“Look … he’s tied to a tree, his feet off the ground.”
“Is it the Kiowa?”
“Not heavy enough in the chest. No, it’s one of them.” Considine glanced at Dutch. “I figure the Kiowa’s had a busy night.” They watched in silence. A gust of wind brushed the grass and bent it. A tumbleweed detached itself from the brush and rolled over several times, then stopped in the clearing near the dead Indian. Another gust, and it rolled over again, then again. Both men studied the dead Indian … The wind blew, and the tumbleweed rolled over again.
Considine shifted his eyes from the dead Indian to the tumbleweed. It was a great, dark clump of weed, large, but no larger than some others he had seen. As he watched, it rolled over again.
“That’s big enough,” he said aloud, “to hide a man.” Dutch lifted his rifle, but Considine touched his arm. “Hold everything,” he said. “I’ve got an idea.”
Dutch waited, watching.
The wind struck again and the tumbleweed rolled over, bringing it within twenty yards of the rocks where they crouched. A gust caught it and rolled it once more.
“I think,” Considine said, “we’re going to have company.” Suddenly a gun flashed at the edge of the brush. Both Considine and Dutch fired at the flash, and in that instant the Kiowa broke from the tumbleweed, and lunged for the rocks.
“Maybe thirty out there,” the Kiowa said. “I kill two.” Spanyer fired suddenly, the sound of his rifle cut sharply across by the report of a second.
“You boys come to breakfast,” Spanyer said. “We’re havin’ company.” The Apaches came with a rush, and Considine held his rifle centered on the chest of a big Indian who looked more like a Yuma than an Apache. He held it, then fired.
The Indian was caught in mid-stride. One foot pawed at the air, then he turned on the ball of the other foot as though doing some grotesque ballet, and he fell and lay still.
The attack broke, but the attackers did not run; they dropped to concealment on the ground. The sound of firing ceased, and the air was still. The gray clouds hung low, hiding the morning. The dark red peaks of the mountains were touched by a shroud of mist or cloud. The grass bent before the wind. Dutch fired suddenly, and they heard the ugly thud of a bullet striking flesh. Considine built himself a cigarette and shoved a cartridge into the magazine of his rifle. This time the Indians would rush from a closer position. He thought he heard a faint, almost inaudible scratching sound. Listening, he heard nothing more. Some small animal?
When they came again it was suddenly, and from all sides. Considine whipped his rifle to his shoulder and felt the slam of the recoil and the bellow in his ears. The smell of gunpowder drifted into his nostrils. He levered his rifle desperately, firing again and again.
All around there was heavy firing. A bullet whacked sharply against the boulder at his side and ricocheted with an angry, frustrated whine. The attack broke and the sound rolled away along the cliffs under the low clouds. Considine turned at a coughing sound. Hardy was down, choking on his own blood.
Lennie was beside him.
“You … you stick to Considine … he’s the … best. Hope you make it.” Considine came over to him. “You’re a good man, Hardy. I’m glad we’ve had this time together.”
“This’ll save somebody … better a bullet than a rope.” A few spatters of rain fell. Considine went back to the rocks. The firing continued, only intermittent shooting now, but the Indians had the range, and they had found positions where they could fire into the circle of rocks, so every bullet was a danger. The openings had been located and they were firing into them.
Considine shifted his feet. He smelled of sweat and his unwashed clothing, and he needed a shave. He was a man who had never liked a stubble of beard. He felt a tug at his shirt, and saw the shoulder was split and a trace of blood where the bullet had burned. He caught a stir in the brush and fired, and instantly three bullets smashed against the rock, one of them glancing upward with a wicked, snarling whine.
Lennie brought him coffee again. “This is the last of it,” she said. “And there’s only half a canteen of water.”
In the east the clouds had broken a little and there was sunlight on the far-off peaks. “How’s Hardy?” he asked.
“He’s gone.”
Her voice sounded very thin, and he glanced at her quickly. She looked drawn and pale, and her eyes were unnaturally large. He dropped a hand to her shoulder and squeezed it gently.He gulped his coffee and handed her the cup; she looked quickly up into his eyes, then turned away.
An hour of desultory firing passed. Nobody on their side was hurt, but every shot was a near miss. They themselves did not kill anyone, or even see a good target.
Suddenly, from away back, they came on horseback. They charged from the brush on a dead run, with only a moment’s warning from the pounding hoofs, and as the defenders opened fire the Indians close by rose up suddenly and threw themselves over the stones of the circle.
Considine fired, and saw a horse spill headlong, throwing his rider; then a bloody Indian came over the rocks. Considine, gripping his rifle by the barrel and the action, ruined his face with a wicked butt stroke. He swung it back, fired at another, and was knocked sprawling by an Indian who came through a gap in the rocks. He lost his grip on his rifle, drew a .44, and shot the Indian as he crouched over him, tomahawk in hand.
A bullet caught Dutch and the big man fell back against the rocks, gripping an Indian’s throat in his huge hands. The warrior struggled wildly, desperately, but Dutch clung to his throat with crushing force. Dutch went to his knees, still gripping the dead Indian’s throat, and the attack was over again—only Dutch was down on his knees, his shirt drenched in blood, his big face gone an ugly gray. He started to speak, but could not make it. He died like that, on his knees with the Indian’s throat in his hands. Two gone … and the day was young.
CHAPTER XIII
Under a low gray sky and a spattering of rain the posse, now mounted on fresh horses, pushed along the trail. The outlaws were undoubtedly far ahead, and might have reached the border, but there was no slacking off in the pursuit. The honor of Obaro was at stake, and Pete Runyon himself had been taunted. “Wherever they are,” Ollie Weedin said, “they’re in trouble. I just can’t figure Apaches this far west.”
“Renegades … mixed tribes.”
Pete Runyon was worried. There were too many Indians out, and his band numbered only twenty-five—a strong force under ordinary circumstances, but the situation was far from ordinary. It was one thing to lead a posse after outlaws, but quite another if he got his friends killed by marauding Apaches. He turned the idea over in his mind and reluctantly decided that if there were no results by noon they would return home. And it was not far from noon now. He said as much to Weedin.
“Maybe that’s the best thing,” Weedin agreed. “But a man hates to give up.” Pete Runyon studied the situation and tried to recall everything he knew about Considine. The others were also known men, but it would be Considine he would have to outguess if the outlaws were to be caught and the money recovered. Without doubt Considine knew the country as far as the border, and from all reports Dutch did also. And Considine had daring enough to ride right off into the heart of Indian country. Where four men might slip through if they knew the tinajas and the seeps, a large party like the posse could not. Weedin considered the matter and agreed with Runyon. “If he turns toward the border we might as well give up. What I can’t understand is why he is so far west if it’s the border that he figures on.”
Mack Arrow, the Indian tracker who was riding ahead checking the trail, turned his horse and waited for the others to come up. “No turn,” he said. “Follow man and girl.”
Runyon scowled thoughtfully and studied the tracks indicated by the Indian. They had noticed the tracks of the couple some time back, and they had seen a few of their tracks around the Chavez store, where they were sure Considine had kept his spare horses.
The safety of Considine lay south across the border, so why were they continuing on west? Runyon thought this over, remembering Considine. He looked over at Arrow.