Blood of the Hunters

by Jeff Rovin

  The Mexican strode over to the rock wall, leaned his rifle against the cliff, and stood beside Molly.

  “To be with you, I am happy to climb a cliff!” he said.

  “That, Señor Juarez, is the most flattering compliment I have ever received.” To test the rocks, Molly stood on her toes and pulled, then set herself back down and turned to Stockbridge. “I believe we can do this!”

  “Godspeed,” he said sincerely, though mostly he had said that to keep from saying anything else.

  Molly took the lead and Juan stood below her in case she slipped; he waited until she was five or six feet up before he joined her.

  The crags, though slippery, were fat and jutted far enough from the cliff to give them strong handholds and footholds. In the silence under the cottony clouds, Stockbridge could hear their every grunt and curse, and there were many of each from both climbers.

  For all of Molly’s enviable bravado, it was not an easy climb. He also could not help but wonder what his enemies and the newsprint writers would think if they saw him now.

  The fearsome John Stockbridge rockbound and helpless like Prometheus . . .

  “The cliff is not very stable!” Molly called down as she rested for a moment.

  “What do you mean?” Stockbridge asked.

  “I feel a little give every time my weight is on one ledge, either hand or foot. Like they are levers for the ones above.”

  “Molly—”

  “Don’t worry, John. I’ll drop right into your arms,” she said, putting an end to his misplaced efforts at chivalry.

  It did not take more than a few minutes for Molly and then Juan to disappear into the low cloud layer. Stockbridge did not call up for fear of distracting them. They would let him know when and if they found something.

  It was just Stockbridge and the two horses, both of whom were at ease. There was an occasional flutter of wings, but the eagles did not seem interested in returning just yet.

  His eyes served no purpose gazing upward, so he turned toward the road. He did not believe the Confederates would consider searching for him up here. They would look in Buzzard Gulch, or perhaps figure that he had stayed on the trail and headed west—the direction he was headed in the first place. Those men, McWilliams and Pound, must have told the others as much.

  There were also the Keelers. If the Rebels sought them out, they would not tell where he had gone. And if he hurt them—

  No, Stockbridge thought. If anything, Cuthbert would use them as bait to get to him. It was a troubling notion, but he had picked this course based on what he knew, and a man who was not a demigod—or a legend—could do no more.

  There was an occasional trickle of rocks but nothing large, nothing alarming, the natural result of the two climbing. Finally, it stopped. The only sound or movement was the wind.

  And then he heard Molly’s muffled voice call from somewhere up above.

  “John, we’re at the top, and we’ve found something!” she said.

  “What is it?”

  “An opening, about five feet across,” she replied. “We’re going to see where it leads!”

  Stockbridge did not bother to tell them to come back and wait for morning light. He could tell from the sudden, moving effulgence of the lantern through the clouds that they were already moving north, away from him.

  And then the light vanished.

  * * *

  * * *

  It was a cone like Molly had seen in magazines depicting volcanoes, only smaller. The warm air rising from inside was stale, and the odor was rank. Molly saw no evidence of a fire. Inside, beginning where Molly and Juarez were hunkered, a slope angled down, like a coal chute. The glow of the lantern did not reach to the bottom.

  “How did something like that get formed?” Juarez asked.

  “There are ridges. Do you see them? Made by rain. Maybe snow freezing, then melting and running down.”

  “You see much,” Juarez said admiringly. If he was not yet in love, it was the closest he had been in years. “God, when he make this place, He was not in a hurry.”

  “But we are.” She crouched. “I’ll go first. You hand the light down.”

  “You have to go down on your—”

  “Seat. Yes, I know.” She swung her left leg over the rock lip, tested the slope with her heel. “Seems solid.”

  Braced on her palms and feet, Molly eased her way down until she reached the end of the lantern’s glow. She gave her eyes a minute to adjust to the darkness. There was nothing to see except darkness. She lay on her back and extended an arm over her head.

  “Juan, lean in and pass down—”

  She fell silent as she heard a noise, like scraping. She heard a moan.

  “Señorita?” Juarez said.

  “Shhh! Hello!” she called down. “Is someone there?”

  There was no answer.

  “Ben Keeler? Are you there?”

  A voice, weak and soft, replied, “Merciful . . . God . . . in His bright, blue heaven . . . yes!”

  Molly turned to the opening. “Juan! Tell Dr. Stockbridge we found Mr. Keeler. He’s alive!”

  “El milagro!” he cried. “A miracle!”

  As Juarez relayed the message down the side of the cliff, Molly turned back. “Mr. Keeler, are you hurt?”

  “Yes . . . trapped. Please don’t go!”

  “I won’t!” Molly turned again. “Juan, you’re going to have to come down with the lantern! I can’t see him.”

  “I will bring it!”

  Using one hand to hold the lantern and the other to guide him, he walked down on his back as Molly had, using his feet to break the slide. His approach threw more light on the chamber below. It was a grotto of stalactites and stalagmites that reflected millennia of dripping water. Amidst them lay the crumpled figure of a man with a few small bones and some tools scattered about. There was a pelt spread beside the man, with rocks bundled in each corner. He must have thrown it, used it to trap mice or other small animals, dragged them over, then eaten them raw. The caked blood around his mouth bore that out. The cadaverous look of his cheeks and drawn forehead suggested that the animals had not been much of a meal.

  The lantern came down farther. It revealed a tunnel on the far end, dark and foreboding and full of rocks. The bottom half of the man’s legs were beneath them.

  “We’re going to get you out!” Molly said as she continued down, Juarez following with the light.

  “Thank God. Thank God,” Keeler repeated over and over. “I—I tried . . . but the rocks were too big. . . . I couldn’t reach . . .”

  “Keep talking. How did this happen?”

  “I was coming out—steep walk. I was pulling on crags to help myself. They all fell.” He added forlornly, “And all for nothing. Days of dead ends.”

  Molly walked toward the man as Juarez slid helplessly the last few feet, hitting bottom and scrambling quickly to his feet. The circle of light bobbed and slid as he ambled over, rubbing his backside.

  The woman stopped beside Keeler. “I’m sorry I didn’t think to bring water.”

  “I’m all right.” He patted the wall just a foot away. “It gets wet . . . from clouds and groundwater.”

  Molly saw his tongue, bloodied and gritty. He had licked the wall to survive. He was lying in his own waste.

  “Are you in pain?” she asked.

  “My feet are under a bunch of rocks,” he pointed out.

  “I’ve done some mending in my day. If they were broken, you wouldn’t feel anything.”

  “I feel them.”

  “Good,” she said. “There is a doctor waiting.”

  “How—?”

  “He met your wife and children searching for you, came looking himself.”

  “Alice! She’s—”

  “Home now. She’s fine.”


  “Thank God! My horse,” he implored. “Is he . . . still out there?”

  Juarez had arrived then. “He was taken away days ago. No one knew you were here, señor.”

  “You’re the hermit,” Keeler said.

  “Juan Juarez, mountain man.”

  “I’ve heard of you. Thank you.”

  The Mexican walked around Keeler and examined the wall closely. The rocks were piled about five feet high, and the smallest was the size of a cannonball. They would be difficult to move by hand. They would have to move and dislodge themselves by falling.

  Using spit and a handkerchief, Molly wiped the blood and grime from Keeler’s face.

  “What’s it look like, Juan?” she asked.

  “I’m seeing.”

  The Mexican gently pushed the rocks on top. Each time they shifted, Keeler winced.

  “Lo siento,” Juarez said.

  “No . . . need to apologize.” Keeler forced a smile. “I’m grateful to y’all.”

  “What were you looking for down here?” Molly asked to distract Keeler.

  “A legend. I’m getting on. . . . I wanted . . . security for my family. A nice home. An education for the children.”

  “What did you think was here?”

  “There’s a story I’ve heard many times . . . of a passageway through the Rockies clear to Ute Mountain on the other side. No one ever found it. I figured that the man who did could show the location to the railroad or maybe one of the old overland stage lines. Such a man . . . would be wealthy.”

  Juarez set the lantern down, then retrieved the pick that was in Keeler’s gear.

  “That damn pick— Pardon me, miss,” Keeler said.

  “I’ve used the word myself.”

  “The pick was outta reach. I would’ve chopped if I could’ve.”

  Juarez swung the tool sideways a few times, like a scythe. “I have not used a real tool in so long!”

  “You’ll do fine,” Molly said.

  “Sí, señorita, sorry. I can do this, but you will have to be ready to pull him away rápido. I swing at the rocks, they will slide. Maybe this way.”

  Molly nodded and stepped back from the trapper. She knelt by the top of his head after bunching her dress under her knees.

  “I knew this would come in handy,” she said as she settled in and looked Ben Keeler up and down. He was twisted slightly on his side, like a ribbon. She turned him very gently so she could take both of his hands in hers. The gloves gave her a secure grip. “You heard what Juan said, Mr. Keeler. I don’t know if you have any broken bones under there, but I do know that when I pull, whatever is injured will scrape and hurt.”

  “I would suffer hell to see my family again.”

  That touched Molly unexpectedly. She was cold and arm weary from the climb, and hungry, but she was determined that they would not leave here without this man.

  Juan could see that they were ready, and after determining where he should stand, he took a swing at the wall, at a juncture of two rocks near the bottom. Molly’s eyes were on the rocks on top. If any began to move, she would start to pull.

  Nothing happened, and Juarez swung again.

  There was a rumbling, and while Juarez grabbed the lantern and jumped back, Molly braced herself. As the rocks began to groan and finally to knock one against another, she tugged hard. Keeler came free, she fell back, and the cascade cracked rock upon rock as they made a new pile low across the tunnel opening.

  The rumbling, however, did not stop locally. Though all three were free of the cave-in, the chute itself was jarred by the concussion. Almost at once, the surface of the slope cracked and came apart, along with sections of the cavern roof. The collapse lasted just a few moments, but it filled the grotto with dust that left them coughing and unable to see.

  “Is everyone all right?” Molly cried.

  Both men answered affirmative, but the good news was short-lived. As the dust began to fall, Molly could see that they had lost their only way out.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  It was strange and unfair, thought Promise Cuthbert. Why were the moments of one’s life that clung to the soul never in balance?

  The happy moments—like cousins’ weddings and births, the first, clumsy shave that made a boy feel like a man—those brought him small, lingering smiles and a warm glow. But the hateful moments—the death of those close to you, the destruction of a home and mementos and one’s past—those burned hot and contorted his features into something supernatural, into constantly shifting shades of blackness fed and flushed with ruddy, pumping blood.

  Cuthbert and his two companions drummed across the plain, leaving Buzzard Gulch and its petty men behind but not forgotten. They were smoke in the brain, fuzzy visions replaced by the flames of hate. Even the smug Nikolaev was fading. He would be dealt with in time. Replacing those men was an increasingly sharp image of Dr. Vengeance, black-and-white lines from a newspaper becoming bloodred in his imagination. It did not matter that this man had become the reflection of every pain and wrong Cuthbert had ever suffered. All he knew was that this thing, this monster must not only be vanquished; he must be so thoroughly beaten that not even a particle survived. Shot, cut, burned, thrown partly to the wind, partly to a river, spread so far that he was lost to all but the yellowing print of rank journalism.

  Now and then, as they rode, Cuthbert would howl from deep in his throat. He could not control it. He frightened one of the men who was with him, not for what he might do but for what he might shame or threaten the others into doing. Alan DeLancy wanted vengeance against John Stockbridge. But what might this man and his ox-dull companion, Tunney, do to anyone who was associated with the man?

  Was this the road to true armistice that the captain had always threatened? A bloody, wide-ranging battle that would end with the Rebels victorious?

  The thought worried the sergeant—a concern that weighed as heavily as the pain he felt from the losses inflicted on the Red Hunters.

  The three were riding toward the hundred acres of land that had been set aside for homesteaders. It was not especially arable land, so the state had allowed for it to be sold, cheaply, to folks who basically just needed a place to live. This was where the dairy farmer had a small place, the tanner, the cooper—

  The family of the fur trapper.

  The horses complained at the pace by occasionally whipping their heads from side to side, but Cuthbert did not care. At some point the animals would lie down and refuse to go farther. The Apache, he had heard, would light a fire under them to get the animals back on their feet. Cuthbert would not do that. He did not have the time or the patience. He would run until the animals dropped. Then he would run until he had to walk and then until he was forced to crawl. He would not stop.

  But the horses did not give out. The fur trapper’s home was the nearest of the settlements. That had been a practical matter: It was also nearest to the trail that wound into the mountains, where Ben Keeler practiced his trade. The three men knew it was the home of the Keeler family because of the pelts used for window shades. That was too expensive an extravagance for anyone but a trapper.

  The men did not bother to conceal their approach. The men secured their animals to an empty tanning frame out front, then separated. Each man held a Colt in his hand. There were two females and one boy inside. Even if they each had a gun, there were no openings in the pelt shades for gun barrels. They would have to pull the furs aside, exposing themselves to seasoned fighters.

  DeLancy went around to the western side, Tunney to the east. Cuthbert headed toward the front door. He strode like an ancient Titan, with purpose and a sense of invincibility.

  There was no patio, just the oak panels of a narrow front door with a railroad tie lying before it. There were dried horse patties on the edges, where the undersides of boots were scraped.

  The
door opened just as Cuthbert was about to pound on it. A sallow-faced woman stood on the other side, in the unnatural darkness. She had flour on her hands and a sad turn of mouth. She was not holding a gun. Noticing the one in Cuthbert’s hand, she stepped back.

  “What is it?” she asked in a small voice.

  “Where are the others, your children?” Cuthbert demanded. He was still burning from an internal furnace.

  A fur shade was raised. Behind her, ghostly in the light coming through the uncovered window, a young lady and a younger boy stepped into view. The girl was holding a tray with dough on it, and the boy held a basket of eggshells bound for the compost heap.

  “Set that all down,” Cuthbert barked at the children. “Now on the floor.”

  Lenny and Rachel hesitated.

  “Do it, children,” their mother said.

  They did as they were instructed—more or less. Rachel had stiffened and put the tray of unbaked bread on the wooden table behind her, where she and her mother had been making bread and cutting a few poor carrots. For a moment her back was to the men. To Cuthbert, she seemed to be deciding whether to resist.

  She did not. When she turned back, brushing her hands on her apron, the only change was that her chin was slightly upraised. Cuthbert let it pass. He marked it up to the defiance of youth. That was not a bad quality out here.

  “Get on your coats and wraps and come out here, all of you,” he said next.

  The woman hesitated and the children made no sign of moving.

  “What do you want from us?” Mrs. Keeler demanded. She was now showing the same chin her daughter had presented a moment before.

  “All right,” Cuthbert said, suddenly feeling—and showing—some respect for the two women. “What we’re going to do is take a ride up into the mountains. To our compound.”

  “Why?” Rachel asked.

  “Because, Miss Keeler, it is preferable to being shot for not coming!”

  Mrs. Keeler glared at him. “Why are you doing this?”

  His mouth twisted. “Don’t push your luck. I told you all you need to know. Now, come willingly or be dragged—I don’t care which.”