Duke rose to his feet and slapped his leg with his silver-mounted quirt. ‘Maybe you fellers trust that Mex, but I’ll be goddamed if I do.’ The distant boom of the big rifle still hung like a faint shadow of sound over the land.
They reined in their horses and listened. Brazos Bill Weyland said: ‘Maybe he ran into trouble.’
Duke said: ‘Where the hell’s the difference? That shot could mean our gold’s in trouble.’
Ike Mannion was never one to hang around for talk. He didn’t have the patience for it. The only thing that would ever relieve the terrible tension of his nerves was action. The more violent the action, the more the tension was eased. He raked his horse with the gads and sent it downhill at a reckless pace. The others urged their horses after him, the loose horses staying with them, excited by the sudden rush of movement. Only one of the riders hung back. This was Duke, who saw the wisdom of being able to pull out of any situation this crazy charge might get them into. The sound of that shot had spelled out a Sharps Big Fifty to him and he didn’t see the sense in riding down the barrel of a gun that size.
It was one thing to go hunting a fight, another to find it in country that big. The conditions slowed their pace and they were forced to hunt around for signs. Pretty soon, they came on the Mexican’s prints and once more lifted their pace, following along them. Every man now had a gun in his hand and was prepared to shoot either at Pepe who had betrayed them or at the man who might have bested Pepe.
In a canyon, they picked up the sign of a small string of burros and, then, after some searching, they came on the Mexican’s horse. This alarmed them. If Pepe had shot the prospector and gotten his hands on the gold, he would have been in the saddle and headed south at a fast run by now. They untied the horse and started looking—this time with great care, nobody there wanting his head blown off by the gun that made all that noise. They scattered out, Ike Mannion and Lon Southey mounting to the rimrock to get a bird’s eye view of the canyon, Duke Dukar and Bill Weyland carefully edging their way up-canyon.
They were almost through it and going through the exit to the west, the gateway that would lead them into the mountains, when the shot came.
Every man there knew it was that big gun again. But nobody knew for sure whence the shot had come, for canyons play tricks with sounds—all except Ike Mannion up on the canyon’s edge, who gave a loud cry that he had been shot at. He flung himself down into cover, yelling that some bastard had tried to murder him.
Duke shouted: ‘Do you see any smoke, Lon?’
Up on the rimrock to the south, Southey crouched forward, peering down into the depths of the canyon. At which moment somebody down below fired at him with a smaller rifle. Smaller it may have been, but it was just as capable of killing a man. Lon showed his respect for it by following Ike’s example and flinging himself into cover.
Down on the canyon floor, Bill Weyland, who had ground-hitched his horse and was now advancing cautiously up-canyon, rifle in hands, bawled out: ‘Lon—where’re they at? Take a look for crissake.’
Southey’s voice floated back to him—‘You think I want my goddam head blowed off?’
Duke shouted: ‘We can’t do a damn thing if you can’t locate ’em for us.’ There was no doubt in any of their minds that they had two men to deal with.
Duke and Weyland leapt for cover when that big gun boomed again and a shot howled past so close to Weyland’s ear that he felt the wind of it. They crouched and waited until they heard a shrill whistle followed by Ike Mannion’s bellowed: ‘I see smoke. There’s one of ’em yonder.’
They raised their heads to see Ike pointing to the rocks ahead of them. The man with the lighter rifle fired again and they both ducked back into cover.
The single shot was followed by an almost hysterical burst of firing from Lon Southey to the south, blazing away with his repeating rifle like a man insane. Ike shrieked: ‘Hold your goddam fire. We ain’t made of shells.’ Ike now started to lay down a steady fire at the rocks below him, but the steep downhill shooting was terribly difficult and his failure to put a bullet in living flesh soon had him cursing. However, his shooting encouraged the two outlaws below to start working their way forward. Bill Weyland was more than slightly discouraged when a shot from the big gun split a rock which had provided protection for his head—or so he thought. The splinters struck him like stinging bees and half-blinded him. He lay back on the ground, holding his bleeding face. Duke, who thought he was mortally hit, ran to him at great danger to himself, but when he reached him Weyland swore and said: ‘That goddam rock blew up in my face. My God, that rifle must be as big as a cannon.’
Lon Southey called down: ‘Is Bill killed dead?’
‘No,’ Duke shouted back, ‘he’s all right. Let’s get on with it.’
Just the same, Duke took a rest and gave the situation a little thought. He would like to know just who was up ahead in the rocks there. Nobody had been directly hit yet, but the shooting had been pretty good and he didn’t ever hear that old Charlie Hedges was good with a rifle. He faced the fact that this fight was going to be no walk-over even though Ike and Lon were above the enemy up on the rimrock. Soon or late that big rifle was going to knock a hole in somebody big enough to drive a stage and six through.
He made a decision and stood up.
Raising his voice again, he called to the two men above: ‘I’m going to get in close, boys. You cut down on anything that moves—but not me.’
‘Go ahead,’ Ike called back.
Duke loaded his Winchester to capacity and worked his way, mostly on hands and knees, to the north wall of the canyon and, keeping rocks and brush between himself and the two spots where he considered the enemy to be, began to work his way slowly west. After a few minutes, both Ike and Lon above fired a couple of shots. Neither the big gun nor the smaller rifle ahead sounded. A heavy and dangerous silence settled on the canyon. Every sound that Duke made, however small, seemed to fill the whole world. He was sweating profusely and he could not keep thoughts of that big gun out of his mind. He tried to put his mind on to the gold, but it always came back to that gun.
He froze when he thought he heard a small sound ahead of him. His guess was that somebody had cocked a gun. He could only pray that it was not the cannon.
He peeked around the large boulder which he fondly believed hid him from view. He thought his eye caught the flutter of dark cloth.
From almost directly above him, he heard Ike call: ‘Riders comin’. There’s riders comin’. A hull bunch of ’em comin’ down from the east.’
It was the alarm of the born survivor that sharpened Duke’s awareness, not panic.
He started up and bawled out: ‘Leg it to the horses, Ike. Bring ’em along to us.’
It seemed that something massive and incredibly powerful struck his shoulder even as the deafening boom of the big gun clamored on his ear-drums. He was tom from his feet and smashed helplessly against the canyon wall. He heard his rifle clatter on rock.
Oh, my God, he thought. I’m finished. That goddam gun’s got me.
Now there was a terrible moment of panic.
He tried to move his left arm and found that nothing happened. The whole of his left shoulder and side seemed utterly without sensation. Turning his head, he saw that the shoulder of his coat had been tom quite away. The mauled and mashed flesh showed red and mined.
He tried his right arm. It moved and, at once, that was a bonus. He could hold a gun. He tried to sit up and it took an enormous effort. It was as though the right side of his body had to provide strength to lift the left. He reached his knees and debated whether he had the strength to get to his feet. The man with the lighter rifle chose that moment to try for him. He missed, but the shot showed Duke that he was on the edge of death. He began to walk on his knees, trying to reach some deep greasebrush that stood almost immediately behind his position.
He heard an old man’s voice yell: ‘You hit ’im, Annie. You hit one of the bastards.’
The woman’s voice came, urgent and scared: ‘You stay right where you’re at, lover. You heard what the man said—there’s riders comin’ an’ they’re lightin’ out.’
Duke’s senses started to fail him. He crazily attempted to gain his feet and reeled drunkenly against the wall of the canyon, grasped weakly at the rock wall and fell on his face. Far off, he seemed to hear men shouting. And all the time, deep inside him a commanding voice bellowed: On your feet, Duke, or you’re a dead man. He started to drag himself along the ground, brush tearing at his face. He found to his astonishment that his carbine was still in his left hand, but it was smashed. The weapon made a clatter as he dragged it along the ground. He knew it was imperative to get help before he bled to death.
He didn’t know how it happened, but after what seemed to be an unmeasured period of darkness and confusion, he was on his feet and stumbling forward in an uncertain run. He lost all sense of time, but suddenly there was a man in front of him -horses.
‘I’m bleedin’ to death,’ he heard himself say.
He heard a man’s voice—’Get aboard, for God’s sake.’ He knew that was Bill Weyland. Good old Bill. Not as damn rotten as the rest. Bill had come back for him. He’d remember that. He grabbed for the horn and dropped the ruin of his Winchester. Duke fought desperately to fork the spooking horse. Bill shouted hoarsely at the animal and the next moment, he was heaving Duke up into the saddle. Duke felt his strength-less weight hit leather and his horse jumped, nearly unseating him. The vicious cut of a quirt sounded. His horse protested vocally and ran. Bill was yelling for him to hold on and keep going. After that, Duke did not know a thing.