the Burning Hills (1956) (7 page)

"Why did you stay?" he asked finally.

"Why should I go? This is my home." There was a fine insolence in her tone when she looked boldly at him and asked, "Do you fight women now?"

Mort Bayless' dry voice cut across the stillness. "Give me ten minutes with a quirt and spur. She'll talk."

Ben Hindeman looked at the tip of his cigarette, impatient with such talk. Mort was always bloody with women. Beat his own wife until she ran off and never came back. Mort had followed her ... maybe that was why she hadn't come back. But any fool should know this woman would not talk unless she chose.

"Ben?" It was Jacob Lantz. The old tracker had squatted beside the house. "He'll come back, Ben."

Hindeman caught the look of something like fear that came to her face suddenly and was gone. Ben Hindeman was smart in his way. He was a one-woman man and that woman was his wife, on their ranch near Tokewanna, but he knew a woman when he saw one. I'd come back, he told himself, by the Lord Harry, I'd come back. "That's it," Ben said. "We'll wait."

Mort's face twisted with anger. "What?" He shoved his horse forward, almost knocking over Jacob Lantz. "I'll not wait! By the -- !"

"Mort."

The chill voice arrested his movement, brought sanity to replace his sudden fury. Hindeman's shotgun was across his saddlebows and the twin muzzles had him in their eyes. "I'll give the orders here."

Mort hesitated, feeling something cold and ugly within him. Yet there was no room for argument with Ben Hindeman, The shotgun was no casual threat. "You wait, then," he said finally. "I'm going into town."

Maria Cristina walked into the house and sat down, her legs too weak to stand. Yet she had seen other things. There was a man with a bandaged face, like he had been shot through the cheeks. And Dave Godfrey was no longer with them. Trace Jordan was piling up a score.

Joe Sutton brought food into the house, piling it on the table. He faced her, hat in hand. "Will you cook? None of us are much at finding grub."

His manner was diffident, yet she was about to say no when she realized that well-fed men might relax and grow sleepy. "I'll cook," she said.

It was something to do and it would keep her from thinking. They believed Trace Jordan would come back -- but would he? Because of her?

Six of them stayed, the others riding away after fresh horses. Hindeman, Jack and Joe Sutton, Lantz, Buck Bayless, and a dour-faced man she knew as Wes Parker stayed. Godfrey, she heard later, had been knocked over a cliff by falling rocks. He was dead.

She did not want Jordan to come back, yet she remembered the feel of his hands on her shoulders and the strange weakness that came over her when he touched her body. It was a feeling she had not known before and it frightened her.

She did not want to give so much to any man. To love was to give ... to put herself in the hands of a man and to one strange to her and to her ways. She would think no more of him. He was gone.

It had been enough and more than enough that other time. She had not been in love but was desperate for some wider life than that in their little corner of desert and mountains. With her father gone she was one more mouth to feed, so she had married Bud Hayes. She had never loved him but he had loved her and he had been a good man until he began to drink. But he was a weak man.

This man was different. There was something in him that made her believe even when she told herself she was a fool to listen. Men were liars. All of them.

She remembered how she had first seen him, lying across his half-opened blanket roll, his face ghastly, blood seeping from the broken wound in his side. He had seemed dead ... and then she saw him breathe.

He was gone now. He had gotten away. He would not come back. And if he did these men were waiting to kill him.

Buck Bayless pushed back from the table and looked at Maria Cristina with grudging admiration. "You can cook, Mex. I'll give you that."

She flashed him a sullen look and turned away. Behind her Joe Sutton got to his feet, saying a little self-consciously, "Thanks, Ma'am."

Wes Parker glanced at him scornfully but Hindeman added his thanks and Joe felt better. Only Jack Sutton loitered at the table. The food had been good but Jack loitered because he could not convince himself that any mere Mexican girl could be cold to him. He stalled over his coffee, wanting to be alone with her.

Ben Hindeman came to the door after several minutes and said, with heavy sarcasm, "If you're going to stay in there, Jack, get away from the window. If Jordan sees you he'll never come in."

Irritably, Sutton moved.

Maria Cristina was thinking that tonight Jordan would not come back. Tonight he would wait for her. Tomorrow? He would wait tomorrow too. After that she must get away.

She came to herself with a start. She believed him! She was no foolish girl to listen to the talk of any cowpuncher. Yet it could not be that she was in love with this man. She could never truly love a gringo. Yet he had moved her as no man had and his hands upon her ... she hurriedly dismissed the thought and returned to cleaning up.

Behind her, Jack Sutton sat with his hands shoved down behind his belt He watched her move about the room, the flattening of her dress against her thighs, the way she moved her shoulders.

"You," he said, "comin' it high an' mighty, an' up there with him!"

She turned her back to the sideboard, her eyes taunting him. "You don't like that, do you? You think you big man! You think I should like you! Bah! You nothing! You animal! What woman want you? All you know is steal an' -- "

He came off his chair with a lunge and slapped her across the mouth. The sound was like a pistol shot. Then he swung with the other palm and she grabbed behind her for a kitchen knife.

Before she could use it, Ben Hindeman sprang iuto the door. "Stop it!" he roared. "Damn you, Jack! Leave that girl alone!"

Sutton stopped, his face white with fury. He turned on Hindeman, his fingers spread, his face hungry with the lust to kill. "Don't talk to me like that Ben! Some day I'll kill you!"

"All right." Ben Hindeman rolled his tobacco in his jaws. "You call it, Jack. Just any time." He jerked his thumb toward the door. "Right now you get out an' leave her alone. We ain't got time to let you mess things up by grabbing at her skirt. We're huntin Trace."

Jack Sutton waited while a man might have counted a slow twenty, then he walked by Hindeman and out the door. Something about Ben was too much for him. He had looked Jack right in the eye and never missed chewing his tobacco. He looked just the same when he watched a branding or bought a barrel of flour.

"Forget it, Ben. Only she gets under my skin."

Hindeman looked at the knife Maria Cristina gripped. "Yeah," he said dryly, "I can see where she might."

Hindeman left and Sutton turned in the door. "No matter what happens to Jordan, you're still here. After we're through with him nobody will care what happens to you. And when I get through with you there won't be anything left for anybody."

Maria Cristina put down the knife. "I'll kill you," she said, utterly calm. "I'll kill you first."

The day drew on ... the waiting men watched the hills through the heat waves, watched a soaring buzzard. There was no other sound, no movement. Heat gathered in the canyon, sultry and thick. Jack Sutton swore bitterly and mopped his neck.

Buck Bayless sat in the shade near the lean-to barn and tossed pebbles at a panting lizard whose sides worked desperately at the hot, heavy air. "It'll rain," Lantz said. "This'll bring rain." They stayed in the shade and out of sight. There was no telling when Jordan might decide to return. Buck Bayless thought of what Lantz had said, that when Jordan came back they could have him. Bayless was remembering what had happened when they caught up with Jordan the first time.

There was something about Trace Jordan that was not good to contemplate. He was a tough savage fighting man who would fight like a cornered wolf.

Joe Sutton moved over beside him. "They had no business," he whispered to Bayless, "pullin' that stunt. Just like Jack an' Mort."

Buck Bayless had been thinking the same thing but he wasn't going to say it. Let Ben handle Jack. He wanted no part of him. But he was sure now that bunch of horses had been stolen, like Jordan claimed. "They sure tackled the wrong man," he said.

Bayless did not like this riding over the hot bitter hills, over these rocks shaped like flame. A cloud left a momentary shadow. It might rain, at that. It was overdue. "I'd like a beer," he said irritably. "I'm gettin' fed up."

Jack Sutton said nothing. He overheard the last remark and the sooner they all felt that way, the better. He wanted to be alone with that Mexican girl. He would show her then. He would show her plenty.

Lantz sat quietly in the deepest part of the shade. He always knew where shade would be deepest and last longest. He watched Jack Sutton from time to time, knowing what was in his mind.

Supper was a good meal again. Hindeman pushed back from the table but did not get up. Jack tried to wait him out, then gave up. Nobody could outwait Ben. He sat there stolid and immovable as a mountain. Exasperated, Jack gave up.

Ben rolled a smoke and lit up. He was no hand with women and never had been. He did not even understand his wife, with whom he had lived happily for some years. Yet some women would sell a man out. Some could be frightened. Some reached through their families. Yet how to reach this one?

He doubted it could be done but he was going to try. Ben Hindeman was a man of single purpose. He had one idea at a time and he never stopped until he had gone through, all the way. It was one of the things that held Jack Sutton from making a break. Ben wouldn't scare and he would be hard to kill.

"You love this man Jordan?" He asked it suddenly.

"Why you ask that?"

"Don't know, exactly. Curious, maybe. You done a lot for him."

"What I do? He is dying ... I feex him up. I do it for you. I do it for anyone."

"You might, at that. You're a lot of woman." He turned it over in his mind, searching for something to take hold of. "Don't like us much, do you?"

"I should like you?" she shrugged, lifting her brows. "My father is keel by you. You try to drive us out. This is our country."

"We could change that," he began slowly. "Give you more land. The old man was dead set against sheep. I'm not." He looked up at her. "I could stake you. Go partners in a herd. You got enough family to handle 'em. We could split fifty-fifty."

He was sincere, she knew that. And if Hindeman was behind her, nobody else could object. Not out loud.

"What your wife say?" She was faintly amused. Hindeman looked rueful. "Might cause trouble," he said, "the womenfolks don't like you much."

"For no reason. I don't bother them. I am good girl."

Ben Hindeman looked up. "I believe you," he said and was surprised not to have thought of it before. "Yes," he was thinking of all he had seen and heard, "I'm sure of it. But you know how women are. You look," he flushed a little, "you look sort of sexy."

"So? I am woman."

"Well, how's about the sheep? Is it a deal?"

"No."

"Because of my wife?" He hesitated. "I can handle that."

"Because of what you wish me to tell."

"Tell us where he is. I'll pull my men out of here and you can have the sheep."

"Ido not know where he is."

"He say anything about comin' back?"

She hesitated and instantly knew her mistake. Quick knowledge came to Hindeman's eyes. "No," she said. "Why, come back?"

But she had hesitated too long. Hindeman got to his feet, feeling better. He would come back, all right. He would be worried about this girl. "You send for me when you want to talk. We'll get him, anyway. But you tell me where he is and I'll take care of the town. If I say you're all right, they'll treat you nice."

That was true. Hindeman's was the voice of authority. They might not like it but nobody would go against him. And Trace Jordan might try to come back and be killed. Yet she did not think of Hindeman's offer; she worried only that Jordan might come back and ride into a trap.

She made coffee and left it at the edge of the fire and then went to the door and told them of it. Then she went to her room but she did not undress. They would drink that coffee. They would drink it to keep themselves awake. But suppose they drank it and never wakened?

There were desert plants that held poison. Many of them she had known since she was a child, Rosa had told her of others. Rosa's mother had been a famous medicine woman among the Navajo.

But she was no murderess. But suppose they only slept? She did not immediately sleep but lay thinking. Somewhere out there in the desert. Stillness ... a pinnacle of rock pointed a beckoning finger at the sky ... a quail called into the stillness . .. and there Trace Jordan waited for her.

Angrily she pushed her head into the pillow and after a while, she slept.

The problems Trace Jordan presented were the sort Jacob Lantz relished. Not since he had trailed renegade Apaches had he enjoyed his work so much. There were dozens of good hideaways in the Animas or Guadalupe Mountains but Jordan would push south into the wilderness of the San Luis. Jordan could live in that country because he could live like an Apache. But he would not go far until the girl was with him. So he told Hindeman.