Chapter III
THE CAVE
When he awakened, the wounded Texas Ranger realized that it was wellpast daybreak; the sun was high in the cloudless sky and beating down onthe ledge. It must have been the sun, shining directly into the man'seyes, that had roused him. When he moved he felt a new torment of painin every fiber of his being. His wounds had stiffened. His right footand leg, and left shoulder and arm, were utterly useless. Movement ofthese limbs made stabbing pains shoot the entire length of his body. Helay quietly for some time, experimenting with the slightest movementsuntil he had managed to turn so that he could look about him.
The ledge that had served as a resting place at night was a dangerousrefuge in the daytime. A discovery buoyed his hope. He saw that thewater came from an opening a few yards back on the ledge. The openingwas large enough for a man to enter standing up, with room to spare.Inside he would be sure of concealment and a plentiful supply of water.Unless someone actually entered the cave, he would be comparativelysecure. His only considerations would be hunger, weakness, andcomplications that might set in from the wounds.
Food would be the problem. Even with a good horse it would take moreriding than he could do in his present state to reach the nearest food.Without weapons of any sort, he could scarcely hunt, even if there weregame to be found in the barren sun-baked Gap. Food therefore was out ofthe question. He must content himself with water until he was strongenough to travel far on foot.
He crawled painfully toward the cave and stopped just beyond theentrance. Inside, it widened out surprisingly. Torrents of water in someages past must have churned furiously, seeking exit through the portal,to carve away the heavy stone in such a manner. The stream came fromsomewhere in the deep, dim recesses of the cave. Gravel and shale linedthe water's edge. This hard ground would serve the Texas Ranger as arough couch, perhaps for many days to come.
The outlook was desperate, yet the man felt that there must be somereason why his life had been spared thus far. It wasn't that he wasafraid to die. At any time during the past few hours death would havebeen a welcome relief to the pain of living. Some voice deep within himkept telling him that he must live, must fight for life so that hemight see justice done. And so he fought. None of the events seemedlogical to him, yet he sensed that in some manner everything woulddovetail into a finished pattern in which he himself would play aprominent part.
Every element of his life during the past day and night had been a newexperience. Even the Gap and the cave were new to him. Strange, randomthoughts kept intruding on his efforts to make plans for the future.Thoughts of his life in the past; the silver mine inherited from hisfather, but never worked because he had never wanted riches.
He was tired, despite the recent sleep. He lay back, right hand beneathhis head. Perhaps he dozed; he couldn't tell afterward whether he hadslept or not. His senses played such pranks that his thoughts might havebeen dreams or mere hallucinations. At any rate those thoughts werevivid and oddly assorted. Against the roaring background of the water inthe cavern, he seemed to hear a voice. First it was the voice of a boy,an Indian boy whom the wounded man had known long years ago. He too hadbeen a boy at that time. The Indian was alone, a child who was the solesurvivor of a furious Indian war. The son of a chief, the lad hadremained, sorely wounded, at the side of his dead parents. It was therethat the white boy found him, and took him as a friend. The two traveledtogether for some time until their trails separated. Now he heard thevoice of this boy again. Against the blackness of the cavern's depths heseemed to see a re-enactment of the past, in rapidly changingkaleidoscopic scenes.
He saw himself as a hunter, riding in pursuit of bison, to feedstarving white folks in a village and Indians on the plains. He sawhimself riding through the hills in preference to gathering wealth asthe operator of a silver mine. And then a reunion with the Indian he'dknown as a boy. Together the two rode for a time, and Tonto helped theRanger capture his white horse.
The day he joined the Texas Rangers was a vivid recollection. His pridein wearing the Ranger badge was tempered by the loss of Tonto'scompanionship.
Somewhere in the background of his visions there was a vague memory of anight bird's call.
He wondered at the scenes in a detached sort of way. Was this what dyingwas like? He'd heard that one's past went by in review as a man's souldeparted. He no longer felt the wounds. The rumbling stream became adistant murmur that finally resolved itself into the call of a nightbird. Odd, how the night bird's call continued to intrude. He fumbledwith his right hand at the pocket of what was left of his shirt. Hecould feel the small square object there, and wished that he had thestrength to take it out. He would have liked to read the littleinscription in the book that had been his mother's gift.
Now even the last of sounds had ceased, and once more the tall manslept. His breathing was labored, and his hand upon his breast rose andfell as fingers that had been so strong and capable clutched the littleblack book in his pocket.
* * * * *
The afternoon was well advanced. The sun barely peeped over the rim ofthe Gap, but the last rays slanted at an acute angle beyond the mouth ofthe cave and brushed the shoulder of the sleeping man. He wakened insurprise. He felt himself surrounded by almost unbearable heat. Hismouth was dry, his throat burning with thirst again. He was barely ableto raise one arm to brush a hand across his forehead. He found this dryand hot. He felt giddy. His mind whirled as he tried to comprehend thisnew condition. He must have tossed restlessly while he slept. His shirtwas more ragged than ever. One pocket was ripped entirely off and thelittle black book that had reposed there was beside him where it musthave fallen from his hand.
He felt his shoulder, wondering vaguely at the neatness of the bandage.He knew from the ugly swelling that the wound had become infected.Against the weakness there was only water and rest, and he'd alreadyfound that rest seemed only to weaken him further. His plight wascritical.
Water might help. It was all that he had. He rolled over painfully andstretched his length, face down, against the stream.
It was then that he saw the shadow. No sound had reached his ears abovethe water's clamor, but someone had found his hideout and at that momentstood at the cavern's mouth.
His first impulse was to turn quickly. He started to reach for his guns,forgetting that they were not in their usual places. Then he rememberedthat he was unarmed--completely at the mercy of whoever stood behindhim. For a brief instant he felt an odd prickling sensation move alonghis spine. He inwardly shrank from the impact of the bullet he was surewould come at any instant. He felt that all he had to do was turn, facethe man or men who had already killed his five companions, and his lifetoo would be snuffed out. But did it matter? His life, at best, wasmeasured in hours. Starvation, fever, and infection of an ugly woundwere all potential killers. It was simply a case of which of these woulddeliver the _coup de grace_. His endurance and strength had carried himfar beyond the limits of most men, but his own far limit had almost beenreached. He had a revulsion to a bullet in the back, but after all itdidn't matter greatly. This intruder, he thought, is a friend, not anenemy. A friend, perhaps unwittingly, who will put an end to pain.
The man at the entrance watched in silence and, as the dying man turned,saw his face, suffused with the glow of fever and etched with pain. Hesaw the glazed eyes that had once been so steely and deep; saw them riseslowly to meet his own dark, deep-set eyes. The wounded man looked upand met the gaze of an Indian.
His lips parted slightly; his first attempt at speech was a failure.Then he breathed the name of the friend he'd made long years ago.
"Tonto!"
The Indian nodded slowly.
"Me here," he said.