For Harper the place had the distinct advantage of offering four separate avenues of escape. Each one would take him over a trail widely divergent from the others, so once a follower was committed to one trail he would have to retrace his steps and start over again to find his quarry. The time consumed would leave him so far behind that it would be impossible to catch up.
Rock Bannon stared thoughtfully at the tracks.
It would soon be night, and the two must stop. Yet they had sufficient lead on him to make it difficult to overtake them soon, and at night he could easily get off the trail and lose himself in the spiderweb of canyons.
Reluctantly, he realized he must camp soon. The landscape everywhere now was rock, red rock cliffs towering against the sky, cathedral- shaped buttes and lofty pinnacles. He rode down the steep trail, dipping into shadowy depths and riding along a canyon that echoed with the stallion's steps. It was like riding down a long hallway carved from solid rock, lonely and empty.
There was no sound but the walking of the horse and the creak of the saddle leather. Dwarfed by the lofty walls, he moved as a ghost in a vast, unreal world. Yet he rode warily, for at any point Harper might elect to stop and waylay him.
Now the trail down the long avenue between the walls began to rise, and suddenly he emerged upon a plateau that seemed to hang upon the rim of the world.
Far away and below him stretched miles upon miles of the same broken country, but there were trees and grass in the valleys below, and he turned the horse at right angles and then reined in. Here for a space was gravel and rock. He studied the ground carefully and then moved on.
The trail was difficult now, and in the fading light he was compelled to slip from the saddle, rifle in hand, and walk along over the ground.
They wound around and around, steadily dropping. Then ahead of him he saw a pool and beside it a place where someone had lain to drink.
Sliding to the ground, he stripped the saddle from the stallion and tethered him on a grassy plot. Then he gathered dry sticks for a fire, which he made, keeping it very small and in the shadow of some boulders. When the fire was going he made coffee and then slipped back from the fire and carefully scouted the surrounding darkness.
Every step of the way was a danger. Mort Harper was on the run now, and he would fight like a cornered rat, where and when and how he could find the means.
Before daylight, Rock rolled out, packed his gear, and saddled the stallion. Yet when it was light enough to see, there was no trail. The water of the stream offered the best possibility, so he rode into it himself, scanning the narrow banks with attention.
Finally, after being considerably slowed down by the painstaking search, he found where they had left the stream. A short distance further, after seeing no marks, he found a bruised clump of grass where a horse had stepped and slipped.
He had gone no more than four miles when he found where they had camped. There had been two beds, one back in a corner of rocks away from the other, and cut off from the trail by it. Mort Harper was taking no chances. Yet when Rock looked around, he glimpsed something under a bush in the damp earth.
Kneeling, he put his head under the bush. Scratched in the earth with a stick were the words BE CAREFUL and then BIG TRACK.
He had been right then. Harper was headed for Big Track. If that was so, they were a good day's ride from there. Bannon thought that over while climbing the next ridge. Then he made a sudden decision. From the ridge, he examined the terrain before him and then wheeled his horse. As he did so a shot rang out. Leaping from the horse to a cleft in the rock, he lifted his rifle and waited.
The country on the other side of the ridge was fairly open, but with clumps of brush and boulders. To ride down there after a rifleman, and Harper was an excellent shot, would be suicide. Only his wheeling of the stallion had saved his life at that moment.
Sliding back from the cleft, he retreated down the hillside to the steel dust. He swung into the saddle, and keeping the ridge between him and the unseen marksman, he started riding east. He had made his decision, and he was going to gamble on it.
If he continued to follow, as he was following now, he would fall further and further behind, compelled to caution by Harper's rifle and the difficulty of following the trail. If Harper reached Big Track Hollow first, it would be simple for him to take a trail out of there, and then it would be up to Bannon to find which trail.
Rock Bannon had never heard of a cutoff to Big Track, but he knew where he was and he knew where Big Track was. Ahead of him a draw opened and he raced the steel dust into it and started along it, slowing the horse to a canter. Ahead of him and on the skyline, a sharp pinnacle pointed at the sky. That was his landmark.
The country grew rougher, but he shifted from draw to draw, cut across a flat, barren plateau of scattered rocks and rabbit grass, and traversed a lava flow, black and ugly, to skirt a towering rust-red cliff. A notch in the cliff ahead seemed to indicate a point of entry, so he guided the stallion among the boulders. A lizard darted from under the stallion's hoofs, and overhead a buzzard wheeled in wide, lonely circles.
The sun was blazing hot now, and the rocks caught and multiplied the heat. He skirted the gray, dirty mud shore of a small alkaline lake and rode into a narrow cleft in the mountain.
At one point it was so narrow that for thirty yards he had to pull one foot from the stirrup and drag the stirrup up into the saddle. Then the cleft opened into a spacious green valley, its sides lined with a thick growth of quaking aspen. There was water here, and he stopped to give the stallion a brief rest and to drink.
They had been moving at a rapid clip for the distance and the heat. Yet the horse looked good. Again he checked his guns. It was nip and tuck now. If he were to make Big Track before they reached it, or by the same time, he must hurry. If he failed, then there was not one chance in a dozen that he would ever see Sharon again.
Now, every movement, every thought, and every inflection of her voice returned to him, filling him with desperation. She was his. He knew it in every fiber of his being. She was his and had always been his, not only, he understood now, in his own heart, but in hers. He had always known what Mort Harper was. He should never have doubted the girl. It was amazing to him now that he had doubted her even for an instant.
So on he went, though the sun blazed down on the flaming rocks in a torment and the earth turned to hot brass beneath the stallion's feet. The mountains grew rougher. There was more and more lava, and then when it seemed it could get no worse, he rode out upon a glaring white alkali desert that lasted for eight miles at midday, stifling dust and blazing sun.
Rock Bannon seemed to have been going for hours now, yet it was only because of his early start. It was past one in the afternoon, and he had been riding, with but one break, since four in the morning.
On the far side of the desert, there was a spring of water that tasted like rotten eggs- mineral water. He drank a little, rubbed the horse down with a handful of rabbit grass, and let him graze briefly. Then he mounted again, and went on, climbing into the hills.
Big Track was nearer. Somewhere not far from the great sky-stabbing pinnacle he had seen. Sweat strained down his face and down his body under the new shirt. He squinted his eyes against the sun and the smart of the sweat. He had to skirt a towering peak to get to the vicinity of Big Track.
He was riding now with all thought lost, only his goal in mind, and a burning, driving lust to come face to face with Mort Harper. Somewhere ahead he would be waiting; somewhere ahead they would meet.
The sun brought something like delirium, and he thought again of the long days of riding over the plains, of Sharon's low voice and her cool hands as he wrestled with pain and fever, recovering from the wounds of a lone battle against Indians. He seemed to feel again the rocking roll of the wagon over the rutted, dusty trail, tramped by the thousands heading for the new lands in the West.
Why had he waited so long to speak? Why hadn't he been able to find words to
tell the girl he loved her? Words had always left him powerless; to act was easy, but somehow to shape into words the things he felt was beyond him, and women put so much emphasis on words, on the saying of things, and the way they were said.
He swung down from the saddle after a long time and walked on, knowing even the great stallion's strength was not without limit. The wild, strange country through which he was going now was covered with blasted boulders, the rough, slaglike lava, and scattered pines, dwarfish and wind bedraggled, whipped into agonized shapes by the awful contortions of the wind.
Then he saw the stark pinnacle almost ahead, and he saw, beyond it, the green of Big Track. He climbed back into the saddle again, and mopped the sweat from his face. The big horse walked wearily now, but the goal was reached. Rock Bannon loosened the guns in their holsters, and grim faced, he turned down a natural trail that no man had ridden before him, and into the green lush splendor of Big Track Hollow.
The smell of the grass was rich and almost unbelievable, and he heard a bird singing and the sudden whir of wings as some game bird took off in sudden flight. Water sounded, and the gray stallion quickened his pace. He skirted a wide-boled aspen and rode through a grass scattered with purple and pink asters, white sego lilies, and red baneberry. Then he saw the water and rode rapidly toward it.
He dropped from the saddle, taking a quick look around. No human sound disturbed the calm, utter serenity of Big Track. He dropped to his chest on the ground and drank, and beside him, the steel dust drank and drank deep.
Suddenly, the stallion's head came up sharply. Warned, Rock felt his every muscle tense. Then he forced himself to relax. The horse was looking at something, and the calling of birds was stilled. He got slowly to his feet, striving to avoid any sudden movement, knowing in every muscle and fiber of his being that he was being watched. He turned slowly, striving for a casual, careless manner.
Mort Harper was standing a short distance away, a pistol in his hand. He was thinner, wolfish now, his face darkened by sun and wind, his eyes hard and cruel. Backed in a corner, all the latent evil of the man had come to the fore. Quick fear touched Rock.
"Howdy," he said calmly. "I see you're not takin' any chances, Mort. Got that gun right where it'll do the most good."
Harper smiled, and with his teeth bared he looked even more vulpine, even more cruel. "We both know what it means to get the drop," Harper said. "We both know it means you're a dead man."
"I ain't so sure," Bannon said, shrugging. "I've heard of men who beat it. Maybe I'm one of the lucky ones."
"You don't beat this one," Mort said grimly. "I've come to kill you, man." Suddenly his eyes darkened with fury. "I'd like to know how in blazes you got here!" he snapped.
"Figured you'd head for this place if you knew the country at all," Bannon replied with a shrug. "So I cut across country."
"There's no other trail," Harper said. "It can't be done."
Rock Bannon stared at him coldly. "Where I want to go, there's always a trail," Bannon said. "I make my trails, Mort Harper, I don't try to follow and steal the work of other men."
Harper laughed. "That doesn't bother me, Rock. I've still got the edge. Maybe I lost on that steal, but I've got your woman. I've got her and I'll keep her! Oh, she's yours, all right-I know that now. She's yours, and a hellcat with it, but it'll be fun breaking her, and before I take her out of these hills she'll be broken or dead.
"I've got her, and she's fixed so if anything happens to me, you'll never find her and she'll die there alone. It'll serve both of you right. Only I'm not going to die-you are."
"All rat," Rock said coldly. "A rat, all the way through. I don't imagine you ever had a square, decent thought in your life. Always out to get something cheap, to beat somebody, to steal somebody else's work and fancying yourself a smart boy because of it."
Rock Bannon smiled suddenly. "All right, you're going to kill me. Mind if I smoke first?"
"Sure!" Mort sneered. "You can smoke, but keep your hands high, or you'll die quick. Go ahead, have your smoke. I like standing here watching you. I like remembering that you're Rock Bannon and I'm Mort Harper and this is the last hand of the game and I'm holding all winning cards. I've got the girl and I've got the drop."
Carefully, Rock dug papers and tobacco from his breast pocket. Keeping his hands high and away from his guns, he rolled a cigarette.
"Like thinking about it, don't you, Harper? Killing me quick would have spoiled that. If you'd shot me while I was on the ground, it wouldn't have been good. I'd never have known what hit me. Now I do know. Tastes good, doesn't it, Mort?"
He dug for his matches and got them out. He struck one, and it flared up with a big burst. Rock smiled, and holding the match in his fingers, the cigarette between his lips, he grinned at Mort.
"Yes," he said, "it tastes good, doesn't it? And you've got the girl somewhere? Got her hid where I can't find her? Why, Mort, I'll have no trouble. I can read your mind. I can trail you anywhere. I could trail a buzzard flying over a snowfield, Mort, so trailing you would be-"
The match burned down to his fingers and he gestured with it; then as the flame touched his fingers he let out a startled yelp and dropped the match, jerking his hand from the pain-the hand swept down and up, blasting fire!
Mort Harper, distracted by the gesture and the sudden yelp of pain, was just too late. The two guns boomed together, but Mort twisted with sudden shock, and he took a full step back, his face stricken.
Rock Bannon stepped carefully to one side for a better frontal target, and they both fired again. He felt something slug him, and a leg buckled, but he fired again and then again. He shifted guns and fired a fifth shot. Harper was on his knees, his face white and twisted. Rock walked up to him and kicked the smoking gun from his hand.
"Where is she?" he demanded. "Tell me!"
Mort's hate-filled face twisted. "Go to the devil!" he gasped hoarsely. "You go-plumb to the devil!"
He coughed, spitting blood. "Go to the devil!" he said again. Suddenly his mouth opened wide and he seemed to gasp wildly for breath that he couldn't get. Then he fell forward on his face, his fingers digging into the grass, as blood stained the mossy earth beneath him.
Rock walked back to the horse, and stood there, gripping the saddle horn. He felt weak and sick, yet he didn't believe he had been hit hard. There was a dampness on his side, but when he pulled off the new shirt, he saw that only the skin was cut in a shallow groove along his side above the hipbone.
Digging stuff from his saddlebags, he patched the wound as best he could. It was only then he thought of his leg.
There was nothing wrong with it, and then he saw the wrenched spur. The bullet had struck his spur, twisting and jerking his leg but doing no harm.
Carefully, he reloaded his guns. Then he called loudly. There was no response. He called again, and there was no answering sound. Slowly, Rock began to circle, studying the ground. Harper had moved carefully through the grass and had left little trail. Rock returned for his horse, and mounting, he began to ride in slow circles.
Somewhere, Mort would have his horses, and the girl would not be far from them. From time to time he called. Two slow hours passed. At times, he swung down and walked, leading the stallion. He worked his way through every grove, examined every boulder patch and clump of brush.
Bees hummed in the still, warm air. He walked on, his side smarting viciously, his feet heavy with walking in the high-heeled boots. Suddenly, sharply, the stallion's head came up and he whinnied. Almost instantly, there was an answering call. Then Rock Bannon saw a horse, and swinging into the saddle he loped across a narrow glade toward the boulders.
The horse was there, and almost at once he saw Sharon. She was tied to the top of a boulder, out of sight from below except for a toe of her boot. He scrambled up and released her and then unfastened the handkerchief with which she had been gagged.
"Oh, Rock!" Her arms went about him, and for a long moment they sat there, and he held her
close.
After a long time she looked up. "When I heard your horse, I tried so hard to cry out that I almost strangled. Then when my mare whinnied, I knew you'd find us."
She came to with a start as he helped her down. "Rock! Where's Mort? He meant to kill you."
"He was born to fail," Rock said simply. "He was just a man who had big plans, but couldn't win out with anything. At the wrong time he was too filled with hate to even accomplish a satisfactory killin'."
Briefly, as she bathed her face and hands, he told her of what had happened at Poplar. "Your folks will all be back in their homes by now," he said. "You know, in some ways, Lamport was one of the best of the lot. He was a fighter- a regular bull. I hit him once with everything I had, every bit of strength an' power and drive in me, and he only grunted."
They sat there in the grass, liking the shade of the white-trunked aspens.
"Dud and Mary are getting married, Rock," Sharon said suddenly.
He reddened slowly under his tan and tugged at a handful of grass. "Reckon," he said slowly, "that'll be two of us!"
Sharon laughed gaily and turned. "Why, Rock! Are you asking me to marry you?"
"Nope," he said, grinning broadly. "I'm tellin' you! This here's one marriage that's goin' to start off right."
The steel dust stamped his hoofs restlessly. Things were being altogether too quiet. He wasn't used to it.
*
AUTHOR'S NOTE
A MAN CALLED TRENT
Society has never been comfortable with killers. In times of warfare and troubles they have been tolerated, but have always been discomforting to have around. A marshal or sheriff with such a reputation might be tolerated as long as he was necessary, but as soon as the need passed, most citizens wanted to be rid of him.
Contrary to western motion pictures, nobody went around cultivating a reputation as a gun- fighter unless he was a psychopath. A gun- fighter was simply a man who was good with a gun. His coordination, his coolness in a tight situation, and his steadiness of nerve and hand also might have been better than others'. At a time when gunfighting was the accepted way of settling disputes, a man with a steady hand and eye came up a winner. By the time he had won two or three times, he had a reputation. Some admired him for his ability, but far more were uneasy in his presence.
the Rider Of Ruby Hills (1986) Page 24