The Big Hunt

by J. T. Edson

  “There he comes,” Rixon snarled, holding his rifle in sweating hands.

  “Hold your voice down!” Potter hissed. “That damned hunter’s got ears like a bobcat.”

  With that Potter looked for a place where he might rest his rifle and still keep concealed. In addition to having keen ears, Kerry Barran had eyes like a hawk and used them constantly when on the range.

  Loping along on his master’s trail, Shaun covered the ground with the almost tireless gait gained by long hours of exercise. He could not track at the same speed the horses galloped, but kept up a fair pace. Faintly, carried by the wind, he caught the scent of his master and knew he drew close. Then another scent came, almost blocking out that of his master. Deep and low rumbled a snarl in the dog’s throat as he recognized the body odor of two of the men who had been around so much and whom he hated. In addition to the smell of unwashed bodies, mingled with dried blood and general filth, he caught the unmistakable aroma of hate and hunting. Quickening his pace, the dog lifted his head from the tracks and ran on the wind-carried scent.

  “I’ve got him lined up,” Potter breathed. “Don’t shoot until he’s between Wing and Smitty. Let’s make good and sure of him.”

  At that moment both heard the rapid patter of feet and rustling of the bushes, followed by a deep, rumbling snarl. Twisting around, Rixon saw the huge dog burst into sight and uttered a shriek of warning. Potter started to turn, recognized the danger and jerked his rifle around. Its barrel struck a branch and held, causing his finger to jerk the trigger. Flame tore from the rifle’s barrel, but its bullet tore harmlesly through the trees.

  Leaving the ground in a smooth leap, Shaun hurled at Potter. The burly man tried to tear his rifle free from the branch, released one hand and raised an arm to defend his throat. A numbing, burning sensation drove into the arm as Shaun closed his powerful jaws on it. Snarling in fury, the dog bore Potter backward and to the ground.

  Rixon staggered backward, fear on his face as he stared at the struggling man and dog. The big wolfhound had always been a source of terror to the skinner and he realized that, unless he did something fast, a recurring nightmare where Shaun jumped him might come true. Jerking out his revolver—having dropped the rifle at the first sight of the dog—he fired a shot. Shaun yelped, jerked and flopped sideways to the ground.

  “My arm!” moaned Potter, rolling hurriedly away from the dog and clutching at his injured limb.

  “I’m getting out of here!” Rixon croaked and ran for his horse.

  For a moment Potter glared at the dog, wanting to batter its still body into a bloody wreck. Then he, too, turned and made for his mount. Pain beat through him, knifing out from his arm. Only with an effort did he manage to drag himself into the saddle, then he clutched at the horn with his good arm and urged the horse after the departing Rixon.

  All too well both men knew how Kerry Barran felt about his dog. Most likely the shot came soon enough to prevent him from riding into Wingett and Schmidt’s ambush. In which case the hunter stood a good chance of escaping. He would find his dog’s body and the Lord help the man who shot the wolfhound when Kerry Barran laid hands on him.

  So, without a thought for their companions, Potter and Rixon fled in the direction of Otley Creek. Topping a rim, they saw riders approaching in the distance, recognized them, and changed direction rapidly. To be trapped by Dobe Killem, Calamity June, Mark Counter and that fancy-talking English dude meant being held until Kerry Barran arrived, and neither relished the thought. So they headed off across the plains, and might have felt relieved that nobody followed them.

  For once in his life, Kerry Barran lost his habitual caution when out on the open range. Walking along with the girl, he missed noticing certain signs that ought to have been obvious to him—and would have been at any other time.

  The first hint of danger came when a shriek sounded from a large clump of bushes about a hundred and fifty yards ahead. Then Kerry heard a familiar roaring snarl, saw one of the bushes shake violently and a rifle cracked out. Again the bushes shook violently as if something heavy thrashed about among them. A revolver barked and Kerry caught the sound of his dog’s yelp of pain. However, by that time he had other troubles.

  In a single instant after hearing the first sound, Kerry reverted to his normal, keenly alert self. Over to his left he located a patch of unnatural color and a closer inspection showed it to be Wingett’s shirt. Not that Kerry gave a thought to the skinner’s choice of clothes. What interested the hunter was how Wingett lined a rifle in his direction.

  Hooking an arm around Beryl’s waist, Kerry lifted her from her feet and bore her to the ground. Her squeak of protest and amazement died as she heard a rifle shot and saw Kerry’s hat whisked from his head by a close-passing bullet. In bringing Beryl to safety, Kerry released his gray’s rein and she lost her hold of the paint. Startled by the shot and sudden movements, both horses continued to move on. Although neither went far before their trailing reins brought them to a halt, the gray carried Kerry’s carbine well beyond his reach.

  Not far from where Kerry and the girl landed on the ground lay a small dip. Still holding Beryl to him, Kerry rolled over her body, swung her up and across him so that they passed down the incline and out of Wingett’s sight.

  A snarl left Wingett’s lips as his prospective victim disappeared. However, he had been in a position to see the carbine in the gray’s saddleboot and knew the big hunter never carried a revolver. Ignoring his single-shot Ballard rifle, Wingett drew his revolver and charged through the bushes toward where Kerry disappeared. While covering the fifty yards which separated him from his victim, Wingett wondered if his bullet caught the hunter. Maybe nothing more than a body’s convulsions carried the couple out of sight. Even if Kerry Barran still lived, his carbine remained in plain view.

  Just an instant too late Wingett remembered the Indian fighting-axe Kerry always carried. Even as the thought, shocking in its realization, formed, the skinner reached the top of the dip. He halted, staring down, frozen by the memory and understanding of his danger, staring to where Kerry faced him, standing in the attitude of just having thrown something.

  Once in the dip, Kerry rolled clear of the girl. His hand flashed to the tomahawk and slid it free. Taken from a raiding Sioux war chief, the fighting axe had been produced by a man with a fine idea of what such a weapon should be. It was made from real good steel—most likely bought from a trader who wanted to come back, and so sold worthwhile goods—honed to a razor edge and perfectly balanced for slashing chop or skilled accurate throwing.

  Kerry heard the crashing rush of Wingett’s approach and realized what the other planned. Having worked with the skinner for some time, Kerry possessed a fair idea of how the other thought. Trust Wingett to take the most obvious way out.

  “Keep down!” Kerry ordered, having already rolled from the girl, and came to his feet.

  Right foot advanced, Kerry gripped the axe in his right hand and looked up the slope. He measured the distance with his eye and swung up his arm, keeping the axe’s cutting edge aimed straight at where he guessed Wingett would appear. Back and forward Kerry swung the axe, just a couple of times to make sure it lined up correctly. There would be little or no time to correct his aim once the man appeared, but Kerry’s keen ears told him just where Wingett would come into sight. Timing his move just right, Kerry wound up and swung his arm forward in a powerful sweep which propelled the axe through the air even as Wingett’s head top showed over the rim. Turning over once in its flight, the axe streamed toward the skinner. A screech of terror broke from Wingett’s lips. He tried to throw up his arm and ward off the hurtling missile, but left the move too late. Razor-sharp steel bit into flesh and the axe’s weight carried it deep into the side of Wingett’s throat. Blood spurted as the steel sliced through the jugular vein. Wingett’s scream chopped off and he stumbled backward out of sight, his rifle and revolver dropping from his hand.

  Beryl saw the axe leave Kerry’s hand a
nd realized what it was meant to do. Swinging her head away from the sight, a movement caught the corner of her eye. On looking fully around, she saw the big shape of Schmidt among the rocky outcrop about seventy yards away. Even as she watched, the man raised a rifle and lined it in the direction of Kerry’s back. Beryl did not hesitate. Stepping forward, she placed her body between Kerry and the rifle.

  With his sights lined on Kerry’s broad back, Schmidt was on the verge of squeezing the trigger when the girl stepped into his line of fire. Knowing his ability with a rifle, the German did not care to chance hitting the smaller mark offered by the hunter’s head. Nor did he want to shoot the girl, relying on the bullet passing through her and into Kerry’s body. From what he had seen and heard, Schmidt knew the ambush plan had gone wrong and that he most likely stood alone on whatever he did. While the hunt for Kerry Barran’s killer might not be pressed too hard, the same did not apply should the girl fall victim to a murderer’s bullet. The killer of any woman could expect to be hunted down without mercy and relentlessly. That particular woman’s killing would be even more so if Berkmyer told the truth about the amount of political and social pull her dude brother commanded.

  There had been a stormy meeting earlier that morning when Corben demanded to know why his plan to force Kerry Barran back to work failed. Everybody involved tried to lay the blame on somebody else and one excuse offered by Berkmyer concerned a letter carried by the dude and signed by the President. Like Berkmyer, Schmidt had no intention of antagonizing folks whose influence went that high.

  Having reached his decision, Schmidt lowered the rifle. From his position on the rocks, he commanded a good view of the surrounding range and saw the distant riders who scared off his companions. Realizing that he could not expect so many friends to be riding out of Otley Creek, Schmidt knew he had better not delay his departure. Already Potter and Rixon fled and he dropped to the ground, took his horse, then rode off in the opposite direction to the other two. A lone man made less tracks than three and any pursuit would tend to follow the larger group. There were no ties of loyalty to hold the German with Potter and so he did not worry about being separated.

  Bounding forward, Kerry caught up Wingett’s fallen revolver. A better shot with a rifle, he might have taken the Ballard but guessed that it was empty. Gun in hand, he moved cautiously up the slope. The sound of hooves brought him swinging around and he saw Schmidt riding off. He wondered why the German had not fired. Realization burst on him as he remembered how Beryl moved behind him. At the moment he had thought she did it for protection. Now he knew that it had been him she moved to protect.

  “What a gal,” he thought. “She’d make a good wi——”

  He chopped off the thought unfinished as he recalled who and what Beryl was. A woman of her birth and breeding would want better out of life than a foot-loose hunter who lived by his skill with a rifle; and would not want him entertaining such thoughts about her. Even if she did have tender feelings toward him, the sight of Wingett sprawled on the ground and bleeding his life away would chill them off quick enough.

  “Stay down there!” he ordered. “And keep your head down.”

  “Of course,” Beryl replied, her voice cool and calm.

  Bending down, Kerry gripped the axe’s handle and plucked it from Wingett’s neck. Nothing could save the man, in fact, even as Kerry removed the weapon, Wingett died.

  “May I come up, please?” Beryl called. “I heard your dog yelp. He may be injured and need our assistance.”

  “He might at that,” agreed Kerry. “Go the other w——”

  Before he could finish, the girl came up the slope to his side. She sucked in a sharp breath and walked past the body, back straight—almost ramrod stiff—face rigid. Following the girl, Kerry wondered what she must think about him.

  “I had to do it,” he said.

  Beryl bent down and picked Kerry’s hat from the ground. For a moment she held the battered hat, then poked a fingertip into the bullet hole. “I know,” she said. “He meant to kill you.”

  On handing over the hat, her fingers brushed against Kerry’s and her eyes met his. He read no revulsion or condemnation in the girl’s expression—but what he saw jolted him to his toes. If any other woman had looked at him in such a manner, he would have known what to do. With Lady Beryl Farnes-Grable, sister of his employer, Kerry could not bring himself to answer her eyes’ message.

  Almost angrily he jerked his hat on to the rusty brown hair and walked to where the horses stood range-tied by their trailing reins. Beryl watched him go, a mingled smile and frown on her face. Then she gave her head a shake and followed on his heels. Catching their horses, they mounted and rode side by side, but in silence, toward the clump of bushes.

  “Shaun!” Kerry growled, anguish in his voice, as he saw the dog lying sprawled on the ground.

  Flinging himself from the gray, Kerry strode toward the dog. Before he reached its side, Beryl had run by and dropped to her knees, a hand going to the bloody furrow across the dog’s head.

  “He’s not dead!” she gasped, relief plain in her voice. “Get me some water, Kerry, I want to bathe the wound.”

  While unslinging his canteen, Kerry studied the wound and knew what had happened. Whoever shot the dog came within a quarter of an inch of missing. The bullet just nicked Shaun in passing, creasing the scalp and knocking the dog unconscious. Even as he looked, a shudder ran through Shaun’s powerful frame and the dog stirred slightly.

  Placing her hat crown upward on the ground, Beryl told Kerry to pour some water in. Using her handkerchief, after stifling his objections to wetting her Stetson, she bathed the graze and Shaun rolled into a lying position.

  “Move away from him,” Kerry ordered.

  “I’ll have some more water,” she answered, emptying that already in the hat. “Easy now, boy, we’ll soon have you on your feet again.”

  A growl began in Shaun’s throat, but the girl never moved or took the hand from his back. Keeping her voice quiet and soothing, she talked to the wolfhound and her hand stroked his back. Kerry poured out the water, watching for the first hint of an attack. Placing the hat before the dog, Beryl steadied him as he sat up and began to drink. After a time Shaun raised his head and looked straight at the girl. A cold feeling of anxiety ran through Kerry as he watched. Then he saw the dog’s tail wag and Shaun lowered his head to lick Beryl’s hand.

  Chapter 10

  A TIME TO MAKE FINAL PREPARATIONS

  THE PARTY FROM TOWN APPROACHED AT A FAST trot, guns out ready for use, horses being held down to that pace so as to have a reserve of speed should pursuit be necessary. Relief showed on Lord Henry’s face as he saw his sister safe and well. Dropping from his saddle, he walked toward where the girl knelt at Shaun’s side.

  “You’re all right, dear?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she replied, her hand on the dog’s neck. “But I wouldn’t come any closer if I was you.”

  Noting the dog’s warning altitude, Lord Henry halted, so did Calamity, who had been following on the Englishman’s heels. Admiration, tinged with a little exasperation, showed on the red-head’s face as she saw that Beryl had made friends with the wolfhound.

  “Well dog-my-cats!” Calamity said to Beryl. “If you’re not a living wonder. If anybody else’d tried to touch that fool dog, he’d’ve chewed their fingers off plumb up to the armpits.”

  “It’s all done by kindness,” smiled Beryl. “A gypsy taught me how to do it.”

  “Did she teach you how to ride as well?” grinned Calamity, too warm-hearted and generous of nature to hold a grudge against somebody who showed talent.

  “That runs in the family,” Lord Henry told her. “It and scaring one’s friends out of their wits.”

  “Good Lord!” Beryl gasped in mock surprise. “Did my nipping off like that worry you?”

  “Well, Calam did express concern at you being on her saddle when you went; and I suddenly realized that you’ve the keys to our strong bo
x at Lloyds.”

  “And I thought they chased after me for myself,” sighed Beryl. “Shaun, it’s nice to know that you still love me.”

  “Heard some shooting,” Calamity remarked, becoming serious.

  “Those chaps Kerry had the trouble with last night tried to ambush us,” Beryl answered.

  “Who was it, Kerry?” Mark was asking at the same time as Beryl told her story to Calamity and Lord Henry.

  “Potter’s bunch,” the hunter replied. “I had to kill Wingett.”

  “It looks like you did,” said Killem dryly, directing a pointed glance at the hole in Kerry’s hat. “What happened?”

  “Looks like they followed me out of town. Laid for me around here. Rixon and Potter were up here. Shaun jumped one of them. Figure it was Potter, or old Shaun’d be dead now. Rixon creased his head with a bullet and they took to running. The other two hid out down that ways. Wingett cut loose and missed, but Schmidt run without shooting.”