Carson chuckled. "Well, now! Ain't that something'? This will sure make believers out of those bad hombres! This will be a place to leave alone!" Suddenly, he frowned. "What about Sonntag?"
Mahone shrugged. "Neither Sonntag nor Frank Salter have shown up. Sonntag is plenty bad, and Salter is a fit partner for him. The two of them are poison, and while they may have left the range, I doubt it. They'll stick around."
Finn Mahone's eyes had been straying toward the ranch house. Finally, he shoved his hat back on his head, and his face flushed as he suggested, "I expect I'd better go up and tell Frenchy what happened."
Dowd chuckled. "Sure. You might tell Remy, too!"
As Finn trotted the stallion toward the house, he heard them both laughing at him, and he grinned in spite of himself.
Remy Kastelle came out the door as he mounted the steps. "Finn! Oh, it's you! And Tex is back! What happened?"
Frenchy had come into the doorway behind her, and Mahone explained the situation as quickly as possible.
It was Remy who repeated the question. "What about Sonntag?"
"Neither he nor Salter have been heard from, but they may show up yet. I've got to get back to my place and move some cattle. Ed Wheeling over at Rico wants to buy some stock from me."
Hours later, on the road back to Crystal Valley, Finn lUbTLKK ROUNDUP /
Mahone rode swiftly. Nick James had left that morning and was to meet him at the Notch, and they would go on to the valley together. With James and Shoshone Charlie, he could manage the drive all right. Dowd had offered him a hand, but Mahone refused.
He said nothing to them of his worries, but he had his own ideas about what had become of Byrn Sonntag. The big redheaded gunman was probably in Rico. It would be like him to go there, for he knew the place and they knew him. Jim Hoff, the buyer of stolen cattle, was there; Sonntag would need money and he could sell some of the rustled cattle to Hoff.
The following day, Finn Mahone pushed his own herd of cattle through the upper canyon of the Laird. He had his sale to make, and he had the sense that the last act of the Laird Valley cattle war was going to play itself out in Rico.
Finn knew there would be rustling and robbery in the Laird Valley as long as Byrn Sonntag and Frank Salter were at large. Now that he was no longer being set up to be a scapegoat, the rustlers would have no compunction about taking his cattle along with those of everyone else. Texas Dowd had said little, but Mahone knew that he felt the same.
Nick James rode by. Mopping sweat and dust from his brow, he grinned at Mahone. The white-faced cattle moved briskly ahead, bawling and frisking, occasionally stopping to crop disinterestedly at the sparse desert growth. Soon they were mounting the trail to theA plateau on which Rico stood.
The scattered shacks that lay around Rico appeared, and then the stockyards. A couple of hands rode up and helped them to corral the stock. Finn left Shoshone Charlie and Nick James to drown their thirst, and headed for the Gold Spike to see Wheeling.
When the stock buyer saw him, he almost dropped his glass. "Mahone, you'd better be careful. Sonntag is in town selling cattle. If he sees you around, he'll think you've come after him."
"I wouldn't want to disappoint the man," Mahone commented, grimly.
"Well, that Salter is with him, and he's mean as a burro jack and that isn't all! Frenchy Kastelle hit town about noon, rode over from the ranch with his daughter and Texas Dowd. They're trying to figure out where their missing stock got to. Jim Hoff saw them, and I know he's said something to Sonntag."
Finn Mahone thought quickly. Byrn Sonntag would be trying to cash in on Logan's rustling scheme. He and Salter had hundreds, if not thousands, of stolen cattle to sell and that meant the stakes were high enough to kill for. If the Kastelle outfit was in town asking questions, there was a good chance they would run afoul of Sonntag and Salter. No doubt Remy's father was as fast as Carson had assured them, and surely Texas Dowd was as tough as they came, but in a match with a gunman of Sonntag's caliber anyone involved was bound to get hurt.
Mahone turned and walked swiftly to the door. He glanced sharply up and down the street, then pushed outside. Almost the first man he saw was Jim Hoff. The fat, sloppy buyer was coming up the boardwalk toward him, but when he saw Finn, he started to cross the street. "Hoff! Hold on a minute!"
Reluctantly, the man stopped, staring uneasily at Finn. "Where's Sonntag? Tell me, and quick!"
"I don't know," Hoff protested.
RUSTLER KOUNDUP / Z3S
Mahone did not wait. He slapped the buyer of stolen stock across the mouth, hard enough to rattle his teeth. "Next time you get a pistol barrel! Where is he?"
"Down to his shack! An' I hope he kills you!" Hoff pointed further down the street to a tarpaper cabin half concealed by brush.
Shoshone Charlie had come out of the saloon. "Charlie," Finn said, "keep your eye on this hombre. If he makes a move toward a gun or to communicate with anybody, skin him alive."
The Indian moved nearer Hoff, and the cattle buyer backed away. The Indian might not be young, but he was wiry and tough, and his knife was good steel.
Nick James moved up. "What is it, Boss?"
"Sonntag and me, when I find him!"
Door by door, Finn worked down the street. Sonntag might be at the shack, but he might not be. Mahone also went down the street, only a glance was needed to tell him who was in each place he visited. When he stopped at the stock corrals, and stared down the road, he could see the dark frame shack where Sonntag lived when in Rico. It was an ugly place to approach.
The square little house stood on a mesquite-dotted lot with nothing near it but the crowded corrals and a small stable, not unlike the flimsy structure at the Brewster ranch.
The road approaching it was flat and offered no cover. He could wait until Sonntag started for town, but Finn was in no mood for waiting now. If Kastelle and Remy were in town there was every chance of them getting hurt, for the town was small, and Sonntag was not about to be thwarted at the last minute.
Finn stepped out from the corrals and started down the path, walking fast.
Ed Wheeling walked to the door of the Gold Spike and stared after Mahone, then stepped out on the boardwalk. Slowly, the word had swept the town. Finn Mahone was going after Sonntag and Salter.
Remy was in the general store when she heard it, and she straightened, feeling the blood drain from her face. She turned and started for the door. Her father, seeing her go, was startled by her face. He followed swiftly down the road.
The door of the square house opened, and Byrn Sonntag stepped out.
He had pulled the door closed behind him before he saw Finn Mahone. He squared around, staring at him to make sure he saw aright. Then, stepping carefully, he started toward him. Neither man spoke.
Seventy feet apart, they halted, as at a signal. Finn Mahone felt a queer leaping excitement within him as he stared across the hot stretch of desert at Byrn Sonntag. Ever since he could recall wearing a gun, he seemed to have been hearing of Sonntag, and always his name had been spoken in awe.
Standing there, his features were frozen and hard now, and his eyes seemed to blaze with a white light.
Sweat trickled down Mahone's cheek. He could smell the sage, and the tarlike smell of creosote bush. The sun was very warm and the air was still. Somewhere, far off, a train whistled.
"Heard you're sellin' cattle, Sonntag."
"Just a few critters, here an' there."
"We may have to skin a few, check the brands."
"No, you're not. I'm goin' to kill you, Mahone."
Finn Mahone drew a deep breath. There was no way around this. "All right, when that train whistles again, Sonntag, you can have it."
They waited, and the silence hung heavy in the desert air. Salter was out there somewhere but Finn knew he couldn't fight both of them, so he put the old guerrilla out of his mind and focused on Sonntag. Sweat trickled down Mahone's brow, and he felt it along his body under his shirt, and then he saw
the big gunman drop into a half crouch, his body tense with listening. When the whistle came, both men moved. In a blur of blinding speed, Finn Mahone saw Sonntag's gun sweeping up, saw flame stab toward him, and felt a hammer blow in his stomach, but his own gun was belching fire, and he was walking toward Sonntag, hammering bullets into the big redhead, one after another.
He went to his knees, and sweat came up into his face, and then his face was in the sand, and he looked up, still clutching his guns, then he dug his elbows into the sand, and dragged himself nearer.
Somewhere through the red haze before him he could hear the low bitter cursing of Sonntag, and he fired at the. sound. The voice caught, and gagged, and then Finn got his feet under him, and swayed erect only to have his knees crumple under him. In a sitting position, he could see Sonntag down, but the man was not finished. Mahone triggered his gun, but it clicked on an empty chamber.
Sonntag fired, and the bullet plucked at Finn's trouser leg. Finn dug shells from his belt and began to feed them into the chambers of his six-gun. Off to his left there was a rattle of pistol fire and the dull boom of the Spencer that Frank Salter carried. Someone was helping Mahone out.
Sonntag was getting up, his thick shirt heavy with blood, his face half shot away. What enormous vitality forced the man to his feet, Mahone could never imagine, but there he was, big as a barn, seemingly indestructible. Mahone got to his feet, and twenty feet apart they stared at each other. Finn brought his gun up slowly.
"You're a good ... man, Mahone," Sonntag said, "but I'll kill you an' live to spit on your grave!"
His own gun swung up swiftly, and blasted with flame, but the shot went wild, and Finn Mahone fired three times, slowly, methodically.
Sonntag staggered, and started to fall, then pitched over on his face. He squeezed off another shot, but it plowed a furrow in the sand.
It was awfully hot. Finn stared down at the fallen man, and felt his own gun slip from his fingers. He started to stoop to retrieve it, and the next thing he knew was the sound of singing in a low, lovely voice.
His lids fluttered back and he was lying on his back and Remy was bending over him. The singing stopped. "Oh, you're awake? Don't try to talk now, you must rest."
"How long have I been here?"
"A week tomorrow."
"A week? What happened to Sonntag?"
"He's dead ..."
"And Salter?"
"When you're better you can thank my father."
"I thought Sonntag was going to kill me," Finn said thoughtfully.
"Don't think about it now," Remy advised. "You'll be well soon."
He caught her hand. "I'll be going back to the valley, then. It's never been the same since that morning when you were waiting on the steps for me. I think you should come back, and stay."
"Why not?" Remy wrinkled her nose at him. "That's probably the only way I'll ever get that black stallion!"
He caught her with his good arm and pulled her close. "Wait! That's not the way a wounded man should act!" she protested.
Then their lips met, and she protested no longer.
*
THE SKULL AND THE ARROW
Heavy clouds hung above the iron-colored peaks, and lancets of lightning flashed and probed. Thunder rolled like a distant avalanche in the mountain valleys ... The man on the rocky slope was alone.
He stumbled, staggering beneath the driving rain, his face hammered and raw. Upon his skull a wound gaped wide, upon his cheek the white bone showed through. It was the end. He was finished, and so were they all ... they were through.
Far-off pines made a dark etching along the skyline, and that horizon marked a crossing. Beyond it was security, a life outside the reach of his enemies, who now believed him dead. Yet, in this storm, he knew he could go no further. Hail laid a volley of musketry against the rock where he leaned, so he started on, falling at times.
He had never been a man to quit, but now he had. They had beaten him, not man to man but a dozen to one. With fists and clubs and gun barrels they had beaten him .. and now he was through. Yes, he would quit. They had taught him how to quit.
The clouds hung like dark, blowing tapestries in the gaps of the hills. The man went on until he saw the dark opening of a cave. He turned to it for shelter then, as men have always done. Though there are tents and wickiups, halls and palaces, in his direst need man always returns to the cave. J
He was out of the rain but it was cold within. Shivering, he gathered sticks and ome blown leaves. Among the rags of his wet and muddy clothing, he found a match, and from the match, a flame. The leaves caught, the blaze stretched tentative, exploring fingers and found food to its liking.
He added fuel; the fire tjbok hold, crackled, and gave off heat. The man moved closer, feeling the warmth upon his hands, his body. Firelight played shadow games upon the blackened walls where the smoke from many' fires had etched their memories ... for how many generations of men?
This time he was finished. There was no use going back. His enemies were sure he was dead, and his friends would accept it as true. So he was free. He had done his best, so now a little rest, a little healing, and then over the pine-clad ridge and into the sunlight. Yet in freedom . there is not always contentment.
He found fuel again, and came upon a piece of ancient pottery. Dipping water from a pool, he rinsed the pot, then filled it and brought it back to heat. He squeezed rain from the folds of his garments, then huddled between the fire and the cave wall, holding tight against the cold.
There was no end to the rain ... gusts of wind whipped at the cave mouth and dimmed the fire. It was insanity to think of returning. He had been beaten beyond limit. When he was down they had taken turns kicking him. They had broken ribs ... he could feel them under the cold, a raw pain in his side.
Long after he had lain inert and helpless, they had bruised and battered and worried at him. Yet he was a tough man, and he could not even find the relief of unconsciousness. He felt every blow, every kick. When they were tired from beating him, they went away.
He had not moved for hours, and only the coming of night and the rain revived him. He moved, agony in every muscle, anguish in his side, a mighty throbbing inside his skull, but somehow he managed distance. He crawled, walked, staggered, fell. He fainted, then revived, lay for a time mouth open to the rain, eyes blank and empty.
By now his friends believed him dead ... Well, he was not dead, but he was not going back. After all, it was their fight, had always been their fight. Each of them fought for a home, perhaps for a wife, children, parents. He had fought for a principle, and because it was his nature to fight.
With the hot water he bathed his head and face, eased the pain of his bruises, washed the blood from his hair, bathed possible poison from his cuts. He felt better then, and the cave grew warmer. He leaned against the wall and relaxed. Peace came to his muscles. After a while he heated more water and drank some of it.
Lightning revealed the frayed trees outside the cave, revealed the gray rain before the cave mouth. He would need more fuel. He got up and rummaged in the further darkness of the cave. He found more sticks and carried them back to his fire. And then he found the skull.
He believed its whiteness to be a stick, imbedded as it was in the sandy floor. He tugged to get it loose, becoming more curious as its enormous size became obvious. It was the skull of a gigantic bear, without doubt from prehistoric times. From the size of the skull, the creature must have weighed well over a ton.
Crouching by the firelight he examined it. Wedged in an eye socket was a bit of flint. He broke it free, needing all his strength. It was a finely chipped arrowhead.
The arrow could not have killed the bear. Blinded him, yes, enraged him, but not killed him. Yet the bear had been killed. Probably by a blow from a stone ax, for there was a crack in the skull, and at another place, a spot near the ear where the bone was crushed.
Using a bit of stick he dug around, finding more bones. One was a shattered foreleg
of the monster, the bone fractured by a blow. And then he found the head of a stone ax. But nowhere did he find the bones of the man. Despite the throbbing in his skull and the raw pain in his side, he was excited. Within the cave, thousands of years ago, a lone man fought a battle to the death against impossible odds ... and won.
Fought for what? Surely there was easier game? And with the bear half blinded the man could have escaped, for the cave mouth was wide. In the whirling fury of the fight there must have been opportunities. Yet he had not fled. He had fought on against the overwhelming strength of the wounded beast, pitting against it only his lesser strength, his primitive weapons, and his man-cunning.
Venturing outside the cave for more fuel, he dragged a log within, although the effort made him gasp with agony. He drew the log along the back edge of his fire so that it was at once fuel and reflector of heat.
Burrowing a little in the now warm sand of the cave floor, he was soon asleep.
For three weeks he lived in the cave, finding berries and nuts, snaring small game, always conscious of the presence of the pine-clad ridge, yet also aware of the skull and the arrowhead. In all that time he saw no man, either near or far ... there was, then, no search for him.
Finally it was time to move. Now he could go over the ridge to safety. Much of his natural strength had returned; he felt better. It was a relief to know that his fight was over.
At noon of the following day he stood in the middle of a heat-baked street and faced his enemies again. Behind him were silent ranks of simple men.
"We've come back," he said quietly. "We're going to stay. You had me beaten a few weeks ago. You may beat us today, but some of you will die. And we'll be back. We'll always be back."
There was silence in the dusty street, and then the line before them wavered, and from behind it a man was walking away, and then another, and their leader looked at him and said, "You're insane. Completely insane!" And then he, too, turned away and the street before them was empty.
End Of the Drive (1997) s-7 Page 21
