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No one needed to warn him of the gravity of his situation. It was one hundred and fifty miles to Fremont, and sixty miles to the nearest white man, young Sid Barton, a cowhand turned rancher who started ru
Nor could he expect help. Nobody ever came into this country, and nobody knew where he was but Sally, and she only knew in a general way. Prospectors did not reveal locations where they had found color.
Well, he wasn’t one of these restless young coots who’d have to be out there tangling with the Apaches. He could wait. And he would wait in the shade while they were in the sun. Night didn’t worry him much. Apaches had never cared much for night fighting, and he wouldn’t have much trouble with them.
One of them showed himself suddenly—only one arm and a rifle. But he fired, the bullet striking the rock overhead. Old Billy chuckled. “Tryin’ t’ draw fire,” he said, “get me located!”
Billy Dunbar waited, gri
Suddenly, within twenty feet of the spot where Dunbar lay, an Indian slid down the bank and with a shrill whoop, darted for the entrance to the hideaway. It was point blank, even though a moving target. Billy let him have it!
The old Sharps bellowed like a stricken bull and leaped in his hands. The Apache screamed wildy and toppled over backwards, carried off his feet by the sheer force of the heavy-caliber bullet. Yells of rage greeted this shot.
Dunbar could see the Indian’s body sprawled under the sun. He picked up an edged piece of white stone and made a straight mark on the rock wall beside him, then seven more. He drew a diagonal line through the first one. “Seven t’ go,” he said.
A hail of bullets began kicking sand and dirt up around the opening. One shot hit overhead and showered dirt down almost in his face. “Durn you!” he mumbled. He took his hat off and laid it beside him, his six-shooter atop of it, ready to hand.
No more Indians showed themselves, and the day drew on. It was hot out there. In the vast brassy vault of the sky a lone buzzard wheeled.
He tried no more shots, just waiting. They were trying to tire him out. Doggone it—in this place he could outwait all the Apaches in the Southwest—not that he wanted to!
Keeping well below the bank, he got hold of a stone about the size of his head and rolled it into the entrance. Instantly, the shot smacked the dirt below it and kicked dirt into his eyes. He wiped them and swore viciously. Then he got another stone and rolled that in place, pushing dirt up behind them. He scooped his hollow deeper, and peered thoughtfully at the banks of the draw.
Je
He detected an almost indiscernible movement atop the bank, in the same spot where he had first seen an Indian. Taking careful aim, he drew a bead on the exposed roots and waited.
He saw no movement, yet suddenly he focused his eyes more sharply and saw the roots were no longer exposed. Nestling the stock against his shoulder, his finger eased back on the trigger. The old Sharps wavered, and he waited. The rifle steadied, and he squeezed again.
The gun jumped suddenly and there was a shrill yell from the Apache who lunged to full height, rose on his tiptoes, both hands clasping his chest. The stricken redskin then plunged face forward down the bank in a shower of gravel. Billy reloaded and waited. The Apache lay still lying in the shadow below the bank. After watching him for a few minutes, alternating between the still form and the banks of the draw, Dunbar picked up his white stone and marked another diagonal white mark across the second straight line.
He stared at the figures with satisfaction. “Six left,” he said. He was growing hungry. Je
As luck would have it, his shovel and pick were concealed in the brush at the point where the draw opened into the wider wash. He sca
Always he returned to the parapet, but the Apaches were cautious and he saw nothing of them. Yet his instinct told him they were there, somewhere. And that, he knew, was the trouble. It was the fact he had been avoiding ever since he holed up for the fight. They would always be around somewhere now. Three of their braves were missing—dead. They would never let him leave the country alive.
If he had patience, so had they, and they could afford to wait. He could not. It was not merely a matter of getting home before the six month period was up—and less than two months remained of that—it was a matter of getting home with enough money to pay off the loan. And with the best of luck it would require weeks upon weeks of hard, uninterrupted work.
And then he saw the wolf.
It was no more than a glimpse, and a fleeting glimpse. Billy Dunbar saw the sharply pointed nose, and bright eyes, then the swish of a tail! The wolf vanished somewhere at the base of the shelf of rock that shaded the pocket. It vanished in proximity to the spring.
Old Billy frowned and studied the spot. He wasn’t the only one holed up here! The wolf evidently had a hole somewhere in the back of the pocket, and perhaps some young, as the time of year was right. His stillness after he finished work on the entrance had evidently fooled the wolf into believing the white man was gone.
Obviously, the wolf had been lying there, waiting for him to leave so it could come out and hunt. The cubs would be getting hungry. If there were cubs.
The idea came to him then. An idea utterly fantastic, yet one that suddenly made him chuckle. It might work! It could work! At least, it was a chance, and somehow, some way, he had to be rid of those Apaches!
He knew something of their superstitions and beliefs. It was a gamble, but as suddenly as he conceived the idea, he knew it was a chance he was going to take.
Digging his change of clothes out of the saddle bags, he got into them. Then he took his own clothing and laid it out on the ground in plain sight. The pants, then the coat, the boots and nearby, the hat.
Taking some sticks he went to the entrance of the wolf den and built a small fire close by. Then he hastily went back and took a quick look around. The draw was empty, but he knew the place was watched. He went back and got out of line of the wolf den, and waited.
The smoke was slight, but it was going into the den. It wouldn’t take long. The wolf came out with a rush, ran to the middle of the pocket, took a quick, snarling look around and then went over the parapet and down the draw!
Working swiftly, he moved the fire and scattered the few sticks and coals in his other fireplace. Then he brushed the ground with a branch. It would be a few minutes before they moved, and perhaps longer.
Crawling into the wolf den he next got some wolf hair which he took back to his clothing. He put some of the hair in his shirt, and some near his pants. A quick look down the draw showed no sign of an Indian, but that they had seen the wolf, he knew, and he could picture their surprise and puzzlement.
Hurrying to the spring, he dug from the bank near the water a large quantity of mud. This was an added touch, but one that might help. From the mud, he formed two roughly human figures. About the head of each he tied a blade of grass.