Radigan (1958) (12 page)

She knew she must stall, she must find some way to keep him from leaving until someone came. She knew now there was no other way: he must be killed. Either killed here or trailed until he could be killed elsewhere.

There was no doubt in her now, no hesitation. She was startled at that. It had been one thing to agree to the killing of an unknown squatter, quite another to order the slaying of a man she knew and with whom she had talked. Yet there was no desire to wait, to think it out. If she was to own that ranch, Tom Radigan must be killed.

It was simple as that.

Her father had been the weak one. He got them into fights but always hesitated, moved too slow, or talked too much. Those were mistakes she did not intend to make. This was her land, and without it she was no one, and she had nothing. With it she could hide the stolen cattle far back in those hard-to-find valleys where Ross Wall said Radigan's cattle were, and if they were trailed here, they could assume utter innocence and there would be no evidence.

Radigan picked up his hat. "I'll be going now." He was growing increasingly nervous.

There was no telling what a woman would do, and her men might be coming at any time, and by now they would have given up the search close to town. He might make it to the trail he wanted without being seen.

Desperately she tried to think of something to keep him, but he moved to the door and stepped out onto the porch. As he did so she saw Barbeau, gun in hand, standing by the porch, and she reached out quickly and grabbed Radigan's gun arm with both hands, just as Barbeau's pistol came to bear on him. She grasped his arm with desperate energy and fearful that he would draw a gun, she jerked him off balance just as Barbeau fired.

The bullet smashed into the doorjamb, missing Radigan by inches, and he reached across with his left hand and drew the Colt, flipping it around and firing just as Barbeau got off his second shot.

Barbeau, worried for fear of hitting Angelina, and frightened because of his miss, missed again by an even wider margin. And then Radigan's bullet slammed into him, knocking him sidewise. Jerking free, Radigan sent Angelina staggering and sprang off the porch.

Barbeau, shot through the shoulder, had dropped his gun. He was reaching for it with his left hand when Radigan fired again. He had fired into Barbeau's body, but the bullet hit the heavy buckle at an angle and glanced off, knocking the wind out of Barbeau and tearing a wicked gash in his forearm, and then Radigan was around the house and running for his horse.

A rifle fired from the house and he dove for the brush, falling on his hands as a second bullet clipped brush ahead of him. He rolled over, catching a quick glimpse of Angelina herself stand
ing
near the porch working the lever on the Winchester.

His roll had put him on hands and feet and he dove forward in a plunging run that crashed him into the brush. Dodging quickly to change his line of travel he reached the black. The horse was frightened and it was a wild minute before he could get a foot into stirrup and swing to the saddle. Behind him another rifle shot cut the brush and he heard running feet. Then the black was running, heading toward the San Ysidro Trail, yet an instant later, when the horse swung up on a slight rise he saw a dozen horsemen fanned out between him and the trail, coming fast.

There was no hope for it. He swung the black on his hind feet and headed east at a dead run.

There was another rifle shot as he swung past the ranch. And dead ahead of him, barring his escape to the northeast, was the gigantic wall of rock that towered up in cliffs fifteen hundred feet high: the cliffs themselves, he knew, were not that high, but it was a climb up to them and hopeless when he got there. There were many convolutions in those cliffs, but he knew there was no way up or through them.

The black was a fast horse and was running all out, but the black was not grain-fed like his own horses and how much it could take he could not begin to guess.
Behind him the fanned out riders were bunching except for a couple who had continued to ride due east, evidently to prevent any attempt at escape to the south, and to eventually cut him off in the east.

Ahead of him a great promontory of the escarpment reached out into the flatlands as if to cut off his escape. If those riders who continued to ride east encountered no ravines they would be riding a trail that would meet that promontory and so cut him off, completely. Past it he seemed to remember the mouth of Hondo Canyon opened wide, offering access to the hills to the north. If he reached that point of rocks first, he might escape, and if he did not, then it was a hack-to-the-wall fight until his ammunition gave out and they closed in on him. All he could then hope for was to take some of them with him.

Using his spurs, he raced the black for the point. The wind whipped his face, and his hat blew off and hung to the back of his neck by the chin strap.
The black was lathering, but running freely and with no break in its stride.
Behind him there were occasional shots, but it would be merest chance if one hit him at this pace.

He did not look back, but his glance went again and again to the riders who were running only a little behind him and on his right. On his left the wall of the mountain closed in nearer and nearer.
The black horse ran like a frightened rabbit, ducking and dodging or jumping mesquite clumps, running as if it knew that death ran close behind.

A bullet whipped by so close it frightened him and he jerked his head as if from an angry bee. The point of rock loomed up ahead of him, the black's feet spurned the sand beneath and the cold wind cut through his shirt. Now the riders on his right were angling toward him: within the next few minutes he would know.

And then he did know. They were going to meet him right there. They had to.

It was then he drew his gun. He palmed the Colt and tried a fast shot at the nearest man's horse. He fired three times as rapidly as he could trigger the Colt, and suddenly the horse shied, slowed an instant. It was not a hit, just a disconcertingly close bullet, but the startled horse slowed and the rider follow
ing
plunged into him, and in that instant of confusion and plunging horses, Radigan went around the point on a dead run.

Hondo Canyon opened wide before him, a mile wide at the mouth but rapidly narrowing into a mere cleft in the rocks. The only trails he knew ended in dead ends at the head of the canyons, but there might be a chance on the left, or western canyon.

He ran the black up the canyon, then sighting split in the wall on his right he put the horse up the steep slope. It plunged desperately and then, nearly to the top, staggered and almost fell. Radigan swung from the saddle and holding the reins scrambled toward the top. Behind him a shot exploded and a bullet clipped a fragment of rock within inches of him. Stung by fragments, the black lunged ahead and they were over the rim.

Sliding his Winchester from the scabbard, Radigan dropped near a fallen log and snapped a quick shot into the plunging horses below. A man screamed and he levered shots into the group as swiftly as lie could get off the shots.

A horse went down, kicking and fighting, and the riders scattered for shelter. A bullet from his Winchester kicked sand at the heels of one, knocked another loose from his saddle. The man fell, his boot caught in the stirrup and the horse ran with him, dragging the fallen man by his caught foot.

Crawling back, Radigan got slowly to his feet. Despite the chill he was bathed in sweat and the black was streaked with lather and trembling. Catching up the reins, Radigan walked slowly away under the trees. It was just past noon.

He walked steadily, leading the horse, knowing they would first catch the horse that was dragging the rider, and then they would try to find another way up. They would suspect him of having left, but they would not be sure, and they would be delayed. They might, although he scarcely hoped it would be so, break off the chase for the time. He had hit a man and a horse, perhaps two men. And the dragged man, if still alive, would be in no condition to fight.

It was a good day's work. Three to four of them out of action at least, and a lot of luck.

On his right there was a great ridge of rock shaped like a great ship. Keeping to shelving sheets of rock he left no trail to speak of, and moved steadily along. After awhile he mounted up.

This was wild, relatively unknown country to him, although John Child had told him there was a spring up in these mountains called Ojo del Oso.
With luck he would find it.

Scarcely a half-hour later he did find it. He refilled his canteen there, and watered the black, rubbing him down with a handful of mesquite. He could not see his back trail, and in these rocks there would be no dust plume to indicate pursuit, nonetheless he must act as if there was pursuit. To the north the mountains towered high, and west of him there were steep cliffs and canyons to cut him off. His only route lay to the east or northeast, but by riding northeast he might swing around to the hideout where John Child and Gretchen waited.

Far off, perhaps twenty to twenty-five miles east, was the canyon of the Rio Grande, and the finger canyons of Frijole and Pajarito Creeks pointed the way to the mother river.

North he rode, ever higher and ever rougher the country, and colder the wind. It was a wild and lonely land. Several times he startled deer, and once saw a grizzly.

It stood on its hind legs for a better view of' him, and watched him from a hundred yards away as he rode by.

He reloaded his six-gun-the first time since he could remember that he had waited so long to load up after firing.
It had become an almost automatic reaction, yet back there he had had no time. The afternoon lost itself against the mountains and inquiring shadows crept down from the hidden canyons, and peered at him from under the towering trees. A searching wind found him with its cold fingers, and he patted the black and talked softly to it, and the black twitched a responsive ear to his words.

It was cold, so very cold, and the only way lay up into the still colder regions among the high peaks and across the lonely, wind-swept plateaus where no man rode willingly. He sagged in the saddle, and the black plodded on, all the splendid fire gone from its muscles.

Under a ghostly, lightning-struck pine, he swung down. But he did not stop, walking on, responding to the resentful tug on the bridle by a harder tug. He followed the contour of the hills, working steadily north. A few flakes of snow fell.

Before him the view opened out showing a mighty panorama of rugged mountains and canyons lost in darkness, of forests blasted by lightning and the gray, bleached bones of long dead trees. Under the low gray clouds the scene was weirdly somber and majestic. The higher ridges and peaks vanished in the low clouds and before him the wide shelf upon which he rode stretched out, bare and unpromising.

From behind his saddle he took his sheepskin coat and shrugged into it. Fortunately it was split high in the back so he could wear it while riding: only he did not ride now, but strode out at a fast pace, heading along the vast shoulder of the mountain.

On his right a canyon dropped away, probably hundreds of feet to a stream at the bottom, but he walked on, looking ahead for some place that promised a camp for the night.

Darkness crept out from the icy peaks and night fell. Still he stumbled on, the horse plodding along behind him, and when he came at last to a place for camping, it was only a corner among the rocks and trees but it offered shelter from the wind.

In a V where two huge boulders came together he built his fire, and facing it he built a lean-to of evergreen boughs where the faces of the rocks would reflect the heat of the fire into the shelter. By weaving boughs among the living boughs of the trees he made a crude shelter for the black horse, and some of the heat would reach it there. Of dead wood there was more than sufficient, and he made a good fire to warm the rocks, then carried his saddle and gear into the lean-to.

With a handful of evergreen needles he rubbed down the black horse and gathered snow to melt for coffee, preferring to keen what water he had in the canteen. It was very cold. He unwrapped the food packed for him by Downey at the saloon, and then hung a feedbag on the black with a little corn he had carried behind the saddle.

He had a ground sheet and two blankets which he unrolled on a bed made of boughs.

He sat within the lean-to and ate, drinking his coffee and wondering about John Child and Gretchen.
Had they been discovered? It was unlikely.

Snow began to fall. Not the intermittent flakes but fine, icy particles, and it did not stop but continued. A wolf howled somewhere out in the forest and the black horse shifted his feet uneasily. Radigan spoke to the horse and stretched his hands toward the eager flames. From time to time he added a stick, and it was very cold, the wind coming around the boulders and plucking at the fire, stirring it with irritable fingers.

The icy snow rattled on the rocks and the dried branches or fell whispering into the evergreens.
He was high on the mountainside, perhaps 8,500 feet.
Finally he drank another cup of coffee laced with whisky and then crawled into the bed.

Twice during the night he crawled out, shivering with cold, to replenish the fire, and the last time it was so cold and so near to dawn that he stayed up, huddling over the fire. He brought the black in closer and built up the fire. Outside a heavy blanket of snow lay over everything, and it would have covered any trail he might have left. Up to this point, anyway. If they came this far they were going to have a cinch following him.