Nothing…
For several minutes I waited, and then I turned myself around and fell into a chair, back to the wall, looking at my bunk.
Somebody had picked the dried clay from the cracks between the logs, using a stick or a knife blade, perhaps, and then had thrust the muzzle through. Had I remained lying where I’d been, I would now be dead, for that bullet would have taken me right through the skull.
Again I got up, peering from the windows, but there was nothing to see. That faint, first sound I had heard was probably the dried mud falling to the ground, striking against a rock or something.
Whoever had tried to kill me had been in this cabin. Whoever had tried had known exactly where the bed was, exactly where my head would be laying on the pillow. He had known exactly the spot at which to pick away the plaster. Whoever it was wanted to kill me. Not just a cowhand who happened to trail a horse thief, but me, a particular person. It might be one of the Balch and Saddler outfit. For there was no doubt that my presence among the Stirrup-Iron riders stiffened their backs, and my death would weaken them considerably. I limped along the wall. I looked out … nothing, nobody. Now I must be very careful. I dared not trust myself anywhere without being careful. Impatiently, I looked around. I had to get out of here. The cabin was a trap. As long as I was here, I was available to the planning of the would-be killer, and I had to get out. Yet how to escape with him out there? And he would be, I was sure, somewhere right outside, awaiting a chance. In my present condition, moving swiftly was out of the question. I would have to get to the corral, get a saddle and bridle on a horse, get the corral bars down and mount up, then ride out. And during every movement I would be sitting there like a duck in a shooting gallery, waiting for the shot. After a moment, I took a chunk of wood from the fireplace and placed it in front of the hole in the wall. Then I lay down again, heaving a great sigh of relief. I was tired. I lay back, exhausted. All my life I’d been a loner, but at that minute I wanted desperately for somebody to come. Somebody … anybody … Just somebody who could watch while I slept, if only for a few minutes. I strained my ears for the slightest sound, and heard only the birds, the slight movements of my horse. I closed my eyes …
Suddenly they opened wide. If I slept I would die.
Rolling over, I sat up. Fumbling with a cup and the coffeepot, I poured coffee. It was no longer hot, for the untended fire had gone down. I tasted the lukewarm coffee, something I’d never liked, then knelt before the fire and coaxed some flame from the coals with slivers of wood.
Would no one friendly ever come?
Hopefully, I continued to listen for the sound of a rider, and heard nothing. I could fix myself something to eat. That would keep me awake and busy. Again I pushed myself up off the bed, my hands trembling with weakness. At the cupboard, I got out a tin plate, a knife, fork and spoon. In a covered kettle, I found some cold broth Ann had fixed for me, and I moved the kettle to the fire, stirring the broth a little as it grew warm. Again I looked from the windows, careful not to show my head. What I needed more than anything was rest, yet to rest might be to die. Had I my usual speed of movement and agility, I would have gone outside and tried to hunt down whoever was trying to kill me, but my movements were too slow, I was too tired, and too weak.
Suddenly, I heard hoofbeats. A rider was approaching. Gun in hand, I moved cautiously toward the door, and peered beyond it. A moment later the rider appeared.
It was Barby Ann.
She rode right up to the door and swung down, trailing her reins. She walked right in, then stopped, seeing me and the gun in my hand. “What’s the matter?”
“Somebody took a shot at me. A little while back. Right through a crack in the wall.”
When I showed her, she frowned. “Did you see him?” “No,” I said, “but it’s likely the same one who tried to kill me twice before, and he’ll try again. You’d better not stay.”
“Joe Hinge said you were hurt. You’d better get back into bed.”
“That bed?”
“You’ve covered the hole, so why not? He can’t shoot through that wall. You need some rest.”
“Look,” I said, “would you stay here for an hour or so? I do need the rest, need it the worst way. If you’ll stay, I’ll try to sleep.” “Of course I’ll stay. Go to bed.”
She turned her back on me and walked outside the door, leading her horse to the corral trough for water. Sitting on the edge of the bunk, I watched her go. She had a neat, if too thin figure, and she carried herself proudly. It was in me to ask her about Roger Balch, but it would not do. After all, it was none of my business. I was only a cowhand working for her father. She tied her horse to the gate, then turned to come back to the line-cabin. Inside the door, she looked at me, sitting there. “You’d better lay down,” she said. “I can’t stay too long.”
Easing back on the bunk, I stretched out with a great sigh of relief. Slowly, I felt the tension ease from my muscles. I let go then, letting myself sink into the bed, just giving myself up to the utter exhaustion I felt. The last I remembered was her sitting by the door staring out into the afternoon.
It was shadowed and still when I opened my eyes, but even before they opened I heard the low murmur of voices—of more than one voice. Danny Rolf and Fuentes were in the room. There was no sign of Barby Ann. Fuentes heard me move. “You sleep,” he said, chuckling. “You sleep ver’ hard, amigo.”
“Where’s Barby Ann?”
“She rode back when we came. Or rather, when Danny got here. Then I came in.
You’ve really slept. It is two hours since I came.” I lay still for a few minutes, then sat up. “You wish to eat? I have some stew … very good … and some tortillas. You like tortillas?” “Sure. Ate them for months, down Mexico way.”
“Not me,” Danny said. “I’ll take hot biscuits!”
Fuentes waved at the fireplace. “There it is. Make them.” Danny grinned. “I’ll eat tortillas.” He looked over at me. “Barby Ann said you’d been shot at?”
Indicating the chunk of stove wood I’d laid over the crack, I told them about it. Fuentes listened, but had no comment to offer. “I’ll not ride with you!” Danny said. “He might shoot the wrong man.”
“Finding any cattle?” I asked.
“We rounded up sixteen head today, mostly older stuff. We got one two-year-old heifer, almost the color of Ol’ Brindle.”
“Seen him?”
“He’s around. We saw his tracks along the bottom. He stays to the brush during the day, feeds mostly at night, I think.”
We talked of horses, cattle and range conditions, of women and cards and roping styles, of riders we had known, mean steers and unruly cows. And after a while, I slept again, pursued through an endless dream by a faceless creature, neither man nor woman, who wished to kill me.
I awakened suddenly in a cold sweat. Danny and Fuentes were asleep, but the night was still and the door was open to the cool breeze. A horse moved near the corner of the corral, and I started to turn over. Then like a dash of icy water I knew. That was no horse!
I’d started to turn over and I did, right off the bed and onto the floor. And for the second time that day a bullet smashed into the bed where I’d just been. Fuentes came off the floor with a gun in his hand. Rolf rolled over against the wall, grabbing around in the darkness for his rifle. I lay flat on the floor, my side hurting like the very devil, with a bruised elbow that made me want to swear, but I didn’t. This was one time when a single cuss word might get a man killed.
All was still, and then there was a pound of hoofs from some distance off, a horse running, and then the night was still.
“If I was you,” Danny said, “I’d quit.”
“Maybe that is it,” Fuentes said. “Maybe they want you to quit. Maybe they want all of us to quit, starting with you.”