SUN RISING OVER the edge of the cut stabbed his eyes. He waked. Awareness came slowly. He lay on wet sand, his legs awash. He was in a canyon with sheer walls, twenty feet deep. The stream that sluiced through it eddied here, caught behind a rock fall. In the middle of the badlands, a stream. He was alive.
He rolled full into the water, soaked his head, felt its cold bite against his blistered skin. The pumice in his clothes was mud now, abrasive grit. He crawled to the bank, stripped, scrubbed the clothes, and washed his feet with special care. A man afoot out here had need to care for his feet.
He remembered the night of wandering. He had, he thought, been delirious. He did not know where he was, how far it was to Spokane. Sidney Blood was in Spokane. Johno Wade was headed for Spokane. With Hope. They would meet Blood, collect money for their information, and Blood would change his plan. Lassiter must be in a place to learn what the change was.
A waterfall filled the upper canyon. He could not climb the walls here. That left him one way to go. He started downstream. Swam the eddy, climbed across the rock fall, and found the water shallower beyond.
Where he could, he walked, fought the strong pull of the current. At the deeper pools he floated, conserved his strength, let himself be carried around the whorls to the lower channel.
The canyon twisted, turned back upon itself, and coiled through the land five miles to cover two. He was in water all the way. Cold water. But the air was like an oven. He found a shelf, a narrow shell of rock jutting out, undercut by water erosion. He climbed on it, rested his numb legs.
Swift movement below caught his eye. A trout swept in, stopped beneath the ledge, and hung there. Lassiter eased his hand down, broke the surface without rippling it, curled his fingers beneath the fish, lifted them gently, caressed the soft belly. Like underwater grasses waving against it. Without forewarning he closed his hand, thumb and forefinger in the gills, pulled the suddenly galvanized fish up. He had laughed when the old Klamath had told him the trick. Silently he apologized.
Raw, the fish tasted better than the horse meat had. He ate it all while his legs thawed. Then he went on.
He slept that night on a sharp nest of rocks above water line. The character of the canyon had not changed. He could not get out except by following it. He did not know how far it ran, what lay ahead, how long he would be trapped in it. If it were too long, Sidney Blood’s treasure train could roll unchallenged across the plains. It was not a thought he liked.
The second day was like the first, but without a fish. He broiled and froze, walked and swam, filled his belly with water only. His senses dulled.
The sound grew slowly. He was not aware of it until a kingfisher flashed by, screaming and he caught the background roar. He went toward it. There was no place else to go. He floated through a deep pool, around a bend, heard the heightened crash of water. His speed increased. He was swept toward rapids. He caught at a rock at the head of white water, clung there.
Below him the stream bucked and plunged, broke against slick black rocks, threw spray and spume that raised a watery veil. He had no choice. If he stayed where he was he would soon starve.
He let go of the rock.
He was caught, flung down a smooth sluice, tumbled under pounding water, cast up. He snatched breath, went under again, rolled, slammed against stone. He did not fight. He could not. He was moving too fast. He was giddy, reeling, unable to tell up from down. Then near drowning, he was sucked beneath branches that dragged in the water, whipped by them. Before he could catch at them he was past.
Suddenly the tumult was over. He was in still water, drifting toward a shore. He brushed it, reached for it. His hand closed on grass. It held. His arm shook as he put tension on it. His feet hit solid bottom. He thrust up. His knees buckled, but he fell forward on dry ground.
He waited until he could move, then rolled to look around. The canyon was behind him, a split in a cliff face. Below him was a rolling land, green grass, trees.
He smelled smoke. He saw its quiet plume rising behind a rounded knoll. He got up. By concentrating on each step, one after another, he could stagger toward it. He left a trail of fresh blood, from his face, his arms, his legs.
It was a log house, solid, in good repair, flanked by out-buildings and a strong corral. There were horses in the corral. The smoke rose from a large stone chimney. The slab door was held closed by a metal latch.
He came against the door, laid his face against it, fought for consciousness, lifted the latch. The door pushed open. He heard a woman shout, then he fell forward into the room. He did not know when he struck the rough plank floor.
It was night when he roused. A lamp burned in the room. He lay in a bed, beneath a blanket. The wool scratched. He was naked, warm, dry. He did not want to move. He turned his head. The room said prosperity but not wealth. In a slat backed chair beside the door a woman sat.
She was tall, angular, past youth. Straight black hair parted exactly in the middle was pulled to a severe bun at the nape of her neck. Her face was long, cheekbones high and prominent as an Indian’s. Her mouth was wide, thin, still with practiced control. She sat stiffly; her hands quiet in her lap. She wore a black dress unrelieved by ornament. She saw his movement, stood up, came toward him. This close he noticed the up-cant of her black eyes. A dark life moved in them. She was not pretty, not handsome. But she was compelling. She said, “How did you get here?”
He tried his voice. Tried twice. “Came down the canyon.”
The muscles at her temples tightened, drew out the corners of the odd eyes. “I’m surprised you’re alive. I wouldn’t believe you if I hadn’t seen your clothes, your body.”
He became conscious of bandages. He moved to sit up. She put a large hand on his bare shoulder, held him back. There was a man’s strength in the hand.
“Lie quiet. You need more rest.”
She went out, her long stride making the long black skirt cling about her legs. She brought a bowl of soup, rich with chunks of meat, onions, beans, watched as he wolfed it. She was there when sleep claimed him again. She was in the chair when he waked. It was as if time had not passed. But his clothes were laid on the foot of the bed. Washed, ironed, mended. And he felt restored. He looked at the dark, intent eyes.
“When did you do all that?”
“You’ve slept for two days.”
“Two days …?”
He sat up sharply, swung his feet to the floor, looked at her. She stood up but did not leave. He flung the blanket back, dressed under her unwavering watch.
“Your boots,” she said, “are in the kitchen.” Then she went through the door.
He followed. The boots were beside the stove, the leather warm. They had been softened, worked with tallow, left to steep. He did not thank her. Something in her bearing warned him not to.
The dog got up as they came into the kitchen. It stood taller than the table, big as a calf, a liver gray, short-haired beast. A Great Dane. Lassiter had heard of the breed, had not seen one before. It came stiff legged, head thrust forward, suspicion hard in the light eyes that rolled up at the woman. It put the enormous head against her middle, sniffed at her, turned to regard Lassiter without love.
She said, “All right, Wotan, all right,” and to the man, “Go out and walk a little. Look around. I’ll get supper.”
He had not known it was evening. He had intended to leave at once. He went outside, walked to the corral, looked at the horses there. They were sleek, good animals. He turned away and found that the dog had followed him, stood back from him silent, the eyes steady and unblinking. He could feel its hatred of him.
He ignored it, breathed deep of the fresh, warm air, looked toward the cliff. It loomed black, forbidding, the bleak badlands rising behind it. Down here, abruptly, the land was sweet, abundant. Fruit trees bloomed, pale and soft above the lush grass that spread over rolling ground as far as he could see. There were cattle in the distance, heavy-bodied animals, fine stock. He had never seen a better spread.
When he went back to the house the table was set. For two. The woman brought antelope steak, greens, hot bread. Even if he had not been famished he would have eaten it all. Food like this was rare in his experience.
She sat across from him, watched him openly. Afterward she took him to the main room, waved him to a deep chair beside the fireplace, brought him a pipe and tobacco. He sank back, looking into the flames, finding the tobacco good, relishing the comfort. Across from him the woman took an armless rocker, reached beneath it for the traditional evening work. It was not a sewing basket she brought to her lap. She was braiding a supple lariat. The dog stretched at her side, chin on its forepaws, paws better than half the size of his hand. The eyes never left Lassiter.
He finished the pipe, knocked it out. She rose, brought a tray with brandy and a glass, put it on the polished table beside him, sat down again. She watched him taste the brandy. It was excellent.
“Would you like a job here?”
The words startled him. “What makes you think I haven’t got one?”
“You came from the Hole-in-the-Wall.”
“I did?”
“You talked in your sleep. About Cassidy.”
He was very still. “What did I say?”
She noted his tension. Her lip turned down. “Something about gold. It wasn’t clear. You needn’t worry, there’s no one here to talk to if I wanted to.”
He sat forward. “Who runs this ranch?”
“I do. My man was killed. Eight months ago.”
A strange dryness in her voice made him ask. “How?”
“By … by an animal.”
He stood up, made restless by something he did not understand, turned toward the bedroom.
She said, “About the job …?”
“I’ll think about it.”
He went to bed. He heard the woman stir, heard the kitchen door open, heard her call the huge dog. They went outside. He was almost asleep when the bedroom door opened. There was no light except that from the stars, filtered through the open window. It was enough to show him the tall figure, the white body. She came to the bed, came in beside him.
There was no soft yielding about her. Instead, a cold passion, direct as a blast of wind. She was the aggressor, directing the battle. It was a battle. She took from him. Drained him. Sated herself of him. The sounds from her throat were loud, the deep growls of a straining animal.
Outside, the dog set up a clamor of barks and howls. Apparently it was chained. He heard heavy links rattle, snap taut, heard the scrabble of nails in the big paws against wood, a post, or a wall.
When he was exhausted, when he slept, his nerves were still tense. His need was gone but he was not assuaged.
He waked early, found her eyes open, on him, the dark life in them moving. The wide mouth did not smile.
“You could stay here, you know.”
“I’ve got something to do.”
“You could come back. There are over two thousand head of cattle. Over a hundred horses. You could have half.”
“Why?”
“The place needs a man.”
It was a temptation. To stop moving. To settle here on this benign land. To know plenty, and comfort.
He threw back the cover harshly, climbed across her. She lay on her back. It was the first time he had seen her body. It was strong, taut, flat bellied, more like a sculpture than flesh. The legs were long, well-shaped. Down the side of one ran four parallel red streaks, scratches, healed but not yet faded. She rolled, hiding them.
She waited until he had dressed, gone out of the room before she rose. When she came to the kitchen she wore riding clothes and soft boots. Without words she cooked a breakfast.
Afterward she went to a gun case against the wall, took from it a belt and holster. The holster held a Colt.
“You’ll need this.”
He fastened it around his flat hips, looked toward the rifles in the rack. She went back, brought a Winchester, put it in his hands.
“You’ll need a horse. The black in the corral is the best. There’s gear in the barn.”
He went to the barn, found a good saddle, bridle, carried them to the corral. The Great Dane was chained to a corral post, leaping, lunging against the thick chain. It would kill him if it could break free.
He caught up the black, saddled it, mounted, rode back to the house as the woman came out to the porch. She wore a riding hat, carried another, extended it to him. He found that it fit.
“What’s the closest town?”
“Buffalo. Follow the Crazy Woman. The stream. Here, catch.”
She tossed something from her hip. He caught a small leather purse heavy with coins. His instinct had read the toss as the drawing of a gun. He saw the gun belted against her side. Suspicion blanked out his surprise at the purse.
“You’re riding someplace?”
One corner of the long lips lifted. “I told you not to worry. When you’ve finished whatever you’re doing, come back. I need a man. A strong man.”
“I want to know where you’re riding.”
She looked toward the corral, toward the furious, jealous beast chained there. She looked at it unafraid, as if she knew that when the man was gone it would quiet.
“Wotan and I. We have a ranch to run. I would rather it were you than he.”
He touched the hat, turned the black, rode through the scented orchard and deep, sweet grass. It was a ranch to satisfy any man’s soul. He knew that he would not see it again.