They thought he was going to die! They thought—He’d show them. From deep within him came a hard burning defiance. He’d show them.
It had been midafternoon when they left Rydberg. It was two hours later when they came up to Coyote Peak. Otteson was studying the rocks around and suddenly he turned sharply left and rode into an arroyo. Twenty minutes later they stood beside the tinaja.
Despair mounted within Rodelo. It was only a hollow of rock with a few gallons of water in the bottom. They filled their canteens, then watered the horses. When the horses had finished the water was gone.
“We’ll rest a few hours,” Isager suggested, “then go on after dark.”
Isager ignored the shade and lay down on his side with his face toward the two men and his weapons and water close behind him.
Rodelo found a spot in soft sand, well back in the shadow of the rocks. He stared at the others and thought exhaustion had made them stupid. Both had relaxed upon hard, rocky ground. The least move would awaken them. They would get no rest that way. While this was soft sand.… He relaxed luxuriously.
He awakened with a start. It was cold, dark, and silent. With sudden panic, he sprang to his feet. “Isager!” he shouted. “Ott!” And the desert gave back only echoes. He felt for his canteen, and it was gone. He ran to where his horse had been picketed, and it, too, was gone.
He had slept and they had left him. They had taken the gold, the horse, the canteen … only his pistol remained. He had that only because they had feared to awaken him.
He rushed to a rise of ground, scrambled, slipped on the rocks, and skinned his knees. Then he got to the top and stared off to the southeast. All he could see was the soft, velvety darkness, the cool of the desert night, and the unspeaking stars.
He was alone.
For the first time he was frightened. He was horribly, unspeakably frightened. Rodelo hated being alone, he feared loneliness, and he knew the power of the desert to kill.
Then his fear left him, his thoughts smoothed out and the panic ended. They could not move fast without knowing the country better than they did. They would travel at a walk, and if they did, he might overtake them. He was younger than either, and he was strong. He had never found a trial that could test his endurance.
A glance at the stars told him they could have no more than an hour’s start. How much would that mean at night in unfamiliar desert? Three miles? Five miles?
Doubt came. Could he make up the distance? They would never suspect pursuit. Suppose the day came and he was still without water? But what would waiting gain? This was not a spring, and the tinaja was empty.
He could wait for death, or for capture on the verge of death, or he could fight. He returned to the tinaja and found perhaps a cup of water in the bottom. He thrust his head into the basin and sucked it up. Then he straightened, glanced at the stars for direction, and struck out for the southeast, walking steadily.
Otteson and Isager rode side by side. Each man led a horse, and on those horses were the gold sacks. The issue between them was clear now. Isager knew he was faster with a gun, and Otteson knew it also. Therefore, the big man would wait for a moment when the killing was a sure thing.
Neither man mentioned Rydberg nor Rodelo. It was like Otteson to ignore what was past. Isager thought of Rodelo with regret—he had liked the younger man, but this was a matter of survival. They walked their horses, careful not to tire them. Once, encountering a nest of boulders, they circled some distance to get past them. Over the next two hours this allowed Rodelo to gain considerable ground.
The first day netted them sixty miles of distance but twenty of it had been up the Gila for the gold, and the next forty angling toward the border. Daylight found them near the border and Otteson looked back. Nothing but heat waves. “They’ll be coming,” Isager said. “They’ll find Rydberg by the buzzards. Then they’ll find Rodelo. That gives them a line on us even if they don’t find our trail.”
Ahead of them on their right was a cluster of mesas, on their left ahead high and blue on the horizon, the bulk of Pinacate, a fifteen-mile-long ridge that towered nearly five thousand feet into the brassy sky.
The coolness left the desert as the sun lifted. Both men knew the folly of haste. Moreover they had each other to watch. Neither wanted to go ahead, and this slowed their pace. Isager wished it had been Otteson back there rather than Rodelo. He had seen the big man get to his feet and had done likewise. Both had chosen stony ground, as a sound sleep might be their last sleep. Otteson had saddled up, glanced at the sleeping man, and then with a shrug had gathered up Rodelo’s gear and horse. To stop him would mean a shoot-out, and neither knew which side Rodelo would join if awakened by gunfire. He had mounted up and taken Rydberg’s horse. Neither had planned on abandoning the young man when they stopped, but this was a case of survival of the fittest and Rodelo had given them an opportunity to decrease their number by one more.
“You sure the fishermen come there at this time of the year?”
“Pablo said so. He planned to go this way himself. Rocky Bay, they call it. From Flat Hill we go right down to the water. How could a man mistake a bay? And if the fishermen aren’t there, we’ll wait.”
Not long after that they came up to Tinajas Altas where they watered the horses and refilled their canteens. Isager looked over the back trail from beside the tanks. He saw no dust, no movement. Once he believed he saw something stir down there, but it could have been nothing more than a coyote or a mountain sheep. A horse would make dust.
They rested, drank water again, and ate a little of the hardtack and jerky they had smuggled from the prison, food hoarded against this effort. An hour passed, then a second hour. The rest meant much to them and to their horses. Otteson got up carefully, facing Isager. “Reckon we’d better move on. I won’t feel safe until we’re on that fishin’ boat headed south.”
Up on the mesa’s side among the talus, something moved. Isager’s quick eye saw it and recognized it in the same instant with a start of inward surprise. Otteson’s back was to the talus, but he saw a flicker of something in Isager’s eyes. “What’s the matter?” he exclaimed, starting to turn.
He caught himself, his eyes turning ugly. “Figured I’d turn an’ you’d shoot me? Don’t try nothin’ like that.”
Rodelo was on the slope behind and slightly above Otteson and about thirty yards back from him. His face was ghastly and red, his prison jeans were torn from cacti and rocks, but he clutched a businesslike .44 in his fist. He lifted it and took careful sight, shifting his feet as he did so. A rock rolled under his foot.
Otteson whipped around, quick as a cat. His rifle blasted from the hip and he missed. He never fired again. He went down, clawing at the rocks and gravel on which he had fallen, blood staining their pink to deep crimson. Isager held his smoking Colt and looked up the slope at Rodelo.
The younger man had recovered his balance and they stared at each other over their guns.
“You might miss,” Isager said. “I never do.”
“Why don’t you shoot, then?”
“I want company. Two can make it easier than one. Much easier than three.”
“Then why didn’t you let him kill me?”
“Because he wanted to kill me himself. You need me. I know the desert and you don’t.”
Rodelo came over the rocks, stepping carefully. “All right,” he said. “Gimme water.”
Isager holstered his gun. “There’s the tinaja. Drink an’ we’ll push on.” He looked at Rodelo with curious respect. “How’d you catch up so fast?”
“You rode around things. I walked straight to your dust. You rested. I couldn’t afford to.”
“Good man.” Isager mounted up. Nothing was said about what happened. “If we play it smart now, we’ll leave each other alone. Together we can make it through.”
One thing they had not forgotten. The knowledge of the tinajas lay dead in the skull of Otteson.
“We’ll have to make our water last. It wo
n’t be far now. That’s Pinacate.”
The mountain bulked before them now, and by the time the stars were out it loomed huge on the horizon. They slept that night and when they awakened, Rodelo looked around at Isager. His cheekbones were slashes of red from the sun, his eyes deep sunken. Stubble of beard covered his cheeks and his shirt was stiff with sweat and dust. “I smell the sea,” he said, low-voiced. “I can smell the sea.”
When they started on once more, they kept the mountain between them and the sun, saving themselves from the heat. Once they found a water hole but the mud was cracked and dry in the bottom. Isager’s brown face was shadowed with red, Otteson’s hat pulled low over his cold eyes.
The horses were gaunt and beaten. Several times the men dismounted and led the horses to spare them. Their hunger was a gnawing, living thing within them, and their spare canteens were dry, their own very low. The eyes of the men were never still, searching for water. Yet it was not enough to look. One had to know. In the desert water may be within a few feet and give no indication of its presence. And then, from the top of a rise, they saw the gulf !
“There it is.” Rodelo stared, hollow-eyed. “Now for that bay.”
A squarish flat hill was before them. They circled and saw the gulf due west of it. “S’pose that’s it?” Isager asked doubtfully.
“You can see for yourself that it’s a big bay.” The tension between them was back: they were watching each other out of the corners of their eyes again.
Isager stood in his stirrups and looked south. Land stretched away until it ended in a point. There was a hint of sea in that direction but he was not sure. “All right,” he said, “but I don’t see any boats.”
The plain sloping down to the bay was white with soda and salt. Long sand spits extended into the milky blue water. Here and there patches showed above the surface. “Looks mighty shallow,” Rodelo said doubtfully. “Don’t seem likely a boat would come in here.”
Isager hefted his canteen, feeling its lightness with fear. “We’d better hunt for water.”
South of them, the rocky bluff shouldered against the sky, dark and rugged. North the beach lay flat and empty … frightening in its emptiness. The horses stood, heads down and unmoving. The rocky bluff looked promising, but the salt on his lips frightened Isager. Behind them they heard a deep, gasping sigh and they turned. The paint packhorse was down.
It had sunk to the sand and now it lay stretched out, the hide on its flanks hanging like loose cloth in the hollows of its ribs.
Isager removed the gold from the horse, and with the gold off, it struggled to rise. Isager glanced at Rodelo, hesitant to use both hands to help the horse. “Go ahead,” Rodelo said, “help him.”
Together they got the horse up, and then they turned south. The salty crust crunched and broke beneath their feet. Sometimes they sank to their ankles; the horses broke through at every step. They often stopped to rest and Isager glanced at Rodelo. “We better have a truce,” he said, his eyes shifting away, then back. “You couldn’t make it without me.”
Rodelo’s lips thinned over his white teeth. “Don’t need you. You knew the desert. I know the sea.”
“The desert’s still with us,” Isager said. Suddenly the water in Rodelo’s canteen was more precious than gold. He was waiting for a chance to go for his gun.
The white glare around them forced their eyes to thin slits, while soda dust settled over them in a thin cloak. They stared at each other, as wild and thin as the gaunt, skeletonlike horses, white and shadowy things that seemed to waver with unreality in the heat. The milky water, undrinkable, and taunting them, whispered secret obscenities along the blue-white beach. “There’ll be a fishing boat,” Isager said. “No reason to kill each other. Maybe there’s water beyond that bluff.”
“There’ll be no boat.” Rodelo stated it flatly. “This is the wrong bay.”
Isager stared, blinking slowly. “Wrong bay?” he said stupidly.
“Look!” Rodelo shouted harshly. “It’s too shallow! We’ve come to the wrong place!”
Isager’s dry tongue fought for his lips. There was no hope then.
“Give me your gun,” Rodelo said, “and I’ll take you there.”
“So you can kill me?” Isager drew back, his eyes cold and calculating.
“I know where the bay is,” Rodelo said. “Give me your gun.”
Isager stared. Was it a trick? How could he actually know?
Suddenly, Rodelo shrugged. “Come on, then! I’ll take my chances on you!” He pointed toward the dark bluff. “Look! That’s a water sky. There’s water beyond that point. Another bay!”
He took a step and a bullet kicked dust at his feet. He grabbed for his gun and whirled on Isager, but the gunfighter had already faced the hillside. Four Indians were coming down the hill, riding hard. As Rodelo turned, Isager stepped his feet apart and fired. An Indian’s horse stumbled and went down, throwing the rider head over heels.
Rodelo dropped to one knee and shot under the belly of his horse. He saw an Indian drop and he fired again and missed. A bullet hit Isager and turned him half around. He staggered, and the half-dead horse lunged clumsily away. A hoof went through the crust and the horse fell heavily and lay panting, one white sliver of bone showing through the hide of the broken leg.
Isager fell, pulled off balance by the fall of the horse, and Rodelo fired again and again. His gun muzzle wavered and the shots kicked up dust. Isager rolled over behind the downed horse. He knew from harsh experience that accuracy was more essential than speed. He steadied his gun barrel. The Indian who had been thrown was rushing him. The brown body loomed large and he could see sweat streaks on the man’s chest. He squeezed off his shot and saw the Indian stumble in midstride and then pitch over on his face.
Isager pushed himself to his knees, then got up. The beach weaved slowly, sickeningly beneath him. He turned his head stiffly and looked toward Rodelo. The fallen man looked like a bundle of old clothes, but as Isager looked, the bundle moved. Rodelo uncoiled himself and got up. Blood covered his face from a cut on his cheek. He stared at his empty gun, then clumsily began feeding shells into the chambers.
Across the wavering sand the two men stared at each other, then Rodelo laughed hoarsely. “You look like hell!” he said, grinning from his heat-blasted face.
Isager’s brain seemed to spin queerly and he blinked. What was the matter with him? A pain bit suddenly at his side, and he clasped the pain with his hand. His fingers felt damp and he drew them away, staring stupidly at the blood dripping from his fingers.
“You copped one,” Rodelo said. “You’re hit.”
Isager swayed. Suddenly he knew this was it, right here on this dead-white beach washed by an ugly weedy sea. It was no way for a cowhand to cash in his chips. “Beat it,” he said hoarsely. “There’s more coming.”
“How do you know that?”
“That’s why they rushed. To get us an’ claim the reward. If they’d been alone they would have taken their time.” His knees felt buttery and queer. “There’s one good horse. Take the gold an’ beat it. I’m done in, so I’ll hold them off.”
He went to his knees. “Only …” His voice trailed off and he waited, his eyes begging Rodelo to wait a minute longer, then he managed the words, “get some of that money to Tom Hopkins’s wife. He … he was that marshal. Funny thing, funny … Never meant to kill him. He came at me an’ it was just reflex … jus’ … just drew an’ shot.”
“All right,” Rodelo said, and he meant it. He turned and disappeared into the blinding light.
Isager lay down behind the fallen horse. He slid the rifle from its scabbard and waited.
Sheriff Bill Garden and two Apache trackers found Isager a few hours later. Gunfire from the advance party of six Yaquis had led them to this desolate beach. The convict was curled up behind a dying horse, surrounded by bright brass shells ejected from his rifle. Two of the Apache horses were gone and only one of the horses ridden by the convicts was ali
ve. He was standing head down on the hillside not far away.
Horse tracks trailed away from the body of Isager, a faint trail toward the bluff to the south. Bill Garden glanced after them. The remaining scouts were still after the last man. He turned and looked down at Isager. “Lord a-mighty,” he said. “What a place to die!”
Far off across the water there was a flash of white, a jib shaken out to catch the wind … a boat had left the fishing beds at Rocky Bay and was beating its way southward toward Guaymas.
Dutchman’s Flat
The dust of Dutchman’s Flat had settled in a gray film upon their faces, and Neill could see the streaks made by the sweat on their cheeks and brows and knew his own must be the same. No man of them was smiling and they rode with their rifles in their hands, six grim and purposeful men upon the trail of a single rider.
They were men shaped and tempered to the harsh ways of a harsh land, strong in their sense of justice, ruthless in their demand for punishment, relentless in pursuit. From the desert they had carved their homes, and from the desert they drew their courage and their code, and the desert knows no mercy.
“Where’s he headin’, you reckon?”
“Home, mostly likely. He’ll need grub an’ a rifle. He’s been livin’ on the old Sorenson place.”
Kimmel spat. “He’s welcome to it. That place starved out four men I know of.” He stared at the hoof tracks ahead. “He’s got a good horse.”
“Big buckskin. Reckon we’ll catch him, Hardin?”
“Sure. Not this side of his place, though. There ain’t no shortcuts we can take to head him off, and he’s pointin’ for home straight as a horse can travel.”
“Ain’t tryin’ to cover his trail none.”
“No use tryin’.” Hardin squinted his eyes against the glare of the sun.
“He knows we figure he’ll head for his ranch.”
“He’s no tenderfoot.” Kesney expressed the thought that had been dawning upon them all in the last two hours. “He knows how to save a horse, an’ he knows a trail.”
The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume 1 Page 5
