Last Stand at Papago Wells (1957) (10 page)

Not ten feet from him a dark form moved from the shadow of some brush and started up the wash toward the barricade. Waiting until the Indian had gone on, Cates rose soundlessly from the ground and moved out.

Another hour passed, and then he saw the first of the bighorns. He heard it before he saw it, heard it cropping grass upwind of him but against the side of a bluff and invisible. Notching an arrow, he settled back to wait. He was close. The slightest sound might startle the bighorn into a run, and it might be impossible to get so close to another, so he would not move. He would not move at all.

The minutes ticked slowly by, and several times he heard the movement of the bighorn's feet on rock. Yet he could see nothing. Yet, on his left there was a place where the bluff fell away and when the sheep got that far he would be skylined.

He waited. Over the bluff in the distance there was a lone star hanging in the dark sky. He heard the bighorn step lightly, and then other sound--it was another sheep, further back. Or was it?

He held very still, listening. Somewhere, not a dozen feet away, he could hear the faint breathing of another man! He hesitated, and suddenly the sheep moved and Cates heard the sharp twang of a bowstring, heard the thud of the arrow striking home and the startled grunt of the bighorn! The sheep lunged, then fell to its knees and rolled over, the horns striking on the rock with a metallic sound. Instantly, an Indian arose from the rocks and started forward.

For a breathtaking instant the Indian was himself outlined, and Logan Cates turned his bow, loosed his arrow and missed! In the instant of turning some sound had warned the Apache for he turned swiftly and instantly sprang at Cates. Knocked over backwards by the hurtling body, Cates could only throw up his knees to protect his stomach. The Indian struck them with his body and Cates threw him off with a convulsive jerk, then rolled over, drawing his knife as he rolled.

The Apache struck at him, and Cates felt the whisper of the razor-sharp blade as it missed his ear and cut sharply into his shirt. At the same time, Cates struck a wicked left-handed blow into the Indian's belly. The Apache was knocked back by the blow, almost winded, and they both came to their feet together.

Cates cut wickedly with the knife, felt it strike and glance off, and then they were tied in a clinch and something warm, wet and slippery was making his hands fight for their grip. The Indian broke free and backed off a step, and Cates followed, crouching, holding his knife low with the cutting edge up, ready to strike for the soft lower part of the Indian's body.

They circled warily, and then the Indian attacked. He came in low, the knife gleaming bright in the starlight, and Cates caught the blow with his own heavier blade, the two clashing as they came together, then, even as the blades clashed, Cates stepped in and jerked the knife up with all his strength. It slid off the Indian's blade and plunged into his body.

The Apache gave a hard gasp, and said something, too low for Cates to distinguish, then slid to the sand. From the choking, gurgling sound Cates knew the man was dying. He backed away from him, then looked around to orient himself. He must find the bighorn, cut it up and get back as swiftly as possible.

It was a blaze of white on the animal's belly that guided him to it. Swiftly, he skinned the sheep, working fast in the darkness, and working by touch. Gathering the two hindquarters, the saddle and every available bit of meat he could get in the few minutes he had to work, Cates bundled it all into the hide and straightening up, bow and arrows in hand, he started back.

For several minutes he hurried, trying not to stumble, fighting for breath, and then he found the arroyo. There he paused for several minutes, listening. He remembered the Indian who had gone up the arroyo as he came down it--that Indian would probably still be there. Shifting the burden to his left hand, which also gripped the bow and arrows, Cates drew his knife again and started up the wash, expecting at every step to be attacked.

It was very still as he worked his way through the jungle of growth in the bottom of the wash. From time to time he paused to listen, then moved forward again. Once a branch caught in the hide of the sheep and twanged sharply as it pulled free.

Hastily, he took three quick steps and crouched low, waiting and listening. Off to his left he heard a faint whisper of sound as of buckskin rubbing together or a moccasin in the sand. He moved again, quickly, then paused to listen.

He was sure he was almost at the place where he had left the oasis and he eased his burden of meat to the ground. For a long time he held his breath, listening. Despite the coolness of the night, he was sweating. He shifted the knife to his left hand and rubbed the right palm on bis shirt. On one knee, he rested.

An hour earlier, Grant Kimbrough had come down from the rocks and walked to the fire. Beaupre had relieved him and nobody else was moving around. He glanced at the bundled figures on the ground and tasted the scalding coffee. If any of them got out of this alive, they would be lucky.

How had he ever gotten himself into such a predicament? They should never have stopped, but kept running. Long ago they would have been in Yuma, and from there a man could buy passage to San Francisco, or go by stage over the Butterfield route.

San Francisco! The lights of the city seemed something that had never been, something beyond belief now. That was the life, not this. And old Jim Fair would come to terms. He had nobody but Jennifer and he would want her to have the best. The thing to do was to get out now, to awaken Jennifer, saddle their horses and make a run for it.

The thought came to him suddenly, and he tried to dismiss it, but it returned to his mind. Well, why not? It was doubtful that more than two or three Apaches would be on watch. They would be sure by now that none of the party would make a break.

But how to get the horses out? He considered that, dismissing as impossible all ways but one. A man would have to go down the draw, make an opening in that wall of brush and get out that way. It could be done. From Yuma they could send help, and in the meantime they would be on their way to San Francisco.

Kimbrough looked at the dark brown coffee, swirling it in his cup. He had only seventy dollars in his pocket, and it was not enough. Of course, if he could get in a game in Yuma--and they could sell their horses.

He glanced at the place where Jennifer slept. Would she go? She'd be a fool not to, and the chance they took would be slight. Still, if there was one more man ... he thought of Zimmerman, then dismissed it. He did not like the big, overbearing soldier; he was a dangerous man.

Webb was another story ... or Conley. But Conley leaned toward Cates and might not go. Cates ... where was Logan Cates?

Kimbrough came suddenly to his feet. Cates was gone. He had not seen the man for hours. Hastily, Kimbrough went from bundle to bundle, checking. All there but those on guard, and Cates.

He had given them the slip--he was gone. Instantly, Kimbrough felt a sharp anger. Cates had gone and left them behind! What kind of a man was that? Hearing a crunch of a boot on the sand, Kimbrough turned sharply. It was Sergeant Sheehan.

"Cates is gone, Sergeant," Kimbrough said, "he pulled out and left us."

Sheehan's head came up sharply. "I don't believe it!"

"Nevertheless, he's gone. Look and see for yourself."

"Nonsense, man! He wouldn't--"

Kimbrough laughed without humor. "Nonetheless, he's gone. And if we're smart, we'll all go. We can make it. I think we could make Yuma, all right, and I don't believe there are so many Indians out there. If we put a bold face on it, run for it--"

Sergeant Sheehan measured Kimbrough coolly. "Mister, you're forgetting something. We have fourteen people here, and just eight horses."

Grant Kimbrough started to speak, then stopped. Slowly, the excitement went out of him. Fourteen people and eight horses. "But one of those horses is mine," he said.

Sheehan nodded shortly. "That it is," he said, and turning abruptly, he walked away.

Chapter
Ten

Webb was standing close behind him when Kimbrough turned around. Webb was a man of thirty, burned red by the sun. "We're fools," Webb was saying, "pure damn fools! I say we ought to take the horses and run for it. If the others want to stay, let 'em. They can have it."

"We couldn't do that," Kimbrough said, but his words carried no conviction, no force. He had been thinking of doing just what Webb suggested, for he did not want to die, nor did he want to remain here in the heat with no bath, no chance to shave, no change of clothing. It was no way for a gentleman to live. He wanted to take Jennifer and get out--fast.

Webb would be the man to help. He was not dangerous as Zimmerman was, but a follower, a man who would never act by himself. "No," Kimbrough repeated, "it wouldn't be right."

"I'd rather be a live coward," Webb replied shortly.

Coward. The word stiffened Kimbrough, shocked him. Immediately he began to reason. It would not be cowardice for he had never wanted to stay, but to ride on, and to ride on might be more dangerous than staying. And he had nothing in common with these people, nor did he wish to have. He had allowed himself to be persuaded and now he would merely resume his original course. It was simple as that.

"What about it?" Webb persisted. He stepped closer to Kimbrough, and the gambler started to draw back in distaste, then held himself. "Why shouldn't we go?" Webb insisted. "There'd be more food and water for the others."

Kimbrough turned away. "Later," he said. "We'll see."

He walked swiftly away to the fire, which was the focal point of all their living these days. Men came and went from the fire for it was the center of their lives, of their being. They drank coffee, even if it was now more than half mesquite bean coffee, they drank coffee and sat, for there was nothing else to do.

The sky was growing pale now, pale lemon and gray, and the rocks were black, the red rock of the lava and the black rock of other flows. Soon the sun would rise and it would be hot, it would be open and clear and everyone would be visible, and there would be no chance for escape.

Still no sign of Cates.

Jennifer stirred under her blanket, then sat up, brushing her hair back. Even now, after these brutal days in the desert, she still looked lovely, still seemed fresh. A bit drawn, but still beautiful.

"He's gone," Kimbrough said, "Cates is gone."

"Gone?" She looked at him, trying to realize what the word meant. "Cates? No."

"He's gone, I tell you. You'll see." Suddenly he was speaking with almost savage triumph. "He talked so much about staying, about sitting tight. Then he took off himself, without so much as a word."

"I don't believe it!" Jennifer was suddenly on her feet. "He wouldn't do a thing like that. He's no coward."

Coward. That word again. Grant Kimbrough stared at her, almost with animosity. "Maybe he's just smart. That's what we all should have done."

"He hasn't gone," Jennifer was suddenly sure. "Logan Cates would not leave us, I know he would not. He isn't that kind of man."

Big Maria was sitting up. She stared around her, then hunched herself to her feet. She was very heavy and she had made no effort to comb her hair or straighten her clothing. Her eyes seemed to have grown harder, and they looked from Jennifer to Kimbrough and then up at the rocks.

They were all coming around now. Junie was brushing her hair back into place, trying with ineffectual hands to brush her dress into some semblance of shape.

"Cates is gone," Kimbrough said again.

Junie looked her contempt and walked away from the group.

Jim Beaupre picked up the battered coffee pot. "He was gone, all right, but now he's back."

They all looked at him, and Beaupre took his time. "He's back with enough sheep to keep us all eating a couple of days ... if we go easy."

"I don't believe it," Kimbrough said, "he's gone and that's what we all should do--leave."

There was a stir on the edge of the group. They parted to see him standing there, with the blood of the Indian he had killed staining his shoulder and shirt and a thin red scratch along his cheek from the knife blade. He did not know it was there, had not felt it when it happened to him.

He dropped the skin packed with chunks of meat and said, "I'm not gone and nobody's going. The one chance we've got is to stay right here."

"Maybe," Kimbrough's anger suddenly flared, "maybe I'll go whether you like it or not."

Cates merely looked at him. "All right," he said, "go ahead. Go any time you like, but you'll have to walk."

Kimbrough had started to turn away, then wheeled back. "Walk?" He took an angry step toward Cates. "I'll be damned if I'll--Why should I walk? I'll ride the horse I came with."

"You'd deserve him," Cates replied coolly. "That horse won't make it to Yuma ... but he'll make it part way, so you're not taking him. He's community property now."

Grant Kimbrough stood very still, his hands at his sides. There was one thing Cates did not know, that he, Kimbrough, was a fast man with a gun, probably one of the very fastest. Kimbrough was thinking of that now. He knew he could kill Cates and knew this was as good a time as any.

"You'd try to take my horse from me?" he asked.