At about that time, two things happened.
In the kitchen, Serafina, the housekeeper, who had considerable weight to spare, had lost a number of pounds through the sweat of fear. Which was understandable enough. To have a gun-battle break out in what she had always considered to be a haven of security was enough to arouse acute anxiety in anyone. Seated at the kitchen table, sipping brandy which the lissome Juanita Gomez had poured her, she saw in her mind’s eye herself being both raped and murdered by the barbarian and unbelieving Anglo savages. She would have fled to the safety of the brush in the valley had not her immense legs been bereft of strength and had she not been too afraid to even venture from the room.
The brandy, however, did some good work on her vast in sides and helped to clarify her mind. How, she asked herself, could she prevent atrocities taking place? If she was unable to prevent them herself, if she was unable herself to run fleetly to summon help, then somebody else must do so in her stead. And that someone must be the lissome Juanita.
She knew that the fearsome gringos would have by this time overpowered or murdered the armed vaqueros. The shooting had now died down and Juanita, who had ventured out under the fierce commands of her superior to spy out the land, had reported that the barbarians had seized the supposed undefeatable Gregorio, had captured the new young guest who had arrived so short a time before and had even gone so far as to take the señorita herself. This last was so unthinkable that poor Serafina felt herself giving way to hysterics every time she thought of it.
So, she thought, taking more brandy to clear her head still further, the only help that could be obtained was from her mistress’s friend, the gringo, John McCord. He was a man of standing and power, held in great respect by both Mexican and Navaho alike. McCord would know what to do. Her poor brain could not fathom how one man could outwit and defeat so many armed and dangerous men, but she clung to the belief that McCord could save all.
She therefore told the young Mexican girl that at all costs she must obtain a horse from the corral and ride to McCord’s house.
“But they will kill me,” Juanita objected, not without reason on her side.
“Do you then think that you are of such value?” Serafina demanded.
“But if I am killed what good will I do by trying to get a horse and ride to the gringo?”
“I have noticed that you have grown impertinent lately,” Serafina cried angrily, finding that anger somehow dampened down her fear. “It is because the men are starting to take notice of your growing breasts and that wobbling backside of yours. But one day, my girl, you will be fat like me. Now, do as I tell you. Catch a horse and ride as you have never ridden before.”
“Serafina, I have never ridden before.”
“Don’t bandy words with me, girl. When I say you will ride, you will ride and that is the end of it. Now, off with you.”
“Please, dear Serafina, I am more afraid of the horses than of the gringos.”
“Then find a mule or a burro. But find something that will carry you out of here like the wind.”
“I will get one of the men.”
“Do you not think that the gringos have not taken care of our men? Fool—do as I say.”
There followed now some choice Mexican words that showed clearly that fear had not robbed Serafina of a fine vocabulary. The upshot of the flow of words was that the girl, crossing herself and asking the Mother of God for protection, slipped out of the kitchen and along the side of the house. As she approached the corrals, however, she knew that she would never be able to catch a horse and get on its back. Being a simple girl who followed her instincts (sometimes to the detriment of her morals, let it be said), she got it into her head that somewhere out there in the great valley, she would find help. So into the valley she went, running on her bare feet as if the devil himself were after her.
The other thing that happened was that Martin Storm, having hobbled his Sonora mule on good grass, had ridden in closer to the house, for reasons of which he was not too clear. Maybe it was the gunshots and for fear his nephew might get himself into something he couldn’t get out of, maybe it was because he couldn’t get that damned woman out of his mind and was drawn by some power toward her.
It does not matter really. What matters is, that he rode to within a mile of the house and stopped his horse to ponder on the extraordinary state of his mind and, while doing this, he heard the approach of some creature through the brush.
He dismounted hastily and tied his horse, held the animal’s nose so that it would not betray his position and listened. After a moment or two, he became aware that if he stayed where he was the creature would pass by some fifty yards to his left. By this time, he was certain that it was human and that it ran either on bare feet or wearing moccasins.
He took his hand from the muzzle of his horse and set off through the moonlight to cut off the fleeing human. Within minutes, he espied the flutter of cloth and saw that, running toward him through the moonlight, was a girl.
He hailed her so that he would not scare her and at once did just that. She gave a cry of alarm and changed her direction. Having heard the popping of guns and knowing that something was wrong at the big house, it didn’t take a brilliant mind to surmise that this girl was fleeing from the makers of the gunfire. He caught her not without trouble, for he soon found that she could run like a jackrabbit and change her course as adroitly. He could, however, when he needed to, move in a pretty sprightly way himself and finally brought her down with a flying tackle.
She started a scream, but he managed to clap a large hard hand over her mouth.
“Easy now, sweetheart,” he said in Spanish. “I mean you no harm.”
He released her mouth and took a look at her. He saw at once that he lay with his arms around the girl who had waited upon him at the big house. He ruminated that he did not think to get his arms around her delicious body in this fashion.
“Juanita,” he said.
She looked at him.
“Oh, señor,” she cried, “you are my savior,” flung her arms around his neck and wept.
It was not an unpleasant experience for Mart and he made the most of it. For his part, Juanita could have wept all night.
She did not oblige in this, however, and, after experiencing the warmth and comfort of Mart’s arms and body, reinforced by a kiss or two, for a number of minutes, she composed herself enough to tell him what little she knew of the happenings at the big house. So far as Mart could see what it all amounted to was that Aragon had been taken by the men it sheltered. Although he was sorely tempted to remain right where he was to enjoy the comforting of this tasty morsel of Mexican womanhood, he showed his strength of character and purpose by ranging his mind over the situation while he held her in his arms, both of them still prone upon the ground.
He knew he had to do something on several counts. There was the reason for him and Jody coming into this country in the first place. There was the fact that his nephew was in big trouble, if the hardcases had not yet killed him. And there was the fate of the woman Aragon herself. This played no small part in his reckoning.
Finally, he helped the girl to her feet, kissed her rather more lengthily than comfort alone demanded, cursed the fact that he had the opportunity of enjoying her further yet was not allowed the time and said: “Juanita, you have to be very brave. There are only the two of us and it looks as though we face a small army.”
Under Mart’s ministrations, the girl had lost some of her fear. She hugged herself tightly against him and declared that she was ready for anything. Mart sweated gently at the temptation and said: “We have to go back there and we have to save Aragon. It’s as simple as that.”
“But how can just two of us do that, señor? I am nothing more than a helpless woman.”
“Helpless, my ass,” Mart said in English. In Spanish, he said: “Nonsense, little one, you will take your courage from me. Together we shall put the whole situation to rights.” She clung to him. He patted her shoulder. “We shall creep down upon them like Indians in the night.”
Taking her by the hand, he led her back to his horse. He stepped into the saddle and swung her up behind him. He then rode down toward the house with her breasts pressing warmly and delightfully against his back. By heavens, he thought, if he didn’t conquer the mistress, he would have the maid as a reward for the hazards he was facing in this distressingly dangerous operation.
They came at a walk into the trees at the rear of the house, Juanita slipped to the ground and Mart dismounted. He took his rifle from its boot and loaded his pockets with shells from his saddlebags. He then took a deep breath and wondered, not for the first time in his life, why he seemed to have dedicated his life to violence and the risking of his hide. There seemed no answer to that, so he gave his pants a hitch and said to the girl: “Juanita, you will now return to the house as if nothing has happened. If you can get word to the señorita or my nephew that I am around, do so. But be careful to keep out of the hands of the gringos. If you do not, I don’t doubt that your virtue will be in some considerable danger. You should not have been born so beautiful.”
She liked that and purred a little.
“We shall save the señorita and your handsome nephew,” she declared bravely.
Mart wondered about whom she was speaking for the moment. If Jody was handsome, he, Mart, must look like a Greek god to this girl. In his opinion, Jody was about the homeliest sonovabitch he’d ever known. There was no accounting for tastes.
He gave the little Mexican beauty a kiss of encouragement, a slap on the behind and sent her toward the house. He himself stayed where he was, wondering what he should do next. The house was big and he had no idea where the woman or his nephew was. Really, the only thing to do was to go in there and look, which, he knew, could mean a bullet in the brisket for him. If he could find that Gregorio, the odds might be changed somewhat. His estimation of the Mexican was that he was a good man to have along. Aragon was no fool and if she had Gregorio walking around with a gun on his hip, it meant that he knew how to use it.
From where he was standing among the trees, he could see the faint glimmer of lights in two of the upper rooms. There were several on the lower floor. He could hear no sound. It was as if the place slept. Rifle in hand, he circled the house. This took him a little time and brought him to the small collection of houses where Linda Aragon’s people lived. They were scattered fairly widely and he approached them with the greatest of caution. He found that they were gathered roughly around a wide plaza in the center of which stood several trees. Here, too, was a walled well. Between him and the well he saw a large number of people sitting on the ground, their cotton clothing showing palely in the moonlight. Now he could hear the soft murmur of their voices. They all faced the house and between them and the house stood a man. He was tall and from the shape of his hat he was probably an Anglo-American. So far as Mart could see, he held a rifle in the crook of his arm. So the Aragon folk had been rounded up and were being held under guard. Mart might be able to do something about that.
Now, Mart never believed in moving without watching his back-trail. Years on the owl-hoot had taught him that. He also wanted to know what lay between the guard and the house.
So he scouted briefly back the way he had come and, using all the cover that was offered to him in the shape of a cart or two and a low adobe wall that seemed to be there for no other purpose than to offer him cover, he reached the open space before the house. Here, there was no sign of life. That didn’t mean there was not an armed man hidden there, but Mart decided to move against the guard. A man could be so cautious that he never got anything done.
He went back to the low adobe wall, moved along it until he was within fifty paces of the guard who stood with his back to him and gave the situation some consideration. He decided that if he tried to Indian up on the fellow his very posture could arouse suspicion, so he concluded that the safest approach was an open one. Nothing would be more natural for a man to come from the house to relieve the guard. So he rose to his feet and started toward the guard.
He had taken no more than a dozen paces when the man turned.
Mart continued on forward.
The man called: “Who’s this?”
Mart used the first name that came into his head—
“Charlie,” he said, mumbling.
He knew that the man was instantly suspicious. Mart was about to call out for the man to throw down his weapon when he saw that same weapon slapped down into the palm of the man’s left hand and turned in his direction. The last thing in the world Mart wanted was for the men in the house to be warned by a gunshot, but he had no choice. He fired and shot the man through the body.
Knowing that a man stood a better chance of staying alive if he tried to place a second shot better than the first, Mart levered and fired a second time, driving lead into the guard again before he hit the ground.
Reaction on the part of the people there was instantaneous. In a second, every man, woman and child was on its feet. A babble of talk broke out. Some women picked up small children and ran off into the night. Confusion was extreme.
Mart ran forward to claim the arms of the fallen man, shouting: “Run all of you, except those that can fight.”
Before he could reach the guard, however, there was a man there before him. This was Jesus Maria who scooped up the rifle and started to pull the bandolier of fresh shells from the dead man’s body. Another man was fumbling with the buckle of the gun-belt. Mart reckoned he had at least two men who were willing to make a fight of it. By now the crowd was running, fleeing in all directions except that of the house.
When the two men were armed, Mart said: “Follow me.” He set off at a jog trot into the west and the men came after him. A few minutes later, they were in the shelter of the sparse timber there. From here they saw the armed men burst from the house and run onto the plaza, watched them stop at the dead body of the guard. A furious and worried shout or two came, men moved this way and that indecisively. Then came another man, giving terse orders.
“That,” said Jesus Maria, “is the man called Styree.”
Mart knew that already.
“I think,” said the other man who was dressed in the leather clothes of a vaquero, “that it would be wise to kill him from here with your rifle, señor.”
“No,” Mart said, “we would have the whole bunch of them down on us. We have to save the people in the house. It’s our job right now to stay alive.”
The vaquero, whose name was Ignacio Valdez, said: “That sounds like excellent thinking to me.”
The men on the plaza were walking back toward the house, carrying the dead body of the guard with them and casting anxious glances all around them, expecting shots. Soon they disappeared into the house and the heavy door closed behind them. Mart was left with the impression that not all the men had entered, but that one or two had been left scattered outside as pickets in the yard. He couldn’t be sure, because he couldn’t see too well in the poor light. He made a mental note that he would have to approach the house with extra caution.
“Men,” he told the two Mexicans, “I’m going to scout the house. You remain here and give me covering fire if I have to make a break for it.”
Jesus Maria said: “It is not right that you should go to the house alone. At least allow one of us to come with you.”
“It is better that you remain. If anything happens to me, then you will still be here to help the señorita.”
“That is true,” Valdez said, “but I think it wise that I should take up my position over near the corrals. Then, whichever way you go, you will have support. Also, if these men in the house are going, they will need horses. I could prove a great embarrassment to them.”
“That makes sense. You work your way over there south of the plaza so that you are not seen from the house. I shall approach the house from the west. Do me the favor of not shooting off my head in mistake for an enemy.”
The man flashed his teeth.
“I shall take care, man,” he said. “You are of value to us.”
Mart liked this man.
“Luck,” he said.
The two Mexicans said: “Con Dios.”
Mart started to circle west to come at the house from that side. Valdez at least, he felt sure, would be steady under enemy fire. He hoped that Jesus Maria would prove as good. But there was no telling with men and flying lead.
There was some brush growing to the west of the house and this gave Mart cover to within three hundred paces of the building. After that he was forced to take advantage of the natural breaks in the ground surface. He worked himself slowly forward on hands and knees and within the space of some fifteen minutes, he found himself beneath a glassless window. The opening, however, was small and covered by a strong iron grill. It was also a long way from the ground. He worked his way north toward the rear of the house and here he found that the wall was blank lime-washed adobe with not a window in it. The place on the lower floor must be lit from the patio. To the east end of the north wall he came on a stout wooden door and found it closed tight against him. There was a small window to the right of it, higher than a man’s head.
He rested his rifle against the wall and leapt for this with his hands, caught the sill and pulled himself up as silently as he could. His muscles straining under his weight, he managed to peek into the room below him. It was lit by a single lamp and it was empty. He swore with some skill and dropped to the ground again.
How the Hell did you get into a Mexican house of this kind? That door would take a battering ram to force it.
He moved off to his left and found what he wanted.
Some former owner of the house, no doubt in the days of the Indian raids, had built a small, high-walled corral of adobe so that the fourth wall was the house itself. Mart didn’t doubt that it could be entered from the house and that it possessed a gate at the far end.
He measured the height of the wall and reckoned he could make it. The rifle would now prove an encumbrance. He pulled back the tails of his coat and pushed the barrel of the weapon through his belt to the back of him. He leapt for the top of the wall, but the edge of the adobe was rounded and crumpling and he fell back to earth again. He tried again and again until his ringers were grazed and he had almost exhausted himself. He leaned against the wall, wiping the sweat from his face.
Godammit, he thought, he wasn’t going to be beaten by a wall.
He drew his knife and attacked the adobe, making a toehold for himself. That done, he tried it out, pushed his left toe into the hole and reaching upward. His bent left knee knocked against the wall and pushed him off balance. This time, he fell badly and fell on his back, knocking the breath out of him.
He sat up and said to himself: “Don’t tell me I’m gettin’ too old for this game.” But maybe he was. Maybe this kind of thing was for the kids. Maybe he’d played hero long enough.
He picked himself up and walked to the east end of the corral. There in front of him was the gate. It looked like it was made of massive oak planks—Navaho-proof.
Like Hell, he thought. It wasn’t even Mart Storm proof. It was slightly lower than the walls it adjoined and its top was adorned with short iron spikes.
He jumped up and caught one of these with his hand, swung and gripped another with his other hand and hauled himself onto the top of the wall to the right. He knew that there could be a guard on this side of the house, prepared for just such an entry as he was making and what he had to do had to be done quickly.
It was just as well that he was aware of this because no sooner was he on top of the wall than a rifle slammed out its deadly note. Even as the report came, he was launching himself forward and down. He heard the lead smack into the adobe and, crouching down, he ran to the right along the wall.
There were a few horses in the corral and they spooked away from him, frightened both by his sudden entry and by the gunshot. They tore around the inside of the wall in front of him, swung along the wall of the house and then raced along the southern wall. They bunched in a corner, blowing and shaking their heads.
Mart stopped and flung himself flat.
His first thought was that he had gotten himself precisely nowhere by entering the corral. Maybe that was wrong, though. He could be in a trap that would prove the end of him.
He did not know exactly where the rifleman was located, but he reckoned that he would be above him. He hoped there was one only there, but he didn’t doubt that he would be joined by another or more brought by the sound of the shot.
Now was the time to sweat and he sweated. He wanted nothing better than to be on the other side of that stout wall. There was such a thing as being too smart and he had proven himself just that. He wondered if the marksman could see him in the dim light.
His question was answered almost instantly by a shot from above that splattered adobe dust all over him. This, he at once knew, was one of those situations which called for valor instead of discretion. He would be safer if he went forward. So this he did, lurching to his feet and running toward the house as fast as he could move his legs. Two shots came instantly, but he reckoned that neither of them hit him because he kept on going forward. A moment later he reached the wall of the house and dropped to one knee, breathless.
He could hear men shouting above him. At least he had them rattled. Which was something.
He looked around him. To his left was a door and beyond it a small construction of adobe, used maybe for storing gear. Between him and the door was a small window a little higher than a man’s head and probably originally put there to offer the inhabitants the opportunity of shooting into the corral against Indians attempting to steal horses.
He still felt that he was in a trap. He pulled the rifle from his belt, levered a shot into the breech and took a pace out from the wall. He could see the dark shape of the window above him and the dark line of a rifle-barrel as it poked out over the sill. If that window was barred like the rest, the men up there would have difficulty shooting at him at such an acute angle. He raised his rifle and fired at the dark rectangle above. As he ducked back to the wall, he was satisfied to hear the yell of alarm from above him.
Then there was silence.
He waited.
As if from a long way off, muffled by the thick walls of the house, there came the long-drawn-out scream of a woman in pain or terror.
My God, he thought, that could be Aragon.
He jumped out from the wall. A shot came at him and kicked dust up behind him. He fired in return, stood and levered and fired again and again.
A man howled.
He ran forward, hurtling himself at the door of the house.
He nearly broke his shoulder, but the door cracked noisily under his violent assault. He knew that he had found the house’s Achilles’ heel. He backed up again, but this time no shots came his way. He reckoned he had done the defenders some substantial damage. When he hit the door this time, the bar gave a little and the hinges to the left seemed to have torn loose. One more, he thought, would do it. No doubt the men inside were now aware of his attempt and would be coming to stop him. His life and the lives of the people depending on him rested on what he accomplished in the next few brief seconds. He backed up and charged forward again.
This time the door was torn loose and fell away before him. Carried forward by the violence of his charge, he fell full length across it. Half-dazed by the fall, he was aware of the roar of a gun in a confined space.
He shoved the rifle forward and triggered blindly into the maw of darkness in front of him. Then he got his legs under him and threw himself hard to the right. He crashed into some article of furniture and made enough din to raise the dead. He reached out and found that he had collided with a table. With his left hand he turned it over on its side. A shot thudded into it and he was happy to discover that the wood was thick enough to stop it.
He crawled the length of the table to the right as two more shots were driven in his direction. The thunder of the reports was deafening. The air was thick with the fumes of the burned powder. He poked the rifle around the right edge of the table and waited. He reckoned there were at least two men crouched down, shooting from either side of the doorway. They both fired together. One bullet smacked into the tabletop, the other blasted plaster from the wall no more than inches from his head.
He fired at the left-hand flash because he calculated that behind it crouched the man most exposed.
He was right.
A man cried out and he heard a body fall to the floor.
There was silence. Mart lay stunned and almost deaf from the din. He heard a man’s voice murmuring hoarsely—
“He’s killed me. The bastard’s killed me.”
There came the sound of a man being dragged. Mart moved silently back down the length of the table, round it and started crawling across the floor, angling in the direction of the door, Near the doorway, he stopped and listened. One of the men was dragging the other down the passage to the left of the doorway.
Mart went on and reached the opening, paused for a moment with his breath held, nerves taut, ready to shoot at the slightest whisper of sound.
Peeking around the doorjamb he saw that the corridor was faintly lit by moonlight. Dimly he could see the form of one bending man. He glanced to his right and found total darkness. Rising to his feet, he slipped out of the room and into this darkness. Pressed back against the wall he listened again.
There were more men coming. How many armed men were in Aragon’s house? She must have an army cached away here. They were coming down the stairs on the far side away from him of the two men he had exchanged shots with. He could not tell how many.
He started along his darkened corridor in the opposite direction to them.
He had turned a corner and entered a corridor faintly lit by a lamp at the far end when he heard the sound of voices. They came from a door on his right. He stopped and pressed his ear against the wood. Carefully, he lifted the latch, rifle held ready.
The room he peered into was large and lit by several lamps. It contained a long table and several chairs. Two of the chairs lay on their sides. At first he thought the room empty and wondered if he had been mistaken about the voices, but, on going forward a few paces, he saw that there were two men lying on the floor, both bound hand and foot.
He went close to the first and looked down into the purple face of Gregorio Nunez. His eyes were bulging.
“For the love of God,” the man whispered.
Mart drew his knife and slashed at the rawhide holding the man. As soon as he was released, the man stretched himself out limply on the floor, groaning helplessly.
A familiar voice said: “Uncle, are you a-goin’ to stand there all night or do I get free too?”
Mart moved on and found his nephew trussed as helpless as a calf with his feet tied above his head to a ring in the wall. Rage blossomed hotly in Mart. He slashed through the rope suspending the legs. Jody’s feet hit the floor with a thud. In a second Mart had severed the rest of the bonds. Jody sat up, rubbing his wrists. He looked like a pretty sick boy.
Mart said: “Get on your feet, the pair of you. We don’t have a minute.”
“You joshin’?” Jody demanded. “Me—I feel like I don’t have feet.”
Gregorio said: “Give me a gun. Just put a gun in my hand so that I can kill one of them as they enter here.”
Mart said: “You get up an’ quit foolin’ around. I have need of you two. These bastards have Aragon an’ we have to get her out of here.”
At this, the Mexican sat up. His face was now more its natural hue. His face grimacing with pain, he struggled to his feet.
“We have heard a great deal of shooting,” he said. “Do any of our people have guns?”
“Jesus Maria and Valdez.”
“Good men,” Gregorio said. “We have a chance.”
“Listen,” Mart said. “They’re comin’. Is there any other way out of here but the door?”
“The window is small and it is barred.”
“See if there are any guns around. Then put out the lights and hack out those bars. Rustle now.”
He crossed the room fast, flung himself flat before the doorway and peered down the corridor. He saw them coming in a bunch. He fired into them. There were yells and they ran back from his lead.
He knew that was just fine. For now. Within minutes, he knew they could come at him from two directions. Behind him Gregorio exclaimed with joy at the finding of a revolver. Jody swore because he couldn’t find one. But he discovered a knife. Mart called to the Mexican and tossed him his own knife. Then the lights went out. A moment later, Mart heard them attacking the wall with their knives.
He heard an infuriated curse.
Jody snarled: “It’s stone under the plaster. It’s goddam stone.”
Mart said: “Stone has mortar. Work on that and ease the stones put. Do I have to do all your thinking for you?”
Jody said: “The bars are in the stone.”
“Aw, for crissake,” Mart said.
Somebody fired from down the passage and a slug knocked splinters off the doorjamb in front of his face. He winced back from it. The shot came from the right. They were on both sides of him already. “Hurry it up,” he told the other two, “I ain’t about to enjoy this.”
There was a snapping sound and steel tinkled on the floor.
“Mother of God,” Gregorio swore, “the knife is broken.”
Mart shoved his rifle around the corner, fired one shot, levered and then drove a second shot in the other direction. A brief silence followed. He had a nasty feeling in the pit of his stomach that they weren’t going to get out of this. He thought of the woman, Aragon, and wondered if they would dare harm her. The thought sickened his mind. Here was he fretting about his own life and hers could be in danger. But he had to stay alive if he was to be of any help to her. In that moment, lying there waiting for the next slug to come his way, he realized how fully he was committed to her in his mind, this woman he had seen no more than two or three times.
He went to snap off another disencouraging shot, but the hammer clicked emptily. He reached into his pocket and replaced the empty loading tube with a fresh one.
Then he thought: The stairs. A man above me on the stairs could blow my head off.
He had no sooner entertained the thought than the possibility materialized. A shot came from above and tore into the planks of the floor no more than an inch from his left hip. He reared to one knee, levering and firing as fast as he could move, driving a hail of lead up at the stairs above him, hearing the bullets smacking into the wall and ripping at the wood of the banisters.
He didn’t remain in the open doorway any longer. Backing up hastily, he slammed the door, threw down his rifle and started to drag the heavy table across the door, shouting for the other two to give him a hand. They stumbled through the dark to him. He yelled for Jody to light the lamp. As he heaved at the table and managed to get one end of it across the door, a match flared and light blossomed in the large room. He looked around at the strained faces of his companions.
“Jode,” he said, “you take my rifle. If anybody shoots through that door, you shoot back at ’em. But I reckon it’s thick enough to stop lead.”
He and Gregorio jammed the table tight against the door, then Mart spied a heavy cabinet and he and the Mexican dragged that across the room to reinforce the barricade. That done, he and Gregorio once more attacked the window. Mart found a table knife which he used to break out the ancient mortar. The Mexican used Mart’s knife. It was slow and sweat-raising work.
There came a heavy pounding on the door.
“You men come outa there. You don’t stand a snowball’s chance in Hell.”
Jody fired at the door and shouted for him to go to Hell.
“We have the woman. You don’t want nothing to happen to the woman.”
Mart bawled back: “She don’t mean a damned thing to us.”
Gregorio howled with rage at this, but Mart clapped a heavy hand over his mouth, hoarsely whispering: “We can’t do a thing till we get out of here, hombre. Keep working.”
They renewed their attack on the mortar with a will born of desperation. Mart’s knife broke. He cursed and threw down the useless handle. He started searching the room for some other implement. Men started to throw themselves furiously at the door. Jody fired again and again, but the lead was not penetrating. The barricade started to give. Gregorio ran to help Jody.
In the open fireplace, Mart found an old poker and a heavy firedog. These he carried back to him and started to use them as a chisel and hammer. Now he started to show some progress. He worked two large stones loose and they seemed to be held in place only by the bars cemented into them from above. He used the poker as a lever, straining down on the loosened stones. The sweat leapt from him until his clothes were saturated. He strained every muscle in his body to its utmost. He went beyond the limit of his strength and was forced to stop and rest. Thought of Aragon made him seethe with exhausted impatience. He attacked the stone again and suddenly it gave and the two large blocks of masonry came loose, coming down against him so that he had to leap back.
“I did it,” he called to the other two. There was triumph in his voice, but he knew he would have to make a larger hole than that. He attacked the stones below the hole with a savagery that brooked no opposition. He managed to loosen one stone and then started smashing at it ferociously with the firedog until his hands were bleeding and sore. Suddenly, the mortar holding it was rent and the stone was wrenched from its bed and crashed out of sight below. Without pausing, he smashed the one beside the new gap from its bed and it followed the other into the night.
He fell against the wall, utterly exhausted. But he had to think. He watched Jody and Gregorio at the door. A slight gap appeared in the opening. The Mexican leaned forward and fired two shots point-blank into it. The gap immediately disappeared as Jody threw his weight against the cabinet.
Valdez—Mart thought. The man was near the corrals and he had a gun.
He shoved his head through the hole.
“Valdez—up here,” he bellowed. “We’re coming out.”
Maybe the man could give him some kind of covering fire and maybe he couldn’t, but it was worth a try.
He had seen a rope somewhere around. He searched the room and found one looped over the back of a chair. He tied one end of it on the ring that had held Jody’s feet suspended and dropped the other end out of the window.
What was the most risky—staying here to the last or getting down that rope first?
All his questions seemed to be answered on the spot tonight. As he pushed his head through the hole to peer out below, there came the crack of a gun and a bullet hit the wall of the house and sang away into the night. A gun was fired from the direction of the corral. A revolver. That would be Valdez. Somebody in front of the house fired back at him. Then a rifle opened up from the west and Mart knew that Jesus Maria wasn’t standing around doing nothing. Hope started to rise in him.
It was going to be bright blue murder going down that rope, but it was nice to know there was some help around.
“I’m going down,” he called to the other two. “Valdez and Jesus Maria are shooting for us, but there’s a reception committee down there. Watch out for yourselves. Follow fast.”
“I’ll go, Mart,” Jody said, but Mart was already half out of the hole, his hands on the rawhide rope, shoving off with his knees and swinging out into the dark. Holding onto the rope for dear life, he started to walk down the wall. For what seemed to be several seconds no shots came his way. The firing from below seemed almost continuous. Then a bullet smacked into the wall beside him and he thought: Aw, what the Hell, loosed his grip from the rope and dropped into the maw of darkness below.
It was a long drop and he had the unpleasant feeling that it was going on forever. When he landed, he landed very hard, rolling violently.
A man shouted near him in the darkness. He gave himself another roll as a gun went off close at hand and tore his gun from leather, thumbing and triggering at a dim figure almost over him.
There was a pounding of feet and in his confusion he did not know whether a man was running away or toward him. A rifle fired from the trees to the west. He was showered from above by something which he guessed was mortar. One of the others was escaping through the hole. Guns banged faintly and he knew there was shooting above him in the room.
As he staggered to his feet, something heavy hurtled down on him from the darkness above and he and the new arrival went down in a heap and a breathless tangle of arms and legs.
In Spanish, he heard a vehement: “Blood of Christ,” and knew that Gregorio was with him. Mart lay there panting, feeling that his back had been broken.
“Move,” Gregorio told him. “The young one is not far behind.”
The Mexican rolled clear and they scrambled to their feet. Mart started along the wall of the house, going east. A bullet passed close to him. He dove flat, hugging the wall, gun in hand, searching for a target so that he could offer Jody some covering fire. Gregorio was running toward him. There seemed to be spasmodic fire from every direction and he had no idea of who was shooting at whom.
Suddenly, Gregorio seemed to trip on his own feet. He went down heavily, struggled to get to his feet and collapsed flat on his face. A yell from above told Mart that Jody was on his way. Mart pushed himself to his feet, shoving his gun away into leather and ran forward. He caught Gregorio by the collar with both hands and started dragging him. He had no clear idea where. Feet pounded. Jody was up and running. Then his nephew was near.
“Take his feet,” Mart yelled.
Jody, with only one hand free on account of the rifle, wound an arm around Gregorio’s knees and Mart took the Mexican under the armpits. They carried him awkwardly with Mart going backward.
A man approached them on the run from the direction of the corrals. They knew it was Valdez when they heard him shout: “Keep away from the gate. They have a man in the tower.”
They carried Gregorio with Valdez helping now close up against the high wall of the first corral and laid him on the ground. Lead began to pock the wall behind them and they knew that the man in the tower could see them. Mart felt completely defenseless and vulnerable. Without the wounded Gregorio, they might have stood a chance. With him, they were lost.
They were saved momentarily by a single rifle to the west which opened up on the man in the tower. Jesus Maria had spotted him. They mentally blessed him, Mart relieved Jody of the rifle and told him and Valdez to carry the wounded man into the first corral. The two of them hefted Gregorio and started at a shambling run for their objective. At that moment, they came under fire from above and Mart knew that men were firing from the newly enlarged window. He could scarcely make it out from where he was standing, but he fired several shots at it and the shooting abruptly stopped, showing that his aim was fairly accurate.
He saw the other two men lay Gregorio on the ground and Valdez opened the heavy gates of the corral. Mart started after them. By the time he reached them, the firing from above opened up again. As they stumbled with their burden into the shelter of the corral, they were followed by a hail of lead.
They laid Gregorio to one side of the gate and Mart half-closed the gates, watching the yard with rifle in hand. Over his shoulder, he told Jody: “Boy, check if he’s dead.”
A moment later, Jody said: “He’s alive. Just.”
Mart said: “You two catch horses like you never caught horses before.”
“With our bare hands?” Jody wailed.
“There is a shed,” Valdez said. “There will be ropes.”
Outside the corral silence had taken over. Mart reckoned Styree and company were having a think. Next, they would move to prevent a mounted break from the corral. The minutes ticked away. He could feel the tension building in him now. Waiting at a time like this always did that to him. When the action came again, he would be calm. Where the Hell was Valdez with the ropes? Had seconds or minutes passed since he had run across the corral?
Valdez came, running, tossing a rope to Jody. The horses were bunching at the far end of the place. Valdez was talking to them in the hoarse soothing tones of a horseman. Jody was saying: “Come on now, boys, be nice now.”
Mart squinted his eyes. He thought he could see the man in the tower. He wouldn’t waste a shot on him now. He’d leave the shooting till the others made a break. There came no sound from the house. He remembered the woman’s scream. It still seemed to be sounding in his ears.
He heard a whoop of triumph from Valdez as the Mexican dabbed a rope on a horse. The rest of the animals bunched and ran, skittering with tossing heads and rolling eyes around the edge of the corral and then shied away from the smell of blood as they came near Gregorio. Jody caught one. As he came up, Mart said: “Get Gregorio up on him an’ tie him on.”
“We don’t have all that rope,” Jody said. “We need four horses.”
“Three,” Mart told him. “I ain’t a-comin’ yet awhile.”
“I don’t go outa here without you,” Jody yelped. “Why, if”n pa ever heard tell of me …”
“You do like I say. There’s Jesus Maria over in the timber yonder.”
“An’ there’s Aragon,” Jody said icily.
“That’s right,” Mart drove back at him. “There’s Aragon.”
“I reckon I owe her at that,” Jody admitted with some reluctance. “She did her best to save my hide.”
“Why we’ll never know.”
Before Jody could reply, Valdez was there with a chunky bay. Jody told him Mart aimed to stay. Valdez protested. Mart told him to go to Hell. Valdez shrugged. If a man wanted to get himself killed, that was his business. He fashioned a hackamore with the rope and vaulted on the bay’s back.
“We want another horse,” Mart said, “for Gregorio.”
“There is no time,” the Mexican replied. “Give me him here and we will go while we can.”
They fixed a rendezvous. Mart and Jody lifted the wounded Mexican and laid him across the bay’s shoulders. Jody vaulted onto his horse. The animal started pitching. Jody kicked him in the gut and sent it scampering across the yard toward the gate. Valdez gave a yell and went after him, his little horse doing nobly under the double weight.
Mart was surprised that one gun only opened up from the house. He had the rifle trained on the man in the tower. As soon as he saw the glitter of moonlight on the raised rifle-barrel, he fired and the man ducked down out of sight. In the same instant, Jesus Maria opened up from the west. The man in the tower didn’t appear until the two riders had swept through the open gateway. Mart heard their hoof beats die away in the distance.
He opened the gates wide and walked back into the corral. The horses bunched in a far corner and then, as he came close to them, broke out. He thought they would all pass him without his being able to catch one. He had the rifle in his hand and it was a near impossible task to catch a moving horse and get aboard. But he caught a sluggish roan, nearly fell as he grabbed the flowing mane, managed to stay on his feet and vaulted onto its bare back. The rest of the bunch went through that gateway as if it were the doorway to a horse’s heaven. He came last as flat as a man could lay himself along a horse’s neck, eating the dust of the animals racing ahead of him. He yelled a couple of Reb yells to keep them moving, but they didn’t need any encouragement. They crossed the yard at a flat run, went out through the gateway and thundered onto the plaza. With some difficulty, he managed to swing his bolting mount to the right into the west, shouting out to Jesus Maria not to shoot.
The roan nearly carried him clear through the trees to the far side, but he succeeded in slowing it enough to slide to the ground and land running. The roan disappeared into the night. A moment later, he came up with Jesus Maria.
“How does it go?” Gomez demanded.
“So far so good, but Gregorio’s hit bad. The señorita is still in the house.”
The Mexican made a clucking sound of sympathy for Gregorio. He said: “Do we go get the señorita now?”
Mart said “no’. Jesus Maria must gather what food he could, catch a horse and ride after the others. If he could lay his hands on any weapons so much the better. He told him where the rendezvous was. The Mexican nodded. He would do everything he was asked, but he was uneasy about leaving the woman in the hands of these men.
Mart said: “Leave that to me, hombre.”
Gomez looked doubting, but he slapped Mart on the shoulder and wished that God would go with him. Mart watched him until he quickly disappeared into the darkness of the trees.
He checked the loads in the rifle, the shells for the revolver and the spare tubes for the rifle in his pockets. Then he wondered what the Hell he did next.