The writer had nowhere to go. Cole could shoot the bits and pieces off him that showed, but he doubted he would have to. Martin would move. When he did, Smoke would finish him.
+++
They had been working their way downward, edging along the rubble stone that lay between the towering cliff and the glacier's crusted surface. A pair of crevasses split the glacier into thirds.
When they passed the upper crevice, Chugger peered into it. The ice had separated more than six feet. Vertical walled, the crack went to the bottom. Sun glancing from the cliffs reflected down the split's icy sides, lighting a strip of the rock floor beneath the glacier. At the crevasse's end, almost at their feet, an ice slide offered a possible route to the glacier floor.
Chugger asked, "Want to go down, Acre? We could rig our rope and almost walk to the bottom."
Appleby looked in before shrugging uncomfortably. "I do not like caves. They press against me."
Chugger nodded, "I know what you mean. The ice will probably stay open for years, but I'd be wondering if nature might choose my visit as the time to crunch it closed."
Chugger looked upward at the broken and weathered cliff towering above them. "It's more likely that a rock will come off this wall and brain us both. Man, walking under a cliff isn't the safest thing I've ever done."
They resumed their descent, Martin leading, Acre close behind. Chugger had gone only a few yards when he heard Appleby grunt. Before he could raise his eyes, the Indian shoved him sideward, forcing Chugger to stagger an awkward step.
Chugger said, "What in . . . " He saw Appleby's concentration on something ahead and looked to see what it was. His eye corner recorded Acre's rifle coming up, and Martin caught a glint of light reflecting from a spot well out. A pinpoint of flare sparked, and a tiny smoke puff erupted. Before their meaning could strike Chugger's mind, a heavy smack—like a log dropped into mud—assaulted his hearing. Beside him, Acre Appleby's head rocked with impact, and the almost leveled rifle flew away. A spray of blood burst from Acre's face. Then he collapsed, as limp as a head shot animal. Belatedly, the sound of a rifle shot touched Chugger's senses. He froze, stunned, disbelieving, as Acre's limp form slid slowly onto its face, a smear of blood staining the stones it passed across.
The weight of his pack pushed Acre's body a yard or so, and his rifle bounced away down the ice. Appleby's hat had disappeared somewhere, and Chugger stared at the Indian's thick black hair, that lay as still as the body beneath it.
Fear struck through Martin, jerking him from his paralysis. Instinctively, he lunged for the cliff's protection, and a heavy jolt twisted his pack, throwing him clumsily within the cover of a meager outcropping.
He crouched, curled almost into a ball, jamming himself against the cold rock. Acre lay where he had fallen. Chugger could see only Appleby's legs, but they were as unmoving as sticks.
Chugger physically shook his head, forcing away disbelief. Acre had been shot, and judging from the smash his packboard had taken, he too had been shot at.
Who, demanded consideration, but this was not the time for it. Chugger tried to judge his situation and hated the feel of it. His cover was pathetic, and without a doubt, a rifle was even now seeking to slam a soft-nosed bullet into his guts.
Chugger's eyes searched frantically, but there was no better protection, and no handy escape route. If the rifleman could not make his shot, he could simply move to a better position.
Chugger could not even attempt to employ his own rifle. The instant his head showed, a bullet would be en route, and he would be dead, sprawled on the rocks and ice, alongside Acre Appleby.
+++
Chapter 11
There was a chance. Chugger saw it and began working in the same instant. The choice was desperate and unlikely, but he could not simply cower until the murderer got around to killing him.
Struggling to stay concealed, Chugger fought himself free of pack and rifle. He had no time to judge the best way or evaluate neat little additions to his scheme. The ambusher's next bullet would come at any instant. Chugger got a good grip on his rifle and, with a powerful heave, launched his pack onto the sloping glacial ice.
Instantly he was away. Chugger dove, bent almost double, in a lunging plunge for the yawning welcome of the upper crevasse. The distance was only yards, but he seemed to barely progress. A foot slipped on a loose stone staggering him, but he charged on, barely holding his balance.
A yard from the lip of the crevasse he did fall, slamming hard in a bone-jarring thump, but still scrambling and clawing toward cover. Rock exploded almost in his face and chips stabbed, forcing his eyes closed, but a final wild scrabble pushed him over the rim and onto the slope of the ice slide.
There was no instant of relief or sense of sudden security. Instead, Chugger's body shot downward as though dropped from a cliff. He forced open smarting eyes, seeing only a blur of passing ice. He was rocketing headfirst down the icefall at locomotive speed.
His body soared free to land with rib-straining impact on a lower slope. Chugger ground his rifle scope into the slick ice attempting to slow his descent, but the sight tore away. Hands and knees found no purchase, and he was again airborne, to smash even harder onto the next level of the ice slide.
Worn through centuries-old ice by years of surface run off, the ice slide was glass smooth and almost as hard. Chugger could find no protrusions to slow his descent. He struck a side wall and was wildly spun. Before he could again judge up or down, he reached the bottom.
The landing was jolting. The ice ended and rock began. Chugger bounced across it as violently as he had descended the ice flow. He halted abruptly, slammed solidly into a bulge of ice wall.
For long moments he lay in a confused heap, unsure of his condition or exact whereabouts. Bitter, bone-soaking cold assailed him, and his breath smoked in the refrigerated air.
For the moment he was safe. The realization calmed Chugger, and he began to take stock. He had hung onto his rifle; its familiar shape lay in the gloom beside him.
Aches and pains enveloped him; hands and elbows smarted from abrasion across the ice and rocks. His face burned like fire from the slash of bullet-driven rock chips, but careful movement indicated nothing broken.
Thin light came from above, reflected down the walls of the crevasse. Only yards away, the sun struck the stone floor at the slide bottom. Instinctively, Chugger crawled further away. The sniper might shoot down and attempt to ricochet bullets into him.
The possibility further cleared Martin's mind. He was safe for the moment, but he could not lurk in the ice forever. His mind touched on Acre Appleby, lying dead at the glacier edge. He drove the pictures away. Sorrow would have to wait.
Chugger was certain the sniper would not come into the ice after him. The man could wait, knowing Martin would have to come out. At night the sniper could come close. He could wrap in blankets or sleeping bag and be comfortable. Chugger could not outlast him.
The far end of the crevasse did not offer a way out. It pinched into a knife-like slit that blocked passage. There was one other way. It might be possible, but even to consider it was terrifying.
Close by, the stream that became Ernestine Creek rustled softly under the glacier. Because the day had been colder, ice melt was lessened, and there was air space above the water. Chugger might float and crawl his way downstream, under the ice, until he came out at the glacier's face. If he could make it he would be beyond the sniper's position and far below him. If he chose to run like a deer down Ernestine and out of the canyon, the sniper would never see him go.
But it was not that easy. Somewhere beneath the glacier the water could widen and shallow. The ice could close down, and there might be no passage. Could he work his way back upstream, or would he jam like a cork in a bottle, damming the water behind him, to drown and never be found? Terror rode Chugger's soul. The million tons of ice above him already wore his nerve. How would it be in the black, swift water, with a rock bottom too slick to stand o
n? Debilitating fear swelled in Chugger's mind, and he fought for control.
Chugger Martin did not consider himself a brave man. He was a writer who wrote about the heroics of others. This time, however, he had no safe choices. To go back up the ice slide was to die. He also knew that, as surely as he had been shot at, that the ambusher could not leave him alive to tell what had happened.
If he could float out from under . . . then it might be Chugger Martin's turn. The thought was galvanizing. Chugger got as erect as the crevasse allowed.
His rifle had taken a beating. The scope had torn loose. Chugger found it almost at his feet and tossed it into the sunlit patch. If the killer risked looking in, the telescopic sight lying in plain view might reassure him. Perhaps other things might help. Chugger stripped his binocular strap over his head and slid the glasses close to the edge of the visible bottom. His new camera could also go. Under the ice, he wanted no impediments. He placed it where a viewer would have to maneuver to see it.
Chugger had nothing else to leave and no reason to delay. Hesitating could be fatal. The warming day could raise the water level reducing his chances of getting through.
High on the glacier, the stream was shallow. With an involuntary shudder, Chugger stepped into the ice water and sat down. He trailed his rifle, willing himself to hang onto the piece as long as he could. His arms already trembled from cold or fear, and his soul contracted with a terror he had never before experienced. His mind screamed that he had no choice, and he let himself be slowly carried into the black tunnel of the glacier's bowel.
Water pressure moved him along almost effortlessly, but without warning the flow broadened and shallowed, and his head struck the lowering tunnel's roof. Sightless in the black of the tunnel, flat on his back, his head grazing the ice, Chugger slid ahead. As if back on the ice slide, he shot off a small falls, to slam hard on unseen rock, only to plummet with increasing speed onward in a deepening torrent, whose formerly soft gurgle was becoming a sullen roar.
+++
Smoke Cole watched Martin struggle behind the rock outcropping. Undoubtedly, the writer was getting his rifle loose to attempt shooting back from the limited cover he had managed. Cole lay easy, watching through his scope. When Martin's head appeared, Smoke's bullet would go through it.
Something came sliding from behind the rock. Automatically, Smoke's eye followed it. Martin's pack.
Cole's eye switched back. Smoke had lost only an instant, but Martin was already moving. Uphill? Smoke was mildly surprised. Uphill was slower, and there was no cover.
It took another instant for Cole to realize the crevasse was Martin's objective. Martin fell, and Smoke's sight settled on him. Cole fired and saw rock jump almost in Martin's face. Then the writer was over the edge of the crevasse and gone from view. Smoke cursed, but not worriedly. Chugger Martin was not going anywhere.
Cole lay back to give the situation some thought. He had probably hit Martin once and might have ricocheted something into him with the last shot. Martin was clever and lucky, but he was hurt and trapped.
The crevasse could be a foot deep, or it could go all the way to the bottom of the glacier. Martin had taken a long look when he had passed the crevasse, so he had seen something he remembered as promising. Smoke reloaded his rifle's magazine and got ready. He would watch carefully. A wounded animal should be given fifteen minutes to stiffen up. A wounded man was probably the same.
When it was time, Smoke worked higher and edged closer, trying to judge how extensive Martin's crevasse was. By the time he stepped past Appleby's body, Cole judged the ice cut deep and wide. He had taken nearly half an hour getting close, but there had been no sign of the writer. Smoke held his rifle ready and risked a glance into the crevice.
Whew, it was a deep hole. Light struck to the bottom and something gleamed there. Through his telescopic sight, Smoke identified Chugger's scope apparently torn from his rifle, and off to the side lay Martin's binoculars. Moving a little, Cole located a strap and finally made out Martin's camera almost hidden in the shadows. Cole stayed well back. The items could have been placed as bait, with Martin waiting patiently for a clear shot at whoever looked in.
Cole judged the icefall Martin had gone down. A man might survive it, or he might be broken and dead down in there. One thing was for sure, if Martin lived, he would have to chop dozens of ice steps to get back up, and Smoke Cole would hear him. One quick step to the edge and a single shot would finish the job.
At least as likely, Martin was already dead or hurt so badly he soon would be. Cole slung his rifle and turned away. Martin's pack had lodged a good way down the glacier. With a little luck, what Smoke wanted would still be in it.
+++
Chugger Martin crashed through unseen torrents that exploded from side passages. He smashed against and caromed from solid obstacles that rolled him through increasing turbulence. An unceasing thunderous roar of savage water beat his hearing.
Strength waning, soul freezing in his chest, awareness of time and distance long lost, Chugger fought only to keep his head above a surface so tumbled and confused that the air itself seemed water filled.
Once, his rifle jammed the passage, and Chugger would have abandoned it, but the current tore them both free, and they surged onward together.
The bitter, soaking cold of the unseen maelstrom leached Chugger's strength. His limbs moved in awkward slow motion. Feeling numbed, easing the pain of physical battering, but proving to Martin's failing awareness that he had guessed wrong, and the glacier was about to claim him.
Then there was light. It blossomed magically, and the torrent immediately spread, as though to greet the life granting warmth. Barely conscious, Chugger floated free of the glacier's embrace, still in swift water, but again beneath the sun where a man might try one more time.
Still, he could not rest. Close below the glacier's broken face the Ernestine Gorge began. Once inside, Chugger would be swept another half mile downstream.
Paddling on his back, Chugger escaped the swifter current. He rolled to hands and knees on the gravel bottom and crept onto dry land.
His bruised hand still clung to his battered rifle's nylon sling, but for the moment. Chugger was too used up to prevent its clattering drag across rock and through the sandy earth to the creek's low bank. Finally ashore, he sprawled in the sun's meager warmth, allowing a few gallons of water to drain from his clothing.
He was a mess. His face burned from the rock chips and perhaps bullet fragments spattered into him by the sniper's last shot. His head felt lumped and lacerated from whacks against the ice cavern's roof. His body battering defied descriptions, but nothing seemed broken or overly strained. Chugger was reminded of the old time third degree police beatings that left the victim thoroughly pounded, yet virtually unmarked.
He could move. He could go around the gorge and be gone before the sniper could begin to suspect what might have happened. This was a police matter now. Chugger touched his pocket and felt the lump of the well-protected film cans. He had the evidence. Police investigators could take it from there.
Only that wasn't good enough! Planning a route out was hokum. Chugger Martin wanted the killer who had shot Acre Appleby. Chugger's direction was back up the glacier. He had a rifle, and the ambusher would have to come down the mountain sooner or later. Chugger aimed to be waiting.
He clawed himself erect, wondering if he really had the strength or the heart to climb up to where he could see. The rifle was dirt choked, so Chugger limped back to the water and dunked it thoroughly. He sat on a rock and ejected the cartridges into his hand. They would shoot. Modern ammunition could stand a soaking. He blew through the rifle's bore and peered in. Clean. The bullets would come out. He operated the bolt, snapping the trigger a few times. Then he reloaded. He ran a cartridge into the chamber and thumbed on the safety. The sniper would be dangerous game, but this time the ambush would be Chugger's.
The rifle's sights were a serious problem. The scope and rings were
torn away, and Chugger had no idea where the gun would shoot with its iron sights. It would be important to get close. Under one hundred yards, out of zero would not matter much. He could get his shots in.
Chugger studied the steep-sided slopes he had to negotiate. There seemed no easy route. Using the battered rifle as a staff, he started up.
The best way would be to locate a higher lump where he could see up the glacier's slope without exposing himself. He had to believe the sniper would come out to examine his results. Could there be more than one? The possibility curdled some of Chugger's resolve. If there was more than a single ambusher, Chugger could still escape down the valley, but damn, he did not want it that way.
Chugger Martin had never shot at a human being, but he would not hesitate this time. The hunted had become the hunter, and Chugger intended to be clever, cold, and deadly. His mind touched on Acre Appleby, lying dead on the talus slope. Fresh anger surged. Chugger plowed toward the high ground with bitter determination.
+++
Martin's pack had slid further than Smoke had realized. Not that it mattered. If Martin were alive, it would take him hours to chip steps in the ice slide. Smoke had all the time he could want.
He passed Appleby without a look. The Indian's rifle had skittered almost to the lower crevasse that looked much like the one Martin had gone into. Smoke could skid Appleby down the ice without much effort. Cole guessed he would just dump Appleby and everything else into that hole before he left.
Smoke was careful out on the glacier. Even old summer melted ice could hide unsuspected crevasses. Water could work under the ice leaving only a thin crust. The hole underneath could be wide and too deep to survive.
When he got to the pack, Smoke laid his rifle aside and squatted down for a look. He saw the film pocket almost immediately. The shape of a film can was clearly pressed against the pack's material. With slightly shaking hands, Cole unzipped the pocket and brought out the film. Martin had stored the can within two Ziploc bags. No moisture had gotten to it.
Chugger's Hunt Page 13