Clifford Simak - The Shipshape Miracle - And Other Stories

Even as he fell the whiplike crash of the hidden rifle caught up with the speeding bullet.

The bandaged man had hurled himself flat behind a scraggly bush, lap pressed tight against the ground. Blair was crouched in a shallow, natural depression shielded by clumps of waving grass. The saloon owner’s clothes were smoldering in a dozen different places from the shower of coals and he was slapping at them fiercely, cursing in a high-pitched voice.

“Fletcher,” said a voice and the lawyer, twisting his head, saw it was Blair who was speaking to him. “Fletcher,” said Blair, “don’t try any funny stuff.”

Fletcher stared back at the man without speaking, read murder in the narrowed eyes beneath the broad-brimmed hat. Blair, with his back to the wall, was dangerous. When things had been going his way, it had been different. Then he had been inclined to flippancy, like a cat playing with a mouse. But now, brought to earth by the hidden rifle, there was quick death in his trigger finger.

Slowly, Fletcher worked his way around until he was flat upon his belly, feeling the man’s eyes upon him all the time. Slowly he hitched himself, hugging the ground, toward a low growing juniper.

“What the hell you scared of?” asked Blair. “Taking cover that way. You ain’t the one they’re shooting at.”

“How do I know?” Fletcher snapped at him. “How do I know who’s out there with a gun. Maybe they wouldn’t mind picking me off along with you.”

Blair grunted savagely, hunkered lower in the shallow, wind-scooped hole.

“What’s going on?” demanded the bandaged man. “Tain’t natural. Just one shot and then no more.”

“Maybe only one man,” said Blair.

They waited. The sun poured down relentlessly. The sky was blue and still.

He had already thrown Blair partially off guard, he knew, by pretending that he feared the gun out there, by crawling to shelter.

But there was, he told himself, little for him to fear from the hidden rifleman, whoever it might be. There were only two sides to this affair and a man was either for him or against him. And if the man with the gun had been against him, then he would have ridden into camp instead of starting to sling lead.

Funny thing about that shot. Only one and that one landing in the fire—nicking the coffee pot and landing in the fire. Almost as if it had been aimed there instead of at any of the three who stood about the fire. And after that, silence, no other shot—as if that first shot had accomplished its purpose.

Fletcher cudgeled his aching brain, wondering who was hidden out there, content to let things ride, as long as he had them pinned to the ground. White, maybe. Although that didn’t seem likely. White would be with the ranchers, wouldn’t come sneaking in alone. If it were White, Blair would now be dead.

He heard a rustle of sound and twisted his head, keeping his cheek pressed against the ground. Blair, he saw, was slowly rising, inching higher and higher above the grass.

A speck of fire flashed momentarily from the rim of the bluff across the creek and the sullen cough of the rifle chugged across the hills. Blair flopped with a thud, burrowed into protecting soil. Just beyond him a dust cloud slowly settled. Fletcher chuckled.

Blair snarled at him out of the corner of his mouth. “Laugh, damn you! I’ll put a laugh on the other side of your face!” Blair’s eyes squinted speculatively. “I’m just waiting for an excuse, Fletcher, that’s all. I wouldn’t like nothing better.”

The rifle on the bluff chugged again and the bullet, plowing the edge of the wash in which Blair crouched, sprayed him with flying dirt.

“He’s getting your range,” said Fletcher. “All I got to do is just lie here and wait until he dusts you off.”

Blair huddled lower in the wash, brushed furtively at the dirt the bullet had showered on his shoulders.

“Or maybe,” declared Fletcher, “he’s planning to bury you alive. A few more shots like that one and—”

Blair bellowed at him. “Shut up!”

Fletcher was silent, watching Blair. Slowly he turned his head around to look at the man with the bandaged head. But the space behind the bush, where the man had sprawled, was empty.

“The man’s better than an Indian,” Blair said. “He’s stalking the man with the rifle up there on the cliff.”

Cautiously, Fletcher snaked his body forward until he could stare past the juniper. Eyes half closed against the glare of sun, he searched the tumbled confusion of the crags.

He was there, all right. The white splotch against the shadow of the wall was the bandage around his head. The white spot crossed the face of rock, disappeared for an instant, reappeared again, higher—and nearer to the hiding place of the rifleman.

“I got my eyes on you,” Blair grated. “I’m watching every move you make. Just try to warn your pal up there and I’ll make you buzzard meat.”

Fletcher’s body tensed and his mind swirled in thought. He had to do something.

Something that was not the stalker’s bandaged head was moving near the cliff top, too—something that was smaller than a man and yellow, like yellow fur where the sun’s rays struck it.

The yellow thing was the dog he had found at Duff’s burned cabin and given to Cynthia Thornton! And if the dog were there, Fletcher knew who the rifleman must be—not a man at all, but Cynthia Thornton!

From the cliff came a scream of terror and suddenly the yellow dog was flashing down, down from the ledge and onto the shoulders of the man who wore the bandage. . .

For a moment Blair’s man stood outlined against the rock, back to the outer space, facing the yellow fury that crouched before him, tensed for a vicious spring. For a moment the man’s hands pawed air as he sought to keep his footing, to regain his balance.

And then, slowly, deliberately, as if he were doing it of his own volition, he tumbled backward, off the ledge. He pinwheeled, end-over-end, white bandage flashing in the sun. A drawn-out shriek sounded, seemed to go on and on, but actually it lasted for no more than clipped seconds. . .

Mind still stunned by horror, Fletcher turned. Blair jerked his eyes away and his gun came up. Fletcher, charging in, head down, arms outstretched, saw the red coughing of the gun in front of him, felt the stinging fire that slashed across his shoulder.

His left hand lashed out even as he rushed, his fingers wrapped with a grip of steel around the wrist that held the gun. His body smashed into Blair’s and he jerked the gun arm up with a savage yank.

Blair’s gun arm gave beneath the pressure, folded back. The gun dropped free and Fletcher kicked it away.

“Come on,” he said.

Blair came rushing in, his head down. Dancing back, Fletcher slammed for the head.

A fist sank into his belly. He reeled back, sickness wrenching at his stomach.

Another blow was coming and Fletcher lifted arms that seemed to weigh a ton, caught it on his left wrist, blocked it.

The sickness was fading from his stomach, now, and his head was clearer. Blair was charging in again, head still lowered. Fletcher stepped back and then lunged in, right fist traveling from his knee. It caught Blair on the forehead, stopped him, straightened him. Fletcher struck with his left—and then the right came again.

He saw Blair’s face, drew back his fist and targeted it toward the mouth. Pain grated across his knuckles and the face was still there. The left this time. And then the right again. The face was gone.

Fletcher stood on widespread legs, shook his head to clear away the fog.

A soft, wet nose nuzzled and sniffed at Fletcher’s hand. He reached back the hand and patted the yellow dog. Cynthia Thornton stood beside her horse. “Shane,” her voice choked, “Shane, did you see what the dog did?”