Novel.20.Catlow.1963 by Louis L'Amour

Author:Louis L'Amour [Louis L'Amour]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Thirteen.

He checked the action of his rifle, wiping it carefully clean with his bandana. There were at least two Indians out there, and others might have joined them, drawn by the shooting. There could be no thought of sleep, for Recalde was in no shape to take over the guard for even a part of the night.

Cowan not only knew that the Apache does not like to fight during the hours of night, but he knew why. It is the Apache's belief that if a man is killed in darkness his soul must forever wander, homeless and alone; but the love of loot can overcome even superstition, and there might be an unbeliever among these Apaches.

Moving with infinite care, he got several stones and eased them into place among the rocks to make a better barricade. As he slipped the last stone into its notch a bullet smashed against the rock, spattering him with a hail of stinging stone fragments. Then it was quiet again.

The last light faded, stars appeared, and the face of the desert became cool. His canteen with its small bit of water was tied to his saddle, but the dying horse had fallen upon it. For all the good it could be to them, it might have been a mile away.

The long night began. Recalde awoke, and the two men talked occasionally in whispers. Weariness lay heavily upon Ben Cowan, and he fought to keep his eyes open. He tried to moisten his cracked and bloody lips, but his tongue was like a stick in his mouth, for he had drunk little of the water, saving most of it for the wounded man. It was with an effort that he could make himself heard when he spoke.

Where was Catlow now, he wondered. Far to the south of him, no doubt, and not even aware that Ben was in Mexico.

And what would Cordelia Burton be doing now? He thought of her cool, quiet beauty, of the kind of wistful assurance that was so much a part of her. Bijah Catlow was a fool to be risking his neck in Mexico, with such a girl waiting for him back in Tucson.

Through the night Recalde's muttering became disconnected; he talked of his home, of his father and mother, of his sisters. His head twisted from side to side, and once he cried out in the night.

At last day came with a feeble grayness over the far-off Sierra Madre ... the fainter stars vanished, and the few bright ones faded--all but one, which hung alone long after the others had gone. His eyes red-rimmed from heat, dust, and exhaustion, Ben Cowan waited for what was to come, staring around him.

Recalde was sleeping ... well, let him sleep then. If he was lucky, he would never wake.

They came out of the gray dawning like rolling clumps of tumbleweed, so swiftly and silently that at first he thought his eyes deceived him. Their feet made scarcely a whisper in the soft sand, and they ran bent far over to offer little target.

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