by John Benteen
From the darkness above, Concho’s voice was a hiss. “Good luck ... ”
Sam Ramsey did not reply. He had all he could do to watch his footing. There had to be a path somewhere for them to have got this gun up, but he couldn’t find it. Despite all his caution, rocks rolled as he made his way down, and their bouncing and clatter seemed like thunder. After each slide, he halted, freezing, half expecting challenge or gunfire. But there was no alarm, and he went on and, after what seemed centuries, reached the sheltering flank of one of the stone towers.
Here he halted and took a closer look at what lay below. The road on his left would bring him down to the flat and among the buildings most directly, but at the bottom of the mountain it would take him within three yards of the door of an adobe hut with a pole corral behind it, in which Ramsey could see the shifting dark shapes of at least two-dozen horses.
But the shack was dark and he would pass the corral at enough distance not to spook the horses with his strangeness or the scent of fresh blood on his shirt. He thought of Nora, down there with a man Concho had described as mad, and he took the shortest way.
Cautiously, he moved out of the shadows onto the road. It lay full in the sheen of starlight and the sickle moon, and now he straightened up and struck out at a normal gait, as if he belonged here and had business down below. But he never took his hand from his gun butt, and he felt sickeningly naked and exposed, though reason told him that it was unlikely there were more guards within that outer cordon.
Striding along openly like that, he made good speed. Below, that one light still burned in the old superintendent’s house, mocking him, challenging him. What was going on in there? His mind conjured pictures that made his stomach roil, and it took all his self-control to keep from breaking into a run.
Later, he would remember that journey as one of the longest in his life. On and on he went, every sense, every nerve, alert; and now a new worry nagged at him. Suppose Nora wasn’t in that lighted house? Suppose Sheep Kelly had chosen another house for his own ... or suppose he had already tired of Nora and passed her along? Suppose—
He halted. He was almost off the mountain now, and in a moment, he would have to pass the hut that sat beside the trail. His eyes searched it for any sign of life, but if it had occupants, they were sleeping. Not far behind it, horses stamped and shifted in the corral. He stared at that, too, but could see no guard over the animals. At last he went ahead, fighting the urge to crouch and sneak.
He came up to the hut, passed it without incident, and was a few feet beyond it when several horses whinnied in the corral and there was the thud of hoofbeats. Ramsey froze, first appalled by the bugle-call loudness of that neighing, and then, as it rang again, tingling with recognition. In the pale starlight, he saw nearly a half-dozen animals crowding up to the fence, and there was loud nickering, snorting.
For an instant, then, Nora was forgotten, Sheep Kelly, Concho, everything but the horses. His Morgans—Gibson Girl, Sunrise, all the rest of his best geldings, and now more crowding up behind them. Ramsey took a step toward the corral, then halted.
There was no time. He turned away, full of bitterness. So Kelly had not sold all the herd, had kept the best for himself. He had come so far, endured so much, to find those animals only a few yards away, and now they might as well be on the moon ...
Then a voice rang out from the adobe hut. “Whut the hell’s wrong with them hawses?” Ramsey saw the white blur of a face in the dark square of a glassless window. “Who’s out there?”
Ramsey cleared his throat. “It’s me,” he said in the most toneless voice he could muster. “Reckon I spooked ’em.”
There was a moment’s silence. Then: “It’s only Lyman; I can see that damfool hat. What’s the matter, Lyman, something wrong up yonder?”
“No. Ran outa tobacco.” Then Ramsey turned away and strode on, praying that Lyman was not an occupant of that hut, did not keep his makings there. His back almost ached with its vulnerability, and he was ready to jump and run at the first sign of alarm.
But none came. Only a mutter from the hut. “Goddam hawses. A man can’t git no sleep near this corral.” Ramsey hurried on, his heart pounding, his ears closed to the sound of nickering behind him.
So it had been Lyman, he thought. That much score evened, anyhow.
~*~
Now he was on level ground, fully inside the little settlement of adobe houses. The miners’ huts had been scattered all over the flat, like blocks thrown down at random, but all of them were a respectful distance from the big house with the front porch and tin roof, where the light burned. And now that was only fifty yards away.
Ramsey halted, trying to decide his next move. From here on, he would have to move silently. Even if Kelly took him for a guard, he would come out to question him if he heard him.
There was no cover between himself and the light that spilled out that back window, except the rickety shape of an ancient, awry privy not far from the rear of the house. In a moment, Ramsey left the trail and circled to come up beside that, to gain the cover of the pool of shadow it cast. He moved soundlessly; it was easy on the deep sand that now cushioned his tread.
He reached the side of the privy and flattened himself against the structure’s wall. Now, for the first time, he drew his gun. From here, he could look into the lighted window, but all he could see was a section of wall and door.
Then a figure moved into that square of light and paused. Ramsey saw plainly a skinny, narrow-shouldered torso in a dirty undershirt. Above it was a strange face of almost surpassing ugliness—woolly, iron-gray hair, a huge, rounded nose that curved down almost over the mouth, and virtually no chin at all. Ramsey could even see the nervous twitch of the upper lip and the nostrils, a constant flicker that revealed stained teeth. There was no doubt any longer as to who occupied this house or how he had got his name.
Then, almost as if Sheep Kelly were possessed of some sixth sense—or maybe he’d caught the disturbance at the corral—he strode to the open window and looked out. In one hand, he held a glass, in the other, a bottle. With them poised, he stared into the night, and ludicrous as his other features were, the eyes that seemed to look directly at Ramsey were no laughing matter. Like bits of onyx or obsidian, they swept the darkness; then, after an endless thirty seconds, Kelly turned away. Now his back was a perfect target, but one Ramsey could not afford to shoot at. Ramsey held his breath, listening.
Through the window came the murmur of voices. One of them was masculine, but nevertheless thin and high, like the rasp of a saw in hardwood. The other was only a toneless whisper which Ramsey could not identify. But now he knew that Kelly was not alone.
It must be Nora in there with him! Ramsey thought, and his pulse quickened. Simultaneously, all nervousness left him; now he was so cool and controlled and ready for anything that he himself was astonished.
Kelly’s torso moved out of the light; when it was gone, Ramsey, his decision made, left the shadows. He eared back the hammer of the gun gently, to make only the tiniest click. Then he padded cautiously around to the front of the house.
It was dark, a porch running its full width. Ramsey stepped up, groped his way until he found a door. He turned the knob and applied gentle pressure.
The latch slipped out; the door swung inward perhaps a quarter of an inch, then was blocked. Kelly had bolted it. Ramsey cursed silently. Then he clenched his fist and hammered loudly, urgently, on the door.
Inside the house, another door opened and dim light fell into the front room. That buzz-saw voice called out tensely, “Who the hell is that?”
Ramsey let his shoulders and his head with the straw skimmer appear briefly in the window beside the door; he knew Kelly could see him only in silhouette. “It’s Lyman,” he called loudly. “There’s trouble.”
A curse answered him as he pulled away from the window. Then there was the quick pad of feet. Ramsey stepped back from the door. He heard the bolt slide; the door swung open. Kelly’s
long underwear made him a white blur in the darkness. “Lyman?” he snapped, and there was suspicion in his voice and he held a gun outthrust. Ramsey had drawn his knife and now he stepped forward, inside the gun, and rammed both knife and pistol against the man’s belly.
“Drop it,” he said. He pushed hard with the knife.
Kelly’s body went rigid. Ramsey heard his indrawn breath. Then Kelly’s gun thudded on the floor of the porch.
“Inside,” Ramsey said, forcing the man backwards.
They were face to face. Kelly’s breath was foul, laden with the anise scent of mescal. Kelly said, as Ramsey pushed the door shut with his heel, “What the hell?”
“First wrong move, I kill you,” Ramsey said. “Where is she?”
Kelly was silent for a couple of seconds. Then he said, “The woman? You come after her?”
“That’s right.”
“She’s in the other room.” There was a strange undertone in Kelly’s voice; Ramsey did not think it was entirely fear.
“Alone?”
Why, it was almost amusement. “Alone,” Kelly said.
“All right,” Ramsey said. He pushed the man backwards toward the other room. Kelly moved with docility. Ramsey didn’t like that, either. Kelly’s shoulders pushed the door fully open, and Ramsey followed him into the room.
It was small, and even with the window up, it stank—whiskey, mescal, Mexican tobacco, and unwashed bodies. There was a table in a corner, clothes thrown across it, a bed against the wall, piled high with rumpled blankets all in a tangle.
“Nora!” Ramsey rapped.
“She’s drunk, buddy,” Sheep Kelly said. His nose and mouth were twitching rapidly, but his eyes were steady. “Out like a light.” He jerked his head toward the bed, and that was when Ramsey saw her leg and foot protruding from the pile of blankets.
“For Christ’s sake,” Ramsey said, full of dismay. This was the one thing he had not counted on. Then he said, “You’re lyin’.”
A strange, ropy chuckle seemed to come from Kelly’s chest. “All right,” he said. “See for yourself.”
Ramsey stuck the knife in his belt. Keeping the gun trained on Kelly, he moved sideways to the bed and seized the leg. He pulled it hard. “Nora!” he snapped. “Wake up.”
The leg did not even move.
Still without taking his eyes off Kelly, who stood there with hands meekly half-raised, Ramsey seized the covers and yanked them away. Nora lay sprawled, face-down, her hair a tangle. Ramsey slapped her hard. “Goddammit, Nora, wake up!”
Her body only shifted slightly, and she made a sick sound in her throat.
“All right,” Kelly said. “She’s all yours, friend. If you want her, you can have her. All you got to do is git her out.” In the midst of its twitching, the loose-lipped mouth did something that might have been a grin. “I want to see how you do it.”
“You won’t be alive to,” Ramsey said, with exactly as much ferocity as he felt.
“Then neither will you,” Kelly said. “You think you can carry a dead-drunk woman past my guards? They’ll kill you both.” The lamplight glinted on a small metal chain around his neck as he jerked his head at Nora. “She’s been drunk fer two days.”
Ramsey’s eyes never left Kelly, as he groped, found Nora’s arm, and pulled her roughly onto her back. He heard the hoarse rasp of her breathing. He slapped her face. “Nora! Nora, it’s Sam Ramsey.”
Finally she spoke. “For God’s sake, Sheep,” she mumbled. “Don’t hit me anymore.”
That was when Ramsey let his eyes shuttle away from the outlaw, and what he saw made him draw in breath. Her right eye was a huge, swollen, purple mass, the blue-green bruise ran all the way down the right cheek. Her bottom lip was cut and puffy. And her body was piebald with more bruises.
“She took some taming,” Kelly said casually. “She’d done forgot how it was.”
Ramsey said, “I’m going to kill you now.”
Kelly said, “You do, and you die too. Look, friend, I’ve had her all I want. You’re welcome to her. I’ll make you a deal. You don’t kill me, I’ll give you safe conduct outa here with her. Hell, I’ll have my men carry her to your horses for you, and if you ain’t got none, I’ll give you some.”
Ramsey didn’t answer him. He got Nora’s wrist and pulled. “Nora,” he said pleadingly, urgently. “Nora, you got to wake up. It’s Sam Ramsey ... ”
“Dead,” she mumbled. But she was sitting up now. She buried her face in her hands. “Dead. Concho, too.”
“I’m not. It’s Ramsey. I’m alive. I’ve come for you.”
She raised her head; Ramsey had shifted to where he could see her and Kelly at the same time. She looked at him with her one good eye and dropped her head again. “Sam ... ”
“Get up. Get ready. We’re getting out of here.”
“Oh, God. Sam?” For the first time, there was animation and comprehension in her voice. “Really you?”
“Please get up. No time to waste.” He had to kill Kelly now, should have done it with the knife immediately. Concho would have. He moved forward toward Kelly, deciding how to do it. It would be in cold blood, but he was more than capable of that now, would enjoy it. He made his decision, dropped one hand to the knife in his belt. “Turn around,” he said in a dry, harsh voice.
For the first time, there was a flicker of fear in Kelly’s eyes. Behind Ramsey, the bed creaked. Nora was trying to stand up. “Sam,” she said. “Drunk. Sorry. So drunk … ”
Then, from behind, her full weight fell against Ramsey. Desperately clutching, she caught his gun arm, hung on.
Sheep Kelly was like a panther. One raised hand swooped down behind his head, came up holding a knife, and in almost the same motion, he dived for Ramsey. With all his muscle, Ramsey whipped his gun arm upward; he heard the bed groan as Nora fell back on it. He rammed his knife hand out to stop Kelly’s charge, but the man was expecting that, writhed past it, and as his weight slammed into Ramsey, knocking him back, Ramsey felt the slash of Kelly’s blade along the rind of meat over his ribs, and desperately he got the gun around and pulled the trigger, embracing Kelly with the other arm.
The body against his jerked; Ramsey fired again and again. The weight he held went limp, with a long, hissing sigh as if the air had gone out of it, and there was a clink as Kelly’s knife fell to the floor. Ramsey let go and Kelly’s body followed it, sagging, then sprawled sideways, blood staining all the left flank of his dirty underwear. But, Ramsey thought bitterly, the damage had been done, the alarm given.
There was no time to worry about that, nor about his failure to spot the knife sheath Kelly had worn down his back, Mexican-style, suspended from that silver chain. Ramsey whirled and found Nora sitting on the bed, staring dazedly through the haze of powder smoke; she sat there in a stupor, blinking. He jerked her up and slipped his arm around her, under her arms. “Come on,” he grated. “We gotta get the hell outa here!”
She was almost dead weight, but not quite. In the front room she planted her feet. “Sam,” she gasped. “Sick ... ” There was the splattering sound of vomit and its reek, as her body convulsed under his grasp. Ramsey stood helplessly for a full two minutes, and he could hear shouting outside now. Groggy men, awakened from sleep, were trying to find the source of the shots. It would not take them long.
Then, with a shuddering sigh, Nora raised her head. “Better,” she gasped. “Sam, it’s really you?”
“It’s me. Come on.” Her legs actually worked now as they moved toward the front door. Ramsey kicked it open, only to confront a man coming up the steps. “Sheep—” the man blurted, and then Ramsey shot him in the chest. The man went backwards off the porch. Ramsey moved out past the shelter of the door. All over the flat, lights were on, men ran about. Ramsey drew back, kicked something—Sheep Kelly’s gun. He thrust his own, with only two rounds left, in his waistband, bent and scooped it up. They were trapped here in the house. Now it was up to Concho.
As if in answer to the th
ought, there was a faint, ripping sound from high up on the mountain. Then the night was full of neighing, whinnying, and horrible screaming. It almost drowned the burst-pause-burst of the machine gun.
Ramsey froze. “He’s shooting the horses!” he cried. “Oh, Goddam him, goddam Concho, he’s shooting the horses!”
But it was their chance. The screaming mounted to a crescendo; he saw figures that had been heading for them turn toward the corral. He pulled Nora off the porch, caught her as she lurched, and then began to run, half dragging her with him. “It’s that damn Lewis gun!” Somebody yelled above the screaming, and somebody else shrieked, “Lyman! Hey, Lyman!” There were houses ahead of them, to their right, confused men boiling out their doors. Instinctively, they turned toward the racket at the corral, as Ramsey dragged the stumbling Nora to the left. The machine gun’s sound was a steady ripping, now, and there were rifle flashes as people on the flat fired back. The horses were still screaming, and Ramsey cursed, thinking of Gibson Girl, Sunrise, the others—Oh, goddam Concho, he didn’t have to—
Then the straw hat was spotted. One man, just emerged from a shack onto the starlit plain, paused, as his fellows ran on toward the mountain. “Hey, Lyman—!” he shouted. “What the hell’s—” He ran toward Ramsey, halted, threw up his rifle. “You ain’t Lyman!” he bawled, and Ramsey fired three shots at him from Kelly’s gun at a distance of ten yards. The man reeled and fell, and the rifle went off wildly as he hit the ground.
Nora was running better now as they hurried on. Ramsey searched the blackness desperately for landmarks; they would have to circle right again to get to the horses. He looked behind him, saw the silhouettes of a half-dozen running men, in a kind of skirmish line headed toward the mountain. Then a strange thing happened; they all threw themselves down at once, hugging the ground, one of them cried out thickly, and the air was full of the whines of ricochets. Concho had raised his aim; he was no longer shooting at horses.
And now they were past the houses completely, out of that turmoil of confused combat. The machine gun seemed louder as they ran toward the foot of the mountain. Ramsey was getting winded; Nora’s breathing was a series of tortured gasps. She stumbled, was dead weight. “Sam, can’t run—”
