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these hills she'll be broken or dead.
"I've got her, and she's fixed so if anything happens to me,
you'll never find her and she'll die there alone. It'll serve both of you
right. Only I'm not going to die you are."
"All rat," Rock said coldly. "A rat all the way through. I don't
imagine you ever had a square, decent thought in your life. Always out to get
something cheap, to beat somebody, to steal somebody else's work, and fancying
yourself a smart boy because of it."
Rock Bannon smiled suddenly. "All right, you're going to kill me.
Mind if I smoke first?"
"Sure!" Mort sneered. "You can smoke, but keep your hands high, or
you'll die quick. Go ahead, have your smoke. I like standing here watching
you. I like remembering that you're Rock Bannon and I'm Mort Harper and this
is the last hand of the game and I'm holding all winning cards. I've got the
girl and I've got the drop."
Carefully, Rock dug papers and tobacco from his breast pocket.
Keeping his hands high and away from his guns, he rolled a cigarette.
"Like thinking about it, don't you, Harper? Killing me quick would
have spoiled that. If you'd shot me while I was on the ground, it wouldn't
have been good. I'd never have known what hit me. Now I do know. Tastes good,
doesn't it, Mort?"
He dug for his matches and got them out. He struck one, and it
flared up with a big burst. Rock smiled, and holding the match in his fingers,
the cigarette between his lips, he grinned at Mort.
"Yes," he said, "it tastes good, doesn't it? And you've got the
girl somewhere? Got her hid where I can't find her? Why, Mort, I'll have no
trouble. I can read your mind. I can trail you anywhere. I could trail a
buzzard flying over a snow field, Mort, so trailing you would be " The match
burned down to his fingers and he gestured with it, then as the flame touched
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them he let out a startled yelp and dropped the match, jerking his hand from
the pain the hand swept down and up, blasting fire!
Mort Harper, distracted by the gesture and the sudden yelp of
pain, was just too late. The two guns boomed together, but Mort twisted with
sudden shock, and he took a full step back, his face stricken.
Rock Bannon stepped carefully to one side for a better frontal
target, and they both fired again. He felt something slug him and a leg
buckled, and he fired again, then again. He shifted guns and fired a fifth
shot. Harper was on his knees, his face white and twisted. Rock walked up to
him and kicked the smoking gun from his hand.
"Where is she?" he demanded. "Tell me!"
Mort's hate-filled face twisted. "Go to the devil!" he gasped
hoarsely. "You go to the devil!" He coughed, spitting blood. "Go to the
devil!" he said again. Suddenly his mouth opened wide and he seemed gasping
wildly for breath that he couldn't get; then he fell forward on his face, his
fingers digging into the grass as blood stained the mossy earth beneath him.
Rock walked back to the horse and stood there, gripping the
saddlehorn. He felt weak and sick, yet he didn't believe he had been hit hard.
There was a dampness on his side, yet when he pulled off his shirt, he saw
that only the skin was cut in a shallow groove along his side above the hip
bone.
Digging stuff from his saddlebags, he patched the wound as well as
he could. It was only then he thought of his leg. There was nothing wrong with
it, and then he saw the wrenched spur. The bullet had struck his spur,
twisting and jerking his leg, but doing no harm.
Carefully, he reloaded his guns. Then he called loudly. There was
no response. He called again, and there was no answering sound. Slowly, Rock
began to circle, studying the ground. Harper had moved carefully through the
grass, and had left little trail. Rock returned for his horse, and mounting,
began to ride in slow circles.
Somewhere, Mort would have his horses, and the girl would not be
far from them. From time to time he called.
Two hours passed. At times, he swung down and walked, leading the
stallion. He worked his way through every grove, examined every boulder patch
and clump of brush.
Bees hummed in the still, warm air. He walked on, his side
smarting viciously, his feet heavy with walking in the high-heeled boots.
Suddenly, sharply, the stallion's head came up and he whinnied. Almost
instantly, there was an answering call. Then Rock Bannon saw a horse, and
swinging into the saddle he loped across the narrow glade toward the boulders.
The horse was there, and almost at once he saw Sharon. She was
tied to the top of a boulder, out of sight from below except for a toe of her
boot. He scrambled up and released her, then unfastened the handkerchief with
which she had been gagged.
"Oh, Rock!" Her arms went about him, and for a long moment they
sat there, and he held her close. After a long time she looked up. "When I
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heard your horse, I tried so hard to cry out that I almost strangled. Then
when my mare whinnied, I knew you'd find us."
She came to with a start as he helped her down. "Rock! Where's
Mort? He meant to kill you."
"He was born to fail," Rock said simply. "He was just a man who
had big plans, but couldn't win out with anything. At the wrong time he was
too filled with hate to even accomplish a satisfactory killin'." [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]