by Ray Hogan
“Worked fine,” he said. “A right smart of a mix-up going on at the bottom of that draw when I left.”
Roxie smiled faintly, sobered. “Will they give up now, do you think?”
“Not Cushman. I don’t figure him for the giving-up kind. Plain can’t afford to, not after doing what he’s done.”
“Then we’ll have to stop somewhere … fight him again?” There was no fear or resignation in her voice; instead, there was a note of eagerness, almost one of hope.
“You can bet on it,” Lockett said, gazing off in the distance. “Those hills over to the right … you ever been there?”
Roxie shook her head. “I’ve never done any riding in this part of the valley … it was always closer to home.”
Lockett nodded, continued to scrutinize the sprawling, low formations as the horses pressed on. Then: “Expect they’re what we’re looking for. Country looks rough and there’s plenty of brush and trees.”
“I remember someone saying there were old silver mines over here somewhere,” Roxie said.
“That’d be fine. Can’t think of anything I’d rather see than a mine shaft. But I reckon we don’t have a choice other than heading that way and taking our chances. One thing sure, we’ve got to get off this flat. If Cushman can’t get up through that wash, he’s bound to send his men around the ends.”
At once Lockett began to veer their course toward the ragged hills in the near distance. They should be able to find a cave, or a deep cañon—or possibly an abandoned mine shaft—that would enable them to elude Cushman. The buttes would have provided the same sanctuary had they been able to reach them before the rancher spotted them.
The wooded formation drew nearer. Lockett began to relax somewhat. The hills were higher and more extensive than they had appeared at first glance. They should have no problem locating a good hideout, and there lie low until things cooled off a bit.
“There’s two of them …”
At Roxie’s quiet words Dade glanced around quickly. Two riders were coming up onto the mesa from the south. Cushman had done exactly as he’d expected—only sooner; he had sent men to circle the buttes in order to gain the mesa above. There would be others showing up at the opposite end. He swung his attention to the north, swore. Three riders were coming into view at that point. Lockett settled his attention on the slopes ahead. They had a long lead on the rancher and his party, and while their whereabouts would now be no secret, they still had a good chance of losing their pursuers.
He nodded to Roxie, grinned. “Just keep riding.”
XX
They reached the foot of the hills and ducked at once into a brush-filled wash. Dade, riding in front of Roxie, rode straight on until a second cleft, cutting in at right angles, drew his notice. Immediately he wheeled the chestnut into it, and with the girl following closely, urged the horse up the steep grade.
Far back on the mesa men were yelling back and forth, and shortly a gunshot sounded—indication to all of Cushman’s party that their quarry had again been sighted. They would immediately answer the summons, racing to regroup at the base of the mountain and from there press the search. With the chestnut heaving mightily, Lockett gained a narrow ledge on the face of the slope, halted, waited until Roxie and the bay had moved in behind him. Lifting a hand for silence, he listened. At once the rapid tattoo of horses pounding across the mesa from the south reached them. It was the two riders they had seen earlier.
“Watched where we turned in,” he said. “More’n likely they’ll be trying now to head us off.”
Roxie laid her hand on the butt of the rifle slung from her saddle. “I’ve got bullets enough to take care of them,” she said in an emotionless voice.
Lockett studied the girl thoughtfully. She had spoken as if using a gun on a man meant nothing, that killing was the answer to any problem, and readily acceptable. But he reckoned she had a right to be feeling that way; it was only a state of mind, a groove of bitterness into which she had been plunged by the loss of her brother and their ranch holdings. It would pass, he was certain; Roxie was a fine, well brought-up girl with a good education. She would shake off the urgent need for vengeance that possessed her along with the idea that a bullet was the way to set all things right, and become her own self again—he was certain of it. Or was he? Such beliefs had been his, he realized; he had started out to exact revenge from the man who had wronged him and would have done so had not someone beaten him to it. How, then, could he be so sure that Roxie would not have those same instincts, that she would forget her need to kill Ed Cushman? Was it simply because she was a woman?
He shook his head, finding no answers to his own thoughts, and returned to the moment. “Can’t do it that way. One shot from that rifle and we’d draw them all.”
“Then what can we do?” she asked in a quick voice. “I don’t intend to let them get close enough—”
“We won’t,” Lockett broke in, a bit startled by the harshness of her tone. “Just keep following me, quiet as you can. And forget about using that gun.”
Roxie only shrugged, kicked her heels into the bay’s flanks, and started him forward in the wake of the big chestnut. The shelf led them across the slope for a time and then began to sink lower, make its way into a fairly wide arroyo that slashed down from the peaks and ridges far to their right and above them. Dade gave the higher regions consideration. If they could make it up to the area, which appeared extremely wild and broken as well as being thickly covered over with oak brush, mountain mahogany, and other tough growth, they would have their problem solved. But doing so without exposing themselves as they crossed the periodic breaks of open ground would be the drawback; at such times they would offer easy targets for the guns of Cushman’s riders.
“They’re coming.”
Lockett heard the click of a horse’s hoof against a rock at the same moment Roxie did. It would be the pair that had come up from the south end of the mesa; none of the others could have had time to move in so close. Dade looked around hurriedly. The trail across the slope they had followed turned sharply downward a few yards farther on, branching off at a fork, previously unseen, that struck for higher levels. Apparently the two raiders were climbing the lower trail with the thought in mind of continuing on up the mountain.
“They’re not sure where we went,” he said in a low voice, and put the gelding into motion on a course straight ahead.
Roxie moved in behind him and they walked their mounts hurriedly but quietly as possible, taking the turn to the right when they reached it that would eventually end at the towering peaks far above.
“They’ll see us,” the girl began uncertainly.
Lockett did not slow but pointed to a dense stand of cedars this side of a broad meadow through which the trail made its way. “Not if we’re in there.”
They pressed on, gained the cover with the thud of the raiders’ climbing horses a solid sound behind them. Motioning for Roxie to remain quiet in the saddle, Dade took up a position on the opposite side of the path.
“They’ll be tracking us,” he whispered. “When they come by, I’ll take care of them both. You keep back.”
Roxie said nothing, only moved the bay deeper into the brush that crowded the shoulders of the trail. Lockett, pistol in hand, listened intently. Far down the hillside he could hear Cushman and the others talking, but at such a distance the words were unintelligible. They were climbing the slope, he knew he could be certain of that. Leaning forward, Dade rested one hand on the chestnut’s neck, seeking to keep the horse quiet. The two men had reached the fork in the path, had halted to examine the tracks left by the bay and the gelding.
“Headed up,” one said. “Trying to reach them high rocks.”
“I can see that. Going to be hell chasing them out of there, was they to make it.”
The other rider swore. “Hell, they can’t be that far ahead of us! Come on,
let’s keep moving.”
There were a few moments’ hesitation on the part of his companion, then: “Reckon we ought to wait for the boss and the boys?”
“Not me! You can if you want. I’m aiming to collect me that extra reward Cushman was talking about.”
At once the other said: “Dang nigh forgot! Goes for me, too.”
The thump of hoofs resumed along with the faint clatter of sliding gravel, the quiet swish of disturbed branches whipping back into place. Lockett glanced at the girl. She was hunched over her saddle, had drawn the Henry from its boot, and was holding it ready in both hands. He pulled the extra pistol he now carried from its place under his waistband, held both up for her to see, and shook his head warningly, signifying that he was well equipped to do the chore of halting the men and disarming them.
The sound of the approaching horses became loud. Tense, Dade raised one of the weapons butt first, prepared to use it as a club. The other he held in usual fashion, barrel pointed straight ahead. He would knock the first rider senseless with the one, still be in position to hold his partner at bay with the second.
Abruptly the riders were in view—two lean-faced individuals with eyes intent on the trail up which they were moving. The man in the lead was as he’d hoped he’d be—no more than an arm’s reach away. The other, however, was keeping to the opposite shoulder of the path. Lockett swore silently. Such complicated matters called for a change of plan; he’d have to knock out the man behind first. Poised, he let the pair draw abreast, pass. As the rear horse moved by, Lockett suddenly jammed spurs into the chestnut, sent him lunging forward. Both men hauled up in surprise, whirled to face him. Dade lashed out with the pistol in his right hand, caught the outlaw nearest on the side of the head. The man groaned, pitched sideways off the saddle. Instantly Lockett spun to meet the second rider. In that same fleeting moment he saw Roxie swing the Henry rifle by its barrel. It arced through the air. The stock of the weapon struck the man at the base of his skull and the crack of bone was like the snap of a dry twig. He rocked forward as his startled horse shied away, and then as his arms dropped limply, he fell to the ground.
Lockett was off the chestnut immediately. The rider he had knocked from the saddle was on his hands and knees beside the trail. Blood was dripping from a gash laid open along the side of his head by Dade’s pistol. Stepping up beside him, Dade plucked the man’s pistol from its holster, tossed it off into the brush. He turned then to the one felled by Roxie. She, too, had dismounted and, holding the broken stocked Henry in her hands, was looking down at the man, her features utterly devoid of expression. Lockett squatted, examined the limp figure briefly, and drew himself erect.
“Dead. Was quite a wallop you gave him.”
Roxie passed the rifle to him. “I’ve ruined your gun,” she said.
He stared at her wonderingly for a breath of time, and then glanced at the rifle. “No matter. It was getting old,” he said, and tossed it aside. Moving forward a few paces, he looked off down the slope. “Best we keep going. Won’t take Cushman long to catch up, find these two.”
Roxie nodded, turned to the horse the dead man had been riding, and crossed to where the animal, reins tangled in the brush, was waiting. Jerking the rifle from its boot, she took the belt of cartridges hanging from the saddle horn, and returned to Lockett. “These the bullets for this gun?” she asked, holding them close for his inspection.
Dade checked them, nodded, and watched her sling them over a shoulder as she dropped back to the bay. Sliding the Winchester into the scabbard once filled by the Henry, she swung onto her horse. “Which way?” she asked in a cool, businesslike way.
Lockett glanced again down the slope. There was still no sign of Cushman or any more of his men, only the faint, muted sounds of their progress as they worked their way uptrail carefully. He switched his attention to the rider he’d knocked cold. The man no longer was on hands and knees, but now lay sprawled full length at the edge of the brush.
“Reckon that depends on what we’re aiming to do,” Dade said, facing the girl. “We could go higher, find a place to hole up till dark, then get out of the country.”
Roxie met his eyes squarely. The hardness of her had grown more intense and there was a coldness that reminded him of a hired killer he’d once known. “I’m not leaving the country,” she said quietly. “Not until I’ve killed Ed Cushman.”
XXI
Dade Lockett considered the girl in silence. The change from the Roxanne he had first met that evening in the yard of the Raker Ranch and the remote, cool Roxie who now looked down at him from her saddle on the bay was as vast as the distance separating the towering Rockies and the equally cloud-piercing Sierra Nevadas. That she was capable of carrying out her declaration he had no doubt; the manner in which she had handled Cushman’s rider, knocking him from his horse, killing him, and then calmly brushing aside the fact, was proof of that. But it was all wrong; it was not woman’s work.
“I can’t let you do something like that,” he said. “Ain’t right.”
“Right,” Roxie echoed. “Why isn’t it? What’s the difference if I avenge a wrong done me and my family, or if it was my brother doing it?”
“Ain’t sure but there is … him being a man and …”
“Poppycock. He’s gone … dead, killed by the man who murdered my father. I’m the only one left so it’s up to me.”
“No, squaring up’s not the thing for you to be trying to do. Not right.”
“Are you trying to say that revenge isn’t right?”
“Well, maybe I …”
“You know that’s not it, Dade. You were on your way to square up with somebody, as you call it, when you stopped to help Clint and me. I know that now, just from the way you acted and talked because I’ve been seeing the same thing in myself ever since Clint was shot down and I found out for sure about my father. Now, isn’t that the truth?”
Lockett, caught between a rock and a wall of granite, unable to express himself or explain his beliefs, turned on a heel and moved to where the chestnut stood.
“Well, isn’t it?”
Dade settled himself on his saddle. If he answered her question, told her about her father and what had lain between them and that he had planned to kill him for his wrongdoing, would it help any? Would it make her understand? He decided it would not. “Reckon it was something like that,” he murmured.
“That proves it then,” Roxie shot back, a triumphant note in her voice. “It was someone who had harmed you, just as Cushman has me … maybe even killed a person who was very dear to you. Isn’t that how it was?”
Lockett shrugged. “It was just a jasper I once knew. Left me dying on the ground when he could’ve helped.”
“So, since you’re a man, it was all right for you to seek vengeance, but because I’m a woman, even though I’ve got greater cause than you, I’ve no right to feel the same way?”
Dade pivoted the gelding about, headed uptrail. He was weary of bandying words, and if they didn’t get moving, they’d find Cushman right at their heels. There was no arguing with Roxie, he could see that—and no time to do so if there was. Later, once they were safely beyond the rancher’s reach, he might be able to talk a little sense into her. It was loco, plumb loony for her to think she could go gunning for Cushman.
They climbed steadily, pointing for a dark bank of cliffs well to the west. Once there they not only would have a wide, sweeping view of the slopes below and all that stirred upon them but there should be many natural fortifications they could select as a hideout. He could not blame the girl for her desire to even up with Ed Cushman. It was a natural feeling and one he well understood. Only it was not for a woman, particularly one like her, to have such desires. Women simply didn’t involve themselves in killings—he wished he could make her see that. Oh, sure, there were those who carried Derringers about in their reticules or the pocket of a lace
dress and avenged themselves for various reasons on some dandy, but they were the fancy women—not fine, genteel girls like Roxie. Why couldn’t he make her understand that?
Time wore on as the line of cliffs grew taller, darker. There were no sounds of pursuit although he was sure the rancher and his men had come upon the two who had been in advance of them by that hour. Either Cushman was not certain of the direction that he and Roxie had taken or was reluctant, being caught below on the slope and therefore at a disadvantage, to press any farther. He hoped that was it, that Cushman, satisfied he had nullified the Raker claim to the land he wanted by killing off all but one member of the family—a mere girl—had turned back and was letting it drop. It would solve a lot of his worries, Dade thought, if that were true. He could forget about the rancher and his raiders, keep Roxie on the move and get her clear out of the country, and by then she would have maybe come to her senses and given up the idea of killing Cushman.
“I don’t think they’re following,” he heard her say in a worn voice. “Can’t we stop and rest for a while?”
Lockett glanced at her. She was slumped in the saddle, wearied to the verge of collapse. He pointed to the cliffs. “I was wanting to make it to there. They’ll never find us once we get that far. Take maybe another hour. Figure you can hold out that long?”
Roxie nodded listlessly and they moved on. The horses, too, were beginning to show the effects of the grueling climb, and Dade, picking the route as carefully as the lay of the land would permit, chose the gentlest course. Within the promised length of time they reached the base of the lengthy stretch of palisades that reared high above the country below, and cutting due north Dade led the way toward what appeared to be a large cañon. The bright green splash of cottonwood trees indicated the presence of a spring or mountain stream. It proved to be the latter, breaking out of the dark, rich earth, crossing a small meadow lush with thick grass, and then disappearing again into a welter of sun-scoured boulders.
