the Key-Lock Man (1965) (16 page)

When that gravel scattered, hadn't there been a sound from below, from down in the gully?

She looked to right and left. With the coming of night she could not possibly keep them from closing in on her.

If they kept to the walls, they might even manage to get behind her.

The mesa rose up on three sides-behind her and to her right and left. She did not dare leave this spot to try to find a way up the cliff, if any way did exist. She waited, listening.

Time passed ... an hour . . . two hours .

. . but nothing happened. The warmth of the sun relaxed her muscles, her lids grew heavy. Several times she changed position. She was very tired, and her head nodded. Then she straightened up, and saw that the distant cliffs were growing brighter with the red glow of the coming sunset.

She realized that she would need all her wits when darkness came. For just a moment she leaned her head against the trunk of a cedar. Then her eyes closed, and she slept.

Over the canyon the buzzards swept in slow, lazy circles. Under the low branches of the cedars the pack mules waited, heads hanging. Kris's horse walked across the open and dipped his muzzle in the cold, still water of the pool.

MATT
KEYLOCK
HAD required two hours to stagger and crawl the mile into the canyon. He had remembered the soft sand at the canyon's opening into Nakia, and as his horse raced by it he had kicked his feet loose and, rifle and canteen in hand, had taken a fall into that sand.

Now he was less than a quarter of a mile from the notch in the canyon wall. He was there when the first shot sounded, and when he heard Neerland's voice call out, but he could not distinguish the words. He had heard the second shot not long after that, and then there was silence.

He was dragging one leg, and that pants leg was stiff with blood. However, he doubted if any bones had been broken. As for his other wound, although the bullet had gone clear through him, it seemed that no serious damage had been done to any bone or vital organ. He knew he was in bad shape, but he had the iron endurance of a man who has lived a hard life in a hard country, and he had a choice of moving or dying. There was no other alternative.

The heat in the canyon was terrific, but the shadow in the lee of the mesa was not far off.

In the packs that Kris would have there was medicine, there was food . . . what he wanted most desperately was a good cup of scalding black coffee. And there was ammunition. He had done little shooting, and still had about thirty rounds of rifle and pistol ammunition.

He managed a hundred yards of fairly easy going, and pulled and dragged himself up a sixteen-foot dry waterfall, which luckily was not straight up, but in a series of three- and four-foot drops. The canteen kept getting in the way as he crawled, but if he were pinned down among the rocks it might mean the difference between life and death. Food he could do without-he had done it before.

At the top he lay still for a time, panting and trying to regain some strength. He permitted himself a gulp of water, holding it in his mouth and allowing a little at a time to trickle down his throat.

He knew they would have guessed where he was by now.

They would have followed the riderless horse for some distance, would have discovered the trick, and would have come back, looking for the place where he had dropped off.

They would have found it soon enough, but would hesitate to advance rapidly up a winding canyon where he might be lying in wait.

Long since he had lost all count of time. He had fallen down again and again, scrambled up, kept going. Now it was no longer a matter of will, for it had become an almost mechanical process.

"Kris . . . Kris, for God's sake, wait for me!" He whispered the words hoarsely. How many times did he say them?

She had to be there. It was life or death to him now. She had to be there, with the food, the medical supplies. He wanted to live, he wanted desperately to live.

He knew they were back there behind him, and they were good. He had found that out during the day. They were tough men, and they were out to kill him.

He moved on-and fell and lay gasping. Why not just stay right there? What could they do to him that he was not doing to himself? They can kill you, Matt. The words came unbidden into his mind. Of course they could kill him, and they would. He started to get up.

In the sand beneath him there were horse tracks . . . tracks of unshod horses . . . wild horses.

How could they have gotten to this place? There must be an easier route that he had missed. And why had they come here?

He pushed himself up, using the rifle, and limped on, staggering at every step, half falling. He crawled up through some boulders and, looking beyond, saw the great split in the wall of No Man's Mesa, seemingly narrow at the top, wider toward the bottom, and several hundred feet high. In another stretch of sand, he found the horse tracks again.

There must be water up there . . . that was it. The water in the pool where Kris would be.

He fell down again, and when he started to push himself up, he saw red blood on the sand. The wound had stopped bleeding some time ago, but now it was open again.

Behind him he heard a clattering among the rocks and glanced back, panic-stricken. Something . . . somebody was coming.

A BOOT GRATED in the sand, and Kris woke. She saw the boot, close beside her, and then another boot, and somebody laughed.

"Now ain't that funny? No trouble . . . jest none a-tall! She a-layin' there, fell to sleep!"

"Man, that there's a woman! Neerland says after he's through with her he'll leave her to us. I say that's mighty nice of him. She's no skinny little whisper of a woman . . . this one should last!"

She lay perfectly still, in a half-reclining position against the parapet of rocks. She had failed. Utterly and completely failed. She had been so careful, she had tried to do everything right. She had found this place and she had arrived in good time. And they had somehow followed her, and then . . . then she had fallen asleep.

How many sleepless hours had there been? How many nights before that, of too little sleep? How much bone-weary traveling? She did not really ask these things of herself, for she sought no excuses. The only thing now was to find a way out of this.

Her rifle was not beside her ... they had taken it from her. Although only two had spoken, she knew there were three of them. What could she possibly do against them?

She heard boots strike on stone. Then Oskar Neerland spoke. "No sign of him. He's dead, or he would have been here."

"She ain't."

Neerland looked down at her, and nudged her with his boot. "Get up. There is no use pretending."

She got up quietly, coolly. She made no protest, no demand to be let alone. She simply looked from one to the other. But she was thinking . . . and she found no help in Muley's face.

The other one, the stocky, thickset man-now there might be a possibility. A moment later, feeling his eyes on her, she was less sure. He was certainly a tough man, a killer, but she thought he was a man of temper rather than one with the cold brutality of Oskar Neerland or the sadistic evil of Muley.

She knew she was in desperate trouble, but she was thinking clearly. Above all, she must divert them from any expectation of Matt's arrival, and she must keep their attention away from the canyon up which he must come-if he came at all.

"Where is he?" Neerland asked the question as if he did not really care.

"They killed him. Those other men did. He rode down to meet them, and two of them were off to one side. They shot him. I think I killed one of them."

"You did?" The heavyset man showed his surprise. "How?"

"With this." She indicated the rifle. "I would kill the other one if I could."

He chuckled, and glanced at Neerland. "We better watch this one, Oskar."

"I will watch her. Do not worry, Bob."

Neerland walked away a few steps, looking around curiously at the cliffs, and at the brush and trees. The notch at the back where water fell after rains was partly screened by trees and undergrowth, and beyond it a white scar of bared rock could be glimpsed.

He merely glanced that way, then walked back.

"If he is dead, why did you come back here?"

"Why?" She seemed astonished. "Why, I mean to find the body and bury it, of course. When those others have gone, I will go down and bury him." She looked Neerland straight in the eyes. "I could not think of him left for the coyotes or buzzards."

"Maybe he is dead . . . maybe he is not.

We will wait." Neerland watched her. "You will help us to wait."

Her eyes were on the far-off valley; there was one small area of open flat down there that was clearly visible. Her eyes were there when the horses came into view, and the golden stallion was leading.

Suddenly her heart began to pound. The wild horses! The faint breeze was from them and toward this place. If nothing turned them aside they would be coming here!

What would happen then? Would they turn aside first? Or would they rush into this little area, suddenly find it occupied, and dash away? Would they swirl around in a panic? Or charge on through?

"I was just going to fix something to eat," she said calmly. "Do you mind?"

"All right."

She went to the pack horse and began selecting what she would need. She took her time, wondering how long it would take for the horses to get here, if they were coming. They did come to this place, she knew, for she had seen their tracks, and Matt had told her so.

The men who had been looking for Matt would be down there somewhere, she was thinking; all the more reason for the horses to turn up the canyon.

She left the few things where they were and went about, picking up sticks. Nobody offered to help, and she knew they enjoyed watching her. They were anticipating . . . but so was she. Down inside the pack for emergency use was a knife.

She put the sticks together for a fire, then returned to the pack, delaying lighting the fire as long as she could. She put her hand down into the pack and felt the knife hilt. Her own mount was close beside her.

Just then there was a wild shout from down the canyon, and then a thunder of rushing hoofs. She turned swiftly, knife in hand.

She saw the cloud of dust, and suddenly with a burst of inspiration she grasped the pommel and threw herself into the saddle.

Neerland shouted at her, and at that moment the wild horses rushed into the camp. Neerland wheeled and sprang back, stumbling and falling among the rocks. Muley was out of the way, up in the cedars, but Bob was right in the line of the charging horses.

He grabbed wildly for his gun, but another gun rapped a sharp report and Bob, whirling, fell under the pounding hoofs.

Kris, her mount caught in the rush of horses, was swept along. The wild horses, led by the great stallion, plunged through the cedars, straight toward the sheer wall of rock, then swung abruptly around a boulder and rushed up a narrow track. Kris's horse, frightened by the stampede, was running all out, right up the path with the others. He switched back into the trees and she ducked just in time to go under a low branch. Suddenly her horse was scrambling over the rim, and then he was running free. They were atop No Man's Mesa!

Taking a tighter grip on the rein, she swung her horse around.

Matt was there!

He was not only with her, but he was astride the buckskin. Dropping to the ground, she ran to him, and he almost fell from the saddle into her arms. The front of his shirt was covered with blood, and he looked ghastly. "Rifle," he gasped. "Stop them!"

He clung to the buckskin, and taking the rifle from his hands she ran to the head of the path. She saw no one, but she fired anyway, fired a warning shot to let them know what to expect.

He came to her, walking his horse beside him. He dropped to one knee, the other leg extended, then pulled himself to the rocks.

The wild bunch had scattered away under the trees. The top of the mesa was covered with pine and cedar, and other trees with which she was not familiar. There were open meadows here and there, and from the droppings it was easy to see the horses came here regularly.

One horse, with three white stockings and a scarred hide, had lingered not far away, watching them with pricked up ears. Nothing stirred below.

Kris passed the rifle to Matt, then turned toward the pack animals. All of them, caught in the stampede, had been swept along the trail.

Quickly, she built a fire, starting with dry grass and bits of bark and twigs from the trunks of nearby trees. When the fire was going she put water on to boil; then she unbuttoned Matt's shirt and stripped it off.

The chest wound was inflamed and looked ugly, but she bathed it carefully with warm water. The wound on his hip was less serious, though it was a gash that had cut to the bone. The leg was black and blue from a heavy fall, and the wound looked bad. She started to bathe this, too, but he stopped her.

"See that plant?" he said. "The one with the
cream-colored
flowers? You get some of that, crush it up, and boil it in the water."