That last thirty head of his cows I rustled for him brought the best price I ever got!" he remembered thoughtfully. Too bad there ain't more like him!" Well, after this night, there would be one less. There wouldn't be anything to guide Lopez down there now.
1-7
A man caught in a thick whirlpool of dust would have no landmarks; there would be nothing to get him out except blind instinct. The Navajos had been clever, leading the Apaches into a trap like that. Odd, that Lopez's mother had been an Apache, too.
Just the same, Marone thought, he had nerve. He'd shot his way up from the bottom until he had one of the best ranches.
Shad Marone began to pick up some dead cedar. He gathered some needles for kindling and in a few minutes had a fire going.
Marone took another drink. Somehow, he felt restless. He got up and walked to the edge of the Nest. How far had Lopez come? Suppose . . . Marone pipped his pistol.
Suddenly, he started down the mountain. "The hell with it!" he muttered.
A stone rattled.
Shad Marone froze, gun in hand.
Lopez, a gray shadow, weaving in the vague light from the cliff, had a gun in his hand. For a full minute, they stared at each other.
Marone spoke first. "Looks like a dead heat," he said. Lopez said, "How'd you know about that water hole?" "Navajo told me," Shad replied, watching Lopez like a cat. "You don't look so bad," he added. "Have a full canteen?"
"No. I'd have been a goner. But my mother was an Apache. A bunch of them got caught in the Sink once. That never happened twice to no Apache. They found this water hole then, and one down below. I made the one below, an' then I was finished. She was a dry hole. But then water began to run in from a crack in the rock." "Yeah?" Marone looked at him again. "You got any coffee?"
"Sure."
"Well," Shad said as he holstered his gun, "I've got a fire."
*
Author's Note:
THE SYCAMORE WILD AREA
After World War II, while living in Los Angeles, I would occasionally make up a backpack and head for the wild country, usually in Arizona.
One of my favorite places was what is called The Sycamore Wild Area in Sycamore Canyon. In those days there was a branch line railroad that ran from Clarkdale to Drake and the train crew would drop you off anywhere along the line and pick you up on the way back whenever you showed up. The train was known as the Verde-Mix.
The land was rough, wild, and beautiful. There were deer, mountain lion, and occasional bear, some beautiful springs and running streams all with nobody around to bother you. Usually I would spend three or four days hiking lonely canyons, climbing mountains, or wandering in the forests, sleeping under the stars or in caves that had sheltered Indians or outlaws in their time.
There were stories of ghosts, lost mines, horse thieves, and ancient Indians. Some of them I heard from Jim Roberts when he was a peace officer in Clarkdale. I first ran into him when I was doing assessment work in a mining claim not far from Jerome. Roberts was a survivor of the Tonto Basin War and we talked about it several times as I had known Tom Pickett who was also involved.
*
RIDING ON
"Good cowboys never run; they just ride away."
--Old Sayin g The riders moved forward in a body. Strike a match, Reb!" Nathan Embree's voice trembled with triumph. We finally got one; I heard him fall .
Reb Farrell slid from the saddle. "I see him! He's right over here!" A match whispered on his jeans and the light flared.
All necks craned forward. The man on the ground had a bullet through his head, but his face was placid. It was a face seamed with care and years that had not been kind. The face of a man tired of the struggle of living. It was the face of Reb Farrell's father.
Numb with horror, Reb stared down at the man he had killed, the man who had fought to give him some little education and a sense of honor, who had fought so hard and lost, and who now was dead, killed by the son he had loved.
-My Goff' Dave Barbot's
1-7
A man caught in a thick whirlpool of dust would have no landmarks; there would be nothing to get him out except blind instinct. The Navajos had been clever, leading the Apaches into a trap like that. Odd, that Lopez's mother had been an Apache, too.
Just the same, Marone thought, he had nerve. He'd shot his way up from the bottom until he had one of the best ranches.
Shad Marone began to pick up some dead cedar. He gathered some needles for kindling and in a few minutes had a fire going.
Marone took another drink. Somehow, he felt restless. He got up and walked to the edge of the Nest. How far had Lopez come? Suppose . . . Marone pipped his pistol.
Suddenly, he started down the mountain. "The hell with it!" he muttered.
A stone rattled.
Shad Marone froze, gun in hand.
Lopez, a gray shadow, weaving in the vague light from the cliff, had a gun in his hand. For a full minute, they stared at each other.
Marone spoke first. "Looks like a dead heat," he said. Lopez said, "How'd you know about that water hole?" "Navajo told me," Shad replied, watching Lopez like a cat. "You don't look so bad," he added. "Have a full canteen?"
"No. I'd have been a goner. But my mother was an Apache. A bunch of them got caught in the Sink once. That never happened twice to no Apache. They found this water hole then, and one down below. I made the one below, an' then I was finished. She was a dry hole. But then water began to run in from a crack in the rock." "Yeah?" Marone looked at him again. "You got any coffee?"
"Sure."
"Well," Shad said as he holstered his gun, "I've got a fire."
*
Author's Note:
THE SYCAMORE WILD AREA
After World War II, while living in Los Angeles, I would occasionally make up a backpack and head for the wild country, usually in Arizona.
One of my favorite places was what is called The Sycamore Wild Area in Sycamore Canyon. In those days there was a branch line railroad that ran from Clarkdale to Drake and the train crew would drop you off anywhere along the line and pick you up on the way back whenever you showed up. The train was known as the Verde-Mix.
The land was rough, wild, and beautiful. There were deer, mountain lion, and occasional bear, some beautiful springs and running streams all with nobody around to bother you. Usually I would spend three or four days hiking lonely canyons, climbing mountains, or wandering in the forests, sleeping under the stars or in caves that had sheltered Indians or outlaws in their time.
There were stories of ghosts, lost mines, horse thieves, and ancient Indians. Some of them I heard from Jim Roberts when he was a peace officer in Clarkdale. I first ran into him when I was doing assessment work in a mining claim not far from Jerome. Roberts was a survivor of the Tonto Basin War and we talked about it several times as I had known Tom Pickett who was also involved.
*
RIDING ON
"Good cowboys never run; they just ride away."
--Old Sayin g The riders moved forward in a body. Strike a match, Reb!" Nathan Embree's voice trembled with triumph. We finally got one; I heard him fall .
Reb Farrell slid from the saddle. "I see him! He's right over here!" A match whispered on his jeans and the light flared.
All necks craned forward. The man on the ground had a bullet through his head, but his face was placid. It was a face seamed with care and years that had not been kind. The face of a man tired of the struggle of living. It was the face of Reb Farrell's father.
Numb with horror, Reb stared down at the man he had killed, the man who had fought to give him some little education and a sense of honor, who had fought so hard and lost, and who now was dead, killed by the son he had loved.
-My Goff' Dave Barbot's
Similar Books
Travellers #1
Jack Lasenby
est
Adelaide Bry
Hollow Space
Belladonna Bordeaux
Black Skies
Leo J. Maloney
CALL MAMA
Terry H. Watson
Curse of the Ancients
Matt de la Pena
The Rival Queens
Nancy Goldstone
Killer Smile
Lisa Scottoline
Succession of Witches
Karen Mead