Overhead a buzzard swung in lazy, expectant circles. The horses made little sound as they walked through the water, and I could see nothing, wherever I looked. Used as I was to being alone, I found a longing in me for somebody to help me watch out … I was up against too much, and unless I had more luck than I could expect, my time was short.
A flash of sunlight on a rifle barrel warned me, and I ducked and jumped my horse with a touch of the spur. I heard the wicked slap of a bullet against the rock wall, and then the echo ringing along the canyon. Almost without willing it, my eyes had turned toward where the shot struck, and I saw a white scar on the face of the rock, not over four feet above the water, so whoever had shot was up on the mountain opposite.
Just as I was searching for the spot from which he’d fired, he raised up to shoot again. It was a far piece for a pistol, so I simply held my fire and pushed my horses toward the shoulder of the rock. As I did so, an Indian suddenly showed on the bank of the stream not twenty feet off.
The soft echoes of my splashing had misled him as to where I was, and he came out of the brush with his eyes pointing about twenty feet behind me, and by the time he could swing them into focus it was too late. I shot across my body at him, and saw the bullet drill his chest He raised up to his tiptoes, then fell splash into the water. And then I was around the corner and going up Wet Bottom as fast as I could make it.
When I reached the trail crossing at Bull Spring Canyon I turned left and went up the canyon with both horses going all out. About a hundred yards up I slowed down, not wanting to kill the horses, and when I reached the top of the mesa the trail branched. I’d been waiting for that, figuring they might have a man at Bull Spring where the trail split.
They had one there, all right. They had three. I’d been walking my horse, and we made no sound on the deep pine needles along there. Just as I sighted them I gave him a touch of the spur and went into the three of them as if I’d been shot from a gun.
My horse staggered, but he kept his feet, but one of theirs went down, and I shot point-blank into one of the men. I felt a bullet burn my shoulder and almost dropped my gun … almost.
We swung right, ducked into the rocks and legged it for the rim of the canyon, which gave me shelter just in time to hear a couple of bullets going overhead. That burn was more than a surface burn, because I could feel blood inside my shirt, and I swore like an Irish gandy-dancer at the knowledge that they’d winged me again.
Then other shots rang out and I felt my horse going under me, and I jumped free just in time. I could hear hoofs pounding the trail from both directions, and I had only time to grab my rifle and hit the rocks before they came sweeping around the bend.
Well, they ran into trouble.
There I was, belly down in the tall grass and rocks, with cactus to left and right of me, and a good Winchester. I poured it to them. They had come asking for it and I shot as fast as I could throw them, and then I grabbed my six-shooter and dusted them off with that.
They broke and ran, with one man down and a horse running free, and another man swearing a blue streak and hanging to his saddle-horn with both hands. His back was bloody. That fellow down on the sand wasn’t even twitching.
In the moment I had, I made a dive for that horse. I came out with three rifles and belts. I picked up, and I sprinted for deeper cover among the rocks and felt the whip of a bullet past my face.
Well, those boys wanted me, and they were being paid fighting wages. If they were going to be paid for it, they might as well earn it.
I settled down and studied the land. They could come at me from two ways, and either way was going to be mighty uncomfortable.
Oh, they had me, all right. They had me up the creek without a paddle, but when they salted my hide I’d have plenty of company.
They couldn’t come at me very easy, but I had an idea they’d try to get on the canyon wall above me. Come night-time, I was going to have to squeeze out of there, somehow or other.
An hour passed, and then another. The sun was hot and I was glad that soon I was going to be on the shadowed side of that cliff. But when it became dark I wasn’t going to be able to see them closing in, so they were in no hurry.
Nobody moved … a cicada sang in the brush … that buzzard was keeping track of me, for I saw his shadow as he swept overhead. I checked my rifles, reloaded the shells I’d fired, then checked my six-shooter.
The furrow that had been laid in my shoulder was shallow, and it had stopped bleeding. My mouth was dry and I wished for a drink, but my canteen was back there on my horse. The thought came to me of a sudden that I might never get another drink of water. They really had me pinned down now, right back up against Bullfrog Ridge, with the river facing me but a good half-mile or more away.
Suddenly a bullet hit the rock above me, whipping by my head with a nasty whine. And then I was really scared.
This was a trick the soldiers had used on the Apaches in the cave not far from here. They couldn’t get at the Indians, so they shot against the back wall … ricochets can tear a man up something awful, and I had talked to men who saw what was in that cave afterwards.
I hunted myself a hole, found a narrow crack in the rocks, and squeezed in.
For the next half-hour there was lead and rock chips flying every which way, and if they had come with a rush then they’d have had me sure. I couldn’t have gotten out in time to stand them off, but they didn’t know that.
Dust got in my eyes, and several times I was stung by chips of flying rock, but no bullet reached me. The way I was squeezed in there, it would have been a miracle if I had been shot, and after a while they gave up. I scrambled out of the hole, and studied the place down there toward the river bank where they’d been shooting from. Seeing nothing of them, I fired a shot to show them I was still around.
Twilight came, and in the desert country there is mighty little of that. Stars started to show up, and I hunted a place to hide. This was going to be the showdown, I could feel it in my bones. They had me treed, and there was just no way out. Judging by the shooting, there’d been a dozen or more men down there. I thought of my horses – the horse I rode was down, and the pack horse had run off a little way, but he might as well have been ten miles off.
The desert air was clear and I could hear the men talking as the night drew on. I could smell the smoke of their fire, and thought I could even smell bacon frying and coffee. It made my stomach growl, for I’d eaten nothing since the night before.
The more I thought of that grab the more I wanted some. They had me, all right, but I might as well die with a full stomach. Maybe I should go down there, Injun up on them and walk in shooting. I’d get a full stomach all right … full of lead.
Just after full dark a rider came in. I heard their greetings. Heard him say “… one hell of a fight. I don’t know where those two came from, but when they were called on they delivered.”
“Where was it?”
“Solomonville. Dodie Allen went into this place with Pete Ryland and Collins. They weren’t hunting trouble, but you know how Dodie is. Just because his uncle’s a big cattleman, he thinks he is too. Or he thought he was.”
“Dead?”
“You ain’t a-woofin’. Why, he no more’n picked trouble with those two than he was dead.”