lla.theburninghills-第2章

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l　slowness。　There　were　passages　of　delirium　then；　through　which　were　woven　thin　threads　of　sanity。
　He　must　rest　soon。　If　he　fell　now　he　could　not　get　up　again　but　must　lie　helpless　until　his　enemies　came　upon　him　and　killed　him。　Yet　he　had　done　nothing　but　what　any　man　would　have　done。　He　had　done　nothing　he　did　not　have　to　do。
　Old　Bob　Sutton　was　dead　。。。　the　old　bull　of　the　herd　shot　down　in　the　dusty　street；　and　his　sons　and　nephews　would　never　stop　hunting　until　Trace　Jordan　had　been　tracked　down　and　killed。
　A　few　days　ago　he　had　been　a　wild…horse　hunter　with　no　troubles。　He　and　Johnny　Hendrix　had　gone　broke　trying　to　buck　a　faro　layout　and；　drifting　west；　they　came　upon　a　herd　of　wild　horses。　For　a　month　they　lived　on　the　country；　finally　trapping　two　dozen　horses　in　a　box　canyon。　One　by　one　they　broke　them　and　slapped　on　their　brand；　the　JH；　for　Jordan　Hendrix。　All　were　good　stock；　better　than　they　had　a　right　to　expect　from　wild　stock。　Trace　Jordan　had　gone　off　to　find　a　market　and　to　buy　more　grub　with　their　last　three　dollars；　for　there　were　still　a　few　horses　they　wanted。
　A　bartender　remembered　them　in　Durango　and　loaned　Trace　Jordan　money　for　supplies　and　he　returned　to　camp。
　Only　there　was　no　camp　and　there　were　no　horses。　All　were　gone；　the　camp　trampled　out　by　the　rush　of　horses　and　Johnny　lying　dead　near　the　water　hole　with　four　bullets　in　him　and　his　gun　gone。
　The　afternoon　was　still　and　hot。　The　sun　glared　down　upon　the　basin　and　Johnny　lay　with　his　face　against　the　baked　earth　and　two　of　the　bullets　in　him　had　been　fired　into　his　back　while　he　lay　sprawled　on　the　ground。　Whoever　had　done　this　had　wanted　to　make　sure。　They　wanted　to　leave　nothing　behind。　Only　they　hadn't　known　about　Trace　Jordan。
　There　were　those　back　down　the　trail　who　knew　Trace　Jordan　as　a　quiet　easy…going　man。　Hell　on　wheels　with　a　gun；　some　said；　a　man　who　could　follow　a　trail　like　an　Apache。　In　the　rough…and…tumble　brawls　of　saloon　and　trail　camp　he　was　one　of　the　best。　He　had　killed　a　man　in　Tascosa　who　called　him　a　liar　and　he　killed　four　Indians　who　trapped　him　in　a　buffalo　wallow　north　of　Adobe　Walls。　And　a　gun…slinger　had　died　of　bad　judgment　on　the　Ruidoso。　But　Trace　Jordan　was　a　quiet　man。
　Slowly；　taking　infinite　pains；　he　worked　out　the　story　of　the　fight。
　Six　men　had　e　in　from　the　north。　Spotting　the　horse　camp；　they　had　kept　back　in　the　brush　along　the　creek　and　studied　the　layout。
　It　must　have　been　about　noon。　The　spilled　bucket　lay　near　Johnny　and　the　frying　pan　lay　on　the　ground　near　the　scattered　fire。　They　had　e　up；　riding　slow。　Johnny　had　just　filled　the　bucket　and　was　leaving　the　spring　（his　tracks　were　cut　deeper　going　away　from　the　spring）　and　he　had　stopped　as　they　rode　up。
　Twice　in　the　days　that　followed　Jordan　wasted　time　on　streams；　yet　each　time　he　found　the　trail　again　and　by　that　time　he　could　identify　the　tracks　of　each　of　the　six　horses　and　those　of　several　of　the　riders。　He　had　studied　their　tracks　around　their　camps　and　around　the　trails　and　by　that　time　he　knew　something　of　their　dispositions　and　manner。
　One　man　rarely　smoked　more　than　half　a　cigarette。　He　occasionally　took　only　a　few　nervous　puffs；　then　dropped　it。　Another　wore　large…roweled　Mexican…style　spurs　that　left　an　imprint　when　he　squatted　on　his　heels。
　After　a　week　of　such　travel　he　rode　into　the　street　of　Tokewanna。　It　was　a　single　dusty　street　with　the　usual　clapboarded　false…front　buildings　and　several　of　adobe。　And　a　man　loitering　on　the　street　took　one　quick；　startled　glance　at　the　brand　on　his　horse　and　ducked　into　a　saloon。
　Trace　Jordan　swung　down　from　his　horse　and　loose…tied　him　at　the　hitchrail。　Yet　when　he　went　into　the　saloon　there　was　no　sign　of　the　man　he　sought。　Trace　ordered　a　drink　and　looked　around　at　the　three　men　playing　cards　。。。　another　man　leaned　against　the　bar。　Trace　Jordan　glanced　at　his　spurs。
　〃How　about　a　drink？〃
　The　man　moved　over　as　he　spoke。　He　was　young；　rugged…looking；　a　working　cowhand。　When　their　glasses　were　filled　he　lifted　his　and　looked　at　Trace　Jordan。　〃Here's　to　you　and　the　trail　ahead。〃
　They　drank　and　Trace　said　quietly；　〃I　may　stick　around　for　a　while。〃
　〃My　advice；〃　the　young　man　was　smiling；　〃keep　travelin'〃
　The　implication　was　obvious。　To　the　man　in　the　street　the　JH　brand　on　his　horse　had　meant　something　and　that　had　to　mean　the　man　knew　about　the　killing　of　Johnny。　He　either　knew　or　had　been　one　of　the　killers。　Obviously；　in　passing　through　the　saloon　he　had　said　something　to　this　man。　Trace　was　now　being　warned　away　and　that　implied　the　six　had　friends。
　〃Had　some　horses　stolen；〃　Jordan　said。　〃My　partner　was　murdered。　I　trailed　'em　here。〃
　The　young　man　was　no　longer　smiling。　He　took　the　last　drop　from　his　glass　and　stepped　back　from　the　bar。　〃Depends　on　how　much　country　a　man　needs。〃
　Jordan　waited　the　explanation；　his　eyes　missing　nothing　in　the　room。　The　men　at　the　table　were　alert　and　listening。
　〃Six　thousand　miles　out　there；〃　the　man　said；　〃or　six　feet　here。〃
　The　harshness　of　the　trail　had　drawn　him　fine。　He　turned　from　the　bar；　a　big　tough　lonely　man　suddenly　showing　all　the　danger　that　was　in　him。　The　young　man　took　a　step　back；　suddenly　wary。
　〃I　already　bought　chips；〃　Jordan　said。　〃They　dealt　the　hand。〃
　He　turned　from　the　bar　and　went　through　the　door　and　then　he　saw　the　big　old　man　ing　up　the　street　on　the　steeldust。　Trace　had　gentled　that　steeldust　himself。　He　had　taken　time　with　the　horse。　Next　to　the　big　red　horse　he　rode；　it　had　been　the　best　of　the　lot。
　The　old　man　had　a　shock　of　white　hair。　His　eyes　were　fierce　and　manding。　When　he　stepped　down　from　the　saddle　there　was　something　of　the　thing　in　his　manner。
　Trace　Jordan　stepped　down　from　the　walk　and　started　across　the　street　toward　the　old　man；　a　tall　man　with　an　easy　woodsman's　walk　and　the　knowledge　that　he　was　heading　right　into　trouble。　Down　the　street　a　man　stopped　。。。　another　appeared　in　the　entrance　to　the　store。
　The　brand　on　the　steeldust　had　been　worked　over　and　an　excellent　job。　The　JH　had　been　turned　into　an　SB。
　The　old　man　looked　across　the　saddle　at　him；　a　strong　old　man　with　fierce　unrelenting　eyes。　〃What's　the　matter？　Lookin'　for　something？〃
　Remembering　Johnny　lying　in　the　dried　mud　beside　the　water…hole；　Trace　told　him：　〃I'm　looking　for　the　man　who　stole　that　horse　from　me。　He's　mine。　I　caught　him。　I　broke　him。　I　branded　him　JH　…〃
　Quick　temper　flared　in　the　hard　old　eyes。　〃You　callin'　me　a　horse　thief？〃　He　stepped　around　the　horse　to　face　Jordan。　He　was　wearing　a　tied…down　gun。
　〃I'm　only　saying　that's　my　horse　you're　riding。　He's　a　stolen　horse。〃
　〃You're　a　dirty　liar！〃
　When　the　old　man's　hand　dropped　to　his　gun；　Trace　Jordan　shot　him　through　the　stomach。
　Jordan　looked　over　the　smoking　gun　at　two　bystanders。　〃Walk　out　there　and　lift　that　saddle　skirt；　both　of　you。〃　When　they　started　walking　he　said；　〃If　there　isn't　a　four…inch　white　scar　under　the　saddle　skirt；　find　a　bar。〃　The　scar　was　there　。。。
　〃No　matter；〃　one　of　the　men　told　him；　〃maybe　this　is　your　horse　but　that　old　man　was　no　thief。　You'd　better　ride　before　they　hang　you。〃
　There　was　an　instant　then　when　Trace　Jordan　looked　down　into　the　dying　man's　eyes。　〃That　was　my　horse；〃　he　repeated。　〃My　partner　was　murdered　when　he　was　stolen。〃
　All　time　seemed　to　stop　while　the　old　man　struggled　to　speak　but　blood　frothed　at　his　lips　and　he　died。　But　of　one　thing　Jordan　was　sure。　The　old　man　had　believed　him。
　From　up　the　street　a　yell；　〃He's　downed　Bob　Sutton！　He's　shot　Bob！〃　And　the　doors　vomited　men　into　the　street。　Trace　Jordan　hit　the　leather　running　and　took　the　big　red　horse　out　of　town　at　a　dead　run。　Behind　him　guns　talked　but　no　bullet　hit　him。
　And　now　he　was　here；　high　on　a　sunlit　mesa；　dying　in　the　saddle。　There　was　nothing　to　see　but　distance；　nothing　but　an　infinity　of　far　blue　hills　and　nameless　mysterious　canyons。　The　mustang　stopped　suddenly；　head　up。　Jordan　turned　painfully；　searching　all　around；　and　in　all　that　vast　emptiness　there　was　no　living　thing　to　be　seen　but　a　solitary　buzzard。　Heat　waves　shimmered　the　outlines　of　the　junipers　but　nowhere　was　there　movement；　nor　any　sign　of　life　。。。　and　then　he　saw　the　tracks。
　The　tracks　of　a　pack　rat　in　the　dust　and　the　tracks　of　a　deer。
　They　led　to　the　cliff　edge　and　disappeared　there。　Why　did　that　seem　important？　His　mind　fumbled　at　the　puzzle　but　the　mustang　tugged　impatiently　at　the　bit　and　Jordan　gave　the　horse　his　head。　The　mountain…bred　horse　swung　at　once　to　the　cliff…edge　and；　reaching　it；　stopped。
　Below　him　was　an　eyebrow　of　trail　that　clung　to　the　cliff　face。　To　this　trail　led　the　tracks。　Jordan　tried　to　focus　his　thoughts　on　the　trail。　The　tracks　of　a　pack　rat　alone　would　mean　nothing；　yet　the　deer　tracks　on　the　same　trail　could　mean　water。　And　the　smell　of　water　would　have　stopped　the　horse；　for　the　animal　must　be　half…dead　with　thirst。
　Despite　his　condition　he　realized　at　once　the　possibilities　of　such　a　place。　His　horse；　bred　to　wild　country　and　only　a　few　weeks　away　from　running　wild；　might　take　that　trail。　A　wrong　step　could　send　them　plunging　a　thousand　feet　or　more　to　the　bottom；　yet　those　tracks　might　lead　to　water　and　a　deer　had　negotiated　the　trail。　And　what　had　he　to　lose？　Going　on　was　impossible　。。。　he　spoke　to　the　horse。
　Momentarily；　ears　pricked；　the　horse　hung　back；　but　the　urging　of　the　rider　and　his　own　promptings　decided　the　matter。　The　inside　stirrup　scraped　hard　on　the　canyon　wall　and　the　outer　hung　in　space　but　the　mustang；　walking　on　delicate　feet；　went　on　down　the　trail；　no　more　than　an　edge　of　sloping　rock　stratum；　to　a　place　some　forty　yards　along　where　the　trail　widened　to　ten　feet。　Here　Jordan　swung　from　the　saddle　and；　trailing　his　reins；　he　went　back　up　the　trail　on　hands　and　knees；　unable　to　risk　walking　in　his　weakness。
　With　a　handful　of　bunch　grass　he　brushed　out　the　tracks　leading　to　the　cliff…edge　and　then；　taking　a　handful　of　dust；　he　let　it　trickle　from　his　hand　and；　caught　by　the　wind；　spray　over　the　ground；　leaving　the　earth　apparently　undisturbed。　Then　he　edged　back　down　the　trail　and　climbed　to　the　saddle。
　Concealed　from　above　by　the　overhang　of　the　cliff；　the　trail　became　increasingly　dangerous。　At　one　point　there　was　only　slanting　rock　but　the　big　red　horse　scrambled　across　while　Jordan　sat　his　saddle　only　dimly　aware　of　what　was　happening。
　Suddenly；　after　more　than　a　half…mile　of　trail；　it　ended　in　a　half…acre　of　shelf　almost　entirely　overhung　by　the　cliff　and　entirely　invisible　from　above。　The　outer　edge　was　skirted　by　manzanita　and　juniper　that　gave　no　indication　from　across　the　canyon　of　the　space　that　lay　behind　it。　Here；　concealed　from　all　directions；　was　an　isolated　ledge　。。。　and　at　one　side　of　the　ledge；　a　ruin。
　Without　waiting　to　be　guided；　the　horse　walked　toward　the　ruin　with　quickening　footsteps　。。。　and　Jordan　heard　the　sound　of　running　water。
　Almost　falling　from　his　horse；　he　staggered　to　the　basin　where　clear　cold　water　trickled　from　a　crack　in　the　rock　to　fall　into　a　rock　basin　some　dozen　feet　across。　When　he　had　drunk　deep　of　the　water　he　rolled　on　his　back　and　tried　desperately　to　think。
　Wrinkling　his　brow　against　the　dull　throb　of　pain；　he　went　back　over　his　trail　in　his　mind。　Not　even　Jacob　Lantz　would　find　it　a　s