The Sacket Brand (1965) s-12 Page 7

  Once, skirting a huge rock to which I clung with one hand, the ground gave underfoot, and it was only that I grabbed quick and caught hold of a bush that saved me. The bush started to tear free, but I threw myself forward and got a fresh grip on the rock.

  I knew that there were places where I could fall five or six hundred feet, and though in other places I might not fall more than ten, almost everywhere there were jagged rocks or broken-off trees that I would fall on.

  I kept on, and sometimes I stopped to rest, panting like a winded horse. My shirt was soaked with perspiration. It was coming on to sundown, and I feared the oncoming night. And I was thinking that by now they either guessed that I was going along the wall or they figured I had stopped somewhere in the canyon.

  Presently I saw ahead of me a bare stretch, swept clean by a rock slide. It was a ragged, ugly slope where I would have to work my way across, depending on my hands. If I could get across there, I might find a place to sit down or lie down. Only there for a little space I'd be clean in the open.

  My Winchester was hanging by a crude sling from my shoulder, butt up, barrel hanging near my right hand. With infinite care, I put my foot out and down. The rock was solid. It was like crossing a stream on stepping stones, only if these stones gave way, I'd fall a couple of hundred feet.

  Me, I was shaking. Twice rocks moved under my feet, and I left them just in time to keep from falling.

  Then, when I was almost across, there came the sudden wicked whap of a bullet striking near me.

  Involuntarily I ducked and slipped, catching myself by my hands.

  Down there in a clearing, maybe three hundred yards below, I saw the man taking sight on me.

  He had me dead to rights against that slope, but the light was none too good for him.

  One foot braced below me, one knee pressed into a notch of the wall, I grasped my rifle by the barrel and swung it up, my left hand taking the barrel, my right hand going back to the action.

  He was standing in the clearing, full in the light.

  An instant I steadied the rifle, taking up slack on my trigger, and then my rifle jumped in my hands just as he fired. My bullet struck him the instant he shot, because I saw him throw up his rifle, the streak of fire from the muzzle clear in the growing shadows, and then he fell, and the sound of our shots went racketing off against the great crags, and then it was still. The shots had been so close together that they were almost one.

  He didn't move. He just lay there, and I held myself still and watched. Score one for me.

  Now they knew they weren't in this for fun.

  When a man takes up guns in fighting, somebody is going to get hurt. Somehow folks mostly think it will be somebody else, but we're all vulnerable, and nobody has a free ride. With guns, you pay to learn, only sometimes you learn too late.

  By the time I was on the other side among the trees nobody had come to him, but they would. They would find him there, and they would be able to read the future for some of them.

  Just before dark I found a place where deer or other game had walked, a tiny path not over three or four inches wide, hanging above a black gulf. It gave me speed, and I followed it as long as it went straight ahead, but when it turned down slope, I gave it up.

  That night I slept behind a log that had fallen along the face of the cliff and lay wedged in the rocks. There was a thin space between the face of the rock and the log, but it wasn't wide enough for a man to fall through. So I just rolled my blanket around me and slept there until daybreak.

  When I woke, my first thought was: They had hunted me--now they would see what it meant to be hunted.

  Chapter nine.

  There was a poker game going in Uncle Ben Dowell's saloon in El Paso. The night was quiet and business was slow. The stage had pulled in and gone, and most of the loafers had departed for their beds. From somewhere down the street came the faint sound of a piano.

  Nobody in the saloon was a stranger. The drummer who had just walked in and put down his valise could scarcely be called that ... he had been in El Paso before.

  The dark, powerfully built man with the mustache and three scars on his face was not exactly a stranger, either. He had been in El Paso for three days, and the way people were coming and going in this town that practically made him a resident.

  That dark man was no kind of a talker, so nobody knew where he was from or where he was going.

  He had come into town riding a mule, which was strange enough, and riding beside him was the long-jawed, yellow-eyed man with the gold earrings in his ears who was tinkering now with Uncle Ben's clock.

  Nobody said anything until the drummer had a drink. "There's hell to pay in the Mogollons," he said when he had put his glass down. "The Lazy A outfit has forty men hunting a man in the wild country under the rim. They'll get him, too."

  "Good outfit," Uncle Ben commented. "I know them."

  "You knew them," the drummer said. "All the old hands have quit, and they've taken on gunmen and man hunters. Only one man against them, and he's running them ragged."

  "What started it?"

  "Sackett claims his wife was murdered by someone in the Lazy A outfit, and he's sworn to find the murderer. He's--"

  The dark man with the scarred face turned his head. "Did you say Sackett?"

  The drummer looked at him and nodded. "That's right. They say he's Tell Sackett, brother to that Mora gunfighter."

  The dark man pushed his chips to the center of the table. "Buy me out," he said. "I'm leaving."

  "Look here," a player protested, "you're winning. You can't leave now."

  The man stood up. "I'm leaving. You want a chance for your money, you follow me to Arizona."

  The tinkering man took up the clock and carried it to the bar. "There you are, Mr. Dowell. It ain't working, but I'll be back this way and do the job right for you."

  There was silence in the room when they left, and then somebody said, "Now what started all that?"

  Ben Dowell jerked his head to indicate the drummer. "He mentioned a Sackett in trouble.

  Well, that was Orlando Sackett and his saddle partner, the Tinker."

  "What's that mean?"

  "It means the Lazy A better hire more men. Forty's not going to be anywhere near enough."

  The lone sheepherder paused on the knoll to let the rest of the flock drift past him. He watched his dogs for a minute or two, then his eyes were drawn to the west. The sun was just below the horizon and the red rock cliffso were weirdly lit. Out of the west a tiny puff of dust lifted, grew, and became a fast-running horse.

  The rider pulled up, his horse rearing with the sudden stop. "Howdy, Mex! You got any grub to spare? I'm a right hungry man."

  "Si, Se@nor. He pointed toward his camp. "There are frijoles."

  The rider wheeled his horse and walked him toward the camp. As they came near the spring the horse tugged toward it, but his rider held him back. "You take it easy, boy. Cool off a mite."

  He dropped the reins and walked toward the fire where the blackened coffeepot stood.

  The Mexican looked thoughtfully at the horseman. He was a big man, towering well above the Mexican, and he was strongly made. His nose had been broken in more than one fight, and there was a wild, reckless, uncurried look about him.

  His black hair hung around his ears, there was a bullet hole in the crown of his hat. He wore two guns, and wore them tied down for action. His buckskin shirt was dark from dust and sweat. His boots were run down at the heel, but he wore jingling spurs with huge rowels, California spurs.

  He glanced toward the sheep pens and the corral beyond where several horses stood. "You own those horses?"

  "No, Se@nor. The patr@on."

  "Who's he?"

  "Don Manuel Ochoa. He is in Santa Fe, Se@nor."

  "Tell him Nolan Sackett needed a horse. I'm taking the sorrel."

  The sheepherder looked again at the shaggy, unkempt rider and the guns. "Si, Se@nor.

  I will tell him."
>
  When Nolan Sackett went to catch up the sorrel and switch saddles, the sheepherder looked in the bean pot. It was empty. So was the coffeepot, and the tortillas were gone too.

  Nolan Sackett walked the sorrel back to camp to make the change of saddles, and then dug down in his pocket and took out a four-bit piece. He glanced at the half-dollar.

  "Mex," he said, "that's all I got, but I owe you for the grub. It was mighty tasty."

  "You owe me nothing, Se@nor. I am honored." The Mexican hesitated, and then said, "You are a brother to Se@nor Tyrel, perhaps?"

  "Cousin, you might say." Nolan glanced quizzically at the sheepherder. "You know Tyrel?"

  "No, Se@nor, but it is known that he is a good man, and a friend to Mexicans." The sheepherder paused. "Se@nor, the half-dollar ... it is not much." He hesitated again. "Would the se@nor ... perhaps a loan?" He extended a gold eagle.

  Nolan Sackett, whom not many things could astonish, was astonished now--astonished and touched.

  He looked at the old Mexican. "You don't know me, old man. And I might never come this way again."

  The old man shrugged.

  "I can't lay claim to goodness, old man.

  I'm a Clinch Mountain Sackett, and we've the name of being rough folk. I never paid much mind to where money came from as long as I had it to hand, but nobody ever loaned me any, not as I recall.

  I'm obliged."

  He tightened the cinch, then swung to the saddle.

  "Thanks, old man. And if somebody comes by, you tell them to ride high-tail to Mora and tell Tyrel and them that a Sackett's in trouble in the Mogollons."

  The pound of the horse's hoofs became a lessening sound in the still mountain air. The old Mexican looked after the rider, long after he had disappeared from sight, and then he said, "Vaya con Dios!"

  In the shadowed coolness of the ranch house on Mora Creek the dining-room table was laid for ten, and as the Mexican girls moved swiftly and silently about, making last-minute preparations for dinner, their skirts rustled with excitement.

  Orrin Sackett was up from Santa Fe after his return from Washington, D. C.

  Tyrel Sackett, wearing a black broadcloth suit, sat in a big hide-covered chair listening to Orrin.

  The huge living room was two stories high, and was framed by a balcony on three sides with a beautiful staircase leading to the upper floor.

  The room itself was sparsely furnished and cool.

  "Cap should be here any minute, Orrin. He rode out this morning to check the range on the south."

  "How is Cap?"

  "You know how he is. He's lived all his life on beef, beans, and gun smoke. If somebody doesn't shoot him, he'll live forever."

  "Heard from Tell?"

  "Never a ^w since they left for Arizona.

  I've held back the herd, waiting. But you know Tell ... he was never any hand to write."

  "Look, Tye, I can't tell you how important this meeting is. Ollie Shaddock is coming over, and the men with him want me to run for the United States Senate. It's a big step, and I'd like to try."

  "What do they want from me?"

  "Tye, the Mexican vote can elect me, and you know as well as I do that most of them do not trust Anglos, and they know very little about them. They do know something about me ... or you.

  "What's important is that they believe in you--they know you, and they like you. What the men back of me want is your assurance that you're supporting me. And they want you to tell some of your Mexican friends."

  Tye laughed. "Damn it, Orrin, who else would I support? You're not only my brother, but an honest man. Sure, I'll drop the ^w, but it isn't necessary. They remember you, and they trust you. Believe me, the only mistake your friends are making is in underrating the political sense of the Mexicans. They aren't easily led, and they certainly aren't easily stampeded."

  "I'll need the help, Tye. There's a lot of talk against electing a gunfighter to the Senate --or to any public office."

  "You mean they've forgotten about Andy Jackson?" Tyrel said. "Or Thomas Hart Benton? And Cassius Clay, our ambassador to Russia?"

  He crossed his legs. "Anyway, Orrin, you weren't the one who got into gunfights. I was the one."

  The door opened suddenly, and Drusilla, breathtakingly lovely, stood framed there.

  "Tye, it's Cap. He's got bad news."

  Cap Rountree stepped past her. "Tye, a Mexican boy just rode in. There's ^w that Tell's in trouble. The whole Lazy A has taken in after him and they've got him cornered back in the breaks under the Mogollon Rim.

  They're going to hang him, Tye."

  Tyrel Sackett knocked the ash from his Spanish cigar and placed it carefully on the ash tray. "Cap, have them saddle a horse for me."

  He turned to Orrin. "Sorry. You can tell them for me that I'm with you ... all the way ... when I get back."

  "Dru will have to tell them. I'm going along."

  "Tye," Cap interrupted, "This here's worse than you think. Somebody killed Ange, and the whole lot of old hands on the Lazy A up an' quit. What they've got now are a passel of border gunmen."

  "There's the three of us," Orrin said to his brother, "you, me, and Tell."

  "Four," Cap said. "Since when have I missed a Sackett fight?"

  It was past midnight when the stage rolled up to Knight's Ranch, and the few passengers got down stiffly. The tall, elegant man who helped his lovely wife from the coach looked unrumpled, showing no evidence of the long, chilling, and dusty ride. Nor did she.

  "Better grab a bite to eat, folks," the driver advised. "Doubt if you'll get anything worth eatin' this side of Globe."

  The tall man offered his wife his arm and together they went to the door of the thick-walled adobe ranch house that doubled as a stage station. Inside, it was warm and comfortable. The table was freshly laid, with a white cloth and napkins ... unheard of in western stage stations.

  As they stepped through the door, he heard a rattle of hoofs on the hard-packed earth, and turned to look back. Something in the appearance of the two riders arrested his attention.

  "Gin, you've been asking me what the mountain people back home look like."

  She came back to stand beside him, watching the two tall, long-legged men dismount from their cow ponies.

  Neither was more than twenty years old, and they were built alike, lean and big-boned. Each carried a rifle as if it were part of him, and they dressed in worn homespun. "Right out of the hills, Gin."

  "Falcon, look at them. At their faces."

  "Yes, I see what you mean. At least, there's a possibility."

  As the two men came through the door, dusty and travel-worn, he turned to them. "Gentlemen?

  If I may suggest a drink."

  They paused, studying him with frank curiosity. Then the older one of the two said, "We'd take that kindly, mister, kindly."

  Falcon turned to his wife. "If you will excuse us, Gin?"

  The three walked to the bar, and Gin Sackett looked after them, amused.

  Tall and lean, the three men stood up to the bar. A girl came from the kitchen and placed a bottle and glasses before them.

  "Gentlemen," Falcon said when they had poured, "your health!"

  When they had placed their empty glasses back on the bar, he commented, "A fine flavor, gentlemen, although it lacks the taste of the metheglin."

  The two exchanged a glance. "I knowed it.

  Sure enough, I said, a man with a face like that would have to be a Sackett from the Tennessee mountains.

  Where you'all from?"

  "It's been a while," Falcon said. "I'm Falcon Sackett. Tennessee, North Carolina, points west and south."

  The taller one, who had a scar on his cheekbone, said, "I'm Flagan Sackett.

  This here's more'brother, Galloway. We come fresh from the hills, and then last night we heard talk."

  "Talk?"

  "There's a Sackett ridin' ahead of trouble in the Mogollons. We'uns are Sacketts.

  So we're ridin' to the Mogollo
ns."

  "I hadn't heard."

  "Talked about a good bit. Seems he claims some fellers killed his wife when he was off scoutin' trail. He's fetched in after them.

  Only there's maybe forty of them and one of him, and they've got him treed."

  "We'll have to ride hard," Falcon said.

  "You comin, mister?" Falcon said.

  "I'm with you. But we may be too late."

  "He couldn't be so ornery. Not even a Sackett could be so down-right ornery. He don't dare let us be late."

  "Ornery?"

  "He couldn't be so ornery as to kill all forty of 'em before we get there."

  Flagan put down his glass, glanced regretfully at the bottle, and moved swiftly from the bar.

  Chapter ten.

  When I opened up my eyes there on the face of that cliff I was a sore and hungry man.

  There was in me a craving for coffee, and a burning ache to get at those men down below. But first I had to find a way off the cliff where they had me treed.

  There was an ugly feeling in me against those men and whoever had killed Ange. It was me or them, with all the advantage on their side. They knew this country better than me, and there was more of them.

  All the same, I was going to make them pay the price. They'd bought chips in my game, but I was going to spin the wheel.

  Slinging my rifle so's my hands would be free, I started along the face of the cliff, and it was getting steeper and steeper. Here and there I hung just by my fingers, and once I had to close my fist and jam it in a crack and hang by it to keep from falling.

  And all the while that skittish, scared feeling that they would come upon me while I hung out there against the bare rock. Only they didn't--not right then, at least.

  Then, all of a sudden, I saw a ledge about eight feet below me, a ledge not more than a couple of feet wide, and below it the cliff fell sheer away. But it was better than where I was, and I took a chance and let go.

  I landed right on the edge on my toes and felt the rock crumble underneath my feet, but I lay hold of a bush and worked myself over to a solid section of the ledge. It was the edge of a strata of sandstone, with limestone over it that had weathered back, and it gave me another chance to make time ... up to a point.