William MacDonald - Shoot Him On Sight

A withered-looking yucca near the top gave me the handhold I wanted and I hoped it wouldn't come out by the roots when I seized it. Thank God it held firm and a moment later I lay gasping at the top, flat on my back.

And not a moment too soon!

From far below there came a sudden triumphant yell: "There's Tiger-Eye's hawss!"

I rolled on my stomach and peered cautiously through some scanty grass to the canyon floor below, then drew stealthily back as I figured they'd be glancing up in a minute. The voices came clearly from below. In a brief glance I'd seen only a half dozen riders. Where were the rest? There must have been twenty or so on my track earlier in the day. The voices again:

"But where'd Cardinal get to?"

"Climbed up that wall, likely."

" Uh-uh !" Another voice: "He'd have to be a humming fly to make a climb o' that sort—"

"Too damn' steep for climbin'," someone said.

"You know what, pards," someone else cut in, "I figure Cardinal realized he was trapped and he's hid up in some cave along this canyon. I noted several likely openin's as we come through."

"That's right likely," a rough voice agreed. "Let's track back and see what we can turn up."

"Hell's-bells," a man grumbled. "With just the few of us, that's a-goin' to take time. I don't see why so many had to go back to town, leavin' us to do the trailin'. Didn't take no dozen galoots to get Tiger-Eye to the Doc—not for no measly scratch in the laig—"

"They'll be back," a rider explained. "Some of 'em swore they had to get somethin' to eat in town. And Zeke figgers to get old man Berry and his hounds. Zeke allows them hounds can track anythin'. Let's start lookin' for caves. We'll get that Cardinal killer yet."

To my ear came the creaking of saddle leather as the men remounted, turning their ponies. Their voices began to die away. I'd heard enough, as I edged back from the brink and, somewhat stiffly, rose to my feet. What next? My eyes sought the surrounding country, as though the solution lay there, as it probably did, one way or another. What I'd heard I didn't like. Hounds to track me down. Nice thought. Anyway, that fellow I'd hit—Tiger-Eye—had had only a scratch, though if I were ever captured, I'd likely be charged with attempted killing and seriously wounding. Give a dog a bad name and so on.

The sun was below the horizon by this time, only a faint orange light lingering in the lower sky, but I could see ahead of me a dwindling off of the bluffs as they flattened out to more level terrain. Then I noticed something else: the river farther along swung in a sharp bend to reach the flatter country. On this side there was relatively little vegetation, sprouting from the sandy, rocky soil, but across the river, there were trees and brush where a man might hide out for a time. That offered some slight hope. Then I thought of the tracking hounds again. At any rate I'd never get far afoot, so the river and hide-out looked like the best chance. I started out.

I made my way along the top of the bluffs, until I'd come to a narrow declivity that in a short time carried me to the level. Awhile later, peering through the dark gloom, I found myself on the low banks of the river and heard the soft gurgling in the silence. River? That was scarcely the name for it—just a slow sluggish stream, some twenty or twenty-five yards wide. I doubted it was very deep at this time of year, though when the rains came it was doubtless transformed to a raging torrent.

Making my way along the bank for another ten minutes, I came to a narrow plank bridge and started to cross over, then paused. It was possible that wading across might throw tracking hounds off the scent. There'd be footprints left near the bridge if I crossed that way, but similar sign would be easily seen where I entered the water. Anyway, that was my only hope—to get across and hide in the brush.

I made my way from the bank and stepped into the stream, immediately sinking over one boot-top in the muck. My second step brought a similar result, but I kept on, each step being heavier than the last. I found firm footing, but as I'd guessed, the stream at its deepest came only slightly above the knees. Progressing halfway I found myself pretty well soaked, though I'd managed to keep guns and cartridge belt dry. Shortly, I found the way a trifle firmer and a few minutes later I had mounted the sandy bank and was making my way into thick brush.

Somewhat shaky from weariness, I sank down to a sitting position, drew off my boots and emptied them of water and sand. For the moment I left them off until I could catch my breath, while I reached to one shirt pocket for Durham and papers. I rolled a cigarette and found matches in one hip pocket which were slightly moist. After several tries I managed to light one and drew gratefully on the smoke. Then it dawned on me that there was a sort of vacant spot in my middle; I'd had nothing to eat since breakfast. Well, I'd just have to pull my belt a little tighter, until the present problem was solved.

Abruptly, I stiffened. From downstream a way came the sounds of approaching riders and the barking of hounds. Hurriedly I stubbed out my cigarette and drew on my boots. The posse had returned sooner than I'd expected. I edged back deeper into the brush and got to my feet, then peering through some gnarled branches I saw lights. Some of the riders were bearing lighted lanterns. They drew closer. I caught the sounds of horses' hoofs clumping across the plank bridge, though some of the men and dogs remained on the opposite bank. Through the thick gloom I caught shadowy glimpses of moving figures. A voice spoke grumpily to the hounds.

Whether they found my tracks where I'd entered the water or not, I never knew. But I reckon they did, as within a short time, the riders and dogs on the opposite side of the stream made their way across the bridge. My ears caught the gradually approaching sounds. They were closing in on me. Fast!

Momentarily, terror overtook me. I had but one frantic thought, to dig deeper into the brush which proved to be a veritable jungle of spiny growth and twisted mesquite, yucca and cat-claw, creosote bush and prickly pear cactus. Branches and spines caught at my clothing, though even in my fear I'd retained sense enough to move as stealthily as possible.

I was twenty-five yards from the stream bank now. Ahead of me loomed a huge clump of prickly pear cactus, though it was too dark now for me to distinguish outlines. I only knew it seemed to offer shelter for the time being. Sharp spines caught at my face and hands as I burrowed in toward the bottom where there was a shallow depression. Several of the huge flat prickly pads were snapped off in my frantic digging in. Finally, I could go no farther and sank down on the earth, the huge plant surrounding me, covering me, sheltering my exhausted, shaking form.

I lay there shivering, wet and cold while voices and dogs came nearer. I could hear them crashing through the brush, breaking off small limbs and crushing the growth, and the hounds were making the night hideous with their barking. Sheer terror obsessed me.

I heard the grumpy voice again, after some argument with two others: "Wal, if ye'd only had some article of his clothing so my dawgs would have the scent. Ye can't expect 'em to know for sure what we're after—"

My spirits rose. Maybe my luck had changed slightly, unless some hound came too close and got inquisitive. I heard one go pushing through the brush a short distance away. Abruptly a gleam of light struck my eyes. There was the crunching of plant growth, and the lantern was swung from side to side. Then a voice: "Well, he ain't 'round here no place, that's for certain."

"Howcome you're so sure?"

"Cripes A'mighty, look at the size of that prickly pear clump. Ain't no human man a-goin' to make his way through that, 'thout tearin' his carcass all to hell. And I already searched to both sides—no broken branches nor nothin'."