Norton, Andre - Novel 15 (23 page)

 
          
 
"Sure. Ain't sayin' no thin' 'bout that,
Lootenant. We head back—only a leetle less impatient-like 'n doin' a bit of
scoutin' as we go—"

 
          
 
"Holla!"

 
          
 
That cry jerked all their heads up, brought
their eyes to the cliff top.

 
          
 
"Holla!"
Again that challenging cry rang down.

 
          
 
"You ride to your funerals, soldados!''
That was a crow of triumph—from a voice they had heard before!

 
          
 
And then the narrow mouth of the break
breathed out upon them a blast of smoke and flame and death.

 
          
 
There was a moment of wild confusion, of
plunging horses and shouting men, and then Ritchie found himself pounding back
along the valley. That was the instinctive reaction to that sudden blast which
had leaped at them. But almost as suddenly he pulled rein savagely, bringing
Bess under control by force.

 
          
 
One blue-shirted rider crowded by him, and
after him ran a riderless horse, its eyes white-rimmed arcs of terror as it
came. Ritchie grabbed for the dangling reins of the runaway. He brought it up
short against Bess and recognized it for Woldemar's mount.

 
          
 
"Woldemar!"

 
          
 
Ritchie looked back. He saw Tuttle fire, once
with his rifle, the second time with his Colt. And he heard the thin scream
which answered at least one of those shots. Beyond the scout a long blue figure
lay still on the ground. With a kick of his heels Ritchie brought Bess around
and rode back, bringing Woldemar's horse with him.

 
          
 
"Yo' blasted young
fool!"

 
          
 
At first Ritchie thought Tuttle was shouting
at him, and then he saw that
all the
scout's attention
was for the smoky mouth of the break. A horse struggled on the ground there
trying vainly to get to its feet. Beside it a man crouched behind the frail
shelter of a very small rock, a rock that already was patterned with white
bullet scars.

 
          
 
And back into the rain of leaden death was riding
another man. As Ritchie fetched up by Tuttle, he saw that rider swing lightly
out of the saddle and urge the marooned man to his seat. A bullet struck the
rock between them. The unhurt horse reared, and the rider had to fight it as he
tried to get the rescued man into the saddle. Ritchie came to life.

 
          
 
Again he spurred Bess on, tugging the
reluctantly led horse with a sharp jerk. As he passed the quiet body in the
grass, he gave it a single glance. Sergeant Woldemar would have no more need
for his horse, but the men in the break did. Ritchie rode on.

 
          
 
By sheer force of will Herndon had the
Lieutenant on the horse and his hand was raised to deal the slap that would
send them away when Ritchie bore down upon them. The slapping hand grabbed for
the dangling reins. Ritchie and the Lieutenant fired together into the shaking
bushes as Herndon fought his feet into stirrups set for the shorter Woldemar.

 
          
 
Then together the three pounded back, skirting
Woldemar's body and picking up Tuttle who had been sniping at the enemy. Beside
the scout rode Sturgis, firing with easy precision, a half grin quirking his
lips.

 
          
 
They wasted no time in putting the length of
the valley between them and the break. There was a road out in that direction,
the bed of a dried stream. This was rough country, broken by arroyos, stretches
of rocky outcropping, and the shoulders of the mountains beyond. In the stream
bed they overtook Birke. His mount was staggering, head down, pinkish foam
dripping from its jaws. And yet the dragoon's arm still dealt heavy blows
across its flanks.

           
 
"Stop that, you damn fool!" Sturgis
rode up beside him. "Want to put yourself afoot now?"

 
          
 
"Birke!"
Gilmore's voice echoed the Southerner's. "Slow down! We can't afford to
lose a horse."

 
          
 
But Birke's arm rose again. Sturgis leaned
over, grabbing his wrist and twisting it. For the first time Birke looked at
them. His face was a yellow mask, shiny with oily perspiration. There was no
intelligence in his eyes, no humanity left in his slack-lipped, half-open
mouth. He tried to pull away from Sturgis with the petulant motion of a peevish
child. Tuttle came up on the other side.

 
          
 
"The fella's loco," he announced. He
leaned across and slapped Birke's face hard. On the yellow-white unshaven skin
of the man's cheek the marks of Tuttle's fingers showed first pale and then
red. Birke blinked and moved his mouth. Intelligence came back into his eyes.
He scowled malignantly at the scout and tore his arm free from Sturgis.

 
          
 
"Le' me alone!"

 
          
 
The sharp crack of a rifle broke over the
rocks. Gilmore gave a queer little grunt and caught at the horn of his saddle.
There was a look of astonishment frozen on his face. Herndon threw one arm
about the shoulders of the slumping man, crowding his mount against the
other's
.

 
          
 
"Ride!" he snapped. "Get into
cover—all of you!"

 
          
 
It was hard to flog the tired horses into a
shuffling trot, but they kept to it. Birke and Tuttle were ahead,
then
came Herndon still supporting the limp Lieutenant, with
Ritchie and Sturgis bringing up the rear.

 
          
 
"Going to be dark mighty soon,"
Sturgis said. The reckless half smile with which he had greeted their return
from the ambush was fixed on his lips. "And we don't know this country.
Good chance of having them beat us out—like pack rats out of a nest."

           
 
He looked from side to side and then suddenly
nodded his head as if he had found an answer to some question of his own. The
stream bed they followed was boxed in by high walls now. If they were pursued,
there was little chance of being sniped upon from above; the trailers would be
forced to take the same path. The dried grass, grease-wood, and brush along the
rocks would give little cover to either party if they did come.

 
          
 
Sturgis jerked a beckoning finger at Ritchie
and pushed up to Herndon.

 
          
 
"How is he?" he asked baldly about
Gilmore.

 
          
 
Herndon's teeth showed in a dust-coated snarl.
“Dead!"

 
          
 
Ritchie dropped back. He didn't want to see
Gilmore's face, still wearing its look of startled and eternal surprise.

 
          
 
“Got an idea to cover our tracks,"
Sturgis went on unmoved.

 
          
 
Their horses had halted of their own accord.
They were too tired to move except under urging. Herndon, still supporting the
Lieutenant, hunched over a little. The mask of trail dust and the fading light
made him look like an old, old man.

 
          
 
''What—?"
His
voice was flat and as old as his face.

 
          
 
"Wind's
rising,
"
Sturgis pointed out. "We're facing into it. Suppose we set a little fire.
That fire would blow right back over our tracks.
'Nough brush
in here to make a good hot blaze!"

 
          
 
Herndon was already nodding. "It'd give
us some time—"

 
          
 
"Then you get on—you and the Lieutenant.
Rich and I'll see to the fire—" He hesitated and then added softly
"sir." And there was no mockery in that word.

 
          
 
Herndon did not seem to hear. He was already
plodding on, his iron grip fast upon his burden. Sturgis slid to the ground and
jerked a thumb up canyon.

           
 
"Come on, fireman, let's get to
work!"

 
          
 
With their belt knives they hacked at the
brush and grass, pulling handfuls, which tore the skin from their fingers,
dumping their booty into piles, working feverishly against time.

 
          
 
"I always did like to play with
fire," panted Sturgis as he came up on the run with an armload of
inflammable stuff. "But I like to do it a little more leisurely. Hm, feel
that wind, boy? That's what is going to put the finishing touch to this little
bonfire of ours.
Yes, siree!"

 
          
 
"All right," he said minutes later.
Ritchie had lost all track of time. It seemed to him that they had been days
and days on this trail and hours and hours lugging bush to choke the back road.
"You start on with the horses," Sturgis went on. "I'll tend to
the lighting."

 
          
 
Without argument Ritchie went, stumping to
where Bess and Blackie waited, their heads drooping spiritlessly. He didn't
have energy enough left in his aching body to mount. Instead he shuffled along
on foot, towing both horses with him. There was a crackling sound, and flames
shot up in a sudden wind-fed spurt. He could feel the wind on his face. The
grit of the dust and sand it carried crunched between his teeth and sifted down
between his neckerchief and his open collar. The crackle behind was now almost
a roar. But why didn't Sturgis catch up? Surely the fire had start enough now
and did not require tending!

 
          
 
Ritchie stopped. And for the second time that
day he turned back.

 
          
 
"Sturgis?"
His voice echoed hollowly from the walls of the cut. Blackie tugged at the
reins, and Bess added her weight, too, when she saw that she ^vas being led
back toward that terrifying light and sound.

           
 
"Sturgis!"
Ritchie shouted now. He stopped trying to pull the horses along and dropped the
reins.

 
          
 
"—get away—" The answer was coming
out of the bed of the dried-up river. Then, against the curtain of the fire, in
the overhang of a flaming skeleton of a bush which had toppled off one of the
piles, he saw the dark shape trying to crawl along.

 
          
 
Ritchie ran. The crawler sat up, trying to
fend off the bouncing flame-wrapped bush. But Ritchie reached it first and sent
it rolling back with a thrust of his scarred hand. In its light he saw the
feathered shaft which protruded at a crazy angle from Sturgis' shoulder.

 
          
 
"Get away!" The Southerner tried to
wriggle out of Ritchie's grasp. "He may still be alive—"

 
          
 
But Ritchie hooked his hands under the other's
arms and dragged him back from the fire.

 
          
 
"Got me just as I
stooped over to light the fire."
Sturgis jerked out the words.
"Lucky—maybe—might have been through the throat if I hadn't been all bent
over that way. Hey, not so fast, Rich. Think I can make it on my own feet if
you'll just give me a hand."

 
          
 
"What—about—the—Apache?''

 
          
 
"May be roasted for all I know. He was on
the wrong side of the bonfire. Just a minute! Let—me—get—my— breath—" His
voice was broken by painful gasps, and he raised a shaking hand to his mouth.

 
          
 
Ritchie got Sturgis into the saddle, an
eternity of painful effort for both of them, and they went on through the long
blue shadows, Ritchie walking beside Blackie and holding Sturgis in his seat.
Bess came behind, now and again betraying her feelings with a little mournful
whinny of self-pity and distress.

           
 
Sturgis' grin was a crooked grimace, and he
held onto the horn with an iron grip.

 
          
 
"Forward!" His voice took on a
little of the cracked roll which carried in the Colonel's. "Forward! If
any man falls, I’ll make him a corporal! Bet I’ll get m' stripes first of 'em
all. Rich-"