The clouds were low, the light still dim, and there were no landmarks visible. Fisher’s Peak or the Spanish Peaks would have given him direction, but they were out of sight behind the clouds. Yet there was something he could go by.
Leaning on his staff in the partial shelter of a tree, he furrowed his brow against the throbbing in his skull, and thought of the Purgatoire, called by cattlemen the Picketwire. It lay ahead of him, crossing his line of travel had he been with the herd. The creeks in this area flowed north into the Picketwire, so the nearby creek would be flowing north, or in that general direction. To reach Trinidad he must turn at right angles to the flow of the creek and keep it at his back, and so go west.
Nobody would be looking for him. Williams had everything to gain and nothing to lose if Chantry never turned up again, or if he failed to be riding with the herd when it reached the railhead.
His body was chilled through, but he started on weaving a slow way among the trees. He managed a dozen steps before he stopped, then another ten. Ahead of him he could see the bank that marked the edge of the river bottom; once he climbed that bank he would be in the open, without any shelter at all.
Yet he could be no wetter than he now was, and not much colder. His only hope lay in keeping moving. Ten steps … then five. The buckskin on his feet would not last long. There was one thing to be thankful for: no Indian was fool enough to be out in the rain.
He came to the small bluff that marked the river bottom, and blinking his eyes in the rain, he looked for a path, and found it. Slowly, slipping and tugging at his staff, he climbed the bank.
Now for the first time he felt the wind. It went through him with icy fingers, probing at his strength. Clinging to the staff, he plodded on, turning occasionally to be sure the line of trees was at his back.
He thought of what had happened. Who had shot him? An Indian? French Williams? One of the Talrims? Or perhaps some stranger who needed a horse? No matter. There would be time to think about that when he was warm again, and when he had eaten.
Warm? Would he ever be warm again?
He hobbled westward, depending on his staff,
and pausing every few steps to ease the pain in his feet. The ground was muddy from the rain, and he had to stop often to shake the mud from his foot coverings.
When he had gone scarcely a mile he found another creek bed and descended into it, pushing through the brush. He scooped up water and drank, then crossed on scattered stones and climbed the far bank.
Every step now was agony, but he plodded on simply because he knew he must not stop. He had thought at moments of giving up, he had thought of surrendering to whatever ill fate awaited him, but it had never really been in him to do so. Somewhere beyond the muddy plain across which he was slogging lay Destination, a place where there was food and warmth, a solution to his immediate problem.
When he fell down again it was at the edge of some trees. He had come to another creek, and the water still ran north, so he was on the right track. He got up and stumbled to the flat ground under the trees, and here he found the remains of an old campfire.
He searched the ground for something useful, perhaps a broken knife blade, something for a weapon. But what he finally found was a shelter, a lean-to, tightly made and with dry leaves and grass on the ground inside. He fell to his knees, rolled over, and slept.
Words awoke him. He did not open his eyes, for he heard the first words spoken.
“Leave him be, Sarah. He’s as good as dead, can’t you see?”
“And if he doesn’t die?”
“But he will!”
“I’m going to make sure that he does,
Paul. I did not come this far to have anything else happen. I want him dead. I want French to have those cattle … then there’ll be just one man.”
“Is it worth it? There are only about two thousand head, Sarah.”
“And in Dodge they are worth ten thousand dollars with the outfit.”
“Ten thousand? You will have to pay the hands.”
“You talk like a fool, Paul. Let me have
your gun.”
“My gun? Why?”
“Because I am going to kill him with it. Then I
am going to put the gun in his hand and when he is found they will think he shot himself because of the hopeless situation he was in.”
The words of this creature called
Sarah came to him clearly and plainly. He was to be murdered, for some reason he did not know. He was not sure whether he could move or not, but he was about to try when Paul spoke again.
“Let’s make a fire and have some coffee. I’m cold, Sarah. We can take care of him any time. He isn’t going anywhere.”
They moved off under a tree and the man built a fire. When they had coffee on and both were sitting down, Tom Chantry lifted his head. The sleep and the emergency had brought clearness to his mind. He looked around cautiously.
Their horses were over there, sixty or seventy yards off.
He eased slowly to his elbows and began to crawl. Moving with infinite care, he made no noise on the sodden ground. Out of the lean-to … behind a tree … then angling off to come at the horses from the other side.
There was talk between the two at the fire, the smell of coffee … He reached the horses, pulled himself up. He got to the brush where they were tied, pulled the loose end of the slipknot, and holding the reins, he grabbed for the pommel. The horse side-stepped away from the smell of him and he fell against the saddle.
He heard an exclamation and made a wild grab for the pommel and caught it. The horse jumped and started to run as his foot reached the stirrup. He fell into the saddle, and then the horse was running and somebody was shooting.
Chapter 10
The horse was a good one, a fast starter, probably somebody’s cutting horse. Now it was frightened, and it lunged into a dead run at the first jump. It went through the trees like a jack rabbit, hit the slope, and was up it and topped out on the bank beyond before Chantry could get settled in the saddle.
He took one quick look around and headed the horse westward, where it seemed inclined to go anyway. For half a mile he simply let it run, then eased it down to a trot, held for another half-mile, then a walk and a trot again.
There was no trail that he could make out in the darkness, but he was heading for Trinidad and, weak as he was, he knew nothing under heaven was going to get him off that horse until he reached the town.
It was nothing much when he got there. A few cabins, a scattering of houses and corrals, a few haystacks, and then a saloon or two, a two-story building with a sign that said HOTEL, and a restaurant beyond. A few other places of business were all closed and dark. The street itself was empty.
Still short of the lights he pulled up and swung down, hit the borrowed horse a slap across the rump, and went up the steps and into the hotel.
There were three men in the room. A man wearing a green eye-shade and sleeve garters shuffled and dealt cards at a table alone; another man was behind a desk, and a third sat behind a newspaper at one side of the room.
They all looked up and stared at him. He was sodden with rain. His feet squished as he walked across the floor, leaving mud and water behind him. His hair streaked down over his head, and his cheeks were haggard. The wound on his scalp had reopened and bled.
“I want a room,” he said hoarsely, “a room and some food.”
“Mister,” the clerk protested, “you comin’ here like this! You got money to pay for it?”
“I am owner of the herd French Williams just drove through. I was dry-gulched and left for dead. I need that room, mister, and I can pay for it.
What I don’t need is an argument.”
“Now, see here—“
Anger gave him strength, anger and a
desperate impatience, for he felt that at any moment he might fall on his face. He reached across the desk and took a handful of the clerk’s shirt. “Give me that room—and no more argument!”