Novel 1966 - The Broken Gun (v5.0) (8 page)

I waited there, cursing myself for having been such a fool as to get into such a box. All the pleasures; everything good in life was behind me now. The books I wanted to write and had not written, the things I wanted to do…I’d bought myself a package of trouble because of a few fading sheets of paper found in the barrel of an old pistol.

Dawn found its way along the high cliffs, and a gnarled and dwarfed cedar held up its limbs in agonized gesture before the awakening light. Standing up, I put out the last of my fire—not that there was anything for it to reach out for, but the ways of habit are strong. The fire out, I stretched and stretched, loosening the muscles against the time for moving out, if there was a chance for that.

Here and there I seemed to see just a thread of passage along the rock face. On the right the rock bellied out, leaving an awkward hollow beneath it. My first move would be to get off the ledge itself and onto the face, and looking at it I felt the cold of fear begin to creep up my spine.

It was like glass—smooth and sheer. There might be an occasional meager handhold, but I’d be swinging free and clear, hundreds of feet above the rocks below, and it was a prospect I had no taste for.

On the edge of the ledge I stood looking out, studying the cliff. Going down would be impossible. If I could make it at all from out there it would have to be up.

My eyes went to the left. There was the sheer drop to the rocks, but about six feet out was a cedar, a small tree with many stiff branches, some old, some young. Beyond the cedar, and several feet higher up, I could see what might be considered a narrow ledge. It was not even two inches wide, and looked to be about six feet long.

If I could get into that cedar and stand up, hoping it would not break, and then get my fingers on that ledge, I might inch along it, my body hanging against the rock…but where from that point?

I saw that there was a crack in the rock just beyond, a crack not over four or five inches wide at most…or so it appeared from where I stood. If I could reach that, I might use a lie-back—my feet against the far side of the crack, my hands pulling hard against the near side, and so holding myself up and climbing by opposing the one strength against the other, I might be able to climb.

But that twenty feet…I felt the cold sweat on my forehead and my hands were clammy. There would be no rope to hold me…a moment’s weakness and I was finished. And always there would be the threat of Reese, who might suddenly arrive on the scene.

Above that twenty feet out there, was a ledge. It looked to be a foot wide, which was like a highway compared to what lay between where I stood and it. Beyond that ledge I could not see. I might get there and find myself helpless to go on—and once there I could not even die in comfort. It would be merely a matter of hanging on until I weakened and fell.

The cedar was craggy and old. Gray, jagged ends of ancient limbs thrust out through the green, and they could open a man wide if he fell against them. But there was no other way for it, and I had waited long enough.

I took off my coat and dropped it on the ledge, where it could be seen if searchers came looking. Then, swinging my arms, I jumped.

For an instant I seemed to hang in the air, and then some of the cedar’s branches were splintering under me, but the tree itself had kept its strength and it was sturdy. Some old limbs broke, but the tree held, and gingerly I eased my feet onto the thickest of the short branches.

Carefully I stood up, balancing myself. The tiny ledge was above me. Stretching my arms out, I was still a few inches short of reaching it. There was nothing else for it…a quick hop…my fingers caught, clung.

I swung against the face, then hung there still. Ever so gently, sweat streaming down my face, I worked my fingers along, my whole weight hanging from them.

Inch by inch, my mouth dry as dust, my breath coming hoarsely, I moved along the ledge. Once I thought I heard a sound…was Reese coming? Horror filled me. I did not want to die…I wanted, desperately, to live!

Halfway. Another inch…the strain on my fingers was almost intolerable.

The crack up which I must go was before me, and that meant an even greater strain. Suddenly my fingers encountered a small rock and some dust. For an instant I held myself still. If my fingers slipped on that dust…I moved them and the rock fell past my face, dust falling against my cheeks.

The crack opened beside me and I got a boot into it. My body was wet with sweat, as much from fear as from exertion.

One hand moved, turned, and the fingers hooked against the rock. Then I shifted my weight, getting the other foot against the far side of the rock. I dared not hold still; there was no place to rest, or even to catch a breath.

Using the lie-back, my weight hanging against my fingers while I pushed against the rock with my feet, I began to climb. Slowly…up…up…up.

All at once I knew I was going to make it. I was going to reach that ledge.

I grasped at the edge of it, and it crumbled under my fingers. Reaching out, I tested a further place, and got hold of it, then pulling against the rock I hauled myself up and got a knee on the ledge. Slowly, with infinite care, my palms reached up along the wall…up, up higher. Using the strength of one leg, I pulled up the other, then slowly stood up.

For a long moment I rested there, trembling like an aspen.

Behind me was the gulf of the canyon, before me sheer wall. Turning my head carefully, I looked along the ledge. It went out of sight under a bulging overhang where I must kneel down to pass.

Just then somewhere back of me I heard a rock roll, as if under a boot. Breathing hoarsely, I carefully worked along the ledge, eased myself to one knee, and edged under the overhang.

Behind me a voice called. “Sheridan?”

It was Reese, and he had not seen me yet. Under the bulge, where there was shadow, I remained immovable.

“Sheridan!” he called again. “That coat doesn’t fool me. Not even a fly could go down that wall. I’ve stood at the base of it, and I know.”

There was a long moment of stillness. I wanted to move—I wanted to get around the slight curve in the rock. But I dared not move, for to move was almost surely to be seen.

“Sheridan?” The voice was a little less sure now. “Come on, Sheridan. I’ve come to get you out of there.” He was lying, for I could see the pistol in his hand, ready for a shot.

“It was all a mistake,” he went on. “The boss wants to make it up to you. Come on out and I’ll toss you a rope.”

An inch…if I moved just an inch…I crawled my fingers forward along the ledge, held still, then lifted my knee ever so slightly and pushed it forward a little.

All was quiet behind me. I dearly wanted to look, but dared not.

He was walking around now; soon his eyes would go along the cliff. I did not think he could make me out, in the shadow as I was…but he might.

I eased my fingers along, and leaning my weight on my palm I hunched forward a little. Almost instantly there was a shot. A bullet struck the rock above me and ricocheted off down the canyon. Reese shouted some incomprehensible words at me, and fired again.

But the moment had given me time to move. The corner wasn’t much, but I was around it, with a swell of the rock behind me.

But there was no time for elation. Glancing quickly around, I saw the ledge on which I stood ran only a few feet farther, but beyond it was a chimney, a cleft in the rock that appeared to be several feet deep, and from three feet wide opposite where I stood, to five or six feet wide at the bottom, a good hundred and fifty feet down.

Above, the chimney narrowed to slightly less than three feet, and led to the top of the mesa, where it widened out into a saucer-like depression. However, I dared not try to climb to the top, for Reese would be riding along there soon, and there would be no escape for me on the top. My only chance was to descend the chimney, get on down the slope, and try to find a horse or some other means of escape, or perhaps get to a telephone.

It did not take me long to reach the chimney. A risky step and a swing into the narrow space in the rock, my knees against one side, my back and hands against the other, using the opposition of forces to work my way down the narrow cleft.

I thought of Belle, who must be somewhere down there. Without a horse there was no chance of finding her in this rough country. Yet my mind would not dismiss the thought of her, worrying over what Colin Wells might do now that he felt assured of my imminent death; for it would be hours before he could learn that I had, at least for the time, escaped.

It was growing warm. The sky above was a pleasant blue, with a jet trail marking a streak of passage across it. High overhead, winging slowly above the desert, a buzzard hung in midair.

When I reached the last few feet I just let go and dropped, landing on the slope with bent knees, and moving forward even as I touched the ground.

My thoughts ran swiftly ahead. There was a walkie-talkie back in the jeep, but that was some miles away, and Reese would not be likely to call for help until he was sure he had lost me. Then he might get in touch with the other hands by some means, and they would be hunting me as soon as they learned about it.

What I needed now was a weapon, and I needed it desperately.

It was almost unbelievable that a great city lay not many miles away, for here all was wilderness, unchanged since the days when John and Clyde Toomey had first arrived.

And then, suddenly, I knew where I was going.

Chapter 7

I
WAS GOING to Lost River.

It could not be far from here, and the description of its location had been graphic enough. It must be a location similar to that of Fossil Springs, somewhat to the north, where a power station had been developed.

Lost River was literally that: a river in a small rocky basin that emerged from the ground, bursting forth in great volume, ran along for a short distance through a rocky channel, and then disappeared underground. The water, John Toomey had said, was clear and cold, and not mineralized to any extent. By the time I reached the place I would be in desperate need of a drink, unless I came upon water from some other source.

It was not likely that I would ever get this close to the place again, so I wanted now to verify what Toomey had said about it. If I could do that, and by some means gain entry to the old stone fort on the ranch, I would have my story.

But now it was no longer merely a story I wanted. At first I had been unwilling to believe what was happening to me, and then had been desperately occupied with making an escape; now I was getting thoroughly mad. Anger was stirring deep within me. There had been flashes of dislike, irritation, and fear, but the anger that came to me now was no sudden emotion that would pass off. It was a deep, abiding anger, with a desire to strike back hard.

Nothing in life had ever taught me to fight merely to win. This had to be more than victory.

I was, I told myself, an easygoing man. The old knockabout days were gone, the war a thing of the past. Violence had been put behind me. I was a civilized human being.

But now I had been set upon. I had been attacked and had been forced to run, and how I hated the thought! I had been forced to hide. I had been taunted and shot at. Above all—and this offended my ego—I had been taken lightly.

But now I had a deeper purpose. The mere story was no longer the important thing. Now I wanted to uncover what they were trying so desperately to hide, and to destroy them with it.

In the back of my mind, however, there was something else. There were two men named Toomey who had driven their cattle west, only to be, if my guess was right, murdered and robbed. Somehow in reading and re-reading those few pages of the journal, in delving into their former lives in Texas, I had found a real affection for those two strong, independent men who carried on in the best American tradition. Yes, I will admit it: Along with my anger, there was a definite desire to avenge them, to prove they had not failed.

Pausing now in the shadow of the rock, I studied the terrain below and before me. From now on, every step must be guarded, every movement cautious. If they were waiting for me down there, I must not let them find me, nor must I come upon some of them by sheer accident.

Carefully, then, I moved out. Holding to the shadow that remained, moving off down the slope on a wide angle, I used the frequent clumps of cedar, the scattered rocks, the desert brush for cover.

Down below me I saw that there was an ancient Indian trail along the bottom.

It was very still. Already heat gathered in the depths of the canyons. Warily, I moved along, seeing no tracks of horse or man. Once I saw those of a deer or a bighorn sheep, but in the soft sand there was no exact identification. Here and there, snagged among the boulders, there were tangled heaps of driftwood, and I watched for something I might use as a weapon that would be equally useful as a walking staff.

Sweat was beading my forehead and began to trickle down my neck. From time to time, I paused and listened. Now I was a hunted man, hunted by those who would undoubtedly kill me on sight, and without a gun I was helpless, or nearly so.

Again and again I found myself stopping, expecting some sound, expecting eyes to be looking at me from somewhere not far away. I knew that the desert mountains can do this to a man, even to a man not in my desperate situation, and often before when in no danger I had felt the same way.

Southwest of me rose the bulk of New River Mesa. Once, long ago, I had camped in a canyon under its cliffs. It was country I thought I would remember, and if I could get a good drink at Lost River, I might strike due south and climb the mesa. There had been an old outlaw hideout on the north side of the canyon.

Suddenly, without any warning, there was a rattle of hoofs, and I heard a man swear angrily.

Instantly I dropped behind some coarse brush and rocks. It was no proper hiding place, but there was nothing else. As I went down on one knee, my hand closed around a smooth, water-worn rock about as large as my fist.