lla.theburninghills-第4部分

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　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　her　head　and　looked　at　him。
　Her　eyes　were　large　and　dark；　ringed　with　long　lashes；　and　in　that　first　glimpse　he　found　eyes　that　were　soft　with　a　woman's　tenderness　。。。　and　then　that　tenderness　was　gone　and　she　looked　away。　〃How　you　feel？〃
　She　spoke　abruptly；　her　tone　giving　nothing；　neither　friendly　nor　unfriendly。
　He　tried　several　times　to　speak　before　he　could　make　his　lips　shape　the　words。　〃Good。〃　And　then　after　a　pause　he　indicated　the　poultice。　〃Feels　good　…〃　She　gave　no　indication　that　she　had　heard　but　arose　and　went　to　the　edge　of　the　cliff　where；　concealed　by　the　manzanita；　she　looked　into　the　canyon。　He　listened　and　heard　nothing　and　after　a　few　minutes　she　returned　to　his　side。
　She　had　built　a　small　fire　to　heat　the　water　and　now　she　added　some　tiny　sticks　to　the　little　flame。　There　was　no　smoke；　almost　no　smell。
　〃Nice；〃　he　whispered。　〃Nice　of　you。〃
　She　looked　around　sharply。　〃I　do　it　for　a　dog！〃
　And　when　she　removed　the　poultice　the　gentleness　was　gone　from　her　fingers。　He　watched　her　as　she　worked；　liking　the　way　her　dark　hair　fell　across　her　shoulders；　the　swell　of　her　breasts　under　the　thin　blouse。　Yet　her　features　were　sullen　and　without　warmth。
　〃If　they　find　you've　helped　me　you'll　be　in　trouble。〃
　〃There　is　always　trouble。〃
　There　was　no　strength　in　him　and　he　lay　staring　up　at　the　overhang　and　he　must　have　slept；　for　when　he　awakened　again　she　was　gone。　The　fire　was　cold。　His　side　was　freshly　bandaged　and　his　face　had　been　bathed；　his　hands　washed。
　There　was　nothing　he　could　do　so　he　was　glad　no　effort　was　required　of　him。　Yet　he　could　wonder　about　the　girl　and　it　passed　the　long　hours　when　he　lay　awake　with　only　remote　sounds　from　the　canyon　or　the　distant　cry　of　an　eagle。　She　had　been　gentle　when　she　believed　him　unconscious　but　changed　abruptly　when　she　became　aware　of　his　attention。　It　made　no　sense　。。。　but　neither　did　her　presence　in　this　place。
　She　asked　no　questions　so　she　must　know　what　he　was　doing　here。　She　was　neat；　her　clothes　not　dusty　from　travel；　so　she　could　not　have　e　far　to　get　here。　Yet　if　she　lived　nearby；　the　Sutton　outfit　must　know　her。　Thought　of　the　Suttons　made　him　remember　his　guns。
　Lifting　himself　on　one　elbow；　he　saw　his　saddle　had　been　brought　nearby　and　his　rifle　lay　against　it　within　reach　of　his　hand。　His　two　pistols　in　their　twin　belts；　the　one　he　wore　and　the　spare　he　carried；　had　been　placed　near　him；　their　butts　within　easy　grasp。
　The　opening　of　the　path　down　the　mountain　had　been　barricaded　with　brush　and　branches；　all　dry　so　the　slightest　noise　among　them　would　awaken　him　if　he　slept。　Whoever　the　girl　was；　she　thought　of　everything　and　she　could　be　no　friend　of　the　Sutton…Bayless　outfit。
　Yet　how　had　she　reached　him　if　the　trail　was　blocked？　The　thought　of　another　approach　worried　him　and　if　the　girl　knew　of　this　place；　others　must　know。　For　the　first　time　he　gave　careful　attention　to　the　shelf　on　which　he　lay。
　That　part　of　the　hollow　exposed　to　the　sun　was　thick　with　grass　and　there　were　some　bushes　and　trees。　Where　he　lay　no　sunlight　could　reach　and　no　rain　unless　blown　by　wind。　There　was　grass　enough　for　his　horse　unless　he　had　to　remain　too　many　days。　Looking　around；　he　found　his　tobacco　and　papers　at　the　edge　of　the　ground　sheet　upon　which　his　blankets　were　now　spread。　He　rolled　a　smoke　and　when　it　was　alight　he　lay　back；　drew　deep；　then　exhaled。
　The　girl　might　be　an　Indian；　yet　she　was　no　Apache　and　this　was　Apache　country。　Yet　neither　her　facial　structure　nor　manner　impressed　him　as　Indian　and　her　inflections　were　definitely　Spanish。　Few　Mexican　families　were　supposed　to　live　along　this　section　of　the　border；　yet　it　could　be。
　It　was　very　hot。　He　rubbed　out　his　cigarette　and　eased　his　position。　Sweat　trickled　down　his　face。　His　mouth　tasted　bad　and　he　dearly　wanted　a　drink；　yet　lacked　the　will　to　rise。　Out　over　the　far　canyon　wall　a　buzzard　wheeled　in　wide；　lazy　circles。
　No　sound　disturbed　the　fading　afternoon　and　across　the　canyon　a　great　crag　gathered　the　first　shadow　of　evening。　Somewhere　a　horse　galloped　and　then　the　hoofbeats　drummed　away　into　silence　and　the　heat。
　Maria　Cristina　had　heard　the　riders　when　they　first　came　into　the　valley。　No　such　group　of　riders　had　e　to　the　canyon　since　her　father's　death　and　it　would　mean　nothing　but　trouble。　When　as　many　as　a　dozen　men　rode　in　a　group　in　this　country　it　meant　killing。
　Turning　from　the　sheep；　she　walked　to　the　horse　that　dozed　in　the　shadow　of　a　cottonwood　and　took　from　a　holster　an　ancient　Walker　Colt。　Held　at　her　side；　it　was　concealed　by　the　folds　of　her　skirt。
　She　had　no　reason　to　believe　the　oning　riders　were　friendly。　She　was　a　Mexican　and　she　owned　sheep　but　aside　from　that；　she　was　the　daughter　of　Pablo　Chavero；　who　had　died　up　the　canyon　to　the　west；　fighting　even　as　his　blood　wrote　its　epitaph　upon　the　rocks。　Listening　to　the　sound　of　their　ing；　she　could　almost　see　the　faces　of　the　riders。　Only　the　Sutton…Bayless　outfit　could　muster　so　many。　〃Jua