“Gracias, amigo.”
The others came outside. He had been there only a short time, but there was something between them now. They stood there together. “Vaya con dios” the senora said, and he lifted a hand to them and rode away into the night.
Yet now he was uneasy. The warmth of their quiet house remained with him, but slowly a feeling crept over him that he was followed. There was something, someone out there in the night.
He had known so little of life – a few days only, days of doubt, apprehension, worry, and fear … and what had there been before? If he was to believe what he had read, there had been a wife, a child, and then their murders. He did not know his age, but he guessed it to be somewhere in the thirties. He had founded his own company, and had been president of it while still in his twenties. And he had been a famous sportsman, a crack shot … a hunter.
Well, he was still a hunter … and hunted.
The horse he rode was a line-back dun, tough, quick, and eager for the trail – a horse that liked to travel, that liked the night. He followed the river for a time, and when he climbed up from it he saw the gleam of moonlight on the railroad tracks. There was no sound in the night except that of crickets, but twice, feeling uneasy, he drew up to listen, and once he thought he heard some unidentified sound not very far off.
If he was as dangerous as was implied, they would be wary, and they would try to trap him. If they did not try to kill him now, they must be sure of some better place ahead, some place where a trap would be easier, or where a trap had already been laid.
Did he dare try to escape? Did he dare try to ride out of the basin, turning at right angles to his course and heading for the mountains?
Ahead, he knew, there were villages, and beyond them Socorro. It was a small town but a very old one, a town with many good people and not a few outlaws. The Black Range lay off to his left, Apache-haunted, outlaw-infested, wild and beautiful … or so he had heard.
Abruptly, he turned away from the river. He walked the dun, with frequent pauses to listen, but working his way through the undergrowth toward higher ground. The mountains were a ragged edge against the sky.
His mind would not leave his predicament, but worried over it as a dog worries a bone. The name Jonas Mandrin had come to him out of some store of memory beyond his conscious awareness. Whatever lay hidden there he did not know, but names and ideas seemed to spring into his mind from that past, where memory lurked.
In such a case, might he not, in time, recover the knowledge of where the Davidge money was hidden?
Or supposing he deliberately prodded that memory by sitting down with paper and pencil and writing a list of all the possible places he could think of where it might be? If he did this, might not the actual hiding place come to mind?
Judge Niland believed that Peg Cullane knew, or thought she knew, where the money was hidden. But why had she not gone after it? Was she afraid of him, or of Ben Janish? Did she hope to have all the money for herself? It took no weighing of motives to realize that whatever happened, Peg Cullane had not planned on sharing anything with anyone.
She was like the famous courtesans of history … not a passionate woman, but one who succeeded in appearing so; one who, beneath a passionate facade, was cold and calculating. Peg Cullane was hard as nails … he must never forget that. There was not an ounce of emotion in her, nor any mercy.
By daylight he was among the cedars along the lower slopes of the mountains, following a vague cow trail. He had escaped, or believed he had escaped, whoever might be following him … yet might not that suspicion be nothing but his own fears?
In a short time he dismounted and stripped the saddle from the dun. He let the horse roll, and then allowed it to crop grass and rest. After he had scanned the country about, he chose a place near the horse and stretched out on the grass, staring up at the sky.
He was a fool to go back. He should find some spring back in the mountains and just settle down. He could stay out of sight until all this was over, and then he could go back east, find a new home there.
Yet even as he told himself these things he knew he would not do them. Fan Davidge needed help, and that was where he was going.
He awoke with a start. The sun was high, but it was not the sun that awakened him, but the dun. The line-back’s head was up, ears pricked, and it was blowing gently through its nose.
He rolled over, grabbed his rifle, and was in the brush in a plunging run … and ran squarely into them. There were three men, but his sudden charge had taken them by surprise as they were getting ready to surprise him.
His shoulder struck the nearest man, sending him careening into the second. Ruble Noon fired his Winchester from his hip, spinning the third man around, and then he was past them and into the rocks that lay beyond.
He hit the ground rolling, panting with shock and fear, and came up with his rifle. A bullet spat fragments of rock into his face, and he fired blindly, then fired again.
There was silence.
The men had disappeared into the brush, and he lay waiting for somebody to move, but nobody did.
Suddenly he heard a laugh, then after minutes had passed, a voice called out, “All right, you can stay there an’ rot. We’re takin’ your horse an’ outfit”
He said nothing, knowing they were expecting him to speak; and after a while he peered cautiously from between the rocks. He saw no one … and the dun was gone. He stayed there quietly. An hour passed … then another. He judged the time by the shadow of a pine tree on the ground near him.
At last he came out from among the rocks. A quick checking of tracks convinced him. They had pulled out, no doubt believing him wounded, and they had taken his horse, saddle, and food. He had not even a canteen … nothing.
The nearest town would be on the railroad, perhaps forty miles away, and without doubt they would be right there waiting for him.
This was Apache country, and because of recent trouble most of the prospectors or ranchers had pulled out for Socorro or for some other town. Well, there was no sense in wasting time. If he was to get out alive he would have to start moving. First of all, he must find water, and he must find a horse.
He moved into the trees, found the trace of a game trail, and started along it, carrying his rifle at trail position, but ready to move swiftly into action. He followed the slope for perhaps an hour, pausing from time to time to check the country around him. His examinations were done with extreme caution, checking every possible hiding place. From time to time he changed his route to confuse any would-be ambusher.
Those men might have left merely to draw him out of his cover, or they might believe that he must, sooner or later, come down to try to get food.
The mountainside along which he was traveling was clad in pines, a scattered growth, thickening in places to solid stands. Higher up there were aspens. At first the mountain was a series of long swells, but as he moved on, these became steeper and the slope was broken by a number of deep arroyos. One of these he followed down toward the river for some distance, then worked his way up and out of it by way of a cutback toward the slope again. It meant extra going and a loss of time, but it would make him more difficult to find.
It was very hot, and presently he put a pebble in his mouth to start the saliva flowing, and moved on. He watched for the plants that indicate the presence of water, looked for the occasional rocky hollows where water might lie in a natural tank, even through the months. He found nothing.
He kept on, sometimes running a few steps, sometimes walking a few, and pausing often to check his surroundings. He was making good time, and time was important now.
The sun declined, shadows grew in the canyons, the slopes stood stark and clear in the evening light. He could see for miles over the country below, and far away he heard the whistle of a train, and made out the almost invisible trail of smoke. He felt sure they would be down there waiting. Suddenly a shack loomed before him and he flattened against the ground, almost too late. He saw a Mexican woman, a rider near her, talking. There were a few chickens, and his eyes searched for a dog, wanting to see the inevitable dog before it saw him.