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"I did not kill him. He is a brave man. You should be proud to have such a
warrior. I brought him back to you to get well from his wounds. Maybe some
day
we can fight again."
And then he dropped the lead rope and rode right out of that village, walking
his horse and never looking back.
Any one of them could have shot him. He knew that. But Indians, of any
persuasion, have always respected bravery, and he had given them back one of
their own and had promised to fight him again when he had his strength.
So they let Nolan ride away, and to this day in Comanche villages they tell
the
story. And the Indian he brought back tells it best.
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I didn't really have time to contemplate the past. I had mighty little time
left
and I wanted to find out what happened to pa.
Clouds were making up. Nearly every afternoon there was a brief thundershower
high up in the mountains, and now the clouds were gathering. I guess I was
feeling kind of pleased about that. I had an idea those folks were new to the
high-up hills and if so they were in for a shock.
Rain can fall pretty hard, and of course you're right in the clouds. Right
amongst them. Lightning gets to flashing around, and even without it flashing
the electricity in the air makes your hair prickle like a scared dog's.
I didn't much relish running around atop that mountain with a rifle in my
hands,
but it looked like I had it to do.
The bulging dark clouds moved down and began to spatter rain, and I came off
that log where I was settin' like a chipmunk headin' for a tree. I went
around
the tree holding my rifle in one hand, scrambled up the rocks, took a quick
look, and ran on the double for that knoll.
If they broke and ran for shelter, I would make it. I started up the knoll
knowing that in just about a minute it was going to be all wet grass,
slippery
as ice. Just as I was topping out on the rise a man raised up, rifle in hand.
He'd no idea there was anybody even close. He was getting set to run for
shelter
from the rain, I figure, and was taking a quick look before he left; and
there I
was, coming up out of that drifting cloud right at him.
Neither of us had time to think. My Winchester was in my right hand in the
trail
position, and when he hove up in front of me I just drove the muzzle at him.
It
was hanging at my side at arm's length. When that man came up off the ground
I
swang it forward and there was power behind it.
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The muzzle caught him right under the nose, smashing up hard. It knocked him
right over backwards, and he let a scream out of him like you never heard. It
must've hurt real bad.
He tumbled head over heels down the side of that steep knoll and wound up at
the
bottom, his face all bloody. I stood there looking down at him.
The knoll was kind of like a pyramid too narrow for its height, covered with
grass and scattered rocks. That cloud was drifting over, and he could see me
up
there, rifle in hand.
He figured I was going to kill him, and for a moment there I gave it thought.
"You get off down the mountain, boy," I told him, "and you keep goin'. You
folks
are about to get me upset."
Still looking at me, he began to back himself off, still lying on the grass,
the
rain pelting him. I looked around and there was nobody in sight. I turned and
went back down the knoll to my hideout.
When I got to the horses I pulled the picket pins and coiled the ropes. I
stowed
them away and gathered the reins and was just about to stick a toe in a
stirrup
when I realized how wet my feet were going to get in those moccasins.
My boots were handy so I got into my slicker and set down to haul on my boots
when my eyes leveled on that crack in the rocks.
It wasn't no kind of a place, just a layered rock where one layer had fallen
or
been pulled out leaving a kind of gap not over two inches wide. It was deeper
than it looked at first, and there was something in there.
I slipped my hand in and found myself touching some kind of a book. I took it
out and it was another daybook, almost like the first, but it was in worse
shape.
When I scrambled up that rock wall I must have stepped on a piece of the rock
that had been shoved in there to keep the wet off and the animals from
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gettin'
at it.
It was a daybook, and I knew it had been pa's. I shifted it to my left hand
and
started to slip it into my coat pocket when a voice said, "I'll take that!"
It was Andre Baston, and he was right on the bank with a gun on me.
CHAPTER XXV
There's times when a man might talk himself out of trouble, but this wasn't
one
of those times. Andre Baston was a killing man and he had a gun on me. I've
known men who would have shot me and taken the book out of my dead hand, but [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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