Blade 1

by Matt Chisholm

  He made a decision and stood up.

  Raising his voice again, he called to the two men above: ‘I’m going to get in close, boys. You cut down on anything that moves—but not me.’

  ‘Go ahead,’ Ike called back.

  Duke loaded his Winchester to capacity and worked his way, mostly on hands and knees, to the north wall of the canyon and, keeping rocks and brush between himself and the two spots where he considered the enemy to be, began to work his way slowly west. After a few minutes, both Ike and Lon above fired a couple of shots. Neither the big gun nor the smaller rifle ahead sounded. A heavy and dangerous silence settled on the canyon. Every sound that Duke made, however small, seemed to fill the whole world. He was sweating profusely and he could not keep thoughts of that big gun out of his mind. He tried to put his mind on to the gold, but it always came back to that gun.

  He froze when he thought he heard a small sound ahead of him. His guess was that somebody had cocked a gun. He could only pray that it was not the cannon.

  He peeked around the large boulder which he fondly believed hid him from view. He thought his eye caught the flutter of dark cloth.

  From almost directly above him, he heard Ike call: ‘Riders comin’. There’s riders comin’. A hull bunch of ’em comin’ down from the east.’

  It was the alarm of the born survivor that sharpened Duke’s awareness, not panic.

  He started up and bawled out: ‘Leg it to the horses, Ike. Bring ’em along to us.’

  It seemed that something massive and incredibly powerful struck his shoulder even as the deafening boom of the big gun clamored on his ear-drums. He was tom from his feet and smashed helplessly against the canyon wall. He heard his rifle clatter on rock.

  Oh, my God, he thought. I’m finished. That goddam gun’s got me.

  Now there was a terrible moment of panic.

  He tried to move his left arm and found that nothing happened. The whole of his left shoulder and side seemed utterly without sensation. Turning his head, he saw that the shoulder of his coat had been tom quite away. The mauled and mashed flesh showed red and mined.

  He tried his right arm. It moved and, at once, that was a bonus. He could hold a gun. He tried to sit up and it took an enormous effort. It was as though the right side of his body had to provide strength to lift the left. He reached his knees and debated whether he had the strength to get to his feet. The man with the lighter rifle chose that moment to try for him. He missed, but the shot showed Duke that he was on the edge of death. He began to walk on his knees, trying to reach some deep greasebrush that stood almost immediately behind his position.

  He heard an old man’s voice yell: ‘You hit ’im, Annie. You hit one of the bastards.’

  The woman’s voice came, urgent and scared: ‘You stay right where you’re at, lover. You heard what the man said—there’s riders comin’ an’ they’re lightin’ out.’

  Duke’s senses started to fail him. He crazily attempted to gain his feet and reeled drunkenly against the wall of the canyon, grasped weakly at the rock wall and fell on his face. Far off, he seemed to hear men shouting. And all the time, deep inside him a commanding voice bellowed: On your feet, Duke, or you’re a dead man. He started to drag himself along the ground, brush tearing at his face. He found to his astonishment that his carbine was still in his left hand, but it was smashed. The weapon made a clatter as he dragged it along the ground. He knew it was imperative to get help before he bled to death.

  He didn’t know how it happened, but after what seemed to be an unmeasured period of darkness and confusion, he was on his feet and stumbling forward in an uncertain run. He lost all sense of time, but suddenly there was a man in front of him -horses.

  ‘I’m bleedin’ to death,’ he heard himself say.

  He heard a man’s voice—’Get aboard, for God’s sake.’ He knew that was Bill Weyland. Good old Bill. Not as damn rotten as the rest. Bill had come back for him. He’d remember that. He grabbed for the horn and dropped the ruin of his Winchester. Duke fought desperately to fork the spooking horse. Bill shouted hoarsely at the animal and the next moment, he was heaving Duke up into the saddle. Duke felt his strength-less weight hit leather and his horse jumped, nearly unseating him. The vicious cut of a quirt sounded. His horse protested vocally and ran. Bill was yelling for him to hold on and keep going. After that, Duke did not know a thing.

  Seven

  Blade knew they should abandon this crazy man-hunt. He knew it in every fiber of his being. They were lacking ammunition, supplies and warm clothing. He and McMasters would have their hands full following the outlaws. With the women, they were at a distinct disadvantage. Now they had old Charlie Hedges and Crazy Annie along …

  Every man-hunt had to have a forward urge. The will to complete this one was there all right. The Mexican girl and McMasters were quite implacable in their resolve. But the impetus had gone out of it. They were now saddled with the two old people who were plainly boogered, scared to go on and frightened to turn back. So here they were caught in the canyon country, sitting ducks if the outlaws returned with the resolve to wipe them out. And nobody there was in doubt that they could do just that. They had left nobody in doubt concerning their ability and willingness to kill.

  Blade sat apart from the others, watching the flickering shadows cast by the fire on the canyon wall. They were in a small branch canyon now where there was a little grass and water for the animals. The advantage of their being here was that they were pretty well hidden. But they were also at the disadvantage that, if they were found, they were boxed in. The bright fire was an added risk, but the nights were now growing colder and few of them possessed warm clothing or blankets.

  McMasters was calling him. He rose and walked over to the fire. They all looked at him. What should they do? Charlie and Annie begged that they go some of the way toward Taos with them. The outlaws were not going to forget about the gold. Sure, they had panicked for a moment back there. But their scare would not last for long. There was no antidote for fear like gold.

  Blade thought about it.

  The Mexican girl said in Spanish: ‘Your heart is no longer in what we do, Blade. Should I offer you money?’

  He took the insult. He’d been insulted before, but never by so beautiful a woman. He couldn’t say he liked the sensation.

  He spoke to her rapidly in her own language.

  ‘What’s that?’ Charlie demanded. ‘Christ, can’t you talk Christian?’

  ‘I told her it would be better for mankind if her papa had put her across his knee and whaled the daylights out of her ass.’

  Charlie slapped his thigh and cackled with delight. McMasters said: ‘If we stick with Charlie and Annie we’ll most likely get done what we set out to do. The gold’s like honey to bees. The outlaws’ll most likely come to us.’

  ‘That puts us on the defensive,’ Blade said, ‘but you’re likely right. So we have to put them at a disadvantage. You all go ahead. Head for Taos while I keep behind them, pushing a little.’

  ‘How do we know you will keep pushing,’ Pilar Pelaez said, ‘and not go on home?’

  Blade ignored her.

  ‘We’ll stay together,’ he said, ‘until we cross the river. That’s the one place where we’re absolutely open to attack.’

  McMasters chewed on that for a while, then said: ‘I’ll go along with that. It ain’t perfect, but it’s about the best we have.’

  And so it was agreed. They kept one guard on all through the night, taking turns out in the main canyon. They were all awake before dawn. Charlie and Annie shared their dwindling supplies with the others and nobody did too badly for breakfast. They then worked their way west along the main canyon, slowly making their nervous approach to the river. Where it was possible, Blade or McMasters rode on high ground to keep the best possible watch against attack. By noon, they were out of the canyons and working their way at a burro’s pace through broken brush-strewn country. Both McMasters and Blade were watching the sky,
wanting to time their crossing of the river right. To go over in daylight would have laid them wide open. As it was, they came in sight of the water about an hour before sunset and, having got so far safely, their spirits were beginning to rise. They watered the animals and put them on grass without relieving them of their packs and saddles. Nobody slept. The weather was clear and George McMasters predicted a clear moonlit night. This made them decide to cross over under cover of first dark before the moon was up.

  When the time came, Blade went ahead, ten minutes before the others, so that they would have some footing on the west bank and some form of protective fire from that side. Some cloud was starting to form overhead now and Blade hoped that it would serve to conceal any moon that might appear. The river was not in full spate, but when he reached the middle, the water was up to his stirrup-irons. It could be worse.

  This was an old crossing, used for centuries by the Indians before the coming of the white man. On the far shore was the remains of a small adobe building. It had belonged to the original Brown of Brown’s Crossing. He had laid claim to the crossing and had been paid a toll by anybody weak or foolish enough to give in to his demands. Blade could see its dark huddled shape about fifty feet from the water’s edge, perched on high ground safe from flood water. Handy for shooting at anybody attempting to cross the river.

  At the water’s edge was the skeleton of a skiff of some kind. Blade angled his horse north to come at the house from that direction. That way, he would be able to take advantage of some cover. Not much, but any cover was better than nothing. There was no sound but the swish-swish of his horse’s movement through the water and the animal’s occasional snort.

  Blade could only hope that the outlaws had decided to call off their attempts at the gold for a few days. He knew they had a wounded man with them, a fact which might persuade them to take him to a safe place. They would know that Charlie Hedges would be on the trail for a week or more yet. They would have plenty of chances to try for the gold in the days ahead. But, he had to admit, they would not have a better chance than at this crossing. The main reason he prayed for an uneventful crossing was that he was armed with nothing more than the old single-shot Remington and, a good gun though it was, it was not the ideal weapon with which to fight off a bunch of hard cases armed with Winchesters.

  His horse walked ashore and shook itself like a giant dog. Blade jumped it forward up the sloping beach and got in among some thickish brush. Five minutes later, he was in the deserted house, cautiously searching through it. He found nothing, but he did not enjoy the search. It was not his idea of fun to search a house, half-expecting a shot from the darkness to enter his body at any second. He brought his horse close to the building and tied it at the rear. When he went back to the door-less entrance to the place, he heard McMasters starting to lead his little party across the river. They were no doubt moving as quietly as they knew how, but just the same they seemed to be making a hell of a racket.

  He looked at the sky and could have wished for more cloud. The moon made a cold silver rim to a cloud that was moving with maddening speed. He gripped his old rifle and kept his eyes moving up and down the shore. Once he turned his gaze on the water, straining his eyes, and thought he saw the movement of the leading rider. A burro hee-hawed loudly and he heard Charlie’s faint curse. He walked out of the house and looked back toward the country beyond, knowing that there could be a rifleman hidden in the rocks above.

  He heard McMasters tell somebody in the rear to keep close. Annie complained in a foghorn whisper that her feet were wet. Jesus, how she hated water.

  To his horror, he felt the whole scene lighten and looked up. The moon had ridden with serene indifference from behind the cloud. He turned his head and saw the riders on the crossing almost as clear as day.

  Somebody shouted on his side of the river.

  He expected shooting to break out on his side, but was surprised by the rattle of rapid rifle fire from the far side.

  They’re behind us, he thought.

  At the same moment a rifle sounded from his own side and somebody out there on the water screamed. A woman.

  There was a man on the edge of the water by the boat.

  Alarm blossomed in him. In that moment, he felt a total responsibility for the situation those folk out there found themselves in. They were out in the open without any form of protection at the point of no return. Under fire from repeating carbines, they could be wiped out before they reached land.

  The sounds of complete confusion reached him over the water. There was a flurry of untidy movement that stirred white on the moonlit surface of the water.

  There has to be another rifle hidden some place, he thought. He tried to clear his mind, but the only thought that could exist in his head was to save those people out there in the middle of the crossing.

  He started cautiously forward. The other rifle revealed itself at once. A bullet breathed past him and hit the adobe behind him with a hollow clunk. For a second he hesitated. A bullet kicked up dirt at his feet. Another crashed through a window behind him. He whirled and jumped back through the doorway into the building.

  But, even as he did so, conscience hit him.

  Stepping back to the doorway, he drove the brass-bound butt of the old Remington into his shoulder and fired. He heard the ball smack into the wreck of the skiff. The next second, he rocketed away from the building, running as fast as his legs would carry him down the slight grade of the bank, angling toward the skiff. If the third rifleman fired at him again, he was not conscious of it. All he had in his mind was to reach the man lying full-length behind the skiff.

  It seemed that only in the last split second that the man knew that Blade was charging him. A dark shadow reared up from behind the boat. Blade’s eye caught the faint glint of moonlight on the blued barrel of the carbine. The weapon cracked thinly. Blade was already down, flinging himself forward flat in full stride, his chest scraping agonizingly along the ground. His hands scooped up under the boat. For one scaring moment, he thought it was immovable. He heard the man lever a fresh round into the breech of the Winchester.

  Blade strained. He heard his arm and back muscles crack.

  The boat moved as he crouched under its cover. He threw his last ounce of strength and all his weight behind it. It seemed to leave the dirt like a giant limpet leaving rock as he heaved it into the man.

  A blur of sound as the man shouted and went down. Blade let his weight go with the boat and fell across it. The other man was half under it. Old wood cracked and crumpled. Blade felt splinters tear at his flesh. He tried to get to his feet, caught a foot and fell, crashing through the ancient timbers. He seemed to wade through rotting wood. He saw the pale orb of flesh that was the man’s face and aimed a kick at it, missed and went down again. Something clipped him sharply on the head and his whole brain seemed to be mashed. But, so intent was he to finish the man that he was aware of no pain.

  He drove forward and upward, tearing his foot free of wood, caught at something and guessed it was the man’s gunbelt. He pulled with all his remaining strength and, at the same time, reared up with his head, smashing his skull into the man’s face.

  They went down in a tangle of arms and legs, Blade on top. His eye caught the dull glint of metal and his right hand grasped for it. The carbine came away in his hand as he heaved himself off the other man.

  He was on his feet, peering across the river. The flat slam of the rifle on the far side came to him and his sharp eyes caught the small pin-point of the muzzle-flash. He pulled the butt of the Winchester into his shoulder and started to lever and fire steadily, driving shot after shot across the water.

  There was no response.

  Now the other rifleman on his side of the river opened up on him and lead started to crack into the ruined boat. Blade darted into the deep moon-shadow of some elders at the water’s edge, leapt into the shallows, ran, splashing, for twenty paces, then turned inland and ran panting up the steep bank. The ri
fle was still firing, driving lead at the people on the crossing.

  He located the man almost at once, hearing the rifle among the rocks, noisily echoing its cacophony of destruction. He drove three shots into the rocks above him and at once the man up there turned his attention on Blade.

  Suddenly the Winchester in Blade’s hands was empty.

  He stood for a moment, helpless. The obvious thing to do was to go back to the man by the boat and get hold of his ammunition, but the situation did not allow him time. It allowed him only risk. When a man has no alternative, the decision is made for him. So Blade obeyed it. He charged.

  He never knew why he succeeded. Who could tell in such a moment? Maybe the man’s weapon was empty, maybe he spooked. It did not matter. As Blade scrambled through the rocks, he heard the man beat a retreat.

  He also heard another sound.

  Further along the river, he heard the sound of a fourth rifle.

  Going slowly through the rocks, he searched the ground until the moonlight glinted softly on brass. Here was the small pile of shells the man had laid on a rock. Blade hastily loaded the Winchester, all the while listening. The man who had been hidden right where he was now standing was mounting a horse and riding away into the night. A couple of hundred paces to the north, a man was still firing at the crossing. Somebody out there in the center of the stream was shooting back. There were no shots coming from the far side of the river. The situation could be better, but it could also be worse.

  Blade legged it to his horse, ripped the line free and vaulted into the saddle. The remaining rifleman heard him and sent a shot in his direction. Blade kicked the horse into action and fired at muzzle-flame as he went forward. The man shooting in mid-stream—Blade bet it was McMasters—was still shooting. Suddenly amid the rattle of small arms fire, there came the resounding boom of the buffalo gun. Above the shooting and the sound of the horse’s hoofs, Blade heard the large ball hit rock and scream away into the night like a furious banshee.