Eye of the Wolf

by Theodore V. Olsen

  More than halfway to the rim, he had to slow. The pitch of the cliff was almost perpendicular now, and he chose his holds carefully on its blistered surface. He climbed another sweating yard, then had the sinking realization that he couldn't move past the swell of smoothly outcurving rimrock just above.

  A short distance to his left, the rim was deeply split. Maybe the cleft was wide enough to fit his body into; then he could clamber up through it. But the wall was almost sheer at this point. He had to move sideward with infinite care, testing each supporting knob or crevice before he let it take his full weight. The cliff was rotten here, he could feel its crumbling rasp under his moccasin soles, yet he had no choice but to trust it.

  Some of it broke away under his groping toes, the fragments booming with a sullen clatter down the cliff face. He curved his fingers into their tenuous holds, feeling needles of pain shoot the length of his arms; blood hammered in his temples. Another four feet… he would be inside the split. To reach it, he must grasp a flinty protuberance just this side of it, then maneuver his feet along a ledge about two inches wide till he could swing his body into the cleft.

  The knob was just beyond reach of his splayed fingers. He strained sideways with a frantic care, fighting to keep his balance till he could close a hand over it. The bedroll slung from his shoulder was enough weight to dangerously overbalance him on that side. He couldn't make it. He clung sweating to his precarious holds, hesitating. He twisted his body till he could shed the bulky roll. It fell away and bounced down the sheer drop.

  He had enough leverage now to grasp the knob. Slowly, very slowly, hugging the wall and not able to look down even if he'd dared, he began to inch his feet along the ribbon of ledge.

  Almost at once it cracked under him, scaling off in great rotted sheets—and he was swinging by his hands over a clear drop.

  He heard a faint clatter of hoofs from the canyon. Alerted by the sound of falling rock, they were coming fast, they were almost to this end. For an instant all his mind contained was the naked question of whether he would be shot like a fly off the wall or whether, just before that happened, he'd lose his grip and be crushed to a jelly on the canyon floor.

  One of his flailing legs toe-hooked blindly into a shallow depression. It lent him just enough support to let him ease the full weight on his arms and sling the other leg around the edge of the rimrock cleft. Securing foothold, he swung his whole body into the ragged break.

  The riders thundered into the bowl.

  "There he is…up there! Get him, goddammit!"

  Will-Joe was already scrambling up the last few feet. A man fired wildly. The slug caromed off rock yards to his right. Another hit just above his head, showering splinters over him. In seconds, he knew, all the guns would be out, and not all would be wild shots.

  He clawed savagely upward; his hands closed over the rim. A third bullet striking somewhere below whined up and streaked redhot along the flesh of his forearm.

  With a supreme effort he heaved his body up and over the rim, rolling away from it. A moment later he flattened under the screaming ricochets as a half-dozen guns opened up simultaneously at the rimrock. He rolled again, scrambling farther off the rim, and fell on his back. His chest was rasped raw, his fingers scratched and bleeding; the ruddy crawl of sunrise pinwheeled crazily in his eyes.

  The shooting stopped. He heard Ulring's voice, tight with rage, yelling orders.

  He was cut off from below, he was safe. For how long? No longer, he knew, than it would take them to fade back into the canyon and find an easier way to the rim. A few minutes' respite.

  He needed it. For at the moment, grabbed by reaction, all he could do was sprawl on his back as he was, spent and shaking.

  A mauve blur of dusk had dropped over Spurlock. Frank Ulring's mood was savage as he rode down the main street. He was grimy, sweaty, tired, from twenty-four hours in the saddle with little rest and no sleep. His horse's coat was crusted with dirty yellow froth. Halting at the rail fronting his office, he dismounted like a drugged man. He leaned a moment against his saddle leather, feeling red darts of exhaustion quiver through his muscles. He hadn't put in such a night and day in years; it galled him to realize how out of shape he was.

  A week in the saddle would put him back in fettle. For more such days would follow. Maybe many of them. The thought made him swear with venom.

  His office window was lighted and the shade pulled. Ducking under the rail, he crossed the porch, opened the door and went in. The sight of Claude Warhoon—dozing in the sheriff's swivel chair with hands folded on his belly, feet crossed on the desk —touched an obscure, furious nerve in Ulring. He slammed the door, bringing Claude wildly out of his chair, his boots crashing on the floor.

  "Holy balls! You give me a start there, Frank."

  Ulring came to the desk and slammed his rifle down on it, then peeled off his gauntlets with savage jerking motions. "Take care of my horse. Then get over to the Chink's and fetch me some grub and a pot of coffee. I want the biggest steak in the place. Half a dozen eggs and some fried spuds. That coffee, it better be black and hot."

  "Yessir—"

  Claude was out the door almost before the order was finished. Ulring dropped into his chair and leaned his elbows on it, ducking his head and lacing his fingers together behind his neck. Christ, what a day. Not a goddam mote to show for it but saddle aches and butt blisters. He hadn't counted on how rough the country between here and the Cantrell kid's camp would be. It had slowed the posse by enough to let the kid reach the camp before they did.

  It had been such a damned close thing, too—when they had run the kid up that canyon. You'd think nothing alive could scale its box end, but maybe it had only seemed that bad from below. Once he'd achieved the rimrock, at any rate, he'd easily made a complete escape. By the time the posse had worked back downcanyon to a more negotiable means of ascent, the boy was long gone, his trail swiftly fading out in the rocky terrain northeast of the canyon.

  They'd found a little blood on the rimrock, but Ulring guessed it had leaked from no more than a scratch. Anyway the kid was without a horse again; he'd been forced to abandon his roll of gear and grub. Ulring had split the posse up, dispatching one man to the kid's camp with orders to lay up there out of sight on the admittedly thin chance that sooner or later Cantrell might return to it. He'd sent others to cover the main trails out of the mountains: if the kid tried to slip out of the country on one trail or another, he'd be held to a snail's crawl afoot. Once he did show himself, mounted men could run him down.

  Afterward, judging it likely the kid would look to his Navajo relatives for help, Ulring had ridden alone to old John Thunder's village. He had told Adakhai in unmistakable terms what would happen to any Navajo who gave sanctuary or other aid to Will-Joe Cantrell. If the kid showed up, he was to be seized and tied and delivered to Spurlock. Adakhai had been impressed. Spooked was the word. Tsi Tsosi never bluffed, and he knew it.

  The threat should chop off any likelihood of interference from that quarter. Would they heed his command to take the kid prisoner? Not likely, Ulring had to admit. They wouldn't cooperate a jot further than necessary; they'd turn the kid away and keep mum. Still Will-Joe Cantrell would be alone, cut off, completely on his own. Probably he wouldn't attempt getting out of the country on foot. Even if he found a hiding place, he couldn't stay in hiding forever; hunger would drive him out to forage. It would be risky to fire off a gun—if he had one—or to build a fire.

  So what the hell chance did he have?

  Thinking about it, Ulring relaxed a little. He opened a drawer and produced a bottle and glass, and poured a stiff drink. Letting its fluid flame explode through his belly, he felt better. Within a day or so, the whole country would be alert for sign of a murdering half-breed. The Territory's Indian-fighting past was still sharp in memory; people were set to go on a trigger panic at the first hint of an Indian scare. And ready to shoot on sight.

  The kid wouldn't live out the week. He'd ge
t no chance to tell his story; no one would believe it if he did. What he knew would die with him.

  When Claude brought his meal, Ulring attacked it with a famished concentration, washing mouthfuls down with the black coffee. Afterward, feeling even better, he drifted down to the Pink Lady where some of his posse were wetting down the day's dust.

  All were tired and sore-assed; most were taciturn and irritable as well. A soft-bellied lot of counterjumpers, he thought contemptuously: How many would be willing to resume the hunt tomorrow? Only the cowpoke and the two teamsters had weathered the day well, and none of the three were here. One teamster, George Moran, was watching the kid's old camp. Cap Merrill and Tug Baylor, the other teamster, had agreed to go up to the Navajos' plateau, make a cold camp in the hills and spy on Adakhai's people. There was a chance they'd intercept the kid if he showed up, in which case they had orders to shoot on sight.

  Ulring had a couple of drinks to settle his supper and then, tiring of the grumbling talk, tramped out. The night was mildly discordant; tinny guitar sounds from Mextown mingled with the rasping of insects. Chewing a clove, he headed downstreet toward the McAllisters'. In the days to come, he intended to make regular but not-too-frequent calls on the lovely widow. For a long while—against all his impatience—he'd have to continue in the role of sympathetic and understanding friend. It wouldn't be easy, but he had an easy confidence about his long-term prospects.

  Also the hardest part was over.

  He grinned to himself in the dark as he turned up the pebbled path; he tapped on the door.

  Bethany opened it. She wore a full-skirted frock of stiff black taffeta, and Ulring didn't have to feign his admiration. She had never looked so vividly beautiful: the mourning black sharpened every contrast of her creamy skin, her flamelike hair, her jade eyes.

  "Evening, Beth." He was careful to add a small gravity and diffidence to the admiration he let show.

  "Come in, Frank."

  She closed the door behind him and led the way into the sola. He waited till she had seated herself in a hand-carved armchair, then eased his bulk down on the creaking settee, hat in hand. He knew he wasn't too presentable: unwashed and unshaved, red-eyed with exhaustion, his clothes creased with trail grime. And that was how he wanted her to see him: the good friend and conscientious lawman worn fine in his search for her husband's killer.

  "Hope I'm not intruding."

  "Never." She smiled a little, but dark smudges of strain under her eyes said that she'd put in a trying day. "Everyone's been so kind… people have been in and out all day."

  Offering condolences on her account, he knew—not on Dennis's.

  "We didn't find the boy," he said.

  "I know. Mrs. Morton told me. Her husband was out with the posse."

  "I suppose"—he gave his tone a wryly impersonal tinge— "you're not altogether unhappy about it."

  "Don't be unfair, Frank."

  "I didn't mean to be."

  "I know." She bit her lip as if she were trying not to, staring at the thick Navajo blanket that served as parlor carpet. "It's still so difficult to say how I feel about anything. I guess I'm numb… or just confused."

  "No blame to you for that. Anyone's to be blamed, it's me… for what happened."

  "Don't." She quickly raised her eyes. "Don't say that again, Frank. How could you know what would happen? How could anyone?"

  "No one ever does. It's just that… a man wants to do something for the best and it turns out like this. I wanted to help Dennis—and you—and now he's dead."

  "Don't think about it any more."

  "I only wish I had it to do over."

  A silence ran gently between them. Bethany broke it:

  "Wouldn't it be fine if we could turn back the clock on every mistake we commit? All the way back to the beginning?"

  Ulring looked at her for a moment. "You mean with the kid?" He knew she didn't.

  "No, I didn't mean Will-Joe." She folded her hands on her knees and studied them. Or maybe the slim gold band winking on the left one. Then she looked up. "I still don't believe he's a killer. Not that he didn't kill, I mean. But that he meant to…"

  "Probably he didn't. I said so, didn't I? But the fact remains, Beth—he was there. He was working with Leggett—and just as guilty of breaking the law."

  "I don't deny that. The facts speak for themselves. But there are other facts, too, in Will-Joe's case."

  "Don't tell me," he said dryly. "He's one of the born unfortunates. We all helped push him, all of us. Right?"

  "I think so." She colored faintly. "That's no excuse, I know. But it's a reason."

  "Reasons aren't excuses?"

  "Frank, suppose that Will-Joe Cantrell hadn't been born between two worlds. Suppose he'd had two parents of one race—white or Indian. That he could feel he belonged to one or the other… and everything that goes with that knowing. That it might have made all the difference."

  Ulring twirled his hat on one big fist. "I ever tell you about my father, Beth?"

  "You've never mentioned your family. No."

  "He was all the family I ever knew. He came over from Norway before I was born. He'd failed at everything he tried in the old country. His excuse was that when his father died, all that the old man had went by law to the older son—Pa's brother—leaving him nothing. So he came to America. He farmed in Wisconsin. A year after I was born, my ma died. And after he'd lost the farm from drinking and neglect, he made her death the excuse for that."

  Ulring stood, whipping his Stetson against his leg as he paced a slow circle of the room, his shoulders stiffly canted. He didn't have to feign this ancient blister on his soul. "All the years I grew up, I lived with what he was. From four on, I listened to him cadge drinks, I saw him work at the lowest kind of jobs for drink money. When I was big enough, I had to pick him out of the gutter and drag him home a thousand times. I was Ingvar Ulring's kid. Son of the village drunk. That's how they all knew me. That's how…"

  He ended it with a laugh. He swung easily around, smiling a little. "Sorry. But I can't abide excuses. Maybe you see why. If upbringing's any excuse for a kid, I had more than enough to wind up like my old man did. Or worse."

  She rose, rustling crisp taffeta; she walked to the window and faced out toward the darkness. "You're strong, Frank. It makes you expect too much of others."

  "You too," he said gently. "Difference is, you expect 'em to be better than they are."

  She turned her head till their eyes met; she forced a little smile. "And I suppose when they're not, I make excuses for them?"

  "Something like that."

  "I wasn't like you, Frank. I had every advantage. I can't help thinking that—and feeling it does make a difference."

  "You were born a worthwhile person, Beth. That's what makes the difference. A worthwhile human being, and a friend." He shook his head a little, soberly. "Times like this, I don't know what even the best of friends can say or do that will mean anything… that will help."

  "So often—you've been a comfort just by being there, Frank."

  Her eyes misted: she dipped her chin down, her shoulders shaking. The signs of an inheld tension and tired grief that couldn't let go of itself. Ulring moved toward her. "Beth—" He pulled her close and held her till her weeping broke like a storm.

  The camp was below him and the four men were talking. They were hunkered in the lee of a rocky spire that partly broke the windy tatters of rain. But wind continued to whip their small fire; rain hissed on the coals. Even in slickers they were wet as rats, chilled and miserable. Not twenty yards above them, Will-Joe was belly-down on a shelving ledge. From here he couldn't see their faces, only the bent shape of their bodies in gleaming slickers and hatbrims troughing the rain off in bright twinkles.

  But their voices reached him plain enough.

  "That goddam breed is got an edge," one said. "You ain't gonna outfigure no Injun on his own ground. It's in the blood."

  "It's his training, that's all," sai
d a mild-voiced man.

  "Bullshit it's training. It's in the blood. That breed got borned with an edge."

  Will-Joe sprawled prone on the rain-beaten lid of rock, trying to still his chattering teeth. He'd been working north through the brush when he had spotted the fire. It had seemed worth the trouble to steal up above the men and see if he could glean a useful scrap or two of information. It was still early afternoon; this camp was only a makeshift halt for rest, shelter, warmth. They guzzled black coffee, passed a bottle back and forth, and bitched about the weather and everything else that came up for discussion.

  None of it told him much. He had made his escape from Ulring's posse two days ago. Since then, the sheriff had been splitting his command into small parties. To Ulring it would seem the likeliest way of nailing his quarry: have his men fan across as much territory as possible at a single time, keeping a constant pressure on Will-Joe.

  So far, though, he'd evaded the searchers without much difficulty. He couldn't have said any more than the men below whether it was "in the blood" or training alone. He was just glad of one thing: that he knew this country as he did the lines of his hand. Some of the posse knew the land too, but not in his way. His was a special kind of knowing, developed by years of living alone, hunting alone, tracking alone. Depending on nothing but his own senses and wits at times when life had boiled down to the hard and barren terms of pure survival.

  Below him, they were talking some more.

  "Maybe dogs'll do the trick. Didn't Ulring say yestiday he was sending for some?"

  "Yeah, to old Will Farley's place. Will is got some hounds. Frank sent Lester Stevens after 'em, but hell, Will's place is down by Conover Junction. Lester be two days getting there and back."

  "Hounds, Christ. They couldn't track a stink bug in piss-poor weather like this."

  "Yeah, three flash storms in two days, now this goddam drizzle. Ain't no trail left to pick up, you bet."

  "Well, boys, she's bound to let up sometime."