The Overlanders (8 page)

Here where they’d nooned, the walls of the canyon, perhaps a hundred yards apart, ran straight for an approximate quarter of a mile. At this point, dropping, they swung north in a series of twisting convolutions, then went angling south in a kind of battered crescent as they converged on the saddle, or low notch, the girl had mentioned. There, in Grete’s recollection, they fell away entirely to form the table-flat bench which could be seen from here. The abrasive haze his eyes were focused on hung directly over the very gut of the passage where the pinched-in walls stood scarcely twenty feet apart. Grete, reviewing these facts, sat motionless. The crew was mounted, the mares were bunched, a sullen quiet came out of the way these scowling men sat waiting for orders.

Still Farraday watched the yellow creep of that dust drift nearer. It was barely a mile away, say a mile and a half if you were counting the bends. Bill’s understrappers, if Grete had the right of this, were using those broncs to mask their approach. Gauging pace by the dust, he decided they’d be burning powder within the next hour. Very possibly sooner.

Like a general Grete’s look went over the ground. A poor spot for defense and, without memory lied, nothing better to be found this side of the gut. Little cover, no shelter, no good chance for an ambush. But they didn’t have to sit and wait for Bill’s wolves…

“Come on,” he said, throwing up an arm; but Ben kicked his grulla out in front of Grete, stopping him. “Man, you sure ain’t figurin’ to go meet that bunch —”

“Why not?”

The girl’s chunky brother-in-law looked at him aghast. “God’s galluses, Farraday! If that’s Curly Bill’s bunch you might’s well shoot us down like dogs!”

“You got a better suggestion?”

“I say, by God, let’s get outa here —”

“Afoot? You can’t take a horse out of this canyon short of that saddle —”

“We can go back the way we come —”

“Go ahead if you’ve got the stomach for it. One of that pair at the ranch pulled out last night. If he’s done what I figure, you’ll find yourself faced with some more of Bill’s wolves. Way I see it they’re closing in from both ends.” Grete’s look swept the rest of them. “You can die like a rat in their trap or you can fight. I’m electing to fight,” he said, and picked up his reins.

There was a kind of bleak quiet while all hands stared at Idaho. You couldn’t tell what went on behind those raw-red cheeks still scuffed and scabbed with the marks of Grete’s fists and the bucket Grete had broken against the man’s bony head. The gunfighter’s shrewd, part-closed eyes touched Sary, then moved unreadably at Grete. “You’re the boss. Give your orders.”

Grete didn’t know if he was relieved or more worried, but this was no time to be unraveling riddles. “They know we’re in front of them but maybe not how far. We’re in no position to try any traps but we can, if we go at this right, throw those damn broncs right back in their laps. With this drive coming down on them hellity-larrup they’re going to have to drag cotton and dig for the tules. Short of that saddle, they’ll have no chance to pull up and make a fight of it — not if we hit them right. If we push these mares hard enough we ought to be onto them before they can get set.”

Idaho, studying that, finally nodded. “They won’t see our dust. But it’s like to be hell with the clapper off when this drive smashes into them wild ones.”

“We’re going to have to chance that. We’ll lose stock, but if we bring them up slow Bill’s boys will empty some saddles. There’ll be enough powder burnt when we come onto that bench. Shoot all you want, keep the mares bunched if you can, but once you’re in the open don’t stop,” he said grimly, “or you won’t ever leave there.”

He slanched a last look around, raised an arm, and the crew, shaking ropes out, got the mares on the go. Dust boiled up in a pounding of hoof sound. The mares broke into a run, gathering speed. They rocked into the first twirl of the wriggles and twists. They were slowed by the turns, whooped ahead by the yelling. Right and left they weaved, scraping rock, crowding, jostling, shrilly squealing, swapping leads in perfect unison and, heckled by the shouts and ropes, filling the passage like a wall of water.

Sweat dripped off the men, darkened and lathered the coats of the horses. Racket came off the walls like bedlam, echo piling on echo until the stock went crazy with it. The eyes of the mares wildly rolled in their sockets as they broke out of the twists and poured into the narrowing hoop of the crescent.

Neither side knew where the other was now. They met head-on in full career, shock reaching back into the drag of both outfits. Screams and terror jammed the passage. The batter of sound was constant. Dust boiled up until the way was choked with it. Thick as a pea-soup fog it billowed, strangling, blinding, wave on wave, pulsating, oscillating, eddying and whirling until a man could hardly find the horse between his legs.

But the drive, Grete realized, had never quite stopped. It had staggered and slowed, but the weight of momentum, of close-packed numbers, was pushing it irresistibly on through the dust and the high thin screams of mangled flesh. Now the crew was firing over the heads of the drag, stampeding the pack animals into the crush. The pace picked up — Grete could see the packs jouncing. The whole drive began to run. Sun came through in shining tatters and lances until presently, vaguely, like something glimpsed through sanded glass, Grete could see the far shapes of frantic horsemen quirting.

The crew saw them, too, at once unlimbering their rifles. This firing and yelling, the steady pressure of sound driven back and forth and redoubled by echo, drove the mares into headlong flight. Up front Curly Bill’s desperate men were flogging their mounts in a panic. Grete saw two go down, one horse briefly rising like a stick thrown out of a log jam. A yell sheared thinly through the uproar and was gone.

Now he saw the bench opening out in front of them, saw the outlaws madly spurring to quit the bench at either side. One fellow, arms and legs pitched out grotesquely, bounced off his horse backwards, mouth stretched wide in an unheard yell. Another man, with a blue coat flapping round him, clutched his chest, all control of his mount abandoned. Bill’s men were too busy trying to save themselves from being run down to have any time or thought for their weapons. Grete saw Ike Clanton’s chalk-white face and the whiskered mat of Jim Hughes’ cheeks behind a fist-shaken carbine. Then they were past, rifles popping back of them, the mares stringing out in a dash across the open, the crew spurring up on either flank, trying to close them up into threes or fours so that when they reached the bench’s far end they could funnel them into the black slot of the canyon. Grete could see the gash with its red-yellow walls where the trail found passage through these tumbled hills.

Up ahead of him a pack horse went down as though axed, spilling its load and flipping all the way over, one frantic hoof catching the rump of Grete’s horse, almost knocking him into Sary’s gray which shied violently, nearly unseating her. Ben’s horse was hit and losing ground steadily; Grete saw the Mexican drop back, kicking a foot from the stirrup, and then something pulled his glance again to Sary. The gray was stumbling; there was blood on its hip. Farraday kneed his horse closer. Now they were neck and neck. The gray’s eyes were wild. Grete threw an arm out, shouting at the girl, but she shook her head at him, keeping the horse on its feet with the reins. Grete, swearing, furious, crowded his own mount against them. “Kick your feet free!”

Not even her strength on the reins was going to keep that gray going many more strides. Its head was coming down; Grete knew it was running blind. “Kick loose!” he shouted, and caught the girl about the waist.

He wasn’t a moment too soon. As her knee cleared the cantle the gray’s legs went out from under it. Grete’s look, darting ahead of them, found the mares pouring into the slot. He had never seen a more welcome sight than those canyon walls as they opened in front of him.

He let the girl slide down as soon as they got into the dropped rocks from the cliff. Yanking his rifle, he got out of the saddle and, tossing her the reins, ran back through the dust to have a look at what was happening.

“Reckon they’ve had a bellyful,” Idaho said, coming beside him.

Only three of the outlaws were still in sight. Jim Hughes, Ike Clanton and the badge-packing towhead. They sat their jaded horses back where the drive had first come onto the bench and there was nothing about their appearance to indicate an intention of carrying this further.

“Nevertheless,” Grete said, “we’ll be keeping our eyes peeled. There’s still barren country between us and Willcox.”

Against Ben’s grumbling and Sary’s vigorous protests they by-passed Bowie, giving it plenty of elbow-room. Grete was taking no needless chances of being further delayed this side of safety. He was on his dun with a rope around its jaws in lieu of the bridle he’d loaned the girl along with his saddle; Ben was forking Frijoles’ hull. With a rifle in his arms Grete ranged far and wide, keeping constant watch. But they saw no more of the marauders. Either Bill hadn’t come up with his main bunch or had decided any additional attempt against the drive was no longer feasible. If the latter were the case, Grete thought their present whereabouts might have considerable to do with it. For they were in country now where in the past Bill had preferred to exhibit his good behavior.

The drive pulled into Willcox on the following night and a more whipped-out bunch of hooligans a fellow never looked at. Dust-streaked and brush-scarred, unshaven, bleary-eyed, and generally acting like hell wouldn’t have them, they set up a camp out from the east edge of town where broad grassy flats made keeping track of the stock relatively simple.

“First thing I want,” Sary said, “is a bath.”

Grete could understand that; the same thought was in his own head. He stood a moment rasping grimy beard-stubbled cheeks, hard eyes picking over the rest of the outfit. “We’ve got to rest up these mares. I’ll take you in. You can put up at the hotel.”

She gave him an unreadable look. “I can find it.”

“You’re not about to go in by yourself.”

“I’ll take her in,” Ben said, reaching his coat down. “I’ve —”

“You’re staying here. And that goes for the rest of you.” Grete looked around. He got some pretty hard stares. No one talked back but he could read reservations in the cant of their jaws. “Our friend Bill ain’t the only thief in this country. This stock’s going to be watched. You’ll do no hobnobbing with strangers.”

“A man’s spare time,” cook said, scowling, “is his own.”

“When you’ve got some spare time I’ll see that you know about it.”

There was no further talk. Grete took Sary into town and saw that she got a decent room at the hotel. The clerk was inclined to be garrulous but a second look at Grete made him hobble his tongue. Outside her door Grete said, “I’ll leave your horse at the livery. If you want it, send for it; don’t go out on the street by yourself without you’re mounted.”

He saw her chin lift. “I’m used to taking care of myself —”

“Mind what I’m telling you,” he said curtly, and left her.

On the street he debated dropping in on the marshal but decided against it. Folks would know he was back soon enough without him helping it. He got into the saddle and walked his horse back to camp.

The mares, he thought, looking them over, seemed quiet enough. He swung down by the fire, more used up than he knew, wishing now he’d stopped off at a barber’s. A hot soak in a tub would have taken some of this out of him.

He hauled the gear off his horse and turned it loose with a slap, stood listening a while to the snores of the crew. He moved around, counting shapes. All here but one.

Remotely angry, he looked again. One of the shapes, twisting over, came onto an elbow. It was the kid. “I left your roll over there with Patch’s stuff.”

“Where’s Rip?”

Olds replied too quick. “Said somethin’ about keeping an eye on the stock.”

Farraday could guess what kind of stock that was. He thought,
To hell with it!
He went over and opened his bed, kicked off his boots and got into it; as an afterthought he pulled off his hat. He lay there a moment more dead than alive. Swearing under his breath he reached down and unbuckled his gun belt and, arching his back, dragged its lumpiness from under him. His wind came out in a long sort of sigh. Still he didn’t feel right. He pushed an arm out and brought the hat over his face and went to sleep with a fist curled around the bone grips of his pistol.

• • •

In spite of the log-like quality of his slumber he awoke at the first sound of stirring. He sat up in his blankets to find day at hand, the black crags of the Peloncillos brightly edged with silver where they touched the horizon. Cook was hawking and spitting like a man well into the last lap of consumption. The kid, Barney Olds, was breaking dead wood Patch had salvaged from their trek through the canyon, and the gunfighter, with a handbuilt limply plastered to his lip, was staring unreadably through the curl of its smoke from a perch on the folded-up bulk of his tarp.

Olds got a fire going while cook stirred up batter.

Frijoles in the middle of a snore suddenly sneezed and presently, flinging back his blankets, stomped into his boots and lit out for some buckbrush, the only thicket in sight. Farraday glanced toward the horses, discovering Rip riding circle.

The sun hooked its chin above the peaks and poured a burst of pure light across the valley’s empty acres, gilding the distant roofs of town, striking bright dazzles from east-facing windows. Beyond the gunfighter Hollis threw covers off his head. He scrubbed his eyes and blinked around and swore and crawled out and got into his pants. He scowled when his stare piled up against Grete. “We’re out four mares and a nag from the work teams.” By his tone he made it seem these facts were entirely Farraday’s fault.

Grete ignored him but the kid, straightening up, was plainly minded to speak out. He had his mouth half-open but after a quick look around he caught up a rope and went off toward the horses.

Coffee smell began to lace through the camp. Over the fire salt pork commenced to crackle and Patch, hunching over it, began cutting up spuds into half a Dutch oven. Idaho, grinding out his smoke, looked up as Grete pulled on his boots. “You got somethin’ in mind for this mornin’?”

Observing the way the man brightly watched from behind half-shut lids — listening more to the voice than to what it was saying — Farraday came fully around, tugged and swayed by his own quicker breathing. A wildness drifted across the feel of these things and Idaho pushed a thin grin over his teeth, all the cocked joints of his body crouched and tightened. Yet, in some obscure way, he seemed not entirely ready — not, at least, quite willing to bring the gun up into his hand.

It wasn’t fear. There was no fear in him. And no forgiveness.

Farraday’s glance cut over those others. “Cook’s going into town to stock up. He’ll be glad to fetch back anything you boys want.” He said after a moment, “Barring whisky and women,” and let the stillness pile up for a laugh that never came. “Both today and tomorrow we’re going to be right here.” Some of their ill temper got into his own face. “It might be that last night I didn’t make myself plain. Nobody leaves this camp without my permission.”

Rip rode up and dropped out of the saddle. The kid came in with Grete’s dun and two others caught up from the carry. Patch said, “Come an’ git it.”

They filled their plates in a sullen quiet, squatting where the notion struck them, each with his cup of steaming java. There was no talk, no feeling of comradeship a man could look back on, nothing holding them together but avarice and hate. There was no real difference between these men and that bunch they’d come through back there in the hills. They were cut from the same cloth, moved by similar appetites. Ordinary give and take, common decencies, didn’t touch them. They were held together by their greed for Sary’s horses, and all that stood in the way of this was their fear of Grete and Idaho.

Grete saw this clearly. The silence was thick with it. And he saw with a pitiless clarity how alike he and the gunfighter actually were. It was not a palatable comparison or one he was able any longer to avoid.
Gunslick!

He might hide from the aptness of the term in his own mind but deep down inside he understood King Crotton as he never had before. This was how Crotton must have seen him; here, stripped of pretense, had been the basis of their relationship. Never the friend he had imagined himself to be. Just another hired gun. Treated well, to be sure — like a fine suit of clothes or a horse hard to come by. He understood now why Stroat, methodical, unimaginative, had been passed over for himself.

Stroat had the job now — the man would be a real broom with it.

Grete bolted the last tasteless mouthful of food, choking it down, getting up just as Rip did. Rip’s eyes slid around, springing wide as Grete stepped up to him. Grete’s hard glance found the sag in Rip’s coat; his hand, stabbing out, came away with the bottle. “Lock this up,” he said, tossing it to Patch.

Cook, lips locked tight, kept his hands where they were, flinching aside just enough to avoid being hit. Rip’s bottle, striking the Dutch oven, shattered. Rip’s bugged-out eyes watched the precious liquid run across the sooty metal and become an inch of darkness in the dust of the trampled ground. The sound he made was like the scream of a hamstrung pony. He got a knife from somewhere and with the face of a wild man sprang for Grete.

Rage gave him twice the strength his frame warranted. That first swing almost skewered Grete. Too late he realized he could not watch all of them, that here was what they had likely been waiting for — a chance to gang up on him. It was in their faces, in those widesprung eyes, in the cat-quick way they all came onto their feet. He had to watch Rip. The man was rushing in again, face twisted, the shine of his eyes throwing out a turned-loose fury that had no light of reason in it.

A dozen futile thoughts whirled through Grete’s head. The glint of that blade was wicked as a snake’s tongue. There was gooseflesh at the back of Grete’s neck and a cold sick horror at the pit of his belly. Naked steel had this power.

He knew Rip meant to gut him.

He could go for his gun — the impulse was in him, but if he set hand to pistol other guns would lift. It was not fright of a shoot-out which stopped him but the certain knowledge of what a corpse-and-cartridge occasion would do to the plans he hugged for besting Crotton. Every man of this crew would be needed at Swallowfork.

Ducking, stumbling, forced around in a circle by the darting lunges of that glittering steel, Grete no longer knew where any of them were except the kid, Barney Olds, whom he could glimpse now and again against the blur of light and shadow that made a backdrop for the savage slashes of Rip’s blade. The rest, he guessed, must be someplace back of him. His only defense was constant motion, to be continually moving until he could manage to get inside Rip’s reach.

Olds appeared again behind Rip, plainer now, evidently nearer, his white cheeks stiff with tension. The boy, nerved up to something, was working closer. Now Rip, stertorously breathing, abruptly shifted and commenced to back off. The kid suddenly stuck a leg out, intending to trip Rip. But Rip, again making one of those lightning shifts, lunged forward as though to pass Grete, spinning in mid-career to drive straight in, forcing Grete around. Grete, jumping frantically back, tripped over a loose rock and went down, heavily jarred, all the breath spilling out of him. Stretched like that he scarcely heard Idaho’s shouted “Stand fast!” that stopped all the rest of them dead in their tracks. Grete was conscious in that moment of nothing but Rip’s eyes and the glass-bright shimmer of the knife in Rip’s fist.