While the men were looking around, Di dug out a mirror and flashed a message to Adam, down in the valley below, that they had picked up the Giant’s trail. The Allies never used radios unless it was necessary, or they didn’t care whether or not the enemy overheard. They had scanners and it was a sure bet the King’s men did, too.
A cry from Minowayuh brought Michael over to where he stood, at the edge of the precipice. Grass was flattened on top the overlook, suggesting someone laid there a long time. It was just starting to spring back up.
“Three hours old,” he said.
Michael shook his head. “At least five and probably six. This guy weighs more than three hundred pounds.”
Minowayuh nodded, acknowledging Michael’s point. The grass would take quite a bit longer to recover from the weight of someone that big, especially when it looked like the Giant had spent several hours lying there, watching their camp below.
“He might have still been here when we started circling the valley floor trying to cut his sign,” Michael muttered to himself.
Michael thought back. They’d all grabbed a couple hours sleep before starting the burial detail and had finished that a little after eight. So with getting provisioned, having breakfast and arguing with Adam, it was almost nine before they got started hunting. It took almost three hours to pick up the man’s trail and another three to get here.
From the looks of his sign he couldn’t have left this spot much before ten. Good! He hadn’t been watching when Michael actually found his trail. But on the other hand, he would have known they were looking for tracks and smart as he was, would figure he was being followed.
Minowayuh pointed to faint tracks leading off through the grass into the trees. This grass had almost completely sprung upright, but the stems were bruised and the faint discoloration marked the Giant’s trail. It led off southwesterly, paralleling the canyon rim, leading to higher, rougher ground.
Minowayuh turned to Michael and pointed toward the higher peaks, saying, “He stays up high in the rough country and sooner or later we’ll have to leave the horses behind. There’s a lot of places they can’t go up there.”
“So we lose the advantage of being mounted,” Michael replied. “Good move, but then what?”
“Then he either picks us off one at a time, or circles around and steals the horses,” Minowayuh said. “Either way he gains the advantage, since he knows where he’s going and we don’t.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” Michael said, looking at the direction the trail tended. “It’s just possible he’s heading for Booby Trap Canyon.”
Lady Di led the horses up to them, asking, “Why, of all places, would he go there?”
Michael pulled the monofilament fishing line wrapper he’d found at the mouth of that canyon out of his saddle bags and showed it to them, explaining about the booby traps he suspected might still be waiting in its upper reaches.
“Oh, good,” Minowayuh said. “He bushwhacks us and takes our horses.”
“And if I’m right,” Michael continued, “he’ll keep to the high ground until he spots us trailing him, then head down to that little meadow at the canyon’s mouth and up the canyon into the traps. He’d love the irony of baiting us into his trap the way we baited him into ours.”
“So you think he’s hunting us while we’re hunting him,” Di said.
“Bet on it!” It was exactly what he would do if the situation was reversed and it fit with everything he’d learned about Prince John. “Any man that big and fast has to have plenty of faith in his own abilities. The fact that there’s three of us won’t worry him much.”
“Then he’s a fool,” said Minowayuh.
“No, just confident--and arrogant.”
Michael swung up into the saddle and nudged his horse into a fast walk. If the clouds cleared up there would be enough light to track until well after sundown. Michael pushed the pace.
As they rode, Michael explained his plan. “When we see for sure he’s heading down, we’ll split up. You two keep tracking him. I’ll stay up high on the ridge and follow it to the back of the canyon. By the time he sees only two of us are following him, it’ll be too late. I’ll be ahead of him and he’ll be boxed in.”
Minowayuh nodded and asked, “And then what? He’ll probably sit there surrounded by his clever little traps and wait for us to come to him.”
“Maybe so,” Michael admitted. “But he’s not very good at waiting.” Michael had no idea how right he was, or that John had a twin brother.
*
Anthony loped through the forest in a mile-eating pace, making no effort to hide his trail. They were coming after him. Well, let them. They had humiliated him, set him up and sucked him in and made a fool of him! He could hear John gloating now. No! He lashed out at a nearby aspen with a massive fist, breaking a branch. He had to turn this around, come out with a victory and he knew just how to do it.
Chapter 27: Hand-to-Hand
Raindrops fell through the light forest canopy, splashing Michael and his friends as they followed the Giant’s trail under the trees. The longer they tracked the man, the more Michael learned and the more puzzled he became. Whenever the Giant came to a clearing, he crossed it at its widest, most exposed point. Normally, a fugitive avoided clearings since it would be easier for his pursuers to spot him in one and because clearings and meadows allowed Michael, Minowayuh and Di to use their horses’ superior speed. There had to be a reason. Everything he knew about Prince John told him the man wouldn’t...
“He’s setting us up,” Minowayuh said, interrupting Michael’s thoughts. “Getting us used to following him across these clearings so he can hit us in the open.”
Michael nodded. It made sense, even if it wasn’t as subtle a ploy as he expected. “He has a real love affair going with traps. We just have to be careful. I’ve seen this guy, this Prince John, in action before and he’s good in the woods. Good enough to give Ellen and a hand-picked posse the slip.”
“Then why is he leaving a trail a mile wide?” Di asked. “I mean, I can’t track, but he’s plowing ahead like a runaway bulldozer.”
“Wants us to think he’s panicked,” Minowayuh said. “But I don’t buy it. Look over there where that branch is broken.” The gleam of fresh white wood stood out stark against the tree trunk. “Had to be deliberate.” He looked over at Michael. “Think we ought to skirt the clearings?”
Michael nodded. “It’ll slow us down some, but I don’t see we have a choice. John is smart and if you see a clear trail in front of you it’s time to watch your back.”
Minowayuh darted a glance over his shoulder, then turned back with a sheepish, gold-toothed smile, “Reflex.”
Michael kneed his horse ahead. “I really thought he’d try to lose us first, though,” he mumbled to himself. Something wasn’t right. The Giant was too woods wise for this.
*
Anthony cursed as a root tripped him and sent him sprawling, skinning his hands. He had to think, dammit! He’d always been better in the woods than John, yet the three were gaining on him. He’d seen them circling a meadow, staying in the trees, not a mile behind. He couldn’t outrun them and help was too far away. At this rate they’d catch him before he reached his traps.
He burst from the forest into a boulder field, leaping from rock to rock, his eyes lighting on a clump of aspen at its far edge. A plan began to form and as it did a smile caught fire in his eyes.
*
The pursuers paused at the end of the trees. The Giant’s tracks led out into a field littered with boulders, many only three or four feet across, some as large as houses. It was an ideal site for an ambush.
Di asked, “Around, or through?”
Michael scanned the terrain with his binoculars; both choices would cost them time, neither appealed. “Around. We’ll cut his trail on the far side.”
“If he’s not in those rocks,” Minowayuh said, giving the boulder field a dark look.
Di touched his a
rm and he looked up into her warm, brown eyes. “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”
*
Anthony secured the last of the sharp, wood spikes to the long, springy sapling, wedged the lower trunk between two trees and lashed the whip-stake trap in place. He bent the flexible tip back like a bow, secured it to a trip line trigger and camouflaged the works with cut foliage. There! He’d always been good at traps.
Now to lure them in. He tore loose a scab and smeared fresh blood across a white-barked aspen, checked his shotgun and faded back into the trees to wait.
*
Michael ducked under a low branch, bumped it with a shoulder and got a shower of droplets down his back. They had lost almost an hour before picking up the Giant’s trail and were pushing to make up time, Minowayuh and Di, side by side in the lead, Michael eyeing their back trail. The rain had stopped, but it was too quiet, watchers-in-the-woods quiet. Michael’s neck hairs were prickling when Di’s shrill scream shattered the stillness.
Instinctively, he spun toward the sound, caught a motion out of the corner of his eye and dove from the saddle as a shotgun blast split the air. He hit hard, losing his Uzi. Pellets burned into his leg as he rolled under a low-limbed spruce, looked up and saw his horse bolting into the trees.
“Chief! Di!”
His answer was a shotgun load that shredded the branches overhead and rained sharp, dry needles down onto him. But he had the Prince spotted now, behind a big ponderosa pine, not sixty feet away.
Michael dashed for better cover, loosing five snap shots in the Giant’s direction. Return fire tore the speed load holster off his belt and sent it spinning into the underbrush. Great, he thought. One bullet left and no reloads.
He was between the Giant and his friends now. Lady Di dangled from a tree, her left arm bayoneted to its trunk by the trap. Blood ran freely down her arm, parted into two streams around her neck and dripped steadily from her chest to the ground. The fact it wasn’t spurting told Michael no major artery had been severed. She had a knot the size of a golf ball on the side of her head. Minowayuh lay unconscious on the ground, an ugly gash across the top of his skull. Michael could tell he wasn’t dead because his head wound was still oozing. Their horses had run off.
“You there!” The deep, gravelly voice of the Prince reached him easily. “Throw down your gun or I’ll blast the nigger.”
Nigger! The word lanced through Michael like a hot knife. “Try it!” Michael challenged. To shoot her, the Giant would have to show himself.
“Looks like we got a Mexican standoff.”
Michael looked behind him. Minowayuh was gone. He had to keep the Prince talking. “Why don’t you just fade back into the woods? We’re both on foot now and I’ll have to let you go to look after my friends.”
Minowayuh listened to the talk as he wormed his way closer, belly-crawling past a wild rose, a clump of columbine, then among some small aspen. The pistol in his hand felt like a lead weight and his head throbbed mercilessly as his vision blurred and cleared. He wished he had his rifle, never was much good with a pistol.
“Big of you to ‘let’ me go,” Anthony snarled. “Considering I have the upper hand.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? You’re the one said we had a standoff.”
“I mean I’ve never been beaten.”
Whew! Michael thought, no ego there. “Then what do you call that ambush last night?”
“A temporary setback. Besides, I have plenty of time, but you have to do something soon or your nigger friend will bleed to death.” He seemed to know instinctively how that word got under Michael’s skin. “It’s up to you to open the negotiations.”
“I don’t negotiate with Royalty,” Michael said.
“Neither do I,” Minowayuh said from where he’d flanked Anthony. “Drop it.”
But even as he spoke, the Prince whirled and fired.
“Get him!” Minowayuh screamed as he pulled the trigger on his .45. His slug burned across Anthony’s ribs.
Michael darted toward the ponderosa, then spun around its trunk, bracing his gun arm against the tree, centering his sights on the Giant.
Everything seemed to happen at once as Michael squeezed off his last remaining shot. The Giant’s shotgun roared, its blast catching the charging Minowayuh full in the chest, flinging him aside like a rag doll. Michael’s bullet smashed into the shotgun, shattering it and ripping it from the Giant’s hands.
Anthony screamed and spun toward Michael. Blood sprayed from the trigger finger of his left hand and Michael saw that it had been torn off at the first joint when the .357 round hit the shotgun.
Michael drew his bowie and rushed the Giant, hoping to get in a telling blow before he could recover. Adrenaline surged through his veins. He launched a flying kick that penetrated the Big Man’s defenses and snapped his head sideways, but when Michael landed, a gnarled tree root spilled him. He flung out his hands to catch himself, losing both pistol and knife in the process. Michael scrambled to his feet, but he wasn’t quick enough. A blow from the Giant’s huge right hand thudded into Michael’s ribs with such force he felt a couple of them give. A left-handed slap grazed his head, dazing him, sending him tumbling to the ground beside Minowayuh.
Struggling to clear his head, Michael saw the enormous man bend down over him, a huge combat knife clasped in his torn left hand, the index finger of his right pointing mere inches in front of Michael’s face.
“I’m going to enjoy this,” the Giant growled.
“I think not,” Michael said, as he snatched the Giant’s index finger with his right hand and gave it a vicious sideways twist, breaking it with an audible snap. He wrenched it sharply forward, jerking the Giant off-balance, bringing his face within striking distance.
Michael sent two stiffened fingers from his left hand stabbing up into the Big Man’s eyeballs. The man shrieked and snapped upright, his mangled hands reflexively covering his eyes. Michael jackknifed his legs together and thrust upwards into unprotected balls. The Giant’s scream trailed off into a strangled gasp. His hands clutched at his crotch and he dropped his knife. His bloodied eyeballs rolled up into their sockets as he doubled over.
Michael sprang to his feet and whirled into his enemy, smashing an elbow to the huge man’s temple that staggered him, but didn’t put him down. Michael delivered a spinning side kick that crumpled the Giant’s left knee, toppling him onto Minowayuh, where he rolled face first into a roundhouse blow that smeared his nose across his face like an overripe tomato. The Giant wobbled back and forth on his knees, half-supporting himself with one hand on the ground. Michael took a big step forward and swung a full-bodied punt that planted the toe of his boot under the Giant’s chin, snapping the man’s head back with a crack and causing his eyes to glaze over.
He slumped to the ground and Michael bought his act, both because he was thinking of the information locked up inside the man’s head and what a coup it would be to bring him to Adam alive and because he’d never seen anybody absorb that much punishment and remain conscious.
Michael pulled his belt from around his waist, stepped forward and leaned over to secure the man’s arms. The Giant leg-whipped Michael’s feet out from under him and Michael hit the ground flat on his back, jolting the air from his lungs, spasms of pain from his cracked ribs making it hard to catch his breath.
While Michael struggled for air, the Giant rolled over on top of him, pinning Michael’s arms to his sides. Blood dripped from Anthony’s battered face onto Michael’s as those huge, mangled hands closed around his throat. Something about those hands seemed wrong, but Michael couldn’t remember what.
He tucked his chin into his neck to keep the Giant from crushing his throat and as he did, the man’s broken right index finger jutted up temptingly in front of Michael’s mouth. Lunging his head forward, Michael snagged the broken finger between his teeth, biting down so hard that he felt the bones crunch as he broke it again. Michael jerked his head violently from side to
side, trying to tear the finger off.
Anthony squealed like a stuck pig and let go of Michael’s throat, yanking his finger from Michael’s mouth in the process. For an instant, Michael could breathe and he gulped a frantic breath of air. He tugged sharply and almost got his right arm free, but before he could do anything else the Giant’s hands slammed into the side of his head, stunning him. Then those hands were back at Michael’s throat, crushing the breath from him.
“I’ve...never...been...beaten,” Anthony ground out through a badly shattered jaw. His bloodshot eyes glared down at Michael.
Michael writhed and bucked desperately, twisting and wrenching to escape the man’s grip, but it was no use. Too strong.
Michael’s sight was fading. His thoughts flashed to Ellen and for a second he could see her, standing on the deck of their home, her back to him, talking to their son Steven. Steven’s eyes seemed to meet Michael’s and the boy stiffened with shock.
“DAD!”
The vision jolted Michael to his core. A rush of adrenaline, a desperate jerk and twist and his right arm broke completely free. His scrabbling fingers touched and grasped something that his dimming mind almost failed to recognize as the barrel of Minowayuh’s .45. Swinging it wildly, with his last strength, Michael whacked the Giant in the head with it.
Once! His grip on Michael’s throat relaxed slightly.
Twice! Michael could almost breathe.
A third time he pounded the heavy pistol into the man’s skull, knocking him off balance. Michael bucked and heaved, throwing the Giant off his body.
He rolled away, gasping and shuddering as he drew fresh, sweet air deep into his lungs. The fingers of Michael’s left hand automatically went to the slide of the .45, pulling it back, then letting it snick forward, inserting a shell in the chamber. Other than that, Michael couldn’t move, even though he knew he had to.
The Dying Time (Book 2): After The Dying Time Page 28