He didn't expect it--I had that going for me, but it wasn't enough. My hand went to the gun and she came up fast and smooth. When she came level I was going to let drive, and I kind of braced myself for the shock of a bullet.
My .44 bucked in my hands, and, an instant before it went off, his gun stabbed flame. I just stood there and thumbed back that hammer. No matter how many times he shoots, you got to kill him, I told myself. I just eared her back and let 'er bang, and Andre Baston kind of stood up on his toes. I let her go again, and his gun went off into the grass at his feet and he fell off the ledge sidewise and lit right at my feet.
"You!" There was an ugly hatred in his eyes. "You aren't even a gentleman!"
"No, sir," I said politely, "but I'm a damned good shot."
Andre Baston, of New Orleans, died on the rim of Cumberland Basin with the rain falling into his wide-open eyes, trickling down his freshly shaved jaws.
"Well, pa," I said, "if this was the one, he's signed the bill for it. You rest easy, wherever you lie."
With a sweep of my palm I swept the water from my saddle and stepped up there on old Ap and pointed his nose down the basin, the buckskin right behind us. We just climbed out of that shelf and rounded a clump of spruce, and I looked back yonder at the knoll, hall-hidden in clouds now.
It came to me then, ridin' away, that Andre had missed me. I'd been so almighty sure I was going to get shot, I was ready to take the lead and send it back. But he missed. Maybe when he saw me reaching he hurried too much, maybe the panic came up in him like it does in a lot of men when they know they're going to be shot at--a kind of uncomfortable feeling.
But like I said, when you pick up a weapon you can expect a weapon to be used against you.
They had them a sort of camp on the slope, a mighty poor shelter, I'd say. I rode right up to them, two men I didn't know, and Paul, looking like something blown up against a fence by a wet wind. Of course, Fanny was there, startled to see me, the softness gone from her features, her mouth drawn hard.
"You better go get your uncle," I said, "He's up mere lyin' in the rain."
They did not believe me. I had my rifle across my saddlebows, its black muzzle looking one-eyed at them, so they stood quiet.
"Was I in your place," I suggested, "I'd light a shuck for Bourbon Street or places around, and when I got there I'd start burning a few candles at the altar of your Uncle Philip. There's nothing left for you here."
The trail was muddy, full of doubles and switchbacks, with little streams crossing it here and there. That was a day when it kept right on raining, and through the rain, dripping off my hat I saw the fresh green of the forest and the grass.
It was a narrow trail, no question of hurrying. All I wanted was to get to the bottom, back down to Shalako where I could wrap myself around a few steaks and some hot coffee. This was a day when I'd rather set by an inside fire and watch the raindrops fall.
Every once in a while when I'd duck under a tree, a few raindrops, always the coldest ones, would shake loose and trickle down the back of my neck.
Alongside the trail, sometimes close by, sometimes down in a rocky gorge below me, was the La Plata. Waterfalls along the trail added to the river's volume.
The trail was washed out in places.
Nobody used this trail but the Utes, or occasional hunters and prospectors.
Yet all of a sudden I saw something else. In the bank where the trail passed there was a fresh, scuffed place. My hand went under my slicker to my six-shooter.
Somebody had stepped off this trail minutes before, stepping quickly up into the trees that lined the trail. One boot had crushed the grass on the low bank that edged the trail.
Ap turned quickly around a corner of the trail and I glanced up, seeing nothing.
The man had gone into the woods, hearing me on the trail, and he hadn't the time to do more than disappear somewhere just within the edge of the trees. Who would be coming up here on a day like this? No Indian, for it had been a boat track, a wide boot, not far from new.
Nothing happened. I rode on, switching back and around on the narrow trail, and when I reached a straight stretch I stepped up the pace and let Ap trot for a while.
Safely away, I began now to look for more tracks. Occasionally I saw them, shapeless, not to be identified, but tracks nonetheless, and the tracks of somebody who did not wish to be seen. Wherever he could, he walked off the trail.
There were places when the sides were too steep, or the gorge beside the trail too deep for him to avoid the trail. The man had a good stride. He was a heavy man, too, but possibly not a tall one despite the good steps he took.
Might be a smaller man carrying a heavy pack. Had the tracks not been so sloppy I might have been able to tell if the man carried a heavy pack or was himself heavy. Of course, it might be both.
It worried me. Who was he? And why was he going up the mountain today?
Well, if he was a friend to the Bastons it did not matter, and if he was their enemy, it might be they'd shoot each other.
I was going for a hot meal, a night's rest, and a chance to put down my gun.
There's something about gold that nags at a man. I've seen it at work a time or two. I think we Sacketts have less of it than most--with us it's land. We like the ownership of land, large pieces of mountain country, that's for us.
Nonetheless, pa labored hard for that gold. He found it, brought it off down the mountain, and now it was cached up yonder ... sure as shootin' it was there. It puzzled a man to guess where.
By the time I rode up to Shalako the sun was out and sparkling on the rain-wet leaves. Orrin came out of the store and stood waiting.
He gave me a long look. "You all right?"
"I been through it." I stepped down and stood, hands resting on the saddle, and then I turned my head toward him. "I left Andre up yonder. Right where pa was cornered, I think."
"The rest of them?"
"Up there. Paul's there with Fanny and a couple of others."
"Leave your horses," Orrin said. "Judas said to tell you he'd care for them. You come in and have some grub."
Judas came out to take Ap and the buckskin, and I walked across to the saloon with Orrin.
"There was a man came into town. Had his face all torn up and couldn't talk much, or didn't want to. He went off down the road mumbling to himself."
"He ran into a rifle muzzle, I guess. Orrin, did you see anybody else? Did anybody go up the canyon?"
"Not by daylight. We've been watching. I mean we've been watching that road every minute."
I told him about the tracks in the trail, but he shook his head, having no more explanation than I did.
"Somebody followed pa to that place. Somebody cornered him up there, and he may have been hurt. Pa taught us boys so much, and we've lived about the same. I figured I'd just let myself go the likely way. He left notches here and there, the deep, gashlike blazes, you know." I took the other daybook out of my pocket.
"And I found this."
Orrin took it in his hands. "I wonder what pa was thinking, Tell. Why he took to keeping these on that last trip? Do you suppose he had a premonition?"
I'd been thinking of it, too. "Either that, or something was turning wrong with him. He never was much to complain, you know, and we always just took it for granted he was about the strongest man around. Maybe he was feeling poorly and wasn't wishful that we know."
The words were no sooner out than I was sure I'd hit on it. This trip had been pa's last chance to do something for his family. He'd cared for us, but suddenly he might have felt he wouldn't be able to, and he began to worry.
Neither of us wanted to open the book. This would be our last word from pa, and these last few weeks we'd felt close to him again, walking in his footsteps and all. After this we both felt there would be nothing left to the story, nothing but what must have happened when he stopped writing.
Berglund brought some hot soup and bread and I made a meal of it. The book lay th
ere on the table, and from time to time I looked up to see it there.
Tired as I was, my thoughts kept returning to the mountain trail, and I wanted to go back. I wanted to walk there again, to stand on that shelf again looking out over the mountains and sky.
The feeling stayed with me that there was something I had not found.
"Where's Nell Trelawney?" I asked suddenly. "I haven't seen her."
"You will," Orrin chuckled as he said it. "She's been around every day wanting us to go up the canyon and find you. She was sure you were in trouble."
He grinned. "I told her you'd been in trouble all your born days."
"Any more of those Three Eight hands around?"
"Boley McCaire--the young one who was so itchy. He rode into town, but he's been holed up somewhere down the creek. I've a hunch that Baston made some kind of a deal with them."
Something kept worrying me at the back of my mind, and it was not only those tracks along the way. I did not like things left hanging. Nobody went up that mountain trail in the rain without reason. The folks at Shalako had seen nobody pass, and the road was right yonder. Nobody could pass along without being seen, so if somebody had gone up the creek he had taken pains not to be seen.
Who? And why? And what was he doing now?
Judas came in, and then the Tinker. The Tinker sat down near a window where he could watch the street and the trail to the mountains.
"Judas," I said suddenly, "have you known the Bastons long?"
He hesitated and seemed to be considering. "Fifty years," he said quietly.
"Possibly even longer."
"Would Andre have followed Pierre and stabbed him?"
Judas thought for a moment. "Of course. But I do not believe he did. It was someone else."
"Who?"
He shrugged, and then he said, "Andre would not have dared let Pierre live, not after attacking him. The very idea would have been frightening. Had Andre any thought that Pierre lived after he shot him, he'd have killed him or fled--to Africa or South America."
"Why, in God's name?"
"Andre was afraid. He was a brave man, although a murderer, but he feared one man. He was afraid of Philip."
"Afraid of him?"
Judas looked at me, then at the rest of us. "Yes, you see Philip was the worst of them, by far the worst."
Chapter XXVI
We looked at him, wondering if he was joking, but he was very serious.
"I knew him, you see, and he was good to us. I mean to his slaves, but we had no choice but to obey him, and, being wise, we did obey.
"He liked Pierre Bontemps. He was also amused by him. Pierre was a romantic, an adventurer. Both men had been buccaneers, and this was known of Pierre, but not of Philip.
"Philip surrounded himself with calm, dignity, and reserve. He liked me because I had some education and because he knew I did not talk of what I knew or had seen.
"He was not a vindictive man, not a hater. He was simply a man without scruple.
He had contempt for others, whom he considered less than himself. He did nothing to exhibit himself except in that quiet, dignified manner.
"He removed anyone who got in his way. Had you not killed Andre, he would have had it done, or done it himself, for Andre had become notorious.
"Each of us has in his mind an image of what he believes himself to be, and Philip Baston saw himself as a prince of the old school. He had read Machiavelli, studied the careers of Orsini, Sforza, and Sigismondo Malatesta, and in his small way he lived accordingly.
"The Bastons had money, and, from time to time, power, but not enough of either to please any of them. Philip served briefly at sea in a French ship, then became a pirate.
"Lafitte was notorious. Baston was more cunning. He slipped into New Orleans and bought property, always small pieces, nothing to attract attention. He bought land in other parts of Louisiana, and when it became no longer safe to carry on as a pirate he simply came ashore, moved into the old Baston home and carried on as if he had never been gone. It wasn't realized for several years that he was enormously wealthy.
"He aspired to be governor. He lived in the grand manner, and anyone who got in his way was removed. Now he thinks of his family, his name. At first he looked on Andre's duels with favor. They had a certain style, and it was good to be feared. There came a time however when it became obvious that Andre killed. He was not content to win. This was looked upon with distaste, and I believe that for some time Philip has intended to be rid of Andre."
"But you said Andre was afraid of him. Is Philip such a fighter?"
"He is a superb swordsman and a dead shot, but Philip would not have done it himself unless forced into the position. He would have made other arrangements."
It was interesting, but nothing that meant much to us now. Philip Baston was in New Orleans. What interested me more was the identity of the unknown man who left the footprints on the trail.
If he had a horse, where had it been?
Orrin got up. "You better get some rest. I am going to ride over and see Flagan."
The Swede had a back room with a spare bunk in it, and he showed me to the place. I shucked my boots, hat, and gun belt and stretched out on that bunk with a deep sigh. I'd no recollection of ever feeling so tired before.
I'd been on the trail for a long while, and a man tires faster when his nerves are on edge. When you're hunting and being hunted, every fiber of your being is poised and ready.
I felt the tenseness go out of me slow, and I dozed off. I woke briefly and watched the aspens beyond the window. It was fifty or sixty feet to the edge of the woods. The curtain stirred in the breeze, and I watched it lazily, then drifted off into a sound sleep.
Under the aspens the man waited. He had a shotgun in his hands, and he knew what he wanted to do. Inside the room near the opposite wall was a chair. Over the back of the chair hung a gun belt.
He heard the boots hit the floor and thought he heard a creak of a bed when the man lay down. Just a few minutes now ... a few minutes.
The big, good-looking brother had ridden off on his horse. The Negro was in the barn, working on some of their saddlegear. The Tinker had taken a pole and headed for the La Plata, and Swede Berglund was tending that garden he was trying. So William Tell Sackett was there alone, and soon he would be asleep.
The hunter had patience. He had seen the young Sackett with another daybook in his hands, but the daybook could not have been with the body. He had gone over it thoroughly those twenty years ago.
Was it with the gold? No ... for gold hadn't been brought off the mountain today.
The book would certainly tell where old man Sackett had hidden the gold. They had all been so sure Sackett was dead, and Pierre, too. Well, Pierre was dead now, that was sure, and so was Sackett.
The trouble was Sackett had gone back and gotten the gold after they were all gone. Not all the gold on Treasure Mountain, but a good lot of it, anyway.
This William Tell Sackett worried him. The man was a tracker, and a good one. He could read sign like an Apache, and there was no safety with him about. Sackett had killed Andre. The man had not seen it but he heard the girl and the others talking of it. That must have taken some doing, for Andre was dangerous, good with a gun, and ready to use it.
So much the better. With Andre gone, the rest of them were nothing. Paul was a weakling. That girl was murderous enough, but she was a woman, and she was too impulsive.
Well inside the curtain of aspens, crouched low among the tall grass, wild flowers, and oak brush, he was well hidden. He would give Sackett plenty of time to get to sleep, really to sleep.
Crouched in the bushes, the man waited. The shotgun had two barrels, and he wore a long-barreled six-shooter for insurance and had a rifle on his horse. As he waited he once more studied the ground. He knew just where each foot would touch ground, where he would go into the trees, where he would turn after entering the woods. He had chosen two alternative routes. He was a careful man.
Ten to fifteen seconds to the window, lean in, fire his shot. Then, instead of running directly away, he would run along the wall of the saloon, go around the outhouse, and crouch along the corral into the scrub oaks.
On the other side of the oak brush a trail dipped into the river bottom where his horse waited. He would ride south, away from the canyon, where there was more room to lose himself.
He waited a moment longer, got to his feet, glanced left and right, and stepped out of the brush, walking swiftly to the window. Glancing left and right, he saw no one. The shotgun came up in his hands, and he was almost running when he reached the window. He started to thrust the shotgun into the open window when suddenly a voice on his left said, "You lookin' for something, mister?"
It was that Trelawney girl, and she had a rifle in her hands, not aimed at him, but in a position where only an instant would be needed to aim it.
He hesitated, kept his head tilted downward. He muttered under his breath, then turned sharply away and walked toward the outhouse.
"Mister? Mister!"
He ducked around the small building and ran along the corral into the woods.
Another ten seconds! He swore, bitterly. Another ten seconds and he would have killed Tell Sackett and be on the run ... well away to his horse.
Nell walked to the window, glancing in. Taking one more quick look after the fleeing man, gone now, she went around to the front. The Tinker was standing in front of the store. She explained quickly.
The Tinker glanced toward the woods beyond the corral. "He's gone. You scared him off."
"But who was he? I never saw him before!"
The Tinker shrugged. "It will not happen again." He walked around the building, glanced toward the woods, then sat down. "I'll stay right here until he wakes up. Don't you worry now."
Morning light was laying across the windowsill before my eyes opened, and for a time I just lay still, letting myself get wide awake. That there was the soundest sleep I'd had in a long, long time. Finally, I swung my feet to the floor and reached for my boots.
Something stirred outside the window, and Tinker said, "Tell? Better come out and have a look."
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