THE CAVE
When he awakened, the wounded Texas Ranger realized that it was well
past daybreak; the sun was high in the cloudless sky and beating down on
the ledge. It must have been the sun, shining directly into the man's
eyes, that had roused him. When he moved he felt a new torment of pain
in every fiber of his being. His wounds had stiffened. His right foot
and leg, and left shoulder and arm, were utterly useless. Movement of
these limbs made stabbing pains shoot the entire length of his body. He
lay quietly for some time, experimenting with the slightest movements
until he had managed to turn so that he could look about him.
The ledge that had served as a resting place at night was a dangerous
refuge in the daytime. A discovery buoyed his hope. He saw that the
water came from an opening a few yards back on the ledge. The opening
was large enough for a man to enter standing up, with room to spare.
Inside he would be sure of concealment and a plentiful supply of water.
Unless someone actually entered the cave, he would be comparatively
secure. His only considerations would be hunger, weakness, and
complications that might set in from the wounds.
Food would be the problem. Even with a good horse it would take more
riding than he could do in his present state to reach the nearest food.
Without weapons of any sort, he could scarcely hunt, even if there were
game to be found in the barren sun-baked Gap. Food therefore was out of
the question. He must content himself with water until he was strong
enough to travel far on foot.
He crawled painfully toward the cave and stopped just beyond the
entrance. Inside, it widened out surprisingly. Torrents of water in some
ages past must have churned furiously, seeking exit through the portal,
to carve away the heavy stone in such a manner. The stream came from
somewhere in the deep, dim recesses of the cave. Gravel and shale lined
the water's edge. This hard ground would serve the Texas Ranger as a
rough couch, perhaps for many days to come.
The outlook was desperate, yet the man felt that there must be some
reason why his life had been spared thus far. It wasn't that he was
afraid to die. At any time during the past few hours death would have
been a welcome relief to the pain of living. Some voice deep within him
kept telling him that he must live, must fight for life so that he
might see justice done. And so he fought. None of the events seemed
logical to him, yet he sensed that in some manner everything would
dovetail into a finished pattern in which he himself would play a
prominent part.
Every element of his life during the past day and night had been a new
experience. Even the Gap and the cave were new to him. Strange, random
thoughts kept intruding on his efforts to make plans for the future.
Thoughts of his life in the past; the silver mine inherited from his
father, but never worked because he had never wanted riches.
He was tired, despite the recent sleep. He lay back, right hand beneath
his head. Perhaps he dozed; he couldn't tell afterward whether he had
slept or not. His senses played such pranks that his thoughts might have
been dreams or mere hallucinations. At any rate those thoughts were
vivid and oddly assorted. Against the roaring background of the water in
the cavern, he seemed to hear a voice. First it was the voice of a boy,
an Indian boy whom the wounded man had known long years ago. He too had
been a boy at that time. The Indian was alone, a child who was the sole
survivor of a furious Indian war. The son of a chief, the lad had
remained, sorely wounded, at the side of his dead parents. It was there
that the white boy found him, and took him as a friend. The two traveled
together for some time until their trails separated. Now he heard the
voice of this boy again. Against the blackness of the cavern's depths he
seemed to see a re-enactment of the past, in rapidly changing
kaleidoscopic scenes.
He saw himself as a hunter, riding in pursuit of bison, to feed
starving white folks in a village and Indians on the plains. He saw
himself riding through the hills in preference to gathering wealth as
the operator of a silver mine. And then a reunion with the Indian he'd
known as a boy. Together the two rode for a time, and Tonto helped the
Ranger capture his white horse.
The day he joined the Texas Rangers was a vivid recollection. His pride
in wearing the Ranger badge was tempered by the loss of Tonto's
companionship.
Somewhere in the background of his visions there was a vague memory of a
night bird's call.
He wondered at the scenes in a detached sort of way. Was this what dying
was like? He'd heard that one's past went by in review as a man's soul
departed. He no longer felt the wounds. The rumbling stream became a
distant murmur that finally resolved itself into the call of a night
bird. Odd, how the night bird's call continued to intrude. He fumbled
with his right hand at the pocket of what was left of his shirt. He
could feel the small square object there, and wished that he had the
strength to take it out. He would have liked to read the little
inscription in the book that had been his mother's gift.
Now even the last of sounds had ceased, and once more the tall man
slept. His breathing was labored, and his hand upon his breast rose and
fell as fingers that had been so strong and capable clutched the little
black book in his pocket.
* * * * *
The afternoon was well advanced. The sun barely peeped over the rim of
the Gap, but the last rays slanted at an acute angle beyond the mouth of
the cave and brushed the shoulder of the sleeping man. He wakened in
surprise. He felt himself surrounded by almost unbearable heat. His
mouth was dry, his throat burning with thirst again. He was barely able
to raise one arm to brush a hand across his forehead. He found this dry
and hot. He felt giddy. His mind whirled as he tried to comprehend this
new condition. He must have tossed restlessly while he slept. His shirt
was more ragged than ever. One pocket was ripped entirely off and the
little black book that had reposed there was beside him where it must
have fallen from his hand.
He felt his shoulder, wondering vaguely at the neatness of the bandage.
He knew from the ugly swelling that the wound had become infected.
Against the weakness there was only water and rest, and he'd already
found that rest seemed only to weaken him further. His plight was
critical.
Water might help. It was all that he had. He rolled over painfully and
stretched his length, face down, against the stream.
It was then that he saw the shadow. No sound had reached his ears above
the water's clamor, but someone had found his hideout and at that moment
stood at the cavern's mouth.
His first impulse was to turn quickly. He started to reach for his guns,
forgetting that they were not in their usual places. Then he remembered
that he was unarmed--completely at the mercy of whoever stood behind
him. For a brief instant he felt an odd prickling sensation move along
his spine. He inwardly shrank from the impact of the bullet he was sure
would come at any instant. He felt that all he had to do was turn, face
the man or men who had already killed his five companions, and his life
too would be snuffed out. But did it matter? His life, at best, was
measured in hours. Starvation, fever, and infection of an ugly wound
were all potential killers. It was simply a case of which of these would
deliver the _coup de grĂ¢ce_. His endurance and strength had carried him
far beyond the limits of most men, but his own far limit had almost been
reached. He had a revulsion to a bullet in the back, but after all it
didn't matter greatly. This intruder, he thought, is a friend, not an
enemy. A friend, perhaps unwittingly, who will put an end to pain.
The man at the entrance watched in silence and, as the dying man turned,
saw his face, suffused with the glow of fever and etched with pain. He
saw the glazed eyes that had once been so steely and deep; saw them rise
slowly to meet his own dark, deep-set eyes. The wounded man looked up
and met the gaze of an Indian.
His lips parted slightly; his first attempt at speech was a failure.
Then he breathed the name of the friend he'd made long years ago.
"Tonto!"
The Indian nodded slowly.
"Me here," he said.