the Burning Hills (1956) (10 page)

"Aw, Ben!" Buck protested plaintively. "That ain't no --"

"Shut up!" Ben was exasperated. "Jake, you do something about where they might go. Meanwhile we'll get some sleep."

Lantz spat out his chewing. "Better set guards " he said, "them broncho Apaches might want to collect some horses."

Buck Bayless retired to his blankets vastly satisfied. What he wanted was less alkali and more beer. To hell with Jordan!

Before daybreak Trace Jordan crawled from his blankets into the pre-dawn chill. He slung his gun belts across his hips, then pulled on his boots. The fire had died to thin gray ashes, so he gathered a few dried leaves from under the trees and some dried-out branches of the curl-leaf, which makes no smoke.

Maria Cristina lay huddled in her blankets where he had last seen her, so he broke sticks quietly and fed them into the flames. He dipped water from the lake and placed the coffee pot on a stone by the fire to grow hot.

This place was well hidden. It was surrounded by a Jungle of cholla, sometimes called jumping cactus, one of the most vicious of all the desert's plants. There were cat-claw, organ pipe and a few barrel cacti.

Finding a way through the maze would not be easy. He had stumbled upon it himself and even that trail had been difficult to follow.

When breakfast was ready he went to her and bent over to awaken her, yet even as he stooped, her eyes opened suddenly, dark and beautiful, ringed with black lashes. Her expression was, at that moment, unreadable. He started to reach for her, then drew back. "Got some coffee ready," he said.

Their eyes held for a long moment and then she said, "All right. I come."

Birds whistled and talked in the brush and the morning air was fresh and cool. He could smell the faint scent of ironwood in bloom but doubted his senses, for the season was late. Yet many desert plants bloomed according to rainfall and with small regard for seasons.

Maria Cristina came to the fire and accepted coffee from him. Her face was somber, and she stood, feet apart, holding the cup in both hands. "It is quiet," she said suddenly. "Yes ... I like it here."

She drank her coffee, then ate. He gathered more firewood and then walked back up the trail to study the approaches by daylight. Only two or three places offered access to the water and all were in full view of their camp site.

From the top of the knoll he studied the surroundings. There was a nearby mesa that offered danger but few approaches through the cactus barrier. At the top of the knoll in a place he could work without being seen he assembled a few rocks into a low barrier.

There was grass for the horse and they had food for several days. They could wait

Maria Cristina had washed their few dishes and had hot water on when he returned. She was putting creosote leaves into the water and when they had steeped for some time she bathed her bruised face in the water.

All day long they rested, sleeping much of the time. Occasionally, from the top of the knoll, Jordan made a reconnaissance of the country around, always keeping himself under cover. He could see but a short distance and in that distance there was nothing alive but the birds, who seemed very busy among the cacti. Without doubt the Sutton-Bayless riders were somewhere around. By this time they should be closing in. The thought increased his restlessness but there would be nowhere that would offer them more than they had at present.

Maria Cristina bathed her bruised face several times and in the late afternoon went into the thicket to find herbs that could be eaten to fill out their slender supply of food.

At dusk Trace Jordan took his Winchester and worked his way to the top of the mesa where he sat for a long time, studying the country. From there he could see for miles in all directions, yet it was not until he started to get up to return that he caught sight of the distant spot of red.

Far beyond the limits of the cholla forest, it was without doubt a campfire. And it would be ten or twelve miles away. Catching the last of the fading light, he worked his way back down the mesa to the oasis.

"They're out there," he said.

"We stay?"

"If we don't move we won't make tracks."

They did not have to worry about their own fire. He knew the distance a blaze can be seen at night but their own camp was so deep in the canyon and so well surrounded by trees and brush that it could not be seen fifty yards off. Their best chance was to sit tight

She sat close by the fire, its light touching her somber face. Some of the swelling had gone and the bruises were changing color. Yet now she looked remote, lonely.

"What will you do?" he asked suddenly. "You cannot go back."

She shrugged.

"Stay with me."

She looked up, her eyes flashing, almost angry. "With you? For why? Why I go with you?"

"You're my woman, Maria Cristina."

"I am nobody's woman."

"You're my woman. Get used to the idea."

She glared at him, then said contemptuously, "For why am I your woman? Because I help you? I do it for a dog. All right ... I am in trouble. They hate me. I hate them too."

"I'm not going to let you go, Maria."

"You have nothing to say if I go or stay."

He got his bed roll and opened it out near the fire. He stretched out, leaning on one elbow. He fed small sticks into the fire and tried to find words to say what was in his mind.

She could never go back now and because of him. Because of him she was lost to her family and yet he knew it was no sense of obligation that made him feel as he did.

It had been a long time since he had talked to women and words did not come easily to him and yet he knew, desperately, that he must find words to reach this woman. He must make her realize that he loved her, that he really wanted her. He thought of many things to say but they found no shape on his lips. They all seemed empty and meaningless.

He was learning that to speak of love is not easy when the feeling is deep and strong.

She lifted her eyes suddenly and looked across the small fire at him. "You think because I come here with you that I am your woman? Well ... I am not."

"I need you, Maria,"

"You need me? You need a woman ... any woman. Then you ride-on. Maybe sometime again you need a woman, you find one again." She looked at him with a taunt in her eyes. "Anyway, I don't think you need a woman very often."

He ignored the comment and relaxed. "Trouble is," he mused, "I let you ride that horse. I should have made you walk ... all the way."

He sat up and began to roll a smoke. "And I should have made you carry the pack too."

She glared at him. He took a stick from the fire and lighted his cigarette. "A good woman needs to work," he said. "They're unhappy if they aren't working. Keep 'em busy, that's what I say."

"You!" she said witheringly. "What do you know?"

He drew deep on the cigarette. "I know you're my woman, Maria Cristina. Maybe I'll make you my woman tonight."

"Maybe you die." She looked at him, her eyes fierce and proud.

"Sure," he said, "my mistake was letting you ride. If you had followed behind with a pack on your back you'd be happy now. Next time we move, you walk."

"You think you strong!"

The moon had risen beyond the mesa and the cholla needles were like white flowers in the strange light, a beautiful white like a garden of flowers ... a garden of death. A bat dipped and darted through the air and out across the pool something splashed in the water.

He rolled up on his elbow again. "Always figured to get myself a ranch. Just a few cows and some horses. Mostly horses. Nothing real big, just a place that's mine. I want my own home.

"I always wanted a place with a view. One where I can see all the way into tomorrow ... a place with a long trail leading to it with my house at the end of the road. I want to see my own horses feeding in my own meadow. I want to see some youngsters growing up."

He smoked the cigarette down to a butt, then nursed the last few drags before tossing it into the flames. "Been a long time since I had a home. Take me awhile to get halter-broke again... but I could do it."

A coyote spoke the moon, his shrill cries mounting in crescendo, then dying away in echoes against the mesa wall.

"A man can't make it alone. Needs him a woman. These here city women, they look mighty nice but a man out here needs a woman who can walk beside him, not behind him."

Maria Cristina said nothing. Her eyes were a little softer, perhaps, her hands relaxed. Some of the tenseness seemed to have gone out of her.

"You an' me, we could make it. I'm a hand with horses and I know where there's some pretty good wild stock. Buy us a stallion maybe, good blood. Might get a Morgan.

"Man can do a lot worse than raise horses. This is horse country, an' down here they'll always have a need for horse stock. With a Morgan stallion a man could breed some fair stuff in a few years. First year or two might not be easy. Reckon I couldn't offer you much ... not right off. Nothin' much but work and a home."

"I have always work."

She did not look at him but she spoke. He glanced across the fire at her but she did not meet his eyes and then suddenly she got up and started away.

"A man should stick to what he knows," he said, to her departing back. "I know horses ... maybe not so much about women."

He made no move to follow her. She seemed to wish to be alone, to think, perhaps. Well, it was true of himself. He took his rifle and walked off toward the path, not knowing if she saw him or not.

The forest of cholla lay like a fluffy white cloud when he climbed the mesa, yet a cloud composed of thorns, invisible in the moonlight, but ready to rend and tear. The Indians and the Mexicans thought the bunches of needles would lean toward a hand that came close, would jump at bare flesh. He doubted it but there were times when it seemed to happen.

Atop the mesa he looked off into the vast mysterious distances of the desert.

He thought of the silent girl beside the pool. He had known few women and certainly none at all like Maria Cristina. Yet it seemed to him she was like some horses he had handled, shying from a hand that would caress, hungry to be petted, yet afraid to be trapped, to be caught, to be cheated.

He stared out across the desert. Wherever the fire was, it was gone now ... no ... it was there, winking from time to time across the distance.

Around that fire were belted men, tough men, dedicated to hunting him down. Between those men and himself there could be no peace. It was a bloody and desperate fight for survival, a fight that had driven him until soon he would have his back to the wall, where he must stand and fight.

It was a pity that Maria Cristina was involved, yet had she not chosen to involve herself he would be dead. He would have died on that mesa shelf, alone.

All the more reason he should protect her now, yet it would be useless to tell her to take the horse and go. She would merely look at him with that haughty contempt and remain right where she was.

So what to do? If they escaped from here, where could they go? Deeper into Mexico? He did not know the trails, although he knew this area of Sonora and much of Chihuahua. And he was sure she did not know the way. Every foot of travel to the south would be dangerous because of marauding Apaches.

To go back across the border at some point distant from the Sutton-Bayless stronghold?

Yet with one horse it would be a dangerous trip. Only luck and the strength of the red horse had brought them this far and neither could last.

After long thought he got up and went back down the trail to the water. Only the fire glowed ... there was no sound and no movement. His bed lay beside the fire where he had unrolled it but of Maria Cristina there was no sign.

He spoke her name into the silence ... nothing. He said her name again, louder this time and with rising fear.

No sound, nothing ...

He ran swiftly to her bed. It was there but she was not. He called her name loudly and only the echo replied. He ran to the water's edge. Something caught his eye ... a fragment of cloth on a branch of ironwood.

A good-sized fragment, as though she had deliberately hooked it over the branch to leave a clue.

There were two paths that way. He ran along the nearest, praying his choice was right. He ran to the crest of the hill and stopped. All was wide and white in the moonlight and nowhere, anywhere, was there a sign.

And then, faint and far off, quickly stifled, a cry.

Faint... lost, until he almost doubted his senses, but the cry of a woman, a cry for help.

Heedless of obstruction or ambush, he plunged down the traiL He darted around turns in the path until he had covered at least a hundred yards, then he slowed to listen.

No sound ... but there would not be. This was not a white man for no white man could have stolen a woman in such a way without noise. It had been an Apache ... or more likely, Apaches. Possibly the three they had met upon the trail, for they knew where Jordan and Maria Cristina were going.

And being Apaches, they knew every trick, every device, and they were men trained to desert war from childhood, men who would kill, and kill swiftly, for this was their way of life. Yet they had his woman ... Suddenly, somewhere off in the desert, he heard a sudden rush of horses, a pound of retreating hoofs.

He did not stop to swear or even to listen. Immediately he turned and ran back to the pool. Once there, he saddled the red horse and loaded his gear. It needed only a minute to roll her bed also and to fill the canteens. And then he was riding.

This much time he had taken, for upon an Apache trail there was no guessing how far a man would travel until he came up with them. Yet come up with them he would.

When he reached the place where the Indians had left their horses there was still a smell of dust in the air. The earth showed no tracks in the dim light and he dared not strike a match, yet he circled until he caught again the smell of dust and then started after them.

At any moment they might try an ambush, yet he had doubts of that for they were a small party, three or four at most. Twice, when well started, he got down to examine the ground. Here the earth was less torn and he could find the hoofprints. He pushed on until the moon was gone and the risk of losing the trail was too great.

Dismounting, he picketed the horse and settled down to wait. He rolled an endless chain of cigarettes and smoked until only half a sack of tobacco remained of his store. The last hour before dawn was endless, yet he waited and when the day became gray and the air was cold with morning he could see the tracks. Four horses, all unshod. One carried double.

Big Red was rested and eager. He lunged into the trail with that swift space-eating stride that was only his. And the miles fell behind with the trail's dust and the sun came up, hot and red. The desert turned to flame and sweat streaked the dust on Big Red's flanks and soaked Jordan's shirt. Twice he dismounted and walked, leading the horse to give him rest

The trail led on and he forgot in the heat of the day's red sun the men who might be following him and thought only of the men ahead and of the girl they had.

And the tracks grew fresher. He was gaining. The gain was slight but nevertheless he gained.

It was hot... no air stirred. He rode through a land that looked like Hell with the fires out, a land of great clinkers, burned out, destroyed ... a land of great serrated rocky spines, of tall spires and broken battlements, a land of deep canyons and washes where rain sometimes created streams, white now, and dead. Forests of yucca and armies of prickly pear, occasional elephant trees and clustered columns of the organ-pipe cactus.

It was a land unpeopled and still ... a gila monster moved upon a rock, a chaparral cock darted ahead of him. Yet the desert riders pushed on into the wasteland where the sun was a ball of fire in a sky of molten flame above a red and scarred land where the only sound was the muffled beat of his own horse's hoofs, the creak of his own saddle-leather.

Down there ahead of him, somewhere in the desert, must be a rancheria.

He did not stop for food. He ate from the sack and pushed on. The big red horse labored now but seemed to understand his rider's urgency. And he was stronger than the small grass-fed Apaches' ponies and he was gaining.

Once he glanced back. And felt his throat tighten when he did. Behind him was a plume of dust

They had wasted no time in picking up his trail once he began moving. And there was no time for playing hare to their hounds now, no time for subterfuge. Now he must ride, ride, ride!

Then, far ahead, he saw dust. A wisp of dust, soon vanished. He broke into the open and saw them ahead of him. Three horses, hard-running. Three...?

Only just in time, he swung his horse. The realization that only three riders rode ahead caused its instant reaction. He swung the horse and a bullet whipped by his skull, missing by inches only. And then he saw the Apache streaking for his horse. With one hand he swung his Winchester and fired a shot.

The bullet spat dust just ahead of the fleeing man and, slamming Big Bed with the spurs, Jordan went after him, working the lever on the Winchester as he rode.

The Apache despaired of reaching his horse and turning, fired. He shot too quick and missed and then the big red horse slammed into him, hitting him with a shoulder and knocking the Indian rolling.

Without slowing, Jordan went on, only taking time to start the Apache's pony running.

The Apaches ahead spread out, taking different directions. They must know of the men behind him or they would have stopped to fight; but now they ran. One man carried double and Jordan went after him. Yet as he rode, he wondered ... would they kill her when he reached them?

Suddenly Maria Cristina was fighting and then with the pony at a dead run she twisted free and flung herself from the saddle. She hit the sand, bounding like a sack of old clothes, then rolling over.

The Apache veered to pursue her and Jordan came between them. The Apache swung his rifle but Jordan parried the blow and struck up with the butt. He knocked the rifle from the Indian's hands and then they were off their horses and fighting furiously.

The Apache's hand closed over his knife hilt first as Jordan hit him with a long right. The blow knocked him down and Jordan sprang for him with both boots. The Indian rolled over and came up fast and they closed, struggling fiercely. Then Jordan broke a hand free and struck upward with his fist The blow knocked the Indian back and Jordan kicked him in the knee with his boot heel.

The Apache was blocky, powerfully muscled and tough. He went down but rolled over and palmed his knife for a throw ... and Trace Jordan shot him through the body.

The Apache fell, tried to get up, then sprawled out. He lay still then, a slim brown body in the hot white sun, and the dust of the fighting sifted over.

Trace Jordan mopped the sweat from his brow. Of the other Indians there was no sign. He turned slowly and walked toward Maria Cristina.

She was on her feet, facing him. Her face was dusty and her hair blew in the wind. It blew across her cheek. Her hands were bound together and her blouse was torn but she stood, feet apart, waiting for him.

He cut free her hands. For an instant they stood together, their eyes holding. He started to take her in his arms but she stepped back quickly, shrinking, her eyes wide like those of a frightened animal "No . . . No . . ."