Loius L'Amour The Burning Hills

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to his place at the edge of the brush and he did not see her hand come up and
touch the strand of hair he had caressed. Nor did he see her eyes, wide open
in the darkness.
There were scattered dashes of rain and gusts of wind. He watched the
lightning-lit desert for an hour and then another. And then it was suddenly
colder and in a lightning flash he saw a solid wall of rain advancing across
the desert. Swiftly he came to his feet and turned toward the camp.
Maria Cristina was up, rolling her bed. She glanced around at him, her words
torn by the wind. "We go, yes?"
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"Better ... horses might stampede. Anyway, we can't rest and they won't."
He saddled up in a driving, pelting rain. Both got onto their horses and
started north. Rain hammered their backs in savage gusts and the horses moved
out fast, glad to be moving ahead of the storm and away from the whipping
brush.
All night they drifted before the storm. Twice they crossed deep washes only
minutes before rolling walls of water swept down and once lightning struck so
near they smelled the sharp odor of sulphur in the air and their scalps
prickled with electricity.
Suddenly, ahead of them, they heard a vast roar. Then they saw a canyon
running with a tremendous rush of water. There was no question of getting
through. No question at all. That water might be ten feet deep or forty feet
and no horse living could swim in that mighty torrent
Lightning flashed and Trace Jordan caught Maria Cristina's shoulder,
gesturing toward some rocks. They rode toward it and found an overhang with
its back to the storm.
Once under the rock they were out of the rain and away from the wind. He
swung down and lifted her from the horse. Then he led the two horses deeper
into the cavernlike overhang and tied them to a limb of cedar that stretched
into the gloom.
Rain swept by the opening and the wind was cold. He glanced at Maria Cristina
and she was shivering. Her legs from the knees down were wet.
Heedless of risk, he gathered dry sticks and built a fire. The horses were
restless and frightened by the storm but a fire would calm them. Most horses
accustomed to campfires enjoy their presence and all night long will feed
closer and then away from the fire, liking its friendliness and assurance of
companionship.
There was a pack rat's nest that offered a liberal supply of dry wood and by
now it was close to dawn. There would be no light this morning until late for
the sky was heavily overcast still and there was no evidence of a break.
How far they had come he had no idea but the storm would have wiped out their
trail completely. There was a very good chance they were free at last. Not
even Lantz could find tracks where there were none.
With daylight he should recognize this country. Now they were again in an
area with which he was familiar. North of them, not too far away now, was the
San Bernardino Ranch and he had visited the place, had covered all that
country north to Tucson and even to Prescott and Congress.
Shivering, they huddled near the fire. The big red horse stamped and there
was a momentary lull in the storm.
"Tomorrow we will be safe. I know the man on this ranch. He is a hard man but
a good man."
"I hope."
"He is ... his name is Slaughter."
"He has kill men."
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"Yes ... when they needed it" He added fuel to the fire. "So have I."
"Before this?"
"Yes."
"How many?"
"Four ... five, maybe."
They waited out a blast of wind. Some rain whipped into the overhang and the
fire hissed and spluttered.
"You never tell me: Why you kill Bob Sutton?"
Taking his time, he explained about Johnny Hendrix and the horses. He told
her of working through stampede and storm, through the dust of long cat-tie
drives and the smell of burning hair around branding fires. And then of their
months of effort to catch, brand and tame the horses, of this struggle to
become something more than mere cowhands, to begin a business of their own. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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