High Wild Desert (6 page)

“Let's do it,” Simon growled fearlessly.

The young miner in front of him crouched. Simon saw the dim shadow lower in the backlight of the candle – and lantern-lit saloon.
A knifer?
He didn't care; he'd just pull iron and start shooting. Odds were at this distance he'd hit something.

“Hold it, Hawk,” said a voice farther to Simon's right. “This sumbitch can't see a lick.”

“What are you saying, fool?”
the knife wielder asked, tense, his brain and spleen a-boil on rye, anger and fear.

“I'm saying, he's blind, Hawk! Damn it, he can't see you. He can't see scat! Can you, mister?”

“I can see just fine,” said Simon. Palm upturned, he flagged the knifer to him with his fingertips. “Are you coming on with that pigsticker, or you going to go whittle with it?”

“He sees me, Tinker,” the knife wielder, Dale Hawkes, said to his comrade. He retightened his jaw and tensed for a lunge.

“No, he's blind!” Tinker called out. He gestured toward the long stick leaning against the bar. “Look, he uses that to move around with, keep from knocking his teeth out.”

“Keep your mouth shut, fellow,” Simon warned, half turning to the sound of the other man's voice, “or it'll be your teeth all over the wall.”

The few onlookers drew back in a wider circle.

From the poker platform, playing at a fevered pitch, Oldham Coyle neither heard nor noticed the disturbance at the bar, nor did much of the crowded saloon, except for those nearby.

“Is that true, mister?” said Hawkes, easing up a little. “Are you blind?”

“Make your move and find out,” Simon said, defiant to the last word. He heard a letup of tension in the man's voice. Guessing that the man had lowered the knife an inch, Simon let his hand slide slightly off the handle of his gun.

Hawkes gave Tinker an uncertain look, unable to determine if indeed this man was blind or just playing some strange killing game with him.

“How many fingers am I holding up?” Tinker asked quickly, raising his middle finger toward Simon with a half-teasing grin. He bobbed the finger a little; laughter rippled.

Hearing the muffled laughter, Simon caught on and played a hunch. “Keep doing it, I'll clip it off for you.”

Tinker's hand came down fast.

“Damn. Maybe he sees us after all,” he said.

“This is crazy,” said Hawkes, cooling, losing interest in spilling blood. “Lift your spectacles, mister,” he said. “I want to see your eyes.”

“Go to hell,” said Simon. But Hawkes noted that whatever fury had been in this stranger's voice had dissipated. Seeing that Simon had let go of his gun handle, he sheathed his knife and ran a hand across his moist forehead. “If you're not blind, why do you carry that long stick around?”

“If you're not stupid, why do you keep running your mouth?” Simon shot back at him. These men were young and drunk, he decided—not that it made them any less dangerous. Just a little less cause for concern.

“That's it,” Hawkes said in exasperation, “he's blind. I'm not fighting no blind man.” He looked at his friend Tinker and another miner named Paul Rosen. “He
is
blind, right?” he said.

“
Jesus!
Yes, he's blind,” Rosen said adamantly. “What's it going to take?”

Simon couldn't help giving a slight chuckle, seeing the trouble was at an end. On either side of the would-be combatants, what few onlookers the incident had gathered began to wander off.

“He thinks this is funny,” said Tinker.

The three watched as Simon raised his spectacles enough for them to see his dull, dead eyes.

“Damn it, damn it, damn it!” said Hawkes. “I would never have lived this down.”

“What's that?” Simon said. “Getting your ass whupped proper by a blind man?” As he spoke, his hand felt over beside him, picked up the bottle of rye and held it out at arm's length.

Hawkes shook his head and chuffed in submission.

“Hell, I guess so,” Hawkes said. He stepped in to reach for the bottle. “Are we drinking with you now?”

“Yep,” said Simon, turning the bottle loose to him. “See the poker game going on over there?” he asked.

“What about it?” asked Tinker, his hand reaching out for the bottle when Hawkes finished with it.

“Every now and then, I'd appreciate one of yas telling me what's going on over there. I'm waiting on a friend who's in that game.”

Hawkes looked over at the poker table. He grinned.

“I just saw one of the saloon whores toss a bag of cocaine on the table,” he said. “You might be in for a long wait.”

“Damn it,” Simon cursed under his breath.

PART 2

Chapter 6

For three days, the Ranger, his cuffed prisoner and Adele Simpson had traveled the high wind-whipped desert terrain. They had ridden their horses at an easy clip, Sam leading the late Earnest Trulock's spindly-legged roan on a short lead rope behind him. The roan carried Adele Simpson's travel bag and other personal items tied down on its back. Sam wasn't going to mention it yet, but the roan would never make it to New Delmar. The desert had a way of culling out the weak, and the horse's thin legs were not up to the challenge of the rocky, rugged terrain.

They'd followed trails meandering through swirling, colorful sandstone, through basins, arroyos and deep-cut canyons so sculpted by wind, water and time as to dizzy the eye. Tall, twisted rock formations flanked their passing like silent onlookers from some strange alien universe given to the study of smaller, more transient forms of frail humankind.

A few feet ahead, Lang stopped his horse and turned it around to face the Ranger as they ascended to a level spot on a trail circling a rocky slope beneath a tall, rugged butte.

“At least the wind has lain down some,” he said, his hands cuffed to his saddle horn, his wrists crossed.

“Keep moving, Cisco,” Sam said firmly, stopping his horse and waiting until Lang turned and moved his horse out of his way. As the Ranger spoke, his rifle standing on his right thigh, he let the barrel lower and leveled it at the prisoner's chest. “That's twice I warned you not to stop in front of me like that. There won't be a third warning.”

Ahead of Lang, the woman looked back over her shoulder but kept her horse moving forward. This was no place to have a horse lose its footing. Over eighty yards of loose silt and gravel lay slanting down through spiked rock and land-stuck boulders and spilled into what appeared to be a bottomless gully below.

Lang drew a deep breath and let it out in a show of submission. He backed his horse a step, turned it and nudged it back along the trail in front of the Ranger, who brought up the rear.

“I don't know what you're worried about, Ranger,” Lang said over his shoulder. “I was just making conversation. Not everything I do is an attempt of some sort.”

“Yes, it is,” Sam said flatly. “Keep moving. The next time you stop and face down at me topping a trail, I'm putting a bullet in you. You'd better count on it.”

Riding on, their horses at a walk, Lang called out to Adele, who rode fifteen feet in front of him.

“Miss Adele, why don't you speak up for me?” he said. “Tell the Ranger here that I'm not out to make a getaway, leastwise not if it would put you in harm's way.”

“I don't speak for you, Cisco,” Adele said. “I don't know what you're capable of. I'm sure the Ranger sees clear enough what you are and what you're up to.”

“I have to say,” Lang chuckled, “you two are the most unsociable folks I've ridden with for a while.” As he spoke he veered his horse slightly off the inside edge of the trail.

Testing . . . ,
Sam decided, watching the outlaw's every move, knowing Lang would take advantage of any little thing he let pass. He would push and test, and push a little harder each time until he'd carefully turned the situation into what he considered to be his favor. Then he would strike. It was coming, Sam reminded himself. He'd seen it too many times before while transporting a prisoner. If he let up for a second, Lang would make his move.

“Stay midtrail, Cisco,” the Ranger called out to him.

They rode on.

When the trail had passed a long gully and slanted back down off the butte onto a rocky but level trail, the Ranger sidled off the trail into the shade of a towering rock. He stopped his horse and looked down at hoofprints on the ground. As the other two drew up around him, Sam gave Lang a warning look that held the outlaw back a few feet.

“Apache, Ranger?” Adele asked, stopping closer up, looking down as Sam pointed out the prints of horse hooves in the dirt.

“I believe so,” Sam said, looking at the prints. “Chiricahua, most likely,” he added. “On my way up from Nogales, I heard that seven White Mountain warriors rode off the San Carlos Reservation.”

“Good of you to mention it, Ranger,” Lang said with sarcasm.

Sam ignored him. He looked all around the upper edges of cliff and rock. “I expect they meant to lie low here and make for Mexico before winter, but the army got on them too quick. From the looks of these prints, they've been too harried to yank the shoes off their stolen horses yet.”

“They still do that?” Lang asked, farther back, watching the Ranger.

“Some do, when they have the time,” Sam said. “Others just let the shoes wear off. If they're riding the high desert, they don't like iron shoes on their horses. Say their ponies can't feel the ground as well among the rocks. These being stolen army horses, I don't know that it makes much difference.”

“One thing's for sure,” said Lang, looking all around with the Ranger. “They know we're here.”

“Yep,” Sam agreed, “and they wanted us to know they're here. Otherwise they wouldn't have left these prints, not when they could have skirted higher up above the trail and never been detected.”

Lang just looked at him for a moment.

“Good thinking, Ranger,” he said finally. “What do you figure they want from us?”

“Food, guns, horses,” Sam said, “everything we've got. Everything they were short of leaving San Carlos.”

Adele looked concerned. Lang ventured his horse a little closer and stopped beside her, seeing the Ranger give him a watchful stare.

“Don't worry, Miss Adele,” Lang said, sounding sincere. “If they wanted a fight with us, we wouldn't have known it until they dropped down our shirts.”

Adele looked to the Ranger as if for confirmation.

Sam gestured at the hoofprints on the ground, the horses having stepped out of the rocks for a few yards, then veered back up onto the hillside.

“There's a couple of good reasons they didn't drop down on us,” he said. “Whatever guns and ammunition they have, they don't want to use just yet. And they know the army's close on their trail. They don't want gunfire giving up their position if they can keep from it.”

“You're right,” Lang said. “The message here is give up something, or have them try to take it all. It's as good an offer as you'll likely ever get from warriors on the move.”

“But you're not giving them any guns?” Adele said to the Ranger.

“No, ma'am,” Sam said. “That would only show them two things.”

“That we're scared and we're stupid,” Lang cut in with a trace of a smile. “Apache don't respect fear or stupidity.”

“Let's unload the roan,” Sam said. “I'm figuring by now they're tired of eating lizards and bunchgrass.”

“Give them the horse, to eat?” Adele asked.

“Eat it or ride it, that'll be up to them,” Sam said. “Had they not spotted us, by now they would have been ready to eat one of their own horses. But the Chiricahua don't like walking when they can ride, especially when they're put upon by soldiers. This horse will settle things for them.”

“But—but can't we just give them some of our food?” Adele asked.

“They'd see that as an insult and come after us anyway,” Lang said. “No, Adele, it's going to cost us a horse to get to New Delmar. This is how quick a small band of Apache can take over a trail.”

“I'm sorry, ma'am,” the Ranger said. “This horse wasn't going to last long anyway.” He swung down from his saddle. “You've been out here long enough. You should be used to these kinds of trade matters.”

Adele took a resolved breath.

“Yes, I understand,” she said as Sam untied her few belongings from atop the roan.

She watched as Sam started to carry some of her items to load them up behind Lang's saddle.

“Leave it all lie, Ranger Burrack,” she said.

Sam stopped and looked at her.

“Are you sure, ma'am?” he asked.

“I'm sure,” she replied. “It's nothing I can't replace when I get to where I'm going. I still have some money I managed to save.”

Lang sat looking along the upper edges of cliffs as Sam led the bareback roan into the trail and slipped the lead rope from around its muzzle.

“You know, Ranger, not to be a nuisance, but with Apache breathing down our necks, you might want to uncuff me here so I can be some help if need be.”

“Keeping your mouth shut is about as much help as I want out of you, Cisco,” Sam said. Holding his rifle, he slapped a gloved hand on the roan's rump and sent the horse off on a fast trot along the rock trail. Dust spun and billowed in the roan's wake.

“
Bon appétit,
”
Lang said quietly toward the distant shelter of rocks as the horse galloped away.

Sam just gave him a hard stare.

“Everybody's got to eat.” Lang shrugged. He turned to Adele and offered a thin smile, which she ignored. Lang slumped a little as if embarrassed by his actions. Then he turned back to the Ranger with a more serious look.

“You don't figure on following this same trail, do you?” he asked.

“No,” Sam replied. “I spotted another trail up the side back below the butte, before we got around the gully. I figured it's a good place to duck out if we had to. We're heading back now while the horse still has their attention.”

“We could watch for their fire, slip in and take them down,” Lang said, “if you would trust me with a gun, that is.”

“I won't, so forget it,” Sam said flatly, stepping back over to his Appaloosa. “Anyway, they won't build a fire and cook it with the army on their tails. They'll butcher it to the bone and eat while they ride.” He gave Lang a look that implied he should have known that himself, and swung up into his saddle.

“Yeah, yeah,” Lang grumbled under his breath. But he straightened in his saddle and turned and rode off in front of the Ranger, realizing the lawman had been watching, thinking, planning ahead this whole trek. This was not a man to discount when it came to knowing the art of staying alive, he told himself, nudging his horse forward.

“Okay, Ranger,” he whispered to himself, “you know your business, I'll give you that.”

Three hours later, having swung up the steep, treacherous canyon trail, making better time without the spindly-legged roan, the three led their horses along the last fifty yards of loose silt and jagged rock. Once over the edge onto a narrow stretch of flatland, Lang allowed himself to collapse to the ground. Clasping his sweat-stained hat in one of his cupped hands, he fanned himself.

“You do not travel easy, Ranger,” he said. “I could lie here for an hour or—”

His words stopped short as Sam grabbed the third cuff hanging on the short chain between his wrists and gave a jerk.

“On your feet, Cisco,” he said, pulling hard, forcing the outlaw to stand.

“Damn it, Ranger,” said Lang. “All I'm doing is taking a rest here. That's a climb that could stagger a mountain goat.”

Rifle in hand, Sam pulled Lang a step closer to the side of his horse, raised his cuffed hands and snapped the third cuff around his saddle horn.

“For God's sake, Ranger, be reasonable,” Lang said.

“I will, someday,” Sam said flatly. “Right now you can lean against your horse and rest.”

“That makes no sense,” Lang said. “What's to stop me from jumping up in the saddle and cutting out?”

Sam gestured toward the Winchester in his hand.

“Take a guess,” he said.

Lang shook his head and looked to Adele as if seeking her sympathy. She only glanced away, poured a few drops of water from a canteen onto a wadded handkerchief and touched it to her lips.

The Ranger reached into his saddlebags, retrieved a telescope and stretched it out in his hands. As he started to look out past the walls of the canyon they had just scaled, two men in dusty army tunics sprang up from a low stand of brush less than thirty feet away.

“Don't shoot, Ranger Burrack!” one of the men shouted as Sam dropped his telescope and swung his Winchester around toward them. “We're scouts, U.S. Army,” the young man added quickly. “Riding renegade detail for Captain Stroud.”

Sam eased his rifle barrel down, but not by much, scrutinizing them closely. The one speaking wore a full uniform and a cavalry campaign hat. The other man was Apache, wearing an army tunic, but instead of trousers he wore a loincloth, a pair of knee-high moccasins and a battered forage cap, thick black hair hanging beneath it to his waist.

“Where's your horses?” Sam asked, wanting to make sure these weren't a couple of deserters in sore need of transportation.

Good move, Ranger,
Lang told himself, watching, listening.

“We left them thirty yards back,” said the soldier. “I can send him back for them.” When Sam nodded, noting the corporal stripes on the young man's sleeves, the soldier turned to the Apache and gave him a nod. The stoic-faced scout trotted away.