Escape from Five Shadows - Leonard Elmore John (читать полную версию книги .TXT) 📗

Suddenly he saw his error.

Why should they be least ready at the grade? Because Chick said so?

If Brazil thought you had even a halfway better chance there he’d be readier than he was ever ready!

Why is being on the ground an advantage? Your back’s to him then!

He breathed in and out slowly and thought, more calmly: You’re facing him now. You’re looking right at him and you even know when he scratches himself.

He glanced over the side of the wagon. The trail dropped off abruptly, slanting steeply for twenty-five or thirty feet. Then thick brush. Brush and scrub pine and rock and beyond that a second slope that was more gradual.

But how do you make the Winchester wait five seconds?

He noticed loose stones along the edge of the trail and he thought: One of those could stop him long enough.

But how do you know there’ll be one where you jump off? We could come to a bare stretch just as-

He stopped…his eyes on Brazil. He watched Brazil raise the rifle barrel and rest it in the crook of his left arm. His right hand came up and across his chest and two fingers hooked into the shirt pocket to bring out the tobacco sack.

You’re looking at it, Bowen thought, knowing it, being sure of it, and feeling the excitement inside of him now and trying not to show it.

You don’t sit and think about it. You go or you don’t go.

The crook of Brazil’s left arm squeezed the barrel tightly as he poured tobacco into the troughed square of cigarette paper. Both of his hands were busy; both of them away from the trigger of the Winchester.

You go!

It was in his mind and out of his mind as he pushed himself from the wagon and went over the side of the ledge, not looking at Brazil, but hearing suddenly a hoarse yell as he hit the slope falling, sliding, raising dust, the abrupt leg shock of reaching the bottom, and now rolling and hearing another yell from above and another and lunging into the brush as a shotgun blast ripped the mesquite branches above him.

He was on his feet, running, stumbling through the scrub pine, then suddenly, instinctively, swerving to the left and the shotgun roared again, spattering buckshot through the trees behind him and it went through his mind: Where’s the Winchester!

But he did not look back. Coming out of the trees he hesitated, but only momentarily, only long enough to be sure of his direction. His shoes dug into the loose sand and he sprinted down the open hillside, his shoulders drawn tight waiting for the gunfire.

Then it came, the whining report and sand kicking up behind him, and he knew the Winchester was at work. Three times the .45-70 slugs whined ricocheting after him; then stopped abruptly as he reached the dense trees at the bottom of the grade. Silence followed.

He stood for a moment making himself breathe in and out slowly, then started up the slope, up through heavy timber, knowing he would not be seen now. At the top of the ridge he stopped again and this time looked back.

Far across, the wagon was a small shape on the hillside. He could make out men standing behind the wagon, but he could not distinguish one from another or even count how many were standing there. His gaze dropped down the slope, following the course he had taken, but there was no movement anywhere. Minutes went by as he waited and listened, but still there was no movement, nor the sound of anyone coming up through the trees.

Now they’ll put the trackers to work, Bowen thought…and Brazil probably already halfway there to get them.

His only chance was to make his way back to the Pinaleno station and somehow get a horse. He knew this; and he knew that he had little time before Renda’s detachment of Apache police would be reading his tracks.

3

Willis Falvey dismounted in front of the Pinaleno adobe. There was no sound in the sunlit yard. His gaze went to the stable shed, then back to the screen door of the adobe. He hesitated uncertainly before going inside.

“Demery?”

There was no answer. His eyes moved from one end of the low-ceilinged room to the other, past Demery’s open roll-top desk, past the plank table where the stage passengers ate to the small mahogany-stained bar. The dimness was a relief after the outside glare. It was quiet here, restful, and momentarily it occurred to Willis Falvey that perhaps he might stay here instead of riding all the way to Fuegos.

No, he thought then. He would want to remain all night, and that could prove embarrassing. Not like at Fuegos where he could drink all he wanted in the privacy of a hotel room-in what passed for a hotel room-then sleep it off.

Well, he could have one here…at least one. He called for Demery again, waited, then walked to the bar and poured himself a whisky. This would be the start. Perhaps by this evening he would have forgotten, for a time, Frank Renda and the convict camp and his wife, Lizann.

A horse whinnied-the sound coming from the backyard where the corral was located-then Karla’s voice.

Falvey listened, then drank down the whisky. He left the bar, walked through the kitchen, and from the back door saw Karla outside. She was rubbing down one of the relay horses in the shade of the long, main stable that extended out from the back of the adobe almost to the corral.

Willis Falvey’s eyes raised suddenly. No, there was nothing there; but for a moment he thought he had seen someone standing on the far side of the mesquite-pole corral.

“Karla.”

She looked up, seeing Falvey coming out from the adobe, his gaze shifting now and again to the corral. He was unnaturally conscious of himself, she knew, and he had to be occupied when he thought someone was looking at him-even if it was only to glance at corralled horses. The few times he had been here before, Karla noticed this-his obviously self-conscious actions, his almost complete lack of anything to say-and in a way she felt sorry for him. He was out of place at the convict camp, especially as government superintendent, and Karla was sure he realized it more than anyone else.

“Just passing by, Mr. Falvey?”

He nodded, and hesitated before saying, “I helped myself to a drink. I’ll put the money on the bar when I go back in. I heard you out here and-”

“That’s all right,” Karla said easily. “You could pay the next time for that matter.”

“I didn’t see your father inside.”

“He had to go to Fuegos.” She said then, “Your friend Renda was here to pick up supplies. I suppose you passed him coming in.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“They only left about an hour ago.”

“I took the horse trail,” Falvey said. Then asked, “Are you alone?”

She nodded, seeing his gaze move to the corral again.

“I thought I saw someone out there,” Falvey said, “just as I came out of the house.”

Karla looked out from the shade. “I don’t know who it would be.”

“No, it was probably the way the horses were standing.” Falvey was silent for a moment. “You’re here all alone?”

“I’m used to it,” Karla said. “Pa has to go to Fuegos every once in a while, to the telegraph office.”

“Oh-” Falvey nodded. “What about your mother…is she-”

“Dead?” Karla smiled at his uneasiness. “No, she’s in Willcox with my two sisters.”

“I didn’t know you had sisters.”

“Younger ones. They’re still in school and my mother stays with them for the term. They’ll be back soon for the summer.”

Falvey seemed more relaxed. “It must be hard not seeing them most of the year.”

“It is, but my mother says we all have to be educated. She was born in Sonora…You see, her mother was Mexican, but her pa was an American, a mining man, and she didn’t go to school at all. That’s why we have to, even if it means being away.”