The beginning of the trail loomed close. Cameron looked back. The twisting canyon showed empty for the moment. Quickly, he spurred the roan up the right fork. It stumbled over flinty ground, dropped down a short slope and then moved around the first bend. And now Cameron took the pressure off, letting the horse find its own gait.
The trees began a short distance ahead. It would be somewhere within the next quarter mile that he would find the clearing, he recalled. He watched the trees close in, casting their shadows, bringing the coolness that lay ahead with the night. They were big trees, with thick boles and great tangles of branches. A thick carpet of their needles lay over the trail, undisturbed for some time. Now he caught a glimpse of a long-cut butt and he remembered that it had been Jenny’s signpost. A moment after, he saw the thin break in the buckbrush clumped under the trees and he edged the roan through and on a short distance to the small grassy clearing he sought.
Leaving the saddle, Cameron tied the roan away from the small pool at the edge of the clearing and walked back to the break in the brush. He was thinking of covering his tracks here where he had turned off the trail but he saw that this would not help him at all. The roan’s hoofs had scuffed the pine needles all along the trail to this point. Wearily, Cameron hurried back to the roan and mounted it again. Returning to the trail, he rode up it a good fifty yards. Here the trees ended and the ground was flinty again, too hard to show any sign.
Now Cameron slid from the saddle and led the horse. He angled into the trees, careful not to put any more sign on the pine needles. It was slow, tiring work, finding room enough through the thick stand of timber and through the brush to lead the roan. But finally he was back in the clearing. Tying the animal again, he returned to the place where he had first left the trail and smoothed away any sign of his turning off here. It was far from a perfect job, he knew, but it might be enough to keep Rafe Arker away those few extra minutes the roan needed to recover its strength.
The horse had cooled down when Cameron returned to the clearing, and now he let it drink. He set it to grazing on the grass and stretched out, his face to the sky, and tried to nurse some feeling back into his numbed right side.
The silence here was broken only by the soft sounds of the roan eating and by the occasional cry of a bird. Arker and Larabee had taken the other trail. But Cameron knew they wouldn’t be fooled for long. Once Arker realized there was no sign on the trail he was following, he would know what had happened.
Cameron kneaded his right arm with his left hand. Feeling came back — dull pain at first, and then sharp shoots that brought the sweat out on his body. Slowly he lifted his right shoulder, feeling the cramped, bruised muscles across his ribs draw out reluctantly. He began to move his arm higher, quicker, teeth clenched against the pain lancing through him. But he felt the looseness coming, the hard, sharp spasms lessening, and he knew that until he had another shock like the one by the Dondee mine, he was fit again.
Now he heard the jangle of harness. He glanced at the roan. It was still drooping a little but some of the strength had come back to its muscles if the speed of its eating had any meaning. Turning away, Cameron eased through the brush until he was almost at the edge of the trail. He could hear them coming, their voices carrying over the soft plopping sounds of hoofs against the pine needles.
“He didn’t take the other trail so he must have taken this one,” Rafe Arker was rumbling.
“I still think us both coming here was a fool thing to do,” Sax Larabee answered. “One of us should have stayed on the other trail. If it’s as much shorter as you claim, we could have blocked him where the two meet.”
“No,” Arker said. “I know these trails; you don’t. There are too many places along here for Cameron to hide and pick one of us off. If we’re together, hell think twice before chancing a fight.” He gave his rough laugh. “As for him getting ahead far, I ain’t worried. That roan was about beat when it hit the fiat. It’ll play out sooner or later. Then we’ll have him.”
They moved on past at a steady pace, and soon a bend took them out of sight. Cameron sat quietly, trying to recall just how much more of this trail there was up to where it met the other, shorter one. A good mile beyond the end of the trees, he thought. Not so far as distance went, but achingly slow because of the terrain. He could go back and take the other trail and with any luck be past the fork ahead before Arker and Larabee reached it.
Hurrying back to the roan, he mounted and rode to the trail. He turned downslope, and the roan moved easily now that it had no upgrade to pull.
Cameron slapped it lightly on the neck. His arm was functioning again. The roan was somewhat rested. He felt for the first time that he might have a chance to reach the high country ahead of Arker and Larabee.
He came to the foot of the trail, rode along the bottom of a bluff and turned up the other trail. It was the one he had seen from the canyon. For the first quarter mile it kinked openly up the hillside. But then it leveled off and it ran only slightly sloping the rest of the distance to the fork.
He was over the grade and trotting the roan along a packed dirt trail when another memory came back to him. A short distance beyond the fork, the trail crossed a swampy spot. Arker would see that Cameron had left no sign there and he would realize he had been tricked.
And then he and Larabee would come back. And this time, Cameron guessed, each man would take a branch of the trail, searching for him with gun drawn. His only chance was to reach the soft ground first.
He looked ahead. This trail ran over small, open flats. It ran through smooth-sided cuts. But nowhere did it cut into a stand of timber. Nowhere was there a place for a man to hide. His one chance then was to push the roan again. To reach the fork and get beyond it, beyond the swampy spot, before Arker and Larabee could realize they had him trapped.
And once more he dug his heels into the tiring horse’s flanks.
XII
THEY BEGAN to angle sharply eastward and Cameron knew that the junction of the two. trails lay not far ahead. He rounded a shoulder of rock and there was the fork. He swung in the saddle, looking back. From here he could see some distance down the other trail. There was no sign of life yet. He glanced ahead. The trail lay exposed as it worked up to the lip of a high bench. It was empty.
Cameron squinted westward at the sun. It was sliding for the distant hills. It wouldn’t be too long now before dusk came to this high country, and with it would be the mountain chill. Now, while he still had light and while Larabee and Arker were still behind him, was the time to make as much speed as he could to put precious distance between himself and his pursuers. But the roan was staggering again. He wouldn’t be able to carry Cameron’s weight much longer.
“Make it to the bench, fellow,” he murmured.
The roan kept moving, but its pace was slow now, almost a walk. Halfway up the slope toward the bench, Cameron looked back. He saw the two riders reach the fork. They paused. Then a hand lifted and pointed toward him.
The swampy ground lay just ahead and Cameron turned his attention to getting the roan through it. When he was on the far side, he looked back again. Larabee and Arker had cut down the distance more than he had expected. He would be lucky to get halfway across the bench before they caught up with him.
He had hoped to reach the timber beyond the bench, using the thick stand of spruce and high country fir as a refuge. But he made no effort now to hurry the roan. It would respond, he knew, and at this altitude going too fast would burst its heart.
The lip of the bench lay just ahead. Once Cameron glanced over his shoulder. Arker and his big palomino were in the lead, almost within handgun range. The roan strained itself and came up onto the level ground. Cameron reined it in and dropped to the trail.
“You rest a minute,” he said softly.
Pulling the carbine from the saddle boot, he stepped to the beginning of the downslope. He lifted the gun carefully, testing his own reactions. He could feel the pull of his rib muscles, b
ut his arm functioned well enough. Now he sighted carefully, drawing his bead on Arker’s bobbing hat. He caught the rhythm of the palomino’s gait and when Arker went up in the saddle, he fired.
His bullet took a tuft of felt from the crown of the hat. Arker flattened in the saddle. Cameron fired again, this time driving his shot in front of the palomino, forcing it to rear up. He saw Arker claw for leather with the horse’s unexpected movement. Then he had control again, but the big animal was standing still now.
Cameron moved back out of sight. He eased along the rim of the bench until he found a screen of bushes. He bellied down there and slipped his gun barrel through the tangle of leaves. He could see Arker, with Larabee alongside him now. They were coming hard up the trail.
Cameron fired three quick shots, driving lead into the ground in front of the horses, forcing their riders to fight for control. Arker and Larabee stopped. Then they came on, guns drawn. Cameron ticked the air close to Larabee, and again the two men stopped.
He saw them squint toward the sun and he chuckled softly. This was what he wanted — to force them to wait until darkness to come after him. He fired again and then sat up to reload.
From below someone shot. Cameron heard the bullets strike the slope well below him, and he kept on with his reloading. Then he bellied down again and studied the situation. Larabee and Arker were riding apart, making two targets instead of one. And they were coming on once more.
Cameron began shooting. He could not bring himself to kill in a situation like this. It would be murder, little different from shooting them in the back. The law had been grained into him too long. With the odds even, he would shoot to kill — if they attacked first. Until then, he worked to gain the time he needed.
The pattern of lead he laid down brought both riders to a halt again. Now he sent his shots closer. They turned and rode out of easy range. And here they left their saddles. Cameron laughed out loud. It looked as if he had got the time he needed.
He crawled backward until he could stand up with no risk of being seen. Hurrying to the roan, he took the reins and led it forward. He lifted his head to find the timber and judge how long it would take him to reach that temporary safety.
There were no trees at the end of the bench. They showed in the distance, at the back of a second bench that lay behind this one like a giant step. Cameron swore. His memory had tricked him, blending the two flats into one. And the width of this bench shook him. Leading the roan at this pace, it would be dark before he reached the far side.
He walked until he decided the roan had had rest enough. Mounting, he rode at a fair pace until he could feel the animal tiring again. Then he left the saddle and began walking once more. The last of the sun disappeared as he reached the foot of the short, steep trail that led up to the higher bench. Cameron paused to look back. The trail was empty. But it wouldn’t be for long. Men like Larabee and Rafe Arker couldn’t be bluffed forever. As soon as they risked moving into gun range by the lip of the bench, they would know he was no longer up there with his carbine. Then they would come on fast enough.
Cameron walked the roan to the top of the trail. On level ground once more, he climbed into the saddle. His days in bed had begun to tell on him. The strain of that last steep quarter mile had drained him. He looked ahead in the dusky light, blinking to clear his swimming vision.
The timber looked frighteningly far away. But halfway across the bench and a good twenty yards to the right of the trail was a tumble of boulders. He angled toward them and saw that they hung on the edge of a drop-off that fell into a canyon shrouded in darkness.
The roan stumbled. Cameron said wearily, “It’s the end of the ride for both of us,” and slid out of the saddle.
He studied the tumble of rocks. Some of them were huge, great chunks of granite tossed and left here by some ancient glacier. He found two leaning together, forming a half cave. Behind them, shielded from the trail, was a tiny clearing, grassy thanks to a seep of water. Leading the roan into the clearing, Cameron stripped off-its gear and put it on a short picket line. Then he took the carbine and climbed laboriously to the top of a nearby flat rock. He lay quietly, looking through the dusk downtrail.
Darkness came and with it the icy fingers of cold air probing down from the mountain peaks looming up behind the timber. Cameron felt his side stiffening. He would need fire, he realized. Tired as he was, he had little enough resistance. At this height, pneumonia could catch him before the night was out.
He used the last of the dusk to spot a deadfall hanging on the rim of the canyon at his back. It was some distance away and getting to it meant stumbling over rocky ground. Then he had to drop over the edge of the canyon and break off those branches thin enough to give in to his draining strength. By the time he started back, it was full dark, with only the bright, hard stars for light, and he nearly missed the refuge of rocks. The whinny of the roan, asking for company and comfort, turned him at the right moment, and finally he was under the stony canopy, talking to the horse and half collapsed on top of his pile of wood.
After a time he managed to stir and build a small fire. He had no food except the small emergency ration he had long ago learned to keep in his saddlebags — bread, cheese and a handful of coffee along with the can to cook it in. The bread was stale after its days of lying in the leather bag, and the cheese was sweaty from the hot sun. But he managed a meal, washing it down with coffee gulped out of the can.
He kept the fire small, both to save wood and to keep it from being seen if Arker and Larabee should reach the bench tonight. But the rock walls on two sides caught the heat and threw it back and so he felt it driving the mountain chill out of reach.
When the moon rose, he climbed to the flat-topped rock and looked down the trail. Nothing moved along it. A faint glow in the distance and well below his level caught his eye. A fire down on the other bench! Cameron crawled back to his half cave and readied himself for sleep.
The clink of metal on rock and the feel of the ground trembling under the stride of something heavy brought him dazedly to his feet. He gaped at the gray light seeping in around him. He realized that it was well past dawn. His tired body had betrayed him. He had slept a good hour past the point of safety.
Quickly now he squirmed up the flat-topped rock. Arker and Larabee had come, as he feared. They were approaching the tumble of rocks — but not from below. They came from the direction of the timber. It took him a moment to realize what had happened. Then he understood. They had ridden on past the rocks, thinking he had got as far as the timber. But Arker must have noticed the lack of sign at the edge of the trees, where the dirt would be soft from heavy shade. It would not have taken Larabee long to spot the rocks and guess that Cameron was hiding in them.
They led the pack pony now and Cameron guessed that Arker had left it somewhere along the trail earlier and gone back for it before making camp last night. The big pack bulged and Cameron thought hungrily of the food that must be in it.
Then the nearness of the two men brought his mind back to the reality of the moment. He swore as he realized he had left the carbine below. Awkwardly he drew his handgun and rested the barrel on a small up-thrust of rock in front of him. They stopped suddenly, still out of range of his forty-four, and he wondered if they had seen him.
Then he saw Larabee glance behind himself, eastward. The first hint of the rising sun shone behind the peaks in that direction. Larabee leaned toward Arker and spoke at length. Arker’s big body shook and Cameron heard his laughter boom out, carried clearly on the still, cold air.
Cameron frowned, wondering what their plan might be. He guessed that they were sure he was in the rocks, and that they were staying well away until the right moment came to move in.
The sun topped a ridge, and now Cameron saw Larabee’s strategy. The brightness struck Cameron full in the face, blinding him from seeing anything straight ahead. He had a blurred glimpse of Arker making a wide swing to the left and Larabee following suit to the righ
t. He fired, knowing it was a hopeless act as he pulled the trigger.
Even if he could have seen through the bright light of the sun, he could not handle both men at the same time. One of them was bound to make it close enough to the rocks to be out of range — unless he was willing to risk stepping into the open for a showdown. And, he knew, with the sun behind them, Larabee and Arker held the long end of the odds.
The chatter of hoofs on rock and the shaking of the ground as the bay and the big palomino plunged toward the rocks told Cameron what was happening. He ducked his head to the side, away from the blinding sunlight. He looked to his left, one hand up to shield his eyes. He had a glimpse of Arker and the palomino, with the pack horse stumbling along behind, duck into shadow and disappear. They would be close to the rocks now, too close for Cameron to see them from his position. He twisted to his right. Larabee was coming up fast on the bay. Cameron fired at him. Larabee answered, spraying the rock with lead, forcing Cameron to lie flat. Then Larabee was also too close in to be an effective target.
Cameron dropped off the rock and into the half cave. There was only one way in here, along a topless tunnel stretching eastward. As long as his bullets held out, they couldn’t reach him.
Nor could he reach them, he realized.
He grinned sourly. It was stalemate.
The Desperate Deputy of Cougar Hill Page 9