Bad Man's Gulch (28 page)

“Look here,” growled Judge, “if you want your share of this stuff, we're pretty willing to let you come in on equals.”

“You are, eh?”

“Yes, or if you want more, why, we'll give you
two
shares. Does that sound good to you?”

“It won't do,” Melendez said. “You cursed set of leeches!” The last words were torn from him involuntarily as a stifled cry of agony broke from the house.

“Who are you?” panted Judge.

“My name is Melendez.”

“Melendez!”

“Now, Judge, if I hear another yap from poor old Berenger, I'm going to kill you, man, and then start in on the others.”

Judge waited to hear no more. He turned hastily and called in a loud voice: “Hey, boys!”

An instant of pause, and then a sharp answer: “Now what the devil do you want?”

“I got a new idea. Come along out here and bring the old goat with you!”

“For why, Judge?”

“I tell you, don't you start asking questions. Just bring him along. Pretty quick, will you?”

“Well, we'll make a try. He's a dead weight, though.”

Presently Melendez saw, by the starlight, two men issuing from the cabin, one carrying the head and the other the feet of a limp burden. Blind rage overwhelmed Melendez.

“Hello!” sang out the voice of the first look-out beneath his tree—half lost in the distance. “What's up now?”

“Tell him to stay where he is!” commanded Melendez.

“You stay put, Jerry,” answered Judge. “You stay right where you are. That's where we need you most. We're gonna finish this job.”

“That's spoke right,” Jerry said complacently. “Finish the old fool, if he won't talk. I'm tired of this dirty job. He ain't got the
only
gold in the valley!”

“He's a heavy old goat,” said one of the bearers, as they came nearer.

There was a faint groan and then: “I can walk, if you wish. . . .”

It made the heart of Melendez stand still. It seemed to him that he recognized something of the voice of Louise Berenger in these weary but courageous tones.

“You stay put,” said one of the bearers harshly. “Now what's the game, Judge . . . and who the devil is that?”

As he spoke, he dropped the weight he was carrying. His companion did the same, and they found themselves looking at the long, steady barrel of a rifle held with the butt snuggled comfortably into the deep shoulder of Melendez.

“Are you double-crossing us, Judge?” cried one.

“It ain't me,” the Judge moaned. “This here is Melendez. He got the drop on me, and now he has it on you.”

“You face around,” Melendez ordered calmly. “I would like to drill the lot of you, and I got more than half a mind to do it. But if you'll face around and march straight back toward that shack and go inside of it, I ain't going to harm you. You hear me?”

They showed that they heard by turning solemnly around. Judge joined them, and the three slunk slowly across the clearing, walking as though they feared the rocks would crumple beneath their feet. They entered the door of the shack.

Then the voice of Jerry sounded from beneath his tree: “Now what the devil is this song and dance, partners?”

There was no answer for Jerry until the last man had entered the lean-to. Then there was a loud yell of rage: “It's Melendez, Jerry! Cut across behind
him. We'll come back down his trail. The hound has got Berenger!”

There was a wild yell of rage from Jerry, the outpost. Immediately afterwards, the worthy Bert leaped from the door of the shack, rifle in hand, to follow the trail of his enemy. He received a bullet through both his hips that toppled him back into the house, screeching in agony.

For just such a sortie, Melendez had been waiting. Now he drew the father of Louise to his feet. The older man staggered with weakness, like one just out of a sick bed. And he whispered: “Who are you? God bless you, my lad! You have taken me out of Hades.”

“Walk steady,” said Melendez. “You can rest some weight on my shoulder, but leave my arms free. We have to go slow . . . but we'll try to go sure.”

They had not taken half a dozen steps when Melendez paused and left his companion leaning against the great trunk of a tree. He himself sidestepped softly through the brush, and presently, by a dim shaft of starlight that struggled down through a break in the trees, he saw what he had expected—the form of a man creeping along on hands and knees, shoving a rifle before him.

A bullet would have ended him quickly, but a devilish fury rose in Melendez at the sight of the other. He leaped like a tiger and struck down with knees and fists. A shriek of despair and fear rose beneath him. The fellow writhed about and lay face upwards, striking a knife at the throat of Melendez. The knife hand, however, was seized by the wrist, and, straight into the upturned face, Melendez smashed the butt of the rifle, once, twice, and again.

The screaming ceased. The man lay inert. Melendez rose to his feet and raced back to Berenger.

Neither of the unwounded pair in the shack had attempted to leave it, yet. But by the noise they made, Melendez guessed that they were breaking through the flimsy wall of the side farthest from him and his rifle. Then they would hurry out and skulk down his trail—carefully, oh, very carefully—after the things that had happened to Jerry and Bert. For all the world he would not have been in the shoes of Judge, who had indirectly brought all these disasters upon them.

He went on with Berenger. The older man was weak, very weak; he walked with one hand clutching the shoulder of Melendez's coat. His head was thrown back, his teeth were set, and his lips grinned in the agony of his effort. What the four devils had done to their victim, Melendez would not even guess, but he longed to turn back and crush the remaining two—Judge in particular! Surely there was no justice under heaven if that consummate villain were allowed to carry his life away freely. But he had other things to think about than mere vengeance.
Up the valley he could hear the drumming of hoofs, as horses galloped hotly toward them.

Perhaps they were coming in response to the noises of shooting that they had heard, or to the sounds of screaming. Yet men around Slosson's Gulch had heard shots and screams before, and they were more apt to remain all the closer beside their own campfires when they heard such sounds.

It was no riding of open-hearted preservers of the peace. On the contrary, these must be friends of Judge who had been sent to help him in time of danger by the cripple. They had not taken long to get ready and ride. Surely Melendez had come fast, and he had not remained long seconds in front of the shack. Yet the rescue was nearly here—rushing up from the trail, turning straight toward the lean-to of Judge and his companions.

At the same instant Berenger crumpled up like a loosely hinged thing, across the arm with which Melendez turned to catch him. There was no time to ask questions and to offer sympathy. He merely slung the older man across his shoulder like a sack of wheat and ran with all his might through the trees, toward those poplars where he had left Rob. If only the rescue party did not spot the gelding in the shadows of the poplars.

They did not seem to be waiting, or approaching, with any caution. They came in a single, storming volley—half a dozen hard riders, it seemed to Melendez, as they crashed through the underbrush and hurtled up the hillside.

Above them, frantic voices were screaming: “Go back! Block the down trail! Melendez is clear!”

The jangle of the screeching voices and the sound of their own pounding horses kept them from understanding
. They rode on, and Melendez offered a gasping thanks to God and gained the side of Rob. There he had to pause again. He pried the teeth of Berenger apart and poured a stiff dram of moonshine whiskey, 100-proof, down his throat. It brought the older man back to his senses, coughing and spluttering.

Melendez swung his helpless man into the saddle, mounted behind, and urged Rob into a gallop. He was a stout horse, built not so much for speed as for the patient bearing of burdens, but this double load was too much to expect anything more than a cart horse at a walk. He ran stoutly, but his forehoofs rose high and struck hard, his quarters sagging a little at every stride. Moreover, fast as he might go, at his gallop, it was nothing compared with the rush of the avengers who would soon be at his heels.

Presently Melendez saw them coming—the six who had newly arrived from Slosson's Gulch, together with Judge and his remaining companion from the shack. He could thank the kind heavens now for the night that was covering him, for otherwise their bullets would be humming about him. They gained fast; they gained with a terrible speed. He saw that he could not keep away from them for another half mile.

Perhaps he could have kept them back a little by using his rifle, had he been alone, but he could not handle the sagging body of old Berenger and his own, at the same time, so he saw that one part of the game was surely lost.

Straight ahead of them hung a wall of shadow, where the sides of the gulch drew close together. Through this narrowed mouth, the waters of the creek went crashing onward toward Slosson's Valley. The throat consisted of the white waters of the
creek, and just ten feet of trail in a ledge at the foot of the next slope. In the black mouth of the narrows, Melendez called to Rob to stop. Then he quickly dismounted.

Straight behind him came eight black shapes, streaking through the night. Melendez dropped upon one knee, drew a true bead, and fired. The rider pitched silently, headlong, from the saddle. His companions swirled, screeching to one side or the other, breaking for shelter from before that deadly rifle.

If heaven would only send that horse with the empty saddle straight on through the narrows, where Melendez could catch it, and then whirl on again with redoubled speed for Slosson's Gulch. But the horse feared the crouched figures in the darkness. It wheeled about, also, and went up the hillside with jack-rabbit jumps.

Melendez saw what remained to him to do.

If he mounted again behind Berenger and tried to make Slosson's Gulch, he would be hopelessly lost. Both of them would go down. He stood at the shoulder of the horse and tied the legs of Berenger hard with the dangling saddle straps.

“Do you hear me, Berenger?”

“I hear you,” said a weak voice.

“I've got you tied on. You can't fall off. Now ride straight ahead. There ain't any chance of missing the trail. It runs straight down the valley to Slosson's Gulch. All that you got to do is to keep flogging the horse along. Do you understand that?”

“I understand,” whispered the other.

“When you get there, ask for Hans Grimm. Do you know his place?”

“No.”

“You don't?” Melendez groaned. “Well, ask for
Hans Grimm. Everybody else knows him. Tell Hans that I'm up here. He'll send help.”

“I can't leave you, lad . . . ,” began Berenger.

“Do you know better than me what to do? Ride on, and ride fast! Now, get out!”

He stood back and slapped the gelding. The protest of Berenger was torn off short at his lips by the lurch of Rob as he fled down the road. There remained to Melendez only the dark of the night, with the cold, distant faces of the stars, and the departing rattle of the hoofs of the mare.

That sound raised a fury in the seven men who were still here to press the attack.

The eighth lay flat on his face in the deep dust of the trail, and he would never again ride in any hunt. But the others swarmed toward the narrow pass, shooting from behind every covert. It seemed as though the torrent of their bullets must surely sweep Melendez away and aside and let them through. But Melendez lay in the angle between two rocks. Partly the darkness sheltered him, and partly the stones were his shields. However he had his chance to strike back at them almost at once, for on the hillside above him and to the left, he saw the silhouette of a rider dimly against the stars. He fired quickly and heard a yell of pain, and then a steady stream of cursing as the rider scuttled back toward safety.

After that, they could know that Berenger had galloped on toward safety. Their whole effort was not to reclaim him but to exact a sweet revenge upon the head of Melendez. For that purpose they pressed steadily up toward the pass.

Now and again he saw the flash of red fire that indicated that a rifle was speaking to him. But he was contented to lie quietly, only firing now and again,
as he shifted from his central little fort. For the distance was saving him.

In the meantime, he saw a film of silver descending over the upper portion of the valley. It brightened rapidly. The rocks stood out in white and black. The brightness of the creek that foamed beside him became a flashing thing, and every moment the light increased. The moon had risen, and in a very brief time the watchers who were crowding toward him were sure to spot him. How long would it be, then, before they were able to strike at him with a sharply angled shot?

He looked about him, but he could see no better way of fortifying himself. When he attempted to break for a loftier stone, whose sheer side might shelter him from a bullet from above more entirely, his break was greeted with three rifle shots, and he shrank back to cover. A moment later, a bullet splashed from the rock on his right side and thin splinters of liquid lead drove like needles into his flesh.

They had him almost at their mercy, now. They could swarm above him at a safe height, and eventually, by the brightening light of the moon, they would be able to shoot with almost as much surety as under the light of the sun.

He had no hope to advance or to retreat. There was only the chance, very remote, that old Berenger could send help to him in time.