Johnny Buffalo remained no more than half-conscious and breathed painfully.
Nevada invented a makeshift sunshade for him, breaking off and trimming a
drooping greasewood branch and borrowing the squaw’s apron to spread over it.
This Rawley held awkwardly with one hand while he steadied the swaying figure
with the other, and so they came at last abruptly to the river he had left at
sunrise.
The trail dipped down steeply to a small basin that overlooked the river
possibly a hundred feet below. The canyon walls rose bold and black
beyond,--sheer crags of rock with here and there a brush-filled crevice.
Around the barren rim of the basin two or three crude shacks were set within
easy calling distance of one another, and three or four swarthy, unkempt
children accompanied by nondescript dogs rushed forth to greet the newcomers.
The old squaw waddled forward and drove the dogs from the heels of the burro
called Pickles, which lashed out and sent one cur yelping to the nearest
shack. The children halted abruptly and stared at the two strangers
open-mouthed, retreating slowly backward, unwilling to lose sight of them for
an instant.
Rawley stole a glance at Nevada, just turning his eyes under his heavy-lashed
lids. A furtive look directed at his face was intercepted, and the red
suffused her cheeks. Then her head lifted proudly.
“My uncle’s children are not accustomed to seeing people,” she explained
evenly. “Strangers seldom come here, and the children have never been away
from home. Please forgive their bad manners.”
“Kids are honest in their manners,” Rawley replied, “and that’s more than
grown-ups can say. I reckon these youngsters wonder what the deuce has been
taking place. I’d want an eyeful, myself, if I were in their places.”
Nevada did not answer but led the way past the shacks, which did not look
particularly inviting, to a rock-faced building with screened porch that faced
the river, its back pushed deep into the hill behind it. Rawley gave her a
grateful glance. He did not need to be told that this was the quietest,
coolest place in the basin.
“We’ll make him as comfortable as we can, and I’ll send for Uncle Peter,” she
said, as they stopped before the door. She called to the oldest of the
children, a boy, and spoke to him rapidly in Indian. It seemed to Rawley that
she was purposely emphasizing her bizarre relationship.
A younger squaw--or so she looked to be--came from a shack, a fat, solemn-eyed
baby riding her hip. Her hair was wound somehow on top of her head and held
there insecurely with hairpins half falling out and cheap, glisteny side
combs. A second glance convinced Rawley that she had white man’s blood in her
veins, but her predominant traits were Indian, he judged; except that she
lacked the Indian aloofness.
“Mr. King, this is my Aunt Gladys--Mrs. Cramer,” Nevada announced distinctly.
“Aunt Gladys, Queo shot Mr. King’s partner, who had discovered him lying in
wait for Grandmother and me and was trying to protect us. Mr. King ran down to
the trail to warn us, while his partner crept up behind Queo. He fired, after
Queo had shot at us, but he thinks he missed altogether. At any rate Queo shot
him. So Grandmother and I brought him on home. He saved our lives, and we must
try to save his.”
Aunt Gladys ducked her unkempt head, grinned awkwardly at Rawley, who lifted
his hat to her--and thereby embarrassed her the more--and hitched the baby
into a new position on her hip.
“Whadda yuh think ol’ Jess’ll say?” she asked, in an undertone. “My, ain’t it
awful, the way that Queo is acting up? Is there anything I can do? It won’t
take but a few minutes to start a fire and heat water.”
They had eased Johnny Buffalo from the burro’s back to the broad doorstep,
which was shaded by the wide eaves of the porch. Now they were preparing to
carry him in, feet first so that Nevada could lead the way. She turned her
head and nodded approval of the suggestion. So Aunt Gladys, after lingering to
watch the wounded man’s removal, departed to her own shack, shooing her
progeny before her.
Rawley had never had much experience with wounds, but he went to work as
carefully as possible, getting the old man to bed and ready for ministrations
more expert than his. In a few minutes Nevada came with a basin of water that
smelled of antiseptic. Very matter-of-factly she helped him wash the wound.
“I think that is as much as we can do until Uncle Peter comes,” she said when
they had finished. “He’s the one who always looks after hurts in the family.”
She left the room and did not return again.
With nothing to do but sit beside the bed, Rawley found himself dwelling
rather intently upon the strangeness of the situation. From the name spoken by
Nevada, he knew that he must be in the camp of the enemy. At least, Jess
Cramer was the name of Grandfather’s rival who figured unfortunately in that
Fourth of July fight away back in ’66, and there was furthermore the warning
of the code, “Take heed now ... on the hillside ... which is upon the bank of
the river ... in the wilderness ... ye shall find ... him that ... is mine
enemy.” Rawley had certainly not expected that the enemy would be Jess Cramer,
but it might be so.
He was repeating to himself that other warning, “He that keepeth his mouth
keepeth his life,” when Nevada’s voice outside brought his attention back to
the immediate exigencies of the case. He had already told her his name--she
had repeated it to that flat-faced, hopelessly uninteresting “Aunt Gladys.”
Nevada had taken particular pains, he remembered, to tell her aunt all about
the mishap and to stress the service which he and Johnny Buffalo had rendered
her and her grandmother. Was it because she wished to have some one beside
herself who was well-disposed toward them? Partly that, he guessed, and partly
because the easiest way to forestall curiosity is to give a full explanation
at once. In Nevada’s rapid-fire account of the shooting, Rawley fancied that
he had unconsciously been given a key to the situation and to the disposition
of Aunt Gladys. He grinned while he filled his pipe and waited.
Presently the deep, masculine voice he had heard outside talking with Nevada
ceased, and a firm, measured tread was heard on the porch. A big man paused
for a few seconds in the doorway and then came forward; a man as tall as
Rawley, as broad of shoulder, as narrow hipped. He was dressed much as Rawley
was dressed, except that his shirt was of cheaper, darker material and the
breeches were earth-stained and old, as were his boots. He carried his head
well up and looked down at Rawley calmly, appraisingly, with neither dislike
nor favor in his face. He was smooth-shaven, and his jaw was square, his lips
firm and somewhat bitter. Rawley rose and bowed and stood back from the bed.
“My niece has told me all about the shooting,” he said, moving toward the bed.
“I’m not a doctor, but I’ve had some experience with wounds. In this country
we have to learn to take care of ourselves. Is your partner unconscious?”
“Dopey, I’d say. I can rouse him, but it seemed best to let him be as quiet as
possible. He had over an hour in the heat, and the joggling on the burro
didn’t do him any good, I imagine.” Rawley hoped Uncle Peter would not think
he was staring like an idiot, but he could not rid himself of the feeling that
somewhere, some time, he had seen this man before.
Uncle Peter bent and examined the wound. When he moved Johnny Buffalo a bit,
the Indian opened his eyes and stared hard into his face.
“My sergeant! I did not think to--”
“Out of his head,” Rawley muttered uneasily. “It’s the first symptom of it
he’s shown.”
Johnny Buffalo muttered again, pressed his lips together and closed his eyes.
After that he did not speak, or give any sign that he heard, though Uncle
Peter was talking all the while he dressed the wound.
“It’s going to take some time,” he said. “The bullet broke his shoulder blade,
but if the lung is touched at all it was barely grazed. Nevada spoke of my
taking him down the river to Needles, but it can’t be done. The engine in the
launch is useless until I can get a new connecting rod and another part or
two.” He stared down at Johnny Buffalo, frowning.
“Well, from all accounts the two of you saved the women’s lives to-day,” he
said, after a minute of studying over the situation. “Queo was after the grub,
probably--and he’s no particular love for any of us. He undoubtedly knew who
was coming down the trail--he may have watched them go up, just about
daybreak. Common gratitude gives the orders, in this case. You can stay here
until this man is well enough to ride, or until I can take you to Needles.”
A little more of harshness and his tone would have been grudging. Rawley
flushed at the implied reluctance of the offered hospitality.
“It’s mighty good of you, but we don’t want to impose on any one,” he said
stiffly. “If he can stay for a day or two, I can get out to Needles and bring
up a boat of some kind. It’s the only thing I can think of--but I can make it
in a couple of days.”
The other turned and regarded him much as Nevada had first done, with a
mixture of defiance and pride. His jaw squared, the lines beside his mouth
grew more bitter.
“We may be breeds--but we aren’t brutes,” he said harshly. “You’ll stay where
you are and take care of your partner. The burden of nursing him can’t fall on
the women.” He stopped and seemed debating something within himself. “We’ve no
reason to open our arms to outsiders,” he added finally. “If folks let us
alone, we let them alone--and glad to do it. Father’s touchy about having
strangers in camp. But all rules must be broken once, they say.”
“I think you’re over-sensitive,” Rawley told him bluntly. “You’re
self-conscious over something no one else would think of twice. It’s--”
“Oh, I know. You needn’t say it. Sounds pretty, but it isn’t worth a damn when
you try to put it in practice. Well, let it drop. I’ll send over some medicine
to keep his fever down, and the rest is pretty much up to nature and the care
you give him. It’s cool here--that’s a great deal.”
“We’ll be turning out your niece, though, I’m afraid. I can’t do that.” For
the first time Rawley was keenly conscious of the incongruity of his
surroundings. Here in a settlement of Indians (he could scarcely put it more
mildly, with the dogs and the frowsy papooses and the two squaws for evidence)
one little oasis of civilized furnishings spoke eloquently of the white blood
warring against the red. The room was furnished cheaply, it is true, and much
of the furniture was homemade; but for all its simplicity there was not one
false note anywhere, not one tawdry adornment. It was like the girl
herself,--simple, clean-cut, dignified.
“My niece won’t mind. I shall give her my own dugout, which is as comfortable
as this. I can find plenty of room to stretch out. Hard work makes a soft
bed.” He smiled briefly. Again Rawley was struck with a sense of familiarity,
of having known Uncle Peter somewhere before.
But before he could put the question the man was gone, and Johnny Buffalo was
looking at him gravely. But he did not speak, and presently his eyes closed.
After that, the medicine was handed in by a bashful, beady-eyed boy who showed
white teeth and scudded away, kicking up hot dust with his bare feet as he
ran.
After all, what did it matter? A chance meeting in some near-by town and
afterwards forgetfulness. Uncle Peter evidently did not remember him, so the
meeting must have been brief and unimportant.
CHAPTER NINE
“A PLEASANT TRIP TO YOU!”
Rawley chanced to look out of the window. He muttered something then and
strode to the screened door.
“Hey! You aren’t going back up that trail, surely?” He went out hurriedly and
took long steps after Nevada.
The girl turned and looked at him over her shoulder, flinging back a heavy
braid of coppery auburn hair. She had Pickles by his lead rope and was plainly
heading into the trail to Nelson.
“Why, yes. There’s a load of grub beside the trail where Deacon upset. I’m
going after it.”
Rawley rushed back, seized his hat, sent an anxious glance toward the bed and
then ran. He overtook Nevada just at the edge of the basin and stopped her by
the simple method of stopping the burro with a strong hand.
“You go back and sit beside Johnny,” he commanded. “I’ll get that grub,
myself. And if you’ve got a rifle, I’d like to borrow it.”
“That’s utter nonsense--your going,” Nevada exclaimed. “I meant to take one of
the boys--I just sent him in to wash his face, first.”
Rawley laughed. “Do you think a clean face on a kid will have any effect on
Queo? You’ll both stay at home, please. I’m going.”
“If you’re determined, I can’t very well stop you,” she said coldly. “But I
certainly am going. I always do these things. There’s no possible reason--”
Rawley looked over at the nearest shack, where Aunt Gladys stood watching
them, the baby still on her hip. “Mrs. Cramer, I am going up after the grub we
left by the trail. Will you see that Johnny Buffalo is looked after? And will
you call Miss Macalister’s grandmother, or whoever has any authority over
her?” His voice was stern, but the twinkle in his eyes belied the tone.
Aunt Gladys giggled and hitched the baby up from its sagging position. “There
ain’t nobody but Peter can do nothing with Nevada,” she informed him. “Her
gran’paw, maybe--but he don’t pay no attention half the time. You better stay
home, Nevada. Queo might shoot you.”
“How perfectly idiotic! Do you suppose he would refrain from shooting Mr.
King, but kill me instead?”
“Well, you can’t tell what he might do,” Aunt Gladys observed sagely. “He’s
crazy in the head.”
Rawley laid his fingers on Nevada’s hand, where she held Pickles by the
bridle. He looked straight into her eyes, bright with anger. His own eyes
pleaded with her.
“Miss Macalister, please don’t be obstinate. To let you go back up that trail
is unthinkable. I am going, and some one must be with my partner. I can make
the trip well under two hours; there is heavy stuff in that ditch which needs
a man’s shoulder under it, getting it back into the trail. Please stay with
Johnny Buffalo, won’t you?”
Nevada hesitated, staring back into his eyes. Her hand slid reluctantly from
the bridle. Her lip curled at one corner, though her cheeks flushed
contradictorily.
“Masculine superiority asserts itself,” she drawled. “Since I can’t prevent
your going, I think, after all, I shall prefer to stay at home. A pleasant
trip to you, Mr. King!”
“Thanks for those kind words,” Rawley cried, his voice as mocking as hers.
“Come on, Pickles, old son!”
A boy of ten, with his face clean to the point of his jaws, came running from
the shack with a rifle sagging his right shoulder. Rawley waited until he came
up, then took the rifle, spun the boy half around and gave him a gentle push.
“Thanks, sonny. Ladies and children not allowed on this trip, however. You
stay and protect the women and babies, son. Got to leave a man in camp, you
know. Wounded to look after.”
The boy whirled back, valor overcoming his tongue-tied bashfulness. “Aw, he
wouldn’t come here! Gran’paw’d kill ’im. Gran’paw purt’ near did, one time. I
c’n shoot, mister. I c’n hit a rabbit in the eye from here to that big rock
over there.”
“Yes--well--this isn’t going to be a rabbit hunt. You stay here, sonny.”
“Aw, you’re as bad as Uncle Peter!” the boy muttered resentfully, kicking
small rocks with his bare toes. “I guess you’ll wish I’d come along, if Queo
gets after you!”
Rawley only laughed and swung up the trail, leading the burro behind him,
since he was not at all acquainted with the beast and had no desire to follow
it vainly to Nelson, for lack of the proper knowledge to halt it beside the
scene of Deacon’s downfall.
As he went, Rawley scanned the near-by ridges and the brush along the trail.
There was slight chance, according to his belief, that the outlaw Indian would
venture down this far, especially since he could not be sure he had failed to
kill Johnny Buffalo. On the other hand, he must have been rather desperate to
lie in wait for two women coming home with supplies. Rawley wondered why he
had remained up on the ridge; why he had not waited by the trail and robbed
them of such things as he needed. Then he remembered Nevada’s very evident
ability to whip wildcats, if necessary--certainly to meet any emergency
calmly--and shook his head. The old squaw, too, would probably do some clawing
if the occasion demanded, and she knew just who and why she was fighting. On
the whole, Rawley decided that Queo had merely borne out Johnny Buffalo’s
statement that he was a coward and had taken no chances. And from the boy’s
remark about his grandfather nearly killing Queo, he thought the outlaw had
not wanted his identity discovered.
As for his own risk, Rawley did not give it a second thought. Queo had been
well scared, finding two men on the job where he had expected to deal only
with women. He had been headed toward the river when Rawley last saw him. It
was more than probable that he would continue in that direction.
But it is never safe to guess what an Indian will do,--much less an Indian
outlaw who must become a beast of prey if he would live and keep his freedom.
Rawley remembered Johnny Buffalo’s pack and tied Pickles to a bush directly
under the spot where the shooting had taken place, while he climbed the ridge
to retrieve his belongings. He brought canteen and pack down to the trail and
hung them on the packsaddle, feeling absolutely secure. The ridge was hot and
deserted, even the birds and rabbits having taken cover from the heat.
He went on around the little bend and anchored the burro again while he
carried up a sack of potatoes, bacon, flour and a package wrapped in damp
canvas, which he guessed to be butter. The tribe of Cramer had what they
wanted to eat, at least, he reflected. Also, the load would have made a nice
grubstake for the outlaw. Two such burro loads would have supplied Queo for
months, adding what game he would undoubtedly kill.
Rawley had just finished packing the burro and had looped up the tie rope to
send Pickles down the home trail, when some warning (a sound, perhaps, or a
flicker of movement) caused him to look quickly behind him. He glimpsed a
dark, heavy face behind a leveled gun barrel, broken teeth showing in an evil
grin. Rawley threw himself to one side just as the gun belched full at him.
Something jerked his left arm viciously, and a numb warmth stole into that
side.
He dropped forward, his right hand flinging back to his holstered automatic
and drawing up convulsively with the gun in his hand.
“Thanks for packing the stuff!” chortled Queo, and the two fired
simultaneously.
Both scored hits. The leering, black face sobered and slid slowly out of sight
behind the rock. Rawley’s head dropped so that his face lay in the blistering
dust of the trail. Through his hat crown a small, singed hole showed in front,
a ragged tear opposite at the back. Pickles, scored on the leg with the second
shot from Queo’s gun, kicked savagely with both feet and went careening down
the trail toward home, his pack wabbling violently as he galloped.
It was the sight of him trotting down the trail alone that halted Nevada
midway between her rock dugout and the shack where Gladys was setting steaming
dishes on the table for the three men who were “washing up” at the bench under
the crude porch. Nevada gave a little cry and ran to meet Pickles, and the
first thing she noticed was the fresh, red furrow on his leg, from which the
blood was still dripping. Turning to call, she saw Peter coming close behind
her, wiping his face and neck as he walked.
“Oh, Uncle Peter--he’s been shot!” she cried tremulously. “It must be Queo
again.”
Peter’s eyes turned to the trail, visible for some distance up the side hill.
There was no one in sight, and without a word he turned back to his own house,
dug into the hill near Nevada’s, and presently returned, passing the girl with
long strides. He carried his rifle and struck into the hill trail bareheaded.
Nevada looked after him, her eyes wide and dark.
An hour later, Peter returned, walking steadily down the trail with Rawley on
his back. Without a word he passed the staring group at the shack and carried
his burden into the room where Johnny Buffalo lay in uneasy slumber. A step
sounded behind him, and he spoke without turning.
“Have Jess and Gladys bring that spring cot out of my cabin, Nevada. They’ll
be more contented in the same room. He got Queo--I found him behind a rock not
fifty feet from this chap. Now Queo’s cousin will take up the feud and get
this fellow--if he pulls out of this scrape.”
“Is he badly hurt?” Nevada was holding her voice steady from sheer will power.
“Arm smashed and a scalp wound. All depends on the care he gets. Well--” Peter
straightened and wiped his forehead, looking thoughtfully at Rawley, half
lying in a big chair, his long legs spread limply, his face white and streaked
with blood, “--we owe him good care, I guess. He must have killed Queo after
he’d been shot in the arm. And he’s saved this outfit some trouble. I didn’t
tell you--but Queo was laying for a chance at us. Well--run and get that cot
here.”
Nevada pushed back her craning family and sent them running here and there on
errands. Her grandfather and Jess, the husband of Gladys, looked at her
inquiringly from the porch of the shack. Rawley might have thought it strange
that they remained mere bystanders during the excitement. But Nevada did not
seem to notice their indifference.
“Queo shot him twice--but he killed Queo,” she told them. “Uncle Jess, you’re
to get his spring cot, Uncle Peter says, and fix a bed in there.” Her eyes
went challengingly to her grandfather. “Uncle Peter says we owe them the best
care we can give,” she stated clearly. “He says they have saved some lives in
this family.”
The tall, bearded old patriarch looked at her frowningly. He glanced toward
the rock cabin, grunted something unintelligible to the girl, and went in to
his interrupted dinner.
CHAPTER TEN
A FAMILY TREE
It seemed as fantastic as a troubled dream. To be lying there helpless, to
look across and see Johnny Buffalo staring grimly up at the ceiling, his face
set stoically to hide the pain that burned beneath the white bandage, held no
semblance of reality. Was it that morning only, that they had left the car and
started out to walk to the “great and high mountain”? Perhaps several days had
passed in oblivion. He did not know. To Rawley the shock of drifting back from
unconsciousness to these surroundings had been as great as the shock of
incredulous slipping down and down into blackness. He moved his head a
half-inch. The pain brought his eyebrows together, but he made no sound.
Johnny Buffalo must not be worried.
“All right again, are you?” Peter moved into Rawley’s range of vision. “You
had a close squeak. The thickness of your skull between you and death--that
was all. The bullet skinned along on the outside instead of the inside.”
“I’ll be all right then,” Rawley muttered thickly. “Don’t mean to be a
nuisance. Soon as this grogginess lets up--”
“You’ll be less trouble where you are,” Peter interrupted him bluntly. “I’ve
done all I can for you now, so I’ll go back to my work. The Injun’s making out
all right, too. Head clear as a bell, near as I can judge. I’ll see you this
evening, and if there’s anything you want, either of you, just pound that toy
drum beside you. That will bring one of the women.”
Rawley looked up at him, though the movement of his eyeballs was
excruciatingly painful. Again that sense of familiarity came to tantalize him.
What was it? Peter’s great, square shoulders, his eyes? He made another effort
to look more closely and failed altogether. His vision blurred; things went
black again. Perhaps he slept, after that. When he opened his eyes again a
cool wind was blowing; the intolerable glare outside the window had softened.