“What about water?” Harbin asked. “On the bay, I mean?”
Dan Rodelo smiled at him. “Why, there’s several springs down there … or water holes of some kind. Some of them are fresh water, some aren’t. If you get there before I do, you just sit and wait. I’ll be along to show you where the water is.”
“What about you?”
“Me? I’ll be riding north along the western line of Pinacate for a few miles. I’ll just come back here for water. I won’t need much.”
He turned in the saddle and glanced toward the fire. Nora’s back was turned toward him.
“Adios!” he called, and rode away.
Joe Harbin was grinning. Badger looked at him suspiciously. “What’s so funny?”
“Him … he said he’d come back here for water. When he gets back there’s not going to be any left.”
“You’d dry it up?”
“The horses wil take most of it. What we can’t take we’ll just dry up. I think we’ve seen the last of Dan Rodelo.”
Tom Badger looked thoughtfully after the vanishing rider. “Yeah,” he said doubtfully, “it looks that way.”
Nora, standing by the fire, was shading her eyes toward the west, watching him go.
Eleven
Rodelo rode west, and then north. And from the moment of leaving the water hole he believed he was followed. Of course, that might simply come from the feeling the desert could give. At the same time, he had the sensation of being almost naked, exposed to view from all sides.
He rode with his Winchester in his hand, his eyes never ceasing their movement, studying every corner and crack in the lava, studying the ground for tracks.
The first sign was scarcely a track. A piece of black rock no larger than his fist had been knocked from its usual resting place. The desert rocks wear desert polish on their surface, that patina or finish applied to exposed rock by the desert sun, the wind, the rain, and the blown sand, and perhaps by chemical actions within itself.
This rock showed that it had been turned on its side, and what had been the top was now half buried in the sand. A man or an animal, leaping from rock to rock, might have dragged his toe at that point. It was an indication that something had passed by there, and therefore it was a warning.
Rodelo rode warily through a clump of cholla, paused briefly in the partial shadow of a giant sahuaro, then moved out. The point for which he was heading was not far off.
By now Badger, Harbin, and Nora would be starting into the sand hills. There a walking man could sink halfway to his knees at every step, or slide back one step for every two steps forward. A horse could sink in to its belly if it was carrying a rider. Once in the sand dunes, they would lose sight of Pinacate, their only landmark. From time to time they might see it, but unless they were especially careful they could spend time and effort struggling against the sand in the wrong direction. To maintain a true course there would be a part of the difficulty.
Now he saw, off to his right and close against the base of the mountain, a clump of mesquite—perhaps eight or ten good-sized trees—and a sahuaro and some cholla grew nearby. The clump of mesquite would be an ideal place to leave his grulla.
The mouse-colored horse was in better shape than the others. In any event he was a good horse, a mustang born to desert and mountains, used to getting along on sparse water and the indifferent forage supplied by the desert. That horse was Dan Rodelo’s ace in the hole, for he knew that when the chips were down the mustang would stand up long after the strength of the other horses had failed. This it was that would save him from the desert.
Once among the mesquite, he stepped down from the saddle and tied the grulla. The horse would feed off the green leaves and the beans while he was gone. Taking his rifle, he left the cluster of mesquite and scrambled up the steep side of the mountain toward the notch.
A few hundred yards off, a Yaqui drew up and watched for a moment. Then he slid off his horse, tied it, and started up a game trail. He had known where the trail was, and had waited to see if Rodelo planned what he expected, and then he took his own route to the top. Following a trail known to him, he could move faster and more easily than the white man.
The Indian’s dark eyes gleamed wtih anticipation … this was the one with the boots that Hat had spoken of. He was also the one who knew the water holes and who was a great warrior. To bring his body back and to claim the reward would be something to boast of in the lodges of his people.
He had no doubt about it—the white man was climbing to his death.
When Dan Rodelo reached the notch, he found it in no way extraordinary. He saw a game trail coming in from the south that would have made his climb easier had he known of it. There was some cholla there at the notch, a half-dead palo verde, and some flimsy skeletons of dead cacti.
Gathering these together with some dead burro bush and a few fragments of the palo verde, he struck a match. The slight wind puffed it out. He stood his Winchester against a rock and dug for another match. Crouching, he turned his head and searched the rocks carefully. He was in a sort of basin formed by the notch. On the east he could catch a glimpse of the chaos of lava below the mountain, on the left were the dunes; and far off, the shimmer of sunlight on the Gulf. He felt uneasy, but he bunched his kindling and was about to strike the second match.
Behind him something brushed faintly on rock. Turning, as if to pick up another stick, he glanced over his shoulder. A lizard lay upon the flat surface of a rock, its little sides panting. He watched it a moment without moving. Had the lizard made the sound? Suddenly, its head went up and it was gone like a streak across the sand.
First, the smoke. His ears pricked for the slightest sound, he struck the match and touched it to the dead leaves and branches. A thin tendril of smoke started to rise. He added more fuel, and then, at a whisper of sound behind him, he threw himself to one side.
The Yaqui landed on the balls of his feet where a moment before Rodelo had crouched. Instantly, Rodelo kicked out with both feet, staggering the Indian. Springing up, he was ready when the Indian turned on him and sprang in with knife held low.
Dan slapped the knife wrist aside, grasped it with his other hand and, thrusting a leg across in front of the Indian, broke him over it to the ground, twisting the knife from his grip. The knife fell to the sand and the Indian, slippery as a snake, slid from his grasp and was up. Rodelo feinted as the Indian lunged, and sent a right at him coming in.
The Indian stopped in mid-stride, and Dan, too anxious, missed his punch and fell against him. Both went to the ground. The Yaqui was quicker, whipping over Dan and thrusting a forearm across his throat.
Rodelo was down on his back, the arm across his throat, when the Indian reached for a grip on his throat with the other hand. Dan swung his feet high and caught both heels across the warrior’s face, raking him with a spur and bending him backwards off his body. Dan came up, gasping for breath, his throat bruised.
The Yaqui squirmed away, then leaped up, blood running from his face, gashed by the spur. He circled warily, swept up his knife, and lunged at Dan again, who threw himself aside, tripping the Indian. The Yaqui came up again, thrust with the knife and ripped Dan’s sleeve. Then Dan moved in, watching his chance. He dared not use his gun, for there might be other Indians near. His own knife was at his belt, a thong around it. His hand went to the knife, reaching for the thong.
A swift slash with the Yaqui’s knife ripped Dan’s shirt across the front and he felt the sting of the cut across his hard-muscled stomach. But the slash with the knife had swung the Indian around, and Dan kicked him on the knee. Before he could recover, Rodelo rushed in, heaved him bodily from the ground, and threw him into a patch of cholla.
The Indian screamed, and struggled to get free, but with each movement he picked up more joints of cholla. His struggling only served to get him into a worse condition. Rodelo backed off and picked up his rifle.