Ambush on the Mesa (10 page)

The ladder creaked. Hugh turned. A pair of heavy legs showed coming down through the opening. Hugh squatted on his heels. Abel Clymer’s broad shoulders came down through the opening. He eyed Hugh suspiciously. “What are you doing down here?” he demanded.

Hugh looked down at the liquor pannier. “Rosewell might need some of this before he’s through,” he said.

Clymer stood on the ladder, breathing heavily. His eyes were slitted. “That’s Nettleton’s property,” he said.

Hugh stood up. “All the same, Roswell is in bad shape. If it helps to ease his pain he can drink the whole damned load.”

Clymer stepped onto the gritty floor and raised his head. “I said it was Nettleton’s property.”

Hugh leaned back against one of the low pilasters which held up the cribbed log roof. “How is it you’re suddenly so concerned about Nettleton’s property?” he asked softly.

Clymer flushed. “What do you mean?”

Hugh looked up at the ceiling. “Nothing.”

Clymer didn’t quite know what to do. Kinzie did not respect
his bars and he certainly wasn’t afraid. “You mean Mrs. Nettleton?” he blurted out at last.

Hugh looked surprised. “Why,
Abel!
”

Clymer spat to one side. “She’s a lady,” he said. “As an officer and a gentleman it’s part of my duty to see that she’s safely escorted to Santa Fe.”

“Bravo!” said Hugh dryly.

Clymer thrust out a big hand, stabbing the forefinger toward Hugh’s face. “You’re nothing but a God-damned civilian scout. I don’t like your attitude and I don’t like you. Now get up there and take care of your job.”

Hugh reached down and took a bottle from the pannier. He read the label. “This will do for a starter,” he said. He walked past the big man and stopped at the bottom of the ladder. He looked back over his shoulder. “You’re nothing but a God-damned army officer. I don’t like your attitude and I don’t like you. I’ll take care of my job, Clymer, and I’m wondering if you can take care of yours before we get out of this mess.”

Hugh climbed the ladder. He walked over to the room where Harry Roswell lay in agony. He handed the bottle to Katy. Matt Hastings eyed it. Chandler Willis wet his thin lips. Katy looked at the bottle. “Do you think he can take it?” she asked.

Hugh shoved back his hat. Sweat dewed Roswell’s ghostly face in great clear beads. “There isn’t anything else,” he said.

“How long will he last?”

“Quien sabe?”

Roswell opened his eyes. “I was only doing my duty,” he said clearly.

“Sure. Sure,” said Hastings. He wiped the sweat from Roswell’s face.

Roswell stared up at the ceiling. “I always did my duty,” he said. “Jonas had no right to do that. He should be court-martialed for what he did.”

“Sure,” said Hastings. He glanced at the bottle. “How does it feel, Harry?”

Roswell closed his eyes. “Bad. I’m all busted up inside, Sergeant.”

Katy handed Hastings the bottle. The first sergeant worked the wire and wrapping from the cork and pulled it out. He poured some of the liquor into a tin cup and gently lifted Roswell’s head and shoulders. The injured man sipped at the liquor. Then he gulped at it.

Hugh tapped Chandler Willis’s shoulder. “Get outside,” he said. “Greer is on guard and I don’t trust him.”

Willis grinned. “And you trust
me
, Kinzie? How nice!” He picked up his carbine and walked outside.

Hastings looked up at Hugh. “What’s bothering him?”

“Who knows?”

“He thinking of pulling foot out of here?”

“Who isn’t?”

Hastings stood up. “I’ll break his God-damned back if he tries.”

“If you catch him, Matt. Besides, he won’t try it alone.”

“Meaning?”

“He might have tried it with Pearce. He wants me to make a break with him.”

Hastings came close to Hugh. “Don’t try, Kinzie,” he said. “I’ve seen J Company outfits, but this is the worst yet. We’ve lost three men now. The only way any of us will get out of here alive is by all of us sticking together. I think you could make it alone … but you won’t.”

“How so?”

“You’ve got a certain sense of honor.”

“That all?”

The hard eyes bored into Hugh’s. “I’ll kill any man, officer, enlisted man or civilian who tries to make the break alone.”

Hugh shrugged. He walked to the door. “Katy,” he said, “I’ll have Mrs. Nettleton come in after a while to relieve you.”

Katy brushed back her dark hair. Then she laughed. “Hugh, there are times when you reveal an unconscious sense of ridiculous humor.”

“She’ll be here,” said Hugh. He walked out on the terrace.

Matt Hastings squatted beside Katy. “
That
, I’ll have to see,” he said.

M
ARION
N
ETTLETON
smiled as Hugh came into the room she shared with her husband. Maurice Nettleton looked up. “How is Roswell?” he asked.

“Not good.”

Nettleton bit his lip. He tugged at his sideburns. “We can’t afford to lose another man, Kinzie.”

“I took the liberty of appropriating one of your bottles of liquor for him. To ease the pain.”

“Quite all right. Poor fellow. Is there anything else we can do for him?”

“Yes. Miss Corse is taking care of him now. I’d like Mrs. Nettleton to relieve her off and on during the night.”

Nettleton stood up. “Absolutely not! Mrs. Nettleton is far too delicate of constitution for such work.”

Marion Nettleton looked at her husband. “Why, Maurice!” she said quickly. “I’ll be more than glad to help. I’m a soldier’s wife. I must learn to do this type of work.”

Maurice Nettleton stared at his wife. There were times when he wondered about her. She had once said she’d never have children because of the pain and mess involved. It had struck sharply home to him and he had never forgotten it. Now here she was volunteering to attend a badly smashed sick man who hadn’t had a bath in several weeks. It was beyond Maurice Nettleton to figure her out.

Marion looked at Hugh. “What time do you want me there?”

“In about an hour. Katy will spend most of the night with him, but she must have some sleep. You can work it out with her.”

She smiled. “I’m sure we will.”

Hugh left the room. He glanced back at it. He had expected something quite different from Marion Nettleton. No wonder she had that poor bastard of a husband under her pretty thumb.

• • •

Myron Greer looked out of the tower window. The moon bathed the canyon in pure silver light. The liquor was bubbling gently inside him. He grinned as he leaned on the sill of the window. That God-damned Hugh Kinzie wasn’t all he seemed to be.

Greer looked up the terrace. Kinzie was at the far end with Darrell Phillips. Greer slid down to the next floor of the tower and then down into the first floor. He stood there in the darkness, listening like a prowling coyote. He was too damned clever for Kinzie to outmaneuver. Greer leaned his carbine against the wall and eased his way into the passage.

From up above him he could hear the occasional dripping of water. Myron Greer didn’t need food nor water when he had a bottle cached away.

He worked his way down the cluttered passageway at the rear of the dwellings, fumbled in the niche for his treasure, then drew the bottle down to his lips. He drank sparingly and replaced the bottle. He walked partway back to his post, feeling the liquor flame within him. Maybe he’d better have another snort. He might not be able to leave his post again. He hurried back to the niche. He got the bottle and uncorked it, then stopped short. Something had moved down the passageway toward the east end of the dwellings. He corked the bottle and raised it toward the niche. He could see the man fairly well now. It was Abel Clymer. No one else would fill the passageway as the big officer did.

Abel Clymer was fumbling about in a pile of fallen rocks and debris. He did not look toward Myron Greer. Greer took the cork from the bottle and drank deeply. Craftily, he hid the bottle in another place. Then he eased his way back toward his post, stopping at the corner of the tower to watch Clymer. Clymer was concentrating on something. Then he replaced whatever he had in his hands in the hole and covered it with rocks and debris. Greer faded around the corner and climbed up to his post. His head was swimming a little with the exertion, and his feet stumbled on the notches of the chicken ladder. He drew himself up into the top room of the tower and leaned for a time against the wall. The room seemed to sway and lift a little as though it were floating on water.

• • •

The moon was at its highest. Jonas Stevens lay on his face, clawed fingers buried to the second joints in the bloody sand. He looked curiously flattened. He had seen the Apache before he had fired. Jonas had spurred his bay to get ahead of the stampeding horses and mules and had succeeded just in time to be slammed from his saddle by the impact of a heavy rifle ball. The horses and mules had done the rest. The horses and mules Jonas Stevens had been trying to save.

Harry Roswell opened his eyes and looked up into the oval face of Marion Nettleton. “Is it time for First Call?” he asked.

“No,” she said quietly.

He closed his eyes. “I thought I heard the trumpet.” He coughed harshly.

She raised his shoulders and head. The sour smell of the man sickened her. She wondered how Katy Corse had been able to spend the last two hours sitting here beside the dying man. She lowered the trooper and wiped his face with a damp cloth. His breath was sour and thick with liquor fumes. Drying blood caked his lips. His breathing seemed to bubble deep in his chest. Sweat broke out on his pallid forehead.

Marion reached over and pinched out the candle. The moonlight streamed in through the small windows. A cold finger of fear seemed to trace the length of her spine, almost as though Death had entered the room the instant she had put out the candle, and had touched her to let her know he was there waiting the end too.

• • •

Darrell Phillips was standing his guard at the east end of the terrace. Death had struck hard three times within the past few hours. Dan Pearce had died out on the sands. Jonas Stevens had died somewhere down the canyon. Harry Roswell was fencing with Death in a losing battle. There was a cold loneliness in Darrell Phillips. There was a finality about the way things were happening. The course of events was shaping toward an ending which would, in all probability, find Darrell Phillips cold in death. He couldn’t face it alone. He had to have Katy Corse beside him, so that her feminine strength would fill in the gap in his own strength, and the two of them together could face the end.

• • •

Abel Clymer leaned against a wall watching Hugh Kinzie. That damned scout had his nose into everything. Abel wondered if Kinzie had gone down into the underground room solely to find liquor for Roswell. Kinzie was always prowling around like a damned lean cat.

Kinzie knew how Abel felt about Marion Nettleton. Kinzie was always so damned sure of himself. That was one reason Abel had to take it easy. There was no one in the party who could serve Abel Clymer as Hugh Kinzie could. The two of them might get out of this death trap and could take Marion Nettleton along to boot. Kinzie could be gotten rid of later when safety was in sight. Sweat broke out on Clymer’s body. His hands shook in expectation. With Marion
Nettleton and the stake he had cached away he’d be the biggest hero west of the Mississippi.

Clymer wet his lips. There were four men who had been with him when he had found Winston’s body. Corporal Roswell, Privates Pearce, Willis and Stevens. Roswell was dying. Pearce was dead, and Stevens probably was, too. That left that slit-eyed bastard Willis to be reckoned with. He was secretive and sly. How much did he know?

Abel Clymer faded into the darkness as Hugh Kinzie walked slowly along the terrace, looking out into the mysterious moonlit canyon. A coyote howled softly from the top of the far wall.

• • •

Isaiah Morton pressed his thin hands against his burning eyes. There was a fire deep in his soul which seemed to gain in intensity as the days went on. There was no hunger in him and very little thirst, but his desire to carry the word of God to the heathens who held the party trapped, gained in intensity even as the insatiable flame which raged within him.

“Oh, my God, why dost thou persecute me?” he whispered. He laced his thin fingers together and pushed his hands downward as he raised his head and eyes upward. He shivered a little in his ecstasy of desire. “I will bring them truth, and the truth shall set them free. I shall make them walk as children of the light.”

• • •

Hugh Kinzie padded along the terrace carrying the liquor panniers. He did not see the eyes that watched him from the tower. Hugh bent his head to enter the low doorway of the room where Harry Roswell was dying. “How is he?” he asked Marion.

She wearily brushed back a wisp of damp hair. “Asleep,” she said.

“
Bueno!
” Hugh placed the panniers in a corner.

She eyed the panniers. “You don’t think he’ll need all that?”

“No. But it’s safer here.”

“Why?”

Hugh squatted beside her and felt for his tobacco pouch. “The food is almost gone. We’ve lost two men and will lose another before long. Nerves are getting frayed. At times like this men will turn to liquor for Dutch courage.”

“A courage that quickly lets them down.”

“Yes. May I smoke?”

She nodded. “If I may have one too.”

She studied him as he rolled her a cigarette. “You’re not surprised?”

He shook his head. “I’ve spent too much time along the border to think twice about women smoking.” He placed the cigarette between her full lips and lit it with a lucifer. The spurt of flame lit up her oval face. He blew out the match without taking his eyes from her.

She looked away. “You didn’t make one of them for yourself,” she said.

He jerked his head. “Oh!”

She watched his big fingers as they deftly rolled the cylinder of tobacco. “You seem to do everything well.”

He placed the cigarette in his mouth and lit it. “Everything?”

“Everything I’ve seen you do, that is.”

“That’s better.”

They smoked without speaking. Hugh looked at Harry Roswell. His face had undergone a subtle change; it seemed longer and sunken. It was as though the skull was trying to come through the flesh.

“Do you think there is a chance?” she asked.

“No.”

“I didn’t think you’d give up easily.”

He glanced quickly at her. “Me? I’m not giving up. I thought you were talking about Harry.”

“Well?”

He sat down with his back against the wall. “Some of us might make it to the Rio Grande.”

She shivered a little despite herself. There was a fatalism in him she had not expected. But this was a man who could be depended upon.

Hugh inspected his cigarette. “My job is to get you to safety, Mrs. Nettleton.”

She was startled. It was almost as though he had read her mind.

Hugh stood up. “I’ll admit things look black, but it could be worse. We haven’t been attacked in here. We have a little water.”

She ground out her cigarette. “No horses. A handful of men, half of whom are useless encumbrances.”

He shrugged. “I said
some
of us wouldn’t make it.”

“But you will?”

“Yes.”

She stood up suddenly, standing so close to him her full breasts touched his shirt. “You once told me it was a fifty-fifty chance. Maybe less. You also promised me that you would stay close to me on the trail. Is that promise still good?” She placed her slim hands on his shoulders and looked up into his eyes. Her own promise was in her eyes. She knew how to use her weapons.

Hugh slid an arm about her waist and crushed her to him, feeling her breath on his face. She shivered a little as he bent his face close to hers. “Don’t you think this is a hell of a place for dallying?” he asked softly. “With a dying man at our feet and your husband not fifty feet away?”

Her face flushed and then went taut. She bit her lip as she realized he was making a fool out of her. She struggled to break free. Suddenly he released her. She raised her hands to rake his face to bloody ribbons, but he was too fast for her. He kissed her so hard he bruised her lips and his whiskers scored her delicate skin. Then he shoved her back and walked to the door. He looked back at her.

“Take good care of Harry,” he said quietly.

“Damn you!”

He grinned. “Remember you’re a lady,” he said with a strong hint of laughter in his voice.

She hurled a cup at the wall as he vanished from her sight….

Abel Clymer pressed his big body flat against the wall as Hugh Kinzie padded past. Clymer’s thick lips drew back as he looked at the broad back of the scout. Clymer rested a hand on the butt of his revolving pistol. He had overheard them talking in the dwelling. He withdrew his hand. Let them talk. Both of them were part of his plan, and he wasn’t part of theirs. Abel Clymer could play a waiting game. His time would come….

A coyote howled softly up the canyon. A night bird chirped from the brush. Harry Roswell opened his eyes and looked up at Marion Nettleton. “I wish …” he said thickly. “I wish …” His voice faded away. His breathing stopped but his eyes were wide in his head.

Marion Nettleton stared down at the dead man. Then her control broke. She screamed, and screamed again, awakening the canyon echoes.