“Stay out of Arizona,” Jethro suggested suddenly. “Zeb Rawlings is a marshal down there, and you’d not want to mix up with your own nephew.” “What he does is none of my business,” Zeke replied. “We might be figuring on Arizona. Besides, let him leave me alone.”
“He won’t. He’s a good man, Zeke, a very good man.” The Kid sat up suddenly. “Damn it, Zeke! What you wastin’ time for? We need that outfit of his and his horses.”
“You hush up!” Zeke glared at the Kid. “This man’s a relative of mine.” His eyes went to Jethro. “We need fresh horses and we need your grub and ammunition. You see how it is.”
Something was in the brush behind them, something very big. Jethro could hear the sounds as it nosed about where his supplies had been stacked. If the others noticed, they showed no evidence of it.
“You’ll have to go without,” Jethro said. “I bought and paid for my outfit and came in here to stay. Riding out for fresh supplies is something I don’t care to do at my age.”
“That’s all right, old man,” the Kid said. “You won’t be going back. You aren’t about to need those supplies, either.”
Zeke said nothing at all, but Red sat up slowly. Jethro was sure Red held a pistol under the blanket. In his place, Jethro knew he would. It was here now, and they all knew it, and there was no dodging the issue. Jethro put more fuel on the fire. “Why buy trouble you don’t need? You may get my supplies, but when I go I’ll take some of you with me. As it stands you’re all in one piece, but if it comes to a showdown, I’ll have my say.” “You’ll have nothing to say, old man,” the Kid said. “You’ll just die!” “We’ll go together, Kid,” Jethro said, and saw the boy’s eyes widen. “You always think of killing, never of being killed. Well, what happens in a showdown like this? You boys kill me, but I’m a cinch to get one of you, maybe two. “Case like this”—he took a stick near the edge of his blanket and tossed it on the fire—“a man usually picks out who he’s going to take with him. I’ve picked out two … even when a man is dyin’ he can shoot, and I might get more. “Years I’ve spent in the mountains makes a man tough. He soaks up injury. So you boys can figure we’re going to have ourselves a ball.” That faint rustle again. The stuff he had taken from his pack horses was stacked against a big boulder, and to get at it that bear had come in close. Chances were he was within fifty feet of them right now, either his back or side toward the fire, and he would be some place in line with that big pine. Supposing they were distracted? The idea, when it came, seemed a small hope, perhaps a foolish one, but the odds against him were such that nothing could make them worse. He could get two, he was confident of that; to get all four was out of reason—although such things had happened. “You don’t scare me,” the Kid said. “You’re already dead. How would you expect to even get hold of a gun with the four of us here? Seated the way you are, your gun butt canted back, you’d take too much time.” Jethro picked up a stick at the edge of his blanket. It was just a small stick, such as he had been throwing on the fire all evening. “I could do it, all right, Kid,” Jethro said. He let his eyes swing to Zeke.
“You’re going to let this happen?”
“You’re no blood kin,” Zeke said. “Sorry, but we do need that grub and what all.”
“You know how it is,” Red added.
“Sure,” Jethro said, and picked up another stick—only it was not a stick this time, it was the gun from the folds of the blanket. He tossed a stick on the fire with his left hand, then shot the Kid through the ribs with the gun held in his right. No sudden moves, just a repetition of what he had been doing all evening, and the thrown stick to draw their attention. If they had expected a gun it was from the holster, and when it came it was too late. He shot the Kid through the ribs, then took a wild gamble and fired into the shadows near his stacked supplies.
A grizzly makes a big target. The distance was close, and to get at the supplies the bear had to be standing in just one spot. It was a snap shot Jethro fired; then he swung the gun back and shot at Red; but almost in that same flashing instant there was a hoarse snarl of rage, and the grizzly lunged from the woods. Jethro’s shot at Red was a clear miss, but Red lunged up from his blankets straight in the path of the grizzly.
Jethro, the only one who knew what was coming—or what he hoped was coming—rolled over and scrambled for the woods. He felt the burn of a bullet, then something else hit him and he fell, but he dragged himself on, farther into the woods. Behind him were shots and screams, and the hoarse, choking snarls of the grizzly.
He crawled on; then, getting hold of a tree trunk, he pulled himself up. He felt curiously weak, but he managed to walk out of the trees to where the horses had been picketed. They were gone. He had a sudden realization that with them had gone his last chance.
No rifle … The gun he held had two loads remaining; the other gun was fully loaded and he still had his cartridge belt. In all, approximately fifty rounds. His brain felt hazy, and he knew he must have been hurt worse than he’d realized. First, he must find a place to hole up, so he stopped close against the bole of a tree where he would be almost invisible, and tried to think back. Where could he hide?
Some of them would survive … or would they? He was sure he had killed the Kid—which he had coming.
Now there was no more shooting behind him, no more snarls. He walked on a little farther, and then remembered a big deadfall he had seen earlier that day. Going to it, he crawled under it and lay down.
But he knew he couldn’t stay there. He must get back, find out what had happened, and get food. And he would need to build a fire somewhere, get warm water, and wash his wound. The bullet burn was one thing, but that second shot—that had really hit him. His back felt wet as he lay there. He must have passed out, for sometime later he opened his eyes and the sky was faintly gray. It was not yet daybreak, but was working up to it. Lying on his back had evidently helped to stop the flow of blood, but he must move with care. Was the bullet inside him? He felt cautiously for a bullet hole where it might have come out, and found none. Then he touched a lump pushing hard against the skin … a broken rib? He felt again.
It was the bullet… he could not feel it properly and could not see it, but he was sure it was the bullet.
Cautiously, he crawled from under the deadfall and pulled himself erect. His back was stiff, probably as much from caked blood as anything. He knelt and picked up his spare gun; then, leaning against the dead-fall, he reloaded the empty chambers.
His mind was curiously clear, but it seemed to work very slowly—too slowly. Suddenly, through the trees, he saw his mustang feeding out on the meadow near the stream. There were several horses there together, at least one of them saddled.
He worked his way through the trees until he could get a glimpse of the campsite. Nothing stirred there. He could make out objects, though not colors. The sun would be coming up in a few minutes. He waited, keeping his eyes on the campsite.
Zeke Rails … what had happened to him? It wasn’t going to be a bad thing if that grizzly had got him. A grizzly at close range was nothing to trifle with—why that one looked big enough to weigh eight, nine hundred pounds. Might save Zeb and Julie a peck of trouble, sometime, if that grizzly had gone for Zeke. He was thoroughly bad … would even kill kinfolk. Now, that wasn’t right, even in a murdering skunk like Zeke Rails. Now, that old man … the other one. If anybody made it out of this, it would be him. He was off to one side and in the dark.