Taggart (1959) (4 page)

There were thirty-odd rounds of .44 ammunition, and before this was over he migh
t
need it. Staggering a little as he straightened up, Swante Taggart glanced aroun
d
him.

How long since the others had gone by? He had come thre
e
miles ... nearly four, and they must have gone as far or farther. He gathered th
e
gelding's reins and started on once more, plodding along, his eyes staring into th
e
heat-blurred mystery into which he walked.

And then green leaves were brushing his face and with a grunt of longing he burs
t
through the brush into the bed of the Tonto.

It was dry.

Three times before, some years earlier, Swante Taggart had camped beside Tonto Cree
k
or watered his horse there, but now, when he needed it so much there was no wate
r
in it.

It was twenty miles to Turkey Spring, and through a mind fogged by exhaustion h
e
knew he was not going to make it. Nor was his horse.

The slight breeze from the south brought no reaction from the steeldust, and ha
d
there been water in a pool of the stream bed to the south, Swante knew the hors
e
would have smelled it. If water there was, anywhere near, it must lie to the north.

Turning, he plodded along the sandy bed, each step a special effort of will.

And then he fell again.

He did not stumble this time. He seemed to be wading in sand, and each step seeme
d
to take him deeper and deeper, until he fell face down in the sand.

For several minutes he lay prone until the nudging of the gelding stirred him t
o
action. Slowly, he got to his feet.

A faint sound came to him, and he turned his head like a man in sleep, strugglin
g
to place the sound. A cottonwood ... leaves rustling. The whispering leaves spok
e
of water. And then that sound again, a scratching and rustling. Carefully, he worke
d
his way into the brush on the stream's bank, but exhaustion had robbed him of guil
e
and he made the brush rustle. Instantly, the sound he had been moving toward stopped.

After a moment of silence it began once more. Pushing his way through the brush
,
he emerged a dozen feet from the base of a giant cottonwood. Nearby two porcupine
s
were digging for water.

The hole they had dug was only as large as a good-sized water bucket but the las
t
of the sand was damp.

He picked up a rock and shied it at them, but they stood their ground, quills bristling.

Swante Taggart moved toward them and reluctantly they backed off, giving ground slowly.

The gelding had followed him and it went to the hole, sniffing eagerly at the dam
p
sand, and scratching at it with one hoof.

Pulling the horse away, Swante knelt and began to scoop sand from the hole with bot
h
hands. The sand became damper, and he was down less than two feet. He dug on, workin
g
feverishly, and soon the hole began to fill with muddy water.

Swante sank back on his heels, and let the steeldust have the first of the water.

Then pushing the horse away, he dug the hole deeper, widened it out. The porcupine
s
had not left him. They waited on the edge of the brush making angry sounds at him
,
their need for water overcoming their fear of him.

He would make it then ... he would drink and the horse would drink and he would fil
l
the canteen. Then he would leave the water to the porcupines, and they deserved it.

He dipped his cupped hands into the water and gulped a mouthful which he held i
n
his mouth, letting the parched tissues soak it up ever so gradually, then allowin
g
a cool trickle to find its way down his raw throat.

The gelding whinnied pleadingly and he allowed the horse to drink again, althoug
h
there was scarcely more than a swallow or two in the bottom of the hole. He scoope
d
out more sand and the hole began to fill up. He managed another swallow, and a deliciou
s
coolness began to spread through him.

There was shade under the cottonwood, and concealment, so he stretched out on th
e
sand and lay still, relaxing little by little as exhaustion took over. From tim
e
to time the horse drank, then he began cropping on some brown grass nearby. Swant
e
lay still and listened to the sounds, and he heard the porcupines sucking at th
e
water.

Turning his head he saw them there, watching him warily, but drinking, too, not si
x
feet from where he lay.

When they were gone he cleaned out the pool and dug into his pack for what remaine
d
of his coffee. He built a small fire of dry sticks under the cottonwood and mad
e
the coffee. Desperately as he wanted food, he would not kill one of the porcupines
,
for they had brought him to water. Actually they had saved his life.

No desert man will camp near a water-hole, for water in the desert is too preciou
s
to others beside himself, and wild creatures will not approach a water-hole whe
n
a man is near. The porcupines had been a rare exception, their need perhaps as grea
t
as his own.

When he left the water-hole, it was only to move back a short distance, for he neede
d
time to recover from the effects of his long thirst. He spread his blanket and slept
,
too soundly for safety, but with the sleep of utter exhaustion.

He awakened before daylight and led the gelding to the hole, where they both dran
k
again, and when fresh water, now clear and cold, had collected again, he filled hi
s
canteen. The porcupines had been there during the night, for the marks of their tin
y
hands were all about.

The sun was just showing itself over the mountains when he finally left. The plac
e
where he had found water was in the mouth of a wash running into Tonto Creek fro
m
the Sierra Anchas; and emerging from the brush, he found a faint Indian trail tha
t
led back into the mountains, running alongside the wash. There were no signs of recen
t
travel.

It was not the trail he had been planning to take, but it was one even less likel
y
to be discovered. Without doubt it led to the top of the plateau.

Following this trail into a notch in the Sierra Anchas, he drew up in the shade o
f
a massive cliff, and turning in the saddle he glanced back along the way he had come.

Wind moved stealthily among the piiions on the mountain near him, breathing coo
l
and fragrant across his heat-baked cheeks, and behind him the land lay vast and empt
y
under the blazing sun. The Tonto Creek valley, the Mazatal Mountains riding beyon
d
it.

Nothing ...

The land lay vast, red-brown-pink. Sand-colored mountains splashed with the gree
n
of juniper. Here and there were shadows of clouds, and occasional shadows in th
e
lee of cliffs, but otherwise it was a red-brown-pink monotony.

Something ... there was something. Very distant, very faint, there was dust. A stirrin
g
of dust that was not a dustdevil, but someone, somebody coming.

So they were still behind him. They were still coming.

Chapter
Three.

The sky was faintly gray when Miriam Stark climbed the thread of trail to the to
p
of Rockinstraw Mountain, a singl
e
rose-tinted cloud above the horizon giving only a suggestion of the glory to com
e
with sunrise. Yet there was enough light to see the web of faint trails, each leadin
g
to some vantage point from which the country could be observed.

She loved this place, for even on the hottest day there was a faint stirring of wind
,
and always there was silence, an unbelievable silence that left the mind free t
o
wander without interruption.

Taking her station behind a juniper, Miriam began the methodical search of the terrain
,
using the system taught her by Adam. First a quick, sharp survey of the area closes
t
to the mountain, in case somebody had approached during the darker hours, and the
n
the eyes lifted to the farthest horizon and searched with infinite care every canyon
,
every possible route, every place where men might camp or hide.

She knew what to look for. Any movement, any chance in the pattern of shadows, an
y
flickering, any alteration of any kind at all in the familiar terrain. She had learne
d
to distinguish smoke from dust, and to tell after a brief glance whether dust wa
s
caused by a dust-devil, a flurry of wind, or the passage of mounted men ... or man.

This study of the terrain, this careful search for any traveler, this continual awarenes
s
was not a matter of diversion, but was a matter of life and death. They existed her
e
in a precarious situation, and a careless movement, a careless track, or a chanc
e
sighting by some Apache or drifting white man could mean the end of everything; i
t
could even mean death.

Twice each day one or the other of them came to this place and studied the countr
y
around. As there were only three of them, there was no way they could continuall
y
keep one person on lookout, and the study of the country at dawn and sunset represente
d
the closest alternative.

Rough as the country was, by now they knew it well. Due south and north were th
e
areas of greatest danger. There were canyons and arroyos and considerable cover
,
but long ago, when they first arrived, each of them had ridden these canyons, studie
d
them, and knew where the cover was to be found.

On the west the only danger lay in the openings between the mesas, for no one woul
d
come across the tops. On this side the descent was gradual, but on the far side the
y
fell steeply away to Pinal Creek.

This morning, after a brief survey, Miriam directed all her attention to the north.

Two creeks entered the Salt River from the north in this vicinity-Coon Creek an
d
Cherry Creek. Her view up the basin of each was nearly perfect, but only a tenderfoo
t
would chance coming along such a route.

Red arrows shot sunlight into the heavens, and the ridges to the east were crowne
d
with gold and rose. Crushing some cedar foliage in her hands, she sniffed their aromati
c
smell. Nowhere in all that vast expanse did anything move ... the air was astonishingl
y
clear, and from where she stood she could see miles upon miles.

When first she saw the speck she did not believe it was a man . . . yet intuitivel
y
she knew it must be. A moment before the speck had not been there, and then it was
,
and now ... it was gone!

Only for an instant had something been visible there, some moving thing upon th
e
bare slope of Black Mesa, just beyond Salt River. There had only been the one speck
,
so if it was a man it seemed almost certain that it was a white man.

Curious and puzzled, she directed her glass toward the area and inspected it wit
h
care, but it was beyond the practical range of the glass and she detected nothin
g
more. Yet something had been there, and now it was gone.

If it had been a man he had chosen a way never traveled, but one that would allo
w
him a good view of his back trail and the surrounding country. From below he woul
d
not be visible, and it was unlikely anybody would be above him, for due to the conformatio
n
of the mesa, going higher would be pure waste of time.