They reached a crystal stream in the late afternoon, and Six forced Cleve to walk upstream in the water, getting his boots soaked. Six rode the rocks of the creek bed and kept his attention on Cleve to make sure Cleve didn’t attempt to overturn rocks or leave sign for the pursuers.
They followed the stream laboriously up, all the way to the head of its canyon, where the stream had its birth in a nest of rocks. Six picked a route across the rocks that carried them below the mountain crests and kept them on outcrops for several hundred yards before they were forced to take to the pine-needle carpet of the forest floor. The route by the stream had taken him farther south than he might have wanted, but it would occupy quite a bit of Matador’s precious time to search both upstream and downstream in hope of finding the place where Six had left the creek. By the time they found the tracks, Six hoped fervently, the rain would have started.
With the break of a rainstorm, and a daring plan, he still had hopes of outwitting Ma Marriner’s gang, in spite of his knowledge that they were only a few hours behind him. For Six had no intention of crossing the Tuolumne range. He intended only to pass over the summit. After that he would turn due north, through the central fastness of the range, and follow its tortuous gorges and slopes all the way to the northern end of the range, which was skirted by both the railroad and the main wagon route. He expected Matador to have blocked the western exit from the mountains; but he doubted they would try to bottle up the northern end of the range as well. They simply didn’t have a big enough army. For that reason, his greatest challenge was to keep ahead of the crew behind him; the crew ahead of him would take care of itself, by waiting for him at the wrong place.
He had planted the belief in them that he was headed straight across the mountains. To keep that belief alive, he had made no serious effort to hide his tracks until he had put Cleve and the horse into the stream, which was behind them now. His chances depended, in good measure, on whether or not the rain began in time to wash out his tracks through the pines before Matador’s scouts reached that point.
He went on, telling Cleve which way to go, angling to the northwest and seeking a pass through the higher peaks. They turned into a ravine and started to climb. Tight with strain, Six listened for sounds behind him, but he could hear nothing—no calling back and forth, no gunshot signals. They reached the crest, with Cleve complaining and breathing in gasps. Six gave him no rest. They went down the sloping leg of a ridge, keeping within a line of thin woods. All afternoon, Six kept listening behind for the rumor of running horses.
He stopped twice to allow Cleve a rest and to blow the horse. Ahead of them lay perhaps fifty miles, on Six’s intended route, of broken wilderness. Six had never traveled the Tuolumnes before, had never made the crossing south-to-north, but he had little choice now. With the sun going down on this second day of the chase, he prodded Cleve’s stumbling frame ahead of him; they wound through the Tuolumnes’ darkening alleys. Shortly after dark they stopped by a creek for a drink, and Six felt the touch of a raindrop on the back of his hand. The rain had started too late, he knew; by now Matador must have found his tracks. It meant he would have to throw them off again.
There would be precious little rest for them tonight. He said, “Into the creek, Cleve. Downstream this time. I’ll tell you when to climb out.”
“You’re a bastard,” Cleve wheezed hotly, but he went. Night closed down and they had to feel their way; it was slow going, but they kept moving. Six had dismounted at sundown; now he walked, leading the riderless horse, staying right behind Cleve where he could see the prisoner.
When both men were faint with exhaustion, they paused. Six let the horse browse in the bottom grasses while Cleve sprawled on the creek bank, trying to get enough air into his lungs. Even in the dim starlight, dark circles were plainly visible under both men’s eyes. Six rubbed his chin with the back of his hand and felt the abrasive sting of forty-eight hours’ beard stubble.
When Six judged it was time, they moved out, away from the creek through a heavy stand of pine, heading toward the ragged rising of the highest peaks, which loomed still ahead of them. The slope of the land dropped them through a thickly overgrown pocket, where they crossed still another creek; Six took them upstream a few hundred yards and left the water across a flat of hard clay. The rain, soft but steady, would mat the clay down quickly.
The horse trailed along, droop-lidded. Six doled out food sparingly from his saddlebags; they pushed on, ascending the reaches of a narrowing canyon, through a thin passageway between rocky walls. Beyond, they could look up against the night clouds and faintly make out the shape of a saddle between two mountain summits. It was probably the nearest thing to a pass they were likely to find.
Six said, “In the morning we’ll go up.”
“You mean you aim to stop?”
“For a while.”
“About time,” Cleve said. “My legs are about to give out.”
Six considered the back trail. It was swallowed in gloom. Reluctantly he said, “They won’t be able to do much tracking for the rest of the night.”
He hobbled the horse and took out of his pocket the key to the handcuffs. Cleve said, “Oh, Lordy. Not again. You really think I’ll make a run for it, ready to pass out like this?”
“I don’t figure to take chances,” Six replied. “In my book you’ve made all your journeys except one, Cleve, and I intend to see to it that it stays that way.”
There was nothing in the area to lock the handcuff around. Six untied the concho string that held his saddle rope, uncoiled the rope and made a loop. Cleve kept ridiculing him while he fastened the rope around the bole of a tall pine. He ignored Cleve’s remarks; he locked the handcuff around the rope and made sure the knot was on the far side of the tree where Cleve could not reach it. Finally he said, “You might saw through that rope if you had enough time, but you won’t get enough time. So you may as well get what sleep you can. It’ll be a hard climb in the morning.”
Cleve shook his head bemusedly. “I ain’t worth any of this. You know that, Jeremy. I ain’t worth risking anything for. I just can’t make you out.”
Six said, “You don’t think much of yourself, do you?”
“I don’t like the way I am. But there ain’t much I can do about that. You play the cards you’re dealt.”
“You used to be ambitious.”
Cleve shrugged. “Guess I left my ambition in some saloon along the way. Don’t seem to make much difference.”
The lethargic drizzle fell steadily. Six moved a little distance away and settled down, lying back under the trees, so tired he was oblivious to the raindrops that struck his exposed face. He said drowsily, “I’ve got nothing against natural weakness, Cleve, but I can’t understand a man who’s got plenty of choices and still chooses the one you picked. There was a time when I’d have sworn by you. I figured I could count on you.”
Cleve’s lip curled. “If you want true friendship and loyalty there’s nothing like a small dog.”
Six considered him through drooping lids. “Your old man did this to you. It’s a hard thing to say, but somebody should have shot him down a long time ago.”
“There wasn’t anybody good enough.”
“Good enough—or fast enough?”
“Same thing,” Cleve muttered.
“I don’t think so,” answered Six. But he was too tired to talk more. Soaked to the skin, he let himself sprawl; he braced his big long-range rifle across a pair of sticks to keep the muzzle out of the mud. He tipped his hat forward over his face. With rain beating on his body, he fell into a profound, exhausted sleep as deep as a coma.
It was partly the call for revenge, and partly sheer desperation, that kept Cleve awake in spite of his abject weariness. He hated Six, in that moment, for reminding him of his father’s death. Six had killed his father, and no son could forget that, especially no Marriner’s son. And added to that was the clear and certain knowledge of what would happen to Cleve if he reached
a courtroom. The Marriners had no friends at court. On the word of a lawman like Jeremy Six, there wasn’t much else a judge could do but mete out the stiffest possible sentence to a man in Cleve’s position. He knew full well he wouldn’t get away with any less than ten years at hard labor. The prospect, to Cleve, was bleak and terrible.
And so he fought to keep his eyes open against fatigue and the agonizing discomfort of his injuries and the soaking rain; he waited for what seemed hours, making sure Six was asleep. Seldom in that interval did Cleve’s eyes stray from the dull gleam of Six’s big rifle, propped across sticks beside the marshal.
Finally Cleve made his move. He squirmed flat, enduring the wave of pain that flashed up his aim as he lay on his belly, pinning the gunshot elbow under him; there was no other way to do it. He squirmed backward until his left arm, handcuffed to the rope, was stretched out straight. Then, looking past his shoulder, he reached out with the toe of his right boot.
It came just inches short of the rifle.
Cleve wanted to cry. The whole thing seemed an exercise in torture and agony. Everything always seemed just out of reach. His whole life had gone that way. Nothing ever came easy for him.
He swallowed a curse and yanked at the rope with fevered energy. The rope was soaked with rain; perhaps it had some stretch in it. He pulled and hauled with all his might. It was hard to tell if he had gained any leeway. He slid back again, and reached out once more with his boot.
It came short, again. But it seemed closer. He studied Six’s sleeping form. With grim determination, he resolved to keep struggling until either he got the rifle or Six woke up and laughed at him. Cleve was going to get that rifle if he had to stretch his own bones to do it …
Half an hour later, with exhaustion and pain making his brain spin, he had the solid satisfaction of seeing his boot toe scrape over the metal breech plate of the rifle and hook into the oval of the weapon’s action lever. Slowly, with infinite care, he began to draw the rifle up. It slipped off the sticks with a small plop—but Six didn’t even stir. Cleve dragged its heavy weight through the mud and rot-soaked pine needles. He dragged it all the way to the bole of the tree, where he could reach down with his rope-cuffed hand and just manage to get a grip on the iron-strapped butt. By working the rifle around with his shoulders and body—at one point he even used his teeth—he finally got his fist locked around the big Winchester’s pistol grip. The weapon seemed to weigh a ton. He squirmed around, sitting parallel to the tree, till he had the rifle balanced across his updrawn knees; softly he worked the lever open and closed to chamber a cartridge; he laid his index finger across the trigger and took his time making sure the big-bore rifle was centered on Six’s sleeping form.
Only then did Cleve speak.
“Wake up, Jeremy.”
The marshal stirred sluggishly. Cleve said in a sharper voice, “Open your goddam eyes and look at me.”
With Six’s hat over his face, it was hard to tell whether he was awake. But finally the marshal lifted his hand and tilted the hat back, and raised his head. When his eyes reached Cleve, he froze.
“That’s right,” Cleve said. “Don’t get notions, Jeremy. Your first mistake will be your last. I’ll kill you before you can move six inches.”
He heard Six’s long, slow blast of breath. He forced a tight grin across his face. “All right, Jeremy. Reach around left-handed and toss your six-gun away. Move slow.”
“I guess not,” Six said. “Don’t be a fool, Cleve. Do you think I’d have left a loaded rifle where you could reach it? That Winchester’s empty.” With seeming indolence, Six began to get to his feet, disregarding the rifle entirely.
“A good trick,” Cleve snarled, “but not quite good enough.” He shifted the muzzle a foot to the side and pulled the trigger.
The big rifle went off with an ear-splitting roar. The recoil rammed Cleve’s shoulder against the tree. The bullet went sizzling off into the forest; Cleve jacked the lever down and up, chambering a fresh cartridge, and swung the muzzle back to center on Six’s chest.
“Now we both know,” Cleve said. “So sit still before I cut you in half.”
Six was on his knees, ready to stand up; he settled back slowly with a soft smile. “It was worth a try,” he murmured.
“Could’ve got you killed.” Cleve nodded. “Now do like I told you. Get rid of your belt gun.”
Six gave him a sober scrutiny. Cleve said, “I ain’t foolin’ you, Jeremy. I’ve got nothing to lose by plugging you.”
“Except maybe what self-respect you’ve got left.”
“Don’t speechify,” Cleve said. “The gun, now. Toss it over toward me, real easy-like.” He began to laugh. “I remember when you and I and Wes ran together. You used to say it was only a fool with suicide in mind who’d fight the drop. Ain’t changed your mind, have you?”
“No,” Six said, “I haven’t changed my mind.” He crossed his left hand to his holster, lifted the revolver out and pitched it softly toward Cleve’s feet. It landed with a thud and a squish. Cleve left it lying there.
He said, “I reckon that shot I just fired will bring Ma’s crew on the run. But if it didn’t—”
Rapidly he fired two more shots into the woods. Deafening echoes crackled back and forth, dying slowly as they caromed back through the peaks and cliffs. “That’s three,” Cleve said when the echoes died. “Ought to leave a few shells left in here, don’t you think? Enough to kill you good and dead if you don’t do exactly as I tell you.”
If Six was frightened, he gave no sign of it. He watched Cleve with expressionless cheeks and said, “All right. What have you got in mind?”
“The keys to these handcuffs, for a start.”
“You’ve only got one hand,” Six reminded him. “You can’t keep me covered and unlock the cuffs, all at the same time.”
“Can’t I?”
“Think about it.” Six sat back, drawing up his knees, and wrapped his arms around his shins. With his chin just above his knees, he sat as if he hadn’t a care in the world, and watched Cleve out of guarded eyes.
Cleve grinned. “I’m the one who should be stalling for time, not you. Now get out those keys.”
Unhurriedly, Six poked fingers into his pocket and took out the keys. He let them dangle from his hand. “Your pleasure,” he murmured. “What now?”
“Toss them over here right by the six-gun.”
Six complied. The keys jingled softly against the blued steel of the revolver barrel.
“Now,” Cleve told him, “I want you down on your belly. Flat down, and facing away from me. I want to see the back of your head. Leave your hat on the ground. Take it nice and slow, Jeremy. It’d make me mad to have to shoot you after you saved my life back on that cliff.”
“Funny you didn’t think of that before you reached for that rifle.”
His patience worn thin by ragged nerves, Cleve snapped at him, “Quit lecturing and do as you’re told, damn it.”
Six obeyed, moving around without hurry until he was belly-flat on the ground with his boot heels pointing toward Cleve.
“Stick both hands inside the back of your waistband,” Cleve said. “You know what I’m going to do, Jeremy, but you don’t know when I’m going to do it. If you want to make a try, go right ahead. But by the time you get to your feet I’ll have two or three slugs in you.”
Six said nothing. Cleve shifted his feet around two or three times, making noise, not relaxing his grip on the rifle. When Six didn’t move, Cleve lowered the rifle into his lap and slid his boot back to push the keys and the six-gun toward the tree, where they would be within reach of his hand. He kept his attention on Six; he said mildly, “Smart.”
Six’s voice was muffled; his jaw was in the mud. “Thought about what you’ll do next, Cleve? You’ll spend the rest of your life with this charge hanging over your head. And if you kill me, that will be around your neck too. There aren’t many places a badge-killer can hide. Every lawman west of Memphis will be looking
for you.”
“They’ll just be wasting their time,” Cleve said. He had the keys in hand, now; he was trying to shift his grip on them so as to insert the key in the handcuff lock. It was hard, awkward work. He kept the rifle-grip within an inch of his hand, in case he should have to make a grab for it. To cover the noise he was making, he went on talking.
“Lots of nice little towns down in Mexico where a feller can spend the rest of his life with plenty of nice round girls and tequila. I’ll tell you something, Jeremy—this country ain’t done much for me and I don’t figure I’ll miss it any.”
“Could be that you haven’t done much for this country, either. Ever think of that?”
With a soft click, the handcuff sprang open. Cleve grinned. He reached down, with his hand free now, and picked up Six’s revolver. He glanced into the muzzle to make sure mud hadn’t plugged up the barrel; he knew what a clogged muzzle could do—expanding gas pressure behind a fired bullet could make the whole gun explode in the shooter’s face. The muzzle of Six’s revolver was dirty, but clear. Cleve set the rifle against the tree, cocked the six-gun and fired three shots into the air.
He saw Six start. He grinned. “That ought to bring them up on the run, don’t you think?”
Six said, “Mind if I get up now?”
“Suit yourself.”
Six rolled over and sat up, wiping his jaw. His eyes were dark and dismal. The falling drizzle was fading; only a few drops fell here and there. The rain would end soon, Cleve knew. He said, “Poke around under them bushes and rustle up some dry kindling. We’ll build a fire. I wouldn’t want you to get a chill.”
Marshal Jeremy Six #5 Page 10
