LASSITER LAY ON the sandbar, submerged, only his head above water. From the far shore it could be another piece of the flotsam common in the stream. He watched the Crouse team pole in against the bank, begin breaking their camp. They would not leave unless they had got what they came for.
He swam away from them, sliding into the deeper channel under the surface. The eastern bank rose under him. He slithered up it. Then he heard the horses.
Nahaana and Quintl were not in sight. They might have seen the treachery, gone back to Pasquinada for help. Then that hope fell apart. A horseshoe clicked on stone. The Indian ponies were never shod. He slid on up, into the shelter of the willows.
He debated making a run for his horse, his rifle in the scabbard. He felt naked unarmed. But the sounds were too close. Then the riders broke into view. The leader was Sidney Blood.
There were twenty agents with him, men who spent their lives running down Wells Fargo’s enemies. A tough-bitten crew, wise in the ways of escaping outlaws.
Blood spotted the raft across the river, opposite the sunken steamer. Halted his company in the concealment of the brush. Saw Crouse’s party packing their horses. Lassiter was close enough to read his face. It was red, frustrated. Lassiter understood.
The river here was a quarter of a mile wide. Five men could defend their camp against even twenty if they tried an open crossing. Blood would have to wait until Crouse pulled out, wait until he saw him clear the wide stretch of willows, wind into the bleak mountains behind them, be sure that the five could not race back to the shore to cut down the agents exposed in mid-river. With his quarry in sight, Blood was not a patient man. A mile downstream the river made a deep bend.
Lassiter watched Blood call a council of war. One agent swung his arm, pointing down river. There was argument. Then Wells Fargo mounted, swept off toward the bend. They found and took with them Lassiter’s horse and rifle.
It was mid-afternoon. He was barefoot, without a hat, a gun. Forty miles from Pasquinada’s village. And Sidney Blood was closing on Crouse and the gold.
It was suicidal to walk. The knife-sharp lava soil would cut his feet to pulp. Lassiter lay back, deliberately relaxed. Slept.
He waked after dark. There was no fire on the far shore. He waded back into the water, swam across. He was tired of water.
They had left the raft. That relieved him. He untied it, poled it out until the current caught it, sat down. It was dark, no moon, the clouds of a coming summer storm blackening the sky. He could not see either shore, hardly see the water. The raft wallowed, swung, hung up on bars. He pushed it free, floated on. A swirling eddy caught it, hurried it, rammed it into a tangle of driftwood, the broken branches of a tree carried down the canyon in the spring freshets. It held the raft firmly.
He had to wait for daylight to break it free. But now he could guide it through shallows with the pole.
The storm had gone over. The sun climbed, reflected off the water, burned his face, his eyes, blistered through his cotton shirt. He wet his head often. He felt cooked by the time he rounded a bend, found the spit near Pasquinada’s village.
The current was fast here. It carried the raft wide. He could not land. He swam again. The warm water was cool on his hot body, welcome now. But the long day of fighting the pole had sapped him. He crawled ashore, into the willows’ shade, lay like an animal for an hour. Then he dragged to his feet and walked into the Indian town.
The mangy dogs rushed out, noisy, snapping at his bare heels, snarled at the blood running from the cut soles. He hit at them, knocked them away. They alerted the town. Squaws ran at him with pointed sticks. Braves came out of the huts with guns. He kept walking. And then they recognized him. And ran.
Pasquinada came to his door, looked, dived back inside. Lassiter shoved in after him, found the chief huddled in the far curve.
“What in hell is going on? What’s the matter with you?”
The chief stared through eyes as round as the Buddha face. His words reverted to pidgin.
“You spirit.”
“I’m what?”
“Why you come back from dead?”
Lassiter walked forward, caught the Indian’s soft arm in iron fingers, squeezed. Pasquinada’s eyes rolled back. He yelled. Lassiter cuffed his face, across and back.
“That feel like a dead hand?”
The blow did something to the Indian’s fright. That he could be hit by a spirit and still be alive gave him confidence.
“Maybe you aren’t dead.”
“You can believe it. What made you think I was?”
“Nahaana and Quintl said you went down in the river. Didn’t come up. Saw the other men take the raft and leave you down. Nobody can hold his breath that long. They came home.”
Lassiter cursed the two braves. Apparently, he had not gotten his explanation across, or they believed their eyes rather than what he’d said. He didn’t try to explain the diving suit to the chief. And it was a chance to teach him more respect.
“I can hold my breath. And I can still get that hundred thousand dollars.”
“You didn’t get it from the sunken boat?”
“Not yet. But I will. Unless Blood gets to Crouse first.” He laid out the situation as he had last seen it. “Send out your runners. Track down both parties and report back here when they know what’s going on. I’m going to sleep.”
Sidney Blood’s hard-bitten army crossed the river below the bend and came back upstream, fanning out across the desert hills to cut off the escaping party. They didn’t find them. They rode clear to the campsite, and discovered there that the pirates had headed directly north.
Frustration ate at Blood. He had expected them to run for the Mexican border. Now he did not try to guess what their goal was. He took the trail, followed it until full dark, lost it. They camped at that point.
The storm clouds that had blanketed Lassiter’s passage on the raft broke over Blood after midnight. Lassiter was too far south to be wetted, but the cloudburst drenched Blood’s fires, half drowned the men. They shivered in their blankets until daylight, picked up the trail again. But Crouse had swung west, gone into an area of black, slick lava rock and ash. The deluge had washed away all signs that the horses might have left.
Blood was beside himself. He spread his men in a wide fan again, north to south, investigating every foot ahead. Through the scorching day they found lizards, snakes, coyotes, rabbits, but no trace of horses. They camped again, hiding their fire in a nest of boulders. Blood put out a guard, ordered it changed every two hours. They were all too tired to stand a full watch.
Even so, they missed spotting the two Indians who slid through the rocks, made their count and shadowed away. By morning the braves were home, drawing maps in the sand for Lassiter.
When they were finished, he looked to a second pair, waiting silent. “The other five, the ones Blood’s chasing, did you find their sign?”
The two grinned at each other, pleased with their accomplishment.
“They come back to river in storm.”
Lassiter matched their grin. It was lovely that Crouse had outwitted Wells Fargo. “You know where they are?”
“Sure.”
“Show me.” Lassiter rose from his squat, started for the horses.
Behind him Parson Parsons called. He had forgotten Parsons. The man was no longer important to the play. The gambler looked a different man from the one he had hauled from the solitary hole. He was still thin, thin by nature, but his color was back and his eyes clear. Lassiter nodded to him.
“Indian medicine did a good job on you.”
Parsons’ voice was soft, Southern, modulated. “Thank you very much for the rescue. Chief Pasquinada tells me Crouse was here, that you took him away. Where is he?”
“What do you care?”
“I’m going to kill him.” He would in the same tone say, I want to say hello.
“That’s the way Amelia planned it.”
The gambler’s face was still, the dark eyes level, asking a question before committing himself to anger. Lassiter said:
“She and Crouse engineered the robbery. The boat explosion was an accident, or I’d have killed him before now. They used you as a front. Now she wants to get rid of you.”
“You’re guessing at this charge?”
“She told me.”
Parsons drew a deep breath, accepting one more disillusionment in a life crowded with them.
“Does she have the gold?”
“No. Crouse has it. I’m going after it.”
“I’m going along.”
“Sorry. It’s spoken for.”
The gambler lifted a shoulder. “Not interested in it. A man lied about me, dirtied my name. I want to clean it.”
Lassiter liked Parsons. But he was a damn fool, pride driven. A man who let pride shove him into a fight risked his life for a vanity. A false value.
“Your business. Get a horse.”
They followed the two Indians, skirting the river. North, among the lava beds, it narrowed to a waist, deep and fast. They worked down a barely decipherable animal trail to the water, put the horses into it, were carried downstream and across. On the west side they picked a hard way through the sharp rubble. They reached a marsh that ran inland, making a near island of a conical hill set against the river edge, forcing the stream course around it.
The Indians pulled up within the willow screen, pointed to the bluff. Lassiter admired it. It was a natural fort. A few men could hold off a company, as long as their water and ammunition lasted. But he could see no one on top. He looked his inquiry at the Indians. They grinned, nodding reassurance. With the silent sign language he thanked them, sent them home.
He dismounted, beckoned Parsons down, tied the horses close to the water’s edge, within the brush shelter, out of sight from above. They squatted on their heels to wait for dark.
They climbed the river side of the hill. Crouse would have a guard watching the other. It was hard going, tricky to find footing that would not shove a small avalanche of stones rattling down. The afterglow did not touch this side. The desert night closed in abruptly, startling in its suddenness. Below, the river gurgled, argued, swirling against the rock foot.
They felt rather than saw their way. Lassiter was uneasy at first, but Parsons proved sure footed, with a dancer’s grace, a hunter’s caution. He tested the scant brush for handholds to pull up by, checked every stone before giving it his weight.
The top of the bluff lofted a hundred and fifty feet above the river. West, behind it the slough spread below them. It would be a quagmire at the Colorado’s flood stage but was drying now, a dense tangle of willow and cottonwood, surrounding the fortress.
Lassiter reached the top first, dragged his head over the rock rim of the crest, looking across at a level. Surprisingly, there was no ground there. This was a lip. The ground dropped into a shallow depression a hundred feet across, a bowl, a cone, the crater of a long extinct volcano.
In the center a new fire burned. It had been lit since dark. He smelled it before he saw the small flames. And in the flamelight were the dark bulks of five men, the shadow of picketed horses beyond them.
One figure squatted at the fire. The smell of cooking meat came up. There was no wind. Smoke and smells raised straight into the black sky. They would not spread to warn anyone below the hill.
Lassiter lay belly down at the rim, pulling his right-hand gun. Parsons crawled to his side. They stayed, getting their wind, choosing the way ahead. Then they came up to a crouch, crossed the rim and moved down toward the red fire eye.
They were not heard. The cook straightened, holding his pan out. The men gathered, extending tin plates.
Lassiter said, “Hold still.” He came erect within ten feet of them.
There was a spasm of jerking, then they stood frozen. Parsons joined Lassiter, a gun steady in each narrow hand. He called softly.
“Crouse.”
The Captain’s back was toward them. He swung, saw them both, registered to Lassiter first.
“You …”
“Thanks for the swimming lesson.” He went among the men, collecting guns.
Crouse’s eyes followed him, then snapped back to the gambler. Parsons was smiling at him, the eyes catching the fire glint, reflecting red, more deadly than a threat.
“You lied about me, Captain.”
Crouse wet his lips. His heavy mind saw no quarter in either of these two. Cornered, an animal fear started sweat from him. The four men with him smelled it, caught it. They drifted a step away. Lassiter cleared his throat in warning. Crouse thrust a hand out, palm vertical, as if it would stop a bullet.
Parsons still smiled. “I’ve come to kill you, Captain.”
“Now wait … wait …” Crouse was babbling. Words tumbled over each other in his haste to get them said. “It wasn’t me stole your girl … she thought it all up. She conned me … you can have her back. I’ll tell you as a favor, she crossed both of us …”
“Let her be. It’s the lie to be righted. You sent me to prison, to the Hell Hole. Let that be. The lie fouled my name. It wants cleaning.”
Crouse’s red tongue went around the twitching lips. “It wasn’t personal … It was just …”
“Personal to me. I’m going to shoot your eye out, Captain.”
Crouse retreated behind bluster. “It takes a real brave guy to threaten an unarmed man.”
“You will be armed.” Parsons’ words were distinct, still quiet. “We will put our backs to each other. I will hand you one of these guns. They are good guns. We will walk ten steps. Lassiter will count them. We will stand without turning until Lassiter says ‘now.’ Then we will turn and fire.”
“A duel?” Crouse started in surprise, then a cunning smile touched his lips, was gone.
“A duel,” said Parsons. “I am a gentleman, not a murderer.”
To Lassiter it was like giving a rattlesnake the first bite. The folly of follies. He himself would do the unexpected. He would not do the absurd. He said nothing. It was not his business.
Parsons flicked a glance from Crouse to Lassiter. “Keep the others out of it, and watch that Crouse doesn’t jump the gun.”
Lassiter nodded. He felt that he was humoring a child. He herded the others to the side where he could watch them and still direct the duel.
“Places.” He might as well make it a proper show for Parsons.
They stood beside the fire, shoulder blade against shoulder blade. Parsons reached over his head with his left hand, passing the gun in it to Crouse. Crouse took it, tested it for balance, spun the cylinder. He bent his arm up against his chest, held the muzzle aimed at the dark sky in good duelist fashion. His natural cockiness was back. He stood arrogant.
Lassiter said, “Ready.”
Both men repeated it.
“March.” He counted ten steps.
They walked, guns pointed at the sky, shoulder high. They paced on the count, stopped. Lassiter watched Crouse for a sign that the Captain meant to cheat. Instead he stood straight, feet together, still, waiting.
“Turn.”
Crouse spun, brought down the muzzle of the forty-five, snapped his shot at the gambler.
Parsons was slower, more deliberate. He showed no indication of knowing that the other had fired first. He brought arm and gun out at shoulder level, aimed and squeezed the trigger. The bullet burst Crouse’s face into a red mask. He went down as if he were clubbed.
Parsons stood where he was, unmoving, for a full minute, looking down at the man in the dust. Then slowly he lowered the revolver, as though he realized he had no further use for it. Then he crumpled onto his face. Both men were dead.