Outlaw Red

by Jim Kjelgaard

Danny hung up and went back out to where Ross knelt beside the still figure under the blankets. Danny shifted his feet uneasily. The night was not a particularly cold one, but it seemed to him that it was. He glanced at Ross, who shook his head, and they sat down to watch the road leading from the Haggin estate.

  Finally, the lights of two cars pierced the blackness. A sleek ambulance drew up in front of the lodge, and a black and white State Police car pulled in behind it.

  Danny, Ross, and Mr. Haggin stood aside while the efficient young doctor worked over Hat Dash. At last the doctor and the ambulance driver lifted Hat onto a stretcher and put him in the ambulance. Mr. Haggin broke the silence.

  “What are his chances, doctor?”

  “One in a hundred.”

  “Bad, eh?”

  “Very bad. I think the lung is punctured. We’ll have to operate—if he lives that long.”

  The ambulance glided smoothly down the road, and it seemed to Danny that he could breathe again. Life had been in the presence of Death, but now Death was gone, under the care of the doctor in the ambulance, and Life could resume its normal course. One of the efficient men in the gray uniform of the State Police turned to Danny.

  “Who was the wounded man?” he asked.

  “Hatley Dash.”

  “Do you know who shot him?”

  Danny fumbled, almost blurted out Billy’s name, then said, “No, I don’t.”

  The gray-clad trooper looked at him coldly, and Danny felt his face flame. Mr. Haggin broke the silence.

  “Corporal Graves and Constable Malone, meet Danny and Ross Pickett. I’m sure they’re not responsible.”

  Corporal Graves softened, and asked, “Who do you think shot him?”

  Danny said unwillingly, “I think it must have been his nephew, Billy Dash.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Our kennel boy,” Danny said. “Before he came to work for us, he lived up on Cummerly Knob.”

  “Was there bad blood between nephew and uncle?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Mr. Haggin broke in. “Where is Billy, anyway?”

  “He’s gone.”

  “The crazy kid,” Mr. Haggin murmured. “He might better stay and face it.”

  Corporal Graves took over again. “Gone, eh? Suppose you tell us what you know about this.”

  “Dad and I were in bed when Red—that’s this dog right here—growled. I figured it was some animal, then Sean, another of our dogs, let out a bellow. The rest of the dogs joined in, and I heard a revolver shot. When we ran out, Hat was on the ground in front of Sean’s run.”

  “That’s all you know?”

  “That’s all.”

  “All right, Danny. Now suppose you tell us what you think happened.”

  “I paid Billy today. Hat must have somehow known that I did. He came down for Billy’s pay, and threatened him with a gun. After Billy handed the money over they probably scuffled for the gun and Hat was shot. Billy must have been scared and ran away.”

  “That’s your opinion?”

  “That’s it.”

  “Was Billy the sort to pick a fight?”

  “No!”

  “How about Hat?”

  Danny said drily, “Hat wasn’t exactly a pacifist. You know these mountaineers.”

  “Well, we’ll have to pick Billy up. Can you take us to his house?”

  “Sure. But—”

  “But what?”

  “Nothing,” Danny said.

  The State Police were handling this. Plainly they expected Billy Dash to run for home. They might find him there, and then again they might not. In Danny’s opinion, home was the last place in the world that Billy Dash would head for.

  Sean was more than a little worried, and thoroughly mystified by the strange doings of the humans. Danny and the State Police, their natty uniforms wrinkled and dirty and a stubble of beard shading their faces, had come down out of the mountains alone. The uniformed men had waited around for a whole day, and seemed more than a little angry. Then they had left.

  Every afternoon, always at the hour Billy Dash had taken him out for exercise, Sean waited hopefully at the kennel gate. Billy did not come; even his well-remembered scent was fading. Danny had not yet been able to get another kennel boy and both Danny and Ross were far too busy to give all the dogs as much attention as they should have had. Only Sheilah, Red and Mike, dogs that normally ran free all the time anyway, had been outside the kennels.

  It was very boring. Sean had hunted ants until he was weary of it, snapped at flies until he was tired of that too, and was even bored with stalking the mouse. Though by all normal standards his cage was big enough, there was really not enough room for Sean to stretch his legs as he wanted to stretch them. There had been no mad dashes through the meadow, none of the mile-long races that he loved.

  Then, one morning, a small pickup truck came up from the Haggin estate. The truck’s body was fitted with stakes over which a tarpaulin stretched tightly. Sean knew the truck and its purpose as well as Red knew what would follow when Danny started cleaning his shotgun. But he did not like riding in the truck, and crawled way back in his kennel. It did no good, because Danny called him out. Sean flattened his ears in sad resignation.

  Released from his cage, he trotted slowly beside Danny, waited until the truck’s gate was lowered, and jumped up. Without being bidden, he entered the slatted dog crate inside the truck and lay down. The crate’s door was latched and the tail gate raised back into place. Sean heard Danny give last-minute instructions to the driver.

  “Sorry I have to send you alone, Joe. I’d hoped to have Billy go along too. But—” Danny shrugged eloquently.

  “Any news of Billy?” the truck driver asked.

  “Not a sign.”

  “How about Hat?”

  “He’s alive, and that says about everything.”

  “Poor Billy,” the truck driver commented. “Too bad he got himself into a scrape like that. Somebody else should have shot Hat—and twenty years ago.”

  “Yeah,” Danny agreed. “Now you deliver Sean personally to Tom Jordan, on the Pococimo Road. You know where it is, don’t you?”

  “Sure thing, Danny. But I wish the station wagon hadn’t gone on the fritz. This old crate ought to be junked.”

  “Well, take it easy. We won’t expect you back until late tonight.”

  Sean adjusted himself to the jolting motion as the truck bounced down the road, rolled past the Haggin estate, and entered a highway. The driver picked up speed, and for the first twenty miles the truck ran smoothly. Then there was a slight squealing, a loud noise, and the truck, on three good tires, lurched to a halt on the road’s shoulder.

  Sean looked on, mildly interested and not at all alarmed as the driver got out, looked disgustedly at the blown tire, and began to replace it with the good spare. Presently they were rolling again, out of the wilderness and past fat farms. Again the truck came to a sputtering halt. Once more the driver alighted.

  “Hound,” he said to Sean, “you’re a jinx.”

  The driver raised the hood and began to tinker with the engine, but it was a full hour before they started again. Meantime Sean relaxed in his cage. He didn’t know where they were going and he didn’t much care, but as long as the truck wasn’t jouncing him about he was content to lie still and sniff the strange scents that drifted into his crate.

  They passed through the farming country back into forested hills. Sean’s interest heightened. These woodsy smells were much more to his liking. Then, a second time within a few hours, there was the smacking jolt of a blown tire and the truck limped to the road’s shoulder. The driver stared at the tire helplessly, then looked balefully at Sean.

  “Now we are in a mess! Ten miles to the nearest town and no spare! Who’d think you could cause so much trouble in only one day?”

  He jacked the truck up, removed the blown tire, and sat down on a rear fender. But almost three-quarters of an hour elapsed before another car c
ame along. The driver hailed it down.

  “Take this into Arnold’s Garage at Clover, will you? Ask him to bring a new one and this spare back as soon as he can. Tell him I have to stay here and watch over one of Dick Haggin’s million-dollar mutts. He should hustle. Thanks a lot.”

  The sun was beginning to lower when the trouble car came with the necessary tires. The driver and the mechanic put one on the truck and the other on the spare wheel. When the mechanic had left, the driver, again ready to go, called back to Sean.

  “Hope you won’t mind a few jolts, dog. But if I’m going to get back at all tonight I have to step on it, and I know a couple of short cuts. Here we go.”

  He swerved from the macadam onto a dirt road, and began to climb. Sean lay still, entirely delighted. This was the sort of country he liked. Both sides of the road were heavily forested, and enchanting odors came from the woods. Sean smelled rabbits, grouse, deer, and once a panther that had crossed the road no more than a minute or two ahead of the truck.

  There was a sudden thunderous clatter that seemed to be directly beneath him, and Sean was startled. But the driver, muttering under his breath, merely increased his speed. The truck’s muffler had blown and little else could be heard.

  The truck bounced on a boulder, careened to another one, and bumped over a whole nest of them. Sean looked with interest at the tail gate. Both latches had come unhitched, and the gate was flapping behind the truck. But they did not slacken speed.

  Sean braced his feet and sat up. He seemed to be sliding, and that made him nervous. He looked down, past the side of the road, into a deep ravine that was floored with a tangle of rhododendron and laurel. The truck hit another rough spot. The dog crate jounced high, slid sideways, spilled out the back end, struck the road, and bounded into the ravine.

  All unaware, the driver roared on.

  3. Wanderers

  WHEN THE BIG .45 went off, and Uncle Hat dropped to the ground, Billy Dash leaned for a second against Sean’s kennel run to regain his spent breath. Then he sprang into action.

  He was the only gentle and even-tempered male among the entire clan of Dashes, and it had never been his wish to hurt anyone or anything. At the same time, Billy had learned long before he was in his teens that in the wilderness mere survival sometimes carries a high price tag. When circumstances demand it, whoever or whatever doesn’t fight doesn’t live either. This fight had been thrust upon him, and if he had not hurt Uncle Hat he would have been hurt himself. It was as simple as that, and the fact that the revolver had gone off accidentally made no difference.

  He felt great regret, but it was not sorrow for Uncle Hat, who had deliberately brought trouble. Billy knew that he himself would be lying there if Uncle Hat was not. He felt only a soul-searing disappointment because, all in the space of a few fleeting seconds, he had seen his brightest dreams destroyed.

  His relatives had jeered and ridiculed him when he went to work for Danny, but he had gone just the same. For the first time in his life he had found some of the things that he had always wanted, and there was a promise of more. Some day, like Danny, he might own one of those wonderful dogs. Maybe even a dog like Sean. Meanwhile he had wanted to continue working for Danny. Though he was not interested in dog shows, he knew very well that he could train the Irish Setters to hunt, as Danny had done with Big Red. That was what he had hoped to do.

  However, there was no chance of that now. Things were as they were, and all the hard work and wishing in the world could not make them otherwise. Problems were best faced squarely and realistically.

  He stooped, picked up the revolver, unbuckled the holster and belt-ful of cartridges that Uncle Hat wore, and strapped it around his own waist. He thrust the revolver into its sheath. Hastily he tapped Uncle Hat’s pockets. Finding another box, half filled with cartridges, he slipped it into his shirt pocket and faded into the darkness.

  Never once did it occur to him that he should stay and try to fight things through. He knew only that he had shot a man, and such actions always brought the law. No Dash, involved with the law or with an officer of the law, had ever come out ahead. They always lost, so the best thing was not to be caught

  Billy did not run; he was too woods-wise to flee blindly or to be panicked into anything foolish. He knew perfectly well that the pitch-black night shielded him. Give him twenty yards start on such a night and a thousand pursuers couldn’t catch him. Only with the coming of daylight would he be in any danger.

  He trotted across the meadow and into the forest. There he halted. Standing beside the gray trunk of a huge beech tree, he saw the lights come on in the lodge. A second later the kennels were floodlighted. If Uncle Hat weren’t already dead, he would be looked after.

  Billy leaned numbly against the tree, and again a bitter disappointment rose within him. Then he turned away from the life he would have loved and did not look back again.

  He climbed the side of the mountain, making no special effort to avoid noise. Nobody was coming after him tonight and if they did they couldn’t catch him. But tomorrow he must at all costs avoid being seen. If an officer, or anyone else, should find him and demand his surrender, Billy was not sure that he could use a gun. He still had no wish to hurt anyone, and the best way to make certain he wouldn’t have to fight again was to keep out of everyone’s sight.

  Reaching the top of the mountain, he rested. Though he hadn’t climbed fast, he had walked steadily, and was winded. Also, he wanted to plan out the rest of his flight.

  It was, of course, unthinkable to go home. That was partly a point of honor, for he did not want to run the risk of involving others of the clan. Also, Uncle Hat’s quarrelsome sons were there, and Billy wanted no more trouble.

  The mountain top was an almost solid bed of rock, with a thin layer of topsoil here and there. Green grass grew wherever there was such a place, as well as a few big beech trees and smaller scrub. Billy chose his way carefully, feeling a path with his feet and keeping on the rock as much as possible. He doubted if they’d set bloodhounds on him because there were none in the Wintapi as far as he knew. There were some very expert trackers, both dog and human, but Billy was not unduly worried by them because he was just as expert at hiding his trail. Also, many of the trackers were his friends. Even if they were hired or persuaded to track him down, there was some doubt that they would try very hard.

  He walked on, his mind made up. Last winter, before he went to work for Danny, he had lived in a lonely cabin twenty miles from his home on Cummerly Knob. All winter he had lived there, running a trap line, avoiding his relatives, and snowshoeing into Centerville whenever he needed supplies. Billy wanted to be into and out of that cabin a full two hours before daylight.

  It was about half-past two when he reached the cabin. He squatted on his haunches out there in the darkness, waiting to see whether or not the place was occupied. There was no smell of fresh wood smoke, and the path leading to the cabin was weed-grown. Going up the path, Billy halted ten feet from the door, stooped to pick up a stone, and threw it against the door. He heard it strike, and fall back. There was no challenge.

  Billy opened the door, entered, and groped on the table. A tin can full of matches was where he had left it. He struck one, by its rising flare located a stub of candle, and lighted it. The candle looked the way he remembered it, its own melted wax holding it upright in a cracked dish.

  Obviously the cabin had not been occupied since he left it. A thick pall of dust overlay everything, and the table was laced with delicate tracks where hungry deer mice had lately wandered across it. Billy looked at his storage shelf.

  There were four tightly capped tins there, and scrawled across them in pencil was an index of their contents: coffee, sugar, salt, and flour. In addition there were a few cans of dried fruits and vegetables. None of it would tempt a plunderer.

  Billy put the lighted candle on the floor, went to the cabin’s end floor board, and pushed with his foot. The board tilted to reveal a concealed hiding place
. This compartment beneath the floor had been his storage space, the place where he kept everything that he did not carry with him and did not dare take home. Anyone coming into the cabin, Billy hoped, would never suspect that it contained anything except the few odds and ends that were visible on the shelves.

  From his hiding place Billy withdrew a wrapped .22 repeating rifle, a carton of cartridges for it, a small can of cleaning solvent, a can of oil, a pair of moccasins, a shirt and coat, a hand axe, a pack sack, a dozen and a half steel traps, some fishing tackle, and an oilskin packet which, when opened, revealed fifteen one-dollar bills.

  Billy looked speculatively at the money. He hadn’t even thought to take his two weeks’ wages back from Uncle Hat, and money could serve him well. Thankfully he tucked the fifteen dollars into an in side pocket and began to assemble the rest of his gear on the table.

  Everything except the rifle and axe he stowed in the pack sack, and those he lashed to the side of his load. For a moment he deliberated. Others knew of the cabin. They knew it was his, and anyone coming to it within the next day or so would surely know that he had been there. That chance he would have to take. If he burned the cabin its glow could be seen in the darkness and he dared not tarry there after daylight.

  Twenty steps from the cabin’s door he plunged into a tangle of rhododendron which, even had it been viewed in daylight, would have seemed impenetrable. Billy entered unhesitatingly. Deer and elk abounded in this section of the Wintapi and the rhododendron thicket was a wide belt that divided two favorite grazing pastures. When they did not have to hide, animals were not partial to crashing their way through brush, and so the thicket was laced with trails. Billy knew all of them.

  Dawn was just breaking when he emerged on a high, heavily forested peak. This was one of the wildest parts of the Wintapi; the nearest passable highway was miles away. Billy dropped his pack, overturned rocks, caught a few of the big black crickets that crawled beneath them, and rigged his fishing rod. A streamlet, hardly more than a trickle of water, curled down from the peak. But Billy’s first cast produced an eight-inch trout. He caught another and then missed one. When he had six, he salted them sparingly, cooked them over a tiny fire, and ate. That done, he kicked his fire into the streamlet, concealed with pine needles the place where it had burned, and slept.