the Rider Of Ruby Hills (1986) (43 page)

The wagon was loaded with water-not heavily, but three good kegs of it. With Bartram on the driver's seat, they started. Kilkenny led the way down the steep trail, Quince behind him. He reined in once and watched the wagon trundle over the first stones and past the ruin of the great tree. Then he continued on. For better or worse, they were committed now.

Chapter
XI

The Road of Death

He led the way slowly, stopping often, for it was slow going for the wagon. He watched it coming and watched the mules. They were good mules; Hale himself had no better. They would need to be good.

At the bottom of the road he swung down, and standing there with Quince Hatfield, he waited, listening to the strange, lonely sighing of the mysterious wind that flowed like a slow current through the dusty depths of the sink.

Bartram was a hand with mules. He brought the wagon up beside them, and Kilkenny indicated the mules. "Soak those cloths in water an' hang one over the nose of each of them. We better each wear a handkerchief over the nose and mouth, too."

He was riding the buckskin, and he got down and hung a cloth over the horse's nostrils, where it would stop part of the dust at least without impeding the breathing. Then they started on.

From here, it was guesswork. He had a compass, and before leaving the cliff top he had taken a sight on a distant peak. How closely the trail would hold to that course he did not know, or if any trail would be visible once they got out into the desert.

Walking the buckskin, he led off into the dust. The wind did not howl. It blew gently but steadily, and the dust filled the air. Much of it, he knew, was alkali. Behind him, Quince Hatfield rode a rawboned roan bred to the desert.

Fifteen minutes after leaving the cliff, they were out of sight of it. Overhead the sky was only a lighter space dimly visible through a hanging curtain of dust. Dust arose in clouds from their walking horses and from the wagon, fine, powdery, stifling dust.

Over and around them the cloud closed in, thick and prickly when the dust settled on the flesh. Glancing at Quince during one interval, Kilkenny saw the man's face was covered with a film of dust; his eyelashes were thick with it; his hair was white.

When they had been going an hour, he reined in and dismounted. Taking a damp cloth, he sponged out the buckskin's nostrils and wiped off the horse's head and ears. Quince had drawn abreast and was doing likewise, and when the others came up, they worked over the mules.

The dust filled the air and drew a thick veil around them, as in a blizzard. Saul drew closer. "What if the wind comes up?" he asked.

Bartram's face was stern. "I've been thinking of that," he said. "If the wind comes up, in all of this, we're sunk."

"Where are we now?" Jackie asked, standing up on the wagon.

"We should have made about three or four miles. Maybe more, maybe less. We're right on our course so far."

They rested the mules. The wagon was heavy, even though it was not carrying a load now. The dust and sand in places were a couple of feet deep, but usually the wheels sank no more than six inches into the dust. The animals would all need rest, for the air was heavy with heat, and there was no coolness here in the sink. The dust made breathing an effort.

Kilkenny swung into the saddle and moved out. The flatness of the desert floor was broken now, and it began to slant away from them toward the middle. Kilkenny scowled thoughtfully, and rode more slowly. An hour later, they paused again. This time there was no talking. All of the men were feeling the frightful pressure of the heat, and glancing at the mules, Kilkenny could see they were breathing heavily. Streaks marred the thick whiteness of the dust on their bodies.

"We'll have to stop more often," he told Bartram, and the farmer nodded.

They rode on, and almost another hour had passed before the buckskin stopped suddenly. Lance touched him gently with a spur, but Buck would not move. Kilkenny swung down. Ahead of him, and he could see for no more than fifty feet, was an even, unbroken expanse of white. It was not even marred by the blackish upthrust of rock that had occasionally appeared along the back trail.

Quince rode up and stopped. "What's wrong?" he asked. Then he swung down and walked up.

"Don't know," Kilkenny said. "Buck won't go on, something wrong." He stepped forward and felt the earth suddenly turn to jelly under his feet. He gave a cry and tried to leap backward, but only tripped himself.

Quince helped him up. "Quicksand," he said, "an' the worst I ever see. Must be springs under."

The wagon drew up, and then Saul and Jackie. "Stay here," Lance told them. "I'll scout to the left."

"I'll go right," Quince suggested. "Might be a way around."

Kilkenny turned the buckskin and let him have his head. He walked at right angles to the course and then at Kilkenny's urging, tried the surface. It was still soggy. They pulled back and rode on. In a half hour he reined in. There was still no way around, and the edge of the quicksand seemed to be curving back toward him. Only the sagacity of Buck had kept them out of it. He rode back.

"Any luck?" he shouted as he saw Quince waiting with the wagon.

"Uh-huh. It ends back there about two mile. High ground, rocky."

They turned the wagon and started on once more. They would lose at least an hour more, perhaps two, in skirting the quicksand.

Hour after hour they struggled on. Weariness made their limbs leaden. The mules were beginning to weave a bit now, and Kilkenny found himself sagging in the saddle. His sweat-soaked shirt had become something very like cement with its heavy coating of white dust. They stopped oftener now, stopped for water and to sponge the nostrils of the mules and horses.

At times the trail led through acres upon acres of great, jagged black rocks that thrust up in long ledges that had to be skirted. All calculations on miles across were thrown out of kilter by this continual weaving back and forth across the desert. Time had ceased to matter, and they lived only for the quiet numbness of the halts.

All of them walked from time to time now. Time and again they had to get behind the wagon and push, or had to dig out rocks to roll them aside to clear the only possible trail.

The world had become a nightmare of choking, smothering, clinging dust particles, a nightmare of sticky heat and stifling dust-filled air. Even all thought of Hale was gone. They did not think of food or of family, but only of getting across, of getting out of this hell of choking white.

Kilkenny was no longer sure of the compass. Mineral deposits might have made it err. They might be wandering in circles. His only hope was that the ground seemed to rise now, seemed to be slanting upward. Choking, coughing, they moved on into the dust blizzard, hearing the lonely sough of the wind. Dazed with heat, dust, and weariness, they moved on. The mules were staggering now, and they moved only a few yards at a time.

The black upthrust of the cliff loomed at them suddenly, when all hope seemed gone. It loomed, black and sheer, yet here at the base the dust seemed a little less, a little thinner.

Kilkenny swung down and waited until the rest came up. "Well," he said hoarsely, "we're across. Now to get up."

They rested there under the cliff for a half hour, and then his own restlessness won over his weariness. He had never been able to stop short of a goal; there was something in him that always drove him on, regardless of weariness, trouble, or danger. It came to the surface now, and he lunged to his feet and started moving.

He had walked no more than a hundred yards when he found it. He stared at the incredible fact, that through all their weaving back and forth, they had held that close to their destination. The road looked rough, but it was a way up, and beyond the hills, but a little way now, lay Blazer.

It was dusk when they reached the top of the cliff and drew up under the pines. Digging a hole in the ground among some rocks, they built a fire in the bottom and warmed some food and made coffee. The hole concealed the flames, and using dry wood, they would make no smoke.

Kilkenny drank the strong black coffee and found his hand growing lax and his lids heavy. He got up, staggered to his blankets, and fell asleep. He slept like he was drugged until Saul Hatfield shook him from his slumber in the last hours of the night to take over the watch.

Lance got up and stretched. Then he walked over to the water casks, drew water, and bathed himself, washing the dust from his hair and ears. Stripping to the waist, he bathed his body in the cold water. Refreshed, he crossed to the black bulk of the rocks and seated himself.

In the darkness thoughts come easily. He sat there, his eyes open and staring restlessly from side to side, yet his thoughts wandering back to Cedar Bluff.

They wanted him to fight Tombull Turner. He had decided to take the fight. Sitting here in the darkness with the wind in the pines overhead, he could think clearly. It was their only chance of getting to the Santa Fe officials. He knew how men of all sorts and kinds admire a fighting man. The Sante Fe officials, especially if one of them was Halloran, would be no exception. He would be going into the fight as the underdog. Hale wanted him whipped, but King Bill's power was destroying his shrewdness.

Halloran, or whoever came, would know about Tombull. The man had been fighting, and winning, all through the West. Any man who went against him would be the underdog, and the underdog always has the crowd with him. Kilkenny knew there was scarcely a chance that he would do anything but take a beating, yet he believed he could stay in there long enough to make some impression. And between rounds- that would be his chance.

If ever, he would have a chance to talk then. King Bill would have his guests in ringside seats. He would be expecting a quick victory.

Coldly, Kilkenny appraised himself. Like all fighting men, he considered himself good. He had fought many times in the rough and tumble fistfights of the frontier. As a boy he had fought many times in school. During the days when he was in the East, he had taken instruction from the great Jem Mace, the English pugilist, who was one of the most clever of all bare-knuckle fighters. Mace was a shrewd fighter who used his head for something aside from a parking place for two thick ears.

King Bill did not know that Kilkenny had ever boxed. Neither would Tombull know that.

Moreover, Kilkenny had for years lived a life in the open, a life that required hard physical condition and superb strength. He had those assets, and above all, he had his knowledge of Turner, whereas Turner knew nothing of him. Turner would be overconfident.

Nevertheless, in all honesty, Kilkenny could find little hope of victory. His one hope was to make a game fight of it, to win the sympathy and interest of the officials before he spoke to them, as he would.

He would rest when he returned to the cup. He would soak his hands in brine, and he would wear driving gloves in the ring. Some of the younger fighters were wearing skintight gloves now, and Mace had told him of their cutting ability.

There was no sound but the sound of the forest, and he relaxed, watching and awaiting the dawn. When it came, they ate a hurried breakfast. They were rested and felt better. Kilkenny cleaned his guns carefully, both pistols and his rifle. The others did likewise.

"Quince," Kilkenny said as he holstered his guns. "You know Blazer. What d'you think?"

Hatfield shrugged. "I reckon they won't be expectin' us from hereabouts. I been takin' some bearin's, an' I reckon we will come into town from the opposite side. We got us a good chance of gettin' in afore they know who we are."

"Good!" Kilkenny turned to Bartram. "You know the team. You stay by the wagon an' keep your gun handy. Stay on the ground where you can either mount up or take cover.

"Saul, you an' Jackie hustle the grub out to the wagon, an' Quince will stand by to cover you."

"How about you?" Bartram asked, looking up at him.

"I'm goin' to look around for sign of the other wagon. I want to know what happened to Lije an' them. They may be all right, but I want to know."

As they mounted up, he turned in his saddle. "Quince, you ride with me. Saul an' Jackie will bring up the rear."

They started out, and less than a mile from where they had come from the desert, they rode down into the trail to Blazer. As Quince Hatfield had suggested, they were coming in from the opposite side.

Two rows of ramshackle saloons, cheap dance halls, and stores made up the town of Blazer. These two rows faced each other across a river of dust that was called a street. The usual number of town loafers sat on benches in front of the Crossroads, the Temple of Chance, and the Wagon Wheel.

It was morning, and few horses stood at the hitching rail. There was a blood bay with a beautifully handworked saddle standing in front of the Crossroads, and two cow ponies stood three-legged before the Wagon Wheel.

Chapter
XII

In the Enemy's Lair

Lance Kilkenny rode past the Perkins General Store and swung down in front of the Wagon Wheel. Bartram stopped the wagon parallel to the hitching rail and began to fill his pipe. His rifle leaned against the seat beside him.

Saul and Jackie walked into the store, and Quince leaned against the corner of the store and lighted a cigarette. His rifle lay in the wagon, but he wore a huge Walker Colt slung to his belt.