Son Of a Wanted Man (1984) Page 8

  No, that was impossible. Roundy had always been Ben Curry’s friend and had never liked Kerb Perrin.

  Yet where was he? Up there with Ben? That was likely, yet Roundy had a dislike of being cooped up. He liked to range free. He was a moving fighter, not given to defense unless forced to it. Wherever he was he would be doing what was necessary, of that Mike was sure. “All right,” Perrin said suddenly, “there’s no use all of us watchin’ one old man.” He glanced at Bastian. “That was a good idea of yours, about that bank. We’ll just hold you, knock off that Ragan place, and then the old man will be ready to quit. We’ll take care of him an’ ride east an’ pick off the bank.” Bastian was led back from the street. His ankles were tied and he was thrown into a dark room in the rear of the store. His thoughts were in a turmoil, and he fought to bring them to order. If he was to get out of this alive he must think. There was always a way if one but tried.

  If Perrin’s men rode to the Red Wall they would find only four hands on the V-Bar. They would strike suddenly, and they knew how to do what must be done. Juliana, Dru, and their mother would be helpless. Four men, five counting Voyle Ragan, could not stand against a surprise attack.

  And here he was bound hand and foot.

  Desperately, he fought the ropes that bound him, but those who did the tying were skilled with ropes and had tied many a head of cattle and horses.

  As his eyes became accustomed to the darkness he looked for something he could use to free himself, but there was nothing. No projecting corner, no nail, nothing.

  Outside all was still. Had they gone? He had no way of knowing, but if Perrin was not gone he soon would be, leaving enough men to watch Ben Curry. Mike ceased struggling and tried to think. If he could get free and discover Ben’s secret route across the river he might beat Perrin to it and be waiting when the outlaws arrived.

  Where was Roundy? And Doe Sawyer?

  Just when he had all but given up a solution came to him so simple that he cursed himself for a fool. Mike rolled over to his knees.

  Fortunately he was wearing boots instead of the moccasins he often wore in the woods. Bracing one spur against another to keep them from turning, he began to chafe the rawhide against the rowel of the spur. He wore big-roweled Mexican spurs, given him by Sawyer, spurs with many sawlike teeth instead of long spikes.

  Desperately, he sawed until his muscles ached and he was streaming with perspiration. Once, pausing to rest, he heard a rattle of hoofs from outside. Several horses being ridden away.

  were they just going? He might have a chance, if only.. Boots sounded on the floor. Someone was coming! And just when he was cutting through the rawhide! Fearful they would guess what he was doing, he rolled to his side. The door opened. It was Snake Fernandez. In one hand he held a knife. The other shoulder was still bandaged from Bastion’s bullet. “You shoot Fernandez, eh? Now we see! I am Yaqui! I know many ways to make a man bleed! I shall cut you into pieces.

  I shall cut slowly, very slowly. You will see!” Bastion lay on his shoulder, staring at the half-breed. Stooping over him, the Yaqui pricked him with the knife point, but Bastion did not move.

  Enraged, Fernandez tossed up the knife and caught it in his fist. “You do not jump, eh? I make you jump!” Viciously, he stabbed down, and Mike, braced for the stab, turned to his back and kicked out with both feet. The heels of his boots caught Fernandez on the knees and knocked him over backwards. As he fell, Mike rolled to his knees and jerked hard at the rawhide binding his wrists. Something snapped, and Mike pulled and strained. Fernandez was on his feet, recovering his fallen knife. Fighting the ropes that tied him, Bastian threw himself at Fernandez’s legs, but the Yaqui leaped back, turning to face him with knife in hand. Bastian turned himself, keeping his feet toward the other man, then as the outlaw moved in, Mike lifted his bound feet and slashed downward. His spurs caught the outlaw on the inside of the thigh, slashing down, ripping his striped pant leg and cutting a deep gash in his leg. Fernandez staggered, cursing, and Bastian jerked hard on his bound wrists and felt something give. The rawhide ropes started to fall away, and shaking them loose he whirled himself around and grabbed at the outlaw’s ankle, jerking it toward him.

  Fernandez came down with a crash, but fighting like an injured wildcat, he attempted to break free.

  Mike, grasping Fernandez’s wrist with one hand, took his throat with the other, shutting down with all the strength developed from years of training for just such trouble. Struggling, the man tried to break free, but Mike’s grip was too strong. Fernandez’s face went dark with blood. He struggled, thrashed, and his struggles grew weaker. Releasing his grip on the man’s throat, Bastian slugged him viciously on the chin, then hit him again. Taking the knife from the unconscious man’s hand, Mike cut his ankles free and stood up, chafing his wrists to get the circulation back. Now-I A moment, he hesitated. Looking down at the unconscious man. Fernandez was wearing no gun but usually had one. It could have been left outside the door. Careful to make no sound, as he had no idea what awaited, he moved to the door and opened it cautiously.

  The street before him was deserted. His hands felt awkward from their long constraint and he worked his fingers continually. He pushed the door wider and stepped into it. The first thing he saw was Fernandez’s gunbelt hanging over the back of a chair.

  He had taken two steps toward it when a man stepped out of the bunkhouse. The fellow had a toothpick in his hand and was just putting it to his mouth when he saw Mike Bastian. Letting out a yelp of surprise he dropped the toothpick and went for his gun.

  It was scarcely fifteen feet and Mike threw the knife underhanded, pitching it point first off the palm of his hand. It flashed in the sun as the gun lifted.

  The man grunted and dropped his gun, reaching for the hilt of the knife buried in his stomach, his features twisted with shock. Mike grabbed Fernandez’s gunbelt and slung it on, one gun-butt forward, the other back. Then he ran for the boardinghouse where his own guns had been taken from him. He sprang through the door, then froze. Doc Sawyer was there with a shotgun in his hands. Four of Perrin’s men were backed against the wall. “I’ve been waiting for you,” Doc said. “I didn’t want to kill these men but wasn’t about to try tying them up.” Mike’s gunbelt was on the table. He stripped off Fernandez’s guns and belted on his own, then thrust both of Fernandez’s guns into his waistband. “Down on the floor!” he ordered them. “On your faces!” It was the work of minutes to hogtie all four. He gathered their weapons. “Where’s Roundy?” “I haven’t seen him since he walked out of the boardinghouse. He just stepped out and disappeared.

  I’ve been wondering.” “Forget him. Let’s go up to the house and get Ben Curry, then we can figure this out. We don’t have much time. They’re headed for the V-BaT.” Doc looked sick. “I didn’t know. My lord! And those womenfolks-to ” Together they went out the back door and walked along the line of buildings. Mike carried his hat in his hand, the easier to be recognized. He knew that Ben could see them, and he wanted to be recognized. Sawyer was excited but trying to be calm. He had seen many gun battles but had never been directly involved in one.

  Side by side, gambling against a shot from the stone house or someone of the Perrin outfit they had not rounded up, they mounted the stone stairs to the house.

  There was no sound from within. Opening the door they stepped into the living room and looked around.

  There was no sign of life. On the floor was a box of rifle cartridges scattered over the carpet.

  A muffled cry reached them, and Mike paused, listening. Then he ran out of the room and up the staircase to the fortress room. He stopped abruptly. Sawyer was only a step behind him.

  This was the room no outsider had seen, not even Doc. A thick-walled stone room with water trickling into it from a stone pipe, falling into a trough and then out through a hole in the bottom of a large stone basin. The supply of water could not be cut off, and there was a supply of food stored in the mom.

  The door w
as heavy and could be locked from within.

  Nothing short of dynamite could blast a way into this room.

  This was Ben Curry’s last resort, but he lay on the floor now, his face twisted with pain.

  “Broke more’ legs Tried to move too fast an’ I’m too heavy! “Slipped on the steps, dragged yore’self up here.” He looked up at Mike. “Good for you, son! I was afraid they’d killed you. Got away by yourself, did you?” “Yes, Pa.” Ben looked at him, then away.

  Sawyer had dropped to his knees, examining the older man’s leg. “This is a bad break, Ben.

  We won’t be able to move you very far.” “Get me a mattress to lay on where I can see out of the window. You an’ me, Mike. We’ll handle “em!” “I can’t stay, pa. I’ve got to go.” Ben Curry’s face turned gray with shock.

  He stared, unbelieving. “Boy, I never thought-was “You don’t understand, pa. I know where Perrin’s gone. He’s off to raid the V-Bar. He wants the cattle and the women. He figured he could get you any time.” The old man lunged with a wild effort to get up, but Doc pushed him back. Before he could speak, Mike explained what had happened, then added, “You’ve got to tell me how you cross the Colorado. With luck I can beat them to the ranch.” Ben Curry relaxed slowly. He was himself again, and despite the pain Mike knew he was feeling, Curry’s brain was working. “You could do it, but it will take some riding. They’re well on their way by now, and Kerb will know where to get fresh horses. He won’t waste time.” He leaned back, accepting the bottle Sawyer brought to him. “I never was much on this stuff, but right now-was He took a long drink, then eased his position a little. Quickly but coolly, he outlined the trip that lay ahead. “You can do it,” he added, “but that’s a narrow, dangerous trail. The first time we went over it we lost a man and two horses.

  “Once you get to the river you’ll find an old Navajo. Been a friend of mine for years. He keeps some horses for me and watches the trail.

  Once across the river you get a horse from him. He knows about you.” Mike got to his feet and picked up some added ammunition. “Make him comfortable, Doe. Do all you can.” “What about Dave Lenaker?” Doc protested.

  “I’ll handle Lenaker!” Curry flared. “I may have a busted leg but I can still handle a gun. You get a splint on the leg and rig me some kind of a crutch. I’ll take it from there!” He paused. “I’m going to kill him when he shows in that street, but if something happens and you have to do it, Mike, don’t hesitate. If you kill either Perrin or Ducrow you’d be doing the west a favor. I’ve been thinkin” of it for years.

  “But remember this about Lenaker. If I miss out somehow or you see him first, watch his left hand!” Mike went down the steps to his own room and picked up his .44 Winchester rifle. It was the work of a minute to throw a saddle on a horse. Ben Curry and Doc could hold out for weeks in that room if need be, but the risk was dynamite thrown through or against the window. He would have to ride to the Red Wall and get back as quickly as possible.

  Mike Bastian rode from the stable on the dappled gray and turned into a winding trail that led down through the ponderosa and the aspen to the hidden trail leading to the canyon. He had never ridden this trail, although he had discovered it once by accident. The gray was in fine fettle, and he let it have its head. They moved swiftly, weaving through the woods, crossing a meadow or two, and twice fording the same stream. As he rode he tried to picture where Perrin would be at this time. He knew nothing of the secret crossing, of course, and must ride the long way around. Even with fresh horses and getting little sleep it would take time. His own ride would cover less than a quarter of the distance but was steeper and rougher. Nor could Mike even imagine how he would cross the river.

  All Ben had told him was there was a crossing and he would see when he got there.

  “It’ll take nerve, boy! Nerve! But remember, I’ve done it a dozen times, and I’m a bigger man than you!” This was all new country to him, for he was heading southwest into the wild, unknown region toward the canyon of the Colorado, a region he had never traversed. It was unknown country to everyone but Ben Curry, the Indians, and perhaps some itinerant trapper.

  Occasionally the trail broke out of the trees and let him have a tremendous view of broken canyons and soaring towers of rock. He must ride fast and keep going. He was sorry now that he had not picked up some jerky before leaving Ben, for there would be nothing to eat until he reached the ranch, and then there might not be time. Once, atop a long rise, he drew up to let the gray catch its wind and sat the saddle, looking out across the country. In the purple distance he could see the gaping maw of the great canyon.

  He spat into the dust, feeling a chill. How could any lone man hope to cross that? And at the end of the ride, if he made it, there would be Kerb Pen-in.

  He had seen Perrin shoot. The man was fast with a gun and deadly. He was almost too fast.

  Patches of snow still showed themselves around the roots of trees or on the shaded slopes. He dismounted, letting the gray drink from a clear, cold mountain stream that cascaded down a steep slope, disappearing into the brush, then appearing once more. Beaver had built a dam, formed a wide pool, and built a house at the pond’s edge. He drank well above the pond and let the gray rest for a few minutes while he stood, listening to the silence and watching a beaver push through the water with a green branch which it would bury in the bottom of the pond against the days when snow fell and the pond was covered with ice.

  He walked back to the gray and, putting a toe in the stirrup, swung to the saddle. “All right, boy, we’ve got a way to go. was The gray trotted down a narrow path covered with pine needles, then suddenly out of the ponderosa and into an eyebrow of trail that clung hopefully to a cliffs sheer face. One stirrup scraped the wall, the other hung in space. The drop was a thousand feet or more to the first steep slope, and if one slid off that it was another thousand to the bottom. The gray was a good mountain horse who went where only the imagination should go, and picked its way with care until the trail dipped into the forest again.

  Shadows fell across the trail, and he glimpsed a white rock he had been told to watch for. He turned sharply left and went down through a steep cleft of sliderock where his horse simply braced its legs and slid to emerge at the foot of the mesa with a long, rolling plain before him. A whiskey jack flew up, flying ahead to light in a tree he must pass. It knew where men were there was often food, and it followed along, perhaps as much for the companionship as for whatever he might leave. “No time, old boy,” he said. “I’ve a long way to go while the sun’s still up.” He was tired, and he knew the gray was slowing down, but that meant nothing now.

  Would he arrive in time? What was it like there? If he did not arrive in time, what then? There was a coldness in him at the thought, something he had never known before, but he knew what he would have to do. He would hunt them down, every man of them, no matter how long it took or how far the trail led. He would find them.

  Mike rode down through heaped-up rocks, which had been falling for ages down upon this slope, rolling into position and lying there. Here the trail dipped and wound, and he thought of what lay ahead. He had never been in a gunfight. He had drawn and fired at Fernandez without thinking, but he knew he had been lucky. In a gun battle you were shooting at living men who could fire back, and would. How would he react when hit by flying lead? He must face that, make up his mind, once and for all. If he got hit he must take it and fire back.

  He had known men who had done it. He had known men hit several times who kept on shooting. Cole Younger at Northfield had been hit eleven times and escaped to finally survive and go to prison. His brothers had each been hit several times yet had survived, at least for the time. If they had done it, he could do it.

  Perrin and Ducrow, those two he must kill, for they were the worst. If they fell the others might pull out. No matter what, he must kill them.

  He could not die trying. He had it to do.

  Suddenly the forest seemed to spli
t open and he was on the edge of that vast blue immensity that was the canyon. He drew the gray to a stand, gasping in wonder. Even the weary horse pricked its ears. Here and there through the misty blue and purple of distance red islands of stone loomed up, their tops crested with the gold of the last light.

  The gray horse was beaten and weary now and Mike turned the horse down another of those cliff-hanging trails that hung above a vast gorge, and the gray stumbled on, seeming to know its day was almost done.

  Dozing in the saddle, Mike Bastian felt the horse come to a halt. He could feel dampness rising from the canyon and heard the subdued roar of rapids as the river plunged through the narrow walls.

  In front of him was a square of light.

  “Hello, the housel” he called out. He stepped down from the saddle as the door opened.

  “Who’s there?” “Mike Bastian!” He walked toward the house, rifle in hand. “Riding for Ben Curry!” The man backed into the house. He was an old Navajo but his eyes were bright and sharp. He took in Mike at a glance.

  “I’ll need a horse. I’m crossing the river tonight.” The old Indian chuckled. “It cannot be done. You cannot cross the river tonight.” “There’ll be a moon. When it rises, I’ll go across.” The Navajo shrugged. “You eat. You need eat first.” “Mere are horses?” The chuckle again. “If you wish a horse you find him on other side. My brother is there. He has horses, the very best horses. “Eat,” he said, “then rest. When the moon rises, I will speak.” He paused. “Nobody ever try to cross at night. It is impossible, I think.” Mike Bastian listened to the water. No man could swim that, nor any horse, nor could a boat cross it.

  He said as much, and the old Indian chuckled again.

  “If you cross,” he said, “you cross on a wire.” “A wire?” “Sleep now. You need sleep. You will see.” A wire? Mike shook his head. That was impossible. It was ridiculous. The old man was joking.