Read Online Novel 1966 - The Broken Gun (v5.0) by Louis L’Amour - Free Book Online
Authors: Louis L’Amour
Tags: Usenet
Ads: Link
heel hard into his instep. He let out a grunt of pain and stepped back and I kicked him in the groin.
He fell and let go of the rifle. It flew a short arc through the air and went clattering among the rocks ten or twelve feet below.
Desperately, I wanted that rifle, but when I made a start for it, a bullet clipped rocks near me. Jimbo was down there, his rifle ready for another shot, and out in the open where I had to go he could scarcely miss.
My chest heaving from the exertion of the fight, I stepped back against the cliff. Reese gathered himself and came off the rocks. He was sick from that boot in the groin, but he was going to try. So I hit him again, and he went down to a sitting position. I took a swing at his face. He tried to duck, and my blow glanced off his cheekbone, but he went down. His pistol was gone from the holster and there was no time to look for it, so I ripped the hunting knife and scabbard from his belt and shoved them behind my waistband.
Whipping around, I scrambled back up the cliff. As I went over the edge of the mesa I looked back. Reese was on his hands and knees, looking for his gun.
There might be a horse trail here on the mesa, so I wasted no time. Taking a route that led southwest which should eventually take me to the trail along New River, I started to run. Running fifty steps and walking fifty, I had covered half a mile and was running out of wind when glancing back, I saw a rider. A strange rider on a mouse-colored horse.
He was some distance off, but coming toward me. I looked around the other way, and saw another. This one was Dad Styles, who had come up behind me. Sunlight gleamed on a rifle barrel, and I started to run again.
There was no shot.
They were closing in on me, gaining a little. As I ran I dipped into a hollow where there was a dry watercourse going off to the left, and I took it.
In spite of the bad footing I ran even harder. Once I fell. For a moment I lay there gasping. Then, slowly, I pulled myself up, and when I started on again it was at a walk. No horse was going to follow me from now on.
The dry watercourse ended abruptly in a fifty-foot drop, which was a waterfall after a rain. At one side I thought I saw a possible way down, though most of the rock was water-worn and smooth. Every step down would be a risk.
Somewhere I heard a hoof click on stone. It was unlikely they could get to me here, but I could not chance it.
Dropping to my knees, I lowered myself over the edge. I clung with my fingers and felt with an exploring toe for the tiny ledge I had seen from above. If I should fall now, it was unlikely anyone would ever find me in this remote, narrow canyon, scarcely more than a crack in the rocky edge of the mesa. Not even a coyote could get to me, and I would be left to the buzzards.
My toe found the ledge, tested it, and then balancing on the delicate edge, I moved one hand down a crack until the crack became narrow enough. Closing my fist to hold me there, I went down the face a little farther, finally swinging only by that closed fist. If I opened my hand, I would fall.
The fingers of my right hand found a grip, and then my toes found a hold, and bit by bit I eased on down the rocky face, and dropped when only a few feet above the bottom.
Here I was on a ledge of water-worn rock that was no more than twenty feet across and about that deep. Near the base of the cliff down which I had come there was a deep pool hollowed out by falling water, and the pool contained water now. There were a couple of feet of overhang near the pool, but no other shelter. There was no way they could come upon me except from the direction I had come, so now I went to the edge to look down. I drew back hurriedly.
The cliff fell away sheer for at least a hundred feet, and on that face there were no handholds. Unless I could go back up again the way I had come down, there was no escape for me. I had trapped myself far better than they could have managed it, and it was
He fell and let go of the rifle. It flew a short arc through the air and went clattering among the rocks ten or twelve feet below.
Desperately, I wanted that rifle, but when I made a start for it, a bullet clipped rocks near me. Jimbo was down there, his rifle ready for another shot, and out in the open where I had to go he could scarcely miss.
My chest heaving from the exertion of the fight, I stepped back against the cliff. Reese gathered himself and came off the rocks. He was sick from that boot in the groin, but he was going to try. So I hit him again, and he went down to a sitting position. I took a swing at his face. He tried to duck, and my blow glanced off his cheekbone, but he went down. His pistol was gone from the holster and there was no time to look for it, so I ripped the hunting knife and scabbard from his belt and shoved them behind my waistband.
Whipping around, I scrambled back up the cliff. As I went over the edge of the mesa I looked back. Reese was on his hands and knees, looking for his gun.
There might be a horse trail here on the mesa, so I wasted no time. Taking a route that led southwest which should eventually take me to the trail along New River, I started to run. Running fifty steps and walking fifty, I had covered half a mile and was running out of wind when glancing back, I saw a rider. A strange rider on a mouse-colored horse.
He was some distance off, but coming toward me. I looked around the other way, and saw another. This one was Dad Styles, who had come up behind me. Sunlight gleamed on a rifle barrel, and I started to run again.
There was no shot.
They were closing in on me, gaining a little. As I ran I dipped into a hollow where there was a dry watercourse going off to the left, and I took it.
In spite of the bad footing I ran even harder. Once I fell. For a moment I lay there gasping. Then, slowly, I pulled myself up, and when I started on again it was at a walk. No horse was going to follow me from now on.
The dry watercourse ended abruptly in a fifty-foot drop, which was a waterfall after a rain. At one side I thought I saw a possible way down, though most of the rock was water-worn and smooth. Every step down would be a risk.
Somewhere I heard a hoof click on stone. It was unlikely they could get to me here, but I could not chance it.
Dropping to my knees, I lowered myself over the edge. I clung with my fingers and felt with an exploring toe for the tiny ledge I had seen from above. If I should fall now, it was unlikely anyone would ever find me in this remote, narrow canyon, scarcely more than a crack in the rocky edge of the mesa. Not even a coyote could get to me, and I would be left to the buzzards.
My toe found the ledge, tested it, and then balancing on the delicate edge, I moved one hand down a crack until the crack became narrow enough. Closing my fist to hold me there, I went down the face a little farther, finally swinging only by that closed fist. If I opened my hand, I would fall.
The fingers of my right hand found a grip, and then my toes found a hold, and bit by bit I eased on down the rocky face, and dropped when only a few feet above the bottom.
Here I was on a ledge of water-worn rock that was no more than twenty feet across and about that deep. Near the base of the cliff down which I had come there was a deep pool hollowed out by falling water, and the pool contained water now. There were a couple of feet of overhang near the pool, but no other shelter. There was no way they could come upon me except from the direction I had come, so now I went to the edge to look down. I drew back hurriedly.
The cliff fell away sheer for at least a hundred feet, and on that face there were no handholds. Unless I could go back up again the way I had come down, there was no escape for me. I had trapped myself far better than they could have managed it, and it was
Similar Books
