Shalako (1962) (11 page)

Here and there Shalako paused to move rocks from the trail or to widen it for those who would follow. Then the trail jogged a little and briefly they would be in the shade of the cliff.

Shalako stopped and removed his hat, peering at the trail ahead, and wiping the sweatband.

Irina was flushed and panting, glad of the momentary respite.

"Will they find our trail?" "They'll find it."

"Have you lived in the West all your life?"

He glanced at her, faint humor lurking in his eyes. "It's a good country," he said, "and a beautiful country. It's an easy country to get lost in."

"If one has reason to get lost."

He smiled. "Yes, if one has reason. Or if one doesn't." He gestured, "It's a big country, and a lot of men have come West their folks never heard of again. Some were killed, some died, some made new lives for themselves and wanted no part of what they left behind. Some men find out here the answer to all they need."

"And you?"

"It's a big country, and I like it. A man has room to think out there, and room to move. I'm a man who doesn't like to be crowded."

"And what of the future?"

"Ah ... the future? Yes, there's always that. Someday I must sit down and think it all out, but perhaps I shall take up some land, build the kind of house I want, and raise some cattle, breed a few horses." He got up. "You took a risk coming into this country with a stallion like Mohammet. To say nothing of those mares."

He took up his rifle. "It is a thing I've noticed, Miss Carnarvon, the first generation out here want horses that will stand the gaff, stand up to brutal work and hard riding, the second generation are already thinking of horses that look like something, and the next generation will only want fancy horses and all the elaborate leather and silver they can get on them."

He started off, and she followed. A moment later she paused, and he stopped. She eased her foot inside her boot, then started on. "You have no silver on your saddle," she said.

"I'm from the first generation," he said, "and silver reflects sunlight. Nobody but a fool wants flashing metal on his gear or a white horse in this country. Too many folks can know when you're coming."

They skirted the edge of a cliff that fell away for several hundred feet, wedged themselves between boulders, and then suddenly emerged on top.

"You will never get the horses up that trail," she said. "No kind of horse could get between those rocks."

"I'm going to ride around ... and it is a long way around."

The air was surprisingly cool. A faint breeze smelled of pines and cedars. Facing south she overlooked the deep gash of Elephant Butte Canyon. Park Canyon, starting al most at her feet, pointed away toward the southwest. The point of land on which they stood was but a few acres in extent, and there were scattered pines, some cedar, and a few shrubs of which she knew nothing. They were the dry, harsh-looking shrubs of the desert mountains. There was also a little grass.

"Wait at the top of the trail," he told her, "but do not be distracted by what is happening on the trail itself. They will get up somehow and that is not your problem.

"Watch the desert, watch all the approaches to the trail below. Do not fire unless necessary, but if they start toward the foot of the trail, stop them."

"Is there danger behind us? From the south?"

"You never know, so you had better keep a careful look out."

He discarded his pack, leaving it beside her. "I will be going down."

"Why are you doing this? You were clear of it, you were away, you were free. And sometimes I think you do not even like us."

"Shooting down hill that way... it can throw you off your target."

"You didn't answer me."

"Does a man have to have a reason? Maybe it is be cause you loaned me a horse." He paused at the trail's head and pointed off through the trees to the southwest. "You watch for me there. I'll come up west of that small canyon. But don't take it for granted that whoever comes will be me, and I won't come in the night.

"I'll identify myself, so be careful."

"It is good of you to help us, Mr. Carlin. Especially when Frederick has been so difficult."

He threw a quizzical glance at her. "I don't blame him. If I had a girl as lovely as you, I'd be careful, too. I wouldn't want her traipsing around the country with a strange man." "Maybe he trusts me."

"Doesn't look like it. Anyway, it isn't a matter of trusting. Maybe he's afraid I'll just take you and run, leave them all to the desert."

"I'd have something to say about that." She looked at him boldly. "Are you trying to frighten me?" She paused. "After all, I am practically engaged to Frederick."

"Doesn't mean a thing."

He started to walk away, and she looked after him. "Frederick has been difficult," she added.

When he said nothing, but started down the trail, she called after him, "And you're difficult, Mr. Carlin!"

She had no idea whether he heard her or not. She heard his footsteps on the trail, and then they faded, and she was alone. Wind stirred in the cedars, and there was no other sound for a long time.

The air was very clear. She looked north tip the wide valley toward the ranch they had left. Dancing heat waves cut off the view in the distance along the foot of the mountains.

Shalako ... it was a strange name, an exciting name. And he was an exciting man.

Exciting, yet strangely calming at such times as this, for he seemed so completely in command of the situation ... not that any person could be sure of coming out alive from such an ordeal, but she had the feeling that if they failed, if Shalako ever failed in such a situation as this, it would only be after everything possible had been done.

What there was to do, he would do; what there was to consider, he would have considered.

She had told him she was almost engaged to Frederick. Now why had she said that?

It was not true. There was a sort of understanding between them, but nothing had been said, not really. She knew that Frederick wanted to marry her, and she knew she had been considering it.

And now Shalako.

But how could she consider him at all? How would he look among her friends in London?

His weather-beaten features, his big, strong hands, that shaggy, powerful look he had about him.

No, he would not fit.

Or would he? Some of the soldiers from the Northwest Frontier of India were like that... not shaggy, however. But a haircut would take care of that.

But why consider his coming to her life? And what made her believe he would be happy there?

No, this was his country, this was his land, and it was a strong, beautiful land.

She inhaled deeply. There was something about the mountain air that made one want to inhale deeply ... it was like fresh, clear, cold water in the throat.

Buffalo Harris was the last man up the trail. At the last, when Harris waited to follow the others, he stood for a minute or two finishing a cigarette with Shalako.

"Along the east side of the mountains they rise up steep and high for several miles, so I'm going on up this canyon we're in and strike the head of Wolf Canyon. There's an old Indian trail running back toward the south east from there, and a fork in that will take me right into the park."

"You take care. I don't cotton to that general."

"He's a good man, Buff. Just out of his element, that's all. Don't worry about him."

He watched Buffalo start up the cliff, then picked up the roan's lead rope and mounted the stallion. It was very hot, and weariness suddenly flooded over him. Just as the long, hot ride had taken its toll from the roan, it was now getting to him. It had been a long time since he had been this tired.

Squinting his eyes under the pulled-down hatbrim, he studied the terrain with care.

Nothing must happen to him, for he carried nearly all the food and ammunition for the party.

Behind him was the Playas Valley, before him, beyond the mountains, was the Animas Valley. He started Mohammet, walking the stallion out of the copse where they had assembled for the climb, and he turned the Arab westward.

The sun burned on his back, and his eyelids were heavy. His eyes ached and the lids burned with staring over the wide, hot spaces. There was no sound but the hooffalls of his horses, the creak of the saddle. He touched his tongue to his dry lips and mopped his forehead with the sleeve of his shirt.

He topped out on the rise, and Wolf Canyon lay before him. He came down off the ridge and in the brief shadow of the boulders, he studied the terrain again. It was hard to focus his eyes, but he took his time, measuring the sunlit vastness before him, the great shoulders of raw, red rock, the splashes of green, the great, broken, shattered land.

A lizard darted out on a rock near him, and stopped, its side panting with the heat.

Overhead a buzzard circled, but the blue sky of morning was gone, and in its place was a sky of heat-misted brass from which the sun blazed. He rubbed the stubble on his jaws, and started the Arab forward, feeling his way down the slope, watching for the trail he knew was there.

*** Upon a shoulder of Gillespie Mountain, Tats-das Ya-Go turned his cold eyes toward the southwest... movement! Something stirred among the sunlit hills.

Squatted in the shadow of a rock, the Quick-Killer's eyes held upon the far distant hill. The movement had been there, and then it was gone ... it had been no sheep, and nothing else would be large enough.

Again! He squinted his eyes against the glare. A man. A rider with two horses. Swiftly, he turned and went down off the mountain to his horse.

Let Chato go his way ... let Loco and the others go ... he would find his own kills, and leave them where he found them.

Far and away to the south and east, along the foot of the Big Hatchet Mountains, Rio Hockett led the stolen wagon and its cargo. Bob Marker rode beside him.

Flanking the wagon were two riders, and two men rode the seat of the wagon. Two more brought up the rear, riding wide of the wagon to be free of its dust. Two more rode inside, armed and ready. Bosky Fulton brought up the rear, nor was it by accident that he chose the position.

They had seen no Apaches, nor any Indian sign at all. Rio Hockett was walking his horse and well out in the lead with Marker when he smelled dust. Drawing up sharply, he turned in his saddle. No wind was blowing.

Uneasily, he looked around him. Nothing stirred. The smell of dust was gone. He looked across toward the Animas Mountains, but saw nothing. Nearby were several drowned peaks, almost buried in the sand that would eventually cover them.

Hockett mopped his brow and looked around him again. Bob Marker, a mean-looking Missourian, shot him a sharp glance. "What's the matter?"

"I don't like the feel of things. I thought I smelled dust."

"Our own, prob'ly. Let's go. There's water south of them peaks, and Mexico not far beyond it."

"Bosky wants us to go east toward Juarez... not a bad idea. Say! I know a little Mex gal in Juarez, who-"

And then he saw the tracks.

Hockett turned swiftly, slapping spurs to his horse, and started for the wagon. He saw it swing broadside, saw a man fall from the wagon seat into the sand, and then he heard the report of a gun ... seconds later there were other shots.

He glanced around for Marker and saw his horse running riderless, stirrups flapping.

He felt his own horse go under him and kicked his feet free of the stirrups, dropping like an acrobat even as his horse went head over heels. He turned in his tracks, firing his rifle from the hip.

Hockett was a big man, and tough. He had been a buffalo hunter, a cow thief, and a scalp hunter, and he had nerve. Levering the Winchester, he fired again and again. He got one, saw another stagger. He hosed bullets at them ... too fast.

The Winchester clicked on an empty chamber and he dropped it, drawing both guns.

Something jerked at his sleeve, sand kicked against his boots. He saw a horse fall, heard a shrill scream of pain from behind him, and he thumbed back the hammer of the .44, firing coolly.

There was no doubt in his mind. With shocking clarity, he realized this was the end.

A bullet smashed into his shoulder, turning him half around. He dropped his gun, but with a border shift tossed the gun from hand to hand, then fired again. He stood, spraddle-legged atop a hummock of sand, his long hair blowing wild, a splash of blood across his face from a split scalp.

A bullet knocked a leg from under him, and on one knee he calmly fed shells into the gun. His shoulder was hurting, but he could still use it, so no bone was broken.

Behind him there were yells, screams of anguish, and the crackle of flames.

Now a dozen Indians surrounded him, baiting him as they might have baited a wounded bear. He mopped the blood from his face, holding his fire.

His horse was down not far away and his canteen was on the saddle. The distance to the rocks was no more than thirty yards. Straightening to his feet, he limped and staggered to the horse for the canteen and slung it over his shoulder.