Nevertheless they moved on, wanting at any cost to get out of the sand hills.
“We could wait at the foot of the hills,” Nora said, “find a place in the shade. It would be late afternoon before the sun got to us.”
“And then?” Joe’s tone was sarcastic.
The answer to that was obvious. If they waited, they would die. And if they tried for the shore, they would die.
“Answer to that is,” Harbin muttered, replying to what Badger had said, “don’t let ourselves get pinned down. We got to keep going. If they want to set on a water hole they got to fight us for it.”
The pack horse went down, struggled, and failed to get up. “Cut the pack loose,” Badger said, “and load the gold on the grulla.”
When they went on, the pack horse still lay there. But Nora knew that when the coolness of night came the horse would get up, and somehow it would get to the edge of the sea, where it would find water at one of the water holes near the shore.
The sand hill broke off sharply and before them lay the coastal plain. Now they could feel the coolness of the Gulf, though it was five miles off at this point.
“We better rest,” Badger muttered through broken lips. “We’d stand a better chance.”
Dan Rodelo drank deep of the cold water at the base of the Sierra Blanca. He drank, and drank again. He removed his shirt and bathed his chest and shoulders. And all the while he was thinking hard.
By now they might have reached the Gulf, but he thought not. Perhaps Tom Badger could have, but there was no telling about Harbin. He was impulsive, dangerous, and tyrannical. Badger would play second fiddle to Harbin, waiting for his chance.
Seated in the cool shade of the rocks near the tank, Rodelo went to work on the battered canteen. Though a bullet had gone through it, he had an idea he might plug the holes well enough to keep some water in the canteen.
The weblike skeletons of the cholla that he tried to use crumbled in his fingers. Nor could he do much with a piece of ironwood that he found. He had neither time nor patience to carve that very hard wood into the necessary shape. The result was that he cut from a sahuaro cactus a plug for each hole, then filled the canteen. A little water leaked, but as the cactus plug swelled, it leaked no longer.
Carefully, he cleaned his guns, wiping each cartridge free of dust, running a rag through the barrels, checking the action then reloading.
Finding a hidden shadowed place among the rocks, he slept again. When he awakened the sun was already high and hot. His canteen was still full; he sat on a rock and studied the way he must go.
He was, he was sure, near the southern end of the area of great dunes, and might save time in the long run by scouting south, but he did not know how far he would have to go. After considerable thought he decided to strike out across the dunes, holding to as direct a line as possible.
He was so close to the Sierra that he could not pick out any distinctive peak, but far up the side of the mountain he saw a white scar, apparently a deep cut made by run-off water. Choosing this as a means of holding his course, he took up his rifle, shouldered the canteen, and started off at a steady walk.
He continued to check the white scar on the mountain, looking back and keeping it directly behind, him, but when he had gone perhaps half a mile, he chose a peak that would be even better as a guide. The first mile was the easiest, following much of the way along the high side of a dune where the sand had packed well. He made good time—not so good as a man might make on hard ground, but not much slower.
After that it was a struggle. Soft sand that slid back, losing one step out of three. But he was familiar with shifting sand, and he chose his way with care. After about an hour of walking, he believed he had made almost two miles, and now he could smell the sea plainly.
A moment later he heard the first shot. It seemed to come from the north, and at first he was not sure that it was a shot, yet what other sound could it be in this lonely, desolate land?
He heard no more shots and kept on, adding half a mile to his distance. Sliding down one dune, he climbed another at an angle, and when he reached the top he lay down on the sand. It burned his flesh, but he lay there a moment, looking ahead. Then he took a long, comfortable drink, and moved on again.
Topping out on a high pinnacle of sand that probably was the shroud for some buried granite or lava peak, he saw the sea. The blue was still far off, beautiful in the afternoon sun and the clear air. Then he spotted them, a small cluster of dark dots on the expanse of the desert.
Between the great dunes and the shore lay flat land with good patches of galleta grass and scattered mesquite or cacti. There were patches of dry lake, bare of vegetation for the most part, and, of course, the creosote bush everywhere.
At that distance he could not make out who was who, seeing them only as several dots in a cluster. Some distance away, on all sides, were the Yaquis. They were well back out of range, it seemed, and they were just waiting.
Well, Hat was in no hurry. He had them now where he had wanted them all the while. He had them out on the flat land without much shelter from bullets and no shelter from the sun.
He could afford to wait.
Thirteen
After some searching, Rodelo saw a route to the flat by which he could not be seen by the Indians. He was quite sure they were not expecting him, but he dared take no chances. He got to lower ground, took a long pull on the canteen, and then chose the shallow wash by which some of the water from. Pinacate found its way to the sea.
He walked across several yards of flat ground to get to it, hoping that the Indians, a good mile or more away, would be too occupied with their quarry to see him. Once in the shallow wash, aware that he had little cover, he started off at a brisk walk. From time to time he heard a shot.
He knew what was happening. Hat was trying to draw fire from the surrounded group. He wanted to keep them worried, keep them from making a desperate try to break out of the trap. He also wanted them to expend their ammunition and their energy.
Dan Rodelo knew just how much of a gamble he was taking, and how slight were his chances, but the girl he loved was out there, and the gold that would prove him an honest man. Whatever his future might be, he knew he could not face the world without proving his innocence of crime … And he wanted that girl.
But there was something else. He had never backed away from a fight, once the issue had been faced, the battle joined. He could not back away from this one; and this was a fight he had to win.
He knew he was being a fool; he knew the odds were high that he was probably within a few hours, perhaps even a few minutes, of his death. He knew that even should he get Badger and Harbin out of the corner they were in, it would still mean shooting it out with them.
He followed along the wash, where the sand was still hard packed from the last rain. He was out of sight, but he believed he was some distance away: There had been no shot in several minutes, when he rounded a corner of the wash that was masked by mesquite and found himself face to face with an Indian.
The Yaqui wore a band around his head, and an old blood-stained army coat. He had been creeping up the bank when he heard Rodelo’s step.
Rodelo was holding his Winchester in both hands ready for a quick shot, but the Yaqui was so close there was no chance to fire. He jerked the end of the barrel up hard, driving for the spot where chin and throat meet. The end of the barrel struck, and the Indian’s cry was caught in a gagging, choking sound, horrible to hear. He staggered back and Rodelo followed in remorselessly, giving him a wicked smash to the head with the rifle butt driven by both hands.