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  Spanyer looked at him affectionately. “You never could stay out of a fracas … and nobody was ever more welcome.”

  Dutch moved to the rocks and carried an extra bandolier of cartridges with him. He found a place and settled down for a fight. And then out of a canyon mouth came Hardy.

  They knew the horse, even though they could not see the man. The horse was running all out, nostrils spread wide, and Hardy was clinging to the flank, Indian fashion, with one hand and a foot.

  Even as the horse seemed about to sweep past the hideout, Hardy let go and came sailing into the open space, one boot flying off by itself. He skidded to a halt, then looked down at a big hole in his sock.

  He grinned widely at Lennie. “Got to speak to my women folks about that!”

  He turned and limped to the barrier. From that barrier four men now faced outward, awaiting the attack. And none came.

  The basin on High Lonesome was a lovely place, and for outlaws it had long been an almost perfect hideaway. There was water, there was grass, and without doubt there was game. In some more peaceful time some wandering man would stop and build a home here, and start a ranch. He would stay, rear children, sink roots deep within the sparse soil.

  In this place something would belong, something not hidden, not stolen, something built by work and strength. And that man would sit quietly of an evening with his chores done and see his own cattle grazing out there where Indians now lay.

  That would be after the Apaches were gone, or when they had found peace themselves. It would be when men no longer rode by the gun and lived by the gun.

  “Smoke,” Spanyer said suddenly.

  Their eyes followed his pointing finger, to where a tall column of smoke lifted easily into the sky, a smoke that broke, then broke again. A signal calling more Indians, railing them in for the kill.

  Behind them a stick broke, and as one man they turned.

  Lennie was building a fire. “I thought you’d want some coffee,” she said, “and there’s a little meat.”

  Considine glanced at her, and then away, his throat tight. She was so much the daughter of Dave Spanyer, and too much the child of rolling wagons and Indian fighting not to know what awaited them; yet she went quietly about the business of making coffee, a woman’s business. But her rifle lay close at hand.

  What man would not want such a woman? Not one to follow only, but to stand beside him during the dark days, to work with him, plan with him, share with him, making their life a whole thing together.

  High on the mountainside’ still, the Kiowa lay in the brush, his horse concealed. He had crawled after leaving his horse, but he carried his saddlebags, his canteen, and his rifle.

  He had found a place where there were no rocks and but little grass. The earth was discolored by a scattering of rusty, quartz-streaked rock. It was perfect cover for him, and he settled himself deeper.

  From where he lay he could see the hideout, but he could see nothing within it Occasionally he saw an Indian.

  It was growing late. Already the afternoon sun was over the western hills. That sun was still hot and bright, the air was very clear. But night would come, and the Kiowa could wait.

  Waiting was the first thing an Indian learned, and now, more than ever, the Kiowa was an Indian. He carried his white blood casually, without ever thinking of it He was a man of simple, elemental tastes, taking food, whiskey, and women as he found them, and when he did not have them he neither fretted nor worried. He knew there was an end to everything. So one waited.

  Lying here like this in the sparse grass he liked best of all. The sun was warm, the position good, and soon he would be fighting … if he decided to fight.

  Yet that decision had never been his—it was made long ago, it was deep in his flesh, in his blood, bred deeply into the bone. It was the manner of man he was.

  And being a true fighting man he knew there was a time to fight and a time not to fight.

  He could have killed several Indians during the time he lay where he now was, but the time was not yet. He could wait, and when the proper time came he would do what was necessary.

  From his pocket he took a dusty bit of jerked beef and, biting off a piece, he began to chew. He rolled it in his wide jaws, letting it soak with saliva, and chewed it with his strong white teeth. From where he lay he was visible to nothing but the buzzards, but they were not interested in him … yet.

  The Kiowa watched the shadows crawl out from the cracks and the canyons, and watched the sunlight retreat up the mountainside and crown the ridges with golden spires and balustrades.

  Coolness came to the desert. He watched the signal smoke rise to call more Indians, but he merely chewed his beef and waited.

  Fainter smoke came from the hideout. The girl was alive, then. No man would take time to cook in such a place at such a time. This was a woman’s work, a woman who even under stress did not forget her men or the work there was to do. She was not spoiled, this one. She was a man’s woman.

  The Kiowa did not know the word for love. His people had songs, but they were songs of war, and he had no books or poetry to condition his mind for love. He knew what a woman was worth by the looks of her body and the way she worked. And sometimes there was another feeling, the warm, pleasant feeling when a certain girl was near.

  He had known that feeling several times, once for a girl in Mexico, and a long time later for a Navajo girl in whose hogan he had stayed for a time. When he rode away he felt strangely lost and alone without her and he had returned, but in the meantime she had been killed by a grizzly she accidentally cornered in a canyon.

  He had gone to the place where she had been killed and stood there for a while and smoked a cigarette, and then he got on his horse and rode away and never went back to that part of the country again.

  He had started rustling cattle because he was hungry. He killed a beef he found loose on the plains when he was nearly starved. Two cowhands found him and drew their guns on him. The trouble was they drew too slow and one of them was falling from his saddle before the gun cleared leather, and the other made it back to the home ranch with a bullet through his chest.

  They had come after him then, a whole posse of them, and he circled around and reached their ranch while they were gone and he butchered a beef in their dooryard and broiled a steak on their own fire. Then he took what supplies he needed—a new Winchester rifle and a hundred rounds of ammunition, as well as a couple of Navajo blankets.

  Ten years later he met Considine, and he stayed with him because Considine was faster with a gun than he was, was as good a tracker, and as good a horseman. Also, Considine was quiet, confident, and careful, and the Kiowa understood those qualities.

  Now he watched the basin turn from twilight into darkness. It was a beautiful place, if one forgot the Indians, but being an Indian, he did not forget.

  As he waited for darkness he located one by one the hiding places of the Indians. Most of them would bunch together now, but a few would remain where they were, and that pleased him.

  He watched the first stars appear, and then he got up.

  Chapter XII

  DARKNESS BROUGHT PEACE to the basin called High Lonesome. Somewhere a quail called, a lonely, pleading call.

  Considine leaned against a rock and sipped the scalding coffee. It tasted good, and he took his time with it, relishing each swallow. His stomach was empty, and he could not recall when he had last eaten.

  Across the small circle Dutch and Spanyer lay side by side, sleeping.

  Hardy had found a high perch among the rocks where he could see all around, so far as the darkness permitted, but where he could not be reached by any prowling Indian with a knife.

  Lennie worked over the fire, making a broth from jerked beef, throwing in some squaw cabbage and wild potatoes. There was no light but the red glow of the fire, purposely kept small, invisible outside the circle. A faint breeze came between the rocks and fanned the embers, and for a moment a blaze leaped up,
lighting the girl’s face. She turned her head and saw Considine watching her. Their eyes held, and then she looked away.

  Up on the rock, Hardy shifted his feet. “Wonder what became of the Kiowa?” he said.

  Considine shifted his shoulders, trying to find a better place to lean than the sharp rock where they were.

  Hardy answered his own question. “Mexico, I reckon.”

  “Not the Kiowa. That Indian loves a fight.”

  Hardy made no comment. After a moment he asked, “How many do you think are out there?”

  “Dozen to twenty. There’ll be more, come daybreak.”

  Hardy thought of the bags of gold. Sixty thousand in gold. He had never seen so much money. Yet he would gladly have shared it with a dozen if they were here to help.

  He looked around, although he could see nothing. So this was High Lonesome. He had heard of it. Another canyon led out of the basin toward the southeast … he had seen the opening.

  “Halfmoon Valley,” Considine said, in reply to a question from Hardy. “Opens into a wide valley and a straight shot into Mexico.”

  Lennie passed a cup full of stew up to Hardy, and gave another to Considine. He took his and went back to the rocks. The Apache does not like to fight at night, but some of those Indians out there were renegades from other tribes, and he did not trust them.

  Lennie was beside him before he realized it. “It is so quiet!” she said.

  “They’re out there.”

  “Do you think we can hold them off?”

  “Maybe.”

  He ate the stew slowly, enjoying every mouthful. But while he ate, he listened.

  “I’m glad you’re here,” she said.

  “Well …”—he was at a loss for words—“I came.”

  They were standing close together in the darkness, each conscious of the other, yet wanting no more than this now.

  The call of an owl quavered lonesomely in the night. Then again.

  “Don’t the Indians frighten them away?” Lennie asked.

  “That was an Indian.”

  “That owl? How can you tell?”

  “Something in the tone. Any sound a man makes will echo. A real owl’s call has some quality a man can’t put into it … its call doesn’t echo.”

  Suddenly there was a shrill, high-pitched scream, breaking off sharply. Lennie turned in startled horror.

  “What … what was that?”

  “A man died.”

  Her father came up beside them in the darkness. “Did you hear that?” he asked.

  “Uh-huh.”

  There was no further sound. After a few minutes Considine said to Spanyer, just loud enough for Hardy to hear too. “The Kiowa is out there.”

  “The Injun?” Dave Spanyer looked around.

  “Could be.”

  His eyes searched for Considine’s in the darkness. “You think they got him?”

  “No, he got one of them … maybe more. Maybe only one of them had a chance to yell.”

  There was no further sound. The wind rose, and after a while Hardy came down from his perch and wakened Dutch. Dave Spanyer took Considine’s place, and the two younger men turned in.

  Lennie watched them roll up in their blankets, then prepared stew for the two older men.

  Considine opened his eyes in the gray of morning. The sky was overcast and dull. He sat up, combing his dark hair with his fingers, then reaching for his boots. Spanyer was standing guard at a place where he could watch a wide area, and Lennie was asleep on her blankets. Dutch was nowhere in sight.

  The grass seemed gray, the trees were a wall of darkness, the brush was black. It was shivering cold. Standing up, Considine slung his gun belt about his lean hips and picked up his Winchester. He checked his guns, one by one. “Quiet?”

  Spanyer nodded. “Yeah … too quiet.” Considine saw Dutch then. The big man was wedged between two rocks, somewhat forward of their position. Dutch motioned and Considine ducked behind a rock and went up to him, crouching low. “What do you make of that?” Dutch indicated an Indian, standing bolt upright and still on the edge of the brush. He seemed, at this distance, unnaturally tall.

  The Indian made no move. Considine stared hard, straining his eyes to see better. “Dutch,” he whispered, “that Indian’s dead.”

  “Dead?”

  “Look … he’s tied to a tree, his feet off the ground.”

  “Is it the Kiowa?”

  “Not heavy enough in the chest. No, it’s one of them.” Considine glanced at Dutch. “I figure the Kiowa’s had a busy night.”

  They watched in silence. A gust of wind brushed the grass and bent it. A tumbleweed detached itself from the brush and rolled over several times, then stopped in the clearing near the dead Indian. Another gust, and it rolled over again, then again. Both men studied the dead Indian … The wind blew, and the tumbleweed rolled over again.

  Considine shifted his eyes from the dead Indian to the tumbleweed. It was a great, dark clump of weed, large, but no larger than some others he had seen. As he watched, it rolled over again.

  “That’s big enough,” he said aloud, “to hide a man.”

  Dutch lifted his rifle, but Considine touched his arm. “Hold everything,” he said. “I’ve got an idea.”

  Dutch waited, watching.

  The wind struck again and the tumbleweed rolled over, bringing it within twenty yards of the rocks where they crouched. A gust caught it and rolled it once more.

  “I think,” Considine said, “we’re going to have company.”

  Suddenly a gun flashed at the edge of the brush. Both Considine and Dutch fired at the flash, and in that instant the Kiowa broke from the tumbleweed, and lunged for the rocks.

  “Maybe thirty out there,” the Kiowa said. “I kill two.”

  Spanyer fired suddenly, the sound of his rifle cut sharply across by the report of a second.

  “You boys come to breakfast,” Spanyer said. “We’re havin’ company.”

  The Apaches came with a rush, and Considine held his rifle centered on the chest of a big Indian who looked more like a Yuma than an Apache. He held it, then fired.

  The Indian was caught in mid-stride. One foot pawed at the air, then he turned on the ball of the other foot as though doing some grotesque ballet, and he fell and lay still.

  The attack broke, but the attackers did not run; they dropped to concealment on the ground. The sound of firing ceased, and the air was still. The gray clouds hung low, hiding the morning. The dark red peaks of the mountains were touched by a shroud of mist or cloud. The grass bent before the wind.

  Dutch fired suddenly, and they heard the ugly thud of a bullet striking flesh.

  Considine built himself a cigarette and shoved a cartridge into the magazine of his rifle. This time the Indians would rush from a closer position. He thought he heard a faint, almost inaudible scratching sound. Listening, he heard nothing more. Some small animal?

  When they came again it was suddenly, and from all sides. Considine whipped his rifle to his shoulder and felt the slam of the recoil and the bellow in his ears. The smell of gunpowder drifted into his nostrils. He levered his rifle desperately, firing again and again.

  All around there was heavy firing. A bullet whacked sharply against the boulder at his side and ricocheted with an angry, frustrated whine. The attack broke and the sound rolled away along the cliffs under the low clouds.

  Considine turned at a coughing sound. Hardy was down, choking on his own blood. Lennie was beside him.

  “You … you stick to Considine … he’s the … best. Hope you make it.”

  Considine came over to him. “You’re a good man, Hardy. I’m glad we’ve had this time together.”

  “This’ll save somebody … better a bullet than a rope.”

  A few spatters of rain fell. Considine went back to the rocks. The firing continued, only intermittent shooting now, but the Indians had the range, and they had found positions where they could fire into the circl
e of rocks, so every bullet was a danger. The openings had been located and they were firing into them.

  Considine shifted his feet. He smelled of sweat and his unwashed clothing, and he needed a shave. He was a man who had never liked a stubble of beard.

  He felt a tug at his shirt, and saw the shoulder was split and a trace of blood where the bullet had burned. He caught a stir in the brush and fired, and instantly three bullets smashed against the rock, one of them glancing upward with a wicked, snarling whine.

  Lennie brought him coffee again. “This is the last of it,” she said. “And there’s only half a canteen of water.”

  In the east the clouds had broken a little and there was sunlight on the far-off peaks. “How’s Hardy?” he asked.

  “He’s gone.”

  Her voice sounded very thin, and he glanced at her quickly. She looked drawn and pale, and her eyes were unnaturally large. He dropped a hand to her shoulder and squeezed it gently.He gulped his coffee and handed her the cup; she looked quickly up into his eyes, then turned away.

  An hour of desultory firing passed. Nobody on their side was hurt, but every shot was a near miss. They themselves did not kill anyone, or even see a good target.

  Suddenly, from away back, they came on horseback. They charged from the brush on a dead run, with only a moment’s warning from the pounding hoofs, and as the defenders opened fire the Indians close by rose up suddenly and threw themselves over the stones of the circle.

  Considine fired, and saw a horse spill headlong, throwing his rider; then a bloody Indian came over the rocks. Considine, gripping his rifle by the barrel and the action, ruined his face with a wicked butt stroke. He swung it back, fired at another, and was knocked sprawling by an Indian who came through a gap in the rocks. He lost his grip on his rifle, drew a .44, and shot the Indian as he crouched over him, tomahawk in hand.

  A bullet caught Dutch and the big man fell back against the rocks, gripping an Indian’s throat in his huge hands. The warrior struggled wildly, desperately, but Dutch clung to his throat with crushing force.