Free Corkscrew and Other Stories by Dashiell Hammett Page B

of bed to shiver in the cold of five-something in the morning.
    â€œThis isn’t a farm!” I grumbled at him as I let him in. “You’re in the city now. You’re supposed to sleep until the sun comes up.”
    â€œThe eye of the law ain’t never supposed to sleep,” he grinned at me, his teeth clicking together, because he hadn’t any more clothes on than I. “Fisher, who’s got a ranch out that-away, sent a man in to tell you that there’s a battle going on out at the Circle H. A. R. He hit my door instead of yours. Do we ride out that-away, chief?”
    â€œWe do. Hunt up some rifles, water, and the horses. I’ll be down at the Jew’s, ordering breakfast and getting some lunch wrapped up.”
    Forty minutes later Milk River and I were out of Corkscrew.
    The morning warmed as we rode, the sun making long violet pictures on the desert, raising the dew in a softening mist. The mesquite was fragrant, and even the sand—which would be as nice as a dusty stove-top later—had a fresh, pleasant odor. There was nothing to hear but the creaking of leather, the occasional clink of metal, and the plop-plop of the horses’ feet on hard ground, which changed to a shff-shff when we struck loose sand.
    The battle seemed to be over, unless the battlers had run out of bullets and were going at it hand to hand.
    Up over the ranch buildings, as we approached, three blue spots that were buzzards circled, and a moving animal showed against the sky for an instant on a distant ridge.
    â€œA bronc that ought to have a rider and ain’t,” Milk River pronounced it.
    Farther along, we passed a bullet-riddled Mexican sombrero, and then the sun sparkled on a handful of empty brass cartridges.
    One of the ranch buildings was a charred black pile. Nearby another one of the men I had disarmed in Bardell’s lay dead on his back.
    A bandaged head poked around a building-corner, and its owner stepped out, his right arm in a sling, a revolver in his left. Behind him trotted the one-eyed Chinese cook, swinging a cleaver.
    Milk River recognized the bandaged man.
    â€œHowdy, Red! Been quarreling?”
    â€œSome. We took all th’ advantage we could of th’ warnin’ you sent out, an’ when Big ’Nacio an’ his herd showed up just ’fore daylight, we Injuned them all over the county. I stopped a couple o’ slugs, so I stayed to home whilst th’ rest o’ th’ boys followed ’em south. ’F you listen sharp, you can hear a pop now an’ then.”
    â€œDo we follow ’em, or head ’em?” Milk River asked me.
    â€œCan we head ’em?”
    â€œMight. If Big ’Nacio’s running, he’ll circle back to his rancho along about dark. If we cut into the cañon and slide along down, maybe we can be there first. He won’t make much speed having to fight off Peery and the boys as he goes.”
    â€œWe’ll try it.”
    Milk River leading, we went past the ranch buildings, and on down the draw, going into the cañon at the point where I had entered it the previous day. After a while the footing got better, and we made better time.
    The sun climbed high enough to let its rays down on us, and the comparative coolness in which we had been riding went away. At noon we stopped to rest the horses, eat a couple of sandwiches, and smoke a bit. Then we went on.
    Presently the sun passed, began to crawl down on our right, and shadows grew in the cañon. The welcome shade had reached the east wall when Milk River, in front, stopped.
    â€œAround this next bend it is.”
    We dismounted, took a drink apiece, blew the sand off our rifles, and went forward afoot, toward a clump of bushes that covered the crooked cañon’s next twist.
    Beyond the bend, the floor of the cañon ran downhill into a round saucer. The saucer’s sides sloped gently up to the desert floor. In the middle of the