It looked across the stream toward the north and toward a canyon that opened out from that direction.
On my right the upper canyon of Wet Bottom led back up toward Bull Spring Canyon and an ancient Indian trail.
It was a likely place, and I'd had hopes of staying a while, letting my horses rest and getting some rest for myself. After the bad fall I'd had I hadn't yet fully regained my strength although I was much better. Now they had found me--of that I had no doubt. The question was, could I get out and away?
Down canyon might be the safest. Nobody was going to chase me down there, not if they were in their right mind. One man with a rifle could hold off an army there. But once out of the lower canyon I was in the valley of the Verde, and I could lay money there would be Lazy A riders or Indians patrolling along the river.
Those quails calls were likely to be Apaches, and I could expect nothing but trouble from them. The fact that some of them had helped me before meant nothing now, for the chances were slight that they would be the same bunch. Even if they were, they would be ready to earn the rewards offered them.
It was very still. Taking the bridle and lead rope, I walked to the far side of the clearing, listened, then stepped into the water of the stream. The bottom here was flat rock and coarse gravel, the water clear and cold. It had been a wet spring in this stream, which occasionally almost disappeared, was now running eighteen inches to two feet deep. As the water started to deepen, I stepped into the saddle.
The shoulder of the mesa was close on my right, and I thrust my rifle into its scabbard to give myself greater freedom of movement. Any action now would be pistol action, for a man could see only a few yards in any direction.
Overhead a buzzard swung in lazy, expectant circles. The horses made little sound as they walked through the water, and I could see nothing, wherever I looked. Used as I was to being alone, I found a longing in me for somebody to help me watch out ... I was up against too much, and unless I had more luck than I could expect, my time was short.
A flash of sunlight on a rifle barrel warned me, and I ducked and jumped my horse with a touch of the spur. I heard the wicked slap of a bullet against the rock wall, and then the echo ringing along the canyon. Almost without willing it, my eyes had turned toward where the shot struck, and I saw a white scar on the face of the rock, not over four feet above the water, so whoever had shot was up on the mountain opposite.
Just as I was searching for the spot from which he'd fired, he raised up to shoot again. It was a far piece for a pistol, so I simply held my fire and pushed my horses toward the shoulder of the rock. As I did so, an Indian suddenly showed on the bank of the stream not twenty feet off.
The soft echoes of my splashing had misled him as to where I was, and he came out of the brush with his eyes pointing about twenty feet behind me, and by the time he could swing them into focus it was too late.
I shot across my body at him, and saw the bullet drill his chest. He raised up to his tiptoes, then fell splash into the water. And then I was around the corner and going up Wet Bottom as fast as I could make it.
When I reached the trail crossing at Bull Spring Canyon I turned left and went up the canyon with both horses going all out. About a hundred yards up I slowed down, not wanting to kill the horses, and when I reached the top of the mesa the trail branched. I'd been waiting for that, figuring they might have a man at Bull Spring where the trail split.
They had one there, all right. They had three.
I'd been walking my horse, and we made no sound on the deep pine needles along there. Just as I sighted them I gave him a touch of the spur and went into the three of them as if I'd been shot from a gun.
My horse staggered, but he kept his feet, but one of theirs went down, and I shot point-blank into one of the men. I felt a bullet burn my shoulder and almost dropped my gun ... almost.
We swung right, ducked into the rocks and legged it for the rim of the canyon, which gave me shelter just in time to hear a couple of bullets going overhead. That burn was more than a surface burn, because I could feel blood inside my shirt, and I swore like an Irish gandy-dancer at the knowledge that they'd winged me again.
Then other shots rang out and I felt my horse going under me, and I jumped free just in time. I could hear hoofs pounding the trail from both directions, and I had only time to grab my rifle and hit the rocks before they came sweeping around the bend.
Well, they ran into trouble.
There I was, belly down in the tall grass and rocks, with cactus to left and right of me, and a good Winchester. I poured it to them. They had come asking for it and I shot as fast as I could throw them, and then I grabbed my six-shooter and dusted them off with that.
They broke and ran, with one man down and a horse running free, and another man swearing a blue streak and hanging to his saddle-horn with both hands. His back was bloody. That fellow down on the sand wasn't even twitching.
In the moment I had, I made a dive for that horse. I came out with three rifles and belts. I picked up, and I sprinted for deeper cover among the rocks and felt the whip of a bullet past my face.
Well, those boys wanted me, and they were being paid fighting wages. If they were going to be paid for it, they might as well earn it.
I settled down and studied the land. They could come at me from two ways, and either way was going to be mighty uncomfortable.
Oh, they had me, all right. They had me up the creek without a paddle, but when they salted my hide I'd have plenty of company.
They couldn't come at me very easy, but I had an idea they'd try to get on the canyon wall above me. Come night-time, I was going to have to squeeze out of there, somehow or other.
An hour passed, and then another. The sun was hot and I was glad that soon I was going to be on the shadowed side of that cliff. But when it became dark I wasn't going to be able to see them closing in, so they were in no hurry.
Nobody moved ... a cicada sang in the brush ... that buzzard was keeping track of me, for I saw his shadow as he swept overhead. I checked my rifles, reloaded the shells I'd fired, then checked my six-shooter.
The furrow that had been laid in my shoulder was shallow, and it had stopped bleeding. My mouth was dry and I wished for a drink, but my canteen was back there on my horse. The thought came to me of a sudden that I might never get another drink of water. They really had me pinned down now, right back up against Bullfrog Ridge, with the river facing me but a good half-mile or more away.
Suddenly a bullet hit the rock above me, whipping by my head with a nasty whine. And then I was really scared.
This was a trick the soldiers had used on the Apaches in the cave not far from here. They couldn't get at the Indians, so they shot against the back wall ... ricochets can tear a man up something awful, and I had talked to men who saw what was in that cave afws.
I hunted myself a hole, found a narrow crack in the rocks, and squeezed in.
For the next half-hour there was lead and rock chips flying every which way, and if they had come with a rush then they'd have had me sure. I couldn't have gotten out in time to stand them off, but they didn't know that.
Dust got in my eyes, and several times I was stung by chips of flying rock, but no bullet reached me. The way I was squeezed in there, it would have been a miracle if I had been shot, and after a while they gave up. I scrambled out of the hole, and studied the place down there toward the river bank where they'd been shooting from. Seeing nothing of them, I fired a shot to show them I was still around.
Twilight came, and in the desert country there is mighty little of that. Stars started to show up, and I hunted a place to hide. This was going to be the showdown, I could feel it in my bones. They had me treed, and there was just no way out. Judging by the shooting, there'd been a dozen or more men down there.
I thought of my horses--the horse I rode was down, and the pack horse had run off a little way, but he might as well have been ten miles off.
The desert air was clear an
d I could hear the men talking as the night drew on. I could smell the smoke of their fire, and thought I could even smell bacon frying and coffee. It made my stomach growl, for I'd eaten nothing since the night before.
The more I thought of that grub the more I wanted some. They had me, all right, but I might as well die with a full stomach. Maybe I should go down there, Injun up on them and walk in shooting.
I'd get a full stomach all right ... full of lead.
Just after full dark a rider came in. I heard their greetings. Heard him say his... one hell of a fight. I don't know where those two came from, but when they were called on they delivered."
"Where was it?"
"Solomonville. Dodie Allen went into this place with Pete Ryland and Collins. They weren't hunting trouble, but you know how Dodie is.
Just because his uncle's a big cattleman, he thinks he is too. Or he thought he was."
"Dead?"
"You ain't a-woofin'. Why, he no more'n picked trouble with those two than he was dead."
"What started it?"
"Dodie. He started it. He had two tough men with him, and I guess he figured he was safe. Or maybe he figured he'd been growin' more hair on his chest. Anyway, he said those two looked like they come right out of the hills.
"One of them fellers, he just looked over at him an' said "Mebbe."'
"Then Dodie said this here was a rough country on folks from Tennessee--t they had one cornered up in the hills, and they were going to stretch rope with his neck come daylight.
"This here tallest one, he said, "ally-all huntin' a man name of Sackett?"' And Dodie, he said he sure was. Collins, he was nudgin' Dodie to shut up, but you know that kid.
He's bull-headed as an ornery calf.
Dodie said he sure was, and this feller just pulled back an' said, "ally found yourselves two of 'em. You goin' to draw that gun, or suck aigs?"'
"Well, sir, Dodie he didn't know what to do. All of a sudden his loud mouth had talked him right into it, and he showed what he was made of. He just stood there swallowin' air and turnin' greener by the minute.
"Ryland, he cut in and said Dodie meant nothin' by it, but they wouldn't let him be.
""He said y-all was huntin'
Sackettsea"' the tall one said. "Well, you found two. I'm Flagan Sackett, and this here's Galloway. You goin' to start shootin', or runnin'?"' So they started shootin."
"Dead?"
"All three of them ... four shots fired.
Four shots killed those boys. Dodie took two of them."
There was silence, and then some murmuring talk I couldn't hear, and then somebody said, "What'll the boss say about that? He set store by Dodie."
"He's fit to be tied. You know how Van is. He's got a temper and he really flew off the handle when he heard it. And Skeeter, too."
"I wouldn't want to be those Sacketts when Skeeter Allen catches up with them."
"I wouldn't want to be Skeeter. You never saw them two work."
It was quiet for a few minutes, and then a voice said, "How about some of that coffee?"
It was time to start moving if I was ever going to try getting out of there. All the shells I had, I loaded in my pockets or the loops of my cartridge belt. Another beltful I slung across my shoulder like a bandolier. Then I taken my own rifle and a spare, and eased down among the rocks.
My mind was a-puzzling over those two Sacketts. There weren't any Sacketts closer than Mora, over in New Mexico, or none that I knew of. It came to mind, though, that there had been a man named Flagan Sackett who lived over at Denney's Gap. This here might be a grandson, or some other relation.
If that tale I'd just heard was true, they sure sounded like Sacketts to me. It was a comfort to feel that maybe I wasn't all alone after all.
Well, I sort of seeped down through those rocks onto the flat land near the river. Those boys had them a big fire, and it threw a lot of light around. If they had been talking around that fire for long they wouldn't be able to see good in the dark, and ...
All at once an Indian came up off the ground right at my feet. My eyes took the flash of light against a knife blade and I shot my rifle as if it was a pistol, jamming the muzzle against the body and squeezing her off.
As the Indian went down, I lifted the rifle to my shoulder and emptied it into the crowd around the fire, and you never saw such a scattering.
A horse dashed near me, and I dropped the empty rifle and grabbed at him.
I laid hold, but he jerked me off my feet and I hit ground, luckily hanging onto my rifle. Bullets were dusting sand all about me and I made a scramble for the rocks. And so there I was, fairly trapped again.
Well, I'd dealt them some misery. They would have that to remember. I crawled back into the rocks, working my way back toward the cliff.
Van Allen ... for the first time I had the name of the man I wanted, but where was he, and how could I get to him? I laid up there in the rocks, hungry as all get-out, parched for a drink, trying to figure a way out. If it was going to happen, it would have to be at night. When daylight came they were sure as shootin' going to get me. But give me a horse and I'd light out as if the heel flies were after me.
All of a sudden a fire sprang up ... I could hear the dry branches crackling clear back where I was. The fire was off to my left a little.
Then another one came alive off to my right. First thing I knew they had five fires going down there, and it lit up the shore of the Verde all the way along in front of me. Somewhere behind those fires were men with rifles, and beyond them the horses I'd need.
It began to look as if they had me now.
Chapter thirteen.
It was a bitter end that faced me, surrounded by enemies and my back to the wall, but it was not death I was thinking of, but only that I'd let the man live who had killed Ange. She whom life had given so little, to be murdered at the end of it and thrown aside like a used-up thing.
Somewhere out there was Van Allen, always safely out of danger's way, always in the background so that I'd not even know his face if we met. The fires out there were lighting the only way I had of escape, unless I could scale the cliffso behind me. But their light touched upon the cliff too, and I did not wish to pin myself against a wall as a target for their rifles.
Well, if their story was true, there were other Sacketts in the country, and it would not end with me.
Where my body lay, others would lie, for Van Allen had no idea when he followed us from Globe that day what hell he was inviting.
A faint stirring in the night warned me, and I moved from where I was. They were creeping up along the cliff, creeping through the rocks to meet me.
It would not be a rifle's work when they came close, but work for a pistol.
Then I thought of a long-dead branch I'd seen among the rocks, and I felt for it. Carefully I lifted it up, and stirred the brush eight or ten feet from where I waited. After a moment, I dragged it ever so lightly along the leaves, hoping they would hear it.
Hear they must have, for suddenly they closed in with a rush on the spot just in front of me, and I think it was in their minds to have me alive. I emptied my Colt with one continuous sound like a roll of thunder, then slipped off to one side, grasping my rifle and crouching low. Gun fire stabbed the night, and laced a criss-cross above my head and over to the side where I had been. Putting my rifle down, I thumbed shells into my gun again ... six of them, and waited.
There was a thrashing around in the brush, and a man cried out in pain. Somebody else was moaning-- terrible, shuddering moans. Well, they had asked for it.
Ever so carefully, I eased back from where I was, going around a boulder, and then my boot came down on a dry branch. In an instant the night was whipped by streaking fire. Something slugged me in the wind, and I felt my knees buckle, and I shot and shot again.
Falling, I went down on a man, his face slippery with blood. Gasping for breath and clutching my empty pistol, I ran my hand out along his arm to his hand and twisted the g
un free.
He was beyond resisting.
In the darkness I crouched there, feeling the slow sickness of a wound coming over me. I put the captured gun down and reloaded the other and leathered it. Rifle in one hand, six-gun in the other, I backed away from the man ... dead or fatally wounded, I did not know which.
My breath was coming in rasping gasps now.
Whether I was shot through the lung or was merely gasping from the effort of movement I had no idea.
From out on the bottom land someone called out, "Well, what happened?"
Somebody moaned, but there was no other reply.
Anybody who was alive wasn't about to make a target of himself by speaking.
I dragged myself back further, feeling sick and empty, and my head humming with hurt. I couldn't understand why I felt as I did.
Men appeared between me and the light--three of them.
It took a mighty effort to get the rifle around, but I made it. They were coming closer ... I guess they thought everybody was dead. So I fired, and dropped the one who lagged. I did not think I had killed him, for his leg buckled, but the others ran left and right but not quickly enough that I did not nail another one. I heard him yelp, and he dived away into the darkness.
And then for a time all was still. Maybe I passed out, I do not know. Only when my eyes opened I was looking to the stars and it was quiet all around me.
The fires still flared, but nobody moved that I could hear. I lay there in pain, and felt terribly alone. There was no will in me to move ... only a wishing to hear the wild turkeys calling on the Big South Fork, or to smell the dogwood in April above Crab Orchard.
The night smelled of pine and blood, and there was a wafting of wood smoke from the fires that lighted my way to dying. Only somehow I knew then I was not going to die until I had killed Van Allen. Until I had faced that shadowy figure, that somebody out there whom I had never seen, but who had struck down the girl I loved.
It was a feeling of foolishness that came over me that finally made me move, a realization that no man as tall and tough as I was had a right to die with such melancholy on him.
the Sacket Brand (1965) Page 10
