Delphi Works of Robert E. Howard (Illustrated) (Series Four)

by Robert E. Howard

  “And was it him,” asked Steve bluntly, “that shot a hole in my hat?”

  Her eyes widened; a frightened look was evident in her face.

  “No! No!” she whispered. “It couldn’t have been him! He and I rode right up on to the cabin after we passed you. I heard the shot but I had no idea anyone was shooting at you.”

  Steve laughed, rather ashamed of having mentioned it to the girl.

  “Aw, it wasn’t nothin’. Likely somebody done it for a joke. But right after you-all went on, somebody cracked down on me from the trees up the trail a ways and plumb ruint my hat.”

  “It must have been Edwards,” she said in a frightened voice. “We met him coming down the trail on foot after we’d gotten out of sight of you, and Uncle stopped and said something to him I couldn’t hear, before we went on.”

  “And who is Edwards?”

  “He’s connected with my uncle’s business in some way; I don’t know just how. He and a man named Allison camp up there close to our cabin.”

  “What is your uncle’s business?” asked Steve with cool assumption.

  She did not seem offended at the question.

  “I don’t know. He never tells me anything. I’m afraid of him and he don’t love me.”

  Her face was shadowed as if by worry or secret fear. Something was haunting her, Steve thought. Nothing more was said until they had reached the base of the cliffs. Steve glanced up, awed. The great walls hung threateningly over them, starkly and somberly. To his eye the cliffs seemed unstable, ready to crash down upon the forest below at the slightest jar. Great boulders jutted out, half embedded in the clay. The brow of the cliff, fringed with trees, hung out over the concave walls.

  From where he stood Steve could see a deep gorge, cut far into the face of the precipice and leading steeply upward. He caught his breath. He had never imagined such a natural stairway. The incline was so precipitous that it seemed it would tax the most sure-footed horse. Boulders rested along the trail that led through it, as if hovering there temporarily, and the high walls on each side darkened the way, looming like a sinister threat.

  “My gosh!” said he sincerely. “Do you have to go up that gulch every time you leave your cabin?”

  “Yes — or else climb the slopes back of the plateau and make a wide circle, leaving the plateau to the north and coming down the southern ridges. We always go this way. I’m used to climbing it now.”

  “Must have took a long time for the water to wash that out,” said Steve. “I’m new to this mountain country, but it looks to me like if somebody stubbed their toe on a rock, it would start a landslide that would bring the whole thing right down in that canyon.”

  “I think of that, too,” she answered with a slight shudder. “I thank you for what you’ve done for me. But you mustn’t go any further. My uncle is always furious if anyone comes into these mountains.”

  “What about Edwards?”

  “I’ll tell my uncle and he’ll make him leave me alone.” She started to go, then hesitated.

  “Listen,” said Steve, his heart beating wildly, “I’d like to know you better — will — will you meet me tomorrow somewhere?”

  “Yes!” she spoke low and swiftly, then turned and ran lightly up the slope. Steve stood, looking after her, hat in hand.

  * * * * *

  NIGHT had fallen as Steve Harmer rode back to the ranch of Hard Luck Harper.

  “Clouds in the west and a-lookin’ like rain,

  “And my blamed old slicker’s in the wagon again!”

  he declaimed to the dark blue bowl of the star-flecked sky.

  The crisp sharp scent of cedar was in the air and the wind fanned his cheek. He felt his soul grow and expand in the silence and the majesty of the night.

  “Woke up one mornin’ on the Chisholm Trail —

  “Rope in my hand and a cow by the tail!”

  He drew rein at the cabin stoop and hailed his host hilariously. Old Hard Luck stood in the door and the starlight glinted on the steel in his hand.

  “Huh,” grunted he suspiciously. “You done finally come back, ain’t you? I’d ‘bout decided you done met up with Gila Murken and was layin’ in a draw somewheres with a thirty-thirty slug through yore innards. Come in and git yore hoofs under the table — I done cooked a couple of steers in hopes of stayin’ yore appetite a little.”

  Steve tended to his horse and then entered the cabin, glancing at the long rifle which the old man had stood up against the cabin wall.

  “That was a antique when they fought the Revolution,” said Steve. “What’s the idea? Are you afraid of Murken?”

  “Afeard of Murken? That dub? I got no call to be afeard of him. And don’t go slingin’ mud at a gun that’s dropped more Indians than you ever see. That’s a Sharps .50 caliber and when I was younger I could shave a mosquito at two hundred yards with it.

  “Naw, it ain’t Murken I’m studyin’. Listen!”

  Again Steve caught the faint pulsing of the mountain drums.

  “Every night they get louder,” said Hard Luck. “They say them redskins is plumb peaceful but you can’t tell me — the only peaceful Indian I ever see had at least two bullets through his skull. Them drums talks and whispers and they ain’t no white man knows what’s hatchin’ back up in them hills where nobody seldom ever goes. Indian magic! That’s what’s goin’ on, and red magic means red doin’s. I’ve fought ’em from Sonora to the Bad Lands and I know what I’m talkin’ about.”

  “Your nerves is gettin’ all euchered up,” said Steve, diving into food set before him. “I kinda like to listen to them drums.”

  “Maybe you’d like to hear ’em when they was dancin’ over yore scalp,” answered Hard Luck gloomily. “Thar’s a town about forty mile northwest of here whar them red devils comes to trade sometimes, ‘steader goin’ to Rifle Pass, and a fellow come through today from thar and says they must be some strange goin’s on up in the Sunsets.

  “ ’How come?’ says I.

  “ ’Why,’ says he, ‘them reservation Navajoes has been cartin’ down greenbacks to buy their tobaccer and calico and the other day the storekeepers done found the stuff is all counterfeit. They done stopped sellin’ to the Indians and sent for a Indian agent to come and investigate. Moreover,’ says he, ‘somebody is sellin’ them redskins liquor too.’ ”

  Hard Luck devoted his attention to eating for a few moments and then began again.

  “How come them Indians gets any kind of money up in the mountains, much less counterfeit? Reckon they’re makin’ it theirselves? And who’s slippin’ them booze? One thing’s shore, Hell’s to pay when redskins git drunk and the first scalp they’ll likely take is the feller’s who sold them the booze.”

  “Yeah?” returned Steve absent-mindedly. His thoughts were elsewhere.

  “Did you find the mine?” asked Hard Luck sarcastically.

  “What mine?” The Texan stared at his host blankly.

  Hard Luck grunted scornfully and pushed back his chair. After awhile silence fell over the cabin, to be broken presently by Steve’s voice rising with dolorous enjoyment in the darkness:

  “And he thought of his home, and his loved ones nigh,

  “And the cowboys gathered to see him die!”

  Hard Luck sat up in his bunk and cursed, and hurled a boot.

  “For the love of mud, let a old man sleep, willya?”

  As Steve drifted off into dreamland, his last thoughts were of gold, but it was not the lost ore of the Sunsets; it was the soft curly gold that framed the charming oval of a soft face. And still through the shimmery hazes of his dreams beat the sinister muttering of the Sunset drums.

  * * *

  3. THE GIRL’S STORY

  THE dew was still on the mountain grass when Steve rode up the long dim slopes to the glade where he had fought Edwards the day before. He sat down on a log and waited, doubting if she whom he sought would really come.

  He sat motionless for nearly an hour, and then he heard
a light sure step and she stood before him, framed in the young glow of the morning sun. The beauty of her took Steve’s breath and he could only stand, hat in hand, and gape, seeking feebly for words. She came straight to him, smiling, and held out her hand. The touch of her slim firm fingers reassured him and he found his voice.

  “Miss Farrel, I plumb forgot yesterday to ask you where you’d rather meet me at, or what time. I come here because I figured you’d remember — I mean, you’d think — aw heck!” he stumbled.

  “Yes, that was forgetful of us. I decided that you’d naturally come to the place where you found me yesterday and I came early because — because I was afraid you’d come and not find me here and think I wasn’t coming,” she finished rather confusedly.

  As she spoke her eyes ran approvingly over Steve, noting his six-foot build of lithe manhood and the deep tan of his whimsical face.

  “I promised to tell you all I know,” said she abruptly, twisting her fingers. She seemed paler and more worried than ever. Steve decided that she had reached the point where she was ready to turn to any man for help, stranger or not. Certainly some deep fear was preying on her.

  “You know my name,” she said, seating herself on the log and motioning him to sit beside her. “Mr. Murken is my mother’s brother. My parents separated when I was very young and I’ve been living with an aunt in New York state. I’d never been west before, until my aunt died not long ago. Before she died she told me to go to her brother at Rifle Pass and not having anywhere else to go, I did so.

  “I’d never seen my uncle and I found him very different from what I had expected. He didn’t live at Rifle Pass then, but had moved up in these mountains. I came on up here with a guide and my uncle seemed very much enraged because I had come. He let me stay but I’m very unhappy because I know he don’t want me. Yet, when I ask him to let me go, he refuses. He won’t even let me go to Rifle Pass unless he is with me, and he won’t let me go riding unless he’s with me. He says he’s afraid I’ll run away, yet I know he doesn’t love me or really want me here. He’s not exactly unkind to me, but he isn’t kind either.

  “There are two men who stay up there most of the time: Edwards, the man you saw yesterday, and a large black-bearded man named Allison. That one, Allison, looks like a bandit or something, but he is very courteous to me. But Edwards — you saw what he did yesterday and he’s forever trying to make love to me when my uncle isn’t around. I’m afraid to tell my uncle about it, and I don’t know whether he’d do anything, if I did tell him.

  “The other two men stay in a smaller cabin a little distance from the one occupied by my uncle and myself, and they won’t let me come anywhere near it. My uncle even threatened to whip me if I looked in the windows. I think they must have something hidden there. My uncle locks me in my cabin when they are all at work in the other cabin — whatever they’re doing in there.

  “Sometimes some Indians come down the western slopes from somewhere away back in the hills, and sometimes my uncle rides away with them. Once a week one of the men loads his saddle bags full of something and rides away to be gone two or three days.

  “I don’t understand it,” she added almost tearfully. “I can’t help but believe there’s something crooked about it. I’m afraid of Edwards and only a little less afraid of my uncle. I want to get away.”

  Suddenly she seized his hands impulsively.

  “You seem good and kind,” she exclaimed. “Won’t you help me? I’ll pay you—”

  “You’ll what?” he said explosively.

  She flushed.

  “I beg your pardon. I should have known better than to make that remark. I know you’ll help me just from the goodness of your heart.”

  Steve’s face burned crimson. He fumbled with his hat.

  “Sure I’ll help you. If you want I’ll ride up and get your things—”

  She stared at him in amazement.

  “I don’t want you committing suicide on my account,” said she. “You’d get shot if you went within sight of my uncle. No, this is what I want you to do. I’ve told you my uncle won’t let me have a horse, and I certainly can’t walk out of these mountains. Can you meet me here early tomorrow morning with an extra horse?”

  “Sure I can. But how are you goin’ to get your baggage away? Girls is usually got a lot of frills and things.”

  “I haven’t. But anyway, I want to get out of this place if I have to leave my clothes, even, and ride out in a bathing suit. I’ll stroll out of the cabin in the morning, casually, come down the gulch and meet you here.”

  “And then where will you want to go?”

  “Any place is as good as the next,” she answered rather hopelessly. “I’ll have to find some town where I can make my own living. I guess I can teach school or work in an office.”

  “I wish—” said he impulsively, and then stopped short.

  “You wish what?” she asked curiously.

  “That them drums would quit whoopin’ it up at night,” he added desperately, flushing as he realized how close he had been to proposing to a girl he had known only two days. He was surprised at himself; he had spoken on impulse and he wondered at the emotion which had prompted him.

  She shivered slightly.

  “They frighten me, sometimes. Every night they keep booming, and last night I was restless and every time I awoke I could hear them. They didn’t stop until dawn. This was the first time they’ve kept up all night.”

  She rose.

  “I’ve stayed as long as I dare. My uncle will get suspicious of me and come looking for me if I’m gone too long.”

  Steve rose. “I’ll go with you as far as the gorge.”

  * * * * *

  AGAIN Steve stood among the thick trees at the foot of the Ramparts and watched the girl go up the gorge, her slim form receding and growing smaller in his sight as she ascended. The gulch lay in everlasting shadow and Steve unconsciously held his breath, as if expecting those grim, towering walls to come crashing down on that slender figure.

  Nearly at the upper mouth she turned and waved at him, and he waved back, then turned and made his way back to his horse. He rode carelessly, and with a slack rein, seeming to move in a land of rose-tinted clouds. His heart beat swiftly and his blood sang through his veins.

  “I’m in love! I’m in love!” he warbled, wild- eyed, to the indifferent trees. “Oh heck! Oh golly! Oh gosh!”

  Suddenly he stopped short. From somewhere further back and high above him came a quick rattle of rifle fire. As he listened another volley cracked out. A vague feeling of apprehension clutched at him. He glanced at the distant rim of the Ramparts. The sounds had seemed to come from that direction. A few straggling shots sounded faintly, then silence fell. What was going on up above those grim cliffs?

  “Reckon I ought to go back and see?” he wondered. “Reckon if Murken and his bold boys is slaughterin’ each other? Or is it some wanderin’ traveler they’re greetin’? Aw, likely they’re after deer or maybe a mountain lion.”

  He rode on slowly, but his conscience troubled him. Suddenly a familiar voice hailed him and from the trees in front of him a horseman rode.

  “Hi yah!” The rider was Hard Luck Harper. He carried the long Sharps rifle across his saddle bow and his face was set in gloomy lines.

  “I done got to worryin’ about a brainless maverick like you a- wanderin’ around these hills by yoreself with Gila Murken runnin’ wild thata-way, and I come to see if you was still in the land of the livin’!”

  “And I reckon you’re plumb disappointed not to run into a murder or two.”

  “I don’t know so much about them murders,” said the old man testily. “Didn’t I hear guns a-talkin’ up on the Ramparts a little while ago?”

  “Likely you did, if you was listenin’.”

  “Yeah — and people don’t go wastin’ ammunition fer nothin’ up here — look there!”

  Hard Luck’s finger stabbed upward and Steve, a numbing sense of foreboding grip
ping his soul, whirled to look. Up over the tree-lined rim of the Ramparts drifted a thin spiral of smoke.

  “My Lord, Hard Luck!” gasped Steve. “What’s goin’ on up there?”

  “Shet up!” snarled the old man, raising his rifle. “I hear a horse runnin’ hard!”

  The wild tattoo of hoofs crashed through the silence and a steed burst through the trees of the upper slope and came plunging down toward them, wild- eyed, nostrils flaring. On its back a crimsoned figure reeled and flopped grotesquely. Steve spurred in front of the frantic flying animal and caught the hanging rein, bringing the bronco to a rearing, plunging halt. The rider slumped forward and pitched to the earth.

  “Edwards!” gasped Steve.

  The man lay, staring up with blank wide eyes. Blood trickled from his lips and the front of his shirt was soaked in red. Hard Luck and Steve bent over him. At the first glance it was evident that he was dying.

  “Edwards!” exclaimed Hard Luck. “What’s happened? Who shot you? And whar’s yore pards and the gal?”

  “Dead!” Edwards’ unshaven lips writhed redly and his voice was a croak.

  “Daid!” Hard Luck’s voice broke shrilly. “Who done it?’’

  “Them Navajoes!” the voice sank to a ghastly whisper as blood rose to the pallid lips.

  “I told you!” gibbered Hard Luck. “I knowed them drums meant deviltry! I knowed it!”

  “Shut up, can’t you?” snarled Steve, torn by his emotions. He gripped the dying man’s shoulder with unconsciously brutal force and shook him desperately.

  “Edwards,” he begged, “you’re goin’ over the ridge – can’t you tell us how it was before you go? Did you see Murken and his niece die?”

  “Yes — it — was — like — this,” the man began laboriously. “I was — all set to go — to Rifle Pass — had my bronc loaded — Murken and Allison was out near — the corral — the gal was — in the cabin. All to once — the west slopes began to shower lead. Murken went down — at the first fire. Allison was hit — and I got a slug through me. Then a gang — of Navajoes come ridin’ down — the slopes — drunk and blood crazy.