Clifford Simak - The Ghost of a Model T - And Other Stories

Benton, staggering to his feet, ducked as the showers of splinters leaped from the railing of the porch and the whining bullet chugged into the window sill behind him.

Gray’s horse was rearing, wheeling from the rack, puffs of dust beneath his dancing feet.

Benton snapped up his gun and fired, knew that he had missed.

Cursing, he vaulted the porch railing, ran for his own mount while Gray hammered off into the night, heading south, heading for the hills.

Moonlight made the hills a nightmare land of light and shadow, a mottled land that was almost unearthly…a place of sudden depths and crazy heights, a twisting, bucking land that had been frozen into rigidity by a magic that might, it seemed, turn it loose again on any moment’s notice.

Ahead of Benton, Gray’s horse crossed a ridge, was highlighted for a single instant against the moonlit sky. Then was gone again, plunging down the slope beyond.

Gaining on him, Benton told himself, gaining all the time. He bent low above the mighty black and whispered to him and the black heard and responded, great muscles straining to hurl himself and his rider up the slope.

Faint dust, stirred by the passing of the pounding hoofs ahead, left a faintly bitter smell in the cool night air.

Another couple of miles, Benton promised himself. Another couple of miles and I’ll overhaul him.

The black topped the ridge and swung sharply to angle down the trail that led toward the blackness of the canyon mouth below.

Ahead of them, halfway down the slope, Gray’s horse was a humping shadow that left a dust trail in the moonlight. A shadow that fled before them in the tricky shadows that laired among the hills.

A shadow that suddenly staggered, that was a pinwheel of dust spinning down the hill…a pinwheel that became two spinning parts and then was still. The horse lay sprawled against the slope. Probably dead with a broken neck, thought Benton.

But the man was running…a tiny furtive rabbity shadow that scuttled across a painted landscape.

With a whoop, Benton spurred the black horse off the trail, went plunging after the running figure in a shower of rocks and talus. For a moment Gray halted, facing about. Flame blossomed from his hand and the flat crack of his gun snarled across the night.

Benton lifted his gun, then lowered it again. No sense of shooting at a ducking, dodging figure in the shadowed light. No sense in wasting time.

Gray faced about again and once more the gun barked an angry challenge. Far above his head, Benton heard the droning of the bullet.

Then the man was just ahead, dodging through the brush that covered the lower reaches of the slope. Benton drove the horse straight at him and Gray, seeing the gleam of the slashing hoofs above him, screamed and dived away, caught his foot and fell, skidded on his shoulder through the silty soil.

Benton spun the horse around, leaped from the saddle. He hit the ground and slid, ground crumbling and skidding beneath his driving boots.

Gray clawed his way to his feet, stood with his hands half raised.

“Don’t shoot,” he screamed. “Don’t shoot. I lost my gun.”

Benton walked toward him. “You always manage to lose your gun,” he said, “just when it will save you.”

The banker cringed, backing down the slope. Benton followed.

“We’re going to have a talk,” he said. “You and I. You’re going to tell me a lot of things that will hang a lot of people.”

Gray babbled, wildly. “I’ll talk. I’ll tell you everything. I’ll tell you all about…”

Suddenly a rifle cracked from somewhere beyond the ridge…a high, ringing sound that woke the echoes in the hills. And cracked again, a vicious sound that cut through the night like a flaming scream of hate.

Benton stiffened, startled by the sound, startled by the knowledge that other men were close.

A pebble clicked and a boot scraped swiftly through the sliding sand. Warning feet jigged on Benton’s spine and he flicked his attention from the rifle shots to the man before him.

Gray was charging, shoulders hunched, head pulled down, long arms reaching out. Coming up the hill with the drive of powerful legs that dug twin streams of pebbles from their resting places and sent them pouring down the hill in a rattling torrent.

Benton jerked up his gun, but the shoulders hit his knees before he could press the trigger and steel arms were clawing at his waist, clawing to pull him down even as the impact of the driving shoulders hurled him off his feet.

His body slammed into the earth and his gun went wheeling through the moonlight as his elbow hit a stone and his arm jerked convulsively with pain.

Above him, Gray loomed massive in the night, hunched like a beast about to spring, face twisted into a silent snarl of rage. Benton lashed up with his boot, but as he kicked, Gray moved, was running down the hill after the gun that had been knocked from Benton’s hand.

Benton hurled himself to his feet, strode down the slope. Gray was on his knees, clawing under a bush where the gun had lodged, mumbling to himself, half slobbering in his haste. Then he was twisting around, a brightness in his hand.

Benton flattened out in a long, clean dive that smothered the gun play, that sent Gray crashing back into the bush. The man fought back, fought silently with pistoning fists and raking fingernails and pumping knees that caught Benton in the stomach and battered out his breath.

Clawing for the second gun that should have been in his belt, Benton’s fingers found the empty holster. The gun had fallen out somewhere, perhaps when Gray had first tackled him farther up the slope.

The other gun also had disappeared. Gray had lost his hold upon it at the impact of Benton’s charge and it lay somewhere beneath the battered, tangled bush.

The knee came up again and plunged into his stomach with a vicious force. Retching, Benton slid forward, rolled free of the bush, crawled on hands and knees. The hill and moon were swinging in gigantic circles before his eyes and there was a giant hand inside of him, tearing at his vitals.

Off to one side a tattered form struggled up into the moonlight, took a slow step forward. Benton wabbled to his feet and stood waiting, watching Gray advance.

The man came on slow and stolid, like a killer sure of the kill but careful to make no mistakes.

Benton sucked in careful breaths of air, felt the pain evaporating from his body, sensed that he had legs again.

Six feet away Gray sprang swiftly, right fist flailing out, left fist cocked. Benton ducked, countered with his right, felt the fist sink into the banker’s belly. Gray grunted and let loose his left and it raked across Benton’s ribs with a searing impact.

Benton stepped back, trip-hammered Gray’s chin with a right and left, took a blow along the jaw that tilted his head with a vicious jolt.

Gray was coming in, coming fast, fists working like pistons. Benton took one quick backward step to gain some room to swing, brought his right fist sizzling from his boot tops. It smacked with a terrific impact full in the banker’s face, jarred Benton’s arm back to the elbow. In front of Benton, Gray was folding up, fists still pumping feebly, feet still moving forward, but folding at the knees.

Strength went out of the man and he slumped into a pile that moaned and clawed to regain its feet.

Benton stepped away, stood waiting.

Painfully, Gray made it to his feet, stood staring at Benton. His clothes were ripped and torn and a dark stream of blood bubbled from his nose and ran black across his mouth and chin.

“Well?” asked Benton.

Gray lifted a hand to wipe away the blood. “I’ve had enough,” he said.

“Talk then,” said Benton. “Talk straight and fast.”