Read War Party (Ss) (1982) Online
Authors: Louis L'amour
War Party (Ss) (1982) (2 page)
When he stopped near his canteen he was wringing with cold sweat and trembling in every muscle. He sat down on the rock and fought for control. It was not until some twenty minutes had passed that he could trust himself to get to his feet.
Despite his experience, he knew that if he did not go back now he would never go.
He had out but one sack for the day and wanted another. Circling the batholith he examined the widening crack, endeavoring again, for the third time, to find another means of access to the vein.
The tilt of the outer wall was obvious, and it could stand no more without toppling.
It was possible that by cutting into the wall of the column and striking down he might tap the vein at a safer point. Yet this added blow at the foundation would bring the tower nearer to collapse and render his other hole untenable. Even this new attempt would not be safe, although immeasurably more secure than the hole he had left. Hesitating, he looked back at the hole.
Once more? The ore was now fabulously rich, and the few pounds he needed to complete the sack he could get in just a little while. He stared at the black and undoubtedly narrower hole, then looked up at the leaning wall. He picked up his pick and, his mouth dry, started back, drawn by a fascination that was beyond all reason.
His heart pounding, he dropped to his knees at the tunnel face. The air seemed stifling and he could feel his scalp tingling, but once he started to crawl it was better.
The face where he now worked was at least sixteen feet from the tunnel mouth. Pick in hand, he began to wedge chunks from their seat. The going seemed harder now and the chunks did not come loose so easily. Above him the tower made no sound. The crushing weight was now something tangible. He could almost feel it growing, increasing with every move of his. The mountain seemed resting on his shoulder, crushing the air from his lungs.
Suddenly he stopped. His sack almost full, he stopped and lay very still, staring up at the bulk of the rock above him.
No, He would go no further. Now he would quit. Not another sackful. Not another pound.
He would go out now. He would go down the mountain without a backward look, and he would keep going. His wife waiting at home, little Tommy, who would run gladly to meet him-these were too much to gamble.
With the decision came peace, came certainty. He sighed deeply, and relaxed, and then it seemed to him that every muscle in his body had been knotted with strain.
He turned on his side and with great deliberation gathered his lantern, his sack, his hand-pick.
He had won. He had defeated the crumbling tower, he had defeated his own greed. He backed easily, without the caution that had marked his earlier movements in the cave.
His blind, trusting foot found the projecting rock, a piece of quartz that stuck out from the rough-hewn wall.
The blow was too weak, too feeble to have brought forth the reaction that followed.
The rock seemed to quiver like the flesh of a beast when stabbed; a queer vibration went through that ancient rock, then a deep, gasping sigh.
He had waited too long!
Fear came swiftly in upon him, crowding him, while his body twisted, contracting into the smallest possible space. He tried to will his muscles to move beneath the growing sounds that vibrated through the passage. The whispers of the rock grew into a terrifying groan, and there was a rattle of pebbles.
Then silence.
The silence was more horrifying than the sound. Somehow he was crawling, even as he expected the avalanche of gold to bury him. Abruptly, his feet were in the open.
He was out.
He ran without stopping, but behind him he heard a growing roar that he couldn't outrace. When he knew from the slope of the land that he must be safe from falling rock, he fell to his knees. He turned and looked back. The muted, roaring sound, like thunder beyond mountains, continued, but there was no visible change in the tower. Suddenly, as he watched, the whole rock formation seemed to shift and tip.
The movement lasted only seconds, but before the tons of rock had found their new equilibrium, his tunnel and the area around it had utterly vanished from sight.
When he could finally stand Wetherton gathered up his sack of ore and his canteen.
The wind was cool upon his face as he walked away; and he did not look back again.
*
One for the Pot
.
When Laurie reached the water hole at Rustler's Springs she knew she had missed the trail.
Steve had explained about the shortcut across the mountains to Dry Creek Station, and had advised her to take it if anything happened to him. But he had warned her about riding near the Junipers or stopping at Rustler's Springs.
By retracing her trail she might discover the turnoff she had missed, but if she delayed any more it would be long after dark before she reached the stage station.
The logical move was to return to the ranch and make a fresh start at daybreak, as soon as Steve had left the house. Yet if she returned now she might never again muster the nerve to leave him. And she had already been too much trouble to Steve.
While the bay drank of the cool water Laurie slid from the saddle and tried dipping up a drink in the palm of her hand. The swallow of water was unsatisfactory and all she succeeded in doing was getting her face wet and spilling water on her blouse.
It was somehow symbolic of all her failures since coming west.
When she got to her feet there was a man standing at the edge of the brush with a rifle cradled in his arms. How long he had been there she had no idea, but suddenly she was keenly aware of the utter loneliness of the spot and that not even Steve knew where she was. And her only weapon was the pistol in her saddlebag.
The man was thin and old with white hair and the coldest eyes she had ever seen looking from a human face. Tiny wrinkles wove a pattern of harsh years across the sun-darkened patina of his skin. It was a narrow face, high in the cheekbones ... a hawk's face except for the blunted nose. His blue shirt was faded, his jeans worn. Only the narrow-brimmed hat was new.
He did not speak, merely stared at her and waited.
"I missed the shortcut," she was surprised that she could speak so calmly. "I was going to Dry Creek Station."
His eyes left her face for the carpetbag behind her saddle. It contained only the few belongings she had brought to Red Tanks Ranch and to Steve Bonnet.
"You're Bonnet's woman," he said then. His voice was thin and dry.
Her chin lifted. "His wife."
"Quittin' him?"
Resentment flared. "It's none of your business!"
"Don't blame you for bein' skeered."
"It's not that!" she protested. "It's not that at all!"
His eyes had grown old in the reading of trail sign and the motives of men-and women.
She did not lie. Something other than fear was driving her. He could sense the bitterness in her, the sense of failure, and the hurt.
His head jerked toward the south. "Cabin's over there," he said, "and coffee's on."
Afterward she was to wonder why she followed him. Perhaps it was to show him she was not afraid, or it might have been hesitation to cross that last bridge that would take her from this country and the promise it had held for her.
The cabin was old but neat. There were bunks for several men, empty of bedding save one. The bed was neatly made and the few utensils were clean and hung in place.
Filling two enamel cups he placed one before her. Tasting the coffee she felt envy for the first time. For this had been her greatest failure. At least, it was the failure she was most miserable about. She could not make good coffee, not even good enough to please herself.
It had not taken her long to discover that she was not cut out to be the wife of a western man, but it was a mistake she could now rectify.
With a little pang she remembered Steve's face when he saw the sore on the gelding's back. A wrinkle carelessly left in her saddle blanket had done that. Then there was the time his spare pistol had gone off in her hand, narrowly missing her foot. He had been furious with her, and she had cried most of the night after he was asleep.
"Surprised you'd take out on your man," the old man said, "didn't figure you for skeered after you throwed down on Big Lew with that shotgun."
She looked up, surprised at his knowledge. "But why should he frighten me? Besides," she added, "the shotgun wasn't loaded."
The cold eyes glinted with what might have been humor. "That'll jolt Lew. You had him right buffaloed."
He pushed the coffeepot back on the fire. "Took nerve. Lew ain't no pilgrim. He's killed hisself a few men."
"He really has?"
"Three, maybe four." He stoked his pipe, glancing out of the corners of his eyes at her face. It was a small, heart-shaped face with large, dark eyes, and her body, while a beautifully shaped woman's body, seemed almost too small, too childlike for this country. Yet his mother had been a small woman, and she had borne ten childen in a rugged, frontier community. "If you ain't skeered, why you takin' out?"
Then his eyes crinkled at the corners and he said wryly, "But I forgit. That ain't none of my business."
"I'm no good to him," she looked up, her dark eyes wide. "He needs someone who can help. All I do is make trouble for him."
The old man looked thoughtfully at his pipe. Her presence with that shotgun had prevented Big Lew and the Millers from burning the ranch. That had been their purpose in going to Red Tanks.
Little by little her story came out. Her father's long illness had absorbed their savings, and after his death she had become a mail-order wife. Steve Bonnet had needed a wife, and when she got off the stage and saw the tall, silent young man with the sun-bronzed face she had felt a queer little quiver of excitement. He needed a wife, she needed a home. It had been simple as that. They had not talked of love.
"In love with him now?"
The question startled her for she had not given it a thought. Suddenly she realized, shocking as it was , . . "Yes," she acknowledged. "I am."
The old man said nothing then, and she watched the shadows of the trees on the ground outside the cabin. She remembered Steve's face when he had come home the night before, the something in his eyes when he saw her. Had it been relief? Pleasure? What?
He refilled her cup. "Will quittin' give you rest? And how will he feel when he comes home tonight?"
She stifled the pang. "He's better off without me."
"Nothin* nice about comin' home to an empty house. You told him you love him?"
"No."
"He told you?"
"No."
"Wrong of him. Knowed a sight of women, here 'n there. Tell 'em you love 'em, pet 'em a mite, do somethin' unexpected nice time to time an' they'll break their necks for you."
The cottonwoods brushed their pale green palms together, rustling in the still, hot afternoon. "I wish I could make coffee like this."
"Not's good as usual." She noticed how the rifle lay where he had placed it, across the corner of the table, pointing a finger at the door. "Helps to have hot coffee when a man gets to home."
He leaned back in his chair and lighted his pipe again. "He know you're gone?"
"No."
"If them Millers come back they could burn him out. And him countin' on you."
"They won't come back."
His reply was a snort of contempt for such ignorance. "This here's a war, ma'am.
It's a fight for range . . . and you're the only one your man's got on his side ... and you quittin'."
"I'm no good to him. I can't do any of the things a wife should do out here."
"You can be home when he gets there. No man likes to stand alone. It's a sight of comfort for a man to know he's fightin' for something."
When she remained silent he said quietly, "They figure to have him killed, them Millers do."
"Killed?" She was shocked. "Why, the law . . ."
He looked at her, cold-eyed. "A man carries his law in his holster in this country.
Them Millers don't want no part of Steve Bonnet themselves. They hire their killin' done when it's somebody like him. That man of yours," the old man got to his feet, "is plumb salty."
He was suddenly impatient. "You ain't only a wife. You're a pardner, and you're quittin' when he needs you most."
He started for the door. "No need to go back to Six-shooter Gap. There's a trail back of here that old Stockton used. You stay shut of the Junipers and hold to the trail. It'll take you right to the stage station. You'll hit it near Little Dry."
She did not move. "Will you teach me how to make coffee like that?"
A quail was calling when she rode into the yard at Red Tanks. Steve was not back, and she hurriedly stripped the saddle from the gelding. Then, remembering what Steve had done, she rubbed the horse down.
An hour later, her second batch of coffee hot and ready, she watched Steve ride into the yard. When she thought how she had nearly failed to be here to greet him she felt a queer little wrench of dismay, and she stood there in the door, seeing him suddenly with new eyes.