the Burning Hills (1956) Read online

  They could risk no fire but there was grass for the horses and water they could suck from the grass of the seep. Trace Jordan unsaddled the horses and put them on picket ropes, then began making a small pool by pulling clumps of grass in the wettest part of the seep. Maria Gristina returned to the clearing with some green leaves with reddish stems. These she soaked in water and held against a cut on her arm.

  "Yerba mansa," Jordan said, looking at the leaves.

  She looked up, faintly amused. "Well! What d'you know! You know the herbs."

  "Some."

  "Maybe you do well on your ranch. Maybe you good for something after all."

  He chuckled. "You're hard to convince," he said. "I never saw a woman like you."

  "What woman? I think you never see a woman. I think all you know is horse. Horse and fight." She looked at him critically. "You fight pretty good."

  They divided the little jerky that was left and two somewhat battered sandy tortillas. They sat down together, watching the horses browse in the little circle of brush.

  "You slow," she said. "What keep you today! I think maybe those Apaches get away with me."

  There was the suspicion of a smile at the corners of her eyes and mouth. Deep within him something warm grew and mounted.

  What a woman! To have a smile left after this! But it was there ... a little grim but no longer sullen. She reacted to the danger, the hardship and the flight with a wry smile and a touch of humor.

  "Wasn't anxious to catch up," he said. "Soon's they found out what they had, they'd have got rid of you. Saved me some trouble."

  "Hah? You think I'm no good for something?"

  He looked at her, coolly estimating. "I think you're good for plenty," he said. "Sometime I'll show you some of the things you're good for."

  She laughed outright, her eyes sparkling, taunting. "You think so? Me, I don' think so. I don't think you ever make it!"

  Chapter Five

  A fire was out of the question. They had lost their pursuit for the time being but even in this secluded place it would be foolish to risk the slightest smoke. Nor had they any food remaining but coffee and little of that.

  Maria Cristina walked to the edge of the brush and watched the desert. The momentary lightness of her mood was gone. She was too wise in the ways of the country not to be completely aware of their situation. They had not won to freedom, only temporary delay. Ben Hindeman would discover at any time what they had done and once more would be on their trail

  Each hour of delay was a victory, yet each hour brought them closer to the final decision.

  Had Maria Cristina not been with him Trace Jordan would have stopped running. Tired as he was, weak as he still was from his wound, he was nevertheless on the mend. Not even the grueling ride across the desert could keep his strength from rebuilding. Such life had now been his for a good many years.

  If she had not been with him he would have turned back and begun to hunt the hunters. He would have been carrying the war to them, rather than running and hiding. Yet he must think of Maria Cristina first.

  They were fortunate in their hiding place. There was enough grass and water for the horses and there would be enough to fill their canteens when they left. Also, it was not at all a likely place for any searchers to look. From the outside desert it seemed to offer nothing.

  "Better get some sleep," he advised when she returned from the edge of the brush. "I'll keep watch."

  "You sleep ... I watch." She looked at him with level eyes, aloof, remote once more. "I call you."

  He was dead tired but he hesitated. Yet she was obviously wide awake and apparently in no mood for sleep. He walked to his bed roll and stretched out and almost at once his muscles let go and he sagged into sleep. The last thing he remembered was a little gust of wind stirring the leaves.

  A hand on his shoulder awakened him to pitch darkness. He sat up, realizing there were no stars. The night was wild with wind and heavily overcast. The brush whipped hard and the horses stood with their backs to the wind, obviously uneasy.

  "I see nothing. I rest now."

  "All right." He pulled on his boots, got up and stamped his feet into them. "Feels like a storm."'

  "Si ... I think so."

  Blown sand stung his cheek and he pulled his hat low to keep it on his head. Reaching for his gun belts, he slung them about his hips.

  She moved past him in the darkness and he put his arm out and pulled her to him. Swiftly she struck down his hand and started to move away but seized by a sudden hot gust of desire, he caught her and drew her into his arms.

  She fought desperately, wickedly. Her body was suddenly a bunch of steel wire. She drew back, struggling to free herself. He caught her face and twisted her lips roughly toward him.

  Distant lightning flashed and he saw her eyes were wide, her lips parted. He bent his head toward her and suddenly she caught the hair on the back of his head with both hands and crushed her mouth against his with fierce intensity. Her splendid body shaped itself against his and her lips parted ... then suddenly she tore at his hands and jerked free, slapping him wickedly across the face. She sprang back then, like a cornered cat, standing against the brush, half-crouched.

  "Don' touch me! Don' come near me! I kill you!"

  For an instant he felt like taking her back into his arms and keeping her there whether she liked it or not but he let his hands fall. What she had said was no wild statement. If he tried to force himself on her she would kill him if she could.

  "Have it your way." He picked up his rifle and started through the brush, then stopped and, grinning in spite of himself, he said, "But I'll always remember you liked it ... for a minute, anyway."

  "You are animal... I think I hate you."

  "You're animal too," he said, chuckling, "and I like it that way."

  "You think I am cheap woman."

  "I don't think anything of the land. I think you're a mighty fine woman but you're balky as a mustang."

  "You are a fool"

  The night was black and wild. Distant lightning weirdly lit the desert, turning into a pale moonscape this ash heap from the world's creation. Thunder rumbled and muttered in the far-off canyons, giant boulders seeming to tumble down vast corridors of stone. The wind skittered leaves along die ground and whipped the brush with savage gusts.

  Near the edge of the brush he sat down. There not even the lightning would reveal his presence.

  The wind was rising ... branches flew along the sand and tiny particles stung his face. The wind cuffed and slapped him, thrusting hard against his shoulder. If it became worse there would be no reason to remain longer for the horses were not resting and it was doubtful if Maria Cristina would sleep.

  It was raining in the mountains and soon the washes would be running bank-full, wild torrents of water rushing down from the barren slopes of the mountains to turn their dry beds into raging rivers for a few short hours. The canyons would be running twenty feet deep in roaring water soon ... A spatter of rain fell... then another. He went to his saddle for his slicker and from Maria Cristina's saddle he got her poncho and spread it over her.

  At the moment he spread it over her the lightning flashed.

  She was apparently sleeping soundly, her face in repose, lovely as a madonna. All the fierce anger, the sudden aloofness, all that was gone.

  He reached down and touched her hair. So black ... so very black. Like midnight caught in a web. For a moment he held a strand in his fingers, then replaced it gently and got to his feet He took up his rifle and started back to his place at the edge of the brush and he did not see her hand come up and touch the strand of hair he had caressed. Nor did he see her eyes, wide open in the darkness.

  There were scattered dashes of rain and gusts of wind. He watched the lightning-lit desert for an hour and then another. And then it was suddenly colder and in a lightning flash he saw a solid wall of rain advancing across the desert. Swiftly he came to his feet and turned toward the camp.

 
; Maria Cristina was up, rolling her bed. She glanced around at him, her words torn by the wind. "We go, yes?"

  "Better ... horses might stampede. Anyway, we can't rest and they won't."

  He saddled up in a driving, pelting rain. Both got onto their horses and started north. Rain hammered their backs in savage gusts and the horses moved out fast, glad to be moving ahead of the storm and away from the whipping brush.

  All night they drifted before the storm. Twice they crossed deep washes only minutes before rolling walls of water swept down and once lightning struck so near they smelled the sharp odor of sulphur in the air and their scalps prickled with electricity.

  Suddenly, ahead of them, they heard a vast roar. Then they saw a canyon running with a tremendous rush of water. There was no question of getting through. No question at all. That water might be ten feet deep or forty feet and no horse living could swim in that mighty torrent

  Lightning flashed and Trace Jordan caught Maria Cristina's shoulder, gesturing toward some rocks. They rode toward it and found an overhang with its back to the storm.

  Once under the rock they were out of the rain and away from the wind. He swung down and lifted her from the horse. Then he led the two horses deeper into the cavernlike overhang and tied them to a limb of cedar that stretched into the gloom.

  Rain swept by the opening and the wind was cold. He glanced at Maria Cristina and she was shivering. Her legs from the knees down were wet.

  Heedless of risk, he gathered dry sticks and built a fire. The horses were restless and frightened by the storm but a fire would calm them. Most horses accustomed to campfires enjoy their presence and all night long will feed closer and then away from the fire, liking its friendliness and assurance of companionship.

  There was a pack rat's nest that offered a liberal supply of dry wood and by now it was close to dawn. There would be no light this morning until late for the sky was heavily overcast still and there was no evidence of a break.

  How far they had come he had no idea but the storm would have wiped out their trail completely. There was a very good chance they were free at last. Not even Lantz could find tracks where there were none.

  With daylight he should recognize this country. Now they were again in an area with which he was familiar. North of them, not too far away now, was the San Bernardino Ranch and he had visited the place, had covered all that country north to Tucson and even to Prescott and Congress.

  Shivering, they huddled near the fire. The big red horse stamped and there was a momentary lull in the storm.

  "Tomorrow we will be safe. I know the man on this ranch. He is a hard man but a good man."

  "I hope."

  "He is ... his name is Slaughter."

  "He has kill men."

  "Yes ... when they needed it" He added fuel to the fire. "So have I."

  "Before this?"

  "Yes."

  "How many?"

  "Four ... five, maybe."

  They waited out a blast of wind. Some rain whipped into the overhang and the fire hissed and spluttered.

  "You never tell me: Why you kill Bob Sutton?"

  Taking his time, he explained about Johnny Hendrix and the horses. He told her of working through stampede and storm, through the dust of long cat-tie drives and the smell of burning hair around branding fires. And then of their months of effort to catch, brand and tame the horses, of this struggle to become something more than mere cowhands, to begin a business of their own. Then he told of his return from Durango and of finding the body of his friend.

  "Jack Sutton," she said, "that was like him. And Mort Bayless, I think. He is another."

  Trace Jordan went to the pack rat's nest for fuel. He dropped an armful near the fire and then walked around the fire to sit down. But he stopped there, looking out into the morning.

  Without their being aware of it the sky had grown lighter. Outside the overhang the brush and trees bent stark and black before driving sheets of rain. Water stood on the desert in scattered pools that reflected the vague light, pools like mirrors of steel under the lowering sky, gray and black with rain-weighted clouds.

  All this Jordan saw. All that and something more. He saw also five rain-wet horses and five mounted men and all those men had rifles and all of them were looking at him.

  So ... this far they had come and this close -- and all for nothing at all.

  He stood very still, yet his mind reached swiftly forward. As at all such times the minute seems to stand still in which each detail is impressed upon the mind.

  He recognized the blocky man with the hard square face who would be Ben Hindeman. The narrow features of old Jacob Lantz and there were others whom he had never known and probably would never know. He saw their horses and three of those horses had belonged to him.

  He saw them and he saw their guns and knew the chase was over. He knew that his raincoat was open, that his guns were at his thighs, that he could kill one, two or even three men before they got him.

  It could be done. It had been done. Mysterious Dave Mathers had killed five men in a gun battle in Dodge; Commodore Perry Owen had shot down four in Holbrook.

  But Maria Cristina sat by the fire close to him and she might be hit or she would be left to the vengeance of those who did not fall.

  "Howdy, boys," he spoke casually. "Kind of wet out there, ain't it?"

  At his voice, Maria Cristina looked up. Her face stiffened with shock and she got to her knees.

  The heavy man in the slicker studied Jordan through the rain. It was no wonder, Hindeman thought, that it had taken so long. Lantz was right, this man was a curly wolf ... with his back to the wall.

  Jacob Lantz sat a little apart. He sat his saddle, looking at Jordan.

  "You killed Old Bob?" Hindeman made a statement, rather than asked a question.

  "He went for his gun."

  "But you killed him ... why?"

  "You know why. He was riding a stolen horse. Stolen from me." He nodded his head to indicate their own horses. "That steeldust is mine, so's the sorrel. And that dun answers to the name of Pet."

  He looked at the horse. "Pet!" he spoke sharply. The dun's head came up, ears pricked.

  The riders sat silent. Hindeman was unmoved but Joe Sutton had a guilty feeling. No question about it, these horses had been stolen and from this man. The feeling touched them all and made them uneasy, less sure of their ground.

  "Makes no difference now," Hindeman said. "We're goin' to hang you."

  "Don't say we ... there's three, maybe four of you aren't goin' to hang me. Maybe none of you will. Wait until the shootin's over... plenty of time to talk about hangin'"

  Ben Hindeman studied the man and Ben was no fool. They were five to one ... unless the girl declared herself in and it was likely she would. She had been quick enough to take a shot at Jack, that day.

  Five to one. They had their rifle muzzles down, for the discovery of the hiding place had been sheer accident. They had only to lift their rifles but this man had only to draw; and Ben Hindeman knew any man who could beat Old Bob on an even break and who could outguess Jack Sutton would be fast and sure.

  No question about it, somebody was going to die if shooting started.

  "You throw down your guns," he said, "then the girl won't get hurt."

  " No!"

  Maria Cristma's voice laid across the morning like a whip. "Do not do it! They will only kill you! If you put down the guns, I will shoot!"

  Ben Hindeman sat stolidly on his horse in the hard falling rain. For the first time in his life he was utterly at a stalemate.

  Maria Cristina would shoot and she had a rifle. They might kill her but Ben Hindeman could not see a woman killed. Not like this.

  He looked from the woman to the man, this lean fierce unbeatable man, his face haggard and unshaved, his back to the wall... but ready.

  And this woman who stood now, her feet apart, her body poised to move, her eyes wide and beautiful but dangerous.

  He knew
with a kind of sickness that men would die here and a woman. And that never again would he ever look any man in the face without shame if she were killed. He looked at Jordan and for a long minute their eyes held and Hindeman knew with a sense of failure that there was no way out.

  Nor did he have any false heroics about him. He was under no necessity to prove his courage and dying here today would prove nothing.

  This was not the way he had planned it. To ride a man down, to trap him, to kill him in a blaze of gunfire. That was another thing.

  But here was a showdown and Ben Hindeman was a man who knew how to retreat.

  "Mind if we come in out of the rain?" he asked mildly.

  There was no other word spoken for a long minute and in that minute Jacob Lantz started to walk his horse. He started slow but he was walking away. Whatever he had seen, the others had not.

  He was getting out of the line of fire. And he had promised he would do just that. "No, by God!"

  Across the stillness of the morning Mort Bayless' voice lashed like a bull whip. And as he spoke, he grabbed for his gun.

  Of them all, he alone did not have a rifle in his hand and it was he who chose to open the ball. He recognized, in Ben Hindeman's quiet question, a yielding and his hand struck down for the gun.

  Trace Jordan saw it all, saw it clearly and sharply. The black figures of the men etched against the slate-gray sky of morning, the driving rain, the horses darkened by rain, the ground steel-gray and glistening. He caught the essence of the moment in that instant, that nickering fragment of time when Mort Bayless' drive to kill pushed them over the brink they sought to avoid.

  Mort grabbed wildly. His hand caught his gun butt and the edge of his slicker. In any event, he would not have made it in time. A bullet smashed him through the body and as he slid from the saddle and his horse sprang from under him, a second bullet drilled a neat blue hole in his skull.

  And then for a brief moment the lightning of the guns replaced the lightning of the storm and the stillness following the thunder was filled by the hard sharp reports of the guns.