Down the Long Hills (1968) Page 14

  Cal eared back the hammer on the pistol, and the click was loud in the silence.

  HARDY WAS SURE that Cal meant to do just what he said, but there was no panic in him now. The hunger and the cold, the constant fear, the nights of worry and the days of struggle had given him something strong, even when they had been making him grow tired and weak. He was thinking now, and he knew that Cal would have to shift position to get a shot at them … or wait until the Indians had gone, if they ever did go.

  “Mister”-Hardy’s voice was low, but it carried far enough-“you stick your head out to get a shot at me, and one of those Indians will sure enough kill you.”

  “Boy,” came Cal’s wheedling tone, “you toll that horse over here. On him we can all git away … scotfree!”

  Now that was a sure enough lie. If the horse came close, one man might jump on him and ride off… he just might… but the odds were against it. But three people? And the time they would take mounting up? There would be no chance of it, and Cal knew it. Cal wanted Big Red for himself, and if he did throw himself into the saddle and get away alive he would have Big Red to keep-and Cal was a mean, cruel man.

  “No.”

  “Boy”-Cal’s voice was trembling with fury-“I’m tellin’ you! I’ll kill-was Two guns fired almost as one. In twisting about, Cal’s boot had thrust beyond the rock, and the two bullets spat sand, one of them doing no more than that, the other ripping the heel from his boot.

  Cal jerked his foot back, and swore with deep and awful fury. Turning, he fired with his rifle into the brush where the shots had come from, then swiftly reloaded.

  Hardy was almost afraid to look for Big Red; how long would it be before the Indians discovered him?

  “Betty Sue, you be ready now,” he said. “We may have to run real fast… all of a sudden.”

  “All right.”

  At the end of the overhang just beyond where Hardy and Betty Sue were hidden behind the rocks, the space between the roof and the rock floor was only about four feet. Elsewhere along the front of the cliff the roof was six or seven feet above the floor. The rocks that now formed the pile had once been a wall enclosing this recess, which might have been a storage place for grain, or perhaps merely a sleeping shelter.

  Peering out under the overhang toward the woods where Big Red stood, Hardy looked fearfully at the open stretch that separated them from the trees. It was possible they might get into the trees without being seen, but the chance was slight. Clinging to Betty Sue’s hand, he edged that way, keeping well down behind the rocks.

  Another shot came from the Indians. Apparently they were undecided about attacking. To attack meant a warrior would die, and no Indian wanted to face certain death. To do a daring deed that he could sing about in the winter lodges was one thing; but this was something different.

  Ashawakie knew they could kill this man-it was only a matter of time. He advised patience, so they waited.

  But Ashawakie was restless, for it irritated him that the big red horse was not here, as he had believed he would be. They had captured two horses and they had taken a scalp. They had a rifle, a pistol, some clothes, and a blanket, along with a few odds and ends. Their foray was not unsuccessful thus far, but to Ashawakie it would be a failure if he did not get the great red stallion.

  ALSO SPOKE AGAIN. “Boy, you got one more chance. I tell you, no matter what happens, you call that horse or I’ll shoot the both of you!”

  Hardy did not reply. He had just seen an Indian corning down from the brush on the far side, creeping closer and closer. If that Indian was seen by Cal, Cal would shoot, and they would all be looking….

  The Indian was well around on the right side of Cal, and close enough to make the try. He sprang up and, knife in hand, he charged.

  Instantly Cal wheeled and fired, and as he did so Hardy grabbed Betty Sue’s wrist and they darted out from under the end of the overhang and ran for the woods.

  Cal’s rifle shot caught the Indian full in the chest, at almost point-blank range, and the sound of the blast was still in the air when Cal wheeled, pistol in hand, and fired into the woods. And then he saw the children.

  With a hoarse shout, he swung all the way around to fire, but at that instant there was a burst of firing from the woods. Cal held his fire, for the shooting was not directed at him.

  An Indian burst from the woods, lying low across his pony, plunged across the open space, and was gone before Cal could do more than snap a quick shot that missed.

  From other parts of the woods dashed several others; one shot at him, the others fired behind them at some unseen enemy.

  In an instant they were gone. The crash of gunfire ended, the Indians had fled. In the stillness there was the acrid smell of gun powder. “Red!”

  Cal turned sharply as the boy called. The stallion burst from the brush, whinnied softly, and came quickly up to the boy, who stood waiting, holding the girl by the hand.

  The ugly fury, throttled by his inability to move while the Indians kept him under fire, burst now in a sudden, unreasoning desire to kill.

  “Boy, bring me that horse!” The gun was up, tilted in his hand, ready to fire.

  Hardy turned around, standing stiff and straight. “You leave us alone!” he said. “And you leave Red alone!”

  The gun started to level in a coolly deliberate plan to murder, when Scott Collins stepped out from the trees.

  “Drop it!” His voice rang sharply. “Drop it, Cal!”

  Cal went to one knee behind the rocks and fired as his knee hit the ground. He aimed not at the children, but at Scott Collins.

  Scott’s rifle muzzle had been lowered, but it came up in one easy move just a little above the hip.

  Cal saw the leap of flame just as his own finger closed on the trigger. He felt the thud of a bullet on his chest and started to stand up for a better shot. The second shot, aimed at his head, caught him in the throat as he lunged up. The pistol dropped from his fingers and he fell, hit the rock parapet, and toppled over.

  He rolled free, muttered a curse and tried to push himself up, then fell back.

  Hardy was staring at his father. “Pa?” His voice was a trembling sound. “Pa?”

  Scott went to him and dropped on one knee.

  “Hardy… Hardy, boy …” His voice was low and hoarse, and it faded out. He could not speak, but he caught the boy to him and clung to him, looking beyond him at Betty Sue.

  “Come on, honey,” he said to her, and gathered her to him.

  Fifty yards away, Bill Squires drew up alongside Frank Darrow. Squires took his chewing tobacco out, looked at it speculatively, then bit off a small piece. “You know something, Frank?” he said. “To be honest, I never thought we’d find them.”

  “You didn’t?” Darrow grinned at him. “I reckon I always did, Bill. I figured if the boy was anything like his pa he would just keep a-comin’, and he done it.”

  Scott Collins got to his feet. “Come on,” he said, and he gathered the reins of the big horse. “Climb up, Hardy. We’ve got to be moving on.”

  When the boy was in the saddle, he lifted Betty Sue up.

  “Pa,” Hardy said, “there’s a buffalo coat yonder. We carried it off from a dugout a ways back. Can we keep it, pa?”

  “You’ll need it. We’ve got a cold ride.”

  He walked over to the coat, glancing only once at Cal. He remembered him now from Hangtown-he had known him the instant he put eyes on him.

  When he was again in the saddle, and Hardy was wrapped in the buffalo coat, the boy said, “Pa? You carry Betty Sue. I think she’d like it.”

  “I’d like it, too, Hardy. I surely would,”

  Scott Collins said.

  The snow crunched under their horses’ hoofs, and a slight wind stirred, sifting a little loose snow.

  Some of the snow settled in the creases of Cal’s clothing, along the line of his lips, upon his open eyes. The wind stirred again, and more snow sifted down.

  Hardy hunched his small
shoulders under the buffalo coat, warm and snug. Somewhere ahead was Fort Bridger, and pa was riding right behind him.

  “still think of myself in the oral tradition-as a troubadour, a village taleteller, the man in the shadows of the campfire. That’s the way I’d like to be remembered-as a storyteller.

  A good storyteller.”