Sometime during the night I had lost the rags of one moccasin. With my knife I cut off part of the leg of my pants and wrapped it about my foot, tying it with a strip of rawhide left from my buckskin shirt. For a moment I sat still, gathering my strength; then I rolled over and pushed myself up. By now they would be looking for me. How far had I come? Three miles? Five? Perhaps even ten. I had walked steadily, although not making much time, but if I had made only two miles an hour, I could be ten miles away now, and they would have to find my trail. South of me now was a wide, rough stretch of country, a place of great sandstone boulders, heaps of them, and many Joshua trees. It was a place where a man might hide. Somewhere in that vast sweep of country was where Peg-Leg used to hide his stolen horses. I broke into a stumbling run and held it for what must have been a half-mile; then I fell. Pushing myself up, I saw horse tracks. Several horses had come through here, most of them unshod. They had come through on the run several days back. Pursued by something, man or animal. Yet they might lead me to water.
My canteen was still more than half-full, so I held to my course, following the wash, which led generally east.
The mountains were on my right, but my enemies would be there also. Suddenly on my right I saw an ancient cairn. Just three rocks, one atop the other, slick with desert varnish and almost pushed over by the Joshua tree growing up beside it.
Pausing, I stared at it, my eyes blinking slowly as my fogged brain tried to make sense of it. Old … old it was, older by far than the Joshua, perhaps as old as some of the people who left chipped blades along Pinto wash, made so long ago that rivers had run in the desert.
Yet I was starting on when I saw the other, smaller rock on the side of the cairn. A rock that indicated direction, but direction for what? To what? Direction … I had no direction. Only a desire to escape, only a longing for the mountains, the cool, cool mountains. I took the direction the rock showed. A dozen steps, maybe two dozen, and then a dim trail, such a trail as only the desert-skilled could recognize, and only a few feet of it, but a direction. I followed it, found more of the trail, and stupidly happy to have found something familiar, I staggered on.
Pausing near a giant Joshua, I peered around me, blinking. Nothing, nothing yet.
But somewhere they were coming, they were looking for me. Taking a brief swallow of water, I shook my head, trying through the fog of weariness to order some thoughts. Keep to low ground, don’t let even my head show. My pursuers would have the advantage of being on horseback and could see further.
There was a chance that, feeling sure of me, they would not start at once but would breakfast first. I might have an hour, perhaps a little more. The ancient trail lay before me, no more than six inches wide, often less, but an Indian trail walked by those who put one foot down ahead of the other. Where the trail led, I had no idea, except that the direction was right. I started on, trotting now.
The morning clouds were gone, the sun was hot. Distantly I heard a shot. Had they found my trail, then? It could be, but I had left them little. Slowing to a walk, I turned down through a stand of Joshua trees and boulders, then across a small, shallow valley; then I sat down and rested again, but the rock was almost too hot for sitting, so I got up and went on. Now the old trail was more definite, and looking back, I could see no tracks or evidence of my passing. A place to hide … anything!
I stumbled on. My improvised moccasin had worn through and the other was falling apart. My mind was hazy with exhaustion. I staggered, fell again, got up again, standing on my feet, staring through the shimmering heat waves. Who was that?
Somebody … something … in the heat waves. I blinked my eyes and squinted against the glare. Somebody … an Indian?
An old Indian … or was I seeing things? I had stopped. He was an old Indian, very old. He wore a faded red shirt, open to the waist. On his head a sort of cloth band or turban. “Who … ?”
There was a flat piece of turquoise on a string around his neck. He lifted a hand and pointed to the rocks on my right. I looked, then looked back. He was gone.
Starting forward, I called out, looking around. No one … and no tracks. Of course, on this ancient trail, so worn, so hard-packed, such tracks would hardly be seen.
Suddenly I heard a distant call, then a shot. The old Indian had pointed…. I turned and ran where he had pointed, fell, got up again, and saw a crack between the boulders and went through it, worming my way into the cool darkness of a place heavily shadowed by the rocks.
There was a small tank where rainwater had collected; a few gallons remained. There was a place where ancient fires had burned, blackening the rocks. I crawled back, deeper into the shadows. From my holster I took my gun, and there I lay, waiting for them to come.
There was a rush of horses’ hooves, horses that charged by, scattered among the rocks, some riding on. After a while several riders came back. One of them said, “Now, where the hell… ?”
“Back yonder somewheres,” another said.
“Tonio,” another said, “he loco. Hears nothing! He always hearin’ something! He always claimin’ to hear something, see something! I think he hears nothing!” “I don’t think he ever got this far,” the first voice said. “I ain’t seen a track in miles, an’ he can’t be that good!”
“Seen some horse tracks back yonder,” another commented. “Wild stuff. I seen tracks a dozen times. Must be some of that bunch Ventura an’ his crowd was chasin’. He said he ran ‘em into the desert.” “Ain’t more’n five or six head.”
The voices grew fainter and passed out of hearing. I waited, clutching my gun. The place where I lay was hardly wide enough to turn around in, although right where the old fire had been there was room for two or three. It was no kind of a hideout, just a place where some Indians at some time had come to get out of the wind. The entrance crack being narrow, it was an unlikely spot, and there were a thousand like it not too far away in this vast jumble of boulders stacked into amazing piles.
Pillowing my head on my arm, I went to sleep, and it was the cold that awakened me. My arm was stiff and asleep. I shook it, pounded it to get the circulation going again, and sat up, listening.
There was no sound; all was very still. Lying back down, I went to sleep again, and when I awakened it was morning. Drinking a little water, I leaned back against the rock wall and rested, dozing.
They would be out there, waiting and watching. Maybe not within miles of where I was, but watching. This was not very far, I judged, from Stubby Spring … or Lost Horse Wells. At least, somewhere around. When night came, I would crawl out of here and start on my trek to the mountains.
There was a deep canyon west of where I lay, and if there was a trail into it-and there might be a way down from the spring-I could follow the canyon down, cut through the hills beyond by the canyon where the palms were, and then cross the valley to my friends.
Thinking of it made it sound easy; doing it would be something else. It would be a long, tough trip, and they might know about Stubby Spring and have it staked out. By that time I would need water with which to cross the country ahead of me, and I was going to get it.
If one or two men waited at Stubby Spring, we were all in trouble. I had a loaded six-shooter and twenty-four rounds in my cartridge belt, and I was in no mood for playing games. I’d been run over some of the driest, roughest country around. My feet were sore, I was worn down to a frazzle, and I was mad. If they were waiting there, it was because they intended to kill me, so they had bought cards in a rough game.