Silver Canyon (1956) Read online

  Jonathan and Jolly had rounded up two more men and herded them to me.

  One was a slim, hard-faced youngster who looked as if the devil was riding him. His kind I had seen before. The other was a stocky redhead with a scar on his jaw.

  “You ruined my outfit,” he said. “What kind of a deal is this?”

  “When you ride for a fighting brand you can expect trouble. What did you expect when you came up here? A pink tea party? You go back and tell Maclaren not to send boys to do a man’s job. I’ll shoot the next trespasser on sight.”

  The younger one was sneering. “What if he sends me?” He put his hands on his hips. “If I hadn’t lost my gun in the scramble you’d eat that!”

  “Jolly! Lend me your gun!”

  Without a word, Benaras passed his six shooter to me.

  The youngster’s eyes were suddenly calculating and wary. He suspected a trick, but could not guess what it would be.

  Taking the gun by the barrel, I walked toward him. “You get your chance,” I said. Flipping it in my hand so the butt was up, I held it out. “Anyway you like. Try a border roll or shoot from where it is. Anyway you try it, I’m going to kill you.”

  He didn’t like it. He stared at me and then at the gun. His tongue touched his lips. He wanted that gun so bad he could taste it, and my gun was in my holster.

  He had that streak of viciousness it takes to make a killer, but suddenly he was face to face with killing and right now he wanted no part of it. The thing that bothered him was the fact that I’d gamble. No man would make such a gamble unless he knew … or unless he was crazy.

  “It’s a trick,” he said. “You ain’t that much of a fool.”

  “Fool?“That brought my fury surging to the top. “Why, you cheap, phony, imitation of a badman! I’d give you two guns and shoot your ears off any day you’d like!

  “Right now! Shove your gun in my belly and I’ll shove mine in yours! If you want to die, let’s make it easy! Come on, you cheapskate!Try it! “

  Crazy? Sure. But right then I didn’t care. His face turned whiter and his eyes were hot and ugly. He was trembling with eagerness to grab that gun. But face to face? Guns shoved against the body? We would both die. We couldn’t miss. He shook his head, and his lips were dry and his eyes staring.

  “No … no. …”

  My fingers held the gun by the barrel. Flipping it up, I caught the gun by the butt and dashed it down across his skull. He hit the dirt at my feet, knocked cold.

  The two redheads were both on their feet staring at me, waiting.

  “All right,” I said. “Pick him up and get off the place.”

  “It was orders.”

  “You could quit, couldn’t you?”

  The stocky redhead stared at me. “He’ll be huntin’ you now. You won’t live long. You know what that is?” He indicated the youngster on the ground. “That’s Bodie Miller!”

  The name was familiar. Bodie Miller had killed two men. He was known to be utterly vicious, and although he lacked seasoning he had it in him to be one of the worst.

  The two redheads picked Miller off the ground and hoisted him into his saddle. Disarmed, they slowly walked their horses out of the Wash and took the trail for home.

  The cattle were no cause for worry. They would not leave the good grass of the Wash nor of the feeder canyons from the east.

  Jonathan Benaras rolled a smoke and hitched his one gallus higher on his shoulder after he had put the cigarette between his lips. He struck a match and lighted up.

  “Well,” he said wryly, “they cain’t say you don’t walk in swingin’. You’ve tackled nigh ever’body in the country!”

  When they were gone, riding home and talking about it, I studied the situation. There was nothing about it that I liked. Maclaren would be back … or the Finders would come, and I was one man alone.

  Chapter Six.

  It was no longer possible to defend the Two-Bar. No other decision was possible. Reluctantly, I decided that for the time, at least, I must have another place of retreat. Although I might remain at the ranch, I must be prepared to leave at an instant’s notice.

  Before Ball was killed we had made plans for our last stand, if that became necessary, at an old cliff house in Two-Bar canyon. Ball and I had stored some food there, and now, digging around in the ruins, I found some undamaged canned stuff that I transported up there and concealed near the cliff house.

  As I rode I tried to think a way out of the corner in which I found myself.

  My only friends were the Benaras family, but this was not their fight, it was mine.

  Across the east was broken country of canyons and desert, almost without water, a country brutal and heat-blistered, where a man might die under a blazing sun, choking with thirst … unless he knew the waterholes.

  On the west were the holdings of the CP and the Boxed M.

  Once, not many weeks ago, I would have been tempted to start hunting down the men who had killed my partner. Now I knew better.

  The way to defeat them was to hold the ranch, to keep it for myself, as Ball had wished, to keep them from what they had hoped to gain by murder. To do this I must stay alive, I must think, plan.

  Now young cattle ran on Two-Bar grass. They would be growing, fattening up. That much was done. But a new house must be built, new corrals. I must put down such solid roots that I could never be dislodged. And to have roots was a new thing for me.

  Maclaren would, when possible, try to give the cover of right and legality to his actions. Finder was under no such compulsion. Yet they were equally dangerous.

  Another thing. I must keep the good will of those few friends I had. The Benaras family were really all. But at Hattan’s Point there were people who, if not my friends, were not my enemies either. Key Chapin was not taking sides. Morally at least, I must have him on my side. Mrs. O’Hara was another.

  Sheriff Tharp would not interfere in any ranch squabble. That Ball had told me. He would arrest outlaws, killers, and rustlers. It was up to property holders to settle their own arguments, gunplay or not. Yet if Tharp could find nothing in me to dislike, it would at least help. My fighting must be in self-defense.

  All the following day I worked around the place, cleaning up the debris left by the fire, and rebuilding the corral, but keeping a careful lookout. Some of the saddle stock had escaped when the corrals were pulled down. These I rounded up and herded back to the corral with my mules.

  One young steer had suffered a broken leg in the drive on the Boxed M camp, so I shot it and butchered the caracass, hanging up the beef until I could jerk it.

  I cleaned out the spring near where the house had stood, and built several rifle pits against possible attack. Then, mounting up, I ended my day by scouting the vicinity. No riders were in sight. All was still. The young stock were making themselves happily at home in the knee-high grass.

  Three times I spotted good defense areas and mapped out routes that would offer cover in going from one to the other. Being a practical man, I also looked for an escape route.

  I slept in a sheltered place near the spring and at daybreak I rolled out of my blankets and saddled up.

  The morning was clear and cool. In an hour the sun would be warming the hills, but now a coat was a comfortable thing. Reluctantly, I put out my fire and swung into the saddle. The buckskin was frisky and tugged at the bit, ready to go.

  Rounding a bend, I suddenly saw a dozen riders coming toward me at a canter. Wheeling the buckskin, I slapped the spurs into his flanks and went up the Wash at a dead run. A bullet whined past my ear as I swung into a branch canyon and raced to the top of the plateau.

  Behind me the racing horses ran past the canyon’s mouth. Then there was a shout as a rider saw me, and they turned back. By the time they entered the canyon mouth I was on top of the mesa.

  It was the Finders, and they were out for blood.

  I dropped to the ground and took a running dive for a rock, landing behind it and swinging my Win
chester to my shoulder at the same time. The butt settled, I took a long breath, then squeezed off my shot.

  A horse stumbled, throwing his rider over his head, and my second shot nailed the rider before he could rise. Firing as rapidly as I could aim, I sent a dozen bullets screaming down the canyon. They scattered for shelter, a wild melee of lunging horses and men.

  The man I’d shot began to crawl, dragging a broken leg. He was out of it, so I let him go. Several horses had raced away, but two stood ground-hitched. On one of these was a big canteen. I emptied it with a shot. A foot showed and I triggered my Winchester. A bit of leather flew up and the foot was withdrawn.

  Bullets ricocheted around me, but my position could not have been better. As long as I remained where I was they could neither advance nor retreat.

  The sun was well up in the sky now, and the day promised to be hot. Where I lay there was a little shade from a rock overhang, and I had water on my saddle. They had neither. Digging out a little hollow in the sand, I settled down to be comfortable.

  Several shots were fired, but they were not anxious to expose their position, and the shots were far off the mark.

  Five … ten minutes passed. Then I saw a man trying to crawl back toward the canyon mouth.

  I let him crawl … When he was a good twenty yards from shelter I sighted down the barrel and put one into the sand right ahead of him. He sprang to his feet and ducked for shelter. I splattered rock fragments into his face with a ricochet and he made a running dive for shelter, with another bullet helping him along.

  “Looks like a hot day!” I called.

  My voice carried well in the rocky canyon, and somebody swore viciously. I sat back and rolled a smoke. Nobody moved down below.

  The canyon mouth was like an oven. Heat waves danced in the sun, the rocks became blistering. The hours marched slowly by. From time to time some restless soul made a move, but a quick shot would always change his mind. I drank from my canteen and moved a little with the shade.

  “How long you figure you can keep us here?” someone yelled.

  “I’ve got plenty of water and two hundred rounds of ammunition!”

  One of them swore again, and there were shouted threats. Silence descended over the canyon. Knowing they could get no water must have aggravated their thirst. The sun swam in a coppery sea of heat, and the horizon was lost in heat waves. Sweat trickled down my face and down my body under the arms. Where I lay there was not only shade but a slight breeze, but where they lay the heat reflected off the canyon walls and all wind was shut off.

  Finally, letting go with a shot, I slid back out of sight and got to my feet.

  My horse cropped grass near some rocks, well under the shade. Shifting my rifle to my left hand, I slid down the rocks, mopping my face with my right. Then I stopped, my hand belt high.

  Backed up against a rock near my horse was a man whom I knew at once, although I had never seen him. It was Rollie Finder. “You gave them boys hell.”

  “They asked for it.”

  As I spoke he smiled slowly and dropped his hand for his gun.

  His easy smile and casual voice were nicely calculated to throw me off guard, but my left hand held the barrel of my rifle a few inches forward of the trigger guard, the butt in front of me.

  As his hand dropped I tilted the gun hard and the stock struck my hip as my hand slapped the trigger guard.

  Rollie was fast and his gun came up smoking. His slug struck me a split second after my finger squeezed off its shot. It felt as if I had been kicked in the side and I took a staggering step back, a rolling rock under my foot throwing me out of line of his second shot.

  Then I fired again. I’d worked the lever unconsciously, and my aim was true.

  Rollie fell back against the rocks. He was still smiling that casual smile. Only now it seemed frozen into his features. He started to bring his gun up and I heard the report. But I was firing … I shot three times as fast as I could work the lever.

  Weaving on my feet, I stared down at his body. Great holes had been torn into him by the .44 slugs.

  I scrambled back to my former position, and was only just in time. The men below, alerted by my shots, had made a break to get away. My head was spinning and my eyes refused to focus. If they started after me now, I was through.

  The ground seemed to dip under me, but I raised my rifle and got off a shot, then another. One man went down and the others scrambled for cover.

  My legs went out from under me and I sat down hard. My breath coming in ragged gasps, I ripped my shirt and plugged my wounds. I had to get away now. But even if the way were open, I could never climb to the cliff house.

  Rifle dragging, I crawled and slid back to the buckskin. Twice I almost fainted from weakness. Pain gripped at my vitals, squeezing and knotting them. Then I got hold of the saddlehorn and pulled myself into the saddle. When I finally got my rifle into its scabbard I took some piggin strings and tied my hands to the saddlehom, then across my thighs to hold me on.

  The buckskin was already walking, as if sensing the need to be away. I pointed him into the wilderness of canyons.

  “Go, boy. Keep goin’.”

  Sometime after that I fainted. … Twice during the long hours that followed I awakened to find the horse still walking westward. Each time I muttered to him, and he walked on into the darkness, finding his own way.

  They would be coming after me. This remained in my mind. Wracked with pain, I had only the driving urge to get away. I pushed on, deeper and deeper into that lonely, trackless land made even stranger by the darkness.

  Day was near when at last my eyes opened again. When I lifted my head the effort made it swim dizzily, but I stared around, seeing nothing familiar.

  Buck had stopped beside a small spring in a canyon. There was plenty of grass, a few trees, and not far away the ruin of a rock house On the sand near the spring were the tracks of a mountain lion and of deer, but no sign of men, horses, or cattle. The canyon here was fifty yards wide, with walls that towered hundreds of feet into the sky.

  Fumbling at the strings with swollen fingers, I untied my hands, then the strings that bound my thighs. Sliding to the ground, I fell. Buck snorted and stepped away, then returned to sniff curiously at me. He drew back from the smell of stale clothes and dried blood, and I lay staring up at him, a crumpled human thing, my body raw with pain and faint with weakness.

  “It’s all right, Buck.” I whispered the words. “All right.”

  I lay very still, staring at the sky, watching the changing light. I wanted only to lie there, to make no effort … to die.

  To die?

  No…

  There had been a promise made. A promise to Moira, and a promise to a tired old man who had been killed.

  Yet if I would live I must move. For they would not let me go now. They would hunt me down. Jim Finder would want to kill the man who had shot his brother, and there was Bodie Miller, from Maclaren’s.

  Now … I must act now … fix my wounds, drink, find a place to hide, a place for a last stand. And it had to be close, for I could not go far.

  Nothing within me told me I could do it. My body was weak, and I seemed to have no will, but somehow, someway, I was going to try.

  Rolling over, I got my hands under me. Then I started to crawl…

  Chapter Seven.

  Pulling myself to the edge of the waterhole, I drank deep of the clear, cold water. The coolness seemed to creep all through the tissues of my body and I lay there, breathing heavily.

  A sea of dull pain seemed to wash over me, yet I forced myself to think, to fight back the pain. I must bathe my wounds. That meant hot water, and hot water meant a fire.

  Yet there was such weakness in me that I could scarcely close my hand. I had lost much blood, I had not eaten, and I had ridden far with the strength draining from my body.

  With contempt I stared at my helpless hands, hating them for their weakness. And then I began to fight for strength in those fingers,
willing them to be strong. My left hand reached out and pulled a stick to me. Then another. Some scraped-up leaves, some fragments of dried manzanita … soon I would have a fire.

  I was a creature fighting for survival, fighting the oldest battle known to man. Through waves of recurring delirium and weakness, I dragged myself to an aspen, where I peeled bark to make a pot in which to heat water.

  Patiently, my eyes blinking heavily, my fingers puzzling out the form, I shaped the bark into a crude pot, and into it I poured water.

  Almost crying with weakness, I got a fire started and watched the flames take hold. Then I put the bark vessel on top of two rocks and the flames rose around it. As long as the flames stayed below the water level the bark would not burn, for the water inside would absorb the heat. Trying to push more sticks into the fire, I blacked out again.

  When next my eyes opened the water was boiling. Pulling myself up to a sitting position, I unbuckled my gun belt and let the guns fall to the ground beside me. Then carefully I opened my shirt and, soaking a piece of the cloth in the hot water, began to bathe my wounds.

  The hot water felt good as I gingerly worked the cloth plugs free, but the sight of the wound in my side was frightening. It was red and inflamed, but the bullet had gone clear through and as near as I see, had touched nothing vital.

  A second slug had gone through the fleshy part of my thigh, and after bathing that wound also, I lay still for a long time, regaining strength and soaking up the heat.

  Near by was a patch of prickly pear. Crawling to it, I cut off a few big leaves and roasted them to get off the spines. Then I bound the pulp over the wounds. It was a method Indians used to fight inflammation, and I knew of no other than Indian remedies that would do me here.

  It was a slow thing, this working to patch my wounds, and I realized there was little time left to me. My enemies would be working out my trail, and I had no idea how far my horse had come in the darkness, nor over what sort of ground. My trail might be plain as day, or it might be confusing.

  There was a clump of amolillo near by and I dug up some roots, scraping them into boiling water. They foamed up when stirred and I drank some of the foamy liquid. Indians claimed bullet wounds healed better after a man drank amolillo water.