Hounding the bend, I came on a Mexican down and dead, and a little beyond him, Brodie. A glance was all I needed. Brodie was dead, too. I could hear men coming, and I ran up canyon, holding to the soft sand to make no sound. Seeing a crevice in the wall, I darted into it, pausing to catch my breath, and then went scrambling over the rocks, trying to get higher, to escape the canyon. Brodie gone! He was a good man, a damned good man.
I paused again to catch my breath. Did they know I was still around, and afoot? If they did, they could soon round me up. I checked my rifle and my cartridge belt. Then I climbed on, up the canyon, keeping to whatever cover was available. My one desire was to get away, to find a horse. Brodie gone … and what of the others? What of my old friend Jacob? He whom I had known since boyhood, who had taught me so much, who had been and still was my friend? The place where I was climbing was, during hard rains, a steep runoff for water. Soon I would top out on the ridge. Would some of them be waiting? Under some trees near the crest of the ridge I studied the situation. I had been seen, no doubt recognized. The man with the wounded leg, if he did not bleed to death, would have recognized me. They would know I was here and afoot. They would come seeking me. The horses they could afford to lose, but I was the game they had planned to hunt down and kill.
Turning to the trail, I glanced at it, disappearing among the rocks, appearing on the grass beyond. The canyon would be a trap from which there was small chance of escape. The bald hills where I now was offered no place to hide. There would be several mounted men hunting me, and I was on foot. What I needed was a change of scene. I started to run.
Often, when living with the Cahuillas, I had run with Francisco or others, run mile upon mile in all sorts of weather, over all lands of terrain. Automatically I used every device for hiding my trail, leaping from rock to rock, running along occasional fallen logs, but moving swiftly. The ancient trail had once gone somewhere, and now I hoped it would take me away, take me to a place where I could hide.
Jacob, Monte, and Hardin had the horses and would drive them back to Los Angeles or at least to a rancho where they could be held for us. They might come hunting me, but it would be better for them if they did not. Ancient men had run this trail, to trade, to visit, to attend places of worship; in war and in fear they had run where my feet now ran. Once, topping a razor-backed ridge, I paused to throw a rock on the pile. Only minutes remained to me, only minutes until they would be upon my trail, mounted and hunting. Slowing to a walk, I looked back. Nothing yet. Miss Nesselrode, Aunt Elena, Meghan … I thought of them. They were my family. Yes, Meghan, too. I had loved her. I still did.
Turning, I ran on into the bright crystal morning; I ran on into the face of the rising sun.
Behind me, the pound of hooves….
Forty-eight
Was this to be the end? Here in this high, rocky country above the desert? Had all my dreams and plans come only to this? To die here, alone, killed by my enemies? Had all the sacrifice of my father and mother brought me only to this? Yet I fled not in fear but to find a better place from which to fight. The odds were great against me-how great, I did not know. Many times before, I had run with my friends, the desert Indians. My breath came evenly and strong; the rifle was heavy, but I would need it.
A mile, another mile. Thicker, taller, rougher rocks, great crags jutting out, trails that dipped between them. Topping out on a great ridge among some rocks, I glanced back and saw them coining, single file, issuing from a narrow place. I counted six, and more followed behind.
“You want a chase,” I said aloud, “I’ll lead you one.” Running with an easy stride, I knew I could go on for miles. I also knew that although a horse was faster, a man could run a horse to death over a distance. Deliberately I turned to a route that would keep me parallel to the old track I’d been following, but one that led into much rougher terrain. Barren crags loomed above the way I chose to go, and there were no more oaks, but here and there ancient cedars and patches of cholla cactus. We were nearing the desert now, the harsh Mohave that lay off to the south, mile upon mile of the Mohave, until it merged with the Colorado desert. Now the coolness of early morning was gone and the heat was coming. Turning sharply to the right, I went down a steep slope among the cacti, crossed a wash, following it through a natural gate in the rocks, and then found what I sought, a place among the rocks and a gnarled old cedar. There was more than expected, for in a shallow pool scarcely an inch deep and a foot across was water left from a recent rain. I wet my lips, then sucked some up as I waited.
With my rifle trained on the natural rock gate, I heard them coming, slowing a little, but coming on. A rider loomed in the opening, and I squeezed off my shot My intent was not to kill, nor was it mercy that guided my bullet, but to give them a man to care for, a wounded man who would be a trouble to them. He was a good three hundred yards off when he came through the opening, and I shot for his shoulder. His body jerked with the bullet’s impact and he lurched in the saddle. I put a second shot through the opening for good measure, then went down the rocks behind me and ran off down the slope, weaving among the trees.
They were not within view of me now, for the slope fell away and they must come forward a good hundred yards to have a view of the mountainside. Unexpectedly I came upon a trail, a companion or perhaps even an extension to that which I had followed earlier.
I hesitated a moment. It led into the desert, and I had no canteen, nor, I was sure, did they. Yet I was but one, needing little water, and they were many. Would the wounded man be sent back alone? Or would he try to keep up with them? The dim track I followed led along the mountainside, dropping slowly down, yet occasionally climbing. My gait slowed to a walk. Several times I paused for brief rests, once sitting down to study the ridge above me for a way down if they chose to hold to high ground.
Also, I tried to study the desert into which I was going. At all costs, I must keep to cover or concealment. There were places where runoff from the mountains had cut deeply into the desert; at other places there were shallow washes that still offered some slight shelter behind their banks. There would be men among them who knew the desert, some who knew the country better than I, although not many of the Californios ventured into the desert regions.
Why should they? California offered all they needed, and there was no reason to come into these wilderness areas. Far into the desert I could see other mountains, bare ridges pushed up through the sand. There were springs and water holes in the desert if one knew where to find them, and I had learned from my friends the Cahuillas where they were likely to be. In the barest of rocky ridges there were often natural tanks that collected rainwater. Often in sheltered places they kept the water shaded and cool. Those tanks often held thousands of gallons. To find them was not easy, yet they were often there. Rising, I moved on along the slope. Glancing back again, I saw them cresting the ridge far behind and above me. They were scattering out now, with an idea of cutting me off from the mountains, of herding me into the desert. It was noon by the time I reached the desert’s edge. The sky was clear and blue.
It was very hot.
The men would be suffering less than I, their horses more, yet now they were thinking of what lay before them. The dim track I followed disappeared, appeared again, vanished again, but its direction was plain. It led into the desert, and those who made that trail would have needed water as much as I. Of course-and this I knew from the Indians-the climate had changed, grown drier over die centuries.