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

by Robert E. Howard

  “I got to my bronc — and started ridin’ and — they drilled me — a couple of times from behind. Lookin’ back I saw — Allison standin’ in the cabin door with — both guns goin’ and the gal — crouchin’ behind him. Then the whole mob — of red devils — rushed in and I saw — the knives flashin’ and drippin’ as — I come into — the gulch.”

  Steve crouched, frozen and horror struck. It seemed that his heart had crumbled to ashes. The taste of dust was in his mouth.

  “Any of ’em chasin’ you, Edwards?” asked Hard Luck. The old Indian fighter was in his element now; he had sloughed off his attitude of lazy good nature and his eyes were hard and cold as steel.

  “Maybe — don’t know,” the wounded man muttered. “All our fault — Murken would give ’em whiskey. Warned him. They found out — the money — he was given’ ’em — was no good.”

  The voice broke suddenly as a red tide gushed to Edwards’ lips. He lurched up on his elbows, then toppled back and lay still.

  Hard Luck grunted. He stepped over to Edwards’ horse which stood trembling, and cut open the saddlebags. He nodded.

  “No more’n I expected.”

  Steve was rising slowly, mechanically wiping his hands on a wisp of grass. His face was white, his eyes staring.

  “She’s dead!” he whispered. “She’s dead!”

  Hard Luck, gazing at him, felt a pang in his heart. The scene brought back so poignantly the old bloody days of Indian warfare when men had seen their loved ones struck down by knife and arrow.

  “Son,” said he, solemnly, “I never expected to see such a sight as this again.”

  The Texan gave him a glance of agony, then his eyes blazed with a wild and terrible light.

  “They killed her!” he screamed, beating his forehead with his clenched fists. “And by God, I’ll kill ’em all! I’ll kill — kill—”

  His gun was swinging in his hand as he plunged toward his horse. Hard Luck sprang forward and caught him, holding him with a wiry strength that was astounding for his age. He ignored the savage protests and curses, dodged a blow of the gun barrel which the half-crazed Texan aimed at his face, and pinioned Steve’s arms. The youth’s frenzied passion went as suddenly as it had come, leaving him sobbing and shaken.

  “Son,” said Hard Luck calmly, “cool down. I reckon you don’t want to lift them Navajo scalps any more’n I do, and before this game’s done, we’re goin’ to send more’n one of ’em over the ridge. But if you go gallopin’ up after ’em wide open thataway, you’ll never git the chance to even the score, fer they’ll drill you before you even see ‘em. Listen to me, I’ve fought ’em from Sonora to the Bad Lands and I know what I’m talkin’ about. Git on yore bronc. We can’t do nothin’ more fer Edwards and we got work to do elsewhar. He said Allison and Murken and the gal was daid. I reckon Murken and Allison is gone over the ridge all right, but he didn’t rightly see ’em bump off the gal, and I’ll bet my hat she’s alive right now.”

  Steve nodded shortly. He seemed to have aged years in the last few minutes. The easygoing young cowpuncher was gone, and in his place stood a cold steel fighting man of the old Texas blood. His hand was as steady as a rock, as he sheathed his pistol and swung into the saddle.

  “I’m followin’ your lead, Hard Luck,” said he briefly. “All I ask is for you to get me within shootin’ and stabbin’ distance of them devils.”

  The old man grinned wolfishly.

  “Son, yore wants is simple and soon satisfied; follow me!”

  * * *

  4. A TRAIL OF BLOOD

  STEVE and Hard Luck rode slowly and warily up the tree- covered slopes which led to the foot of the Ramparts. Silence hung over the mountain forest like a deathly fog. Hard Luck’s keen old eyes roved incessantly, ferreting out the shadows, seeking for sign of something unnatural, something which was not as it should be, to betray the hidden assassins. He talked in a low, guarded tone. It was dangerous but he wished to divert Steve’s mind as much as possible.

  “Steve, I done looked in Edwards’ saddle bags, and what you reckon I found? A whole stack of greenbacks, tens, twenties, fifties and hundreds, done up in bundles! It’s money he’s been packin’ out to Rifle Pass. Whar you reckon he got it?”

  Steve did not reply nor did the old man expect an answer. The Texan’s eyes were riveted on the frowning buttresses of the Ramparts, which now loomed over them. As they came under the brow of the cliffs, the smoke they had seen further away was no longer visible.

  “Reckon they didn’t chase Edwards none,” muttered Hard Luck. “Leastways they ain’t no sign of any horses followin’ his. There’s his tracks, alone. These Navajoes is naturally desert Indians, anyhow, and they’re ‘bout as much outa place in the mountains as a white man from the plains. They can’t hold a candle to me, anyhow.”

  They had halted in a thick clump of trees at the foot of the Ramparts and the mouth of the steep defile was visible in front of them.

  “That’s a bad place,” muttered Hard Luck. “I been up that gulch before Gila built his cabins up on the plateau. Steve, we kin come at them Navajoes, supposin’ they’re still up on there, by two ways. We kin circle to the south, climb up the mountain-sides and come down the west slopes or we kin take a chance an’ ride right up the gulch. That’s a lot quicker, of course, pervidin’ we ain’t shot or mashed by fallin’ rocks afore we git to the top.”

  “Let’s take it on the run,” urged Steve, quivering with impatience. “It’ll take more’n bullets and rocks to stop me now.”

  “All right,” said Hard Luck, reining his horse out of the trees, “here goes!”

  Of that wild ride up the gorge Steve never remembered very much. The memory was always like a nightmare, in which he saw dark walls flash past, heard the endless clatter of hoofs and the rattle of dislodged stones. Nothing seemed real except the pistol he clutched in his right hand and the laboring steed who plunged and reeled beneath him, driven headlong up the slope with spurs that raked the panting sides.

  Then they burst into the open and saw the plateau spread wide and silent before them, with smoldering masses of coals where the cabins and corrals should have stood. They rode up slowly. The tracks of horses led away up into the hills to the west and there was no sign of life. Dreading what he might see, Steve looked. Down close to where the corral had been lay the body of Gila Murken. Lying partly in the coals that marked the remnants of the larger cabin, was the corpse of a large darkfaced man who had once worn a heavy beard, though now beard and hair were mostly scorched off. There was no sign of the girl.

  “Do you — do you think she burned in the cabin, Hard Luck?”

  “Naw, I know she didn’t fer the reason that if she hada, they’d be some charred bones. They done rode off with her.”

  Steve felt a curious all-gone feeling, as if the realization that Joan was alive was too great a joy for the human brain to stand. Even though he knew that she must be in a fearful plight, at least she was living.

  “Look it the stiffs,” said Hard Luck admiringly. “There’s whar Allison made his last stand — at the cabin door, protectin’ the gal, I reckon. This Allison seemed to be a mighty hard hombre but I reckon he had a streak of the man in him. Stranger in these parts to all but Murken.”

  Four Navajoes lay face down in front of the white man’s body. They were clad only in dirty trousers and blankets flung about their shoulders. They were stone dead.

  “Trail of blood from whar the corral was,” said Hard Luck. “They caught him in the open and shot him up afore he could git to the cabin, I figure. Down there at the corral Murken died. The way I read it, Allison made a break and got to the cabin whar the gal was. Then they surged in on him and he killed these four devils and went over the ridge hisself.”

  Steve bent over the grim spectacle and then straightened.

  “Thought I knowed him. Allison — Texas man he was. A real bad hombre down on the border. Got run outa El Paso for gun-runnin’ into Mexico.”

 
; “He shore made a game stand fer his last fight.”

  “Texas breed,” said Steve grimly.

  “I reckon all the good battlers ain’t in Texas,” said Hard Luck testily. “Not denyin’ he put up a man-sized fight. Now then, look. Trails of fourteen horses goin’ west — five carryin’ weight, the rest bare — tell by the way the hoofs sink in, of course. All the horses missin’ out of the corral, four dead Indians here. That means they wan’t but a small party of ‘em. Figurin’ one of the horses is bein’ rid by the gal, I guess we got only four redskins to deal with. Small war party scoutin’ in front of the tribe, I imagine, if the whole tribe’s on the war path. Now they’re lightin’ back into the hills with the gal, the broncs they took from the corral, and the horses of their dead tribesmen — which stopped Allison’s bullets. Best thing fer us to do is follow and try to catch up with ’em afore they git back to the rest of their gang.”

  “Then, let’s go,” exclaimed Steve, trembling with impatience. “I’m nearly crazy standin’ here doin’ nothin’.”

  Hard Luck glanced at the steeds, saw that they had recovered from the terrific strain of the flying climb, and nodded. As they rode past the embers of the smaller cabin, he drew rein for an instant.

  “Steve, what’s them things?”

  Steve looked sombrely at the charred and burnt machines which lay among the smoking ruins.

  “Stamps and presses and steel dies,” said he. “Counterfeit machines. And look at the greenbacks.”

  Fragments of green paper littered the earth as if they had been torn and flung about in anger or mockery.

  “Murken and Edwards and Allison was counterfeiters, then. Huh! No wonder they didn’t want anybody snoopin’ around. That’s why Murken wouldn’t let the gal go — afeard she knew too much.”

  They started on again at a brisk trot and Hard Luck ruminated.

  “Mighta known it when they come up here a year ago. Reckon Edwards went to Rifle Pass every week, or some other nearby place, and put the false bills in circulation. Musta had an agent. And they give money to the Indians, too, to keep their mouths shet, and give ’em whiskey. And the Indians found they’d been given money which was no good. And bein’ all fired up with Murken’s bad whiskey, they just bust loose.”

  “If so be we find Joan,” said Steve somberly, “say nothin’ about her uncle bein’ a crook.”

  “Sure.”

  Their steeds were mounting the western slopes, up which went the trail of the marauders. They crossed the ridge, went down the western incline and struck a short expanse of comparatively level country.

  “Listen at the drums!” muttered Hard Luck. “Gettin’ nearer. The whole tribe must be on the march.”

  The drums were talking loud and clear from somewhere in the vastness in front of them and Steve seemed to catch in their rumble an evil note of sinister triumph.

  Then the two riders were electrified by a burst of wild and ferocious yells from the heavily timbered levels to the west, in the direction they were going. Flying hoofs beat out a thundering tattoo and a horse raced into sight running hard and low, with a slim white figure lying close along his neck. Behind came four hideous painted demons, spurring and yelling.

  “Joan!” The word burst from Steve’s lips in a great shout and he spurred forward. Simultaneously he heard the crash of Hard Luck’s buffalo gun and saw the foremost redskin topple earthward, his steed sweeping past with an empty saddle. The girl whirled up beside him, her arms reaching for him.

  “Steve!” Her cry was like the wail of a lost child.

  “Ride for the plateau and make it down through the gulch!” he shouted, wheeling aside to let her pass. “Go!”

  Then he swung back to meet the oncoming attackers. The surprize had been as much theirs as the white men’s. They had not expected to be followed so soon, and when they had burst through the trees, the sight of the two white men had momentarily stunned them with the unexpectedness of it. However, the remaining three came on with desperate courage and the white men closed in to meet them.

  Hard Luck’s single shot rifle was empty, but he held it in his left hand, guiding his steed with his knees, while he drew a long knife with his free hand. Steve spurred in, silent and grim, holding his fire until the first of the attackers was almost breast to breast with him. Then, as the rifle stock in the red hands went up, Steve shot him twice through his painted face and saw the fierce eyes go blank before the body slumped from the saddle. At the same instant Hard Luck’s horse crashed against the bronc of another Indian and the lighter mustang reeled to the shock. The redskin’s thrusting blade glanced from the empty rifle barrel and the knife in Hard Luck’s right hand whipped in, just under the heart.

  The lone survivor wheeled his mustang as if to flee, then pivoted back with an inhuman scream and fired point-blank into Steve’s face, so closely that the powder burned his cheek. Without stopping to marvel at the miracle by which the lead had missed, Steve gripped the rifle barrel and wrenched.

  White man and Indian tumbled from the saddles, close-locked, and there, writhing and struggling in the dust, the Texan killed his man, beating out his brains with the pistol barrel.

  “Hustle!” yelled Hard Luck. “The whole blame tribe is just over that rise not a half a mile away, if I’m to jedge by the sounds of them riding-drums!”

  Steve mounted without a backward glance at the losers of that grim red game who lay so stark and motionless. Then he saw the girl, sitting her horse not a hundred yards away, and he cursed in fright. He and Hard Luck swept up beside her and he exclaimed:

  “Joan, why didn’t you ride on, like I told you?”

  “I couldn’t run away and leave you!” she sobbed; her face was deathly white, her eyes wide with horror.

  “Hustle, blast it!” yelled Hard Luck, kicking her horse. “Git movin’! Do you love birds wanta git all our scalps lifted?”

  Over the thundering of the flying hoofs, as they raced eastward, she cried:

  “They were taking me somewhere — back to their tribe, maybe — but I worked my hands loose and dashed away on the horse I was riding. Oh, oh, the horrors I’ve seen today! I’ll die, I know I will.”

  “Not so long as me and brainless here has a drop of blood to let out,” grunted Hard Luck, misunderstanding her.

  They topped the crest which sloped down to the plateau and Joan averted her face.

  “Good thing scalpin’s gone outa fashion with the Navajoes,” grunted Hard Luck under his breath, “or she’d see wuss than she’s already saw.”

  They raced across the plateau and swung up to the upper mouth of the gulch. There Hard Luck halted.

  “Take a little rest and let the horses git their wind. The Indians ain’t in sight yit and we kin see ’em clean across the plateau. With this start and our horses rested, we shore ought to make a clean gitaway. Now, Miss Joan, don’t you look at — at them cabins what’s burned. What’s done is done and can’t be undid. This game ain’t over by a long shot and what we want to do is to think how to save us what’s alive. Them that’s dead is past hurtin’.”

  “But it is all so horrible,” she sobbed, drooping forward in her saddle. Steve drew up beside her and put a supporting arm about her slim waist. He was heart-torn with pity for her, and the realization that he loved her so deeply and so terribly.

  “Shots!” she whimpered. “All at once — like an earthquake! The air seemed full of flying lead! I ran to the cabin door just as Allison came reeling up all bloody and terrible. He pushed me back in the cabin and stood in the door with a pistol in each hand. They came sweeping up like painted fiends, yelling and chanting.

  “Allison gave a great laugh and shot one of them out of his saddle and roared: ‘Texas breed, curse you!’ And he stood up straight in the doorway with his long guns blazing until they had shot him through and through again and again, and he died on his feet.” She sobbed on Steve’s shoulder.

  “Sho, Miss,” said Hard Luck huskily. “Don’t you worry none about
Allison; I don’t reckon he woulda wanted to go out any other way. All any of us kin ask is to go out with our boots on and empty guns smokin’ in our hands.”

  “Then they dragged me out and bound my wrists,” she continued listlessly, “and set me on a horse. They turned the mustangs out of the corral and then set the corral on fire and the cabins too, dancing and yelling like fiends. I don’t remember just what all did happen. It seems like a terrible dream.”

  She passed a slim hand wearily across her eyes.

  “I must have fainted, then. I came to myself and the horse I was on was being led through the forest together with the horses from the corral and the mustangs whose riders Allison had killed. Somehow I managed to work my hands loose, then I kicked the horse with my heels and he bolted back the way we had come.”

  “Look sharp!” said Hard Luck suddenly, rising in his saddle. “There they come!”

  The crest of the western slopes was fringed with war-bonnets. Across the plateau came the discordant rattle of the drums.

  * * *

  5. THUNDERING CLIFFS

  “EASY ALL!” said Hard Luck. “We got plenty start and we got to pick our way, goin’ down here. A stumble might start a regular avalanche. I’ve seen such things happen in the Sunsets. Easy all!”

  They were riding down the boulder-strewn trail which led through the defile. It was hard to ride with a tight rein and at a slow gait with the noise of those red drums growing louder every moment, and the knowledge that the red killers were even now racing down the western slopes.

  The going was hard and tricky. Sometimes the loose shale gave way under the hoofs, and sometimes the slope was so steep that the horses reared back on their haunches and slid and scrambled. Again Steve found time to wonder how Joan found courage to go up and down this gorge almost every day. Back on the plateau, now, he could hear the yells of the pursuers and the echoes shuddered eerily down the gorge. Joan was pale, but she handled her mount coolly.