Suddenly he chuckled again. He would have liked to paint his face. After all, he was an Indian and he was riding into a fight.
His sombrero was tilted back a little, and he swung his horse over to an easier descent, and then he saw two Indians crouched close together among some brush. He drew up, not looking directly at them for fear his continued gaze would attract their attention. He lifted the rifle and sighted down the barrel, one eye closed, the other eye centering the muzzle on an Indian’s spine. He sighted first at one Indian, then at the other. A fly buzzed near him and he brushed it away. His horse shifted its weight under him and he held still, waiting. When its feet were planted solid again he settled the stock against his shoulder, took a quick sight, eased back on the trigger … the rifle leaped like a thing alive, and the Indian screamed … a shrill, horrible scream. The second one leaped up, but the sight was already on him and a tearing bullet opened his throat and laid it red to the sky.
Lowering his rifle, the Kiowa walked his horse on down the hill.
CHAPTER XI
Considine hugged the earth, but he drew one knee up slowly and dug his toe into the sand. His right hand slid the rifle forward. He tried to estimate the distance to a heap of brush and rocks just a bit nearer to the hideout. He heard a rifle boom behind him … that would be Dutch’s heavier rifle. From somewhere farther away, he heard another shot, then another. Suddenly he felt a strange warmth within him … that would be Hardy, or the Kiowa. Digging the toe a little deeper, he pushed up suddenly and went forward in a charging run. He made four fast steps, then hit the ground and rolled over four times. He brought up behind the rocks with the memory of bullets snapping about his ears.
Considine lay still, gathering his strength and wind. Above and to his left, a little farther in front of him, he heard another shot. The rocks behind which he was hidden concealed all movement.
Sweat and dust streaked his face. His skin prickled and itched. The sun was hot on his back. He slid his rifle forward and searched for a target. Now, through the rocks, he could see the place where Lennie and her father were … only the smallest crack offered a view.
One more quick dash … A bullet from behind smashed against a rock ahead of him and he slid back hurriedly, his face stinging from granite fragments. He waited, and for a long time there was no sound. This was the hardest part of battle, the waiting, the uncertainty of what might have happened or might be happening elsewhere.
Were they all dead? Was Lennie dead? Was Spanyer dead? And what of Dutch? He glanced at his own brown hand, gripping the rifle. It was a strong hand, skilled with rope and branding iron, a hand that had used an axe, a saw, many kinds of tools. It was a hand that could build as well as destroy, and with a kind of odd surprise he realized he had been and was a destroyer. He had been destructive of the labor of other men, and what had begun in the excitement of youth, almost as a lark had turned into an evil thing. And he had nothing—not a cabin of his own, not an acre of ground, not even a horse. For the big black was dead behind him.
There was a sudden burst of firing and he left the ground as if shot from a gun himself, knowing instinctively that any Indian who was watching where he lay would be disconcerted, diverted by the sound.
He rushed, and saw an Indian rise up before him. He smashed upward with the barrel of the Winchester and took the Indian in the throat, the sight ripping a gash even as the muzzle jammed up into the juncture of throat and jaw. Whipping the rifle down and round, he swung the butt with a solid chunk against the Indian’s skull, a short, wicked stroke. The Apache, a squat man with an evil face, crumpled before him, and Considine sprang past him. He dropped a hand to the top of a rock and vaulted over and came down within the circle, and as he landed he saw Dave Spanyer facing him, his rifle trained on his stomach. And Spanyer had said that the next time he saw Considine he would kill him. For an instant they stared at each other, and then Dave Spanyer lowered his rifle. If anything happened to him, this man would have his daughter, and suddenly deep within him he knew this was good … this man would do. “Pull up a chair, son. I’m afraid there’s enough for all.” Considine grinned. “I’ll do that, Dave. But we’ve company coming … unless they ran into too many Indians.”
Dutch was next. He came charging his horse, vaulting the rocks at the lowest place, and throwing himself to the ground. There was an angry red gash alongside of his neck, and his sleeve was torn and bloody. Spanyer looked at him affectionately. “You never could stay out of a fracas … and nobody was ever more welcome.”
Dutch moved to the rocks and carried an extra bandolier of cartridges with him. He found a place and settled down for a fight. And then out of a canyon mouth came Hardy.
They knew the horse, even though they could not see the man. The horse was running all out, nostrils spread wide, and Hardy was clinging to the flank, Indian fashion, with one hand and a foot.
Even as the horse seemed about to sweep past the hideout, Hardy let go and came sailing into the open space, one boot flying off by itself. He skidded to a halt, then looked down at a big hole in his sock. He grinned widely at Lennie. “Got to speak to my women folks about that!” He turned and limped to the barrier. From that barrier four men now faced outward, awaiting the attack. And none came.
The basin on High Lonesome was a lovely place, and for outlaws it had long been an almost perfect hideaway. There was water, there was grass, and without doubt there was game. In some more peaceful time some wandering man would stop and build a home here, and start a ranch. He would stay, rear children, sink roots deep within the sparse soil.
In this place something would belong, something not hidden, not stolen, something built by work and strength. And that man would sit quietly of an evening with his chores done and see his own cattle grazing out there where Indians now lay.
That would be after the Apaches were gone, or when they had found peace themselves. It would be when men no longer rode by the gun and lived by the gun. “Smoke,” Spanyer said suddenly.
Their eyes followed his pointing finger, to where a tall column of smoke lifted easily into the sky, a smoke that broke, then broke again. A signal calling more Indians, railing them in for the kill.
Behind them a stick broke, and as one man they turned. Lennie was building a fire. “I thought you’d want some coffee,” she said, “and there’s a little meat.”
Considine glanced at her, and then away, his throat tight. She was so much the daughter of Dave Spanyer, and too much the child of rolling wagons and Indian fighting not to know what awaited them; yet she went quietly about the business of making coffee, a woman’s business. But her rifle lay close at hand. What man would not want such a woman? Not one to follow only, but to stand beside him during the dark days, to work with him, plan with him, share with him, making their life a whole thing together.
High on the mountainside’ still, the Kiowa lay in the brush, his horse concealed. He had crawled after leaving his horse, but he carried his saddlebags, his canteen, and his rifle.
He had found a place where there were no rocks and but little grass. The earth was discolored by a scattering of rusty, quartz-streaked rock. It was perfect cover for him, and he settled himself deeper.
From where he lay he could see the hideout, but he could see nothing within it Occasionally he saw an Indian.
It was growing late. Already the afternoon sun was over the western hills. That sun was still hot and bright, the air was very clear. But night would come, and the Kiowa could wait.
Waiting was the first thing an Indian learned, and now, more than ever, the Kiowa was an Indian. He carried his white blood casually, without ever thinking of it He was a man of simple, elemental tastes, taking food, whiskey, and women as he found them, and when he did not have them he neither fretted nor worried. He knew there was an end to everything. So one waited. Lying here like this in the sparse grass he liked best of all. The sun was warm, the position good, and soon he would be fighting … if he decided to fight. Yet that decision had never been his—it was made long ago, it was deep in his flesh, in his blood, bred deeply into the bone. It was the manner of man he was. And being a true fighting man he knew there was a time to fight and a time not to fight.