“Let him keep it,” Flint said. “He can do what he likes.”
Sulphur Tom took down a bottle and filled glasses for them. “Fill one for him, too,” Flint said.
Slowly, the boy on the floor sat up, blinking. He put his hand to his jaw, then stared around him, suddenly remembering.
“You’re wearing a gun,” Flint said coldly, “and there’s a drink on the bar for you. Take whichever one you’ve a mind to.”
Getting awkwardly to his feet, the boy turned his back on Flint and stood there for a moment, swaying uncertainly. Then he stepped over to the bar and took his drink.
When they had finished the four went out and rode away.
Sulphur Tom sacked up the supplies. “You don’t take much prodding, do you?”
Jim Flint looked around. “I’ve got an edge,” he said quietly, “because I just don’t give a damn.”
Taking up the sack, he walked outside and over to his horse. The four riders were nowhere in sight He loaded the pack and stepped into the saddle. The old mare was carrying a bit of weight, but she was in good shape, and he planned to walk a large part of the distance.
He was not at all sure that the four riders might not be watching the town to see which direction he chose.
He rode west, the great open Plains of St. Augustine on his left. Holding close to the mountain, he turned suddenly into Patterson Canyon for a short distance, then took a narrow Indian trial over the mountain to Mangas Canyon.
Several times he stopped to listen, but heard nothing. Before descending into Mangas Canyon he studied the shadowing terrain for some time. Across the canyon and tucked into a draw he saw a clump of trees and he watched it for several minutes. Then he went down the mountain, across the trail and, rounding a boulder found himself in a hollow among the pines that offered a hidden camp where his fire would not show beyond its immediate area.
He had scarcely stopped when the pains seized him and he doubled up, retching violently. He fell to his knees and stayed there, head hanging, for some time, fighting back the groans that came to his lips. When he finally got up he stripped packs and saddle from the mare. Then, putting a hackamore on her, he picketed her on the grass.
He got a small fire going and heated a can of beans. He ate them from the can, and after awhile the pains were less. He thought of New York and his life there. It seemed a far-off thing, another world.
They would be wondering what had become of him, for the two weeks of his planned absence were over. Lottie and her father would be pleased and would rush immediately to the bank. He was amused at the thought of their consternation when they discovered the true state of his affairs.
He heard the horse for several seconds before he became consciously aware of the hoofbeats on the canyon trail. He grasped his rifle and slipped back into the darkness.
Then he heard the approaching horse turn from the trail and come toward his camp. Suddenly it was there, ears pricked, just beyond the fire.
Its rider was slumped over the saddlehorn, and Flint saw that his wrists were loosely tied to the pommel.
Chapter 5
Cutting the ropes, he lifted the man from the saddle and carried him to the firelight. Then he tied the horse and returned to the man.
He was stocky, powerfully built, at least fifty, wearing a black broadcloth suit, quite dusty now, and dusty cow-country boots that had lately been polished. The inside of his coat and shirt were caked with dried blood from a wound that had bled and then bled again, but he was alive.
He ripped away the bloody shirt. A bullet had gone through the man’s side and from the look of it, could have punctured a lung. It was not until he began washing away the blood that he found a second and a third bullet hole.
The second bullet had cut through the man’s biceps and penetrated the top of his chest, emerging at the back. The third was lower down. All three wounds were on the left side.
The wounded man muttered, but no words could be distinguished. Going through his pockets Flint found a letter addressed to Ed Flynn at the Kaybar Ranch. The Kaybar. That was the ranch where Gaddis worked.
In each case the bullet had emerged at a point lower than the point of entry. Whoever had done the shooting had been above the rider, which indicated the marksman must have been lying in wait. Which might mean the marksman had been Buckdun.
The wounded man’s rifle was unfired, but his pistol had been fired four times.
Flynn had tried. He had shot back at his attacker. From the appearance of the wounds he had been shot as much as a day and a night earlier, and tied his own wrists, hoping his horse would take him back to the Kaybar.
Jim Flint removed some of the sticks from the fire, keeping only the coals to heat water. He bathed the wounds and bandaged them, then made some soup and managed to get the wounded man to take a few mouthfuls.
Twice during the night Flint heard riders pass along the Horse Springs Trail. At daybreak he fed the wounded man a little more soup, and ate some himself.
He was at least thirty miles from the Kaybar headquarters, judging by the map and, encumbered by a wounded man, the ride would take many hours. At any time he might encounter men he did not wish to see, yet he could not abandon the man. Flynn needed a kind of care and medical attention he was not equipped to give, and Flynn’s life depended on Flint.
He had gone only a few miles when he saw riders approaching. Far off there were three riders, and close by, four. And the four were the men he had seen at Horse Springs.
Flint slipped the rawhide thong from the holstered gun and eased the pistol in his waistband. There was no chance of making a run for it and he had no intention of running, anyway. They were coming up on him and it was obvious they meant to stop him. They wanted a fight or they wanted Flynn dead. One of them was returning a pair of field glasses to his saddlebags.
Boldness was the only policy now. He turned his mount and rode straight up to them.
The man he had struck, the long-haired one, was grinning widely. “You again. I been wanting to meet up with you.”
Suddenly, as clearly as if he had seen it in print, he knew they meant to kill him, and Flynn too. A cold fury washed over him suddenly, almost blinding him, and then it passed on and he was left cold, ready, dangerous.
“You’ll meet me once too often,” he replied shortly.
He stepped the mare toward them. “All right, what the hell do you want?”
His violence shocked them. They had been so sure they commanded the situation. He saw the long-haired one side-step his horse a little, and he saw the older, cooler man place a hand in proximity to his gun. Only the Mexican had made no move. He was looking at Flint with careful, waiting eyes.
“You ain’t so tough.” The long-haired one wanted to swagger a little. “We’re going to kill both you and him.”
They were talking up a killing and he did not wait for them to get ready. He shot the long-haired one through the stomach.
His draw was unexpected. They had expected him to talk, perhaps to try to talk them out of it. They were expecting words and he gave them lead. He drew and fired so swiftly it caught them flat-footed.
The man he had shot sat very still, then slid from the saddle and hit ground with a small thud.
Flint looked at them through the curl of smoke from his gun. “All right. Who’s next?”
The Mexican’s eyes were steady, but he lifted his hands to shoulder height and backed his horse a step.
The other two sat very still, looking at him. They were not afraid, nor was the Mexican, and of them all, Flint thought, the Mexican had understood most. The fallen man moaned softly, whimpering like a baby.
“I know what you’re here for, and take it from me, you’re in the wrong business. My advice to you is to get out of the country.” He gestured at the fallen man. “You can’t help him, but you can try. And after that, bury him and ride out.”
The other riders he had seen were coming, so he walked his horse away, leading Flynn’s mount The newcomers were two men and a girl. One of the men was Pete Gaddis, whom he remembered from the moment in the matchlight, the other a young Mexican.