Текст книги "Desert Death-Song: A Collection of Western Stories"

Автор книги: Louis L'Amour

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Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 14 страниц)

Jim Sandifer leaned back against the rock wall of the slope and closed his eyes. He was frightened. He was frightened with a deep, soul-shaking fear, for this was something against which he could not fight, those walls of living rock around him, and the dead debris of the rock-choked tunnel. Had there been time and air a man might work out an escape, but there was so little time, so little air. He was buried alive.

Slowly, the dust settled from the heavy air. Saving his few matches he got down on his knees and crawled into the tunnel, but there was barely room enough. Mentally, he tried to calculate the distance out, and he could see that there was no less than fifteen feet of rock between him and escape—not an impossible task if more rock did not slide down from above. Remembering the mountain, he knew that above the tunnel mouth it was almost one vast slide.

He could hear nothing, and the air was hot and close. On his knees he began to feel his way around, crawling until he reached the tunnel and the notched pole. Here he hesitated, wondering what the darkness below would hold.

Water, perhaps? Or even snakes? He had heard of snakes taking over old mines and once crawling down the ladder into an old shaft had seen an enormous rattler, the biggest he had ever seen, coiled about the ladder just below him. Nevertheless, he began to descend—down, down into the abysmal blackness below him. He seemed to have climbed down an interminable distance when suddenly his boot touched rock.

Standing upright, one hand on the pole, he reached out. His hand found rock on three sides, on the other, only empty space. He turned in that direction and ran smack into the rock wall, knocking sparks from his skull. He drew back, swearing, and found the tunnel. At the same time his hand touched something else, a sort of ledge in the corner of the rock, and on the ledge– his heart gave a leap!

Candles!

Quickly, he got out a match and lit the first one. Then he walked into the tunnel. Here was more of the rose quartz, and it was incredibly seamed with gold. Lee Martin had made a strike. Rather, studying the walls, he had found an old mine, perhaps an old Spanish working, although work had been done down here within the last few weeks. Suddenly Jim saw a pick and he grinned. There might yet be a way out. Yet a few minutes of exploration sufficed to indicate that there was no other opening. If he went out it must be by the way he came.

Taking the candles with him he climbed the notched pole and stuck a lighted candle on a rock. Then, with the pick at his side, he started to work at the debris choking the tunnel. He lifted a rock and moved it aside, then another.

An hour later, soaked with sweat, he was still working away, pausing each minute or so to examine the hanging wall. The tunnel was cramped and the work moved slowly ahead for every stone removed had to be shoved back into the stope behind him. He reached the broken part overhead, and when he moved a rock, more slid down. He worked on, his breath coming in great gasps, sweat dripping from his face and neck to his hands.

A new sound came to him, a faint tapping. He held still, listening, trying to quiet his breathing and the pound of his heart. Then he heard it again, an unmistakable tapping!

Grasping his pick, he tapped three times, then an interval, then three times again. Then he heard somebody pull at the rocks of the tunnel and his heart pounded with exultation. He had help! He had been found!

CHAPTER FOUR: Guns Out

How the following hours passed Sandifer never quite knew, but working feverishly, he fought his way through the border of time that divided him from the outer world and the clean, pine-scented air. Suddenly, a stone was moved and an arrow of light stabbed the darkness, and with it the cool air he wanted. He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with air so liquid it might almost be water, and then he went to work, helping the hands outside to enlarge the opening. When there was room enough, he thrust his head and shoulders through, then pulled himself out and stood up, dusting himself off– and found he was facing, not Bill Katrishen or one of his sons, but Jay Mello!

“You?” he was astonished. “What brought you back?”

Jay wiped his thick hands on his jeans and looked uncomfortable.

“Never figured to bury no man alive,” he said. “That was Martin’s idee. Anyway, Katrishen told me what you done for Dan.”

“Did he tell you I’d killed him? I’m sorry, Jay. It was him or me.”

“Sure. I knowed that when he come after you. I didn’t like it nohow. What I meant, well—you could’ve left him lie. You didn’t need to go git help for him. I went huntin’ Dan, when I found you was alive, an’ I figured it was like that, that he was dead. Katrishen give me his clothes, an’ I found this—”

It was a note, scrawled painfully, perhaps on a rifle stock, or a flat rock, written, no doubt, while Jim was gone for help.

Jay:

Git shet of Marten. Sandfer’s all right. He’s gone for hulp to Katrisshn. I’m hard hit. Sandfer shore is wite. So long, Jay, good ridin.

Dan.

“I’m sorry, Jay. He was game.”

“Sure.” Jay Mello scowled. “It was Martin got us into this, him an’ Klee Mont. We never done no killin’ before, maybe stole a few hosses or run off a few head of cows.”

“What happened? How long was I in there?” Jim glanced at the sun.

“About five, six hours. She’ll be dark soon.” Mello hesitated, “I reckon I’m goin’ to take out—light a shuck for Texas.”

Sandifer thrust out his hand. “Good luck, Jay. Maybe we’ll meet again.”

The outlaw nodded. He stared at the ground, and then he looked up, his tough, unshaven face strangely lonely in the late afternoon sun.

“Sure wish Dan was ridin’ with me. We always rode together, him an’ me, since we was kids.” He rubbed a hard hand over his lips. “What d’you know? That girl back to Katrishen’s? She put some flowers on his grave! Sure enough!”

He turned and walked to his horse, swung into the saddle and walked his horse down the trail, a somber figure captured momentarily by the sunlight before he turned away under the pines. Incongruously, Jim noticed that the man’s vest was split up the back, and the crown of his hat was torn.

The gray waited patiently by the brush, but Jim Sandifer untied him and swung into the saddle. It was a fast ride he made back to the ranch on Iron Creek. There he swapped saddles, explaining all to Katrishen. “I’m riding,” he said, “there’s no room in this country for Lee Martin now.”

“Want us to come?” Bill asked.

“No, they might think it was war. You stay out of it, for we want no Pleasant Valley War here. Leave it lay. I’ll settle this.”

He turned from the trail before he reached the B Bar, riding through the cottonwoods and sycamores along the creek. Then he rode up between the buildings and stopped beside the corral. The saddle leather creaked when he swung down, and he saw a slight movement at the corner of the corral.

“Klee? Is that you?” It was Art Dunn. “What’s goin’ on up at the house?”

Jim Sandifer took a long step forward. “No, Art,” he said, swiftly, “it’s me!”

Dunn took a quick step back and grabbed for his gun, but Jim was already moving, expecting him, to reach. Sandifer’s left hand dropped to Art’s wrist and his right smashed up in a wicked uppercut to the solar plexus.

Dunn grunted and his knees sagged. Jim let go of his wrist then, and hooked sharply to the chin, hearing Dunn’s teeth click as the blow smashed home. Four times more Jim hit him, rocking his head on his shoulders, then smashed another punch to the wind, and grabbing Dunn’s belt buckle, jerked his gun belt open.

The belt slipped down and Dunn staggered and went to his knees. The outlaw pawed wildly, trying to get at Jim, but he was still gasping for the wind that had been knocked out of him.

The bunkhouse door opened and Sparkman stepped into the light. “What’s the matter?” he asked. “What goes on?”

Sandifer called softly, and Sparkman grunted and came down off the steps. “Jim! You here? There’s the devil to pay up at the house, man! I don’t know what came off up there, but there was a shootin’! When we tried to go up, Mont was on the steps with a shot gun to drive us back.”

“Take care of this hombre. I’ll find out what’s wrong fast enough. Where’s Grimes an’ Rep?”

“Rep Dean rode over to the line cabin on Canyon Creek to round up some boys in case of trouble. Grimes is inside.”

“Then take Dunn an’ keep your eyes open! I may need help. If I yell, come loaded for bear an’ huntin’ hair!”

Jim Sandifer turned swiftly and started for the house. He walked rapidly, circling as he went toward the little-used front door, opened only on company occasions. That door, he knew, opened into a large, old-fashioned parlor that was rarely used. It was a show place, stiff and uncomfortable, and mostly gilt and plush. The front door was usually locked, but he remembered that he had occasion to help move some furniture not long before and the door had been left unlocked. There was every chance that it still was, for the room was so little used as to be almost forgotten.

Easing up on the veranda, he tiptoed across to the door and gently turned the knob. The door opened inward, and he stepped swiftly through and closed it behind him. All was dark and silent, but there was light under the intervening door, and a sound of movement. With the thick carpet muffling his footfalls, he worked his way across the room to the door.

“How’s the old man?” Martin was asking.

His mother replied. “He’s all right. He’ll live.”

Martin swore. “If that girl hadn’t bumped me, I’d have killed him and we’d be better off. We could easy enough fix things so that Sandifer would get blamed for it.”

“Don’t be in a hurry,” Rose Martin intervened. “You’re always in such a fret. The girl’s here, an’ we can use her to help. As long as we have her, the old man will listen, and while he’s hurt, she’ll do as she’s told.”

Martin muttered under his breath. “If we’d started by killing Sandifer like I wanted, all would be well,” he said irritably. “What he said about the Katrishen trouble startin’ with our comin’ got the old man to thinkin’. Then I figure Bowen was sorry he fired his foreman.”

“No matter!” Rose Martin was brusque. “We’ve got this place and we can handle the Katrishens ourselves. There’s plenty of time now Sandifer’s gone.”

Steps sounded. “Lee, the old man’s comin’ out of it. He wants his daughter.”

“Tell him to go climb a tree!” Martin replied stiffly. “You watch him.”

“Where’s Art?” Klee protested. “I don’t like it, Lee! He’s been gone too long. Somethin’s up!”

“Aw, forget it! Quit cryin’! You do more yelpin’ than a mangy coyote!”

Sandifer stood very still, thinking. There was no sound of Elaine so she must be a prisoner in her room. Turning, he tiptoed across the room toward the far side. A door there, beyond the old piano, opened into Elaine’s room. Carefully, he tried the knob. It held.

At that very instant a door opened abruptly and he saw light under the door before him. He heard a startled gasp from Elaine, and Lee Martin’s voice, taunting, familiar.

“What’s the matter? Scared?” Martin laughed. “I just came in to see if you was all right. If you’d kept that pretty mouth of yours shut, your Dad would still be all right! You tellin’ him Sandifer was correct about the Katrishens, an’ that he shouldn’t of fired him!”

“He shouldn’t have,” the girl said quietly. “If he was here now he’d kill you. Get out of my room!”

“Maybe I ain’t ready to go?” he taunted. “An’ from now on I’m goin’ to come an’ go as I like.”

His steps advanced into the room, and Jim tightened his grip on the knob. He remembered that lock, and it was not set very securely. Suddenly, an idea came to him. Turning, he picked up an old glass lamp, large and ornate. Balancing it momentarily in his hand, he drew it back and hurled it with a long overhand swing, through the window!

Glass crashed on the verandah and the lamp hit, went down a step and lay there. Inside the girl’s room there was a startled exclamation, and he heard running footsteps from both the girl’s room and the old man’s. Somebody yelled, “What’s that? What happened?” And he hurled his shoulder against the door.

As he had expected the flimsy lock carried away, and he was catapulted through the door into Elaine’s bedroom. Catching himself, he wheeled like a cat and sprang for the door that opened into the living room beyond. He reached it just as Mont jerked the curtain back, but not wanting to endanger the girl, he swung hard with his fist instead of drawing his gun.

The blow came out of a clear sky to smash Mont on the jaw and he staggered back into the room. Jim Sandifer sprang through, legs spread, hands wide.

“You, Martin!” he said sharply. “Draw!”

Lee Martin was a killer, but no gunman. White to the lips, his eyes deadly, he sprang behind his mother and grabbed for the shotgun.

“Shoot, Jim!” Elaine cried. “Shoot!”

He could not. Rose Martin stood between him and his target and Martin had the shotgun now and was swinging it. Jim lunged, shoving the table over and the lamp shattered in a crash. He fired, then fired again. Flame stabbed the darkness at him and he fell back against the wall, switching his gun. Fire laced the darkness into a stabbing crimson crossfire and the room thundered with sound, then died to stillness that was the stillness of death itself.

No sounded remained, only the acrid smell of gunpowder mingled with the smell of coal oil and the faint, sickish sweet smell of blood. His guns ready, Jim crouched in the darkness, alert for movement. Somebody groaned, then sighed deeply, and a spur grated on the floor. From the next room, Gray Bowen called weakly. “Daughter? Daughter, what’s happened? What’s wrong?”

There was no movement yet, but the darkness grew more familiar. Jim’s eyes became more accustomed to it. He could see no one standing. Yet it was Elaine who broke the stillness.

“Jim? Jim, are you all right? Oh, Jim—are you safe?”

Maybe they were waiting for this.

“I’m all right,” he said.

“Light your lamp, will you?” Deliberately, he moved, and there was no sound within the room—only, outside, a running of feet on the hard-packed earth. Then a door slammed open and Sparkman stood there, gun in hand.

“It’s all right, I think,” Sandifer said. “We shot it out.”

Elaine entered the room with a light and caught herself with a gasp at the sight before her. Jim reached for the lamp.

“Go to your father,” he said swiftly. “We’ll take care of this!” Sparkman looked around, followed into the room by Grimes. “Good grief!” he gasped. “They are all dead! All of them!”

“The woman, too?” Sandifer’s face paled. “I hope I didn’t—”

“You didn’t,” Grimes said. “She was shot in the back, by her own son. Shootin’ in the dark, blind an’ gun crazy.”

“Maybe it’s better,” Sparkman said, “She was an old hellion.” Klee Mont had caught his right at the end of his eyebrow, and a second shot along the ribs. Sandifer walked away from him and stood over Lee Martin. His face twisted in a sneer, the dead man lay sprawled on the floor literally shot to doll rags.

“You didn’t miss many,” Sparkman said grimly.

“I didn’t figure to,” Jim said. “I’ll see the old man, then, give you a hand.”

“Forget it.” Grimes looked up, his eyes faintly humorous. “You stay in there. An’ don’t spend all your time with the old man. We need a new setup on this here spread, an’ with a new son-in-law who’s a first-rate cattleman, Gray could set back an’ relax!”

Sandifer stopped with his hand on the curtain. “Maybe you got something there,” he said thoughtfully. “Maybe you have!” “You can take my word for it,” Elaine said, stepping into the door beside Jim. “He has! He surely has!”