It seemed to me that Howard wanted me very badly—this was another added brick in the structure of evidence I was building. It wasn’t evidence in the legal sense, but it was good enough for me.
Towards dusk I made my preparations. I took the blankets from the pack and strapped them on the outside and, when it was dark enough, I began my descent to the valley floor. I knew of a reasonably easy way and it didn’t take long before I was approaching the edge of the camp. There were lights burning in two of the prefabricated huts, but otherwise there was no sign of life beyond the wheezing of a badly played harmonica. I ghosted through the camp, treading easily, and headed for the cookhouse. I didn’t see why I shouldn’t stock up on supplies at Howard’s expense.
The cookhouse had a light burning and the door was ajar. I peered through a window and saw there was no one in sight so I slipped through the doorway and closed the door behind me. A big cooking-pot was steaming on the stove and the smell of hash nearly sent me crazy, but I had no time for luxuries—what I wanted was the stock-room.
I found it at the end of the cookhouse; a small room, shelved all round and filled with canned goods. I began to load cans into my pack, taking great care not to knock them together. I used shirts to separate them in the pack and added a small sack of flour on top. I was about to emerge when someone came into the cookhouse and I closed the door again quickly.
There was only one door from the stock-room and that led into the cookhouse—a natural precaution against the healthy appetites of thieving loggers. For the same reason there was no window, so I had to stay in the stock-room until the cookhouse was vacated or I had to take violent action to get out…
I opened the door a crack and saw a man at the stove stirring the pot with a wooden spoon. He tasted, put the spoon back in the pot, and walked to a table to pick up a pack of salt. I saw that he was an elderly man who walked with a limp and knew that violence was out of the question. This man had never done me any harm nor had he set out to hurt me, and I couldn’t see myself taking Howard’s sins out on him.
He stayed in the cookhouse for an eternity—not more than twenty minutes in reality—and I thought he’d never go. He puttered around in a pestiferous way; he washed a couple of dishes, wrung out a dishrag and set it to dry near the stove, headed towards the stock-room as though he were going to get something, changed his mind in mid-limp just as I thought I’d have to hit him after all, and finally tasted the contents of his pot again, shrugged, and left the cookhouse.
I crept out, checked that all was clear outside, and slid from the cookhouse with my booty. Already an idea had occurred to me. I had decided to raise hell, and raise hell I would. The camp was lit by electricity and I had heard the deep throb of a diesel generator coming from the edge of the camp. It was no trick to find it, guided by the noise it made, and the only difficulty I had was in keeping to the shadows.
The generator chugged away in its own hut. For safety’s sake, I explored around before I did anything desperate, and found that the next hut was the saw doctor’s shop. In between the two huts was a thousand-gallon tank of diesel oil which, on inspection of the simple tube gauge, proved to be half full. To top it off, there was a felling axe conveniently to hand in the saw shop which, when swung hard against the oil tank, bit through the thin-gauge sheet metal quite easily.
It made quite a noise and I was glad to hear the splash of the oil as it spurted from the jagged hole. I was able to get in another couple of swings before 1 heard a shout of alarm and by that time I could feel the oil slippery underfoot. I retreated quickly and ignited the paper torch I had prepared and tossed it at the tank, then ran for the darkness.
At first I thought my torch must have gone out, but suddenly there came a great flare and flames shot skyward. I could see the figure of a man hovering uncertainly on the edge of the fire and then I went away, making the best speed I could in spite of my conviction that no one would follow me.
III
By dawn I was comfortably ensconced in the fork of a tree well into the thick forest of the north of the valley. I had eaten well, if coldly, of corned beef and beans and had had a few hours’ sleep. The food did me a power of good and I felt ready for anything Matterson could throw at me. As I got myself ready for the day’s mayhem I wondered how he would begin.
I soon found out, even before I left that tree. I heard the whirr of slow-moving blades and a helicopter passed overhead not far above treetop level. The downdraught of the rotor blew cold on my face and a few pine needles showered to the ground. The whirlybird departed north but I stayed where I was, and sure enough, it came back a few minutes later but a little to the west.
I dropped out of the tree, brushed myself down, and hoisted the pack. Howard had deduced what I wanted him to deduce and the helicopter reconnaissance was his first move. It was still too early for him to have moved any shock troops into the valley, but it wouldn’t be long before they arrived and I speculated how to spend my time.
I could hear the helicopter bumbling down the valley and thought that pretty soon it would be on its way back on a second sweep, so I positioned myself in a good place to see it. It came back flying up the valley dead centre, and I strained my eyes and figured it contained only two men, the pilot and one passenger. I also figured that, if they saw me, they wouldn’t come down because the pilot would have to stick with his craft and his passenger wouldn’t care to tangle with me alone. That gave me some leeway.
It was a simple enough plan I evolved but it depended on psychology mostly and I wondered if my assessment of Howard’s boys was good enough. The only way to find out was to try it and see. It also depended on some primitive technology and I would have to see if the wiles I had learned in the north would work as well on men as on animals.
I went through the forest for half a mile to a game trail I knew of, and there set about the construction of a deadfall. A snare may have been all right for catching a rabbit but you need something bigger for a deer—or a man. There was another thing, too; a deer has no idea of geometry or mechanics and wouldn’t understand a deadfall even if you took the trouble to explain. All that was necessary was to avoid man scent and the deer would walk right into it. But a man would recognize a deadfall at first sight, so this one had to be very cleverly constructed.
There was a place where the trail skirted a bank about four feet high and on the other side was a six-foot drop. Anyone going along the trail would of necessity have to pass that point. I manhandled a two-foot boulder to the edge of the bank and checked it with small stones so that it teetered on the edge and would need only a slight touch to send it falling. Then I got out the survival kit and set a snare for a man’s foot, using fishing-line run through forked twigs to connect to a single pebble which held the boulder.
The trap took me nearly half an hour to prepare and from time to time I heard the helicopter as it patrolled the other side of the valley. I camouflaged the snare and walked about the deadfall, making sure that it looked innocent to the eye. It was the best I could do, so I walked up the trail about four hundred yards to where it ran through a marshy area. Deliberately I ploughed through the marsh to the dry ground on the other side leaving much evidence of my passage—freshly broken grasses, footprints and gouts of wet mud on the dry land. I went still farther up the trail then struck off to the side and in a wide circle came back to my man-trap.
That was half of the plan. The second half consisted of going down the trail to a clearing through which ran a stream. I dumped my pack by the trail and figured out when the helicopter would be coming over again. I thought it would be coming over that clearing on to the next pass so I sauntered down to the stream and filled my canteen.
I was right, and it came over so unexpectedly it surprised even me. The tall firs muffled the sound until it was roaring overhead. 1 looked up in surprise and saw the white blob of a face looking down at me. Then I ran for cover as though the devil was at my heels. The ‘copter wheeled in the air and made a second pas
s over the clearing, and then a wider circle and finally it headed down valley going fast. Matterson had found Boyd at last.
I went back to the clearing and regretfully ripped a piece of my shirt and stuck it on a thorn not far up the game trail. I’d see these guys did the right thing even if I had to lead them by the nose. I humped the pack to a convenient place from where I could get a good view of my trap and settled down to wait and used the time to whittle a club with my hunting knife.
By my figuring the helicopter would be back pretty soon. I didn’t think it would have to go farther south than the dam, say, ten miles in eight minutes. Give them fifteen minutes to decide the right thing to do, and another eight minutes to get back, and that was a total of about a half-hour. It would come back loaded with men, but it couldn’t carry more than four, apart from the pilot. Those it would drop and go back for another load—say, another twenty minutes.
So I had twenty minutes to dispose of four men. Not too long, but enough, I hoped.
It was nearer three-quarters of an hour before I heard it coming back, and by the lower note I knew it had landed in the clearing. Then it rose and began to circle and I wondered how long it was going to do that. If it didn’t go away according to my schedule it would wreck everything. It was with relief that I heard it head south again and I kept my eye on the trail to the clearing, hoping that my bait had been taken.
Pretty soon I heard a faint shout which seemed to have a triumphant ring to it—the bait had been swallowed whole. I looked through the screen of leaves and saw them coming up the trail fast. Three of them were armed—two shotguns and one rifle—and I didn’t like that much, but I reflected that it wouldn’t make any difference because this particular operation depended on surprise.
They came up that trail almost at a run. They were young and fresh and, like a modern army, had been transported to the scene of operations in luxury. If I had to depend on out-running them I’d be caught in a mile, but that wasn’t the intention. I had run the first time because I’d been caught by surprise but now everything had changed. These guys didn’t know it but they weren’t hunting me—they were victims.
They came along the trail two abreast but were forced into single file where the trail narrowed with the bank on one side and the drop on the other. I held my breath as they came to the trap. The first man avoided the snare and I cursed under my breath; but the second man put his foot right in it and tripped out the pebble. The boulder toppled on to number three catching him in the hip. In his surprise he grabbed hold of the guy in front and they both went over the drop followed by the boulder which weighed the best part of a hundred and fifty pounds.
There was a flurry of shouting and cursing and when all the excitement had died down one man was sitting on the ground looking stupidly at his broken leg and the other was yowling that his hip hurt like hell.
The leader was Novak, the big man I had had words with before. ‘Why don’t you look where you’re putting your big feet?’
‘It just fell on me, Novak,’ the man with the hurt hip expostulated. ‘I didn’t do a damn’ thing.’
I lay in the bushes not more than twenty feet away and grinned. It had not been a bad estimate that if a big rock pushes a man over a six-foot drop then he’s liable to break a bone. The odds had dropped some—it was now three to one.
‘I’ve got a busted leg,’ the man on the ground wailed.
Novak climbed down and examined it while I held my breath. If any trace of that snare remained they would know that this was no chance accident. I was lucky—either the fishing-line had broken or Novak didn’t see the loop. He stood up and cursed. ‘Jesus! We’re not here five minutes and there’s a man out of action—maybe two. How’s your hip?’
‘Goddam sore. Maybe I fractured my pelvis.’
Novak did some more grumbling, then said, ‘The others will be along soon. You’d better stay here with Banks—splint that leg if you can. Me and Scottie’ll get on. Boyd is getting farther away every goddam minute.’
He climbed up on the trail and after a few well-chosen remarks about Banks and his club-footed ancestry, he said, ‘Come on, Scottie,’ and moved off.
I had to do this fast. I watched them out of sight, then flicked my gaze to Banks. He was bending over the other man and looking at the broken leg and he had his back to me. I broke cover, ran the twenty feet at a crouch and clubbed him before he had time to turn.
He collapsed over the other man, who looked up with frightened eyes. Before he had time to yell I had grabbed a shotgun and was pushing the muzzle in his face. ‘One cheep and you’ll get worse than a broken leg,’ I threatened.
He shut his mouth and his eyes crossed as they tried to focus on that big round iron hole. I said curtly, ‘Turn your head.’
‘Huh?’
‘Turn your head, dammit! I haven’t all day.’
Reluctantly he turned his head away. I groped for the club I had dropped and hit him. I was soft, I guess; I didn’t relish hitting a man with a broken leg, but I couldn’t afford to have him start yelling. Anyway, I didn’t hit him hard enough. He sagged a bit and shook his head dizzily and I had to hit him again a bit harder and he flopped out.
I hauled Banks off him and felt a bit dizzy myself. It occurred to me that if I kept thumping people on the skull, sooner or later I’d come across someone with thin bones and I’d kill him. Yet it was a risk I had to run. I had to impress these guys somehow and utter ruthlessness was one way to do it—the only way I could think of.
I took off Banks’s belt and hog-tied him quickly, then took off with the shotgun after Novak and Scottie. I don’t think more than four minutes had elapsed since they had left. I had to get to the place where the trail crossed the marsh before they did and, because the trail took a wide curve, I had only half the distance to go to get there. I ran like a hare through the trees and arrived breathless and panting just in time to hide behind the tall reeds by the marsh and at the edge of the trail.
I heard them coming, not moving as quickly as they had done at first. I suppose that four men hunting a fugitive have more confidence than two—even if they are armed. Anyway, Novak and Scottie were not coming too fast. Novak was in the lead and caught sight of the trail I had made in the marsh. ‘Hey, we’re going right,’ he shouted. ‘Come on, Scottie.’
He plunged past me into the marshy ground, his speed quickening, and Scottie followed a little more slowly, not having seen what all the excitement was about. He never did see, either, because I bounced the butt of the shotgun on the back of his head and he went flat on his face in the mud.
Novak heard him fall and whirled round, but I had already reversed the shotgun and held it on him. ‘Drop the rifle, Novak.’
He hesitated. I patted the shotgun. ‘I don’t know what’s in here—birdshot or buckshot—but you’re going to find out the hard way if you don’t drop that rifle.’
He opened his hands and the rifle fell into the mud. I stepped out of the reeds. ‘Okay, come here—real slow.’
He stepped out of the mud on to dry land, his feet making sucking noises. I said, ‘Where’s Waystrand?’
Novak grinned. ‘He’s coming—he’ll be along.’
‘I hope so,’ I said, and a puzzled look came over Novak’s face. I jerked the gun, indicating the prostrate Scottie. ‘Pick him up—and don’t put a finger near that shotgun lying there, or I’ll blow your head off.’
I stepped off the trail and watched him hoist Scottie on to his back. He was a big man, nearly as big as I am, and Scottie wasn’t too much of a load. ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Back the way you came, Novak.’
I picked up the other shotgun and kept him going at a fast clip down the trail, harrying him unmercifully. By the time we reached the others he was very much out of breath, which was just the way I wanted him. Banks had recovered. He looked up, saw Novak and opened his mouth to yell. Then he saw me and had a shotgun pointing at him and shut his mouth with a snap. The guy with the broken leg was still unconscious.<
br />
I said, ‘Dump Scottie over the edge.’
Novak turned and gave me a glare but did as I said. He wasn’t too careful about it and Scottie would have a right to complain, but I supposed I’d be blamed for everything. I said, ‘Now you go over—and do it real slow.’
He lowered himself over the edge and I told him to walk away and keep turned round with his back to me. It was awkward lowering myself but I managed it. Novak tried something, though; as he heard the thump of my heels he whirled round but subsided when he saw I still had him covered.
‘All right,’ I said. ‘Now take off Scottie’s belt and tie him—heels to ankles, hog fashion. But, first, take off your own belt and drop it.’
He unbuckled his belt and withdrew it from the loops of his pants and for a moment I thought he was going to throw it at me, but a steadying of the shotgun on his belly made him think otherwise. ‘Now drop your pants.’
He swore violently but again did as I said. A guy with his pants around his ankles is in no shape to start a roughhouse; it’s a very hampering position to be in, as a lot of guys have found out when surprised with other men’s wives. But I will say that Novak was a game one—he tried.
He had just finished tying Scottie when he threw himself at my legs in an attempt to bring me down. He ought to have known better because I was trying to get into position to thump him from behind. His jaw ran into the butt of the shotgun just as it was descending on him and that put him out.
High Citadel / Landslide Page 54