# Doom Canyon/Chapter 10

Extracted from Complete Story magazine, 1925-01-25, pp. 71-76.

### CHAPTER X.

Strong slid from the saddle after the girl dismounted, and, without thought, they were in each other's arms, welded by an impulse stronger than their wills, though these consented. And there was more to it than the mere bodily contact that sent the blood surging through both of them, caused their lips to meet in their first embrace as naturally as mates should meet. The swift, warm caress told Strong that the girl realized that he had come for her, told him that she had wanted him to come, that, to each other, each was the chosen one, bound by ties that mocked conventions.
Yet at the very outset she opposed him when he would have made her stay down with the horses while the men clambered to where they could see and shoot between the vine-screened crevices of the close-standing rocks.
“Give me a gun—one of those rifles,” she said. “I can shoot—and hit.”
He compromised by letting her take the rifle from Hurley's sheath to guard the gap by which they had come in. He had her now. He had rescued her from a horrible fate. She was his by force of arms, by the instinct that had made him seek the way through the mesa wall, find it back of the waterfall—his by the fervor of her lips, the beat of her quick heart against his own. And he meant to hold her.
They were swept off their feet—both of them. Maria was right. It was thus that love should come, love that was lasting and worth while. His blood was still quick with the desire to meet Lobo, to shoot it out with him, to see him fall under his own hand, but, for the present, he must hold the little refuge they had found.
With the touch of the girl's lips still lingering on his own, he might almost have been content with Rudd dead, but for the fact that Lobo had shot down Gardner cold-bloodedly after Sprague had numbed the latter's arm, had killed him, knowing that he had destroyed his home, had stolen his wife. Strong held no doubt of that for all the mystery of Mary Gardner's body being found in the lake. And, since he had come through the heart of the mesa and heard the running waters surging, falling, he had a glimmering of the solution of that mystery.
Lobo might not be held for murder, lacking actual proofs. On the charge of smuggling, he might be sent for years to the penitentiary, a punishment far from sufficient in Strong's conception. The man was a monster of evil. Worst of all, he had deliberately given over the girl Strong loved—and who loved him, for Strong knew she had sealed herself to him with the kiss—to his men if they could recapture her. Only Lobo's death could wipe that out. He was worse than Rudd, who had already paid the penalty. A clean bullet was too good for Lobo. A dog's death was his desert.
Strong could not see the two marksmen making their way afoot, under cover, toward the wall that the moon would leave in shadow, but he saw the growing radiance of the planet and rejoiced to note it lifting its silver disk. It made better shooting, and he set reloads out beside him as he watched, crouching, peering between two great stones, standing on a smaller fragment.
Then came the pounding of hoofs. Lobo had assembled his men under cover. Now they swept out from between boulders, Lobo leading on the black, heading a single file of horsemen, crouching low in their saddles, racing round and round the little fortress in Indian attack.
The moon lifted, full and serene, shedding placid light on the little glen where guns were barking and where already men lay stark, staring up at her dead world with sightless eyes. The heavy Colts vomited red flame, and the bullets went humming, spatting against stone, ripping through shrubbery, now and then thudding home.
Hurley and Strong standing, half exposed, sent their missiles more successfully at the greater targets of man and horse. Once Strong got the black in the flank with a snap shot, but did not cripple it. Then he brought down a horse with a bullet in its head, and the next shot snuffed out life in its rider, spilled on the ground. He had no mercy. Hurley accounted for another, though the range was extreme for all but experts.
Strong wondered why they kept so far away. The shooting was all in favor of the defenders, standing, though they had but flying targets. A splinter of lead glanced from the rock below him and cut his forehead. The blood flowed into his eyes and he wiped it away.
He heard the crack of the girl's rifle and feared that her fire might draw a fatal reprisal. But she was of his own spirit, and he gloried in her pluck, after all she must have gone through.
Hurley called across to him.
“She's brought down one of 'em. Damn 'em! Why don't they come in? They're all of seven to one. Hell!”
A spot of fire had bloomed on the cliff. A bullet had plowed through the back muscles of his left shoulder. Another hummed by Strong like an angry wasp. Only his instinctive turn toward Hurley had saved him. They were firing from the cliff. Then Miguel flung up his arms, his gun hurtling out, its metal flashing in the moonlight as he fell among the plunging horses.
Strong shouted to them: “Down! Git close under the rocks. They've got snipers on the cliff!”
He leaped to the ground, calling to the horses, half falling as Juan lurched against him and dropped, shot through the chest.
They gathered at the gap, prepared for a rush, safe from the plunging fire, but with forty per cent of their little force gone, and Hurley wounded. Miguel lay on his face, the girl bending over him.
“Water! Water! For the love of Heaven, water!” he begged.
And Hurley, his shirt soaked with blood from his lacerated shoulder, cursed, not for himself, but for Miguel, as he realized that they had brought no canteens, had not thought of them. He leaned against a boulder on his left side, his left gun at his hip, his right in free play, commanding, with Strong, the entrance.
From the dark wall of the cliff another flower of fire bloomed in the night, and the bullet came whining down to strike Pedro's horse. There was only room for two of them in the gap itself, and now the circling horsemen had stopped that method, and were gathering somewhere for a rush.
Strong spoke to the girl, bidding her be careful, for the marksmen, seeing no more human marks, were bent on killing the horses. Pedro's mount was down, cramping the scant quarters where Miguel begged for water and Juan breathed with the air whistling through his chest.
Lucy had set her rifle against a rock and Strong took it, saw that a shell was in the breech, and waited for that next scarlet efflorescence to show itself, estimating the distance with eyes used to night ranges. The shot came, with a scream from Hurley's gray. Mingling with the echoes that were flung back from the walls came the roar of the sharpshooters. Strong had guessed that the man was probably finding little more than standing room on that steep cliff, and he aimed below the flash. There was a cry, a hurtling figure crashing down—and one sharpshooter silenced.
Then Pedro came to him, his voice harsh with rage for his brother and for Juan.
“Señor, if they charge. Look, we have thees.”
It was a stick of the dynamite they had brought along to blast the way into the mesa. Pedro had capped it and attached a short fuse, slicing that and setting in it the head of a match.
He said: “Eef they charge, we blow them all to hell!”
“Give it to me,” Strong said. He took the explosive, rolled a cigarette swiftly, and lighted it, wondering why no rush took place. And, while he smoked, he watched the cliff. But no more shots came from there. Jake, the nerve out of him at that marvelous aim, dizzy on the narrow way that was little more than a few inches of outcrop, seeing Butch whirl down to a smashing finish, had lost his stomach for that end of it.
To fire again meant another bullet coming up unerringly. He had no cover. He could not move fast. His shot would expose him to a fusillade that, with a man like the one who had killed Butch at the trigger, meant that shot after shot would come, and one would surely find him. It might not kill, but it would send him down, and he had heard the death cry of Butch torn from his throat as he fell.
There they were, blobs of shadow in the shadow of the nearest brush, dismounted, gathering for a rush. Strong turned his head, drawing on his cigarette, careful that the glow should not be seen. He had forgotten the dynamite until Pedro brought it. Now there was the risk that Lobo might have some and, reminded, toss a stick into them in turn. It was common enough on ranches, used for blasting post holes in the rock. Whether Lobo had any was a possibility that must not be overlooked. A half stick would annihilate them all. Lobo might want to get the girl unscathed, but if Strong used the stuff with its frightful havoc he would not consider her in his rage.
“We'll shoot it out,” he said, and put the stick away into a crevice. “Here they come, Hurley. Soon's we're shot out, Pedro, you come up, while we reload. We've got to stop 'em. Too many of 'em.”
“Thar'll be less,” growled Hurley. “Let 'em come, damn their black souls!”
The blobs of shadow suddenly lengthened with men back of them, leaping on, firing as they came. The lead tore through the gap, but Pedro had backed the roan and the two unhurt horses—the roan's wound was only a scratch-out of the line of fire behind the protecting wings of rock, across from Lucy and the wounded Miguel and Juan.
It was a murderous fire, though much of it went astray in the headlong sprint, and it wilted, died away, with the attackers dodging for refuge from the deadly aim that met them, checked them, flung them back, with Lobo's voice railing at them. Four sprawled in the moonlight, throwing scant shadows now. Strong's guns were empty, as were Hurley's, and they stepped back to fill their chambers again, to let Pedro keep up the fire and stop the rally that Lobo tried to bring about, guessing that here was his best chance.
Strong saw Pedro glide forward and then another figure. Lucy, with Miguel's gun! He caught at her arm to check her, and there came a scattering volley from the bushes which the retreating outlaws had reached. She fell back into his arms. She was bare-headed and, in the moment that her slackening body passed through a moonbeam, he saw her golden hair dabbled with blood.
He believed that he himself had pulled her into the line of fire and a groan came from him as he let her down, despair crazing him. She was gone, and there was nothing left for him but to hunt them down, to kill until death sent him to join her whom he had failed to keep.
“Look out for her, Hurley,” he cried. “She's dead, but, by Heaven, I'll make 'em pay! Don't let any of 'em get by to touch her.”
“Not while I'm crookin' a finger. We'll hold 'em off.”
Hurley knew how Strong felt, knew that he wanted to ride amuck among them. And, if this was to be his own finish, he wished no better. His wound was stiffening, his left arm almost useless, but he had reloaded, and he stood, half supported by the rock, ready to go out through the smoke. Pedro was beside him, stern to avenge his brother and Juan as Strong, on the back of the roan, came past them, his guns refilled.
His bullets raked the bushes, and the attackers ran, scuttling, like so many rabbits, for their mounts.
There came a distant shout—louder, closer—as two horsemen raced from the far side of the glen, giving the alarm.
Back of them, muffled, the patter of guns, the dull roar of high explosive. The posse had arrived at last. They were blasting the fence down, driving in the guard.
Strong sent the roan hurdling over the brush, firing, but not at random. His brain had never worked faster or more clearly. His mad rage was a cold one now, concentrated to take toll, to make every bullet tell, and to save his fire for Lobo.
He saw his man at last among a scurry of mounting men. If he saw Strong he gave no sign, standing high in his stirrups, calling to his men, realizing that the net was closing in about him. The great black flew into the lead. Those who followed screened him from Strong, who, raking the roan as it had never been spurred before, pursued the pack that rushed to repel the law clamoring at the cañon entrance, already past the fence, galloping after the fleeing guard, two of whom had already suffered justice.
Strong followed, through the arch where the clacking of the hoofs was his only guide for a while, until he saw the light gleam on the torrent that surged through the cave and rushed turbulent down the cañon bed. He had gained a little, had flung one or two shots in front of him, but the one thought left to him now was to break through to Lobo. Whose bullet had struck down Lucy, had shattered his own dream, he did not know. Lobo he held responsible, and, if the law was charging to capture Lobo, then he would cheat the law.
The cañon rang with the discharge of six-guns. The posse filled the narrow way beside the stream, the mass of them looking like an army. The gorge widened and now they came on abreast, their fusillade spraying wide.
Men went plunging from their saddles. Horses screamed and fought. And Lobo, knowing the game was lost, wrenched the great stallion round and pounded his cursing way through the ruck of his own men who strove to follow him, seeking the last hope of the caves.
The big black, wounded in the flank, wild with rage, shouldered the rest aside, tearing and snapping at them, while Lobo swore at those who, in the wild confusion, blocked his escape, striking at them with his gun, shooting down one man who cursed back and clutched at him.
Only at this hour did the full moon come near the floor of Doom Cañon. Now its light reached the faces of the men as if a calcium had been turned upon the tragic scene, while their bodies and their mounts were shrouded in the dusk.
Facing him, barring the way, was Strong. Lobo saw his set face, his blazing eyes, and his own flinched while the stallion, braver than his master, hurled himself at the lighter roan. There was a crash as two shots blended. The roan went down, Strong with him, a bullet in his shoulder. And the black, riderless, went clattering through the cavern to the glen.
Lobo crashed to the ground, shot through the throat, half choking, his head striking the rock, and rolling, half senseless, clawing to find no hold on the slippery edge of Skeleton Creek. He slid into the flood that gripped him, dragged him down, swept him along, reviving enough with the shock of the cold water to thrash helplessly as the coils of water wrapped themselves about him, and the blood, flowing from mouth and nose, mingled with its resistless tide.
As he swept on, sucked under, and then flung half out as if in sport, the fight turned to a flight and a chase. Once his eyes saw the sky, and then he was dragged beneath the ledge of lava where the creek foamed and raged in its tunnel, flung against the sides, the top, the quickly ebbing life bruised out of him. With him, to the last flicker of his brain, rode the phantom of a woman whose staring, acusing eyes seemed filled with gratitude as the corpse of her abductor, her husband's murderer, rolled on down through the subterranean conduit, mile after mile, to be flung up later, as hers had been, in its unsuspected outlet, Lago Claro.
Strong, half rising, saw Lobo roll into the creek, saw his clutching hand thrust out and disappear, to show no more. The roan was on its feet again, standing over him, and he climbed into the saddle, suddenly spent, riding slowly through the cavern where the pursuit had passed, back to the glen that held for him only the end of his swift passion, its brief response.
He saw the posse herding the broken-up outlaws who, cut off, disheartened, surrendered to save their lives. He saw the little rocky fortress, with Hurley seated on the ground, his head sunk on his chest, weak from loss of blood. He slid out of the saddle with a groan. To go inside——
“Señor, she lives! Her heart beat. But breeng water.”
Unbelieving still, he knelt beside her, sought her wound in the hair that was wet and sticky, found it—a shallow gouge.
The night that had been pitchy dark suddenly lightened, with the moon glorious.
“I theenk, señor, mebbe the bullet not heet her. Onlee a piece of rock ees knock' off.”
“Go get water, Pedro. See if you can find some one to look after the others. I'll attend to her.”
Edmonds came, coolly triumphant.
“Let me see what I can do, Strong,” he said. “We've cleaned up. Only Lobo got clear, it seems.”
“I shot him from his horse and the creek drowned him. Look after the men, Edmonds; I'm afraid they're hurt bad.”
“Who's this?”
Then Edmonds saw it was a girl who lay with her head in Strong's lap. Her eyes were open, but she did not see the marshal. She saw only Strong.
“She was struck by a splinter,” said Strong. “I'm looking out for her.”
“You're hurt yourself?”
“That'll hold over.”
Edmonds turned to where Pedro was striving to revive Miguel. Juan was past help. The plucky little cocinero had gone over the range.
Hurley came out on the porch where Maria sat stringing red peppers. He limped as ever, and his arm was in a sling to ease his healing shoulder.
“I ain't had an ache or pain since I got all thet bad blood out of me,” he said. “Reckon most of the rheumatiz went with it. I'm goin' over to the mud-hole to-morrer to take a waller an' make sure.
“If you don't mind, I'll set out here with you. Outside of Pedro, the ranch is jest a reg'lar nest of love birds. Danged if I won't be glad when the four of 'em git married an' settle down.”
“You ever in love?” Maria asked.
“So long ago I have forgotten it. Why?”
“There ees some sort of love that never what you call settle down. Mebbe my Miguel an' Josefa are that way. I hope so. An' Señor Strong an' his señorita, who shall be his señora nex' week, I, Maria, who have seen much love, tell you, señor, those two hav' that kin' of love.”
Hurley shifted his quid.
“Mebbe you're right,” he grunted. “Me, ever since I sat in thet mud, I believe in miracles.”
On the side porch, Miguel was telling Josef much the same thing that Maria had just pronounced.
In the orchard, side by side in a hammock that had been swung in the shade, Lucy and Strong did not exchange assurances. They knew.