The Trail to Crazy Man

by Louis L'Amour

  He heaved his body around and fought the ropes that bound him, until sweat streamed from his body. Even then, with his wrists torn by his struggles against the rawhide thongs that made him fast, he did not stop. There was nothing to aid him—no nail, no sharp corner, nothing at all.

  The room was built of thin boards nailed to two-by-fours. He rolled himself around until he could get his back against the boards, trying to remember where the nails were. Bracing himself as best he could, he pushed his back against the wall. He bumped against it until his back was sore. But with no effect.

  Outside, all was still. Whether they had gone, he did not know. Yet, if Perrin had not gone on his raid, he would be soon leaving. However, if Mike could escape and find Curry’s private route across the river, he might beat them to it.

  He wondered where Doc Sawyer was. Perhaps he was afraid of what Perrin might do if he tried to help. Where was Roundy?

  Just when he had all but given up, he had an idea—a solution so simple that he cursed himself for not thinking of it before. Mike rolled over and got up on his knees and reached back with his bound hands for his spurs. Fortunately he was wearing boots instead of the moccasins he wore in the woods. By wedging one spur against the other, he succeeded in holding the rowel almost immovable, and then he began to chafe the rawhide with the prongs of the rowel.

  Desperately he sawed, until every muscle was crying for relief. As he stopped, he heard the rattle of horses’ hoofs. They were just going! Then he had a fighting chance if he could get free and get his hands on a gun!

  He knew he was making headway, for he could feel the notch he had already cut in the rawhide. Suddenly footsteps sounded outside. Fearful whoever was there would guess what he was doing, Mike rolled over on his side.

  The door opened and Snake Fernandez came in, and in his hand he held a knife. His shoulder was bandaged crudely but tightly, and the knife was held in his left hand. He came in and closed the door.

  Mike stared, horror mounting within him. Perrin was gone, and Snake Fernandez was moving toward him, smiling wickedly.

  “You think you shoot Pablo Fernandez, eh?” the outlaw said, leering. “Now, we see who shoots. I am going to cut you to little pieces. I am going to cut you very slowly.”

  Bastian lay on his shoulder and stared at Fernandez. There was murder in the outlaw’s eyes, and all the savagery in him was coming to the fore. The man stooped over him and pricked him with the knife. Clamping his jaws, Mike held himself tense.

  Rage mounted in the man. He leaned closer. “You do not jump, eh? I make you jump.”

  He stabbed down hard with the knife, and Mike whipped over on his shoulder blades and kicked out wickedly with his bound feet. The movement caught the killer by surprise. Mike’s feet hit him in the knees and knocked him rolling. With a lunge, Mike rolled over and jerked at the ropes that bound him.

  Something snapped, and he jerked again. Like a cat the killer was on his feet now, circling warily. Desperately Mike pulled at the ropes, turning on his shoulders to keep his feet toward Fernandez. Suddenly he rolled over and hurled himself at the Mexican’s legs, but Fernandez jerked back and stabbed.

  Mike felt a sliver of pain run along his arms, and then he rolled to his feet and jerked wildly at the thongs. His hands came loose suddenly and he hurled himself at Fernandez’s legs, grabbing one ankle.

  Fernandez came down hard, and Bastian jerked at the leg, and then scrambled to get at him. One hand grasped the man’s wrist, the other his throat. With all the power that was in him, Mike shut down on both hands.

  Fernandez fought like an injured wildcat, but Mike’s strength was too great. Gripping the throat with his left hand, Mike slammed the Mexican’s head against the floor again and again, his throttling grip freezing tighter and tighter.

  The outlaw’s face went dark with blood, and his struggles grew weaker. Mike let go of his throat hold suddenly and slugged him three times on the chin with his fist.

  Jerking the knife from the unconscious man’s hand, Mike slashed at the thongs that bound his ankles. He got to his feet shakily. Glancing down at the sprawled-out Fernandez, he hesitated. The man was not wearing a gun, but must have had one. It could be outside the door. Easing to the door, Mike opened it a crack.

  The street was deserted as far as he could see. His hands felt awkward from their long constraint, and he worked his fingers to loosen them up. There was no gun in sight, so he pushed the door wider. Fernandez’s gun belts hung over the chair on the end of the porch.

  He had taken two steps toward them when a man stepped out of the bunkhouse. The fellow had a toothpick lifted to his lips, but when he saw Mike Bastian, he let out a yelp of surprise and went for his gun.

  It was scarcely fifteen paces and Mike threw the knife underhanded, pitching it point first off the palm of his hand. It flashed in the sun as the fellow’s gun came up. Then Mike could see the haft protruding from the man’s middle section.

  The fellow screamed and, dropping the gun, clutched at the knife hilt in an agony of fear. His breath came in horrid gasps that Mike could hear as he grabbed Fernandez’s guns and belted them on. Then he lunged for the mess hall, where his own guns had been taken from him. Shoving open the door, he sprang inside, gun in hand.

  Then he froze. Doc Sawyer was standing there smiling, and Doc had a shotgun on four of Perrin’s men. He looked up with relief.

  “I was hoping you would escape,” he said. “I didn’t want to kill these men and didn’t know how to go about tying them up by myself.”

  Mike caught up his own guns, removed Fernandez’s gun belts, and strapped on his own. Then he shoved the outlaw’s guns inside the waistband of his pants.

  “Down on the floor,” he ordered. “I’ll tie them, and fast.”

  It was the work of only a few minutes to have the four outlaws bound hand and foot. He gathered up their guns. “Where’s Roundy?” he asked.

  “I haven’t seen him since he left here,” Doc said. “I’ve been wondering.”

  “Let’s go up to the house. We’ll get Ben Curry, and then we’ll have things under control in a hurry.”

  Together, they went out the back door and walked swiftly down the line of buildings. Mike took off his hat and sailed it into the brush, knowing he could be seen from the stone house and hoping that Ben Curry would recognize him. Sawyer was excited, but trying to appear calm. He had been a gambler and, while handy with guns, was not a man accustomed to violence. Always before, he had been a bystander rather than an active participant.

  Side-by-side, gambling against a shot from someone below, they went up the stone stairs.

  There was no sound from within the house. They walked into the wide living room and glanced around. There was no sign of anyone. Then Mike saw a broken box of rifle shells.

  “He’s been around here,” he said. Then he looked up and shouted: “Dad!”

  A muffled cry reached them, and Mike was out of the room and up another staircase. He entered the room at the top, and then froze in his tracks. Sawyer was behind him now.

  This was the fortress room, a heavy-walled stone room that had water trickling from a spring in the wall of the cliff and running down a stone trough and out through a pipe. There was food stored here, and plenty of ammunition.

  The door was heavy and could be locked and barred from within. The walls of this room were all of four feet thick, and nothing short of dynamite could have blasted a way in.

  This was Ben Curry’s last resort, and he was here now. But he was sprawled on the floor, his face contorted with pain.

  “Broke my leg,” he panted. “Too heavy. Tried to move too … fast. Slipped on the steps, dragged myself up here.” He looked up at Mike. “Good for you, Son! I was afraid they had killed you. You got away by yourself?”

  “Yes, Dad.”

  Sawyer had dropped to his knees, and now he looked up
.

  “This is a bad break, Mike,” he said. “He won’t be able to move.”

  “Get me on a bed where I can see out of that window.” Ben Curry’s strength seemed to flow back with his son’s presence. “I’ll stand them off. You and me, Mike, we can do it!”

  “Dad,” Mike said. “I can’t stay. I’ve got to go.”

  Ben Curry’s face went gray with shock, then slowly the blood flowed back into it. Bastian dropped down beside him.

  “Dad, I know where Perrin’s going. He’s gone to make a raid on the Ragan Ranch. He wants the cattle and the women.”

  The old man lunged so mightily that Sawyer cried out and tried to push him back. Before he could speak, Mike said: “Dad, you must tell me about the secret crossing of the Colorado that you know. I must beat them to the ranch.”

  Ben Curry’s expression changed to one of vast relief and then quick calculation. He nodded.

  “You could do it, but it’ll take tall riding.” Quickly he outlined the route, and then added: “Now, listen! At the river there’s an old Navajo. He keeps some horses for me, and he has six of the finest animals ever bred. You cross that river and get a horse from him. He knows about you.”

  Mike got up. “Make him comfortable, Doc. Do all you can.”

  Sawyer stared at Mike. “What about Dave Lenaker? He’ll kill us all!”

  “I’ll take care of Lenaker!” Curry flared. “I’m not dead by a danged sight. I’ll show that renegade where he heads in. The moment he comes up that street, I’m going to kill him.” He looked at Mike again. “Son, maybe I’ve done wrong to raise you like I have, but if you kill Kerb Perrin or Lenaker, you would be doing the West a favor. If I don’t get Dave Lenaker, you may have to. So remember this, watch his left hand!”

  Mike ran down the steps and stopped in his room to grab his .44 Winchester. It was the work of a minute to throw a saddle on a horse, and then he hit the trail. Ben Curry and Doc Sawyer could, if necessary, last for days in the fortress-like room—unless, somehow, dynamite was pitched into the window. He would have to get to the Ragan Ranch and then get back here as soon as possible.

  Mike Bastian left the stable and wheeled the gray he was riding into the long, winding trail through the stands of ponderosa and fir. The horse was in fine fettle and ready for the trail, and he let it out. His mind was leaping over the trail, turning each bend, trying to see how it must lay.

  This was all new country to him, for he was heading southwest now into the wild, unknown region toward the great cañons of the Colorado, a region he had never traversed and, except for old Ben Curry, was perhaps never crossed by any except Indians.

  How hard the trail would be on the horse, Mike could not guess, but he knew he must ride fast and keep going. His route was the shorter, but Kerb Perrin had a lead on him and would be hurrying to make his strike and return.

  Patches of snow still hid themselves around the roots of the brush and in the hollows under the end of some giant deadfall. The air was crisp and chill, but growing warmer, and by afternoon it would be hot in the sunlight. The wind of riding whipped his black hair. He ran the horse down a long path bedded deep with pine needles, and then turned at a blazed tree and went out across the arid top of a plateau.

  This was the strange land he loved, the fiery, heat-blasted land of the sun. Riding along the crest of a long ridge, he looked out over a long valley dotted with mesquite and sagebrush. Black dots of cattle grazing offered the only life beyond the lonely, lazy swing of a high-soaring buzzard.

  He saw the white rock he had been told to look for and turned the free-running horse into a cleft that led downward. They moved slowly here, for it was a steep slide down the side of the mesa and out on the long roll of the hill above the valley.

  Time and time again Mike’s hand patted his guns, as if to reassure himself they were there. His thoughts leaped ahead, trying to foresee what would happen. Would he arrive only to find the buildings burned and the girls gone?

  He knew only that he must get there first, that he must face them, and that at all costs he must kill Kerb Perrin and Ducrow. Without them, the others might run, might not choose to fight it out. Mike had an idea that without Perrin, they would scatter to the four winds.

  Swinging along the hillside, he took a trail that led again to a plateau top and ran off through the sage, heading for the smoky-blue distance of the cañon.

  VII

  Mike’s mind lost track of time and distance, leaping ahead to the river and the crossing, and beyond it to Ragan’s V Bar Ranch. Down steep trails through the great, broken cliffs heaped high with the piled-up stone of ages, and down through the wild, weird jumble of boulders, and across the flat top lands that smelled of sage and piñon, he kept the horse moving.

  Then he was once more in the forests of the Kaibab. The dark pines closed around him, and he rode on in the vast stillness of virgin timber, the miles falling behind, the trail growing dim before him.

  Then suddenly the forest split aside and he was on the rim of the cañon—an awful blue immensity yawning before him that made him draw the gray to a halt in gasping wonder. Far out over that vast, misty blue rose islands of red sandstone, islands that were laced and crossed by bands of purple and yellow. The sunset was gleaming on the vast plateaus and buttes and peaks with a ruddy glow, fading into opaqueness in the deeper cañon.

  The gray was beaten and weary now. Mike turned the horse toward a break in the plateau and rode down it, giving the animal its head. They came out upon a narrow trail that hung above a vast gorge, its bottom lost in the darkness of gathering dusk. The gray stumbled on, seeming to know its day was almost done.

  Dozing in the saddle, almost two hours later Mike Bastian felt the horse come to a halt. He jerked his head up and opened his eyes. He could feel the dampness of a deep cañon and could hear the thundering roar of the mighty river as it charged through the rock-walled slit. In front of him was a square of light.

  “Halloo, the house!” he called.

  He swung down as the door opened.

  “Who’s there?” a voice cried out.

  “Mike Bastian!” he said, moving toward the house with long, swinging strides. “For Ben Curry!”

  The man backed into the house. He was an ancient Navajo, but his eyes were keen and sharp.

  “I want a horse,” Mike said.

  “You can’t cross the river tonight.” The Navajo spoke English well. “It is impossible.”

  “There’ll be a moon later,” Mike answered. “When it comes up, I’m going across.”

  The Indian looked at him, and then shrugged.

  “Eat,” he said. “You’ll need it.”

  “There are horses?”

  “Horses?” The Navajo chuckled. “The best a man ever saw. Do you suppose Ben Curry would have horses here that were not the best? But they are on the other side of the stream, and safe enough. My brother is with them.”

  Mike fell into a seat. “Take care of my horse, will you? I’ve most killed him.”

  When the Indian was gone, Mike slumped over on the table, burying his head in his arms. In a moment he was asleep, dreaming wild dreams of a mad race over a strange misty-blue land with great crimson islands, riding a splendid black horse and carrying a girl in his arms. He awakened with a start. The old Indian was sitting by the fireplace, and he looked up.

  “You’d better eat,” he said. “The moon is rising.”

  They went out together, walking down the path to the water’s edge. As the moon shone down into the cañon, Mike stared at the tumbling stream in consternation. Nothing living could swim in that water! It would be impossible.

  “How do you cross?” he demanded. “No horse could swim that. And a boat wouldn’t get fifty feet before it would be dashed to pieces.”

  The Indian chuckled. “That isn’t the way we cross it. You are right in saying no b
oat could cross here, for there is no landing over there, and the cañon is so narrow that the water piles up back of the narrows and comes down with a great rush.”

  Mike looked at him again. “You talk like an educated man,” he said. “I don’t understand.”

  The Navajo shrugged. “I was for ten years with a missionary, and after I traveled with him as an interpreter he took me back to the States, where I stayed with him for two years. Then I lived in Sante Fé.”

  He was leading the way up a steep path that skirted the cliff but was wide enough to walk comfortably. Opposite them, the rock wall of the cañon lifted and the waters of the tumbling river roared down through the narrow chasm.

  “Ben Curry does things well, as you shall see,” the guide said. “It took him two years of effort to get this bridge built.”

  Mike stared. “Across there?”

  “Yes. A bridge for a man with courage. It is a rope bridge, made fast to iron rings sunk in the rock.”

  Mike Bastian walked on the rocky ledge at the edge of the trail and looked out across the gorge. In the pale moonlight he could see two slim threads trailing across the cañon high above the tumbling water. Just two ropes, and one of them four feet above the other.

  “You mean,” he said, “that Ben Curry crossed on that?”

  “He did. I have seen him cross that bridge a dozen times, at least.”

  “Have you crossed it?”

  The Navajo shrugged. “Why should I? The other side is the same as this, is it not? There is nothing over there that I want.”

  Mike looked at the slender strands, and then he took hold of the upper rope and tentatively put a foot on the lower one. Slowly, carefully he eased out above the raging waters.

  One slip and he would be gone, for no man could hope to live in those angry flood waters. He slid his foot along, then the other, advancing his handholds as he moved. Little by little, he worked his way across the cañon.

  He was trembling when he got his feet in the rocky cavern on the opposite side and so relieved to be safely across that he scarcely was aware of the old Indian who sat there awaiting him.