“Are you sure that’s a girl?” he asked.
“Small tracks, light foot, quick step. It is a girl, all right. I see where she sleep, also. Very small, like girl or child.”
If Mack Arrow said it was a girl, it was a girl. The Indian added, “First man and girl, then many Indians, then Considine and other men.” Weedin eased himself in the saddle and bit off a corner of his plug of tobacco. “We know Considine,” he said quietly, “what else would you expect? He must have seen those folks back there at Honey’s place … then he sees the Indians are on their trail.”
“Two people on one horse,” Pete Runyon said. “Believe me, they’d have no chance.”
Mack Arrow indicated the ground. “Men talk, horses very active … want to go.
Then one man goes off … the others follow, one at a time.” The members of the posse glanced at one another. All of them but one were western men, and they understood how Considine was thinking. Sure, he had made a big strike. He had sixty thousand in gold and a clear run to the border—but here was a man and a girl on one horse, with Indians on their trail … and they might not even know it.
The picture was plain: Considine had gone to help, and the others had followed him.
“That Dutch,” Weedin said, “he’s a good man, too.” “Well,” Runyon said, and he turned his horse, “the men we want and the loot they took have gone up High Lonesome, so let’s ride.” But Runyon contemplated the situation uneasily. He had that strong sense of justice and fairness that was so much a part of the western man, for it was the way of the time and the country to judge a man by his motives as well as by the results, and it was obvious that Considine and his outlaws had thrown over a chance for escape to help some people they could only have known casually, at best.
It would not be pleasant to arrest Considine after this, but they would have no choice. Arrest him, or shoot him.
Runyon swore quietly, and Weedin turned to look at him. “Ollie, that damned fool could have whipped me. He let up on me—twice.”
“Maybe.”
“That’s what makes me so mad. He was playing with me!” “Wouldn’t say that,” Weedin commented dryly. “I seen that fight. There wasn’t much layin’ back, no matter what you may think. Considine just needed time. He wasn’t thinkin’ of you. He was thinkin’ of those boys at the bank.” Runyon merely growled. He was angry with himself. All through the fight he had known something was wrong, because Considine was not acting like himself. He was never one to taunt a man—whip him, yes, but not taunt him. Considine had been doing his best to get Runyon so mad he could not think clearly. “Well,” Weedin said mildly, “he’s one of our own. It wasn’t any damned outsider who done it.”
Knowing the humor of the men who followed him, Runyon was aware that, angry as they were at being tricked, they were somewhat mollified by that fact: Considine was one of their own boys. There were men here, men like Weedin, who had fought Indians and punched cows beside Considine.
Epperson, who never missed a posse any more than he did a fight, pulled alongside of Runyon. “Pete, those Indians may beat us to it.” “Save us trouble,” Eckles spoke up.
Epperson exchanged an irritated glance with Weedin. “I wouldn’t wish that on any man,” he said brusquely.
“Outlaws,” Eckles responded. “What’s the difference?”
Runyon touched a spur to his horse to step up the gait. Eckles was new out here. He didn’t know what Apaches could do to a man. Eckles was all right, but he needed education.
The clouds were breaking up now, and the sun was coming through. It was going to be another hot day, hot and muggy after the rain. Runyon could smell the damp earth, the way it smelled when the rain came after a long dry spell. These men were family men, most of them. They should be at home, he was thinking, not out here in Indian country chasing outlaws. How much was sixty thousand dollars, anyway? How many lives would it buy? How much sadness would it pay for if one of these men was killed?
Just then, somewhere in the distance, far up around High Lonesome, they heard a shot.
The sound hung in the still air, and each man sat his saddle a little straighter, but they did not look at each other. The shot was followed by the drum of rifle fire.
The thunder of far-off battle rolled down the canyon.
“What d’you think, Pete?”
“High Lonesome … they’re making a stand on High Lonesome.” Suddenly silent, rifles ready, ears alert for the slightest sound, twenty-five belted men rode into the hard bright sunlight.
Hardy and Dutch … good men gone.
Considine walked around the small circle and gathered their weapons, stripping each body of its cartridge belt and pistol.
The Kiowa was rolling a smoke. There was blood on his face from a scalp wound that Lennie had tried to stop from bleeding. “I think we don’t make it, hey?” the Kiowa said.
“Maybe.”
Considine levered a shell into the chamber of Dutch’s rifle and stood it against a boulder. A loaded rifle ready at hand could be almost as good as an extra man—but not quite.
“Kiowa … if they get me, kill Lennie.”
“All right.”
The Kiowa drew on his cigarette. There was a swelling over one eye, and Considine wondered what had happened out there during the night “We make a good fight, hey? Many are kill,” the Indian said.
They were making a good fight. These men around him, both the living and the dead, had used their guns many times before. They had fought Indians and killed buffalo. They had killed deer and mountain sheep and bear. They knew how to shoot, and when.
Considine looked down at the canyon. Where the hell was that posse? He wanted them desperately now, no matter what happened to him. He wanted Lennie to live. He wanted Spanyer and the Kiowa to live.
The trouble was you never could see an Indian until he came at you … at least not often. And the Indians would know what they had done. Trust them to know that two men were out of action, and that there was a girl in the circle. She was one reason for their persistence—the girl, and the weapons. For the Indians were always short of rifles and ammunition.
His eyes searched the grass, the brush, the trees. Two men were dead, and neither of them had needed to be here. They had come partly from loyalty to him; partly because of a young girl with a bright, fresh face who had smiled at them in her frank and friendly fashion; and partly because each of them was, to some degree, living the life of chivalry each admired in his secret heart. No sound, no movement. The waiting was hell, almost worse than the end of waiting. An occasional touch of wind rustled the grass and the leaves. The clouds were broken, the sun was bright on the mountains. High Lonesome lay still under the morning sun.
Spanyer stepped up beside Considine. “You ain’t just the man I might have picked—sort of wanted her married to some steady man who’d give her what she deserves, but if you get out of this, Considine, you have my blessing, for what it’s worth.”
“I’d like nothing better, Dave.”
Get out? Who was going to get out?
Suddenly an Indian showed, climbing to the high rocks that overlooked their position. If an Indian got up there they would have no chance, none at all. The only reason the attackers had held off was that it was a dangerous climb. Considine lifted his rifle. The Indian appeared out of the shelter of the treetops, climbing by hands and feet up the almost sheer face. Considine fired, and they saw his outstretched hand turn to a burst of crimson. The Indian started to slide back and Spanyer fired. The Indian humped his back strangely, and then fell clear.
And then they came with a rush.
Considine dropped his rifle and opened up with his six-gun. He felt rather than heard the roaring of his gun, then flipped the gun to his left hand and caught his left-hand gun with the right in the border shift, continuing his firing. Something hit him low and very hard, and he half turned. There was gun smoke before him and a savage face looming through it. He fired from where the gun was and saw the face wiped away as if by a mighty fist. The Indian fell back, pawing at the raw furrow where his eyes had been.