With the furious storm raging about him, Ben Jordan halted. He was high in the towering Mogollon Mountains of New Mexico Territory, struggling to follow a trail that cut a precarious course along a rocky ridge. He probed the wet half darkness with anxious eyes. Although it was only midafternoon, it seemed night was almost upon him. He was soaked to the skin, despite his slicker, and chilled to the bone from the snow-tinged rain. Water cascaded from him and the weary buckskin he rode in a hundred small rivulets. The trail had become a sea of flowing mud, the entire mountainside a sheet of glistening water. Arroyos were running full, and had become wild, turbulent rivers of boiling, brown slush that swept everything before them. Lightning flashed vividly, now and then striking one of the towering pines that studded the slope, creating an eerie glow and setting up a hissing and crackling that blended with the continual grumble of thunder.
Jordan had no idea of how far he was from a settlement, or even if there was one in the area. It had been hours since he had noted a miner’s cabin or squatter’s shack. But the trail he followed appeared to be a main course; it would lead eventually to somewhere. At this point, however, it made little difference; he wanted only to get in out of the hammering rain to dry and warm himself. It was days since he had ridden out of Mexico and the comfort of the hot Sonora sun. Now, wet and cold, he was having vague regrets, wishing that he had not accepted Tom Ashburn’s offer and that he had not given up the ranch in the Barranca Negra, since that morning when Mexican bandits swooped down, attacked, and killed his father and stepmother.
Perhaps he should have stayed put on the ranch deep in the black-walled gorge; maybe he should have toughed it out, continued the never ending war with the renegades that had begun the day his father, Dave Jordan, and he, then only a small boy, had settled in there. Matters had improved somewhat a few years later when the elder Jordan had met and married a Mexican woman; the gringo patrón and his son had become more acceptable to the natives at that point. But in the end it mattered little. The bandits’ bullets recognized no distinction, and the letter from Dave Jordan’s old friend, Tom Ashburn, arriving two months later was most opportune. It offered him the job as foreman on his vast Lazy A spread in northeastern New Mexico. Ben had lost no time accepting. He gave away what was left of the ranch in the Barranca Negra, packed what few possessions he owned in his saddlebags, and rode out.
In his heart he knew it was the right thing to do. Although he had come to love the country he grew up in, there was nothing there for him; the ranch was a poor, starve-out affair at best. Ben Jordan knew that, admitted it, but change always comes hard to any man. Sitting there, high on the storm-swept mountain, wet and cold, he told himself again that he had made the right decision and he would abide despite the bitter welcome being extended him by the elements. He stared ahead. He could see no sign of shelter through the whipping gusts. All that was visible were the swaying, tortured pines shifting under the storm’s impact, the wetly shining rocks, the deeply grooved trail that was now an onrushing stream. Lightning glared beyond the ridge to his left, and was followed instantly by a clap of thunder. The buckskin trembled beneath him. At once the rain seemed to increase and somewhere behind him came a new roaring as an arroyo, filled to capacity, broke free of its bounds and began to pour down the slope in a new channel.
Jordan urged his pony on. The footing was slippery, dangerous, and the horse moved reluctantly. If there was no hope of reaching a settlement, then he must soon find shelter of some sort for the buckskin and himself. They were both about finished. A low butte facing away from the slanting rain would afford some protection. He was avoiding the thick stands of trees, prime targets, it would seem, for the jagged streaks of lightning.
A hundred yards farther along Jordan again pulled to a halt and dismounted. It was too much for the buckskin to carry a rider and maintain his footing in the swirling mud and water. Walking out ahead of the worn horse, Jordan pressed on, able to follow the trail now only because of the lack of brush and rock in its course.
A half hour later Jordan saw ahead a lower crest, actually the summit of a saddle looping between two peaks. There the trail dropped off the high ridge along which he was traveling, and appeared through the murk to angle off the rim and slice diagonally across a broad swale and enter the forest. He did not like the idea of going into the trees but the hollow itself was low and considerably sheltered from the full force of the howling storm.
Hopeful of finding at last the protection he sought, he pushed on, keeping well back from the edge of the ridge which here dropped off steeply into the dark depths of a cañon. Although the footing was uncertain, the ground was fairly level, and he moved on, leading the buckskin at a good pace. And then suddenly the world was nothing more than a vacuum of blinding, blue light filled with tremendous sound. He felt the buckskin wrench the reins from his hand, heard him neigh in terror. Jordan was aware of a powerful force striking him, slamming him flat into the swirling water and mud.
Half blinded, he struggled to his feet. A peculiar prickling sensation filled his body and he was slightly stunned. He looked about. Lightning had struck a tree no more than fifty feet away, and had split it down the center, smoking and sizzling in the pouring rain. There was no sign of the buckskin. Jordan wheeled, hurried to the rim of the cañon. He waited for the next spread of light. It came at once. He saw the luckless horse far below, wedged between two massive boulders. There was no doubt that the fall, when he had shied and gone over the edge, had killed him instantly.
Ben Jordan stood quietly on the brink of the chasm for several minutes while a sense of loss possessed him. The buckskin had been a good horse, a faithful companion. But there was nothing he could do for him now. And he was now afoot, with all his gear lost, with no hope of replacement until he reached civilization.
He moved on, following the trail across the long swale, still heading for the trees lying on its far side. The rain continued its onslaught, freighted with frequent and vivid flashes of lightning and rolling, crackling thunder. When he reached the lowest point of the hollow, a twenty-foot-wide arroyo blocked his route.
He hesitated momentarily, then ventured into the knee-deep torrent cautiously. The current was strong, tugged at him relentlessly. Legs spread to steady himself, he made his way slowly. He reached the center, braced himself for the final effort—and then, suddenly, he was going over.
Something moving beneath the surface of the boiling water, a small log perhaps, or a bush ripped free of its moorings, had caught at his feet and tripped him. The force of the arroyo spun him about and thrust him backward. He fought to remain upright, failed, and went down into the churning, roily water. Choking, gasping, he managed to roll over, striving frantically to get his feet under him again as he bobbed erratically in the rushing current.
He touched ground, and steadied himself. Bucking the arroyo’s force, he managed to pull himself upright again, and stagger his way to the edge of the wash. He dragged himself out of the surging flood, and halted, sucking deeply for breath. His clothing was plastered to him and seemed to weigh a hundred pounds, and his feet were awash inside his boots. He sat down, emptied them, and noticed at that instant that he had lost his gun.
He rose, turned up the slope, dismissing the loss with no further thought; recovering the weapon would have been impossible. Worn to exhaustion, he trudged on. He must stop now. He was physically incapable of going any farther. A bush, a low tree, a ledge of rock, anything would serve as shelter.
A sudden flare of light shattered the darkness, and illuminated the entire slope. Hope surged through him. In the brief break he thought he had seen the outlines of a cabin. He waited for the next flash, eyes straining into the gloom. A jagged finger ripped the murk once more. A long sigh escaped his lips. It was a cabin—shelter at last! Even if uninhabited it would provide protection from the storm, a place to rest, to remove and dry his clothing. and wait out the storm. He struggled up the grade, slipping, falling, hurrying desperately to reach the structure. As he drew nearer, he saw that it was a crude log affair, that it appeared to be in fair condition. Beyond it a short distance stood a second building, a shed of some sort. His spirits lifted higher. Someone likely was there, possibly a miner. There would be food, a fire, dry clothing.
He stumbled up the last of the incline, reached the level upon which the cabin had been built. He lurched toward the doorway, now seeing faint light seeping through a shuttered window. His hand grasped the wooden latch, and lifted it. The door opened, and he half fell as he entered. His head came up swiftly and his pulse quickened as he stared into the muzzle of a pistol.