Passin' Through (1985) (15 page)

Everything faded. I'd crawled into mud, and I had to stop the bleeding. I rolled over on my back and pressed the back of my head into the mud.

My eyes closed and I just lay still. If I could not move, I would die. He'd find me there in the morning, and if I was not dead one easy shot would do it. Or he might just pick up a rock and bash in my skull. He'd been known to do that, too.

I had to move, I had to, I would, I -

Chapter
Fourteen

A spattering on my face, and my eyes opened upon darkness. My eyes opened to the rain, then closed. My head throbbed with a dull, heavy beat. When I tried to move, pain shot through me. Waiting, I forced myself to think.

Pan Beacham had shot me. Only my bending to drink had saved me from instant death. Remembering the feeling and realizing how I felt now, I suspected the bullet had skimmed the top of my right buttock, then had cut a furrow in my back above the right shoulder blade and then hit my skull.

As I was alive, the bullet had probably only grazed my head. Deliberately, I forced myself to think, to reason. I was not going to die. Not here, not now. But if I were to survive I needed to move, to be gone from here before Beacham returned. I could not see enough stars to judge the time. The brief shower was over but there might be another. The clouds were over me but in the west beyond Mesa Verde's bulk the sky was clear.

Now I must move, but first a plan. My duffle. My packs. There were things there I would need. Yet suppose he had not gone? Suppose he was sitting back under a tree out of the rain and watching my packs? It would be a logical thing for him to do.

For a moment I mentally braced myself for the effort, then I rolled over. Pain stabbed through me like a sword, making me gasp from sheer agony, yet now I was on my chest, my hands under me. One hand reached out, groping for my rifle. The shine of moisture on the barrel guided my hand. My other hand grasped a tuft of grass and I tugged, slowly, inch by painful inch, groping my way forward.

High ground. I needed to get to high ground. A rough guess suggested it was some two hundred yards through the brush to the top of the ridge. The ranch house was no more than a mile away and probably less. They would help me, and I would need help, but how was I to get there? And crawling as I was would leave a trail any child could follow. Long before I could reach help Pan Beacham or some other enemy would find me.

There was another thought. There were mountain lions ranging the ridge. I had seen their tracks and their droppings. Bears, also, and in the daytime, buzzards.

Slowly, painfully, I crawled. My eyes were accustomed to the dark, and sometimes I could see. There were open spaces among the trees and I crawled through them, dragging the rifle. My head felt heavy and I had to stop. Resting my head on the wet grass, I think I passed out. Maybe I just slept. Then I was crawling again, inching through brush. At a tree with low branches I tugged myself up to my knees, waited for a slow minute, and then managed to get to my feet. Leaning against a tree I felt for my gun. It was still in its holster, the loop over the hammer holding it secure.

What I wanted was to lie down. I wanted to pass out, I wanted just to rest, but to sleep was to die. How much time remained? I did not know. The sky had clouded over and no stars remained. It was going to rain again. Now I could move faster but not much faster. I could reach from tree to tree, from bush to bush, inching my way up the ridge. Several times I fell, and each time it was harder to rise.

There was gray light on the eastern horizon before I topped out on the ridge, and I needed a place to hide. No doubt there were caves or hollows in the sides of Maggie's Rock but I had no time to look nor any wish to dispute their possession with a mountain lion.

Lowering myself carefully to a seat on a flat rock, I got out my bandanna neckerchief and wiped my rifle free of mud and leaves. Then checked the action. It worked.

One thing I knew. If I was to hide, it had to be close. I could go no further. The ranch was almost within sight, and would have been but for the trees, but I hadn't the strength to go on without rest, and the ridge on which I sat offered nothing. To the south it dropped off steeply, in some places sheer for thirty or forty feet, in others just trees and brush through which I'd climbed. On the other side of the ridge it was even steeper and more thickly clad with ponderosa. There was a vague trail along the crest of the ridge and -

Stones, a small square of stones at ground level. Hobbling, I crossed to it, and looked into a hole about five feet deep and roughly two feet square, perhaps a little larger.

I knew what it was. Such holes were used by Indians to trap eagles when they wanted their feathers. An Indian would crouch down in the hole and it would be covered with a lid of woven branches. Atop this he would have a live rabbit tied. Its struggles to escape would attract an eagle, and when it swooped to take the rabbit the Indian would seize its legs.

No sooner had I recognized what it was than I began weaving a lid from pine boughs. Hobbling to the nearest tree, I cut several and wove them into a rough square large enough to cover the hole. Into the crude matt I wove some dead boughs also, and covered it with scattered leaves, then placed it close beside the hole. If need be, that was my refuge. Then I made a dragging track further along the dim trail and to the edge of the cliff on the side where the ranch lay. By the time I got back to my refuge, the sun was in the sky and I was completely exhausted.

From the rim I peered through the trees at the place where I had originally fallen. Some two hundred yards back toward the opening of Spring Gulch was a bay horse, a saddled horse tied to a tree.

Finding its rider required several minutes, and when my eyes discovered him he was squatting in the rocks looking at the place where I had fallen into the mud near a puddle of rainwater. He was a cautious killer, and now he was wondering what had become of me and how far I had managed to get.

My horses and outfit were there, evidence enough that I was out of action. From where he squatted he would be able to see where I had been crawling. Now his eyes were following my route.

For a moment I was tempted to try a shot, but shooting sharply down- or uphill could be tricky. One is apt to over- or undershoot, and my shot must be a kill or he would have me. My position would have been given away, also that I was close by, and he would have all the advantage of being able to maneuver, and I would not. My one chance was the hole. Stepping carefully on rocks, I went to the hole and eased myself into it, gasping with pain. Crouching low, I eased the crude cover in place. Surrounded by small brush, I hoped his eyes would pass quickly over it. And if he came to look, I had my rifle.

Slowly, my tired muscles relaxed. Rifle in hand, I waited. Slowly, I closed my eyes, but not to sleep, merely to rest, for to sleep now might be to snore or even breathe heavily, and that could give me away.

It was a long wait. My back stung and my head throbbed with that same dull, heavy ache. It felt like something pressing on the back of my skull, and when I moved my head it must be with infinite care or I would almost black out. Minutes passed, then ever so softly, and almost above me, a boot brushed the earth. To step on my lid Beacham must step over brush, and it was unlikely for the direction led elsewhere.

Another step, and I could hear him breathing. I dared make no slightest move. My rifle muzzle was within inches of the lid over my hole and my finger was on the trigger.

He would not be looking for or suspecting any such hiding place. No one would. Such holes were uncommon, and always on high places where eagles flew. He might not even know of the trick the Indians used. Not many did. It would be the last thing he would suspect.

He would be looking around rocks, among trees. If he suspected, all he had to do was shoot into the lid, for there would be no escaping. I quite filled the hole. The only way to move was out.

All was quiet. Boots scuffed earth, moving away. My eyes closed again but my ears strained for sound. Thank God he did not have a dog! Boots grated again, and again he was standing close by. He was puzzled.

He knew I was shot. He was sure I was badly hurt. A good marksman knows where his bullets go, and but for the fact that I had bent to drink I would be dead.

I had crawled. He had seen that in the track I left. Later, had managed to get on my feet but had fallen again and again. He would have seen that, too. So how could I get away? I simply had to be close by. He was obviously disturbed but wary, also. A man who can move is a man who can shoot. He might not suspect me of having a rifle unless he checked both saddles, for the other rifle was in its scabbard and he might have seen that. It would be unlikely he would suspect me of having two rifles, which was the case due to the outfit inherited with the blue roan.

He struck a match on his jeans. I heard the scrape and the flare. He was lighting a cigarette. He flipped the burned-out match and it fell on the lid above me. From time to time his boots moved.

My legs were cramped and the strain was becoming unbearable. He walked off a few steps, then came back.

An awful thought came. He knew I was there! He was amusing himself, deliberately torturing me. Supposing he decided to build a fire atop my hole? That was ridiculous because it was among small but highly inflammable brush. If only I could straighten out, stretch my cramped legs!

My thoughts concentrated on his horse. If I thought of him he might somehow sense my thoughts. I did not believe that but had heard of such things, so to keep my thoughts from him I thought of his horse. Somebody was going to steal his horse. Somebody was going to set him afoot. Somebody -

He moved away but not far away. Finally he swore softly, bitterly, then his footsteps retreated off down the trail. I waited. I counted a slow one hundred, and there was no sound. Again I counted, slower still, something to measure the passing of time. Still I waited.

How long had I been in this hole? An hour? Two hours? I could not get at my watch to see. Again I waited. He might be lying close by, hoping I would appear from whatever hiding place I'd chosen.

My lids were heavy, and I was tired. All I wanted was to get out of this hole and sleep. If I could only get down to the ranch!

Somehow, some way, I fell asleep, and when I awakened it was a long time later. It was time to get out of this hole, to get away from here. I needed care for my wound, I needed water, I needed food, and I needed decent rest. I started to move, then stopped.

A movement, right close by. Only the slightest move in the brush. A hacking sound, then a voice, low, conversational. That was Pan Beacham, all right. Talking to himself.

"Lucky I brought this Bowie. Handy to have." More hacking and then something dropped over the hole where I crouched. One of the interstices between branches of my lid was suddenly blocked out. Somebody had dropped a pile of brush right over my head!

"A fire," his voice said, "that's what I need. A fire. Throw some light on the subject. Nothin' better than a good fire to bring things out into the open."

Fire! He was building a fire! Somehow, some way he had figured it out! He knew where I was hiding. My muscles gathered for a lunge, then slowly relaxed. The fire would burn up, and only ashes might drop on me. Still -

A thought came, bringing a sharp arrow of hope. He had to light the fire. If he lit a piece of brush and threw it on the pile, I was done for, but suppose he struck a match and leaned close to touch it to the fuel?

Most men would do that. I listened for the sound of his boots, heard them crush leaves close by. He was squatting. I could hear his breathing. He struck a match and I glimpsed some of its flame. There was a shadow as he leaned over to light the fire. I shoved the rifle up hard and as it touched his body I pulled the trigger.

The concussion in that small hole was shocking. I lunged desperately to get out of the hole, away from the fire. I lunged and fell across Beacham, who was trying to rise. He pushed me away, reaching for the Bowie. My hand shot out, grasping at the knife, and our hands gripped.

Frantic to escape the growing fire, I swung a fist against his chin. The effort sent a stab of pain through me, but I struggled to rise. He had the Bowie, but as I reached one knee I drove the muzzle of the rifle up under his chin and he staggered back. There was blood all over him and his eyes were wild.

He fell backward and I lost balance and fell, too. Grabbing a handful of flaming brush, I thrust it into his face, but he knocked it away and scrambled to his feet.

"Damn you! You got me! Damn -!" He was clawing for a pistol.

Kicking out, my boot caught him on the knee and he fell into the scattered fire. Rolling over, I got the loop off my pistol and drew. As he came up again I put three bullets into him.

He swore again, slowly, viciously. I pulled my leg away from the fire, resting on my left elbow, the gun in my right hand.

"Damn you all to hell!" he said, and died.

Chapter
Fifteen

For a moment I just stayed where I was and then I got up. My wounds were bleeding. I could feel blood running down my leg. Standing wide-legged, braced against another fall, I emptied the three spent shells from my pistol and reloaded. Then I holstered the gun and slipped the thong back in place.

The fire he had tried to light had been scattered and was burning down in the hole and also in a few scattered leaves. One by one I put them out, looking around for any I might have missed.