Wolf urged his horse off the ledge and into the stream bed and moved down through the damp cavern for better than a mile, the water piling up around the black’s legs almost to his belly at times. At last the canyon walls widened. Wolf left the stream and found no trail and no sign of the riders tracks.
Furthermore, as he now realized, he was well below that valley he had glimpsed back on the trail. He rode on for a mile or so further and found himself riding into a wide pass, one of the few that led through the range. Having spotted no further signs whatsoever, he turned back to the stream.
This time as he rode back up through the rushing water, his eye watched the walls on both sides. In less than a mile he caught the slight fold of rock behind which a narrow trail could be glimpsed. He rode into it and soon found himself in a narrow canyon which allowed his horse passage through it only grudgingly. Presently he came out onto a grassy sward on a ledge overlooking the valley he had seen from above.
How many such hidden places as this there were in these mountains, Wolf could only guess. But he was lucky to have found this one. It was far less accessible than that valley of his where he had taken Tinsdale.
Wolf took a quick look around. It was late in the afternoon, but he had plenty of sunlight left. He dismounted and began to lead his horse. Diego Sanchez had not raised Wolf Caulder to take foolish chances—and riding into this valley aboard the black would be giving Weed Leeper a target too fat to miss.
Seven
As Wolf led the black down the narrow trail that wound deeper into the valley, Weed Leeper left the bank by the stream where he had been fishing that afternoon and started back through the pines toward his cabin. Returning with a string of four fat mountain perch, Weed was content.
It had been seven years since Weed had found this remote roost of his high in the Indian River Range. He had been forced to shoot his crippled mount and take refuge in a clump of pines outside the range on the crest of a foothill; and when the posse after him had pressed him too closely, he had found the trail and followed it up onto the ridge. It was later that same day, while looking for a campsite by the stream he had been forced to follow, that he had discovered the pass leading into the valley.
As he led his pack animal from the narrow pass deeper into the valley, he had felt a profound awe at its incredible isolation and beauty. He realized at once that no other white man had ever explored these clear streams and the deep, fragrant woods, alive now at twilight with the song of robins. When at last he came to the mountain lake and looked into its blue, clear depths, he knew he had found the perfect place: an Eden he could claim—and would claim—as his own.
From a filthy flat in St. Louis—where the vermin had free passage over the floors, the sink, the table, and over his restlessly tossing body at night—Weed Leeper had fled west at the age of fifteen, certain that his widowed slattern of a mother wouldn’t care and filled with a desire for something better—and a black rage he made no effort to control. Word of the mountain men had come to him in St. Louis, but he was almost thirty years too late; the fur trade had destroyed itself. Even the buffalo were gone.
It wasn’t long before his temper got him into a shooting, and before he was eighteen he had killed his first man. The brutal finality of his action had satisfied something deep within him, and soon he was riding with a gang. With the money their depredations provided, he was able at last to buy himself a woman and his brace of pistols. But he could not last long with any gang; he hated too deeply and easily, and soon the sight and smell of his companions sickened him—the old rage would rise like bitter gall into his mouth and he would move on, not always peacefully.
But after finding his hidden valley, Weed discovered a purpose—to build in the valley and make it his own, away from the stench of humanity. And with a woman of his own, one he did not have to pay for each time. So he had joined the Dawson Bunch, and after each successful raise he took his share and rode back to the valley, where he continued to build, returning to the Dawsons only when he needed more cash to continue work on his place.
It was while he attended the trial of Matt Warner and saw how dangerous live witnesses could be that he adopted his policy of shooting down without hesitation any of his victims that took too long a look at him. The method had worked perfectly as far as Weed was concerned, and now as he emerged from the pines and smelled the sharp tang of the wood smoke in the damp, evening air, he felt a faint tug of derision at the memory of Luke and Abe Dawson pleading with him to shoot with less abandon.
For though they seemed to deplore his actions most angrily, they never failed to include him on any raises they were planning. They maybe thought they were too good for him, but they sure as hell appreciated his two, ready six-guns.
Like Mary, Weed thought as he neared the cabin’s entrance. She sure as hell protested when he took her, but at the same time she never took any opportunity to take after him with a knife or one of his guns. She liked it well enough, Weed had long since concluded. Besides, he’d suspect her if he found her sucking around him like some women he’d known.
He liked his women to hate him just a little. He wouldn’t have no respect for them otherwise.
Holding the string of perch away from his deerskin leggings, he leaned his sapling fishing pole against the side of the cabin and stepped into the cool interior.
Watching Weed approach the cabin across the clearing, Mary’s fierce resolve almost deserted her. For more than two hours she had been waiting for his return—cursing him for his delay while at the same time praying that he would not come at all—that some blind stroke of fate would strike him down, ridding her of him forever. But of course it was not to be that simple, and that knowledge had overwhelmed her a moment before as she saw Leeper’s lean frame emerge from the pines with the fresh, gleaming fish dangling from the line he held in his right hand.
But the moment of panic had passed and she had tightened her grip on the large carving knife she had sharpened especially for this deed and then moved into the darkness beside the doorway, the knife brought up over her right shoulder. His footsteps were clearer now. She could almost smell the fish he was bringing. And then the doorway darkened as Weed’s lean bulk filled it.
Hesitating only a moment, he stepped inside. Mary closed her eyes and brought the knife down in a furious, clashing arc. But he had caught her movement on the instant she left the wall and was turning when she struck, his right arm swinging up to ward off her blow. Mary felt the knife catch something; but the blade did not penetrate what it had found, and at the same time her hand was struck and the knife sent flying from her fist.
Mary opened her eyes as Weed grabbed both her wrists and pulled her toward him. He had dropped the string of perch when he swung around as she struggled to pull away from him, her shoes slipped on the fish and she lost her footing. As she fell, Weed caught her up and with a snarl of pleasure, strode across the floor to the bed.
At once she realized his intentions and it drove her wild. She began beating upon him as she had done so often before. But as usual it did her no good. Her blows only seemed to strengthen him, to increase his lust for her.
He flung her down onto the bed. The straw-filled mattress caught her in the small of the back. She felt her breath explode from her lungs and tried to roll aside, but his dark bulk was too quick for her—and then he was on her, catching at her flailing fists in an effort to pin them.
He breathed heavily, his yellow teeth showing in his dark, satanic visage. He was enjoying himself hugely. Sweat from his face dropped onto her neck. Its warmth chilled her to the bone and made her increase her struggling. Weed grunted as her right hand, frozen into a claw, raked down the right side of his face. He sat back quickly, measured her happily, then brought his right fist around. He had aimed for the point of her chin, but she swung her face away and the blow caught her high on the cheekbone.
She felt the skin begin to swell almost at once. Insane now with fury, she grabbed his other arm with both
hands and pulled it down to her mouth. Sinking her teeth into the sweaty, grimy flesh nauseated her, but she hung on grimly—aware of Weed’s abrupt cry of dismay. But almost at once the dismay became sharp, excruciating pain and Mary heard his low moan as he struck at her face with his free hand. It only caused her to bite deeper. The salty warmth of his blood filled her mouth and she felt it streaming down her chin as he swiped her face again and again.
At last one blow fogged her resolve. She felt her jaws slacken, and then he had pulled his arm free. Still groggy from his blows to her head, she tried to scramble away from him. But Weed grabbed the neck of her dress and with a quick, powerful yank ripped it open all the way to the waist. Another quick pull and she was naked before him.
He struck her again in the face and mounted her, the powerful animal stench of him aroused to a peak by the recent struggle. He cried out in lusty triumph as he thrust home—and she felt herself responding in spite of herself as once again her body betrayed her. Only then did she begin to cry—as deep, racking sobs exploded from deep within her.
Weed rolled off the woman and made no effort to sit up, a delicious drowsiness falling over him. She was quiet now—her tears having long since given out. His left arm was bleeding steadily where she had bitten him. But he gave it no thought. In the end, as always, she had let him take her and had responded herself finally—despite the tears that came afterward. She was getting to be more animal than woman, and that was the way he liked it.
Weed blinked his eyes in a sudden effort to see more clearly. But even though he saw the man, he could not believe he was there. Wolf Caulder was approaching the doorway. He was less than a yard from it!
There was that same black eye patch, the same deep cleft that ran from the stove-in eye socket back to his ear. His mouth was thin, mirthless. He was wearing a black, flat-crowned Stetson, a black vest and white shirt with a dark blue bandanna knotted at his throat.
And in his right hand he held a Colt.
As Caulder stepped from the brightness of the yard into the gloom of the cabin, Weed reached back for Mary, grabbed her hair, and hauled her to her feet. She was still dazed and with wide, staring eyes looked first at Weed, then at Caulder stepping into the cabin. The knife Mary had tried to kill Weed with was on the floor by the mattress. Weed reached down for it and brought it up quickly, digging its point into the white flesh just under Mary’s chin.
“Hold it right there, Caulder,” Weed said. “One step further and I’ll sink this blade in all the way.”
When Mary tried to twist away, Weed flung his bloody arm about her shoulders and squeezed her to him, her nakedness between him and Caulder. The knife bit deeper.
Wolf had thought Weed was asleep. And stepping out of the sunlight into the cabin’s cool dimness had given the edge to Weed. Before Wolf could see well enough to fire at Weed as he lay on the mattress, the man had sprung to his feet, dragging the woman upright as well.
Despite the lack of light in the cabin, Wolf could see clearly the bright tracery of the woman’s blood as it snaked down her neck and across one breast. She struggled to get away and Weed flung an arm about her shoulder and the knife went in a fraction deeper.
Wolf dropped the Colt to the cabin floor.
Weed flung the girl from him, strode quickly forward, his yellow teeth flashing in his face and kicked Wolf’s gun into the far corner. Before Wolf could make a move for the man, he had changed direction and strode over to a chair by the table. One gunbelt and a holstered six-gun were hanging on the back of the chair. As Weed pulled his weapon out and leveled it at Wolf, he chuckled.
“See you got here finally,” he said. “Guess that means you took care of Luke and Abe. Well, now it’s my turn, one-eye.”
His thumb cocked the forty-five and he lifted the gun to sight along its barrel.
Wolf had seen the girl moving for the chair behind Weed out of the corner of his eye. It had taken all of his self control not to flick a glance in her direction, which would have given her away instantly. As she raised the chair over her head, Wolf ducked to one side.
The gun in Weed’s hand fired just as the chair came crashing down on the back of Weed’s neck. This together with Wolf’s quick movement was what saved him. The bullet slammed into his right side, spinning him around and slamming him back against the doorjamb. As he lost his footing and slid to the cabin floor, he turned in time to see Weed, on his knees from the force of the woman’s blow, turn to face her. He was in a rage, and using his gun as a club, he brought it around with vicious force, catching the woman on the side of the head. She went flying backward, the portion of the chair that had not broken under the impact of her blow still clutched in her hands.
But when she hit the floor of the cabin, she lost everything and lay on the floor dazedly, looking up at the still enraged Leeper. He was not through with her. That one blow would have floored a mule, but when he saw that she was still alert to his presence, he advanced on her with a cry of rage, reached down and pulled her to her feet. At once he began to pound her with the gun barrel about the head and shoulders while she cried out in tiny, shrill yelps of pain.
At last she crumpled, but still Weed went after her. Taking up a leg of the chair she had dropped, he began beating her naked body with it. The woman rolled over onto her stomach, pulled herself into a fetal position and covered her head with her hands while Weed, beside himself now, continued to flail away at her. His breath was coming in sharp, agonized bursts. He sounded like a man who had been running full tilt up a mountain side.
And still—mindlessly—he kept pounding at her unresisting nakedness.
So intent was he on his madness that he did not see Wolf crawling on his hands and knees across the cabin floor to the corner where Weed had kicked his Colt. As Wolf closed his right hand about the butt of his weapon, Weed caught the movement and spun about to face Wolf, the chair leg held suspended in mid-air.
Wolf raised the gun and fired—all in one swift movement. The slug caught Weed in the upper portion of his right arm. He dropped the chair leg and staggered back. But by this time Wolf was so weak the gun in his hand felt as heavy as a railroad tie.
He did his best to steady the gun as Weed fell back and managed one more shot. But this one went wild, the slug tearing a good-sized chip of wood out of the door frame above Weed’s head.
Wolf brought the barrel down and fired a third time. By then, however, Weed had vanished from the cabin. Wolf dragged himself back across the floor and reached the doorway in time to see Weed disappearing into the barn. He steadied his gun hand on the door sill and waited. When he caught movement in the shadows deep inside the barn, he fired again.
A moment later a horse and rider exploded out of the stable and cut sharply around the barn and headed for the far slope. Wolf squeezed off two more shots. When the hammer fell on an empty chamber, he let the gun fall from his hands and felt himself sinking into darkness.
Mary had seen it all from behind a red curtain of pain. A part of her had crawled deep inside her flesh to await the deliverance of death; the sudden cessation of Weed’s blows had been the granting of a miracle for which she had long ceased to pray.
Now Weed was gone and the one-eyed stranger was lying face down in the doorway, the sound of Weed’s horse fading in the distance. The silence at last was overwhelming—blessed. Weed was gone! She lay still, not daring to move, afraid to try her body for fear it would all come apart. It was still on fire from Weed’s blows. Only gradually did she allow herself to breathe deeply and was elated to find that she could.
She looked over at the still figure lying across the doorway. A dark pool of blood was gathering under his right thigh and beginning to reach out blunt fingers toward her across the rough wooden floor. The man had been shot by Weed. She remembered seeing him thrown back against the doorjamb a second before Weed turned on her.
She closed her eyes against the memory of Weed’s clubbing revolver, then felt of her face. It was raw to the touch and s
wollen. Her temple was bleeding, she noticed for the first time, her thick hair snarled in the blood. That would account for the heavy thudding on that side of her head.
But she could see all right and could move all her limbs.
She crawled slowly across the floor to the fellow over the doorsill. She reached him at last and began to tug at him until he rolled over. She looked down into his face.
His eye patch had been dislodged when his head fell forward and she gasped at the sight of the empty socket, devoid of any vestige of an eye. For a moment she imagined she could see into the fathomless darkness of his mind. Pity flowed through her like a vitalizing current and she quickly pulled the patch down over the empty eye socket. The strange man’s ravaged face, so thin, so bone-hard, bronzed to a dull sheen by the action of sun and wind—and bent so oddly out of shape—aroused in her a sense of outrage as well as pity.
Someone had done this to him years before, possibly when he was but a boy. How cruelly he had been used! Perhaps by someone as depraved as Weed Leeper.
Fired now to action, she forgot her own pain and ripped open the man’s shirt to examine his wound. It appalled her. The bullet had torn a hole in his side as large as a silver dollar, and from this enormous wound flowed a steady stream of dark blood.
She looked back up at the man’s face. It was already growing paler. She had to do something to stem the flow of blood or the man would bleed to death. She crawled back to her torn dress where Weed had thrown it. She ripped portions of it into strips and then raised herself upright and limped over to the sink for the bucket of well water sitting on the sideboard. The water was still almost ice cold. She plunged the cloth strips into it, then returned to the wounded man.
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