“You haven’t started convincing me, yet.” Chavis’ eyes were defiant and smoldering. “When a man has to choose, his kin comes first. Isn’t that a fact?”
“Not always.”
“Go on.”
Marriner said, “I can add up a lot of years of friendship with Jeremy Six. He saved my life twice.”
“I’ve only got your word for that.”
“Chavis,” said Marriner, “you’ve only got my word that I’m a Marriner at all. Where do you draw the line and stop believing me?”
“All right. Get to whatever you’re getting to.”
Marriner said, “There’s a chance Jeremy will make it through to wherever he’s going. If he does, we’re building a mountain where there isn’t even a mole hill. But for his sake, I think we’ve got to assume Matador will get to him. Now, if I can get to them, before they get to him, I may be able to talk them out of killing him. And if I can’t do that, at least I can do my best to get him out of there. And remember this—I’m the only man who can get into their camp without getting shot. I’m a Marriner. That’s enough to make them trust me.”
“The way you want me to trust you?” Chavis inquired softly.
“You haven’t got any choice,” Marriner grated. “I want half a dozen men with guns to ride with me. We’ll pick up Matador’s trail—hell, a blind man could follow the tracks of a forty-man crowd. When we get close, I’ll drop off the men wherever we can find a good place to fort up. I’ll go on in and mingle with the Matador bunch. If they’re on a cold trail, I’ll come back and that’ll be that. But if they’re onto Jeremy, I’ll leave sign. I want those six men right behind us all the way, just far enough back to avoid being spotted. When the time comes, I may need them in a hurry, to create a diversion that’ll distract the Matador crew long enough for me to do whatever I have to do.”
Chavis’ answer was a long time coming, but after a while he stood up and nodded slowly. “Done. I’ll get five men to ride with us.”
“No. I don’t want you and I don’t want anybody else who’s got a family to worry about.”
“It doesn’t much matter what you want,” Chavis said. “You’re not the only friend Jeremy Six has got—and you’re not altogether running this show by yourself.”
Marriner acquiesced, spreading his hands. “Let’s get saddled, then.”
Seven
At sundown, Jeremy Six and his prisoner reached the banks of the Smoke. Giving the river a brief study, Six put his horse forward, leading Cleve Marriner’s mount. The horses humped into a sluggish flow, hooves fighting the soft sand bottom; Six raked his pony’s flanks lightly with his spurs. They plunged up onto the far bank.
Six had turned off the road two miles back, cutting due west into the wilderness, keeping to the rocks where tracks would be hard to find. Now, westward beyond the river, the rock-shelved valley sloped up against barren foothills. The foothills, in turn, gave way to the higher mass of the Tuolumnes, a heavy range of timber-sloped mountains sprawling thickly across the earth, reaching altitudes higher than eight thousand feet. On the far side of the Tuolumnes, in the desert plain, the Arizona & Western Railroad tracks slashed like steel ribbons up to Tucson. But the far side of the Tuolumnes was a long distance from here. To ride through those rugged reaches would take at least three days.
There were easy ways to skirt around the Tuolumnes. The Aztec road went past the northern end of the range, and down south the road to Mexico flopped over an easy pass. For that reason, few people ever rode through the Tuolumnes. No one would expect a man in a hurry to choose that route. Six was taking the gamble, that Ma Marriner wouldn’t think of looking for his tracks in this improbable place—not right away, anyhow.
Cleve rode behind him, hat tipped far back on his head, both hands incapacitated. Under the hat brim, the front tousle of Cleve’s hair had been roughed up by the day’s winds. His narrow face wore a bleak expression, but his eyes burned angrily. He didn’t speak. They crossed the last flat of the river valley and penetrated the rising flanks of the foothills, threading steadily upward into the lower reaches of the Tuolumnes. This was bad country, hard enough to traverse in daylight. Cleve finally spoke:
“You figure to ride up here at night, Jeremy? Likely to bust legs on both our animals.”
Six considered the gray dusky sky. “We’ve still got some twilight. I intend to use it.”
“You suit yourself,” said Cleve. “But don’t jump all over me if one of these horses gets banged up. Just remember this wasn’t my idea.”
“I’ll remember that,” Six drawled in a soft, dry way. He didn’t show his concern. He was worried; he was taking a calculated risk, but nonetheless a risk. If Ma Marriner’s trackers picked up his trail too early, Matador would have plenty of time to skirt the northern end of the Tuolumne range and be waiting for Six when he came out the west end. He was taking the chance they wouldn’t discover his maneuver until it was too late for that. But the odds were not particularly good. It all depended on the trail ability of Ma’s scouts. They were all back-country toughs, used to jumping at shadows and finding the hidden backtrails, and they probably had keen noses for this kind of work.
But there wasn’t any sense in worrying too much about it. He had thrown the dice; the only thing he could do now was to wait and see how they came up.
Riding behind Six, watching Six’s broad back, Cleve Marriner had a pretty good idea what was going through Six’s head. It put a slight smile on Cleve’s sardonic mouth. He looked down at his left hand, handcuffed to the saddle horn. For hours, now, he had been quietly working away at it. The Mexican saddle had a big, flat horn, half an inch bigger at its equator than the circumference of the handcuff. But, unlike Texas saddles with their leather-covered iron horns, Cleve’s Mexican saddle had a wooden horn. And, back in the middle of the afternoon, Cleve had decided that wood could be shaved.
It was laborious work; he had to keep his eyes on Six’s back every second, to avoid discovery. He had managed to shift his seat forward in the saddle, so that he could reach his belt buckle with his manacled hand; he had unhooked the buckle from his belt, and for six hours he had been chipping and scraping away at the wooden horn. It was awkward work; with his hand bound so close to the horn itself, he had little room for leverage, and his bandaged right arm, the elbow shattered, supported a hand that was all but useless. He could hardly make a fist at all; his hand was still too weak to hold anything.
But, with the muscles of his left hand crying out with pain and exhaustion, he had kept working, second by second and minute by minute, all the while concentrating his wary attention on Six, lest Six should turn his head. And when, on occasion, Six did turn around, Cleve had made a point of looking unconcerned, while he slid his arm as far forward as possible to cover the fresh-scarred wooden horn with his sleeve. He knew he had to finish the job before Six called a halt; for once Six got a glimpse of the sawed-up horn—a glimpse he could hardly help getting, if he came back to unlock the handcuffs in order to make night camp—the game would be over.
But now, climbing in increasing darkness into the lower slopes of the Tuolumnes, Cleve had a new reason to redouble his efforts.
He had been up this way several months ago, trailing a bunch of cattle for his father. The Tuolumnes offered an excellent avenue for trailing stolen beef: hardly anyone ever came up here. Cleve had been pushing the cattle along this eastern face of the range, late one spring afternoon. There was one bottleneck, a funnel-shaped pass through the mountains which was just about the only route around here that a horse could negotiate. Years ago, during the mining boom, prospectors had carved a narrow trail upward along the face of a cliff. For two hundred feet, the ledge clung precariously to the cliff, offering the only passable trail through this section.
And, his last trip through here, Cleve had not been able to make the rim with his cattle, because a landslide had covered part of the ledge, making it impassable. He had had to back up, coaxing the cattle about, and go bac
k down to the foothills.
Knowing what was up ahead, Cleve began to saw frantically at the saddle horn, counting on the abrasive clatter and scrape of hoof beats to cover the sound.
They came around a bend. In the half-light of moon and stars, he saw the lower end of the cliff trail, where it began ahead; it curled quickly out of sight, up and around the face of the convex cliff. There was no time left for slow work. Cleve put away the belt buckle, inside his waistband, and got a good grip on the locked steel cuff. He lifted and pushed with every ounce of his wiry might, straining to squeeze the steel manacle over the shaved-down saddle horn, to free his hand.
His face turned red with effort. He felt blood pounding in his temples. The exertion sent waves of pain throbbing into his smashed elbow. With thumb and fist he worked the handcuff back and forth, pushing and twisting with his last resources of strength; he could not help uttering a taut, strained grunt.
He looked up, eyes wide; but if Six had heard him, Six made no sign of it. His body was bent forward in the saddle; he was peering forward, up into the shadows of the cliff-sided canyon, trying to make out the trail.
Cleve’s shoulder muscles bunched. He braced his boots in the stirrups and heaved.
The handcuff came loose, passing over the worn-down saddle horn with a light tinkle of sound that blended easily with the jingle of the bridle’s bit chains.
Cleve drew a ragged, deep breath far into his lungs. He placed his raw, stinging hand on top of the saddle horn, making it look as if he were still locked to it. Now, free of his bonds, he looked up the cliff trail and weighed his chances.
They weren’t all too good. He had a broken arm, hung up in a sling whose white cloth would broadcast his position in the night even if he did get free. But it shouldn’t be much of a job to get rid of the sling. The main bother was that, with his right arm useless and paining him, his balance would be poor. He knew well enough how difficult it was for a man to keep his balance in uneven country with one arm incapacitated.
But he had to take the chance.
The horses stepped gingerly onto the surface of the narrow ledge trail. Six glanced back, into Cleve’s expressionless face. Cleve said, “You’re crazy to try this in the dark.”
“Maybe. But if anybody’s on our trail, they’ll think the same way.”
“A lot of good that’ll do us if we’re both dead down at the bottom of the cliff.”
Six grunted something, turned forward, and gigged his horse up the trail.
They moved slowly, feeling their way. And, after a few moments, Six did what Cleve was praying he would do. Six got down, leaving the reins of Cleve’s horse hooked over his own saddle horn, and walked ahead, leading both horses that way, testing the route with his boots, and with his eyes. In the cliff overhang, the dark was almost total. Cleve clamped his lids tight-shut, trying to accustom his eyes to the insipid light.
When the horse stopped, Cleve’s eyes sprang open. Ahead, he could make out Six’s riderless horse, and in front of that, Six’s broad-shouldered shadow standing in the trail. Beyond Six, the trail was blocked by the rockslide. Six was holding up his hand—a habitual cavalry-type signal, although it was useless since Cleve did not have in hand the reins of his own horse. But now, as Six’s horse stopped, Cleve’s horse ambled forward. The trail was barely wide enough. Cleve’s horse stopped moving when it was alongside Six’s.
Six growled, “This is a piece of hard luck.”
“For you, maybe.”
That was when Cleve made his bid. His hand snaked out, loose handcuff rattling; he reached the knotted reins of his own horse, where they were draped over Six’s saddle horn, and yanked the reins to him. In the bad light, evidently Six was not sure what was happening. Six said something; Cleve didn’t catch it. Cleve spurred the horse hotly forward, howling out a rebel yell calculated to startle the horse into a full plunge forward. The horse’s shoulder rammed into Six’s chest, battering the marshal back against the cliff face. Cleve rammed past, using reins and spurs and voice to make the horse jump and heave, leaping up onto the tangled rocks of the sloping landslide. The horse’s hooves scrambled for footing. With sprawling hooves and lunging hindquarters, it heaved forward in half-panic. Rocks broke loose from the slide, pitched over the edge and fell crashing through the canyon, throwing back echoes.
Leaning far to the inside, Cleve bent low and urged the horse on. He heard Six’s level shout—and then he was over, past the slide, clattering onto the upper end of the cliff trail. Fifty feet ahead the ledge curved onto a wide easy slope of rock that carried the trail gently out of the canyon head. Freedom was that near and, heedless of the danger on the narrow ledge, Cleve raked the horse with his spurs and lifted it to a full-speed gallop.
He had time to wonder, vaguely, why Six wasn’t shooting at him; and then, unseen in the darkness, a fallen rock tripped up the horse.
He felt it going out from under. The horse slid and grabbed. Cleve swore a bitter oath; he threw himself to the side, to the inside; he rammed against the cliff, his shoulder taking most of the punishment, and caromed down onto the narrow trail. There was nothing to grab; with helpless terror he felt himself sliding over the edge. He heard the horse’s terrible screams, cut off at mid-breath by the massive crunch of cartilage and bone as the animal hit bottom, thirty or forty feet below. Cleve was going over; he had no doubt of it. Without balance, without anything to grip, he had both legs swinging out over the edge and was only sustaining himself on the lip of the ledge on half of his chest and his outflung left arm. His right arm, useless, was pinned to his side by the sling and bandage; he felt his right hand scrape brutally against the rocks under his breast.
He dared not breathe; any slight motion might upset the precarious equilibrium that somehow held him, by friction alone, on the rim of the cliff. He wanted to cry out, but there was no wind in his lungs. A fatalistic stoicism settled over his long face.
Somewhere, through the roar and pound of blood in his head, he heard the crunch and clatter of scrambling boots. He was not facing the rockslide, but he knew the sound came from there. Six—coming to finish me off. A strange detachment had settled over him; he no longer cared.
A pebble rolled under him; he felt his body slip an inch further over the cliff. His left hand, formed into a claw, scraped the rock; he felt a fingernail tear loose.
The pain hardly registered on his consciousness. He heard the advancing thud of Six’s boot heels, and he thought, All right—get it over with, damn you.
He saw the toe of Six’s boot, coming to earth within the range of his vision; he lay, waiting for the boot to sweep forward and kick him off the cliff.
Then he felt a strong fist lock around his outstretched wrist. And he heard Six’s voice: “I guess you’ve had enough.”
And felt Six lift him, slow and easy, to safety.
Racked with pain, Cleve sat with his back against the cliff, legs a’sprawl, hugging his hurt wrists and hands close to his chest. Six watched him with a bland expression. Cleve’s voice was thin, bitter.
“If it’d been me, I’d have killed you one bullet at a time, Jeremy. You had a chance.”
“I didn’t go to all this trouble just to kill you off,” Six told him. “But try another stunt like that, and I’ll have to.”
“Why didn’t you start shooting when I busted loose?”
“Have you got any idea how far the sound of a gunshot travels in these hills?”
“I might have got away,” Cleve said.
“I didn’t think you would,” was all Six said by way of answer. It was a measure of the supreme self-confidence that characterized him. He walked away, to the rockslide, and Cleve sat half-numb watching in the dimness of the night while Six clambered over the slide, pitching rocks away as he went, smoothing the trail as much as possible. For a few moments Cleve was alone on the trail, and briefly the thought of making a run for it entered his head. But he knew the uselessness of that. Six had a horse, for one thing; for another, Cl
eve knew how close he was to passing out with fatigue, jangling nerves, and injuries. And so he sat where he was until Six came slowly across the landslide, leading his horse, letting it pick a slow safe path across the talus.
When Six came up, he looked down at Cleve and said, “You accomplished one thing, anyway.”
“Killing that horse.”
“Which leaves just one horse between us. Think that will slow us down enough, Cleve?”
“Right now I don’t give a damn, Jeremy. Not a damn.”
Six leaned forward and got a hand under Cleve’s good arm. “Come on. Let’s get off this ledge.”
“I feel like I’ve been stomped in a stampede.”
Six said, “That’s your own fault all the way. Don’t ask for my sympathy. Come on—move.”
“You’re a cold bastard, Jeremy. You didn’t used to be.”
“Move,” Six said again, noncommittally. Cleve got up, stiff in all his joints, and limped up the trail.
They reached the upper end of the ledge and Cleve planted one foot in front of the other, walking that way, step by painful step, up onto the flats. There was a lot of piñon and juniper up here, scrub stuff that was prelude to the heavy pine timber on the higher slopes ahead. On the flats here, the night sky spread a gentle wash of pale light that silvered the earth.
Six said, “This is far enough.”
“You don’t mean to tell me we’re stopping?”
Marshal Jeremy Six #5 Page 7
