the Burning Hills (1956) Page 9

  He smoked the cigarette down to a butt, then nursed the last few drags before tossing it into the flames. "Been a long time since I had a home. Take me awhile to get halter-broke again... but I could do it."

  A coyote spoke the moon, his shrill cries mounting in crescendo, then dying away in echoes against the mesa wall.

  "A man can't make it alone. Needs him a woman. These here city women, they look mighty nice but a man out here needs a woman who can walk beside him, not behind him."

  Maria Cristina said nothing. Her eyes were a little softer, perhaps, her hands relaxed. Some of the tenseness seemed to have gone out of her.

  "You an' me, we could make it. I'm a hand with horses and I know where there's some pretty good wild stock. Buy us a stallion maybe, good blood. Might get a Morgan.

  "Man can do a lot worse than raise horses. This is horse country, an' down here they'll always have a need for horse stock. With a Morgan stallion a man could breed some fair stuff in a few years. First year or two might not be easy. Reckon I couldn't offer you much ... not right off. Nothin' much but work and a home."

  "I have always work."

  She did not look at him but she spoke. He glanced across the fire at her but she did not meet his eyes and then suddenly she got up and started away.

  "A man should stick to what he knows," he said, to her departing back. "I know horses ... maybe not so much about women."

  He made no move to follow her. She seemed to wish to be alone, to think, perhaps. Well, it was true of himself. He took his rifle and walked off toward the path, not knowing if she saw him or not.

  The forest of cholla lay like a fluffy white cloud when he climbed the mesa, yet a cloud composed of thorns, invisible in the moonlight, but ready to rend and tear. The Indians and the Mexicans thought the bunches of needles would lean toward a hand that came close, would jump at bare flesh. He doubted it but there were times when it seemed to happen.

  Atop the mesa he looked off into the vast mysterious distances of the desert.

  He thought of the silent girl beside the pool. He had known few women and certainly none at all like Maria Cristina. Yet it seemed to him she was like some horses he had handled, shying from a hand that would caress, hungry to be petted, yet afraid to be trapped, to be caught, to be cheated.

  He stared out across the desert. Wherever the fire was, it was gone now ... no ... it was there, winking from time to time across the distance.

  Around that fire were belted men, tough men, dedicated to hunting him down. Between those men and himself there could be no peace. It was a bloody and desperate fight for survival, a fight that had driven him until soon he would have his back to the wall, where he must stand and fight.

  It was a pity that Maria Cristina was involved, yet had she not chosen to involve herself he would be dead. He would have died on that mesa shelf, alone.

  All the more reason he should protect her now, yet it would be useless to tell her to take the horse and go. She would merely look at him with that haughty contempt and remain right where she was.

  So what to do? If they escaped from here, where could they go? Deeper into Mexico? He did not know the trails, although he knew this area of Sonora and much of Chihuahua. And he was sure she did not know the way. Every foot of travel to the south would be dangerous because of marauding Apaches.

  To go back across the border at some point distant from the Sutton-Bayless stronghold?

  Yet with one horse it would be a dangerous trip. Only luck and the strength of the red horse had brought them this far and neither could last.

  After long thought he got up and went back down the trail to the water. Only the fire glowed ... there was no sound and no movement. His bed lay beside the fire where he had unrolled it but of Maria Cristina there was no sign.

  He spoke her name into the silence ... nothing. He said her name again, louder this time and with rising fear.

  No sound, nothing ...

  He ran swiftly to her bed. It was there but she was not. He called her name loudly and only the echo replied. He ran to the water's edge. Something caught his eye ... a fragment of cloth on a branch of ironwood.

  A good-sized fragment, as though she had deliberately hooked it over the branch to leave a clue.

  There were two paths that way. He ran along the nearest, praying his choice was right. He ran to the crest of the hill and stopped. All was wide and white in the moonlight and nowhere, anywhere, was there a sign.

  And then, faint and far off, quickly stifled, a cry.

  Faint... lost, until he almost doubted his senses, but the cry of a woman, a cry for help.

  Heedless of obstruction or ambush, he plunged down the traiL He darted around turns in the path until he had covered at least a hundred yards, then he slowed to listen.

  No sound ... but there would not be. This was not a white man for no white man could have stolen a woman in such a way without noise. It had been an Apache ... or more likely, Apaches. Possibly the three they had met upon the trail, for they knew where Jordan and Maria Cristina were going.

  And being Apaches, they knew every trick, every device, and they were men trained to desert war from childhood, men who would kill, and kill swiftly, for this was their way of life. Yet they had his woman ... Suddenly, somewhere off in the desert, he heard a sudden rush of horses, a pound of retreating hoofs.

  He did not stop to swear or even to listen. Immediately he turned and ran back to the pool. Once there, he saddled the red horse and loaded his gear. It needed only a minute to roll her bed also and to fill the canteens. And then he was riding.

  This much time he had taken, for upon an Apache trail there was no guessing how far a man would travel until he came up with them. Yet come up with them he would.

  When he reached the place where the Indians had left their horses there was still a smell of dust in the air. The earth showed no tracks in the dim light and he dared not strike a match, yet he circled until he caught again the smell of dust and then started after them.

  At any moment they might try an ambush, yet he had doubts of that for they were a small party, three or four at most. Twice, when well started, he got down to examine the ground. Here the earth was less torn and he could find the hoofprints. He pushed on until the moon was gone and the risk of losing the trail was too great.

  Dismounting, he picketed the horse and settled down to wait. He rolled an endless chain of cigarettes and smoked until only half a sack of tobacco remained of his store. The last hour before dawn was endless, yet he waited and when the day became gray and the air was cold with morning he could see the tracks. Four horses, all unshod. One carried double.

  Big Red was rested and eager. He lunged into the trail with that swift space-eating stride that was only his. And the miles fell behind with the trail's dust and the sun came up, hot and red. The desert turned to flame and sweat streaked the dust on Big Red's flanks and soaked Jordan's shirt. Twice he dismounted and walked, leading the horse to give him rest

  The trail led on and he forgot in the heat of the day's red sun the men who might be following him and thought only of the men ahead and of the girl they had.

  And the tracks grew fresher. He was gaining. The gain was slight but nevertheless he gained.

  It was hot... no air stirred. He rode through a land that looked like Hell with the fires out, a land of great clinkers, burned out, destroyed ... a land of great serrated rocky spines, of tall spires and broken battlements, a land of deep canyons and washes where rain sometimes created streams, white now, and dead. Forests of yucca and armies of prickly pear, occasional elephant trees and clustered columns of the organ-pipe cactus.

  It was a land unpeopled and still ... a gila monster moved upon a rock, a chaparral cock darted ahead of him. Yet the desert riders pushed on into the wasteland where the sun was a ball of fire in a sky of molten flame above a red and scarred land where the only sound was the muffled beat of his own horse's hoofs, the creak of his own saddle-leather.

 
; Down there ahead of him, somewhere in the desert, must be a rancheria.

  He did not stop for food. He ate from the sack and pushed on. The big red horse labored now but seemed to understand his rider's urgency. And he was stronger than the small grass-fed Apaches' ponies and he was gaining.

  Once he glanced back. And felt his throat tighten when he did. Behind him was a plume of dust

  They had wasted no time in picking up his trail once he began moving. And there was no time for playing hare to their hounds now, no time for subterfuge. Now he must ride, ride, ride!

  Then, far ahead, he saw dust. A wisp of dust, soon vanished. He broke into the open and saw them ahead of him. Three horses, hard-running. Three...?

  Only just in time, he swung his horse. The realization that only three riders rode ahead caused its instant reaction. He swung the horse and a bullet whipped by his skull, missing by inches only. And then he saw the Apache streaking for his horse. With one hand he swung his Winchester and fired a shot.

  The bullet spat dust just ahead of the fleeing man and, slamming Big Bed with the spurs, Jordan went after him, working the lever on the Winchester as he rode.

  The Apache despaired of reaching his horse and turning, fired. He shot too quick and missed and then the big red horse slammed into him, hitting him with a shoulder and knocking the Indian rolling.

  Without slowing, Jordan went on, only taking time to start the Apache's pony running.

  The Apaches ahead spread out, taking different directions. They must know of the men behind him or they would have stopped to fight; but now they ran. One man carried double and Jordan went after him. Yet as he rode, he wondered ... would they kill her when he reached them?

  Suddenly Maria Cristina was fighting and then with the pony at a dead run she twisted free and flung herself from the saddle. She hit the sand, bounding like a sack of old clothes, then rolling over.

  The Apache veered to pursue her and Jordan came between them. The Apache swung his rifle but Jordan parried the blow and struck up with the butt. He knocked the rifle from the Indian's hands and then they were off their horses and fighting furiously.

  The Apache's hand closed over his knife hilt first as Jordan hit him with a long right. The blow knocked him down and Jordan sprang for him with both boots. The Indian rolled over and came up fast and they closed, struggling fiercely. Then Jordan broke a hand free and struck upward with his fist The blow knocked the Indian back and Jordan kicked him in the knee with his boot heel.

  The Apache was blocky, powerfully muscled and tough. He went down but rolled over and palmed his knife for a throw ... and Trace Jordan shot him through the body.

  The Apache fell, tried to get up, then sprawled out. He lay still then, a slim brown body in the hot white sun, and the dust of the fighting sifted over.

  Trace Jordan mopped the sweat from his brow. Of the other Indians there was no sign. He turned slowly and walked toward Maria Cristina.

  She was on her feet, facing him. Her face was dusty and her hair blew in the wind. It blew across her cheek. Her hands were bound together and her blouse was torn but she stood, feet apart, waiting for him.

  He cut free her hands. For an instant they stood together, their eyes holding. He started to take her in his arms but she stepped back quickly, shrinking, her eyes wide like those of a frightened animal "No . . . No . . ."

  He let his hands fall. Turning, he went to where his horse waited and gathered up the reins. Then he rounded up an Apache pony and led it to her. Without comment she mounted and as she got into the Indian's blanket saddle he noticed she had taken the Indian's Winchester and ammunition. The cartridge belt was slung across her shoulder.

  Behind them the dust was closer. He even believed he could distinguish figures through the dust.

  They started, but not too fast The horses behind them had come far and would be in no shape for a sprint. And his own horse needed rest.

  They were riding north now and his thoughts were going on ahead. This was still Mexico but the Arizona border was north of them and they would reach the border sixty or seventy miles west of the Sutton-Bayless holdings. If they could reach a town, Just any town where there was a sheriff. ...

  But there was no town. Not close enough to help. Tubac was still farther west, Tucson and Tombstone too far north. Their best chance was the John Slaughter ranch at San Bernardino Springs. And there was a chance they could reach it in time. They might then claim sanctuary from John Slaughter and he was no man with whom to trifle, not even the Sutton outfit.

  He led the way into an arroyo, then doubled back along the canyon to another, then out of it and into a thick forest of yucca and nopal. He used every trick now, riding slower, taking their time, their horses a dozen yards apart to raise less dust They used the brush for cover, moving together, then apart.

  Behind them the riders had separated, they had spread out to cover more ground. And they were gaining.

  Suddenly he had an idea. It came to him out of nowhere, so foolish, so risky, so dangerous that for a moment he doubted his sanity. It was the fact that they were riding spread out that gave them a chance.

  He glanced right and left, seeing some fairly dense brush. Lifting a hand for a halt during the few minutes they were out of sight, he slid quicldy to the ground and threw his horse. By the time Maria Cristina had come up, he had blindfolded his horse and, seeing what he had done, she slid to the ground and did likewise. Hurriedly then they gathered brush to cover both horses. Then they lay down, under the edge of the brush themselves. Big Red was trembling but at the calming voices of Jordan and Maria Cristina both horses quieted, frightened by this sudden darkness in which they found themselves.

  It was an old trick. Many a time he had seen horses led across rickety bridges in this way or taken from fires. A blindfolded horse lies quiet.

  It was very hot. The heat of the earth was frightful. If one of the horses moved at the wrong time ... but the sudden darkness held them still.

  Dust was thick beneath them. Gun in hand, he waited. Sweat ran down his face and he knew that if one of the riders swung closer and came into this space their concealment would not be sufficient. There was the smell of the horse, of his own unwashed clothing, and the mingled smells of creosote and crushed thamnosma. And then he heard the horses coming.

  He heard two of them at once and was immediately sure they were too close. He tensed, ready to spring up shooting. If they got him he figured he could take at least two with him. He would ... he could hear a horse walking. He put a quieting hand on Big Red.

  A man swore bitterly and he heard brush scrape along his chaps. The man nearest them yelled, "See anything?"

  "No!" The reply was from some distance off to the other side. "Canyon up ahead."

  Their concealment was far from adequate. Only their pursuers were not expecting this and their eyes were looking ahead, always ahead.

  The riders went by and then as he was about to look, another rider, and closer still. They heard the horse walking, heard a cork pulled from a canteen and the gurgle of water as the rider drank At the moment he passed them he was plainly within view, only his head was tipped back and he was drinking. Then they heard him rinse his mouth and spit.

  Trace Jordan lay stifl, counting a slow fifty. When he did take a chance and look he could see but one rider, some distance off. The rest must have gone down into the canyon the rider had mentioned. Swiftly they got to their feet and, ripping off the blindfolds, got the horses to their feet.

  Turning at right angles they headed west, then turned north again, wanting to lose no miles that would carry them closer to safety. Soon they went into the forest of yucca, and when well inside were out of sight of anyone behind them.

  What they had gained was at best a breathing spell. When Lantz found no more tracks he would begin searching. They would back-trail until they found the brush and the marks of the bodies. Jordan grinned, picturing the old tracker's disgust. But they had gained an hour, perhaps less.
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br />   Several intermittent streams that flowed only during the rains lay between themselves and the border. Some of these flowed into the Bio de San Bernardino, and others to the Bio de Bavispe. The canyon of one of these streams might offer some protection for their ride to the border, although most of them ran northeast instead of northwest

  There was no run left in the Apache pony and not enough in the big red horse. And then they found the canyon they needed and, descending into it, they rode into the shallow water which flowed much of the distance over shelves of stone and they rode upstream.

  For over a mile they rode in water scarcely hock-deep, then down to a thin sheet scarcely more than two inches in depth. They dismounted now and walked, liking the feeling of the cool water on their feet, leaving slow miles behind them and little trail.

  Ten miles from the point at which they entered the canyon, they saw a way out and accepted the chance. Carefully they mounted the wall At the rim, Jordan stepped down from the saddle and took a long, slow study of the country.

  Wherever he looked the country was wide and barren. There were rocks and much cacti, thickets of mesquite, broken ledges upthrust from below.

  Emerging, they proceeded with care. Exhaustion had drawn his face into haggard lines. Dust lay along the creases in his face. His eyeballs grated in their sockets and he rode in a daze of weariness. Half a length back, slumping in the saddle, Maria Cristina sat a horse that was all but ready to drop.

  They needed rest, food and a chance to recuperate. They needed fodder for the horses.

  When he first saw the scraggly-looking brush he was not impressed. It was like fifty other such vague clumps they had passed. It stretched out over most of an acre but what caught his attention was a dip in the ground at one edge of the clump. He rode nearer. It was a hollow nestled with brush and, inside, a small clearing. It was a doubtful-looking place but it offered shelter of an unsuspected kind. In the bottom of the hollow there was a small seep.