His eyes searched the ground around him and found what he was looking for, a couple of fist-sized rocks. He picked them up and stepped back to the entrance to the arroyo, ready to sell his life dearly.
He was just in time to see Thad Harlan ride away. The lawman was heading out of the canyon.
A rock in each hand, McBride watched until horse and rider dissolved into the shimmering, silver veil of the rain and the darkening land became empty again.
Harlan would return. McBride knew that with certainty. The lawman had not known exactly where he was but, like a predatory animal, had been aware of his presence.
He’d be back come the dawn . . . and he’d bring company.
Chapter 10
John McBride returned to the cabin, the calico kitten running to greet him like a long-lost friend. The big man smiled. ‘‘Let’s get a fire going, Sammy. It’s going to be a long night.’’
The light was fading, shading into a deep purple gloom. Shadows crept along the canyon wall and pooled like black ink in every rocky crevice and ridge.
McBride’s mustang had sought shelter from the rain under the branches of the cottonwood but continued to graze on the sweet grass around the base of the tree.
Campfires were a challenge to McBride. In the dime novels he’d read back in New York, a stalwart frontiersmen like Wild Bill Hickok or Billy the Kid could have a ‘‘large and cheery blaze burning in a rude prairie hearth ere the blushing maiden at his side had time to sigh.’’
McBride’s experience with maidens, blushing or otherwise, was limited, but his experience with campfires was not. In the past most of his attempts to start a blaze ended in abject failure. He’d wind up surrounded by spent matches, tasting the dry ashes of yet another defeat.
But to his joy, the pack rat’s nest caught fire easily and burned hot. He quickly fed sticks into the blaze and soon had a good enough fire going to attract the kitten that sat and blinked like an owl into the flames.
It was now full dark, but the fire spread a fluttering crimson glow around the corner of the cabin and cast Sammy’s long shadow on the dirt floor. The slicker spread on the rafters kept out most of the pelting rain, apart from a few random drops that fell, sizzling, into the flames.
McBride boiled up coffee, poured in the sugar and let it boil some more. He ate tortillas and jerked beef, then drank sweet, scalding hot coffee straight from the pot. He stared into the fire, considering his alternatives.
Harlan and whoever was with him would not return to the canyon until first light. He would have to be gone by then. A few hours of sleep and then he’d saddle up and head . . . where?
McBride thought that through, and made his decision. He would ride north, back in the direction of town. It was the last thing Harlan would expect. The man must figure McBride’s only option was to head through the canyon for the open, long-riding country to the east. But in darkness and teeming rain he could pass within yards of the marshal and his posse and go unnoticed.
Once free of the canyon and Harlan he would stop somewhere and again consider his choices. Though right now, apart from a vague idea of exposing Jared Josephine as a murderer, they were mighty limited.
In the meantime, riding north was an excellent plan and McBride liked it. He drank the last of his coffee and stretched out by the fire. A couple of hours of sleep; then he’d saddle the mustang and leave Deadman Canyon behind him forever.
The kitten woke McBride, pushing its furry forehead against his own. The big man opened his eyes, trying to recall where he was for a few confused moments.
Then he remembered, daylight fully wakening him.
Daylight!
McBride jumped to his feet, alarm hammering at him. He had overslept and the sun was already rising. The fire had died out long ago and above his head the slicker bulged, heavy with rainwater. He stepped quickly to the door of the cabin. The mustang had wandered from the cottonwood and was grazing a distance away, almost lost in a mist that clung around him like smoke. Jays quarreled in the tree branches, sending down showers of water, and the stream tumbled over the rocks, making a music that was all its own.
There was no sign of Thad Harlan or his men.
Panicked now, McBride tugged down his slicker, getting soaked in the process, then saddled his horse. The mustang balked, reluctant to leave a place where there was good grass and water, but McBride shoved Sammy into his buttoned slicker and dragged the little horse toward the entrance of the arroyo.
Had he left it too late?
The mist may have slowed Harlan some, but he wasn’t betting on it.
Death’s warning whispered thin in McBride’s ears, preparing him for the worst, as he stopped at the entrance to the arroyo and his long-reaching eyes searched the canyon.
Five men, looking like ghost horsemen in the writhing mist, stood their mounts not a hundred yards away. Above them there was no sky, just a thick, rolling cloud of haze that seemed to rise forever, tinged pink by the invisible morning sun.
McBride led the mustang back to the cottonwood, then quickly returned to the mouth of the arroyo.
Thad Harlan was talking, pointing farther along the canyon. Beside him, the white of his bandaged face visible in the murk, was Lance Josephine.
Finally, his talking done, Harlan kneed his horse forward, followed by Josephine and two other men. The remaining rider sat his horse for a few moments, then swung directly toward McBride.
Harlan was searching the arroyos!
Easing back, McBride led the mustang back to the cabin and let Sammy loose. He ran back into the entrance and found the two rocks he’d picked up and then dropped the night before.
The rider had drawn rein and now he slid his rifle out of the scabbard. Then he kneed his mount forward again.
McBride took one rock in each fist and faded back toward the bend in the arroyo, his heart banging in his chest. He considered trying to climb to the top of the ravine, but immediately dismissed the idea. The walls were too steep and muddy and he’d never make it. If Harlan’s gunman caught him when he was halfway up he could nail him to the slope with lead.
The rider would have to turn the bend, riding through mist, and that was the obvious ambush point. McBride stepped quickly to the other side of the turn and hefted the rock in his right hand. One throw and he’d be done. If he missed, he was a dead man.
McBride had played a little baseball for the NYPD’s detectives’ team and had been considered a pretty fair pitcher. He loosened up his right shoulder and waited.
A few tense seconds slipped past. McBride heard the steady fall of a horse’s hooves coming up the arroyo. He took a deep breath, the rock sweaty in his right hand. A frail wind touched his face and rustled restlessly in the cottonwood. The air smelled of mud and last night’s rain, and mist clung close to him like a clammy shroud.
The hoofbeats were much closer now. . . .
Every nerve and muscle in McBride’s body tightened and his heart thumped hard against his ribs. He touched a dry tongue to drier lips, suddenly wanting this to be over.