the Man from Skibbereen (1973) (20 page)

Above him a nighthawk dipped and circled, then whisked away through the trees. All was white and still in the moonlight, every object standing out in bold relief, yet the shapes were strange to him. The boulders cast shadows, as did the trees, shadows as dark as themselves, giving them weird, malformed aspects never seen by day.

Somewhere down the slope a pebble rattled. Natural? Or disturbed by something... somebody?

He could feel the trickles of perspiration despite the coolness of the night. Who was it who lurked nearby? He dared not simply shoot, for it might be Rep or Brennan, somebody searching for him but wary of Parley's men.

Cris Mayo took another careful step to his right. He was still shadowed by junipers, but this would be his last such move. He squatted down, peering ahead.

The black horse should be less than sixty feet downslope and to the right. He was closer than he had at first believed... or had the rattle of the bit come from another horse?

He eased the rifle into his two hands after checking his revolver again. He was growing irritated by the suspense, the waiting. He knew it was a dangerous feeling, for it might betray him into a move that would be the death of him; yet he had no idea whether there really was somebody out there. The imagination can play tricks, aided by natural movements of the earth and of animals. Sounds that occur all day long may be noticed only in the stillness of night. But pains and aches that wrench at a man from toes to crown, they make him impatient.

He took up a small stone from near his foot and tossed it thirty feet back up the slope. He heard it hit, then rattle as it rolled down among rocks. Silence.

There was a gap of a dozen feet between himself and the next juniper downslope and to the right. He moved, lunging suddenly from the ground and throwing himself toward the tree.

He was seeking only another protective shadow, but what he smashed into was something quite different. He had started down in his crouching position and moved low and fast. His brogans grated on pebbles and then his shoulder hit hard against an obstacle that gave way before him. A hand clawed at his face, and a man rolled onto his back, into the open moonlight.

The man he had seen with Murray!

Knocked sprawling, Watkins lost his grip on his gun and it fell. He scrambled for it and Cris Mayo shot from where he crouched. No more than eight feet away and the rifle in his hands, he simply fired. And the rifle had been loaded, despite his worries. Watkins grunted, started to rise up. "Damn you!" he said clearly, and then he fell.

Instantly a bullet struck within inches of Cris Mayo. He ran, crouched, fired, levered his rifle, fired again. Then he charged directly at the hidden marksman, working the lever as he moved. A gun blasted almost in his face and the stab of flame half--blinded him, but gripping the rifle in his two hands he took a wicked jab with the muzzle into the darkness where the flame had shown.

The gun struck, a heavy rocking blow to a man's upper body. Mayo heard the man grunt, fall, then scramble up and run. He shot, blindly, for the figure was indistinct and moving. He was sure it was Murray... and sure he had missed him.

Turning, he ran back along the slope toward his horse. If it was there. Watkins still lay sprawled motionless, ungainly in the moonlight.

Ducking into the small hollow where the black indeed stood, Cris tugged at the knot of the reins. It failed to give, evidently pulled tighter by the stallion's movements. Slipping the rifle under an arm, he started to struggle with the knot.

"There now!" The tone was quiet, amused. "Just stay right there, young man. I am really a very fine shot, and I have you silhouetted against the sky. If I missed you, I might shoot the horse, and neither of us want that, do we?"

Cris held very still. "Why shoot me? I don't even know you, mister. A couple of men just tried to steal my horse, and--"

"It won't do, Mr. Mayo. It just won't do at all. You see, I know you. I know who you are and all about you. Most important, I have someone you are interested in."

"You have someone? I don't know what you mean."

The laugh was almost pleasant. "Of course, you do not, Mr. Mayo. Of course not. You see, I have Barda McClean."

"You have her? Who are you?"

Again the laugh. "I am Major Justin Parley, Mr. Mayo. I believe you know the name?"

Chapter
Sixteen

Crispin Mayo stood very still. He knew little of the man he faced other than that he had commanded the renegades, and that now he said he had Barda McClean. Cris spoke carelessly. "I have heard of you, Major Parley. That you have Barda McClean, I do not believe."

"You should believe it. It is because of you that I have her. When you did not return to Laramie, she assumed that you were lying injured out here, and she came looking for you."

That would be like her, of course. A brave, fearless, reckless girl, that one. Cris felt his stomach muscles tighten. Parley was here, and he would scarcely be alone... how many were with him? And if he had Barda, where was she?

"You do not believe she would come for you? Oh, Mr. Mayo! You are mistaken. You misjudge the lady. She would come, she did come, in fact. I envy you, Mr. Mayo. It is not often one incurs the regard of such a lovely lady to that extent."

"If you have harmed her--!"

"Gome, come, Mr. Mayo! I am not a savage. Miss McClean is a lady, and I am a Southern gentleman."

"In Ireland we have heard of Southern gentlemen," Cris spoke carefully, "and it is a fine thing to be one, sir. I envy you."

Parley was pleased, and it sounded in his voice. "I regret that we are enemies, Mr. Mayo. The Irish nobility is very ancient."

"It is that, sir. But I was never your enemy. I was attacked, and I defended myself. And then Miss McClean asked me to help rescue her father. What else could I have done?"

Justin Parley, renegade or not, fancied himself a gentleman. He considered himself a model of chivalry, so the right way to handle this would be to accept him at his own measure and see that he lived up to it. Cris went on. "I would not have worried had I known you were a gentleman, sir. All them that travel these Western plains are not your sort."

"Put down your weapon," Parley said. "I think we understand each other."

"We do, I am sure, but you'll not be mindin' if I keep the gun? It reassures me, sort of."

There was a moment of silence and then a faint footfall behind him, and holding the rifle elbow--high he turned sharply and struck viciously sidelong with the butt.

A man had come in behind him and lifted a rifle with both hands to club him. The sudden turn and the smashing blow in the ribs brought the man down. There was a thud, a moaning grunt, and silence.

"What was that?" Parley demanded.

"I think somebody fell," Cris said innocently, and eased a step forward. "Sounded like it was behind me."

Parley stood somewhere in shadow, as did Cris himself. "Get your horse," Parley said. "Miss McClean is at my camp. I am sure she will be pleased to see you."

"I don't believe, savin' your presence, sir, that you have a camp," Cris replied, "and I'm not much in the mood for travel."

How many were out there? Or was there anyone now but Justin Parley and himself? There had been the man behind him, of course, but--

"It was my thought you'd be far from here," Cris said, "for the vigilantes will be out again by daylight, and the Army, too. There's two patrols out, you know... the two that guard the railroad, they've both turned this way and before mornin' they'll be closing in on you likewise." He had no idea whether this was true, but it seemed logical.

"Yes?" Parley's tone was higher. Cris was sure that Parley was suddenly worried. "And why should you warn me of this?"

"Look, Major, I don't want to get myself caught in a shootin' among the lot of you. I have no part in this fight. I've been in your country no more than two months and I know nothing of your fights or frolics. You say you have Barda McClean. What you hope to gain by capturing a girl who is just out of school I don't know, but my feeling is that you'd better leave her with me and scatter out. Just scatter out and run. The odds are too high against you."

"You make it sound very simple." There was irritation and impatience in the voice. Cris had an idea that Parley was waiting for that man to come up behind Mm. "We will keep Miss McCIean, and you."

Cris took a step backward, very gently. The man he had hit was stirring. Evidently the blow with the butt of the rifle over the heart had hurt him, but not enough. Stooping, Cris stripped him of his pistol and knife, and picked up the fallen rifle. He took off the man's cartridge belt and as the fellow began to rise, hit him a smashing blow on the head with the pistol barrel. "What was that?" Parley demanded. "A skull gettin' cracked," Cris replied mildly. "Somebody tried comin' up behind me. I didn't much care for it."

"Drop your gun," Parley said harshly, "and come out with your hands up!"

Cris shifted his weight, then crouched, holding the fallen man's pistol. "Like the divil I will," he said. "You start shootin' when you're ready, Major." The time for all that gentlemen stuff was past.

There was silence, absolute silence. Uneasily, he waited, then lowered one knee to the ground and very gently worked his way back. He was well in the shadow, and there was another tree close behind him. His toe found a sort of gully a few inches deep, a place where water had run off the top of the hill. That would deepen as it went down, he decided.

The black horse stomped a foot, restless and wanting to be moving.

Cris took a chance and rose suddenly, stepped to the horse and felt for the knot. He had started untying it before, and now it took but a couple of seconds. He heard no sound. Parley might have slipped away when his trap failed, but there wasn't a guarantee of that.

Thrusting the spare pistol behind his belt and holding both rifles, he stepped into the saddle and turned the black horse quickly down the gully he had found.

Behind him there was a shot. It must have missed by several feet, and then he was riding swiftly away, leaning forward the better to see the trail. Soon he was in the bottom of a sandy wash and his horse made almost no sound.

He was away, and Parley must have had only the one man with him, or else for some reason they were afraid to shoot. The one shot had been fired by Parley himself, Cris was sure, and probably in a fit of anger. But he was assuming things that he did not know.

The wash led south and widened rapidly, spilling out on a plain of sagebrush with occasional juniper.

Parley had obviously attempted to bluff him into surrender, and when that failed, withdrew... but for what purpose? Cris could not see how he would be of any value to the renegades. He was of no importance to anyone but himself. Yet the thought that they might have Barda rankled. He did not believe it, but it was possible.

He followed the wash to the plain and rode across the open toward a clump of trees on a slope. Warily, he scouted the area, but his horse showed no interest so he rode into the trees. Picketing the black on a patch of grass, he leaned back against a cottonwood to rest, watching the way he had come.

He was well armed. He now had two rifles, two pistols, and a knife, as well as the extra ammunition he had taken from the man he'd knocked out. If they came at him, he was ready.

He rested his much--abused body for half an hour, then got up, put on his hat and went to his horse. He saddled up, fussing over the horse a little as the black seemed to like attention, and then, aware now of hunger, checked the saddlebag. Unexpectedly he found that Brennan had had two sandwiches, thick with bread and beef, put into the saddlebag along with an apple. Seated where he could watch the moonlit country around, he ate one of the sandwiches and the apple. He was hungry enough to eat the other sandwich, but he had no idea how long he would be without food, so decided to keep it a bit longer.

He rode south into rougher country. Topping out on a rise, he studied the land about him. In all that vast expanse he could see nothing.

The logical thing was to return to Fort Sanders or Laramie and get the latest news, find out what had happened.

Off to the west the country was rougher still, and rising into higher mountains. He circled around, hoping to pick up the trail of Barda McClean, but there was a confusion of tracks, some of them yesterday's, some old. There was nothing to do but head for Fort Sanders.

Reluctantly, he took his bearings by the stars and turned the black, which was in good shape and seemed to thrive on Wyoming grass. Parley's comments rankled. Did he really have Barda McClean? Or had he invented that? And why, of all people, would they care about him? He was nobody, save to himself.

He buttoned his coat. There was a chill in the air that let him know he had best be planning for cold weather, and him with no place to stay. Riding around on fine horses playing at soldier or scout was well enough if it helped honest people, but it brought him no money.

Of course, he had twelve hundred dollars. A goodly sum, well worth the pounding he'd taken, and sufficient to start in business if he was so minded. He might buy a few horses and--

Something tugged at his hat and then he heard the bark of a rifle, and he wheeled his horse over and charged into the nearest gully. He had no idea where the shot had come from, only that somebody had fired, and he headed for the lowest ground he could find.