the Burning Hills (1956) (6 page)

No question about it. He would have to go. He had no right to cause more trouble. He would make a break for it. Returning to his blankets, he settled down to wait for darkness.

Awakening with a start, he found it was already night and he heard a faint rustle of sound. He came swiftly to his feet, gun in hand. Then, bolstering the gun, he moved swiftly to the ruin. Drawing back against the wall until the shadows folded him into their darkness, he waited ...

At first, no sound but the trickle of water; then a faint whisper of movement, a suggestion in the night, a sound of breathing ... his hands went out, grasping for a throat.

His hands caught at flesh ... there was an instant of fierce struggle ending abruptly when his hands found the soft contours of a woman's body. "Maria Cristina?"

"Let me go."

The voice was cool, almost detached. Yet there was tension in the body he held. Reluctantly his hands relaxed their hold but he did not move them away.

She stepped back, letting his hands fall. He could hear the sound of her breathing. A little faster from the climb? Prom the struggle? Or... ?

"Thought it was Lantz."

She did not reply. There was a suggestion of perfume, some flower scent, faint but clinging. He could see the outline of her face against the outer sky. "I'm going," he said. "I'm getting you all into trouble."

Still she did not speak nor move. The lone star hung above the canyon's rim. "If you had not come along, I'd be dead."

Her face turned toward him but it was all darkness and he could see nothing of her expression.

"You're a woman who could walk beside a man, Maria Cristina. Not behind him."

"You talk too much."

"Maybe . . . maybe not enough."

Trace Jordan searched for words but found none. There was a time he had talked easily to women but with this girl and at this time he could find no words for what was within him.

A quail called questioningly into the night and there was no reply. He smelled again the smoke from the watchfires of the hunting men and heard the wind stirring the manzanita, yet he was only faintly aware of them, so conscious was he of the nearness of Maria Cristina.

"You must not go."

"Got to... they know I'm close by." Again she was silent and he did not understand her silence. He walked to the horse and picked up the bridle so suddenly that the horse shied violently. He waited until the horse quieted, then saddled up.

The mere act of swinging the saddle to the animal's back took his wind and caught at his wounded side. He leaned against the horse to catch his breath. Bleakly he stared across the saddle into the night. If he got out of this alive he would be pulling more than his proper share of luck.

"You cannot go up."

"The slide?"

"It is best but there will be much noise." He tightened the cinch. She had accepted his going then. Glad to be rid of him, most likely. Yet he felt a curious reluctance to go. He remembered the feel of her body, tense and fighting for that moment she was in his arms. The memory brought blood rushing to his head and he turned suddenly and reached for her in the night.

She started to step back but his arms were around her. She fought fiercely, with almost tigerish wickedness yet he held her and drew her close. Suddenly then, she relaxed but it was no submission. She remained still in his arms but there was no response, none whatever. When he released her she made no effort to move away.

"I think you are animal."

Her voice was low, without emotion. He took her in his arms again, kissing her gently this time, kissing her lips and cheeks, her neck and shoulders. She did not respond but neither did she move away. He released her again and stepped back, his breath slow-drawn. And then for a time neither of them spoke. She made no attempt to leave but neither did she invite any further advances.

He felt strangely lost, helpless. He wanted to reach her, to get beneath the surface. Yet there was nothing from her, simply nothing at all.

"You go home," he said. "I'm leaving tonight."

She stooped and picked up the package she had dropped. "Here is food." She seemed to hesitate an instant, then turned away.

"Maria Christina?"

She stopped but did not turn around.

"I'm coming back."

She seemed not to have heard him. "Ride up the canyon. Take the first wide canyon to the left. Cross the mesa top to the next canyon, then cross that canyon and the second mesa. You will see a red rock like a steeple and there will be a dead cottonwood at its base. Behind the steeple rock there is a place to hide, and there is a way to escape into the desert when the time is right."

"Join me there."

She seemed to shrug. "For why I join you? You think I am gringo? I am Mexican."

"You come, Maria Cristina. I want you."

"You are a fool."

He walked up behind her and she half-turned her head toward him. He could see her face in the vague starlight and the dark pools of her eyes.

"I'm coming back. I owe you more than I can pay."

" Tor nada?"

"If you do not come to the steeple rock, I shall come back for you."

"You be keel."

"So ... but I'll come back."

He started to take her in his arms but she stepped back, her eyes flashing. "What you think? That I am some common woman to come when you call? Some woman you take when you want? I am not. You think I come here because I need a man? I need no man. I come because you die here ... and my father die on those rocks down there. You take me for cheap woman. You go."

He waited quietly until she was through and then he said, "I'm coming back for you, Maria Cristina."

"You are a fool."

"Know more about horses than women," he admitted. "And you're all mustang."

A coyote voiced a shrill rumor to the sky and listened to his own echo. Waited, then tried again. The lone star hung on the canyon's rim like a lost lantern.

"Man once said there were in a man's life certain ultimate things and just one ultimate woman. You're that woman for me."

"No."

He took her gently by the shoulders and kissed her lightly. "You just ain't halter-broke, that's all. I'll be back."

She walked away from him then, without turning, and he heard her start down the slide. If they heard her coming and were waiting, then he knew what he would do. He would go down shooting ... and he would go fast.

Trace Jordan waited until he was sure Maria Cristina had cleared the narrow part of the canyon and was in the meadow near the corral. Then he led the horse to the lip of the slide.

The horse might break a leg or be otherwise injured but it was a chance he had to take. He was through here and he knew they would stay close until he starved or somebody lost their nerve and talked.

He knew how small was his chance. There was not one possibility in a million of getting down that slide unheard. And there were two men up the canyon who would be waiting for him.

He was in no shape for a hard ride. But men in just as bad shape had come through. And there was no other solution. He checked all his gear. His bed was rolled, his canteen filled. The food packet was shoved into a saddlebag. He was wearing both guns now and the rifle was in the boot.

He was stalling ... he knew he was stalling. The thought of tackling that steep slide in the darkness made his mouth dry and his stomach hollow. He gathered up the reins, then stood listening.

There was no sound ... were they down there in the darkness now, waiting for him? Had they captured Maria Cristina?

Lantz shook Ben Hindeman's shoulder. The fire was low and nobody else stirred. It was very late and the coyote had suddenly stopped his howling. "Ben ... wake up."

Hindeman's eyes opened and he was instantly awake. He turned his head a little, listening. He heard no sound but the old tracker was bent over him. "What is it, Jake?"

"We got him, Ben. We got him right where we want him."

Hindeman sat up and began drawing on his boots. His mouth was tasting frightful and his head felt heavy. His eyes told him what time it was after a glance at the stars. He felt sticky and unpleasant but it was time this was finished off. It had taken too much time already.

"The girl's been gettin' to him. Shelf up on the rock wall, must be quite a bit of space up there because he's got his horse up there with him. Hell be comin' down tonight, I think."

"How'd you figure that?"

"Hunch."

Lantz sat back, thinking about that. "More'n a hunch," he said. "Girl packed him a big bait of grub. Long time up there, I don't know how she gets there or where the place is, exactly, but I know where he'll show."

Hindeman got up, stamping into his boots. Then he spoke sharply and heads lifted. At his orders they began quickly to dress. There was some low grumbling, none of it serious. Just the automatic grumbling of tired men awakened from a quiet sleep. Yet all were glad to be called. They wanted it to be over with. The hunt had begun in a burst of passion. With most of them that was gone now and the hunt continued out of duty and their natural reluctance to admit themselves defeated.

"The two men up the canyon," Lantz said. "I woke them up. If he comes that way, they'll take him. There's two men down canyon below the Mexicans' place. He's in the bottle and we've got the thing stoppered."

Jack Sutton pulled on his boots and stood up. He was unshaved and his jaws itched under the stubble. He felt unbathed and dirty and he was a man who liked to be clean.

So the girl had known after all? How many times had she been up there with him?

"That -- !" The words broke from him, emptying some of the rankling bitterness within him.

Lantz did not look around and Ben Hindeman merely picked up his saddle and started toward the picketed horses. The other men were belting on guns or picking up their rifles and walking into the night.

They moved out in a tight bunch, then divided. Jack Sutton went along with Ben Hindeman. Once the rest of them were gone, he'd take care of that girl. As for Jordan ... Sutton felt a tightness in his throat ... an ugly feeling.

Trace Jordan held up a moment longer on the edge of the slide. He felt the red horse put out a tentative hoof, then draw back. "Come on, Jed." He stepped into the leather as he spoke and felt the horse lurch forward, rocks sliding under his feet.

The horse scrambled, slipped and fought for footing. They were going down fast but so far the red horse was taking it well. He was taking enormous forward leaps when Jordan heard the shot.

The harsh bark of a heavy pistol. ... then a second shot, both fired from near the house. Then, above the echoes of the shots and the falling of rock, he heard the high ringing cry. It was no cry of fear or pain but one filled with reassurance and hope.

She had fired to draw their attention from him, so they must be alerted and ready.

He plunged down the last few feet of the slide, the horse scrambling beneath him, and then they were at the bottom and the big red horse moved out, running on the hard-packed sand and running free.

Jacob Lantz heard the rocks of the slide. He swore softly, remembering the looks of it. A man who would come down that in the night -- !

"Come on, Ben," he said. "He can only go up or down the canyon. We've got him."

Ahead of him the shoulder of the canyon bulked black against the sky. It was near here he had seen the two riders earlier in the day. He slowed his horse, making only a small sound on the sand. There was a low mutter of voices, a shadow that moved. He slammed home the spurs and the startled horse gave a convulsive leap forward and broke into a gallop.

A startled curse, a man who lunged and shouted, a gun blasting off to his right and then his own gun smashed sound into the stone corridor and sent a racketing of sound off down the limestone cliffs.

He had fired point-blank at a moving spot of darkness and then he was away, his horse running up the canyon at breakneck speed. Behind him were other shots and shouts ...

Deliberately he slowed his pace. Behind him he heard a rush of horses, startled shouts and replies. On his left a canyon mouth opened, almost choked with brush, but the horse found an opening. Brush slapped at his face and clothing as he pushed through.

High up the rock wall moonlight glanced off the rocky trail. Trees left a space for a rider and he forced a way through, finding the vague trail that led up the cliff. Ten minutes later he was white in the moonlight atop the mesa, yet already they were behind him and he heard hoofs click on the lower trail.

Swiftly he glanced around. Poised on the rim was a rock as large as a piano. He swung down and got behind it, trying its weight with his hands.

Below there was movement. He stooped, took the strain, paused to gather strength, then heaved. The rock tipped, grated, then hung. Overhead was the moon, his body smelled of sweat and dust, his boot toes gripped the mesa top ... the rock tipped, grated, leaned further out. Alone on the mesa's rim he stood, the veins swelling in his brow, throbbing in his throat. Suddenly there was a stabbing pain in his side and then the rock fell free.

He went to his knees, gasping, his mouth wide, feeling the blood inside his pants, perspiration dripping from his brow.

The boulder tumbled off into the vast blackness below, there was a rattle of accompanying gravel, an agonized cry of animal fear, a wild scramble and then the forlorn screams of a horse and a man falling away into darkness. A splintering crash then, a brief chatter of small stones following ... and silence.

Alone on the cliff's edge, his chest heaving with effort, he suddenly filled with some primeval berserk fury and he shouted, his voice rolling down the corridor of rock, "Come on, damn you!"

Sweating and trembling, his body shaken with pain, he leaned a moment against the saddle, gathering strength. They would think awhile before tihey tried that path again this night. He remembered the lost lonely cry of the man falling off into space and death. He asked for it, he told himself. They stole our horses, they killed my partner and they want to kill me.

He wanted to live ... the night was cool and still as only a desert night can be ... he wanted to live ... and in his mind there was a memory of the feel of a woman's body, the memory of her lips, of her silent waiting, not fighting, not denying, not accepting. Just waiting.

Over a mesa white in the moonlight he rode steadily, his torn side a throb of agony, and he rode until the sun was rising, until it seemed he had never known any other life than the saddle, never anything but pain, never anything but flight.

Before him in the gray light was a dull red finger of rock and at its base, an ancient cottonwood, white-limbed and dead. He pushed his horse through a curtain of willows into a pocket of rock and trees almost encircled by a tiny stream. The aspen were gray with morning, the grass dew-wet and heavy when he drew rein at last. An old rock house crouched like a tired hound against the cliffs face and there he slid from his saddle and drank.

For a long time then he lay still until the morning sun warmed his shoulders and crept along his tired muscles and ate away the night's chill. He made coffee, ate some of the beef and tortillas and then he slept.

At first, when he awakened, he listened for a long time. Birds chirped and played among the branches, his horse cropped grass, the stream chuckled over its stones. Only when he was sure he was alone did he rise and strip off his shirt.

His wound had been torn open by lifting the rock but he bathed it, then bandaged it again with the same cloth. Then from near the steeple rock he studied the trail down which he had come and moved out to brush away the last few tracks. Most of the trail was over bare rock and, although there would be signs, there would not be many.

Every hour of delay was an hour's gain. Would they be so anxious to pursue him they would not bother Maria Cristina? There was hope of that. In any event, he could do nothing. Yet the men who had shot into the back of a dying man would stop at nothing. They had started after him to avenge Bob Button's death but now another man had died and, recalling the cry from the canyon ... perhaps two.

Trace Jordan searched for and found a way out of the hiding place. He found it late in the afternoon, a trail screened by brush that led over the rocks and away to the south. He was, he knew, either in Mexico now or close to the border. The way north was barred to him, the way south lay through Apache country. Yet it was the only way that remained.

The killers of Johnny Hendrix were among the pursuers, yet there were honest cowmen there, too. He wanted his horses back and he wanted the killers to pay, yet if he stayed there would be no end to the killing. Johnny was dead but the Sutton-Bayless outfit had lost several men. It was price enough.

And there was Maria Cristina....

He had his first hot meal in days over a fire of dry curl-leaf, almost smokeless, back in the rocks. Yet he was restless. There was no telling what they might do to a girl alone. She had a brother but one man would be helpless against that crowd. He rolled a smoke and settled back. There was no sound of pursuit... nothing.

Below him the stream gulped and fussed among the rocks, a bird fluttered his plumage. Then far up the canyon, a hoof struck stone.

Trace Jordan came soundlessly to his feet and took up his rifle. He crossed the rocks to a position where he could see the trail. And then for a long time the night was still.

Vicente was at the table when Maria Cristina came from her room. Surprised to find him around so early, she went past him to the fire. Coffee water was on and she added coffee.

Vicente looked up from the table. "Do not take the sheep out."

She turned to look at him. His face seemed older in the morning light, quieter than she had ever remembered it

"I will take them," he said.

"You?" She was astonished.

"They must be saved."

She stood up then and faced him. The sun was not yet up and the two were alone in the room. For the first time she saw the rifle by his chair and he wore an extra cartridge belt ... it had been her father's belt.

"You think they will come here?"

"They will come," he said. She turned from him and broke an egg into the pan, trying to order her thoughts. Vicente was different. He was a man. She looked at him, puzzled by this change in a brother she now felt she had never understood.

"I will take the sheep to the Notch," he said. "They will not look for them there."

This, then, was what Vicente had sought to avoid. Now that it had come he was no longer afraid. Shame filled her. Shame that she had doubted him, shame that hers had been the fault

There was quiet resolution in his narrow face and she realized at last that he had never been afraid, only he had sought to avoid an issue that could only result in defeat and destruction for the Chaveros.

"Vicente ..." It was as near as she ever came to a plea for understanding. "He is a good man. I could not let him die."

He took the eggs from the pan, a tortilla from the warm pile on the plate. "It is enough that you have a man."

She returned to the fire, humbled by his quiet dignity. He would take die sheep to the Notch. It was, of course, the best place for them. The Sutton riders did not like sheep but out of sight might also be out of mind. The Chaveros could build another house but the sheep were all they had.

"Take the others with you," she said.

"And you?"

"It is I they will want. If I am not here they will follow."

"You are my sister. I will stay."

"Go ... I can handle them."

Vicente hesitated. The others would need him. Juanito was too young and without Maria Cristina or himself his mother would be helpless. And his wife, Rosa ... she was a fine girl but she did not plan.

Maria Cristina had handled men before. This time she might succeed where his presence might precipitate violence.

The sun was not yet up when she saw them go. Juanito started ahead with the sheep, then her mother and Rosa with the burros, loaded with some useful, some foolish things. Vicente held his rifle in the hollow of his arm and this morning for the first time he had tied down his holster. He stood very straight this morning and his eyes were proud. Yet he was quiet at the end. "When you can ... come."

"I will, Vicente."

Dry-eyed, they stared at each other, this brother whom she had despised and loved, now no longer to be despised. There had never been emotion between them; there could be none now.

"Vicente ... go with God."

He turned his back abruptly and caught the pommel. An instant he remained so, his back full upon her, then he swung to the saddle, an easy grace in his movements she had not noticed before.

He turned when seated. "You ... do you come to us or go to him?"

"He is gone." Within her the words created a strange emptiness where none had been before. "He is gone."

"He will come back. Is he a fool to ride away from such a woman?"

She watched him ride away: his vest was patched, his boots were shabby and old, yet he was a man, this one. Her father would have been proud.

She stood very still in the empty yard, watching them out of sight At last, as he crossed the ridge, Vicente lifted a hand. Then the shaggy pony went over the hill and out of sight

Inside, the house looked empty and forlorn. She took the broom and began to sweep. Not to think ... that was the thing now. There was nothing to think about There was only to wait.

What had she done? Ruined their lives for a strange gringo? A man who meant nothing to her and whom she had scarcely seen? She remembered the hard strength of his arms, his sudden strange gentleness ... she was a fool.

He was a drifting man, a man from the malpais, a gun fighter. And what had he told her? That she should join him or he would come back. But to join him would be to lead them to his hiding place and how could he come to her when it would mean his death? No matter. What she had done she had done. It was enough.

She was washing dishes left from breakfast when she heard them coming. She went to meet them, drying her hands on her apron.

There were nine of them, sour and dirty with sleeping in their clothes, wearied from long hours in the saddle. Mort Bayless was there ... she had heard stories about him ... Joe Sutton, Jack Button ... no friendly face among them.

Jack Sutton's face was ragged from lack of sleep. He looked drawn and mean. Beside him Ben Hindeman -- as always --stolid, indomitable. A man who might have been cast from iron, before whom other men must bend or break.

"Where'd he go?" Hindeman asked the question, taking out the makings to build a cigarette.

" Idon' know."

She made no attempt to evade the issue. If she could not defeat them she could at least face them with pride.

"He comin' back?"

She shrugged. "Back?... Why he come back?"

Joe Sutton spoke into the momentary silence. "The sheep're gone, Ben. I think they've pulled out."

Ben Hindeman put the cigarette between his chapped lips. By God, this was a woman! The way she stood there ... no fear in her.

He considered it, taking his time. Ben Hindeman was a careful man and, outside his own family, a ruthless and cold-blooded man who lived for the brand. Old Bob Sutton had been the boss but now the mantle had fallen to Ben's shoulders as Old Bob had always expected.

Jack Sutton did not like that but there was little he could do. Among the sixty cowhands who rode for SB, not more than eight or nine would follow him, and none would risk a showdown with Hindeman. Direct, relentless and powerful, Hindeman wasted no effort. He destroyed what got in his way, smashing it down without malice or cruelty, simply because it was in the way.

There was something here that bothered Ben. There was in this Mexican girl something fierce, something tigerish and dangerous. She was not like his wife, who had the strength to yield and to endure, but this was a woman with an aggressive strength; she had a brain. That was something Jack would never understand.

It was because of this quality that Hindeman, who believed in no wasted effort, had left the Chaveros alone. They were better off in the canyons making their small living harmlessly from their sheep than hiding in the hills and living off SB stock.

What Jack did not realize was that this girl would fight and mat not too many miles south there were Mexicans she could enlist to help her. And the best SB range lay on the south side of the border. It lay within the power of this girl to wreck the SB if she were hurt or angry and if she realized that she could. At the same time Hindeman knew the danger that could come from successful defiance of SB by Trace Jordan. Jordan must be found. He must be killed.