Funeral By The Sea (16 page)

‘Good chance of drowning whatever I do, sir. Staying here, going back or pushing on. If it’s going to happen, rather it be while I’m doing some…’

Warren Pruett folded up into a sitting position now, and reached down to knead his cramped legs. His head tilted back to direct a scowl at the younger man.

‘Leave the coat and put your other boot back on,’ he growled.

Gold moved to do this.

Pruett needed to grip one of the stirrups to drag himself to his feet. And he surveyed the situation again, spending the longest time peering anxiously out at the ocean.

‘You know somethin’, kid,’ he said sourly.

‘What?’

‘I bet when you was just a little brat, just startin’ to talk, you had a habit of bein’ right all the friggin’ time.’

‘Wouldn’t claim that, sir,’ Gold replied as he got to his feet after pulling on the boot. ‘Just that I’ve always had a pretty clear idea of what I wanted to do.’

‘And friggin’ done it, I bet. Come hell or high water.’ He glanced out to sea again, thudded the end of a fist at his forehead and snarled. ‘Shit, that really ain’t funny.’

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

IT took them almost another two hours to reach the southern arm of cliff that protected the cove in which Oceanville was situated.

They both walked, the exercise helping to combat the cold of their wet clothing and to keep at bay the threat of renewed attacks of cramp. While the strength of the riderless stallion was conserved for the final approach to the town.

The gap between the breaking combers and the cliffs behind the beach had been reduced by more than half before they completed this section of their advance.

The makings in one of Warren Pruett’s shirt pockets were a soggy mess. Barnaby Gold’s cheroots and matches were dry inside his coat and the men lit one apiece before starting out across the uneven rocks that formed a kind of causeway between the cliff base and the water.

Most of the rocks were above the level of the sea, but there was a constant spray of spume as the waves broke against and among them. Which kept the stallion in a state of high nervousness until he got used to the sound and feel of the splashing water.

Since it was Pruett’s mount, Gold left the bounty hunter to lead and calm the horse while he moved out ahead, zigzagging back and forth across the fifteen-foot-wide area of rocks to show the way that was safest for the stallion. Staying clear of the widest gaps and the most slippery surfaces where a leg could be trapped or a hoof slip. And panic might lead to a broken bone.

Bright moonlight made this task easier. And they reached the seaward end of the point without mishap, both men gripping the cheroots between their teeth. Dead cheroots, the glowing tobacco extinguished by spray.

Pruett snatched his from his mouth and hurled it away. Allowed his teeth to remain exposed in a grin that did not reach his eyes.

‘So far, so good, kid. And if we stay close to this rock on the other side, we’ll be in shadow.’

‘Shadow isn’t important,’ Gold answered. ‘Sand is piled up on the beach in the cove. Only place to see the ocean from town is from upstairs in the big house. But no one watches from there. They don’t figure anybody’s crazy enough to try to hit them from out here.’

The bounty hunter dropped his grin and made no further effort to mask his nervousness as he looked at the younger man, who was gazing at the gently convoluted surface of the water a few feet beyond the point.

‘What d’you think?’

‘This point? How wide is it?’

‘About the same as the last one we come around.’

Barnaby Gold clicked his tongue. ‘Okay, Mr. Pruett. You, me and the horse know what to expect this time.’

‘And friggin’ how.’ He shuddered, not entirely from the cold.

‘He’s your horse, so you steer him. Straight out at least fifteen feet. Then north. Into the cove as soon as the point is behind us. The currents could make it tougher than last time. But he’s an intelligent animal. Soon as he sees the sand ridge along the beach, I figure he’ll make for it. We have to hope he’s got the strength to handle the currents until the tide starts to work with him.’

Pruett directed an apprehensive glance at the by turns moon-silvered and moon-shadowed water at the crests and troughs of the waves, then sucked in a deep breath and took a double-handed grip on the horse, at bridle and front rigging strap.

‘Let’s quit talkin’ and start doin’, kid.’

‘Foot in the stirrup until we’re in the water,’ Gold instructed.

‘Why?’

‘Just do it.’

‘Pruett did so and Gold the same. Then Gold nodded and the bounty hunter barked a command to the stallion.

There was no gentle slope with a steady rise of water on this occasion. The horse went forward and immediately plunged beneath the surface. Took the men with him.

Gold saw Pruett’s mouth gaping wide and heard the start of his shriek of fear. Then there was ice cold blackness and a rushing sound in his ears. The wrench against his armpits was as hard to take as when he was jerked awake by Hal Delroy to find himself strung up on the house stoop. His booted foot came clear of the stirrup, but he hung on.

His head broke surface and he had the presence of mind to gulp in fresh lungfuls of air. But he did not go down again. Heard Pruett coughing up salt water before his vision cleared and he saw the man had also retained his hold on the saddle.

He could feel the stallion struggling vainly to swim forward, but sensed a sideways motion. Knew they were caught in a current which, because he was considerably lighter than the stallion, was trying to tug him free and carry him along at greater speed.

‘I can’t do nothin’!’ Warren Pruett yelled.

The stallion was swung around to face the same way as the current was running, the pumping of his legs having little effect on the speed at which the animal and two men were moving.

Pruett was screaming at the horse and succeeded in hauling his head around to the side. But the forward momentum continued, carrying them out towards the middle of the cove entrance away from the wedge of moon shadow from the cliff.

Barnaby Gold considered letting go of the saddle and struggling to stay on the surface. To be swept out to sea, dashed against the cliff base on the far side or washed up on the beach. A one in three chance of survival. But what lay beyond initial survival if he came to rest on the beach fronting Oceanville? Half drowned and unconscious, helpless until he was found by the Mexican fishermen.

He became aware that the momentum had slowed. That the speed of the water rippling around him was in keeping with the regular rhythm of the stallion’s paddling actions.

He shook his head and blinked water off his eyelids. Saw the ridge of sand directly in front of him. With the dark silhouettes of the tilted fishing boats at its crest.

‘Shit, I figured we’d had it for sure!’ Warren Pruett gasped, an expression of euphoric happiness on his face as he turned his head from peering at the beach to stare across the saddle at Barnaby Gold.

The younger man spat a foul taste from his mouth and sprayed shreds of tobacco into the sea.

‘Tide must have beaten the current back there.’

‘What does it friggin’ matter, kid?’

‘And you have a fine horse, Mr. Pruett.’

‘You better believe it!’

In the calmer, slower moving water, the bounty hunter let go with one hand to pat the neck of the horse.

‘And you better keep the noise of your celebration down,’ Gold cautioned. ‘Considering what kind of place it is, Oceanville’s a quiet town.’

Pruett spat into the sea at his side. ‘You’re right again, kid.’ Patted the neck of the stallion a second time and growled, ‘Come on boy, just a little ways further.’

Very much further and the horse would probably not have made it. Because the beach shelved more steeply here, they almost had to get into the breaking combers before feet and hooves touched bottom. And the horse, drained by exertion and fear, staggered and dropped exhausted on to his front knees the moment he was on dry sand.

Barnaby Gold released his grip on the saddle and hurled himself clear as the hind legs of the animal collapsed in the same way and he rolled over on to his side, quivering and snorting weakly.

Pruett did not let go and he lay across the horse, venting soft sounds of relief that had the tone of sobs.

Gold lay spread-eagled on his back, listening to his heart beat and making a conscious effort to control his panting breathing.

Waves broke over his feet but the water rose no further than his knees. The sky beyond the glow of the moon and between the glinting stars was as inky black as when they had started along that other beach from the ravine. So there was time to rest. But not to sleep, and now it required a conscious effort to keep his eyelids from closing.

‘Crazy as an asylum full of lunatics, kid,’ Warren Pruett murmured. ‘But it friggin’ worked, didn’t it? I figure we must have God on our side.’

Barnaby Gold turned his head to look over an outstretched arm to where the bounty hunter was grinning at him, still draped across the distressed stallion.

‘Maybe, Mr. Pruett. But I figure there are just the two of us now. From what I’ve heard, He doesn’t pack a gun.’

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

WARREN Pruett crawled clear of the stallion and came close to where Barnaby Gold lay. The horse struggled to stand up and then was unmoving, head hung low. The sounds of the two men sucking in air and expelling it were louder than those of the animal’s breathing.

‘You did great, kid, and I wanna thank you for it,’ the bounty hunter growled.

‘Forget it.’

‘Intend to. But I’ll never forget being in that water. Could be I’ll never take a bath again.’

Both of them began to shiver and Gold folded up into a sitting position and started to massage his upper arms vigorously as he hugged himself. ‘Could be we’ll never do anything again, Mr. Pruett. If we don’t start moving around.’

‘That’s right.’ He grinned as he rose to his feet. ‘I’m gettin’ a warm feeling just thinkin’ about all that money on the hoof bein’ so close.’

He moved back to the weary stallion and Gold was about to follow him. But something dark bobbing on the white water of the breaking combers caught his attention and he went to get it, a smile on his good-looking face. It was his hat, which had been swept across the cove by the current and then carried in to the beach by the tide. He put it on, unmindful of the water that dripped from it and ran down his face. Fell on to his sodden shirt.

‘Crazy as a friggin’ coon, you are,’ Pruett said good-naturedly when Gold joined him beside the horse.

The bounty hunter already had on his gunbelt and was using his wrung-out handkerchief to wipe excess water from the ivory-butted Army Colt.

‘Always had a reputation for being that,’ Gold allowed as he took his coat off the bedroll and unfolded it. ‘Ever since I was just a kid just starting to talk.’

‘And never did give a shit about it. I bet?’

‘No, sir.’

The caped Ulster was sodden from when the stallion had plunged below the surface on the other side of the point. But it was thick enough to have kept the Murcott reasonably dry and no water had got into the twin barrels and breeches. He used the scarf to wipe off the surface moisture and then attended to the Peacemakers, while Pruett was checking his Winchester.

The carton of cartridges for the shotgun were spoiled and he tossed them into the water. Likewise his matches. But he had thought to put a few in the watertight cheroot tin and he lit two smokes while Pruett was finishing his gun drying chore, then handed one to him.

On this occasion, the aromatic tobacco smoke masked the smell of slowly drying salt water lingering on their clothing and the horse.

They drew silently against the cheroots for a full minute, squatting down on their haunches and gazing out across the cove. Then Pruett was the first to smother the glowing tobacco in sand. Left it there. Gold doused his in the same way, but replaced the dead cheroot between his teeth.

‘You ready, kid?’

‘Sure.’