lla.theburninghills-第3部分

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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　simple　one。　Much　of　the　mesa　had　been　bare　rock；　nor　was　there　any　indication　from　above　of　this　place　he　had　found。　Nor　would　any　man　in　his　right　mind　attempt　the　trail　to　it。
　He　drank；　and　drank　again；　feeling　the　slow　penetration　of　the　cold　water　through　all　his　thirst…starved　tissues。　After　a　time　he　stumbled　to　his　feet　and　stripped　saddle　and　bridle　from　the　horse；　picketing　it　on　the　thick　grass。
　He　would　need　a　fire　。。。　dry　sticks　that　would　make　no　smoke。　The　ruin　would　shield　the　reflection。　He　must　have　hot　water　to　bathe　his　wound。　He　must　。。。
　A　long　time　later　he　opened　his　eyes　into　darkness。　Listening；　he　could　hear　no　sound　but　the　trickle　of　water。　The　night　was　cold。
　Crawling　to　his　saddle；　he　fumbled　at　the　knots　and　finally　loosened　them　enough　to　get　at　his　blanket　roll。　Wrapping　himself　in　his　blankets；　he　lay　still；　his　head　feeling　like　a　great　half…empty　cask　in　which　his　brains　seemed　to　slosh　around　like　water。　His　lips　were　cracked　by　fever　。。。　outside　a　lone　star　hung　over　the　rim　of　a　far　cliff。
　Through　the　fog　of　his　delirium　Jordan　listened　to　the　trickle　of　water。　He　must　be　careful　。。。　careful。　His　enemies　might　be　far　away　but　in　the　still　of　a　clear　desert　night；　sound　carries。　And　by　daylight　they　would　be　all　around；　thirty　or　forty　belted　blood…hungry　men。　And　at　dawn　he　must　be　watching　that　thread　of　trail；　rifle　in　hand。
　Pain　gnawed　at　his　side　like　a　hungry　rat。。。　such　a　little　wound　but　it　needed　care；　it　needed　cleansing。　His　eyes　found　the　lone　star　above　the　canyon's　rim　and　held　to　it　and　a　long　time　later；　he　slept。　A　pack　rat　appeared　at　the　edge　of　the　trail；　peering　curiously　at　the　sleeping　man；　then　went　on；　wary　but　unfrightened；　to　the　water's　edge。　Out　in　the　canyon　a　small　stone；　long　poised　by　erosion；　fell　into　the　depths　with　a　faint；　lost　sound。
　On　the　mesa's　top　a　long　wind　stirred；　moaning　among　the　junipers　and　fluttering　the　campfires　of　the　searching　men。　A　man　had　been　slain　and　it　was　the　law　of　their　time　that　the　killer　must　die　in　turn。　A　coyote　yapped　at　the　moon；　a　weird　cacophony　of　sound　suspended　a　moment；　then　scattered　by　the　wind　and　then　the　night　under　the　lonely　moon　was　voiceless　and　still。　Only　the　water　trickled　and　the　hunted　man　moaned　softly　in　his　delirium　and　his　sleep。
　Through　the　day…long　heat　that　followed　the　night；　Trace　Jordan　wavered　between　delirium　and　a　sick　exhausted　consciousness。　Shortly　after　daybreak　he　heard　the　drum　of　hoofs　overhead　and　later　heard　the　riders　return　more　slowly。　He　got　his　rifle　and　lay　quietly；　waiting。　If　they　found　him；　some　of　them　would　die。
　He　had　no　animosity　for　these　men　other　than　the　six　who　had　murdered　Johnny。　The　code　by　which　they　operated　was　his　own　but　it　was　his　nature　to　fight。　There　was　water　here　and　he　had　two　hundred　rounds　of　ammunition。　There　was　no　food；　so　all　he　could　do　was　to　wait　until　he　starved　to　death　or　died　of　his　wound。
　He　dozed　or　became　unconscious　。。。　vaguely　he　recalled　drinking　and　bathing　his　face　and　his　fever…slaked　lips。　He　remembered　getting　sticks　together　for　a　fire　to　heat　water　in　the　bottom　of　an　ancient　jar　found　in　the　ruins。　He　removed　the　bandage　to　look　at　the　wound。　It　was　ugly　and　inflamed；　frightening　to　see。
　He　never　succeeded　in　bathing　it。　Somewhere　along　the　line　of　his　planning　he　lost　consciousness　again　。。。　when　he　opened　his　eyes　again　his　head　was　throbbing；　his　side　a　knot　of　raw　pain。　He　wanted　water　desperately　but　was　too　weak　to　crawl　to　it。
　The　first　thing　he　realized　was　a　sense　of　movement　where　no　movement　should　be。　He　listened；　aware　of　danger；　trying　to　place　that　faint；　mysterious　rustling　。。。　petticoats！　But　that　was　ridiculous。
　He　felt　cool　now　and　fortable。　There　was　a　dull　throb　in　his　side　but　some　of　the　stiffness　was　gone。　His　head　felt　heavy　and　he　did　not　wish　to　open　his　eyes。　Something　cool　touched　his　brow　and　he　lay　still；　afraid　it　would　go　away。　He　tried　to　identify　the　sounds；　fearing　he　was　delirious　or　dying。
　The　trickle　of　water；　as　always。　The　horse　cropping　grass　。。。　a　faint　wind　stirring　among　the　junipers。　There　was　a　smell　of　sage　and　of　wood　smoke。　This　was　very　close　but　slight。　He　kept　his　eyes　shut　and　tried　to　place　the　exact　location　of　his　gun。　He　had　no　friends　within　many　miles；　so　anything　here；　man　or　animal；　was　dangerous　to　him。
　The　coolness　on　his　brow　went　away　but　he　felt　fingers　unbuckling　his　belt；　moving　his　shirt　aside。　Fingers　cool　and　deft　touched　the　wound　and　then　something　forting　and　warm　was　placed　against　his　side。
　He　opened　his　eyes　and　stared　up　at　the　rock　overhang。　The　coolness　on　his　brow　was　a　memory　but　the　pleasant　warmth　at　his　side　remained。　He　looked　down。
　A　woman　knelt　beside　him　but　at　first　all　he　could　see　was　a　smooth　brown　shoulder；　from　which　the　red　blouse　had　slipped；　and　a　wealth　of　intensely　black　hair。
　He　was　delirious　。。。　he　had　to　be。　No　such　woman　could　be　in　this　lonely　place。　He　was　hiding　on　a　wind…hollowed　shelf　in　the　face　of　a　cliff；　miles　from　human　habitation。　And　then　she　turned