the Strong Shall Live (Ss) (1980) (20 page)

Outside, gray clouds hung low, threatening rain, and occasional gusts of wind rattled the dried leaves on the trees, or stirred them along the hard ground.

The stage station squatted in dwarfish discomfort at the foot of a bluff, the station was constructed of blocks picked from the slide-rock at the foot of the bluff, and it was roofed with split cedar logs covered with earth. Two small windows stared in mute wonderment at the empty road and at the ragged brush before it where the Indians waited.

Three Indians, he believed, had died in the battle, and probably he had wounded as many more, but he distrusted counting Indian casualties, for all too often they were overestimated. And the Indians always carried away their dead.

The Indians wanted the stage, the horses that drew it, and the weapons of the people inside. There was no way to warn the driver or passengers unless he could do it. The hostler lay on his back staring up at the ceiling.

He had no family, and he was glad of that now. Ruby had run off with a tinhorn from Alta some years back, and there had been no word from her, nor had he wished for it. Occasionally, he thought of her, but without animosity. He was not, he reminded himself, an easy man with whom to live, nor was he much of a person. He had been a simple, hardworking man, inclined to drink too much, and often quarrelsome when drinking.

He had no illusions. He knew he was finished. The heavy lead slug that had smashed the base of his spine had killed him. Only an iron will had kept life in his body, and he doubted his ability to keep it there much longer. His legs were already dead and there was a coldness in his fingers that frightened him. He would need those fingers to fire the warning shot.

Slowly, carefully, he reached for the shotgun and loaded it with fumbling, clumsy fingers. Then he wedged the shotgun into place hi the underpinning of his bunk. It was aimed at nothing, but all he needed was the shot, the dull boom it would make, a warning to those who rode the stage that something was amiss.

He managed to knot a string to the trigger so it could be pulled even if he could not reach the trigger. His extremities would go first and then even if his fingers were useless he could pull the trigger with his teeth.

Exhausted by his efforts he lay back and stared up at the darkening ceiling, without bitterness, waiting for the high, piercing yell of the stage driver and the rumble and rattle of the stage's wheels as it approached the station.

-Five miles east, the heavily loaded stage rolled along the dusty trail accompanied by its following plume of dust. The humped-up clouds hung low over the serrated ridges. Up on the box, Kickapoo Jackson handled "the lines and beside him Hank Wells was riding shotgun. Wells was deadheading it home as there was nothing to guard coming west. He had his revolving shotgun and a rifle with him from force of habit. The third man who rode the top, lying between some sacks of mail, was Marshal Brad Delaney, a former buffalo hunter and Indian fighter.

Inside the stage a stocky, handsome boy with brown hair sat beside a pretty girl in rumpled finery. Both looked tired and were, but the fact that they were recently married was written all over them. Half the way from Kansas City they had talked of their hopes and dreams, and their excitement had been infectious. They had enlisted the advice and sympathy of those atop the coach as well as those who rode inside.

The tall man of forty with hair already gray at the temples was Dr. Dave Moody, heading for the mining camps of Nevada to begin a new practice after several years of successful work in New England. Major Glen Faraday sat beside him atthe window. Faraday was a West Point man, now discharged from the army and en route west to build a flume for an irrigation project.

Ma Harrigan, who ran a boardinghouse in Austin and was reputed to make the best pies west of the Rockies, sat beside Johnny Ryan, headed west to the father he had never seen.

Kickapoo Jackson swung the Concord around a bend and headed into a narrow draw. "Never liked this place!" he shouted. "Too handy for injuns!"

"Seen any around?" Delaney asked.

"Nope! But the hostler at Bluff Creek had him a brush with them awhile back. He driv'em off, though! That's a good man, yonder!"

"That's his kid down below," Wells said. "Does he know the kid's comin' west?"

"Know?" Kickapoo spat. "Ryan don't even know he's got a kid! His wife run off with a no-account gambler a few years back! When the gambler found she was carryin' another man's child he just up and left her. She hadn't known about the kid when she left Ryan."

"She never went back?"

"Too proud, I reckon. She waited tables in Kansas City awhile, then got sickly. Reckon she died. The folks the boy lived with asked me to bring him back to his dad. Ol' Ryan will sure be surprised!"

The grade steepened and Jackson slowed the stage for the long climb. Brad Delaney sat up and surveyed the sage-covered hills with a wary eye, cradling his Winchester on his knees. No chance of surprising them here despite their slow pace. Here the Indians would be in the open which would mean suicide for them. Hank Wells was a seasoned fighting man and there wasn't a better man with the ribbons than old Kickapoo.

Down inside they had Doc, who had fought in the War Between the States, and the major, who was a veteran soldier. The newly married kidhandled a rifle like he knew what it was meant for, and unless they were completely surprised, any batch of raiders would run into trouble with this stage.

At Bluff Creek all was quiet. Dud Ryan stared up into the gathering darkness and waited. From time to time he could put an eye to a crack and study the road and the area beyond it They were there... waiting.

Delaney and Wells would be riding the stage this trip, and they were canny men. Yet they would not be expecting trouble at the stage station. When they rolled into sight of it there would be a letdown, an easing-off, and the Indians would get off a volley before the men on the stage knew what hit them.

With Brad and Hank out of the picture, and possibly Kickapoo Jackson, the passengers could be slaughtered like so many mice. Caught inside the suddenly stalled stage, with only its flimsy sides to protect them, they would have no chance.

Only one thing remained. He must somehow remain alive to warn them. A warning shot would have them instantly alert, and Hank Wells would whip up his team and they would go through and past the station at a dead run. To warn them he must be alive.

Alive?

Well, he knew he was dying. He had known from the moment he took that large caliber bullet in the spine. Without rancor he turned the idea over in his mind. Life hadn't given him much, after all. Yet dying wouldn't be so bad if he felt that his dying would do any good.

The trouble was, no man was ever ready to die. There was always something more to do, something undone, even if only to cross the street

Behind him the years stretched empty and alone. Even the good years with Ruby looked bleak when he thought of them. He had never been able to give her anything, and maybe that was why he drank. Like all kids he had his share of dreams, and he was ready to take the world by the throat and shake it until it gave him the things he desired. Only stronger, more able men seemed always to get what he wanted. Their women had the good things and there had been nothing much he could do for Ruby. Nor much for himself but hard work and privation.

At that, Ruby had stuck by him even after he began to hit the bottle too hard. She used to talk of having a nice house somewhere, and maybe of traveling, seeing the world and meeting people. All he had given her was a series of small mining camps, ramshackle cabins, and nothing much to look forward to but more of the same. His dream, like so many others, was to make the big strike, but he never had.

The tinhorn was a slick talker and Ruby was pretty, prettier than most. He had talked mighty big of the places he would show her, and what they would do. Even when Dud followed him home one night and gave him a beating, Ruby had continued to meet him. Then they ran off.

At the time they had been just breaking even on what he made from odd jobs, and then he got a steady job with the stage line. He rushed home with the news, for it meant he'd have charge of the station at Haver Hill, a cool, pleasant little house where they could raise some chickens and have a flower garden as well as a place to raise garden truck. It was always given to a married man, and he had landed it. He rushed home with the news.

The house was empty. He had never seen it so empty because her clothes were gone and there was only the note ... he still had it... telling him she was leaving him.

He gave up Haver Hill then and took a series of bad stations where the work was hard and there was much fighting. His salary wasn't bad and he had saved some money, bought a few horses, and broke teams during his spare time. The stage company itself had bought horses from him, and he was doing well. For the first time he managed to save some money, to get ahead.

There was no word from Ruby although he never stopped hoping she would write. He did not want her back, but he hoped she was doing well and was happy. Also, he wanted her to know how well he was doing.

He did hear about the tinhorn, and it was from Brad Delaney that he got the news. The tinhorn had showed up in El Paso alone. From there he drifted north to Mobeetie, and finally to Fort Griffin. There he had tried to outsmart a man who was smarter, and when caught cheating he tried to outdraw him.

"What happened?" Dud had asked.

"What could happen? He tackled a man who wouldn't take anything from anybody, some fellow who used to be a dentist but was dying of tuberculosis. That dentist put two bullets into that tinhorn's skull, and he's buried in an unmarked grave in Boot Hill."

Dud Ryan wrote to El Paso but the letter was returned. There was no trace of Ruby. Nobody knew where the tinhorn had come from and the trail ended there. Ryan had about convinced himself that Ruby was dead.

He tried to move, but the agony in his back held him still. If only he could live long enough! Where the hell was the stage? It should have been along hours ago.

He ground his teeth in pain and set his mind on the one thought: Live! Live! Live!

Delaney, Wells, and old Kickapoo were too good to die in an ambush. They were strong men, decent men, the kind the country needed. They wouldn't have let him down, and he'd be damned if he would fail them.

I'm tough, he told himself, I'm tough enough to last.

He tried and after a moment succeeded in lifting his hand. His fingers were clumsy and his hand felt cold. There were no Indians in sight, but he dared not fire, anyway, for he could never load the gun again. He just had to wait. . . somehow.

He could no longer make out the split logs in the ceiling. The shadows were darker now, and the room was darker. Was it really that much later? Or was he dying? Was this part of it?

Once he thought he heard a far-off yell, and he gripped the triggers of the shotgun, but the yell was not repeated. His lips fumbled for words, fumbled through the thickening fog in his brain. Live! he told himself. You've got to live!

"Ruby," he muttered, "'s all right, Ruby. I don't blame you."

He worked his mouth but his lips were dry, and his tongue felt heavy in his mouth. "Live!" he whispered. "Please, God! Let me live!"

Something stirred in the brush across the way, and the shadow of movement caught his eye. An Indian was peering toward the station. And then wild and clear he heard Kickapoo's yell. "Yeeow!"

Dud Ryan felt a fierce surge of joy. He's made it! By the Lord Harry, he'd--I He tried to squeeze, but his fingers failed him and his hand fell away, fell to the floor.

He could hear the pound of hooves now, and the rattle of the stage.

He rolled over, the stabbing pain from his broken spine wrenching a scream from him, but in a last, terrible burst of energy he managed to grasp the rawhide in his teeth and jerk down. The twin barrels of the shotgun thundered, an enormous bellow of sound in the empty room. Instantly there was a crash of sound, the rolling stage, rifles firing, and all hell breaking loose outside.

Kickapoo Jackson was rolling the stage down the slight hill to Bluff Creek when he heard the roar of the gun. Brad Delaney came up on hisknees, rifle in hand, but it was Wells with the revolving shotgun who saw the first Indian. His shotgun bellowed and Delaney's rifle beat out a rapid tattoo of sound, and from below pistols and a rifle were firing.

The attack began and ended in that brief instant of gunfire, for the Indians were no fools and their ambush had failed. Swiftly, they retired, slipping away hi the gathering darkness and carrying three dead warriors with them.

Jackson sawed the team to a halt, and Delaney dropped to the ground and sent three fast shots after the retreating Indians.

Doc Moody pushed open the door and saw the dying man, the rawhide still gripped in his teeth. With a gentle hand he took it away.

"You don't need to tell me, Doc. I've had it." Sweat beaded his forehead. "I've known for ... hours. Had--had to... warn-----"

Hank Wells dropped to his knees beside Ryan. "Dud, you saved us all, but you saved more than you know. You saved your own son!"

"Son?"

"Ruby had a boy, Dud. Your boy. He's four now, and he's outside there with Ma Harrigan."

"My boy? I saved my boy?"