by Jory Sherman
They came to the place where Zak had found the sheep.
“Those sheepskins?” Randy asked.
“Narbona killed two sheep. I figure they made camp somewhere and cooked the meat.”
“Or ate it raw.”
Zak didn’t laugh. It was plain to him that Bullard had his own opinions of Indians and nothing Zak could say would change his mind.
“You ever do any tracking, Randy?”
“Some. Not in country like this. It looks like somebody took a firebrand to it and burned it to a crisp.”
“That’s volcanic ash,” Zak said.
“I see a lot of tracks. Horse and sheep and what looks like Injun mockersons.”
“And what do they tell you?” Zak asked.
Bullard studied the ground. He rode his horse around in a circle, then returned to his starting point, next to Nox.
“Well, looks to me like they all scattered like a covey of bobwhites.”
Zak smiled.
“They split up, all right. But Narbona wanted soldiers to come up here, find those sheep and come after him.”
“That what you think, Zak?”
“That’s part of what I think. In some ways, it doesn’t make sense. He didn’t drive the sheep any farther than here. He and his men went their separate ways. Why?”
“Hell, I don’t know.”
“Neither do I, but I expect, if we look close enough, we’ll find places up ahead where some of those men could hide and look right down here.”
Bullard raised his head and gazed at the high ground, scanning every cone-shaped hill and rocky outcropping.
“Maybe someone’s a-watchin’ us now,” Randy said.
“Maybe.”
Zak rode out of the flat place and followed a pair of horse tracks that wound through small hills and strange formations—lumps of earth that were small and squat or head-high and round—that rose out of the ground in erratic patterns. Each was flecked with stones and rocks and scraggly plants that were so twisted and malformed, they seemed to have grown up in agony.
An hour’s ride further, the two sets of tracks separated: one to the south; the other due west, through jumbles of small spires and coned hills that gave the landscape a look of desolation as far as the eye could see.
On either side of the horse tracks, larger hills began to appear as if to indicate there was much higher ground ahead. Yet, it seemed to Zak that they were in a kind of bowl, separated from the Sangre de Cristo range, as if the land had been permanently cut off from the main range in the far distant past. It became plain to him that the rider was following a trail, but not a heavily traveled one. It wasn’t a game trail, because there were no animal tracks other than the horse’s, and yet he could see some definition across the lava ash, a faint path less than a foot wide.
“How come you’re follerin’ this here track, ’stead of any of the others, Zak?”
The two men were sweating under the high sun. Their shadows were puddles ahead of them, but shrinking as the sun neared its zenith.
“Because the man riding the horse we’re following is staying to open ground. He has nothing to worry about. He knows the country. He knows where he’s going.”
“What about the other’ns?” Bullard asked.
“Those might be the ones watching the back trail. Two of them left drops of blood on the ground. This is one of them.”
“Huh? I didn’t see no blood.”
“Hard to see on that black ground. But those sheep were dripping blood. A while back, I saw a place where the rider who turned off to the south passed his sheep carcass to the other man. That’s the man we’re following.”
Bullard stared hard at the ground. He saw unshod hoof scuffs and marks, but nothing else.
“You must have eyes like a damned eagle, Zak.”
“You generally see what you’re looking for.”
“And you was lookin’ for blood drops?”
“They cut the throats of those sheep and rode on. They let the sheep bleed out. They didn’t gut them out or quarter them. So I don’t think they were going far.”
“You think we’re getting close to that Injun camp?”
Zak didn’t answer. There was no answer. In that country, what was close? What was far? It was a place that nature had forgotten, or perhaps had never known about. What had created the myriad of cone-shaped hills that looked like the caps of elves? What volcano had erupted and cloaked the soil with that black dust? What wind had swept through and wiped all but the most primitive life from its black surface?
As they rode, the land rose gradually. They were gaining altitude, a few inches at a time, and the features were changing. Hills on the other side of them began to rise higher and grow broader and longer. They found themselves in a trackless, jumbled terrain that defied mapping and remembrance. There were no outstanding landmarks, no distinctive features that a man could remember passing in an hour, a day, or two days. There were no trees to blaze, no trail to mark for their return. There were only the faint tracks of an unshod horse with no definable destination.
An hour later, with the sun past its zenith and glaring into their faces, the tracks led up a narrow defile that looked like an old wash from an ancient flood. The defile rose up a slope, and they climbed a small hill and kept on to an even larger hill, and then reached a still larger mound with a slightly rounded top that took them into a cooler, slightly thinner atmosphere.
Zak called a halt and looked around. They were in the open and there was no cover for several hundred yards in any direction. They were surrounded by larger hills, and any one or all of them could harbor watchful men with rifles whose bullets could reach them. Off to the right, Zak spotted a cluster of large boulders.
Bullard pulled out a cigarette and a box of matches. He offered a Piedmont to Zak, who shook his head.
“You don’t smoke,” Randy said.
“It blocks the sense of smell.”
“You ain’t a dog, Zak. What do you need a sense of smell for?”
Zak smiled.
“Everything on this earth gives off a scent. Smelling something that can eat you could save your life.”
“Never thought of it thataway.”
Bullard lit up.
Zak studied the tracks. They were heading toward the strewn boulders, which formed a kind of bulwark to an open place that was barely visible. He sniffed the air: A faint mixture wafted from that rocky place—the scents of wood smoke and cooked mutton, the tang of urine and human feces.
While Bullard smoked, Zak scanned the terrain around them and saw an overturned pebble, a small furrow a few yards away, a faint hoofprint near a scuffed patch of soil.
He left Bullard there and rode in a wide circle, staring at the ground. He saw more tracks. Tracks going and coming. A dozen or so at first glance. He rode back to where Bullard was waiting and cocked his head toward the boulders.
“This is where the whole bunch came,” he said. “Let’s go where those boulders are. You take the right flank and I’ll come in from the left side. Keep your thumb on that hammer.”
“You think Injuns are behind them big rocks?”
“No, Randy. But you never know. Just go in slow and be ready to shoot.”
Bullard ground out his cigarette on his saddle horn and stuck the remains in his shirt pocket. Zak rode off to the left. Bullard approached from the right.
The boulders formed a semicircle around the large, flat patch. Zak rode Nox in between two of the rocks and looked down at the ground.
Bullard came in from the other side. He let out a sigh of relief.
“Nary a soul here, red or otherwise,” the sergeant said.
“They ate their supper here,” Zak said.
“I see bones and places where they sat.”
“That fire ring is full of ashes.”
“What did they burn? Ain’t no trees real close.”
“They carried in their wood,” Zak said. “See that piece of scrub pine? It didn’t bur
n all the way down.”
“You’re sayin’ they got a camp up in the mountains?”
“Maybe more than one camp.”
“You read a lot from just a few scraps, Zak.”
“They were here less than two hours, I’d say. Pretty well organized. Look, from the front here, they can see the way we came up, and all around. They were safe here and they knew it.”
“Yeah. Gives me a funny feelin’. Hell, they could have bunked here overnight and picked us off when we rode up.”
“Easy as pie,” Zak said.
Zak heard a far-off sound. Just a snick of a sound, but he knew what it meant.
“Get off your horse, Randy,” he said. “Put him up flat against that big rock, and take cover.”
Before Randy could react, Zak had dismounted and snubbed Nox up against another large boulder.
“What’s up, Zak?”
Bullard crouched behind a smaller boulder next to the one where his horse stood.
“I heard someone cock a Henry or a Winchester.”
“I never heard nothin’.”
“Well, one of those two bucks came back here, or they left a lookout behind.”
“Where?”
“Up on that next hill, I figure. Let’s see.”
Zak stripped his bandanna from around his neck and tied it to the end of his rifle. Then he poked the rifle barrel in between two boulders, shook it for a second, then quickly pulled it back out of sight.
A second later they heard the crack of a rifle. Both men ducked and a bullet struck the side of the boulder behind which Bullard was squatting. It caromed off the granite and whined off into space.
Bullard swore under his breath.
Zak untied the bandanna and stuffed it in his back pocket. Both horses whickered in fear, and Bullard’s gelding pawed the ground. Bullard pulled on the reins to hold his horse’s head down and prevent the animal from bolting.
“That trick won’t work a second time,” Zak said.
“What are we going to do? The bastard’s got us pinned down.”
Zak drew a breath and thought about the situation. Whoever had fired the shot knew he hadn’t hit anyone. He could be moving in closer or taking up another position. The shooter could afford to wait them out.
Zak knew that he and Bullard could probably sneak off down the side of the hill they were on, gain a few minutes until they mounted up and rode like hell for cover. Or he might be able to draw another shot from the bushwhacker and see the muzzle flash. That would be dangerous, and might not work.
He looked at Bullard. The man was ready to fight, but he was as blind as Zak was. They were pinned down behind the boulders. Safe, but unable to return fire to an enemy they could not see.
“Well?” Bullard asked again. “Any ideas, Zak?”
“I know one thing,” Zak said.
“What’s that?”
“We aren’t going to surrender.”
Another shot rang out and the bullet plowed a furrow between the two men. The shooter had aimed between the boulders and gotten through with a round.
That shot told Zak something.
The shooter had moved, or there was another one out there.
The last shot had been several yards closer. But how close?
Too damned close, Zak thought.
Chapter 10
Zak knew that if he didn’t act fast, the shooter would keep them pinned down until his reinforcements came. Then he and Bullard wouldn’t have a chance in hell of getting out alive.
“Those shots came from a Spencer repeater,” Zak said.
“I know. Might be one they took off’n Kelso or Deming.”
“Randy, I want you to lie as flat as you can, put two rounds up there in the trees higher up on this hill. Think you can do that? Just shoot and duck back behind that boulder.”
“What’re you goin’ to do?”
“I’m going to slip out and see if I can mark the muzzle flash, drop the shooter.”
“You’re takin’ a big chance.”
“So are you, Randy. Now, don’t shoot until I get set and give you the high sign.”
“Right,” Bullard said.
Zak scooted over to an opening large enough for him to bolt through—to throw himself flat on the ground and look for that muzzle flash. He thumbed back the hammer on his Winchester, nodded toward Bullard.
Bullard rolled into the small opening, fired a shot into the scrub pines and junipers growing at the far end of the hill behind them. His rifle cracked, sounding like the snap of a bullwhip and the bullet sped toward the trees. He triggered off another shot and Zak hurled himself through the opening.
The man in the trees fired at Bullard. Zak saw the orange flash through a gap in the trees. The man was on horseback and was using a larger pine tree for cover.
Zak fired at the horse’s rump, which stuck out, a brownish lump. The bullet struck the tree and sheared off a chunk of bark. The horse bucked forward and Zak saw the rider lower his rifle and fight to stay in the saddle. Then the rider turned and the horse started to gallop back up the slope and into thicker vegetation. Zak levered another cartridge into the chamber and fired a quick shot at the retreating rider. He heard the bullet smash through limbs and crack them into splinters. The hoofbeats sounded loud and then faded.
He lay there, jacked another bullet into the firing chamber and listened.
Then he started scooting backwards, feeling his way through the opening in the boulders.
“Get him?” Bullard asked.
“I don’t think so,” Zak said.
“You got off a couple of shots. See the muzzle flash and all?”
“I did,” Zak said. “And I saw the rider. Just for a moment.”
“Navajo?”
“Well, if it was a Navajo, he was wearing an army uniform—a cavalry uniform—and he had on a campaign hat.”
“The hell you say.”
“Mount up and let’s ride up there. I want to see those tracks and follow that jasper, whoever he is.”
In seconds, the two men mounted their horses and rode toward the trees. They were ten yards apart and hunched over so that they didn’t present their upper torsos to anyone who might still be waiting in ambush.
Zak studied the tracks and so did Bullard.
“That’s mighty puzzlin’ and perplexin’,” Bullard said. “You might have been right, Zak.”
“That’s a shod horse that made those tracks. I did see a uniformed rider. And he was shooting a Spencer repeating rifle.”
“Yep, he sure was.”
Zak looked for blood spatter or droplets on the ground. He knew that he had missed the horse’s rump and he was pretty sure he hadn’t wounded the rider. The tracks showed that the horse was going away at a fast trot, zigzagging through the brush and scrub trees like a fleeing rabbit.
They rode over a small saddleback and into an even larger hill, one that came to a conical peak another thousand feet higher. But the tracks veered off and started skirting the hill, dropping off to their right. Then the going got rough, for the hillside was steep. Zak saw where the shod horse had dislodged dirt and rocks, slipped sideways a few inches, then climbed higher before going lower again. There were no trails there, and the brush was thick, the ground rocky and treacherous.
Zak and Randy came to a slide and saw where the rider had plunged his horse straight down.
“Reckless,” Zak said, noticing the deep gouges the iron hooves had made as the horse braked and slid down on its rump. The slide ended in a thicket growing among three hillocks. They could both see the first dirt and rocks piled up, either wet and brown or smooth and gray, depending on which side was exposed to the sun.
“He got clean away,” Bullard said.
Zak cupped his right ear and turned his head a few inches from left to right. He listened for sounds made by the horse, the click of an iron hoof on stone, the crunch of a bush or tree limb, the clatter of dislodged pebbles. All was quiet. All was unnerving in that si
lence.
“Hmmm.” Zak turned his horse and rode back up to the hilltop. Bullard followed. As he rode, Zak stuffed two fresh cartridges into his rifle’s magazine. He heard Bullard reloading the Spencer behind him.
“Now what?” Bullard asked when they reached the place where the sniper had fired upon them.
“Let’s see if I can pick up tracks of the Navajos who ate those sheep. See if they split up or rode somewhere in a bunch.”
“You’re the tracker, Zak. All I see is ground we tore up ourselves.”
Zak’s jaw tightened for just a second. He thought of a phrase he had heard while serving in the army, scouting for General Crook, fighting Indians in the north and the far west. When the pupil is ready, the teacher appears. He didn’t remember who said it, but the phrase had stuck with him. He thought Randy Bullard might be ready to learn something about tracking, and there was no better time than the present.
“We’ll ride through the moil of that bushwhacker’s tracks and our own, Randy. We’ll look for unshod hoof marks.”
“You goin’ to teach me a thing or two?”
“Maybe. You ride alongside me as much as you can and I’ll try and show you how to read the ground.”
“Fair enough, Zak. Where’d you learn all this?”
“From the Sioux, the Cheyenne, the Blackfeet, the Pawnee.”
“You been over the road, ain’t you?”
Zak rode on into the brush, his leg brushing against the scrub pines, limbs from a small juniper scraping Nox’s leg.
“You look at unmarked ground. Keep that picture in your mind. Then you look for a scuff mark, some little mark that seems out of place. Like there.”
Zak pointed to the ground.
“Yeah, looks like…well, I don’t know what it looks like. It ain’t got no clear…what do you call it?”
“Definition.”
“Yeah, it ain’t got that.”
“The dirt has filled in something that was there. A hoof mark, a gouge. Wind may have pushed dirt into the track. But it’s a track. Now, you follow that and look for more signs. Every so often you’ll see a clear track. It might be blurred by falling dirt that built up along the sides, but it’ll be clear enough.”