THE TEAMS LINED up. Brogan tried to come through the center, but Krakoff had taken a beating by then, and when Young hit him he went back on his heels and Higgins went through after Corbett and they dropped Brogan in his tracks.
Flash saw Chadwick catch up a handful of dust and rub it on his palms. It was a habit the swift-footed runner had before he took the ball. Even as the ball was snapped, Flash saw Butch Hagan dump his man out of the way. Then he drove through the hole like a streak and hit the red-jerseyed Chadwick before he could even tuck the ball away!
He knocked Chadwick a dozen feet, the ball flying from his hands. Lew Young was in there fast and lit on the ball just as the pileup came.
They lined up and it was the Tigers' ball on the Bear thirty yard line. Flash got away and Saunders shot a pass to him. He took the ball running and saw Brogan cut in toward him. He angled across toward Brogan, deliberately closing up the distance, yet even as the big fullback hurled himself forward in a wicked tackle, Flash cross-stepped and shoved out a stiffarm that flattened Brogan's nose across his face, and then he was away.
Chadwick was coming, and drove into his pounding knees, clutched wildly, but his fingers slipped and he slid into the dirt on his face as Flash went over for a touchdown!
Simmons kicked the point and they trotted back to midfield. Krakoff took the ball on the kickoff but Higgins started fast and came down on Krakoff like a streak. He hit him high and Butch Hagan hit him low, and when they got up, Krakoff was still lying there. He got up, after a minute, and limped into position.
There was smeared blood on Brogan's face from his broken nose and the big fullback was mad. Chadwick was talking the game, trying to pull his team together.
They lost the ball on the forty yard line and Higgins recovered for the Tigers. They were rolling now and they knew it. Flash shot a bulletlike pass to Saunders and the redheaded young lawyer made fifteen yards before he was slammed to the ground by Chadwick.
Chadwick was the only man on the team who seemed to have kept his head. Wilson came in for Brogan and when they lined up, Butch Hagan went through that line like a baby tank and threw an angle block into Wilson that nearly broke both his legs! Wilson got up limping, and Butch looked at him. "How d'you like it, quitter?"
WILSON'S FACE FLUSHED, and he walked back into line. On the next play Hagan hit him again with another angle block, and Wilson's face was pale.
Flash rifled a long pass to Simmons and the former All-American end carried it ten yards before they dropped him. On the next play Higgins went through tackle for the score.
The Bears had gone to pieces now. Wilson was frankly scared. On every play his one urge seemed to be to get away from Butch Hagan. Krakoff and Brogan were out of the game, and the Tigers, playing straight, hard, but wickedly rough football, rolled down the field for their third straight score.
They lined up for the kickoff, and Flash took it on his own thirty-five yard line, angled toward the sidelines and running like a madman hit the twenty yard line before he was downed. They lined up and Saunders went through center for six. On a single wing back Higgins made six more, and then Simmons took a pass from Flash and was finally downed on the five yard line. Then Flash crashed over for the final score, driving through with five men clinging to him.
And the whistle blew as they got up from the ground.
FLASH WALKED SLOWLY toward the dressing room, his face mud streaked and ugly. Pop was standing there, waiting for him.
"You saved my bacon, son," he said quietly. "I can't thank you enough!"
"Forget it," Moran said quietly, "it wasn't me. It was those friends of yours. And give Butch Hagan credit. He lined up six or eight of them himself, to say nothing of what he did on the field."
He turned to go, and Micky was standing there, her face pale and her eyes large. She lifted her chin and stepped toward him.
"Flash, I'm sorry. Pop never believed, but for a while, I did. He--Ken--made it sound so much like you'd done something crooked."
"It was him," Flash said quietly. "I'm sorry for your sake."
"I'm not," Micky looked up at him, her eyes wide and soft, "I'm not at all, Flash."
"But I thought--?"
"You thought I was in love with him? That I was going to marry him? That was all his idea, Flash. He never said anything to me about it, and I wouldn't have. I went with him because the man I really wanted never asked me."
"He must be an awful fool," Flash said grimly. "Why, I'd--!"
"You'd what, Flash? You better say it now, because I've been waiting!"
"You mean--?" Flash gulped. Then he moved in, but fast.
Lew Young stuck his head out of the door, then hastily withdrew it. "That Moran," he said, grinning, "may be slow getting an idea, but when he does--Man, oh Man!"
-
A Night at Wagon Camp
NO HORSES STOOD in the corral, no smoke rose from the chimney. Jake Molina slid his rifle from the boot and rode with it across his saddle.
The squat, unpainted shack, the open-faced shed, the pole corral, the stock tank filled with water piped from the spring...nothing had changed. It was bleak, lonely, and drought stricken as always....
Molina dismounted, careful to keep his horse between himself and the house. Pike should have been here to meet him but there was no sign of life, anywhere. The ranch had been abandoned ten years before, and looked it.
Rifle in hand he crossed to the house, pausing on the step to turn for one more careful yet uneasy glance.
The kitchen was empty but for a bare table, and a broken chair that lay on its side. Crossing to the fireplace he turned a charred stick with the muzzle of his rifle, then knelt and put his fingers upon it for an instant. It was cold and dead.
There were two more rooms. Using his rifle like an extension of his arm he pushed open the doors, but there was nothing but a dried-out, sunbaked boot, and a coat that had been dropped on the floor. There was no dust on the coat however, and it lay in a scuffle of recent footprints...in this abandoned place here was something that did not fit, something important to his quest.
Crossing to the coat he touched it with gentle fingers, and found a piece of board shoved down in the inside pocket. On it something had been scratched with a nail:
Just rode in, Lew Stebbins--
Monty Short--a stranger.
It was signed by Pike.
He stepped outside and looked slowly around. By now they would be miles from here, for they had not known he was coming. In growing fear he realized what they must have left behind. Grimly, he dropped the coat to his feet and slipped the thong off of his right-hand gun. He listened, and heard only the trickle of water, the wind, and an aimless tapping that came at intervals. The tapping drew him and he walked around the end of the corral toward the shed.
PIKE WAS SUSPENDED by his wrists, arms spread wide and tied to poles of the shed wall. His chin hung down on his chest, and his toes just barely touched the earth. His shirt had been ripped from his body and his body had been beaten by a length of trace chain which now hung over the top bar of the corral. It was the wind, moving that chain in the hard gusts, that caused the tapping he had heard.
Pike had been dead for several hours, yet he had lived long enough....With one toe he had scratched an arrow, pointing west.
UNTIL HE HAD met Pike, the trails Jake Molina had ridden were ridden alone, for it was his nature to ride alone, to ask nothing of any man but to be let alone. With Pike he had gone up the trail to Kansas, and he knew what Pike would have done for him, and what he must do for Pike. Above all there was Tom Gore's family to think of, and those neighbors who had trusted him with their cattle.
He buried Pike where the shack cast a shadow, and put a marker over the grave. Once, straightening up suddenly, he caught a flash of light from a hillside, and then he worked on and finished his job, sure he was being watched.
He rode out of the ranch yard at a lope and went up to the crest of the ridge, then went west holding to the sk
yline. Usually a bad thing to do, he did it now because the country lay wide and he'd rather see than worry about being seen. He headed due west, following the trail of the three riders until it broke off and went into the badlands to the south.
ON THE THIRD morning he started early and when well down the trail he turned off and doubled back parallel to the route he had followed. He was back behind a clump of mesquite but had the trail fairly covered, and he waited no more than an hour.
Through the leaves he saw a man in a black suit coat and a black hat of more expensive make than a cowhand could afford. The man's face was wide and strongly boned, and although his saddle was worn from use, the boots had been well polished before the dust fell on them.
When the man had gone by Molina stepped into the trail. "You'd better have a good reason for following me, mister, and I'd better like the reason."
"I believe we should talk," the man said. "I think we're doing the same job."
Molina waited, never taking his eyes off the stranger.
"You buried a man back yonder, and you're trailing the three men who killed him. I want those men, too," the man continued.
"If you're the law you're not needed. If you're an outlaw you're trailing men who don't want company."
"I'm a Pinkerton man."
"Most places that would get you killed."
"My name is Hale. Do you know who you're following?"
"Pike told me."
Hale looked at him carefully. "Now that's interesting. Pike was dead before you got there because I was there before you were. He couldn't tell you anything."
Molina took the piece of shingle from his pocket, and explained how he found it.
"Pike was a shrewd man. He also knew me, and he knew how I think. He also knew that I know what they want, and somehow he thought things out so that when they lead me to the place, I'll be the one who finds it."
"Money?"
"Yes...it belongs to friends of ours."
Hale lit a cigar. "My job is to get those men and I can use help just as much as you can. Monty Short is a gunman, and Stebbins was a buffalo hunter, and is one of the best rifle shots around. I don't know the other man, but I've an idea. Why don't we ride together?"
"Up to you...I'm riding west. Come along if you've a mind to."
THE COUNTRY WAS broken into canyons now, the slopes covered with scattered juniper. Nor was the trail difficult to follow, for at no time had there been an effort to conceal it; the men had no reason to believe themselves followed.
"Nobody ever comes into this country," Molina said, "too dry for ranching these years, no more buffalo, so the Comanches rarely come. It's an empty land."
"Want to tell me about the money?"
"Tom Gore drove cattle belonging to some friends and himself to Dodge. He sold out for thirty thousand in gold and started home, and then he got the idea that some of his hands were going to rob him, so he gave a message to Pike telling him to take it to the ranch, and telling where the gold was, then he slipped out one night and hid the gold. When they murdered him for it a few nights later, they found nothing."
"And you know where it is?"
"Only Pike knew, so Pike had to tell them when he saw they were going to kill him, anyway. Otherwise nobody would ever know where it was...he's relying on me to trail them and find it before they do, failing that, to take it from them."
"A large order."
It was cold, with a chill wind blowing over the country and moaning in the canyons. The trail of the three riders had vanished. Hale studied the earth, but saw nothing. Molina did not slow his pace, nor did he pause to look around.
"You know where you're going?" Hale asked mildly.
"Sure...only three ways they can go from out here. Everything in the desert that moves has to move toward a water hole. Over there," he pointed southeast, "are the Comanche Wells...seventy miles as the crow flies, and out of the way for Tom Gore, who was heading home.
"Gore was coming from the northwest, but he never got this far. So the Wells are out. That leaves Lost Lake and the Wagon Camp. They found Gore's body at Lost Lake, so my guess would be Wagon Camp or some dry camp near there."
"I see." Hale considered the subject. "What if they don't think the same way?"
"They will. They've got to. All life is tied to water holes here, and they know every camp because two of them, at least, rode with Gore when he was killed."
Molina drew up, studying the ground. He walked his horse forward a little, then drew up again. "That's funny. They're going to Lost Lake."
Hale lit a cigar and waited. He was out of his depth and realized it. He had believed himself a good tracker, yet he could see nothing here, no sign of passage more than a crow might have left. Molina rode on a few steps further, then returned.
"They're going to Lost Lake, so we'll cut across country to Wagon Camp."
"What if we lose them?"
"We won't."
THEY CAME UP to Wagon Camp in the cool of the evening, and watered their horses at the seep and stood in the stillness looking around them. The wind ruffled the water in the pool, and Molina looked around carefully. A quail called in the shadows.
"We're here," Hale said, "or were you just guessing?"
"The gold will be here," Molina said. "I'm sure of it."
Squatting over a small fire built from gathered sticks and buffalo chips, Hale began to prepare their food. He was a big man and in his shirt sleeves the bulging muscles in his arms stretched his shirt. He wore suspenders and sleeve garters. Jake dipped water for coffee and gathered more fuel.
The Wagon Camp was only slightly less barren than the country around. Here where the water from the seep irrigated a small meadow and some bordering trees, there were two dozen scattered cottonwoods, several of them huge and ancient; there were some vines, willow brush, and further away, low-growing mesquite and prickly pear.
"We've got a day for sure," Molina said, "another day for possible. Then we can get set for trouble, because they'll be along."
Hale looked around doubtfully. "The gold could be buried anywhere," he said, "how would a man know? A few days of the blowing this country gets and it would look like any other place."
"He didn't bury it." Molina squatted on his heels and fed sticks into the fire. "He would have been afraid of the noise. He hid it someplace that was ready for him."
"Noise?"
"Digging...at night it would have awakened everybody. Even if he dug it out with his hands it would have to be a pretty fair-sized hole, and men on the trail sleep mighty light."
YET BY SUNDOWN the following day they were no closer to the solution. Every hole in the rocks behind the pool, and there were not many, had been examined. Trees, brush piles, everywhere either of them could imagine had been carefully checked. It could not have been far from camp, yet they looked and looked without luck.
Hale was irritable. "Molina, you've had it your way. Now we're here, and for all we know they've got your gold and have ridden out of the country. I say we mount up and ride out of here."
Molina glanced up. "You ride out. That gold is here, and sooner or later they'll come. Maybe tonight."
Hale got up and walked to his horse. He picked up his saddle to swing to his horse's back but when he looked across the saddle blanket he froze. "I see them," he said. "They're coming now, and they've seen our fire."
"Sit tight then, and be ready."
They came riding, spread out and ready for trouble. They drew up and Molina looked up and said, "Light and set. The coffee's hot."
"Where'd you come from?" Stebbins was doing the talking. Short was beside him, the stranger a little behind. He was a thin, narrow-faced man with empty eyes.
"Fort Griffin," Molina lied coolly, holding his cup in his left hand.
They did not like it, that was obvious enough. They didn't like Hale sitting there with a shotgun across his lap, either.
These were the men who had tortured and killed Pike. Molina thought of that and gr
ew hard and cold inside.
"You're off the trail, aren't you?" he asked. "This is one of the loneliest water holes in creation."
Monty Short got down from his horse. "I'll try that coffee," he said, and held out a cup for it.
Molina smiled at him. "There's the pot. Pour it for yourself."
Molina's words had apparently aroused the stranger's curiosity, and he sized Molina up with attentive eyes.
"You might be off the trail yourself," the stranger suggested. "This is, as you say, a lonely water hole."
"Used to be good country," Molina agreed, conver- sationally, "there was good grass all through here." He indicated Hale. "This man is Bob Hale; he's a cattle buyer, and finances some ranching operations. We figured to start us a place right here if the grass is good."
Stebbins chuckled without humor. "A man's lucky to find feed for his horse. You couldn't run ten head on ten square miles of it now."
The stranger was still watching Molina and suddenly he said, "I don't like him, Lew," he indicated Molina, "this one is smart."
All three looked at Molina, and ever so gently Hale's shotgun moved so it was still on his lap but pointed casually at the group. The movement went unobserved with all attention centered on Molina.
Molina lifted his coffee cup and sipped a swallow of coffee, and then said quietly, "So you don't like it. We got here first. We're staying. If you boys want to use the water, you're welcome."
"We think you're the ones who should leave," Short spoke suddenly. "We think you should mount up and ride out."
Molina smiled wryly. "Now that's foolish talk, Monty. You might get us but we'd take a couple of you with us, and probably all three. You and Lew aren't going to buy trouble you don't need."
Molina merely looked at them. "I told you...I came here from Fort Griffin, but I've also been in Mobeetie. What you do is your own business, but I wouldn't go back that way with posters on both of you."
Stebbins turned abruptly away, and as he did so, he saw the shotgun in Hale's hands. "Let's build a fire, Monty," he said, and he walked away. After an instant's hesitation, the others followed, the stranger lingering to take a last, careful look at Molina.
from the Listening Hills (Ss) (2004) Page 13
