nothing with us to treat such a wound, and I knew nothing of the plants of the area that an Indian might have used.
After a while, she came out to where I stood. There was a faint gray light in the east, and we stood together, watching the dark rims of the hills etch themselves more sharply against the growing light.
"I thought it was you," she said. "I was frightened."
"I'm glad you came. But you shouldn't have, you know. You just lucked out with those Indians. If they'd seen you first, the story would be different now."
"Tory shot him?" she asked.
So I told her how it was, and just what had happened. "Now that you're here, Fuentes and me will ride up on the mesa and bunch those cattle again. They won't have strayed far."
"What will happen now?"
Considering that question had got me nowhere, and I'd done a lot of considering since Tory fired that shot. We could only wait and see.
"I don't know," I replied.
It could be a shooting war, and I knew how that went. It could begin with scattered gunfights, and then it could turn into drygulching and no man would be safe--not even passing strangers, who might be shot simply because if they were not on the shooter's side they must be on the other.
A thought occurred to me that I'd not considered before. "I rode in from the northwest," I said, "an' had no reason to think about it. But where's your supply point? This is a long way from anywhere."
"San Antonio," she replied. "We get together. Your outfit, ours and Balch and Saddler. Each of us sends two or three wagons and each sends drivers and a couple of outriders. Sometimes the soldiers from Fort Concho meet us and ride along to protect us."
"But if you didn't go to San Antone?"
"Then there isn't much. Oh, there's a stage station that has some supplies for sale, a place called Ben Ficklin's, this side of the fort about four miles. There's a place across the river from the fort called Over-the-River. There's a supply point there, several saloons, and a few of those houses that men go to. The boys tell me it's very, very rough."
If somebody was to the south of us, Lisa's people, whoever they were, must be getting supplies at one of those two places. It was possible--but hardly likely--they would go to San Antonio alone, through Kiowa and Apache country. Yet even a ride to Ben Ficklin's or Over-the-River would be rough. But suddenly I knew it was a ride I had to make.
Come good daylight, Tony and me, we cut loose from camp and headed for the high ground. A few of our cattle had already found their way down to the creek for water, but we couldn't wait on the others.
They were scattered some, but we swung wide and began bunching them. By now, most of them were used to being driven and we were going toward water. Here and there, some bunch-quitter would try to cut off by himself just to be ornery, but we cut them back into the herd and drifted the cattle down off the mesa and scattered them along the creek to get tanked up on water.
It was close to sundown before we had them down there, and Tony rode in close to me, hooked a leg around the pommel and dug out the makings. He tilted his sombrero back and said, "She likes you?"
"Who?"
He looked disgusted. "Ann Timberly ... The senorita."
"Her? I doubt it."
"She does. I know it. If you want to know about romance, ask me. I have been in love ... oh, dozens of times!"
"In love?"
"Of course. Women are to be loved and I could not permit it that they linger and long for some gay caballero to come along. It is my duty, you see."
"Tough," I said, "I can see how it pains you."
"Of course. But we Mexicans were made for suffering. Our hearts accept it. A Mexican is happiest when he is sad ... sad over the senorita, whoever she may be. It is always better to be brokenhearted, amigo. To be brokenhearted and sing about it--rather than win the girl and have to support her. I cannot think of loving just one. How could I be so cruel to the others, amigo? They deserve my attention, and then ..."
"Then?"
"I ride away, amigo. I ride into the sunset, and the girl, she longs for me ... for a while. Then she finds someone else. That someone is a fool. He stays with her, and she becomes without illusion, and always she remembers me ... who was wise enough to ride away before she realized I was no hero, but only another man. So I am always in her eyes a hero, you see?"
I snorted, watching a four-year-old with markings not unlike Ol' Brindle himself.
"We are but men, amigo. We are not gods, but any man can be a god or a hero to a woman if he does not stay too long. Then she sees he is but a man, who gets up in the morning and puts his pants on, one leg at a time like any other man. She sees him sour and unshaved, she sees him bleary from weariness or too much drink. But me? Ah, amigo! She remembers me! Always shaved! Always clean! Always riding the pretty horse, twirling his mustaches."
"That's whatshe remembers," I said. "What about you?"
"That is just it. I have the memory also, a memory of a beautiful girl whom I left before she could become dull. To me she is always young, gay, lovely, high-spirited."
"No memory will keep you warm on a cold night, or have the coffee hot when you come in from the rain," I said.
"Of course. You are right, amigo. And so I suffer, I suffer, indeed. But consider the hearts I have brightened! Consider the dreams!"
"Did you ever brighten any hearts around Ben Ficklin's?"
When he looked at me again, he was no longer showing his white teeth. "Ben Ficklin's? You have been there?"
"No ... I wish to know about it... And Over-the-River, too."
"Over-the-River can be rough, amigo. Only now they are beginning to call it San Angela, after DeWitt's sister-in-law, who is a nun."
"I'm studyin' on taking a ride down that way, to Over-the-River and Ben Ficklin's. Seems it might be a good idea to know who comes there, and what happens around about."
"Soldiers from Concho, mostly. Maybe a few drifters."
We cut out a couple of Balch and Saddler steers that wanted to join our bunch, and moved our stock toward the camp. When we came in sight, we saw the buckboard, horses unharnessed, and Ben Roper standing by the fire chewing on a biscuit. Nearby Barby Ann was talking to Ann.
Barby Ann gave me a sharp glance, no warmth in her eyes, then ignored me. Roper glanced at me and shrugged.
"How's the gather at the ranch?" I asked.
"Middlin'. We brung in a bunch, and we're fixin' to brand what we've got when you all come in to help."
"We'll be shorthanded to do much," I said. "Joe won't be around for a while, so there's just you, me, Fuentes and
Danny."
Roper glanced at me, a sidelong look from the corners of his eyes. "You ain't heard? Danny never come back." He paused a moment. "I rode up to the line-shack to bring back any stock he'd gathered, and he wasn't there. Hearth was cold ... No fire for days, and the horses hadn't been fed."
He kicked a toe into the sand. "I picked up a trail. He was ridin' that grulla he fancies. Follered him south maybe seven or eight mile, then I come back. Looked to me like he knew where he was goin', or thought he did."
Suddenly Roper swore. "I don't like it, Talon. I think he got what Joe Hinge almost got. I think somebody killed him."
Chapter 20
When morning came again, with sunlight on the hard-packed earth, there was no change in Joe's condition. He had been hit hard, he had lost blood, and the exhausting ride in the buckboard had not helped. Yet his constitution was rugged, and such men do not die easily. We needed no foreman to tell us our duties. There were cattle to be moved to fresh grass, then watched over during the day, and the herd had grown in size. One man could no longer keep them in hand. Although during the early hours, when there was plenty of grass with the dew upon it, and when they'd had their fill of water, there was small need to worry.
Danny had not returned during the night, and we looked at the empty bunk, but no comment was made. Each of us at one time or another had found such empty bunks in the morning; sometimes a horse returned with a bloody saddle, sometimes nothing.
It was a hard life we lived and a hard land in which we lived, it and there was no time for mourning when work had to be done. There would be one man less to do the work. And one man less at the table, one horse less to be saddled in the morning.
Ben Roper was coiling his lariat when I walked to the corral and dabbed a loop on the almost white buckskin I'd come to like. He glanced at me as I led the horse through the gate. "You think he's tomcattin' around that Lisa girl?"
Both hands resting on the buckskin's back, I thought about that. "Not now," I said, "although that's likely what took him off south. Maybe he knew where she was, maybe he just went hunting. But I think he found more than he expected."
the Man from the Broken Hills (1975) Page 15
