The Vengeance Seeker 3

by Will C. Knott

  In less than an hour he arrived once again at the small grassy meadow well below the crest of the ridge and started up from it along the narrow trail he had followed before to the ridge’s crest. He had carried only his handgun before; the rifle made the going more difficult.

  A hundred or so feet above the floor of the canyon, he reached for a handhold, found it and pulled himself up it and along a sheer plane of rock. As he was pulling himself into a niche above the rock face, the boulder he had used for a handhold suddenly groaned and spewing tiny pebbles out ahead of it, wrenched itself free and went tumbling down the mountain side. By the time it had gone halfway down the slope, it had collected enough debris and loose gravel to transform that single boulder into a small, noisy avalanche that wiped out what little trail Wolf had been able to follow this far.

  But it was the racket it made that worried Wolf. He pressed himself well into the niche and waited for any sign that Weed was above him on the trail and had heard the avalanche. He didn’t have long to wait. He heard a small cry far above him—and then the aborted shout of Mary Tyler. This was followed almost immediately by the crack of a rifle.

  The bullet struck a boulder just above Wolf’s head and ricocheted off into the canyon. Another shot followed and another in rapid succession. But all the bullets went whining off covering rock. Wolf remained perfectly quiet, hugging his Winchester to him. There was a good chance that Weed was shooting at the spot from which the avalanche had started simply as a safety precaution. It was doubtful Weed could have seen Wolf from that angle. The bullets whined around Wolf for a while longer, then ceased.

  The shattering echoing and reechoing of Weed’s rifle fire gradually subsided. In the ensuing silence Wolf strained his ears to hear Weed or Mary’s voice. After a long while, he became aware of Mary’s quiet sobbing. It drifted out over the rock-ribbed canyons, a sad, disconsolate sound.

  After waiting almost a quarter of an hour, Wolf resumed his climb. He moved now with infinite care, testing each handhold carefully before calling upon it to support his full weight. He did not so much climb as insinuate his way up the wall of rock like an enormous silent worm, seeking every ridge, taking advantage of each outcropping of rock for cover, pushing his Winchester silently ahead of him.

  He was within sight of the trail just above him when he heard the chink of spurs and heard Weed’s sullen voice snap something at Mary. Wolf heard her reply—a snarl, really—followed by the sound of a sharp slap.

  From what little Wolf heard, he gathered that Weed was tired of stationing himself on the trail, that he was thinking of retreating to the valley. Wolf did not want that to happen. As it was now, he was between Weed and the valley, approaching a portion of the trail above that where Weed had sent Cal Swinnerton crashing to his death. Now would be the time to catch Weed—by surprise and from the rear, cut off from his valley.

  But looking up at that portion of the slope he had yet to traverse, Wolf realized he had a problem. The incline from Wolf’s present position to the top was not as steep as that which he had already negotiated. It was closer to a forty-five degree angle. But the incline was not the problem. Wolf would be moving across open rock and would be entirely exposed as he made this last dash the remaining ten feet or more to the crest of the ridge; this was the difficulty.

  But it was one Wolf decided he could not debate any longer. He grabbed his Winchester, raised himself from behind the boulder he was using for cover, and started to scramble up the rock face to the ridge. He had removed his spurs long before and his passage across the smooth rock was reasonably quiet, but in the awesome silence of the place the sound of his boots striking the rock surface began to echo significantly.

  Weed whirled at the sound of someone running along the trail toward him—but saw nothing. There was no one there! Only Mary, who was also turning at the sound.

  And then Caulder—rifle in hand—exploded into view from below the trail! Weed had been right! There had been someone climbing the rock face! Even as this thought raced through Weed’s mind, his rifle was spitting a rapid fusillade of bullets at Caulder. But Caulder was rolling for cover and firing, all at the same time.

  A bullet tore into his sombrero, ripping it off his head so that it hung only by its chin string. Another bullet struck the rock wall beside him at about eye level, sending tiny fragments of stone into his eyes. Weed ducked his head to dig them out.

  Another bullet sang past his bowed head—and without thinking about it any further, Weed ducked up a small slope, trying to reach the protection of a large boulder. But Wolf Caulder followed him relentlessly and Weed now felt himself at a distinct advantage: it was impossible to climb for cover and shoot at the same time.

  He dropped his rifle and, using both hands, hauled himself out of view of the trail and behind the boulder. Crouching behind it, he withdrew his six-gun and peeked around the base of the rock. Caulder was just below him, his one eye sighting along the rifle barrel. As Weed peeked out, the rifle bucked. Weed pulled himself back behind the boulder and cursed as the bullet whined past.

  Then he looked around him. He was trapped. The slope went no higher. And Mary was down there with Caulder. He glared up at the sun, which glared back down at him out of a cloudless sky. Sweat was pouring off him. Leaning his head back against the rock, he listened—and checked to make sure his six-gun was fully loaded.

  But what good would that do? Every time he poked his head out, he’d be giving Caulder a clear shot. He had to think of something.

  Just below Weed on the trail, Wolf was lying prone, looking up at the boulder behind which Weed Leeper was crouching. Though one of Weed’s bullets had caught Wolf on the right shoulder, it was just a flesh wound and Wolf was able to hold his rifle steady as he waited for Weed to show himself again. Abruptly Mary was beside him.

  “You’re hurt!” she cried. “Your shoulder is bleeding!”

  “The bullet’s gone clear through. It’s just a flesh wound. Now get back, Mary!”

  Reluctantly Mary moved away from him further up the trail. Wolf began to wonder what Weed’s next move would be. As if in answer to Wolf’s unspoken question, Weed called out,

  “Caulder ...?”

  “What do you want, Leeper?”

  “You got me trapped. I give up. I’m going to throw down my six-gun and come out. You can take me in to the sheriff at Landusky. But I ain’t going to fight you no more.”

  “I wouldn’t advise it, Weed,” Wolf said. “You might have an accident between here and Landusky.”

  “You ain’t going to shoot down an unarmed man, Caulder ... not a with a witness standing right there, you ain’t.”

  Weed stepped out coolly from behind the boulder, holding his six-gun by the barrel. Keeping his rifle trained on the man, Wolf got carefully to his feet. Weed tossed his Colt down the short slope to the trail, then proceeded to climb carefully down the slope toward Wolf.

  Wolf kicked Weed’s six-gun over the edge of the ridge. It made a distant sound when it shattered upon the rocks far below. Weed was now on the trail in front of Wolf, his eyes shifting warily from Wolf to Mary.

  “Looks like you got me, Caulder,” Weed said, his yellow teeth gleaming in his ragged, unshaven face.

  “Wolf,” said Mary nervously. “I don’t like it. He’s up to something.”

  Weed laughed. “Why, Mary! Don’t be so nervous! What could old Weed possibly do now? Caulder’s got him plumb licked.”

  Wolf glanced up the trail at Mary, intending to ask her to get Weed’s horse if she could. That moment of inattention was all Weed had been waiting for. Pulling a bowie out of his shirt, he lunged at Wolf.

  Wolf tried to bring his rifle back around, but before he could, Weed’s lowered head and shoulder struck Wolf in the chest, slamming his head back against an outcropping of rock. Dazed, Wolf felt his rifle clatter to the trail. Mary screamed as Weed pulled back his bowie preparatory to plunging it into Wolf’s gut.

  Wolf’s head cleared. As Weed thrust, Wo
lf slipped to one side and grabbed Weed’s right wrist with both hands, then twisted—ignoring Weed’s sledging blows to his head and body. The man was beating at him frantically, like the wings of a giant bird Wolf had grabbed. But Wolf simply hung on to the man’s wrist and kept twisting. With a sudden shrill scream, Weed let the knife drop. Wolf kicked it over the edge, released Weed and drew his six-gun. With one powerful swipe of the gun barrel, he caught Weed on the side of the head and sent him to the ground.

  Then he cocked the six-gun and aimed at the man’s head.

  It was Mary who stopped Wolf from pulling the trigger.

  She moved up grimly beside him, Wolf’s Winchester in her hand. “No,” she said. “Let me finish him. Let me!” Her eyes were sick with loathing.

  Wolf paused, allowing his own fury to subside somewhat. He holstered his six-gun and reached for the rifle in Mary’s hand, intending to take it from her. But Mary stepped quickly back out of his reach and aimed the weapon at Weed.

  Weed was sitting up by this time, staring at Mary. He looked nervously at Wolf ignoring a steady flow of blood from one of his nostrils. “She’s crazy,” he said. “You ain’t going to let her do this, Caulder!”

  “He’s not going to be able to stop me, Weed,” Mary said, levering a fresh cartridge into the breech.

  With a cry Weed leaped to his feet and started for Mary. Wolf reached out to grab him. Weed ducked away from Wolf—without watching where he placed his feet. He slipped. With a look of pure horror Weed glanced down and saw his feet sliding on loose gravel. He reached out to grab something—anything—to hold on to; but he was too close to the edge. He came down hard on one knee, his two feet over the edge, and reached out for a shrub. Grabbing it desperately, he succeeded only in pulling it out of the ground, roots and all.

  With a scream he disappeared over the edge.

  His scream was cut off abruptly—too soon.

  Wolf peered over the edge and saw Weed Leeper lying on his back on a narrow ledge about twenty yards below them. He was in full view, lying on his back, staring up at them both.

  A thin trickle of blood was running from one corner of his mouth.

  “I can’t move, Caulder!” the man called. “My back! I landed on something ...!”

  “Another trick,” said Mary.

  “I don’t think so. Where’s his horse?”

  “Down the trail.”

  “Get a rope. I’ll lower it to him.”

  “Leave him be! Let him rot there!”

  “Get the rope.”

  She returned a few minutes later with a Spanish reata. Wolf let it down to Weed. The man had not moved a muscle during Wolf’s wait for Mary to return. Now, as the tip of the reata touched Weed’s chest, there was no movement at all from Weed.

  “I told you,” the man gasped. “I can’t move. My back’s broke! You sonofabitch! You did it. Both of you! I can’t move!”

  Wolf pulled up the reata and looked around for something he could tie it to; there was nothing. He didn’t trust a horse on this narrow and treacherous a trail. There was too much gravel.

  Suddenly the shadow of a vulture passed over them both. Mary shaded her eyes to watch the large bird drifting not too far overhead. Wolf glanced up at it too. This bird would be the first of many that would soon begin to visit that ledge.

  “Good,” Mary said.

  Wolf knew what Mary was thinking. Vultures did not drop upon carrion because they smelled death—but because they detected a carcass that did not move for an abnormal length of time, that lay in the sun without protection.

  They would alight on Weed’s ledge. Weed would scream but he would not be able to move—and while he still lived, their beaks would begin to tear into his still warm flesh ...

  Wolf reached out and took his Winchester back from Mary.

  “No!” she cried. “Let him be. It’s what he deserves. Let them pick him apart!”

  “No, Mary. It’s what you want now—but not when you look back on it.”

  Wolf fitted the stock to his left shoulder and took careful aim at Weed Leeper’s face. The blood flowing out of his right shoulder’s flesh wound had made that shoulder heavy and stiff. He lifted his cheek from the stock and flexed his shoulder.

  “Go ahead, you son of a bitch!” Weed called. “Shoot!”

  Wolf sighted quickly and squeezed the trigger. The bullet struck Weed’s face like an invisible boot, stamping one side of it into a dark stain that flowed quickly over the ledge. But Wolf was still not certain that Weed was dead.

  “Weed!” he called down.

  There was no answer. When he called again and there was still no answer, he turned away from the ledge. Mary was weeping silently, her head averted.

  Another vulture had joined the first one in the sky overhead.

  Twelve

  As Wolf emerged from the Tylers’ cabin and mounted his black, he saw the three riders—sheriff Alvard and two deputies—barely visible in the distance. Elton Parsons had ridden up a moment before to warn Wolf, and as Wolf looked back at the young man standing beside Mary and Bobby, he smiled thinly.

  “They look like they might be coming from the Double D,” he said. “Guess they found the two fresh graves.”

  “Are you going to be well enough to ride, Wolf?” Mary asked, shading her eyes as she looked up at him.

  “Another week of your cooking, Mary,” he replied, “and I’ll be too fat to ride.”

  Wolf glanced over at Bobby. The boy had cried a few nights back for the first time—cried with great, explosive sobs that threatened to tear him apart; and all through that night Wolf had fought to keep Mary from going in to Bobby and trying to stem the flow of grief.

  At last Wolf had gone in to the boy and smiled and told him that it was over now. His father was dead as was Weed Leeper, the man who had killed him. Nothing more needed to be done; the killer had been suitably punished. Now Bobby had to get on with his life. His sister needed him and the new farm was waiting for him to bring it to life.

  The boy had nodded and managed a smile. Wolf left and Mary went in then and stayed beside him until he slept.

  Now Bobby was fit. As Wolf waved to him, the boy stepped forward. “Goodbye, Wolf,” he said, extending his hand.

  Wolf leaned over and shook Bobby’s hand. The boy’s handclasp was firm.

  Mary moved closer. Softly, she asked, “Will you not come back some day?”

  Wolf shook his head firmly and glanced significantly at Elton Parsons. The young man had begun riding over almost daily during the past week and had been of considerable help—both to Mary and to Bobby. And he had asked no questions of Wolf, accepting without comment the situation between Wolf and Mary.

  Mary colored and stepped back, suddenly shy.

  Bobby said, “They’re getting closer, Wolf.”

  Wolf nodded, waved to the three of them and rode off down the river. Once out of sight of the sheriff and his men, he lifted his black to an easy gallop, intending to cut south through the Absarokas until he hit the Little Snake.

  He would like to think that he might someday return to Mary and to Bobby, but he doubted it. He would be a wanted man in the area for as long as Sheriff Alvard was the law in Landusky.

  Besides—he was still Wolf Caulder, and nothing he could do—or wanted to do—could ever change that.

  About the Author

  William Cecil Knott was born in Boston, Massachusetts on August 7 1927. Following a stint in the US Air Force, he became a junior high school teacher and went on to continue his academic career in Connecticut, West Virginia, New Jersey and New York. Between 1967 and 1983, Knott was Assistant Professor (later Associate Professor) of English at the State University of New York. In his free time, he also carved out an impressive body of fiction, most of it in the western field. In addition to creating his own series, The Vengeance Seeker and Golden Hawk, he also contributed to the Stagecoach Station series (as Hank Mitchum), Slocum (as Jake Logan), Longarm (as Tabor Evans) and The Trailsman (a
s Jon Sharpe). Under the names Bill Knott and Bill Carol he wrote several children’s books, and also contributed to the WWII adventure series Mac Wingate, which is also being republished by Piccadilly Publishing.

  Mr. Knott passed away in 2008.

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