The interest then was not cattle, but land. Land here was held by big cattle outfits, the government, or the railroad. And Baldwin had done no negotiating with the railroad.
The moon was rising, and he had not considered the moon. Living in cities, a man rarely looked at the sky.
He shouldered his pack, hung the rifle from his shoulder by its sling and, carrying the shotgun, he started out. When he was opposite the point of rock he crossed the dry water-course and bedded down among the rocks. During the night he was awakened by pain. The pain twisted his vitals and he grew weak and sick and it was a long time before it passed off, and he slept.
When he awakened again he was weak and drenched with cold sweat. He got up and built a small fire and huddled over it, shivering and chilled. The moonlight lay weirdly upon the ghostly rocks and threw eerie shadows along the sandy way where the water had gone. Off to the east the wall of the mesa lifted, towering black against the sky, and dawn came slowly from a cold sky, and he did not make coffee or eat.
The gnawing pain in his stomach stayed with him, but he got up and shouldered his pack.
He could not be far from the entrance to the hideout The wall of lava was about fifty feet high along here, huge black blocks of it, and then in places great wrinkled bulges like the skin of a sleeping elephant He walked along a few steps, stepping from rock to rock where possible and holding close to the wall for fear of missing the entrance.
There was a lot of brush, stiff, wiry, and filled with thorns, clumps of prickly pear, and a few scattered pines. He had gone only a hundred yards or so when he felt a sickness in his stomach and he paused and leaned against the rock.
He was frightened.
The last thing he wanted was to die here, where he could be found. He must disappear, vanish completely. He waited, leaning against the rock. Finally he started on again. Only now his mind was made up. If he felt himself going he would use the last of his strength to crawl out on the lava bed. It would be a long time before they found him there.
The man called Kettleman crawled down through the rocks, and lowered himself into a hollow space where water had spilled over some boulders after heavy rains, then climbed up the bank. He had gone only a mile when he looked up at the wall opposite. There was a slash of white quartz there. Somehow he had missed the opening. How he could have done so he could not imagine, but miss it he had. Turning, he retraced his steps.
Twice he rested. It was almost noon before he found it. There was no brush concealing the opening, there was no jumble of boulders right at that point. The wall of lava took a slight bend, but in the open, where there was no evidence of any kind of an entrance. Kettleman had passed the place three times, thinking he had seen everything.
The lava was cracked and split in many places, and right before him there was such a split, a crack that seemed no more than three inches wide.
Yet when he stepped back he caught a glimpse out of the corner of his eye of what appeared to be an optical illusion. He looked again. There was something wrong with the perspective in that crack. He walked slowly toward it, and when he was right up to the rock, he saw what it was. The left edge stood out almost four feet from the other side, and there was an opening that ran back into the rock parallel to the face. It seemed to go no more than six or seven feet and end in a blank wall. Yet when he stepped inside he saw that it wound back into the lava.
Turning, he went back to the edge of the opening and, standing there, he carefully surveyed the lip of the cliff opposite. For a long time he stayed there, letting his eyes rove along that lip. Only then did he move out from the rock and carefully brush away the few tracks he had made.
Returning to the opening in the wall he paused again to scan the rim of the cliff, but there was no sign of movement.
He walked into the narrow, winding crack, which steadily grew narrower and dipped down deeper and deeper. It was wide enough for a horse if the stirrups were tied up, and the overhang would prevent its being seen from above, should anyone venture out upon the lava, an extremely remote chance.
No man would venture upon the lava. Deer had been driven there by wolves, but their feet and legs became so badly lacerated they could not walk farther, and they died there.
It took him almost an hour to reach the hideout in the lava beds, and when he arrived, he stopped, deeply stirred by the beauty of the little oasis. The sides rose steeply and curved inward at the top. The area at the bottom was scarcely an acre in extent, but a small stream ran from under the rock on one side, meandered across and lost itself under the lava again.
There were several fruit trees, planted by Flint, and a patch of chia, whose seed was used as food by the Indians. Until he had looked for several minutes he did not see the cabin, for it was merely the walled-up face of a rocky overhang, the entrance shadowed by a cottonwood.
He walked slowly across the open grass toward a slit in the rock wall that apparently served as a window. He went past it and he found the door. It was a slab door, thick and strong. The man called Kettleman unlatched it and stepped inside.
The room was larger than he expected, with two bunks built against the far wall. There was a table, two chairs, hooks on the wall, and a bench with a washbasin. There was a trickle of running water from the spring, and from both the door and the window the opening into the basin could be seen, and the entire basin covered.
There was a broom.
He dusted off the bed, then dumped his own gear on it. carefully, he swept, then built a small fire and made tea. When he had his tea and some hot broth he went to the door and sat down on the stoop, looking out over the hollow.
This was the place. It was here he was going to die.
Chapter 4
The man called Kettleman sat on the step of the rock house and looked out over the shadowing acres of green. He listened to the wind in the pines, and smelled the freshness of the high, cool air. Something stirred deep within him, something forgotten.
He had followed the lone trails, the ancient trails, the silent and mysterious trails with Flint. Wherever that strange and silent man wished to go, he seemed to know a hidden way to travel. For days on end they had ridden without speaking, their campfires surrounded by a vast and empty stillness.
He remembered the pungent smell of cedar, the smokiness of damp wood, the crisp crackle of pine, the deep red glow of dying fires, the sound of wind in the mesquite. How many fires had he fed with wood or buffalo chips? He had traveled the far rim of civilization, moving like a ghost across lands known only to roaming Indians.
Three years. Never once had Flint told him what they were about. Always he was left far behind to care for their horses and wait. Suddenly then, Flint would ride up and they would shift saddles and be gone again.
For Flint never directed his steps toward the saloons and gambling houses. After the jobs he did they would ride away into the wildest, most remote country, and then, sometimes, Flint would talk for long hours of the desert, the mountains, of how to survive under all conditions and how to live.
Kettleman got slowly to his feet and walked down to the water. He stood there, watching it chuckling over the stones. The gnawing in his stomach was always there now. There was but little time left.
Yet already some of the quietness of this place was seeping into him. The tension was going out of him, his muscles were mysteriously relaxing.
It was long after the stars came out before he slept, and then for a time he was dreamless, but he awakened, and sat up in the chill night and lighted his pipe. He walked to the door, and the air felt strangely damp, the stars very clear. He listened into the night, but heard no sound.