Marriott could do his own tracking, and he had come to the same conclusion. He was hoping that man was Callaghen… and he was alive.
“South?” Haswell puckered his forehead at Marriott’s suggestion. “Ain’t nothin’ off south. I ain’t been yonder, but they tell me it’s a wild country.”
Marriott was wary, but with scouts out, they started south. Haswell rode back after a few miles. “Somebody else follerin’ ’em,” he said, “and he’s poorly off.”
“You mean he’s been hurt?”
“Yes, sir. I figure he was hurt in that fight, but got away, and then he took after ’em. He’s holdin’ on, but we better keep a good lookout to right and left. He may crawl off en the trail somewheres.”
They found him before an hour had passed, almost at the end of the long western ridge running off from Table Mountain. It was Jason Stick-Walker, the Delaware, and he had been wounded and had lost blood, and had treated and bound up the wound himself.
After a drink of water, and one of whiskey, he told them about the attack, and also said that he had seen the dust of other riders crossing the basin.
“Callaghen’s after them. I trailed him to where he crossed this ridge heading south. He was afoot.”
Marriott was trotting his troop when they reached the hole in the mountain and the body of Kurt Wylie. “Gun battle,” Haswell said. “Wylie had his gun out, but he surely came in second.”
“One less,” the Delaware said.
CHAPTER 23
Champion hunkered down in the cool shade of a cedar. He dug in his pocket for his tobacco, eyed it critically, then brushing off a few crumbs of dirt, he bit off a sizable chew.
If those damn fools kept climbing up among those rocks, Callaghen was going to kill one or two of them. It made no sense for him to be one of the pursuers. He had suggested a flanking movement, but that was to get off on his own. He trusted his own judgment, but not that of the others.
He looked up at the cliff towering above him. It was almighty steep, but he had a hunch that Callaghen would try for the top. Callaghen was a knowing man, and canny.
Once you knew the kind of man you were hunting, you knew where to look for him. Callaghen would head for the top, and the toppest top around was yonder between those two shoulders of rock. And he would send the womenfolks first, with maybe that kid soldier. He himself would stay behind to stand off Bolin and them.
Champion took another look at the cliff, and started up. What a man wouldn’t do for a woman, especially a white woman! They wouldn’t last like a squaw would, but for a few weeks he’d have things his own way. He kept on up the cliff.
It took an hour of climbing and scouting to locate them. They had themselves a little hideout among the cedars and rocks, and the black horse was with them. He squatted down among the cedars and sized up the situation. No sign of either Beamis or Callaghen… which didn’t mean they weren’t around. From time to time a shot told him that the ones down below were still fighting.
Getting off the mesa would be the worst part, but afoot he could do it. Seemed a shame to leave that fine a horse, but it might still be here if he came back a few months from now.
He moved off through the cedars, assured himself that the men were not around, and then, gun in hand, he came out of the trees. “Well, now.” He spoke in a moderate tone. “Seems like I’ve found me some womenfolks, alone, and without no ess-cort.”
They looked at him from a dozen feet away. Both were tired, but both were wary, and neither one was frightened. Got to watch these two, he told himself. They ain’t scared, and they’re both thinkin’.
“You gals come thisaway an’ come steady. Don’t try nothin’ fancy, because if I have to kill one of you I’ll just naturally kill both. You figure iffen you’re thinkin’ to make a try, that you might kill your friend as well as yourself.”
Neither one moved. “Come!” he said sharply. “Come steady!”
They stood still. Both had realized that it was the thing to do; they doubted he would shoot them where they stood.
Malinda remembered something Callaghen had once said to her. “Don’t go with anybody who has a gun on you. A person of criminal mind just wants to get you away from help where he can do what he wants without interference. Wherever you are, you are usually safer than where he would take you.”
“I couldn’t walk another step,” Malinda replied calmly. “I’ve just climbed all the mountains I am going to. Besides, I haven’t had time to enjoy this place.”
He looked at her, admiring her in spite of himself. She’d be the one to watch. Turn his back and she’d have a knife in his ribs. He chuckled. “Ma’am, I like your spunk, but you’re surely goin’ to walk.”
He stepped out and walked toward them. “You walk, else I’ll bat one of you right across the skull.”
A moment they hesitated, then started to move. At that instant Beamis appeared. “Hey! What’s this?” He shouted.
Champion spun and fired from the hip. The rifle bullet hit Beamis and turned him half around, his own shot going wild.
Champion swung back. The women were gone! Cursing, he scanned the cedars and rocks with a quick, overall glance. “You git out here!” he shouted. “Or when I find you I’ll whup the livin’ tar out of you!”
The sand told its story. One look at the tracks and he turned into the brush, swearing as he went. Suddenly from down the mountain there was a tremendous roar and a crash, and then silence. Dust rose over the edge of the mesa.
Callaghen heard shooting from the top of the mesa, two quick shots within seconds of each other. He straightened up, fired two shots downhill, and turning, ran from the opening into which Beamis had disappeared some moments before. Through the hole, he turned quickly to see if pursuit was close. His hand touched the wall and sand trickled from under it.
Glancing up, he saw a huge boulder anchored in the side of the cliff. The sand had trickled away from beneath it, and only a few rocks seemed to hold it in place. Such a boulder could hang so, sometimes for years, until rain or wind supplied the necessary push and down it came.
Standing back, he smashed at the bank’s face, knocking out great chunks of dirt and rock. The boulder gave a lurch; he started to stab at it again, and jumped back, barely in time.
The boulder slid a couple of feet, hung a moment precariously, then fell. Tons of earth and debris followed it. Turning, he ran up the trail.
What had fallen would stop them only for the time being, and in the meanwhile “Hold it!”
He spun sharply around. They were there, three of them. He had not stopped them at all. By crawling among the rocks, they had already gotten around him. And they were boxing him on three sides. There wasn’t a chance.
“Private Spencer!”His voice rang with command. “If that man” he pointed a finger at one of the strangers who stood on his left “if that man moves a muscle, kill him!”
“Yes, sir!” Spencer’s rifle came into position.
“Hey! You damn fool!” Barber yelled. “It’s himwe’re after! Turn that gun around.”
“Private Spencer,” Callaghen said, and his voice was cool. “As far as I am concerned, you are not a deserter. You have been on a scout under my orders. Bring this off as you should and I’ll see you are made corporal.”
“You damn fool!” Bolin shouted to Spencer. “Whose side are you on, anyway?”
Spencer’s thinking was slow. He did not like these men very much. He’d had it rougher than in the army, and had been eating less. They’d paid him no mind, and they didn’t seem to care very much about him.
Sergeant Callaghen was a man all the soldiers liked. He was a square-shooter and he’d recommend him for corporal! Spencer had never had any recognition in his twenty-odd years of life, and this was it.
“Yes, sir,” he said, “I been on a scout. You sent me.”
“Why, you !”
Bolin’s rifle was in his left hand, but at the moment of decision, he went for the pistol. His anger was toward Spencer, but his target should be Callaghen, and in a moment when the greatest concentration was essential he was for an instant without focus. Something struck him hard in the wind as he made his decision, something that struck, and then seared like a branding iron laid across his belly.