Ambush on the Mesa (14 page)

T
HEY
worked swiftly in the gathering dusk. There was no dissension amongst them now. Picket lines were tied together and coiled. Picket pins were bundled together so that they could be carried easily to where they would be wedged into rock crevices as improvised pitons. Clymer carried the bundle of pins. Phillips carried the coiled picket lines. Hastings was the only one who carried a carbine, and he had added another Colt to his armament. Nettleton was to stay with the women. Hugh was to scale the canyon side. Morton had vanished into the ruins to commune with his Lord and himself.

Hugh had stripped off his shirt and had removed his boots. He expected to cut the very devil out of his feet, but they would be surer than his heavy boots. He led the way to the west end of the terrace and eased over the wall, followed by the others. Hugh padded along the slope and stopped fifty yards from the end of the ruins. He looked up at the canyon wall. One place was as good as another. Phillips and Clymer came softly up to Hugh in the darkness. Hastings faded
down the slope and took up a position where he could cover the approaches to the ruins and the scaling party.

Hugh worked his way up a tip-tilted slab of rock. He stopped at the top and strained his eyes upwards, studying the rock formations above him. The wall was solid looking, but there were places where frost and rain had hastened the work of decomposition. Hugh reached back and took the ends of the coiled lines from Phillips. The young officer was breathing harshly. Clymer handed Hugh one of the picket pins. He fastened the bundle to a spare picket line and fastened the free end to Hugh’s belt.

Hugh felt the cliff face. It was solid enough. He began to work his way upward, sweating coldly at the thought of having one of the picket pins clash against the cliff.

He cursed as he placed his hand in a clump of catclaw growing in a thin pocket of soil on a ledge. His hand smarted like fire as he climbed up. He was up fifty feet before he had to wedge a picket pin into a crevice for a foothold. He worked slowly, breathing quickly as he worked the tip of the pin into a solid position. He pulled himself up a little and tested his weight on the pin. It gave a little, and then held. He pulled himself up higher by a handhold and rested a foot on the pin. He felt the bundle of picket pins drag a little at the end of the line fastened to his belt.

A faint wind carried down the canyon, bearing the sweetish odor of decomposition with it. Hugh wiped the sweat from his stinging face. It must be Dan Pearce making himself known as the cooling night air contracted his gasswollen belly.

Hugh worked up onto a narrow transverse ledge and felt for another handhold. The dull buzzing warned him and he jerked back his hand as something struck just where it had been. The rank odor of the rattler tainted his nostrils. He pulled back his head, trying to spot the scaly body. There was a rustling movement and then a dull scraping noise. Sweat began to drip into his eyes.

Some damned fool down below tugged at the line fastened to Hugh’s belt. His foot slipped and he was forced to grab for the ledge again. His fingers closed on something scaly, and he felt the hard rattle buttons beneath his fingers. There was no time to think or jump. He gripped hard just above the rattles and jerked the thick heavy body from the ledge. As it reached full length he snapped hard. The rattler hung
lifeless in his hand. Pebbles and dirt pattered down far below him. He heard a muffled curse.

Hugh hung there by one hand, feeling his foot slip on the lower ledge. He wanted to drop the heavy rattler but he knew damned well if that cold body struck one of those nerve-taut men below, unadulterated hell would break loose for sure. Juggling the rattler with one hand, he gripped tight with the other and then swung the limp body up onto the ledge where it struck heavily. Then he followed it, dropping flat on top of it, feeling the cold scales beneath his naked chest and belly.

A greenish sickness came over him. He wondered how much worse things could get before he escaped or earned the blessed oblivion of death.

He figured he was up at least sixty feet. Mentally he calculated that the ceiling of the great cave which housed the ruins was at least eighty to one hundred feet above the tallest structure. Then the top of the mesa was at least thirty to forty feet higher than that. He shook his head, then wiped his bleeding palms against the rough material of his trousers. He felt weak and lightheaded, and he rested his head against the warm rock, fighting off vertigo which came and went spasmodically.

He felt for the line which hung from his belt and began to pull up the heavy bundle of picket pins, easing it when the bundle began to swing too much, trying to get a straight vertical pull. The picket line cut into his raw palms and the salt of his sweat made them feel as though he were dipping them into acid.

He felt the bundle bump the edge of the ledge and he pulled it up beside him. A small rock was brushed over the edge. It bounded from a projection and then struck sharply far below. He lay still, listening with all his power.

• • •

Isaiah Morton stood by the terrace wall. The darkness was so thick that it could almost be felt. He thrust out a gaunt hand encrusted with dirt and pawed at the darkness as though he could rift it sufficiently to see the far side of the canyon. “My heart is sore pained within me: and the terrors of death are fallen upon me.

“Fearfulness and trembling are come upon me, and horror hath overwhelmed me.

“And I said, Oh that I had wings like a dove! for then would I fly away, and be at rest.

“Lo, then would I wander far off, and remain in the wilderness. Selah!”

Katy Corse sat with her elbows resting on her knees and her hands cupping her oval face. She looked straight ahead, almost unaware of Marion Nettleton who sat across from her. Now and then Marion’s dry sobbing drifted to Katy through the haze which seemed to envelop her. The sobbing grew louder. “Be quiet!” hissed Katy.

“I’m afraid.”

“Who isn’t?”

“But it affects me worse than it does you, Katy.”

“Maybe. I’m thinking of those men out there, risking their lives for us.”

“It’s their duty.”

Katy dropped her hands. “You
would
think so. Don’t you ever think of anyone but yourself?”

Marion bit her lip. “You’re talking to a lady, Katy Corse.”

Katy stared at her, then threw back her head and began to laugh.

Marion closed her hand on a stone; it would be so easy to close her mouth. “If it weren’t for you,” she said quietly, “the men might have been able to get me out of here. Hugh Kinzie can do it.”

“And have himself killed? I’d rather have him leave me and save himself.”

“Why don’t you get Darrell Phillips to save you? You certainly threw yourself at him! I’d laugh if it weren’t so tragic. You … a frontier doxie, thinking Darrell Phillips is really interested in you.”

Katy stood up. She clenched her hands. For a moment she almost reached down to grip Marion by the hair and drag her to her feet. “I often wondered how deep your breeding went,” she said quietly. “I can see now that it’s a pitifully thin veneer.”

“Ladies!” hissed Maurice Nettleton from the doorway. “You must be quiet!”

Marion glanced sideways at her husband and then up at Katy. “We’ll take this up some other time,” she promised.

Katy laughed. “Any time.”

Maurice Nettleton shook his head. He walked to the edge of the terrace. He could hear Isaiah Morton mumbling another of his eternal prayers. “Be quiet!” said Maurice Nettleton out of the darkness. “Those men are trying to save our lives!”

Isaiah held up his thin arms. “Cast thy burden upon the Lord, and he shall sustain thee: he shall never suffer the righteous to be moved!”

Nettleton drew out his pistol and cocked it. “Damn you! You and your prating and praying! You should be on guard here while I should be out there helping them! Now keep your mouth shut at least!” Nettleton turned and hastened to the west end of the terrace to see if there was any sign of progress.

Morton thrust an accusing finger toward Nettleton. “But thou, O God, shalt bring them down into the pit of destruction: bloody and deceitful men shall not live out half their days: but I will trust in thee.”

• • •

Hugh Kinzie stood up on the ledge and felt above him. He was sick with horror that he might touch another diamondback and run out of what little luck he had left. His hands scrabbled in vain. He felt for a picket pin and inserted it into three different crevices until it seemed to hold firm. He looked back over his shoulder. There was a faint grayish-yellow tinge in the eastern sky. The moon was slowly rising. He worked slowly, forcing himself to remain calm as he worked up the cliff.

He was a good forty feet from the top when he suddenly became aware that he could see better. He looked back. The canyon was still in deep shadow. But the eastern sky was lighting.

He clung to a picket pin. He looked up. He was sure he could make it by himself and still not be seen by the prying eyes of the Mimbrenos. The temptation was strong. The odds of getting the rest of them out were hopelessly high. He closed his eyes and rested flat against the cliff face.

It would take him another half-hour to reach the top. By that time he could be seen against the cliff face. But he could go over the top and make tracks during the night until he was free at last from their almost unseen captors.

Hugh Kinzie slowly wiped the sweat from his face with his free hand. It was no use. He couldn’t do it. He’d have to go down now and they’d have to wait until the moon was
gone to finish building their perilous ladder to freedom.

Hugh felt for the pin under him and eased himself down until he reached the upper ledge. He picked up the body of the snake and tied it behind him. Then he felt for a foothold. The moon was beginning to light the canyon. Already he could distinguish the slope below the terrace. There was something moving there.

The clear voice came up to him and echoed through the canyon. “Hear my cry, 0 God; attend unto my prayer.

“From the end of the earth will I cry unto thee, when my heart is overwhelmed: lead me to the rock that is higher than I.

“For thou hast been a shelter for me, and a strong tower from the enemy.

“I will abide in thy tabernacle forever: I will trust in the cover of thy wings. Selah!”

There was a muffled exclamation below Hugh. Then boots smashed against the earth. Rocks began to roll down the slope.

Hugh looked back. Isaiah Morton was walking down the slope with his arms held high above his head.

There was a flare of light from the far side of the canyon. Then a faggot curved gracefully through the darkness, trailing a stream of sparks. It struck in the thick dry brush and scattered bits of burning wood. In a moment the brush caught the flame and began to burn swiftly. The light showed Isaiah Morton walking confidently toward the west end of the great canyon.

Phillips and Clymer were running for the cliff dwellings. Then rifles began to crash from the northern rim of the canyon, kicking up spurts of dust close to the two officers.

Hastings stood up. “Hugh! I’ll cover you! Come on! Shake the dust!”

Isaiah Morton walked through the flaming brush, seemingly in a trance. The Mimbrenos did not fire at him. Instead they poured their fire toward the two officers who were scrambling over the wall. Slugs whispered through the smoke and slapped against the dwellings. Nettleton fired wildly, at an impossible range for his sixgun.

Hastings looked up at Hugh with wild eyes. “Damn it! Come on!”

Morton walked on through the crashing hell of the rifles and the crackling of the flames. “The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.

“He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters.

“He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name’s sake.”

Hugh jumped from the last ledge and slid down the tip-tilted slab of rock. Slugs slapped against the canyon wall. Hastings fired his carbine and swiftly reloaded. Then he stood up and looked back at Hugh. “Run, you bastard! Run!”

Morton stumbled and fell. He got up and walked on.

“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.”

Hugh snatched up the coiled line and the remainder of the picket pins. He plunged into the brush. The flames were roaring and dancing, casting weird shadows and spurts of reflected light from the canyon walls. It was as bright as day.

Hastings fired his carbine. Slugs smashed into him. He walked forward with a Colt in either hand, staggering a little as more slugs smashed into him. His body jerked. “You red bastards!” he yelled. “I’m coming! I’m coming!”

Hugh tripped and fell behind a rock ledge. He lay still as rifles crackled in harmony with the blazing brush. Someone yelled from the cliff dwellings. Carbines began to rattle from the terrace wall.

Hastings was reeling across the bright canyon floor, pumping alternate shots from both Colts. Halfway across the canyon he pitched forward on his face and lay still. His body jerked as slugs pounded into it.

Isaiah Morton was almost to the granite shoulder. He turned and looked back. “Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.”

Then he was gone into the shadow beneath the rock shoulder.

• • •

Hugh raised his head. The flames had died away leaving red ember eyes winking on the canyon floor. It was quiet again. The odor of burnt cloth, brush and flesh mingled with the acrid gunpowder smoke.

He hunched himself along behind the ledge, stopping and listening now and then. The silence had descended again after the savage outburst of musketry.

Hugh worked his way up the slope. There was a scuffling
of feet behind the terrace wall. A head appeared. Hugh rolled over behind a bush and waited. A carbine cracked flatly, awakening the echoes again. The report seemed to bounce back and forth between the canyon walls, then died away in the distance.