Clicker tried again and succeeded in bearing the misery. All right, he could move some, and he had to move now. Gilroy was heading toward the window, and Bell had to be ready when he got there.
The passage Clicker thought of as the window was a weakness in the hide's escape route. The ravine curved in a long arc and ran through a sloping plain that was so bare it would deny jack rabbit cover. To leave the ravine meant to be in the open. The only sensible route was down the ravine and out the far end. That distant opening was Clicker Bell's window.
Bell's immediate objective was high ground nearly a quarter of a mile away. If he could get there, he would have the window under his gun. The range was long, but concerned about the exposure of anyone attempting the escape route, Clicker had used his Leica rangefinder. Almost nine hundred yards. A long long shot under field conditions, but it could be made.
Until he cleared the timber, Clicker groped his way tree to tree. Ahead, the land rose and was empty of vegetation. The ravine in which Gilroy ran curved almost around the lump Bell was heading for, and if the ambusher climbed an edge to look, he might catch Clicker out in the open,
No choice, really. Bell used his rifle butt as a cane and limped ahead.
Now the pain came, and it was jagged and saw-toothed. Bell remembered ice cream headaches and dental drilling. Those were the best comparisons. Once he had experienced a kidney stone. That had been a similar agony, and Clicker recalled how he had sweat through that mind-wrenching misery trying to drive to a hospital.
This was worse because each step started the pain afresh. If he could rest for a few minutes, he believed he might do better, but there was no time. Bell struggled ahead.
The way was all uphill, and after the first hundred yards Clicker stopped checking his progress. He shut his mind to everything except the next step. When the earth flattened, he would be at the top. Until then, looking only wasted energy.
Bell led with the bad leg. He planted his rifle butt beside it and put his weight down. The pain rocketed as he brought his good leg alongside. He sucked in air and tried again. Slow, was the only description, and Gilroy was running. Clicker supposed he wasn't going to make it.
Todd Gilroy had to stop. His thigh was on fire, and his chest burned as if a welding torch was held to his body. He leaned against the ravine wall and turned to watch his back trail. If Bell was coming, he would appear there.
Gilroy checked his rifle. God, he had not chambered a live round. Disgusted at himself, he worked the bolt and wondered how many other details he had overlooked.
He dared rest only a few moments, but even that short pause replaced strength and will. That Bell had not arrived increased the probability that his single shot had killed or wounded. Gilroy felt his lips crack in a grim smile. One shot and one kill. Now, Bell—now who was Sniper One!
What he should do was go back and make sure that Bell was dead, and if he was not, shoot him again. That would be the time to lay the gold bell on Clicker's dead body.
Gilroy looked at the uphill slant to the ravine and knew he could not make himself do it. To hell with Bell. If the bastard lived, there would be a next time.
The smart thing to do right now was to keep going and think about everything else later on.
But where could he get doctored? There was a veterinary he knew who would sell him antibiotics and painkillers, what more would he really need? If not infected, his wounds were not deadly. There was no bullet to remove, and although his boot sloshed with blood, he was not bleeding to death. Once in the truck, he could put a cinch around his thigh or maybe just direct pressure on the wound would stop the bleeding.
In pushing himself into motion, Gilroy groaned aloud, but he leaned ahead, and his legs moved. He judged he might have a mile to go.
Once he made up his mind, nothing could stop Todd Gilroy. The supposedly-great Clicker Bell had tried, and he was dead or dying back at the shooting site. Gilroy felt himself in the clear. From here on it would be routine. He would just gut it out and be home free.
Chapter 17
Bell took a few extra steps before he realized that the ground had leveled. Then he had to swipe away the sweat blurring his vision before he was sure that he had reached the top of the nameless land hump.
He ground to a halt, his legs staggery, his body sweat drenched, and his nerves screaming from prolonged pain.
He leaned against his rifle, appreciating the extra barrel length which helped hold him vertical. Coming uphill he had used the rifle as a cane, thumping it ahead at each step, and careless about hitting the scope when his body went by.
The weapon had taken a pounding, but Bell knew it would still shoot to the same spot. Rock built his rifles hard, so that a military sniper could know, positively know, that no matter what he put the weapon through, the zero would not change. No other sniper rifle could boast that kind of inherent strength, not even the Marines' justly famed M40A1. Where the Marine rifle stopped, the Rock rifle just began. Even Soldier of Fortune magazine had written that the Rock was the best—bar none. Despite the harsh treatment, Clicker knew that if he could do his part, Colonel Rock's rifle would plant the 7mm bullet exactly where he wanted it to go.
Clicker edged to a spot that looked across the lowering ground and searched for a shooting stand. He would need padding. He shrugged out of his jacket and used it to swab away sweat. Lord, his mouth was dry. He would pay big for a swallow of water.
Bell swore that stopping had made the ache in his leg worse, but he had to move a little more. He needed to look along the last few yards of the escape ravine and through the window into the field that lay beyond. He found the exact spot from which he had once measured the range and knelt clumsily. Whew, his leg hurt.
It was probably all wasted effort. Gilroy had had more than enough time to clear the ravine and be on his way, but maybe, just maybe, the ambusher had waited within the ravine's cover to nail anyone coming in after him. It could have happened, and Bell speeded his efforts to get into a solid shooting position.
Sunlight reflected from something in the distance, and Clicker realized that he could see his pickup over on Parker's Knob. From below, the truck could not be seen, but at a similar elevation it stood out like a searchlight.
Sydney would be backed into rocks nearby. She might even see him, but she could just as easily be looking in another direction.
The truck was about a mile away, but by road the distance would be nearly five miles. No matter, Sydney was safely out of this fight
Bell placed his jacket on a raised clump of buffalo grass and dropped his boonie hat on top of the jacket. He laid the rifle across everything and folded himself alongside. He wound the variable-power Leupold scope to 10X and clicked to nine hundred yard range. Then he dropped one click, which he had decided would put the rifle exactly on.
Even the slightest movement seemed to excite his leg pain, but Clicker got behind the gun and stared through the scope. The window was there, clear and bright, but if Gilroy came through he would be in sight for only a few seconds. Bell would have to recognize movement and begin squeezing because there would be no extra time. If Gilroy was moving fast, even the bullet's time of flight would be critical. Clicker found himself silently sniggering He hoped to hell one of those horses didn't come out of the ravine. If it did, he would drop it sure as hell.
The silent amusement told Bell that he was not at his best. His concentration should be cold and focused. He should crawl into Gunny Hathcock's famed bubble and be unaware of everything except the coming shot.
Damn it all, the rifle did not lay exactly right. Clicker squiggled around and tried again. Better. Without touching, the crosshair lay exactly on the window.
He would not look away again. Until he was certain that there would be no shot, Bell would stare through the Leupold, through the crosshair of the Premier reticle mil-dot and into the ravine's exit. From this range he could see a huge piece of the world, but his focus was on the last ten feet of the long ravine.
There, Gilroy would show—if he were still around.
Sydney Maynard heard the phone in the truck ringing. A few minutes earlier there had been a distant shot, and she feared the bad guy might have fired it.
She hurried to the truck and picked up. It was her father.
Greg Maynard said, "Did you hear that shot, Sydney? Can you tell who fired it?"
"I heard it, Dad, but I can't see anything from up here."
"Damn it, I don't know how to help. I feel like a fool just sitting here."
It was hard to say, but Sydney knew it was right. "Leave it to Clicker, Dad. He made a point that he needed to be sure that anyone he saw out there was an enemy. Don't go poking around, or you might turn his attention."
"Yeah, I know, but I don't like it."
Sydney said, "There are binoculars in this truck. I'm going to start using them. From where I am hiding I can see a lot. Maybe I will discover something. If I do, I'll call right away, Dad. If you find anything out, you be sure to do the same."
From her place in the rocks, Sydney had a clear view of most of the higher ground. She saw cattle and a pair of horses. Almost immediately another horse joined the pair. She knew those animals. Until they tired of being horses they would be allowed to live freely. Natural death was never kindly for animals, and when the hands saw the old animals struggling to live they would report it, and one of them would be sent to dispatch the sufferer. Greg Maynard was a patsy in the eyes of most ranchers who saw animals as merely beasts to serve their masters. Sydney liked her Dad's ways better.
Her heart leaped when Clicker came into view. It was clear that he was hurt. He limped badly, and he used his rifle as a walking cane. Sydney rushed to the truck to report.
"Stay on the phone, Syd, and tell me what he is doing." Maynard was clearly upset.
"He just looked over this way, but it must be a mile, so I doubt he can see much without binoculars.
"Now he is taking off his jacket and he is laying it on the ground. There goes his hat on top of the jacket, I think, and ... I think he is getting down to shoot, Dad."
"Keep watching. Damn it all, I wonder if he needs help? I'll bet he does and has no way to contact us."
The Colonel's phone was static-y, and Sydney said, "Your batteries are dying, Dad. Get another phone." She heard her father swear; then he came on loud and clear.
"How's that?"
"Great. Clicker is lying behind his rifle, Dad. He is sighting on something, I am sure of it"
"If he isn't shooting he is searching for somebody, or maybe he is waiting for someone to show up."
Gilroy saw the end of the ravine, and despite his hurry, he pulled up to think it over.
Bell was probably dead, but he had been tricky before, and perhaps he had jumped into whatever vehicle he had used to get behind Gilroy and was now waiting for Gilroy to show at the ravine's opening.
Not likely, but possible. Gilroy leveled his rifle and began easing ahead, his eyes searching the ground beyond the entrance.
There was too much of it. Open land ran out for more than two hundred yards, and then woods began that could conceal a regiment. Gilroy edged ahead, ready to duck back or surge forward if anything happened. Nothing did, and with relief thumping his heart, Todd Gilroy limped the last few steps and through the ravine's portal.
Clicker Bell saw Gilroy, and the tiny and distant figure was not moving rapidly. Bell did not wait. He began his squeeze, finally lost to all else around him, holding solid on the middle of what he could see.
The Rock trigger was set at three pounds, just the way Bell liked it. There was no detectable trigger movement, but top riflemen knew when their weapons would fire.
The Rock's trigger broke smoothly without follow through. The rifle slammed tighter into Bell's shoulder, and the muzzle rose enough in recoil to lose the target. Bell held through the recoil, and the scope sight dropped back into place.
Clicker saw the bullet hit. Rather, he saw the result. Gilroy slumped forward and sagged onto his knees. Then, he reared backward a little before settling against a side of the ravine. His rifle fell and lay across one leg with its muzzle in the dirt.
Bell was slow in jacking a fresh cartridge into the chamber. Hell, he was slow at everything right now. Reloaded, he lay watching Gilroy's still form. It was too far to see more than gross movements, but the ambusher was definitely down. Bell wondered if he should put a make-sure round into the man. Gilroy might not be dead, but he certainly appeared down for good.
Clicker began thinking about the law. It might not be too good to appear to have been overly eager to finish the ambusher off. Clicker decided to wait.
Sydney thought she saw smoke or dust at the muzzle of Clicker's rifle, but then the report reached her. It also reached Greg Maynard.
"Was that Clicker shooting, Sydney?"
"I think it was, Dad. It is so far, I can't really tell, but...." Again, she had to hesitate.
"He's getting up, Dad. He is picking up his rifle. Now he is looking over here. Now he has his rifle up. I'm getting out so that he can see me."
Maynard heard her open the truck door, and there was a protracted silence.
Finally, Sydney came back on.
"It's all right, Dad. Clicker signaled me to drive over there." Maynard could hear the satisfaction in her voice. God, he hoped Bell had killed the SOB.
"Drive carefully, Sydney, and keep your eyes skinned. You don't know what is going on for sure.
"What is Clicker doing now?"
He heard the truck engine start. "He's sitting down. He was limping so badly that he is probably really hurt. I'll talk when I get there, Dad." She hung up.
Clicker did not sit, he slumped. After a few moments he laid down. He carefully raised his leg onto a higher spot, but the thumping, pulsing pain did not let up.
It was fortunate that he was able to signal Sydney. He would not have looked forward to hiking down the hill and probably all the way back to the ranch house.
Clicker closed his eyes and tried to doze until his ride appeared.
Todd Gilroy saw the bullet exit his chest and slam into the wall of the ravine. At nine hundred yards the projectile had slowed considerably, but it blasted through Gilroy's chest without hesitation creating a huge hollow boom within Gilroy's body that was soundless yet recognizable.
Gilroy's eyes blurred, and he felt himself fall. He landed on his knees before his weight drew him backward, and he hit the ravine wall with a discernible thud.
Somehow he remained conscious, but he had no strength to move or to think clearly. He had been shot and hit hard. He knew that much. From where? He could not work it out. Bell, of course.
Gilroy's feet were bent under him, and his wounded thigh screamed at the strain. He managed to shift his weight enough to straighten his legs, but he could do no more.
This hit would finish him. Gilroy could not doubt that if he did not die before Bell came, the killer would lay another one into him. Gilroy did not doubt that either. He wondered why Bell did not shoot him again immediately and supposed he had slumped out of the sniper's view.
His rifle had fallen across his lap, and he could see the muzzle buried in the dirt. The barrel would be clogged, but he lacked the strength to raise it, anyway. Every breath came hard, and Gilroy doubted it would get easier. He tasted blood, and that meant a lung hit. The other lung must be working or he would already be dead.
Bell would be coming soon. Gilroy forced his arm to move. The .357 magnum was tucked tight to his hip in a high-ride holster. He fumbled badly getting it out and then held it on his lap.
When he got more energy, he used his single workable arm to remove his camouflaged cap. Then, he placed the cap over the pistol.
If he still lived when Bell came, there would be one more surprise for the great Sniper Number One.
Bell got Maynard from the truck phone.
He explained most of what had happened, then added, "We're going down below where the deep ravine comes out n
ear the dirt road. You know the place, Colonel?"
"I know it, Click."
"You could meet us there, but on the way you had better call 911 and get the cops on this mess."
"Don't go near the dead guy until I get there, Clicker."
There was a pause before Bell said, "I've got to go, Colonel, he might not be dead."
Maynard had his own pause before speaking. He understood Clicker's meaning. A listener or a recorder of phone conversations would believe that Bell was interested in saving the wounded man's life. Maynard knew better.
"Got your point, Click, but be careful. They say that snakes keep biting even after they are dead."
Clicker rode as passenger. His bad leg throbbed beyond reasonable tolerance, and he knew his temper was beginning to slip. That awareness made him struggle to be patiently courteous.
He said, "Stop right here, Syd."
When the truck halted, Bell adjusted his scope to its lowest power and widest field. If Gilroy lived, this could be close work.
Clicker said, "Now, you stay in the truck while I look this over. Keep the motor running, and be ready to dig out if this bugger comes up shooting."
"Be careful, Clicker." Sydney knew the words were wasted, but she had to say them. Bell moved away without answering.
Clicker moved with care. He limped a step at a time, moving in from an angle so that Gilroy could not see him first. He kept his eyes searching until he saw Gilroy's boots around the edge of the ravine opening. Then he concentrated on Gilroy.
Bell held the Rock rifle high with the butt into his shoulder, the barrel pointed at Gilroy. His finger lay against the trigger, and his eyes stayed glued to Gilroy's features.
The man looked dead. He was slumped and lax with blood on his face, and Bell could see no rise of his chest in breathing.
Gilroy's rifle was still driven into the dirt, and an arm lay limp to the side. The other lay under his hat on his lap. The man's eyes were closed, but his jaw had not sagged, and that bothered Bell.
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