the Strong Shall Live (Ss) (1980) Read online

  When he fell again he lay still for what must have been a considerable time, finally becoming aware of a whistling sound. He pushed himself up, listening. The sound reminded him of a cricket, yet was not a cricket. He listened, puzzled yet alerted for some reason he did not understandHe moved then, and under a clump of grease-wood something stirred. He froze, thinking first of a rattler, although the heat was too great for one to be out unless in a well-shaded position. And then his eye caught a movement, and he knew why the sound had alerted him. It was a tiny red-spotted toad.

  Long ago he had learned that the red-spotted toad always lived within the vicinity of water and never got far from it.

  Awkwardly he got to his feet and looked carefully around. His eyes could not seem to focus properly, yet down the canyon he glimpsed some galleta grass and walked toward it, coming upon the seep quite suddenly.

  Dropping to his knees he scooped water in his palm and drank it. A cold trickle down his throat was painful on the raw flesh. With gentle fingers he put water on his lips, bathed his cheeks and face with it, then drank a little more.

  Something inside was crying out that he was safe, but he knew he was not. He drank a little more, then crawled into the shade of a rock and lay on his back and slept.

  When he awakened he crawled out and drank more and more, his water-starved body soaking up the moisture. He had found water but had no means of carrying it with him, and the canyon of the seep might well become his tomb, his open tomb.

  Cavagan got out the rawhide with which his wrists had been bound and rigged a snare for small game. In placing the snare he found some seeds, which he ate. He drank again, then sat down to think his way forward.

  From where he now sat there were two possible routes. Northeast toward the Colorado was Red Butte Spring, but it was at least twenty-five miles away and in the wrong direction.

  The twelve miles to Chuckawalla Spring began to loom very large, and leaving the water he hadfound worried him. The Chuckawalla Mountains were a thin blue line on the northern horizon, and even if he reached them the next spring beyond was Corn Springs, just as far away. Yet the longer he waited the more his strength would be drained by lack of food. He had never known *such exhaustion, yet he dare not wait.

  On the second morning his snare caught a kangaroo rat, which he broiled over a small fire. When he had eaten he got up abruptly, drank some more, glanced at the notch in the Chuckawallas and started walking.

  At the end of an hour he rested, then went on at a slower pace. The heat was increasing. In mid-afternoon he fell on his face and did not get up.

  More than an hour must have passed before he became aware of the intense heat and began to crawl like a blind mole, seeking shade. The plants about him were less than a foot high, and he found nothing, finally losing consciousness.

  He awakened, shaking with chill. The moon cast a ghostly radiance over the desert, the clustered canes of the ocotillo looking like the headdresses of gigantic Indians. He got to his feet, aware of a stirring in the night. He waited, listening. A faint click of a hoof on stone and then he saw a desert bighorn sheep walk into the wash and then he heard a faint splash. Rising, he walked down to the wash and heard a scurry of movement as the sheep fled. He almost walked into the spring before he saw it. He drank, then drank again.

  Late the next afternoon he killed a Chuckawalla with a well-thrown stone. He cooked the big lizard and found the meat tender and appetizing. At dusk he started again, crossing a small saddle to the north side of the mountains. It was twelve miles this time, and it was daybreak before he reached Corn Springs. He recognized it by the clump of palms and mesquite in the wash beforereaching the spring, some clumps of baccharis, clusters of small twigs rising two to three feet. And then he found the spring itself. After drinking he crawled into the shade and was asleep almost at once.

  He opened his eyes, aware of wood-smoke. Rolling over quickly, he sat up.

  An old man squatted near a kettle at a fire near the spring, and on the slope a couple of burros browsed.

  "Looks to me like you've had a time of it," the old man commented. "You et anything?"

  "Chuckawalla . . . had a kangaroo rat a couple of days ago."

  The old man nodded. "Et chuck a time or two ... ain't as bad as some folks might figger."

  Cavagan accepted a bowl of stew and ate slowly, savoring every bite. Finally, placing the half-empty bowl on the ground he sat back. "Don't suppose a man with a pipe would have a cigarette paper?"

  "You started that Mex way of smokin'? Ain't for it, m'self. Give me a pipe ever' time." The old man handed him his tobacco pouch and dug into his duffle for a rolled up newspaper. "Don't tear the readin' if you can he'p. A body don't find much readin' in the desert and sometimes I read through a newspaper five or six times."

  Cavagan wiped his fingers on his pants and rolled a smoke with trembling fingers. Then he put the cigarette down and ate a few more bites before lighting up.

  "Come far?" "Fifty-five, sixty miles."

  "An' no canteen? You had yourself a time." The old man said his name was Pearson. He volunteered no more than that. Nor did he ask questions. There were not four white men between the San Jacintos and the Colorado River.

  "I've got to get to that hot spring this side ofthe pass, up there by the San Jacintos," Cavagan said. "I can get a horse from the Cahuillas."

  The old man stirred his fire and moved the coffeepot closer. "You listen to me you won't go back."

  "You know who I am?"

  "Got no idea. Figgered you didn't get where you was by chance. Six years I been prospectin' hereabouts an' I ain't seen nobody but a Chemehuevi or a Cahuilla in this here country. A man would have himself an outfit, gun, knife, canteen. Strikes me somebody left you out here apurpose."

  "If you could let me have a canteen or a water sack. Maybe a knife."

  "How d' you figger to get out of here?"

  "West to the Hayfields, then Shaver's Well and the Yuma stage road."

  Pearson studied him out of shrewd old eyes. "You ain't no pilgrim. You made it this faron nerve an' savvy, so mayhap you'll go all the way."

  He tamped his pipe. "Tell you something. You fight shy of them Hayfields. Seen a couple of gents settin' on that water with rifles. A body could figger they was waitin' for somebody."

  The old man helped Cavagan to more stew. He rarely looked directly at Cavagan.

  "Are they on the Hayfields or back up the draw?"

  Pearson chuckled. "You do know this country. They're on the Hayfields, an' could be they don't know the source of that water. Could be you're figurin' a man might slip around them, get water, and nobody the wiser."

  "If a man had a water sack he might get as far as Hidden Spring."

  The old man looked up sharply. "Hidden Spring? Never heard of it."

  "Southwest of Shaver's . . . maybe three miles. Better water than Shaver's."

  "You must be Cavagan."

  Cavagan did not reply. He finished the stew, rinsed the bowl, then filled his coffee cup.

  "Nobody knows this country like Cavagan. That's what they say. Nobody can ride as far or shoot as straight as Cavagan. They say that, too. They also say Cavagan is dead, left in the algodones with his hands tied. Lots of folks set store by Cavagan. Them Californios, they like him."

  Cavagan slept the day away, and the night following. Pearson made no move to leave, but loafed about. Several times he cooked, and he watched Cavagan eat.

  Cavagan found him studying some Indian writing. "Can't make head nor tail of it," Pearson complained. "If them Cahuillas can, they won't say.'*

  "This was done by the Old Ones," Cavagan said, "the People Who Went Before. I've followed their trails in the mountains and across the desert."

  "They left trails?"

  "A man can go from here to the Cahuilla village at Martinez. The trail follows the canyon back of the village and goes back of Sheep Mountain. There's a branch comes down back of Indian Wells and another goes to the Indian
village at the hot spring at the entrance to San Gorgonio Pass. There's a way over the mountains to the coast, too."

  Back beside the fire Cavagan added coffee to what was in the pot, then more water before putting it on the fire. Pearson watched him. "Met a damn fool once who throwed out the grounds . . . throwed away the mother. Never seen the like. Can't make proper coffee until she's two, three days old."

  He lit his pipe. "A man like you, he might know a lot about water holes. Worth a lot to a man, knowin' things like that."

  "The rock tanks in the Chocolates are dry this year," Cavagan said, "but there's a seep in SalvationPass." He poked twigs under the coffeepot. "Twenty, twenty-two miles east of Chuckawalla there's a red finger of butte. Maybe a quarter of a mile east of that butte there's a little canyon with a seep of water comin' out of the rock. Good water."

  "Place Mice that could save a man's life," Pearson commented. "Good to know things like that."

  "The Cahuillas used the old trails. They know the springs."

  Wind was rustling the dry palm leaves when Cavagan crawled out in the early dawn and stirred the coals to life to make coffee.

  Pearson shook out his boots, then put on his hat. When he had his boots on he went to the limb where his pants were hung and shook them out. A scorpion about four inches long dropped from a trouser leg and scampered away.

  "Last time it was a sidewinder in my boot. A body better shake out his clothes before he puts 'em on."

  Pearson slipped suspenders over his shoulders. "Figger you'll hit the trail today. If you rustle through that stuff of mine you'll find you a water sack. Crossin' that ol' sea bottom out there, you'll need it." He hitched his shoulders to settle his suspenders. "Still find shells along that ol' beach."

  "Cahuillas say a ship came in here once, a long time ago."

  "If they say it," Pearson said, "it did."

  Cavagan filled the bag after rinsing it, then dipped it in water from the spring. Evaporation would keep it cool.

  Pearson took a long knife from his gear. "Never catered to that one m'self, but a body never knows when he'll need an extry."

  Cavagan shouldered the sack and thrust the knife into his belt. "Look me up some time," he said. "Just ask for Cavagan."

  Pearson's back was turned, packing gear, when Cavagan spoke. He let him take a dozen steps,and then said, "You get to Los Angeles, you go to the Calle de los Negros. Ask for Jake. He owes me money an' I expect he might have a pistol. Get whatever you need."

  John Sutton sat at dinner at one end of a long table in his ranch house at Calabasas. The dinner had been enhanced by a turkey killed the day before at a cienaga a few miles away. He was restless, but there was no reason for it. Almost a month had gone by. His men had returned to the algodones but found no trace of Cavagan. Nor had they expected to. He would have died out on the desert somewhere.

  Juan Velasquez saw the rider come up the canyon as he loafed near the gate, standing guard. At the gate the rider dismounted and their eyes met in the gathering dusk. "Buenos noches, Senor," Juan said. "I had expected you."

  "So?"

  "I have an uncle in Sonora, Senor. He grows old, and he asks for me."

  "Adios, Juan."

  "Adios, Senor."

  Cavagan walked up the steps and into the house where John Sutton sat at dinner.

  *

  ONE NIGHT STAND

  Stephen Malone was tall, handsome, immaculate, and broke. He lay on his back, hands clasped behind his head, trying not to think about breakfast. Three weeks ago he had been playing lead roles in Hearts Of Oak, Hamlet, and Davy Crockett on successive nights. Then the bookings ran out, the play closed, and the manager skipped town with the company funds, leaving them stranded.

  For some time he had been aware of voices in the next room. A girl was speaking. "He can't! He wouldn't dare!"

  The man's tone was touched with despair. "They say he's killed fourteen men. For the kind of money Mason would pay, the Kid wouldn't hesitate to make it fifteen."

  There was a pause. "Even before my hand was crippled I couldn't match him. Now I wouldn't stand a chance."

  "But Pa, if Hickok comes--?"

  "If he can get here in time I He's not the kind to forget what I did for him, but unless he shows up I'm finished. Else, I'd give a thousand dollars to see Bill Hickok walk through that door right now!"

  Stephen Malone knew a cue when he heard one. He stepped into the hall and rapped on the door of their room.

  "Who's there?" It was the man's voice.

  "Bill Hickok."

  The door opened and he was facing a thin old man with gray hair, and a pretty, dark-haired girl. "You aren't Bill Hickok!" The man was disgusted.

  "No," Malone said, "but for a thousand dollars I will be."

  "You're a gunfighter?" Else demanded.

  "I'm an actor. It is my business to make people believe I am somebody else."

  "This is different. This isn't playacting."

  "He could kill you," Else said. "You wouldn't have a chance."

  "Not if I'm a good enough actor. Not many men would try to draw a gun on Wild Bill Hickok."

  "It's a fool idea," the man said.

  "So there's an element of risk. I've played Hamlet, Macbeth, and Shylock. Why not Wild Bill?"

  "Look, son, you've undoubtedly got nerve, and probably you're a fine actor, but this man is a killer. Oh, I know he's a tinhorn, but you wouldn't have a chance!"

  "Not if I'm a good enough actor."

  "He's talking nonsense, and you both know it!" Else protested.

  "To play Hickok, son, you've got to be able to shoot like Hickok."

  "Only if I play it badly. You say the Kid is a tinhorn, I'll trust to your judgment and my skill."

  Brady walked to the window. "It might work, you know. It just might."

  "It would be suicide I" Else objected.

  Brady turned from the window. "I am Emmett Brady. This is my daughter, Else. Frank Mason wants my range, and the Pioche Kid is a friend of his. He was brought here to kill me."

  "The pleasure will be mine, sir," Malone bowed.

  "Did anyone see you come into the hotel?" Brady asked.

  "Only the man at the desk. It was two o'clock in the morning."

  "Then it's all right. Jim Cooley is a friend of mine."

  "Get him to spread the story that Hickok is in town, and once the story is around, I'll make my play."

  "It's ridiculous!" Else declared. "Why should you risk your Me for us?"

  "Miss Brady, as much as I'd enjoy posing as Sir Galahad, I cannot. I'm no knight in armor, just a stranded actor. But for a thousand dollars? I haven't made that much in a whole season!"

  "You've got sand, Malone. Else, fetch Jim Cooley."

  "You've still time to back out," Else warned.

  "I am grateful for your concern but this will be the first time I have been offered one thousand dollars for a single performance."

  Returning to his room, Malone opened his trunk and chose a blond wig with hair to his shoulders. -He selected a drooping mustache. ". . . And the buckskin jacket I wore as Davy Crockett. Then I'll remove the plume from this hat I wore in Shenandoah --"

  The Pioche Kid stared complacently into his glass. Brady was an old man with a bad right hand. He was nothing to worry about.

  Jim Cooley came through the swinging doors. "Give me a shot, Sam." He glanced around the room. "Wait until you boys hear who is in town! Wild Bill himself! Rode in last night, all the way from Kansas because he heard his old friend Emmett Brady needed help!"

  The Pioche Kid went sick with shock. Somebody was asking what Brady had on Hickok. "Nursed him back to health after a gunshot wound. Hickok nearly killed a couple of horses getting here. He's sleeping it off over at the hotel now."

  Wild Bill Hickok!The Kid hadn't bargained for this. He took up his whiskey and tossed it off, but the shudder that followed was not caused by the whiskey.

  "Sam . .. ?" He pushed the empty glass toward him.
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br />   He could feel the excitement in the room. They were thinking they'd see the Pioche Kid shoot it out with Wild Bill Hickok, the most famous of them all.

  Somebody mentioned the fourteen men the Kid was supposed to have killed, but the Kid himself knew there had been but four, and two of those had been drunken cowhands, and one of them a drunken farmer who had never held a pistol before.

  Suddenly, desperately, he wanted out. How had he got into this, anyway? Hickok could shoot! He recalled the stories of Hickok's famous target matches with the renowned Major Talbot, at Cheyenne.

  "He's the best," Cooley was saying. "Eyes in the back of his head, seems like. Remember the time he killed Phil Coe, then turned and killed a man running up behind him?"

  Cooley smiled at the Kid. "Should be something, you and him. You've killed more than he has if you discount those he killed while a sharpshooter in the Army. But I did see him take four at once. Killed two, a third died later, and the fourth was never any good for anything after."

  Cooley finished his drink. "I'm gettin' out of here. I've seen too many bystanders get gut-shot Sorry I can't wish you luck, Kid, but Bill's a friend of mine."

  Men moved to the tables, away from the bar. One hastily paid for his drink and left the bar. The Kid was alone, isolated, cut off.

  What the hell was happening? This was Hickok! If he won they'd all slap him on the back and buy him drinks, but if he lost they'd just stare at the body as they walked by. He moppedhis face. He was soaked with sweat, and he knew why. He was scared.

  Mason was at the door. "He's comin', Kid. Be something to be known as the man who killed Wild Bill."

  Malone paused in the door to wave at someone down the street, then he walked to the bar. All eyes were on him. "Rye, if you please."

  Sam put a bottle and a glass before him. The Kid licked dry lips with a fumbling tongue. Desperately he wanted to wipe his palm dry on his pants, but he was afraid Hickok would think he was going for a gun. Now was the time. He should open the ball. Sweat dripped from his face to the bar. He opened his mouth to speak, but Malone spoke first.