Suddenly, high up on the mountain, there was a shot.
A voice spoke so close we both jumped in our skins. “Now what the hell was that?”
Galloway and me froze where we stood. The speaker couldn’t be much more than twenty feet off from us.
“Do you s’pose one of them slipped out?” another man said.
“Naw! That’s gotta be somebody else. Huntin’, maybe.”
“In this rain?”
We eased up a step, then another. In a sheltered place in the lee of a rock stood two of the Fetchen outfit. I knew neither one of them by name, but I had seen them both before. In front of them was a grassy slope that fell gradually away for about fifty feet, then dropped off sharply. The two stood there, their rifles leaning against the rock wall, well to one side, and out of the wet. They were sheltered by the overhang, but could watch a good distance up and down the canyon. One man was rolling a cigarette, the other had a half-eaten sandwich in his hand.
Taking a long step forward, rifle leveled, I turned squarely around to face them. Galloway stepped up beside me, but several feet to my right. One of them noticed some shadow of movement or heard some sound and started to turn his head.
“Just you all hold it right where you stand,” I said. “We got itchy fingers, and we don’t mind burying a couple of you if need be.”
Neither of them was in shape to reach for a gun fast, and they stood there looking mighty foolish. “Go up to ’em, Galloway,” I said, “and take their hardware. No use tempting these boys into error.”
Galloway went around behind them, careful to keep from getting between my rifle and them. He slipped their guns from the holsters, and gathered their rifles. Then we backed them into the full shelter of the slight overhang and tied them hand and foot.
“You boys set quiet now. If any of the Fetchens are alive when this is over, they can come and turn you loose. But if we should happen to see you again, and not tied – why, we’d just naturally have to go to shootin’.”
“If I ever see you two again,” one of them said, “I’ll be shootin’ some my own self!”
So we left them there, scouted around, found their horses, and turned them loose. Then we went on up the mountain, careful-like. It wasn’t going to be that easy again, and we knew it.
Suddenly, from up the mountain there came another rifle shot, and then a scream of mortal agony. And then there was silence.
“What’s going on up there, Flagan?” Galloway said. “We got somebody on our side we don’t know about?”
He pointed up the hill. Three men were working their way down the hill toward us, but their attention was concentrated on whatever lay behind them. Once one of them lifted his rifle to fire, then lowered it, as if his target had vanished.
Again he lifted his rifle, and as he did so I put my rifle butt to my shoulder. If we had a helper up yonder he was going to find out it worked both ways.
“Hold your fire!” someone called.
It was Colby Rafin, and with him was Norton Vance and two other men. They had us covered, and were close upon us.
This was no time to be taken prisoner, so I just triggered my shot and spun around on them. Galloway knew I wasn’t going to be taken, and he hadn’t waited. He had his rifle at his hip and he fired from there. It was point-blank range and right into the belly of Norton Vance.
He snapped back as if he’d been rammed with a fence post, then sat down and rolled over, both hands clutching his midsection.
A bullet whipped by my ear, burning it a little, but I was firing as fast as I could lever the shots. I missed a couple even at that range, for I was firing fast into the lot of them with no aim, and I was moving so as to give them no target, but I scored, too.
I’d shot at Rafin and missed him, the bullet taking the man who stood behind and to his right, and Rafin dived into the brush with lead spattering all around him. As soon as Colby Rafin got turned around he’d have us dead to rights, so we scrambled out of there and into the brush.
We moved in further, then lay still, listening.
For a time we heard no sound. Then behind us we heard a groan, and somebody called for Rafin, but he wasn’t getting any answer.
We moved on, angling up the hill toward the edge of the pass. Then a burst of firing sounded below us where we’d left the rest of our party, and we stopped to look back down the hill. We could see nothing from where we were, but the firing continued. It made a body want to turn and go back, but what we had to do was what we’d started to do.
They hit us just as we started to go on. During those distracting moments, few as they were, they had somehow moved down on us, and they weren’t asking questions. They just opened fire.
A bullet caught me on the leg and it buckled, probably saving my life, for there was a whipping of bullets all around me, and another one turned me sideways. I felt myself falling and tucked my shoulder under so I could roll with it, and I went over twice on the slope before I stopped.
What had happened to Galloway, I didn’t know. I did know that I’d been hit hard, and more than once, and unless I moved from where I was I’d be dead within minutes. Somehow I’d clung to my rifle – I’d needed to hang onto something. Now I began to inch my way along the steepening face before me.
Instinctively, for I surely can’t claim to much thinking just then, hurting the way I was, I worked back toward those hunting me. They would be off to my right, I was sure, and would think I’d try to get away, which was the smart and sensible thing. But I wanted to stay within shooting distance at any cost, and my best chances of getting away free would be to work right close to them.
But then I almost passed out. For a moment there consciousness faded, and when I snapped out of it I knew I couldn’t risk that again. I had to find a place to hole up.
Crawling on, I’d gone no more than a dozen feet before I saw what I wanted, maybe sixty feet further along. It was at a steep place on the mountainside where a boulder had jarred loose and tumbled off down the slope into the pass below, leaving a great empty socket overgrown by brush that had once hung over the boulder. If I could only get into that hollow …
Hours later I awakened, shaking with chill. I was curled up in that hollow and I still had my rifle. I had no memory of getting there, no idea how long it had taken me. It was nighttime now, and I was cold and hungry, and hurt.
There was room to sit up. Easing myself around, I touched my leg gingerly, feeling for the wound. One bullet had gone through my leg about five or six inches above the knee and had come out on the other side.
In here I had a hole about six feet either way, and though it was raining outside it was snug and dry here. The branches in front hung almost to the ground and, breaking off some of those on the underside, I wove them into a tighter screen. There was some bark and dry wood around the base of the tree back of the hole, but I didn’t want to chance a fire.
Try as I might, there was just no way I could get comfortable. Hour after hour I lay there, huddled in the cold and the damp, trying to see my way out of this trouble. Come daylight, those Fetchen boys would be hunting my hide, and unless the rain washed out the mess of tracks I must have laid down by crawling and losing blood, they’d have me for sure.
The night and the rain are often friendly things to fugitives, but it gave me small comfort to sit there with my teeth rattling like ghost bones in a hardwood cupboard, and a gnawing pain in my thigh and another in my side.
After a time I dug out a mite more of dirt with my hands, made a hollow for my hipbone, and snuggled down on my unwounded side. I must have slept then, and when I woke up it was still dark but there was no rain – only a few drops falling from leaves. I felt that I was living on short time.