He rode on slowly, but his conscience troubled him. Suddenly a familiar voice hailed him and from the trees in front of him a horseman rode.
"Hi yah!" The rider was Hard Luck Harper. He carried the long Sharps rifle across his saddle bow and his face was set in gloomy lines.
"I done got to worryin' about a brainless maverick like you a- wanderin' around these hills by yoreself with Gila Murken runnin' wild thata-way, and I come to see if you was still in the land of the livin'!"
"And I reckon you're plumb disappointed not to run into a murder or two."
"I don't know so much about them murders," said the old man testily. "Didn't I hear guns a-talkin' up on the Ramparts a little while ago?"
"Likely you did, if you was listenin'."
"Yeah—and people don't go wastin' ammunition fer nothin' up here—look there!"
Hard Luck's finger stabbed upward and Steve, a numbing sense of foreboding gripping his soul, whirled to look. Up over the tree-lined rim of the Ramparts drifted a thin spiral of smoke.
"My Lord, Hard Luck!" gasped Steve. "What's goin' on up there?"
"Shet up!" snarled the old man, raising his rifle. "I hear a horse runnin' hard!"
The wild tattoo of hoofs crashed through the silence and a steed burst through the trees of the upper slope and came plunging down toward them, wild- eyed, nostrils flaring. On its back a crimsoned figure reeled and flopped grotesquely. Steve spurred in front of the frantic flying animal and caught the hanging rein, bringing the bronco to a rearing, plunging halt. The rider slumped forward and pitched to the earth.
"Edwards!" gasped Steve.
The man lay, staring up with blank wide eyes. Blood trickled from his lips and the front of his shirt was soaked in red. Hard Luck and Steve bent over him. At the first glance it was evident that he was dying.
"Edwards!" exclaimed Hard Luck. "What's happened? Who shot you? And whar's yore pards and the gal?"
"Dead!" Edwards' unshaven lips writhed redly and his voice was a croak.
"Daid!" Hard Luck's voice broke shrilly. "Who done it?''
"Them Navajoes!" the voice sank to a ghastly whisper as blood rose to the pallid lips.
"I told you!" gibbered Hard Luck. "I knowed them drums meant deviltry! I knowed it!"
"Shut up, can't you?" snarled Steve, torn by his emotions. He gripped the dying man's shoulder with unconsciously brutal force and shook him desperately.
"Edwards," he begged, "you're goin' over the ridge – can't you tell us how it was before you go? Did you see Murken and his niece die?"
"Yes—it—was—like—this," the man began laboriously. "I was—all set to go—to Rifle Pass—had my bronc loaded—Murken and Allison was out near—the corral—the gal was—in the cabin. All to once—the west slopes began to shower lead. Murken went down—at the first fire. Allison was hit—and I got a slug through me. Then a gang—of Navajoes come ridin' down—the slopes—drunk and blood crazy.
"I got to my bronc—and started ridin' and—they drilled me—a couple of times from behind. Lookin' back I saw—Allison standin' in the cabin door with—both guns goin' and the gal—crouchin' behind him. Then the whole mob—of red devils—rushed in and I saw—the knives flashin' and drippin' as—I come into—the gulch."
Steve crouched, frozen and horror struck. It seemed that his heart had crumbled to ashes. The taste of dust was in his mouth.
"Any of 'em chasin' you, Edwards?" asked Hard Luck. The old Indian fighter was in his element now; he had sloughed off his attitude of lazy good nature and his eyes were hard and cold as steel.
"Maybe—don't know," the wounded man muttered. "All our fault—Murken would give 'em whiskey. Warned him. They found out—the money—he was given' 'em—was no good."
The voice broke suddenly as a red tide gushed to Edwards' lips. He lurched up on his elbows, then toppled back and lay still.
Hard Luck grunted. He stepped over to Edwards' horse which stood trembling, and cut open the saddlebags. He nodded.
"No more'n I expected."
Steve was rising slowly, mechanically wiping his hands on a wisp of grass. His face was white, his eyes staring.
"She's dead!" he whispered. "She's dead!"
Hard Luck, gazing at him, felt a pang in his heart. The scene brought back so poignantly the old bloody days of Indian warfare when men had seen their loved ones struck down by knife and arrow.
"Son," said he, solemnly, "I never expected to see such a sight as this again."
The Texan gave him a glance of agony, then his eyes blazed with a wild and terrible light.
"They killed her!" he screamed, beating his forehead with his clenched fists. "And by God, I'll kill 'em all! I'll kill—kill—"
His gun was swinging in his hand as he plunged toward his horse. Hard Luck sprang forward and caught him, holding him with a wiry strength that was astounding for his age. He ignored the savage protests and curses, dodged a blow of the gun barrel which the half-crazed Texan aimed at his face, and pinioned Steve's arms. The youth's frenzied passion went as suddenly as it had come, leaving him sobbing and shaken.
"Son," said Hard Luck calmly, "cool down. I reckon you don't want to lift them Navajo scalps any more'n I do, and before this game's done, we're goin' to send more'n one of 'em over the ridge. But if you go gallopin' up after 'em wide open thataway, you'll never git the chance to even the score, fer they'll drill you before you even see 'em. Listen to me, I've fought 'em from Sonora to the Bad Lands and I know what I'm talkin' about. Git on yore bronc. We can't do nothin' more fer Edwards and we got work to do elsewhar. He said Allison and Murken and the gal was daid. I reckon Murken and Allison is gone over the ridge all right, but he didn't rightly see 'em bump off the gal, and I'll bet my hat she's alive right now."
Steve nodded shortly. He seemed to have aged years in the last few minutes. The easygoing young cowpuncher was gone, and in his place stood a cold steel fighting man of the old Texas blood. His hand was as steady as a rock, as he sheathed his pistol and swung into the saddle.
"I'm followin' your lead, Hard Luck," said he briefly. "All I ask is for you to get me within shootin' and stabbin' distance of them devils."
The old man grinned wolfishly.
"Son, yore wants is simple and soon satisfied; follow me!"
5. THUNDERING CLIFFS
Table of Contents
"EASY ALL!" said Hard Luck. "We got plenty start and we got to pick our way, goin' down here. A stumble might start a regular avalanche. I've seen such things happen in the Sunsets. Easy all!"
They were riding down the boulder-strewn trail which led through the defile. It was hard to ride with a tight rein and at a slow gait with the noise of those red drums growing louder every moment, and the knowledge that the red killers were even now racing down the western slopes.
The going was hard and tricky. Sometimes the loose shale gave way under the hoofs, and sometimes the slope was so steep that the horses reared back on their haunches and slid and scrambled. Again Steve found time to wonder how Joan found courage to go up and down this gorge almost every day. Back on the plateau, now, he could hear the yells of the pursuers and the echoes shuddered eerily down the gorge. Joan was pale, but she handled her mount coolly.
"Nearly at the bottom," said Hard Luck, after what seemed an age. "Risk a little sprint, now."
The horses leaped out at the loosening of the reins and crashed out onto the slopes in a shower of flying shale and loose dirt. "Good business—" said Hard Luck—and then his horse stumbled and went to its knees, throwing him heavily.
Steve and the girl halted their mounts, sprang from the saddle. Hard Luck was up in an instant cursing.
"My horse is lame—go on and leave me!"
"No!" snarled Steve. "We can both ride on mine."
He whirled to his steed; up on the plateau crashed an aimless volley as if fired into the air. Steve's horse snorted and reared—the Texan's clutching hand missed the rein and the bronco wheeled and galloped away into the forest. Steve stood aghast, frozen at this disaster.