Riders Of the Dawn (1980) (5 page)

Turning over, using hand grasps of grass, I pulled myself to the spring and drank deep of the cool, clear, life-givin g water. The wetness of it seemed to creep through all m y tissues, bringing peace to my aching muscles and life to m y starved body. To live I must drink, and I must eat, and m y body must have rest and time to mend. Over and over thes e thoughts went through my mind, and over and over I sai d them, staring at my helpless hands.

With contempt I looked at them, hating them for thei r weakness. And then I began to fight for life in those fingers , willing them to movement, to strength. Slowly my left han d began to stir, to lift at my command, to grasp a stick.

Triumph went through me. I was not defeated! Triump h lent me strength, and from this small victory I went on t o another--a bit of broken manzanita placed across the first, a handfull of scraped up leaves, more sticks.

Soon I would have a fire.

I was a creature fighting for survival, wanting only to liv e and to fight. Through waves of delirium and weakness, I d ragged myself to an aspen where I peeled bark for a vessel--f ainting there, coming to, struggling back to the place for m y fire, putting the bark vessel together with clumsy fingers.

With the bark vessel, a sort of box, I dipped into the wate r but had to drag it to the sand, lacking the strength to lift i t up, almost crying with weakness and pain.

Lighting my fire, I watched the flames take hold. Then I g ot the bark vessel atop two rocks in the fire, and the flame s rose around it. As long as the flames were below the wate r level of the vessel, I knew, the bark would not burn, for th e heat was absorbed by the water inside. Trying to push a stic k under the vessel I leaned too far and fainted.

When next I opened my eyes the water was boiling.

Pulling myself to a sitting position, I unbuckled my thic k leather belt and let my guns fall back on the ground. Then , carefully, I opened my shirt and tore off a corner of it. I s oaked it in the boiling water and began to bathe my wounds.

Gingerly working the cloth plugs free of the wounds, I extracted them. The hot water felt good, but the sight of th e wound in my side was frightening. It was red and inflamed , but near as I could see as I bathed it, the bullet had gon e through and touched nothing vital. The second slug had gon e through the fleshy part of my thigh, and after bathing tha t wound also, I lay still for a while, regaining strength an d soaking up the heat.

Nearby, there was a patch of prickly pear, so I crawle d to it and cut off a few big leaves. Then I roasted them to ge t off the spines and hound the pulp against the wounds. Indians had used it to fight inflammations, and it might help. I f ound a clump of amolillo and dug some of the roots, scrapin g them into hot water. They foamed up when stirred, and I d rank the foamy water, remembering that the Indians use d the drink to carry off clotted blood. A man's bullet wound s healed better after he drank it.

Then I made a meal of squaw cabbage and breadroot , not wanting to attempt getting at my saddlebags. Yet whe n evening came and my fever returned, I managed to call Buc k to me and loosen the girths. The saddle dropped, bringin g with it my bedroll and saddlebags. Then I hobbled Buck an d got the bridle o f The effort exhausted me, so I crawled into my bedroll.

My fever haunted the night with strange shapes, and gun s seemed to be crashing about me. Men and darkness fough t on the edge of my consciousness. Morgan Park . . . Ji m Pinder . . . Rud Maclaren . . . and the sharply feral face o f Bodie Miller.

The nuzzling of Buck awakened me in the cold light o f day. "All right, Buck," I whispered. "I'm awake. I'm alive."

My weakness horrified me. If my enemies found 'm e they would not hesitate to kill me, and Buck must have left a trail easily followed. High up the canyon wall, there was a patch of green, perhaps a break in the rock. Hiding m y saddle under some brush and taking with me my bedroll , saddlebags, rifle, and rope, I dragged myself toward an eyebrow of trail up the cliff.

If there was a hanging valley up there it was just what I w anted. The buckskin wandered after me, more from curiosity than anything else. Getting atop a boulder I managed t o slide onto his back and then kneed him up the steep trail. A m ountain horse, he went willingly, and in a few minutes w e had emerged into a high hanging valley.

A great crack in the rock, it was flat floored and hig h walled, yet the grass was rich and green. Somewhere wate r was running, and before me was a massive stone tower all o f sixty feet high. Blackened by age and by fire, it stood besid e a spring, quite obviously the same as that from which I ha d been drinking below. The hanging valley comprised not ove r three acres of land, seemingly enclosed on the far side an d almost enclosed on the side where I had entered.

The ancient Indians who built the tower had known a good thing when they saw it, for here was shelter and defense, grass, water, and many plants. Beside the tower som e stunted maize, long since gone native, showed that there ha d once been planting here. Nowhere was there any evidenc e that a human foot had trod here in centuries.

A week went slowly by, and nothing disturbed my camp.

Able to walk a few halting steps, I explored the valley. Th e maize had been a fortunate discovery, for Indians had lon g used a mush made of the meal as an hourly application fo r bullet wounds. With this and other remedies my recover y became more rapid. The jerky gave out, but with snare d rabbits and a couple of sage hens, I managed. And then I k illed a deer, and with the wild vegetables growing about, I l ived well.

Yet a devil of impatience was riding me. My ranch wa s in the hands of my enemies, and each day of absence mad e the chance of recovery grow less. Then, after two weeks, I w as walking, keeping watch from a lookout spot atop the clif f and rapidly regaining strength. On the sixteenth day of m y absence I decided to make an effort to return.

The land through which I rode was utterly amazing--t owering monoliths of stone, long, serrated cliffs of salmon--
c olored sandstone, and nothing human. It was almost noon o f the following day before the buckskin's ears lifted suddenly.

It took several seconds for me to discover what drew hi s attention, and then I detected a lone rider. An hour later , from a pinnacle of rock near a tiny seep of water, I saw tha t the rider was drawing near, carefully examining the ground.

A surge of joy went through me. It was Olga Maclaren!

Stepping out from the shadow, I waited for her to se e me, and she did, almost at once. How I must look, I coul d guess. My shirt was heavy with dust, torn by a bullet and m y own hands. My face was covered with beard and my cheek s drawn and hollow, but the expression on her face was only o f relief. "Matt?" Her voice was incredulous. "You're alive?"

"Did you think I'd die before we were married, daughte r of Maclaren? Did you think I'd die before you had those son s I promised? Right now I'm coming back to claim my own."

"Back?" The worry on her face was obvious. "You mus t never go back! You're believed dead, so you are safe. G
o away while there's time!"

"Did you think I'd run? Olga, I've been whipped b y Morgan Park, shot by Rollie Pinder, and attacked by th e others, but Pinder is dead, and Park's time is coming. No, I m ade a promise to a fine old man named Ball, another one t o myself, and one to you, and Ill keep them all. In my tim e I've backed up, I've sidestepped, and occasionally I've run , but always to come back and fight again."

She looked at me, and some of the fear seemed to leav e her. Then she shook her head. "But you can't go back now.

Jim Pinder has the Two Bar."

"Then he'll move," I promised her.

Olga had swung down from her horse and lifted m y canteen. "You've water!" she exclaimed. "They all said n o man could survive out there in that waste, even if he was no t wounded."

"You believed them?"

"No." She hesitated. "I knew you'd be alive somewhere."

"You know your man, then, Olga Maclaren. Does i t mean that you love me, too?"

She hesitated and her eyes searched mine, but when I w ould have moved toward her she drew back, half frightened. Her lips parting a little, her breast lifting suddenly a s she caught her breath. "It isn't time for that now--please!"

It stopped me, knowing what she said was true. "You ar e sure you weren't trailed?"

She shook her head. "I've been careful. Every day."

"This isn't the first day you looked for me?"

"Oh, no.- She looked at me, her eyes shadowed wit h worry. "I was afraid you were lying somewhere bloody an d suffering." Her eyes studied me, noting the torn shirt, th e pallor of my face. "And you have been."

"Rollie was good. He was very good."

"Then it was you who killed him?"

"Who else?"

"Canaval and Bodie Miller found him after they realize d you were gone from the mesa where you had pinned the m down. Canaval was sure it had been you, but some of the m thought it was the mountain boys."

"They've done no fighting for me, although they wante d to. You'd best start back. I've work to do."

"But you're in no shape! You're sick!" She stared at me.

"I can still fight," I said. "Tell your father you've see n me. Tell him the Two Bar was given me in the presence o f witnesses. Tell him his stock is to be off that range--at once!"

"You forget that I am my father's daughter!"

"And my future wife!"

"I've promised no such thing!" she flared. "You know I'
d never marry you! I'll admit you're attractive, and you're a devil. But marry you? I'd die first!"

Her-breast heaved and her eyes flashed and I laughed a t her. "Tell your father, though, and ask him to withdraw fro m this fight before it's too late." Swinging into the saddle, I a dded. "It's already too late for you. You love me and yo u know it. Tell Morgan Park that, and tell him I'm coming bac k to break him with my hands!"

Chapter
5

Riding into Hattan's Point, I was a man well known. Rolli e Pinder was dead, and they knew whose gun had downe d him. Maclaren's riders had been held off and made a laughingstock, and I had taken up Ball's fight to hold his ranch.

Some men hated me for this, some admired me, and man y thought me a fool.

All I knew was the horse between my knees, the guns o n my thighs and the blood of me pounding. My buckskin lifte d his head high and moved down the dusty street like a dancer , for riding into this town was a challenge to them all. The y knew it and I knew it. Leaving my horse behind Mothe r O'Hara's, I walked to the saloon and went in.

By then I'd taken time to shave, and though the pallor o f sickness was on my face, there was none in my eyes or heart.

It did me good to see their eyes widen and to hear my spur s jingle as I walked to the bar. "Rye," I said. "The best you'v e got."

Key Chapin was there, and sitting with him, Morga n Park. The big man's eyes were cold as they stared at me. "I'
m buying, gentlemen," I said. "and that includes you, Morga n Park, although you slug a man when his hands are down.-

Park blinked. It had been a long time since anyone ha d told him off to his face. "And you, Key Chapin. It has alway s been my inclination to encourage freedom of the press and t o keep my public relations on a good basis. And today I migh t even offer you a news item, something to read like this: Mat t Sabre, of the Two Bar, was in town Friday afternoon. Matt i s recovering from a bullet wound incurred during a mino r dispute with Rollie Pinder, but is returning to the Two Bar t o take up where he left off."

Chapin smiled. "That will be news to Jim Pinder. H
e didn't expect you back."

"He should have," I assured him. "I'm back to punis h every murdering skunk who killed old man Ball."

All eyes were on me now, and Park was staring, no t knowing what to make of me. "Do you know who they are?"

Chapin asked curiously.

'Definitely!" I snapped the word. "Every man of them"--

I shifted my eyes to Park--"is known--with one exception.

When Ball was dying he named a man to me. Only I am no t sure."

"Who?" demanded Chapin.

"Morgan Park," I said.

The big man came to his feet with a lunge. His brow n face was ugly with hatred. "That's a lie!" he roared.

My shoulders lifted. "Probably a misunderstanding. I'l l not take offense at your language, Mr. Park, because it is a dead man you are calling a liar, and not I. Ball might hav e meant that one of your riders, a man named Lyell, was there.

He died before he could be questioned. If it is true, I'll kil l you after I whip you."

"Whip me?" Park's bellow was amazed. "Whip me? Why , you--

"Unfortunately, I'm not sufficiently recovered from m y wounds to do it today, but don't be impatient. You'll get you r bellyful of it when the time comes." Turning my back o n him, I lifted my glass. "Gentlemen, your health!" And then I w alked out of the place.

There was the good rich smell of cooked food and coffe e when I opened the door of Mother O'Hara's. "Ah? It's you , then! And still alive! Things ain't what they used to be aroun d here! Warned off by Maclaren, threatened by Jim Pinder , beaten by Morgan Park, and you're still here!"