I kept watch that night while the girl slept. Once or twice I thought I heard him, trying to find our camp, but I got down on my stomach where I could sweep my eyes along the sky line, and couldn’t see anything moving.
Morning showed he’d moved the tent, just as I’d figured he would. If the girl had been able to find her way out alone, I’d have waited for him by the tent, but we couldn’t afford to take any chances. Dying of thirst was too horrible a death to consider for that girl.
I’d made the camp pretty well out of rifle range of the mining claim, and all we had to do was to keep watch during the day. By night I’d make another camp.
He stuck in his fort all morning. After breakfast I put my head in the shade of a big sage and tried to get caught up on sleep.
It was hot, and the sun beat down on the sand like an oven. The flies came and crawled and nipped, but I managed to get some sleep. I was sore, and my dreams weren’t pleasant. I’d underestimated this fellow Ortley with his cold eyes and his efficiency of selfishness. I hadn’t figured he’d have left the empty tent to lure me into an ambush; and I didn’t figure on his having a fort, or knowing the desert well enough to play a lone hand and get by.
Evidently he was one of those mathematical thinkers who figure out every move in the games they play. He must have studied the desert, and had some one show him most of the simple tricks of packing.
The girl was keeping guard, and she must be getting a full dose of desert. I’d rigged up a little shade for her. And I’d dug a trench we could get into at sign of any danger.
It was about four o’clock when she called me.
“He’s coming,” she said.
I snapped wide awake, saw the black blob of motion that was moving slowly over the glittering sand. He had both hands up in the air, and he was carrying a white rag, waving it wildly.
I didn’t trust him somehow or other.
“Get down in the ditch and flatten out,” I told the girl. I waited, standing in plain sight, but my hands were pretty well placed for sudden action.
It was when he was within about a hundred yards, nice rifle range, but a little uncertain revolver range, that he dropped the white flag. I saw then how damned clever he was. He’d tied his rifle between his shoulders so it hung down behind his back. And he only had to whirl around, catch the muzzle, jerk the weapon around, and there he was, ready for action.
It was a clever trick, even for an old desert fighter. For a city dweller to think it out showed the type of mind that had thought of the fort, of the ambush. If it hadn’t been for the ditch I had dug, it would have been almost certain death for us.
I jerked the revolver from its holster, and showed him some speed. That was one place where I could claim the advantage. He might have a coldly efficient mind, but he didn’t know how quickly a man in the desert could get his gun from its holster.
My first shot was just a trifle high and to the right. It actually nicked through the top of his shoulder. I saw the dust fly from the shirt, and I heard the little tick that the bullet gave.
Then the rifle cracked spitefully, and a high-velocity bullet fanned my cheek.
I dropped down into the trench I had dug, and Ortley flattened on the desert.
I tried waving my hat on a stick.
He didn’t even fire. His coldly efficient mind had told him that I wouldn’t wear my hat after I dropped into the ditch.
I stuffed some sand in a handkerchief, and made it look a little like the top of a man’s head. I moved that slowly along the top of the little trench, and he fired.
I jumped up with the sound of the shot. He was reloading his gun, a mere jerking of a lever; but it gave me time for a snap shot.
The shot missed — for the simple reason that there wasn’t enough target to shoot at the distance. He’d carried a short-handled trowel with him, and he’d thrown up a little embankment of sand, and hollowed out a ditch.
I knew then I was up against a man who overlooked nothing. Those cold, scornful eyes, utterly emotionless, were windows for a brain that moved with ball-bearing efficiency.
I dropped back into the trench and looked for the handkerchief. It was filled with little holes. I knew that those holes had been made by spattering sand. The high-velocity bullet had hit close enough to its mark to send little gravel particles spattering up in a stinging shower.
It was good shooting. Probably Ortley, with that damned efficiency of his, had been practicing on his rifle shooting, waiting for the time which he felt might possibly come.
My respect for the man mounted as my hatred increased.
The rifle cracked again. I flattened in the trench. There sounded the unmistakable thunk! of a bullet plowing into solid meat. I looked at the girl anxiously. She was well down, and there was no sign of a hit.
The rifle cracked again. Once more there sounded the impact of a high-powered bullet on something solid.
At the third crack I flung myself up from the trench, revolver ready for a snap shot. As before, I found my man was well covered. But I saw what he was doing. He was shooting our burros!
I dropped down and reloaded my revolver. There was only one thing left to do — charge and fight it out, gun against gun.
But the rifle didn’t crack any more — not just then. The damned, efficient devil had figured out what I would do next, and was waiting for me, long-barreled rifle ready to claim an easy victim as I scrambled from the trench. After that, the girl would be easy.
“If anything happens to me,” I warned her, “don’t waste time being sentimental. Grab my gun and wait. Get him if you get a chance. If you don’t get the chance — well, don’t let him get you.”
She nodded.
I didn’t go into details. I knew the man by this time. A death of thirst in the desert is a horrible thing.
Minutes passed and there was no sound. Then there came the crack of the rifle. This time it was far to the right. I jumped up. I might as well have stayed where I was. He was out of revolver shot, anyway. And he was killing our burros with a methodical calmness, an unhurried efficiency that was like the man.
The girl didn’t appreciate the situation for a minute.
“We’ve driven him off!” she said, and her voice was triumphant.
I started rolling up some food in a shoulder pack.
“Yes,” I told her, “he’s moved.”
My words were punctuated by another shot. The last shot came a few minutes later. Every one of our burros was buzzard bait. And the desert seemed to reach out clutching fingers for us.
Ortley walked back toward his fort. He didn’t even look our way. That’s how sure of himself and his strategy he was.
And he had good reason to be. Out there in the desert we were going to have to get the breaks if we won through. Ortley had burros and he had a high-powered rifle to protect the burros. We had nothing except provisions and water. Neither of those would last.
The desert became purple with a short twilight, and then darkness came like a cool mantle.
“How good are you at walking?” I asked the girl.
“Do we walk?”
“We do.”
I rolled the shoulder pack as tight as I could get it, and took all the water I dared to carry. I made the woman travel light. We started out before it had been dark an hour.
Twenty miles is only a hop, skip, and a jump in an automobile. It’s a fair ride on horseback. It’s a good ride on a burro. On foot it isn’t so bad if a man’s accustomed to walking. But twenty miles in a burning desert with loose sand underfoot and a woman...
VI
The Weapon of Desert Knowledge
We made the first five miles fairly easily. The girl was getting tired then. I was sweating under my shoulder pack. I gave her a little water and a ten-minute rest, and then we plugged on.