He did not for a minute doubt that Buckdun would find him.
From the window of the rock house he could see the bowl itself, the entrance, and part of the rim. After a small meal he lay down on his bunk and, with a carefully hooded light, read until he was sleepy.
At daylight he checked his traps, prepared a lunch, and went into the basin where the horses were kept. Lying on the rim of the lava field above the basin, he studied the terrain with care, knowing such knowledge might mean the difference between life and death. Not far away was one of those ugly pits, all of sixty feet deep, the bottom a litter of knife-edged slabs of rock that had been the roof of the blister. A fall into such a place would mean an ugly death — or eventual starvation.
If it were Buckdun who was stalking him, he would not attempt a shot until reasonably sure of a kill. Flint knew he must appear at odd times or places, establish no system of activity. He settled down to a duel of wits that might last for weeks.
Surprisingly, he found himself filled with zest for the coming trial. Where would Buckdun make his first try? Where would the hunter seek the hunted?
At the creek. Every man needed water, so Buckdun would expect Flint to come to the stream. And that was the one thing he must not do. He would get his water from within the cave, for Buckdun must be led into aggression and not allowed simply to wait. A man who moves is a man who risks, and Buckdun must be forced to stalk.
So began the strange duel that was to end in the death of one man, perhaps of two.
On the third morning after the fight in the Divide Saloon that broke Baldwin’s strength in Alamitos, the Kaybar hands had established camp on the old headquarters site, and cleared the charred timbers to rebuild. Ed Flynn, now able to sit up, was directing the construction of temporary quarters.
Short of sundown Buckdun rode into camp.
Nancy Kerrigan stood by the fire where Juana was cooking, and Rockley squatted on his heels drinking coffee. Gaddis had just carried coffee to Flynn, and he stopped beside him and turned to face Buckdun.
“Got you a start,” Buckdun indicated the cleared area. “How’s chances for coffee?”
” ‘Light and set.” Nancy used the customary term, but her tone indicated no welcome. “No man was ever turned from Kaybar without a meal.”
“Riding through,” Buckdun explained, accepting a cup from Juana. Nothing in the camp escaped his eyes, but Nancy was sure it was nothing in camp that brought him here.
“When you have had your coffee,” Nancy said, “you can ride on. I don’t want you on Kaybar range.”
He lifted his cold, bleak eyes to hers. “I have troubled none of your people.”
“And you won’t. If you are on Kaybar range after daybreak tomorrow you’ll be shot on sight. Any rider of mine who sees you and doesn’t open fire upon you, or any rider who offers you an even break, will be fired.”
“That’s hard talk.” Buckdun refilled his cup from the pot and looked at her with grudging admiration.
“I’ll be careful, ma’am, but believe me, I’m not after your people.”
“Did you tell Tom Nugent that?”
His expression did not change. “I never talked to Tom Nugent. I know nothing about him.”
Rockley stood up. “Finish your coffee,” he said, “and get out.”
Buckdun looked at him mildly. “You may come to town some day.”
“I’ll be there often,” Rockley replied, “and if you want it that way we can extend Kaybar range to cover Alamitos and hunt you there.”
“If any rider of mine is shot,” Nancy added, “we will hunt you down and hang you where we find you. Is that clear?”
“Nothing could be plainer,” Buckdun said. He crossed to his horse and stepped into the saddle. He looked down at her, standing straight and lovely beside the campfire. “Ma’am, folks have said disparaging things about lady bosses. I reckon they were wrong. You’ll do to ride the river with.”
“I doubt if he’ll give us trouble,” Nancy said when he had ridden away. “But my orders stand.”
“He’s not just riding,” Rockley said, “he’s hunting.”
A faint dust hung in the air upon the trail where he had gone, and Nancy felt a little shiver.
“He’ll get what he goes after,” Milt Ryan said.
“He’ll kill Flint,” Scott said. “You know it’s him he’s after.”
And after that nobody spoke while the shadows gathered and the bats began to appear, circling upon their ceaseless quest for insects in the night air.
Where was he now? Where was Flint?
Nancy walked from the fire and Johnny Otero, with worry in his eyes, watched her go. She paused and looked where the ridges were a dark line against the deep blue where the stars were.
Flint was out there somewhere — alone.
Chapter 18
IT WAS very hot. The far horizon was piled high with gigantic masses of cumulus, but under the brassy sky the lava was burning to the touch. Buckdun lay in the shade of a stunted pine that grew from a crack in the rock, and watched the stream.
Two days ago he had been confident this would prove a trap for Flint but now he was no longer sure. Obviously there was some other source from which he could obtain water.
Nothing moved but a buzzard against the sun-filled sky. Flint was down there, he was sure. Two days before he found part of a track made by a freshly shod horse in wind-drifted sand near the lava. A few hours later he found the crack that provided access to the hideout, but he was wary of tight places. However, there were tracks within the crack, a number of them.
He must see more of the bowl. Taking his rifle he moved out of the shade. He wore hard-soled Apache-style moccasins and carried an extra pair in his haversack. He also carried jerked meat and a little tea. If necessary he could live for a week on what was in that pack.
Making no more noise than a prowling coyote, Buckdun moved across the lava, his eyes on the rim of the bowl. Eager for a glimpse of the interior, he stepped into the edge of the gravel, and his moccasin grated ever so slightly.
Instantly he was still. He knew the belt of gravel for what it was and swore softly. Lowering himself to a crouch, he remained where he was, listening.
He straightened up finally and took a long step forward to try and clear the gravel. A bullet whipped by his skull. He hit the rock and rolled over and over to get into a crack. He wound up, rifle ready, but panting and genuinely scared.
He waited and listened, but the blue sky drifted with puffballs of cloud and there was no sound beneath it. But that angry, whiplike sound of the bullet and the racketing report remained with him. It was the first time in six years, aside from the ineffectual shots fired by Ed Flynn, that he had been shot at, and he had not even seen where the shot came from.
He waited the afternoon through, knowing Flint would have seen where he went to the ground, and unable to shift his position from lack of nearby cover. Only when darkness came did he move. A tuft of brush had been placed on the pommel of his saddle, and adorning one sprig was an empty cartridge shell.
That shell was a mute reminder that Flint, had he wished, might have been lying in wait, and Buckdun led his horse some distance before mounting. Two hours later, after lunch and tea, he returned for another attempt.
Despite himself, he was worried. Was he losing his grip? Before, he had done the stalking, but now he himself was stalked.
He entered the crack and, after listening, slowly began to move ahead. If he could get into the basin and be waiting when Flint came out in the morning …
He had a cramped, closed-in feeling and an urge to get out. He rounded a corner and took a step forward. Something tugged at his ankle and instinctively he threw himself back and to the side.
In one wild instant he knew he had blundered into a trap. He heard rock grate upon rock. There was a tremendous crash, then dust stifled him, and he lay with his palms flat on the ground, gasping for breath. It took several minutes before the pounding of his heart
slowed down and he realized he was unhurt. Panic surged through him. Get out … and get out fast!
Grabbing up his rifle he fled down the passage for a dozen yards before stopping. Panting, he listened for any sound of pursuit, and heard nothing, only a faint trickle of falling sand.
He considered the situation. Why not go back now? Another trap was possible but unlikely. Turning, he started back, climbing over the fallen rock. His hand touched the rock wall and it was cold … cold. He felt a momentary dread. Was it a premonition? Angrily, he shook off the feeling. This was just a job like any other. He took a step forward and, distrusting the rustling grass, moved to the side of the crevice.
It was a sudden move and it saved his life, for as he turned he tripped the trigger on the second trap. The arrow intended for his chest ripped his sleeve and dug deep into the muscle on the end of his shoulder.
He dropped to his knees, ready for a quick shot, sure it had been a direct attack rather than a trap, but after a minute or two there was no sound and his shoulder began to hurt. He put his hand up and it came away wet. He swore bitterly under his breath and got out his bandanna to stop the bleeding. Then he took up his rifle and went into the bowl, concealing himself in some brush.
Overhead the sky was but little lighter than the darkness within the bowl. Somewhere a small animal dislodged a rock and it fell softly into the grass. Water whispered over the stones. Buckdun eased his back against the rock and bit off a hunk of jerky. Methodically, he began to chew.
This could be a death trap. Suppose while he waited for Flint that Flint waited for him?
When daylight came Buckdun saw a patch of cropped grass, a patch of garden, and a walled-in overhang with no visible entrance. There was no horse, no sign of life. He waited an hour, then another. Sunlight was bright above the rock house but the crack that gave entrance to the bowl was in shadow. With growing impatience, Buckdun waited.
Flint had spent the night in the inner basin close to the horses, and had slept soundly, knowing they would warn him of the approach of any man or animal.
He prepared coffee and a small breakfast, meanwhile scanning the basin pasture with care. When he had eaten he went to the cave and passed through the tunnel. Opening the manger-concealed door, he stepped into the house.
From well back inside he studied the entrance through his field glass. The trap was sprung. The area was only a few square yards but with the glass he could examine it thoroughly and, knowing every inch, he could see it had been entered.
A bee found its way in and droned about the room. In a cottonwood tree a mockingbird ran through his repertoire.
When an hour had passed he decided whoever was there would not make the first move. He went back through the manger and leaned a slab of rock against the inside of the door.
The idea came to him suddenly and he was amused by it. Slipping out of the inner basin, he crossed the lava. Coming down off the malpais, it took him only a few minutes to find Buckdun’s horse. Mounting, he started up the trail for Alamitos.
It was midafternoon when he reached Alamitos and tying Buckdun’s horse at the rail, he went into the Divide Saloon. Baldwin was at the bar with two strangers, obviously Eastern men. Baldwin glanced at Flint, and then at Buckdun’s horse.
“That’s right, it is Buckdun’s horse. He’s out in the hills hunting me.”
“He’ll find you, too.”
“Isn’t that what you hired him for? To kill me?”
Porter Baldwin fought back his anger. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he replied, and his face turned a deep red.
Flint ordered a drink. “Who else has the money to hire Buckdun? Who does he see when he goes in the back door of the hotel?”
The two strangers looked uneasy, and glanced at Baldwin. Flint tossed off his drink and went out, walking to the hotel dining room. He was eating the best meal they offered when the door opened and Lottie Kettleman came in.
She looked at him suspiciously. “Jim, what are you doing here?”
“As you see, I am enjoying a good meal … Lottie, you’re not looking well. I don’t believe this climate agrees with you.”
“I don’t know what you’re feeling so good about,” she said irritably. “Nothing has changed.”
“Do you know Buckdun, Lottie?”
Her face was without expression. “Who? I don’t place the name.”
“You’d better go back to New York, Lottie. I want no more trouble with you.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Only two people could afford to pay Buckdun. You or Baldwin, and I am quite sure you would not spend that kind of money if you could get someone to do it for you.”
“Are you trying to frighten me?”
“You are like your father, Lottie. This scheme is like one of his — all scheme and no achievement. Why don’t you marry some nice guy and make an end to all this?”
“I am married — to you.”
“If I return I shall file suit for divorce, and if you contest it I will present the Pinkerton file as evidence. They may not hang you, but they will send you to prison. I want my freedom.”
“So you can marry that ranch girl?”
“Merely to be free.”
She was very pale and her eyes were bright and hard. “Suppose you don’t come back?”
“Why, then, I shall leave you to Buckdun. You’d try to cheat him, and I know what will happen then.” He refilled his cup. “Get on the train, Lottie, and go away from here as fast as you can.”
The moon was over the mountains when he climbed back on the lava, but he saw nothing and heard nothing, and his horses were feeding quietly. Buckdun was still around, and when he found his horse with its saddle hidden, he would know it had been used.
Flint had ridden to Alamitos not on a whim, but deliberately, hoping to anger Buckdun into carelessness. Under no illusions about the man he faced, Flint knew he had been lucky to escape alive thus far.
Shifting to a corner of the lava wall away from his bed, Flint sat down and, leaning back against the wall, he slept.
Dawn was in the sky when he awakened, but the horizon was dark with thunderheads, laced with patterns of lightning. A dampness in the air warned of the coming storm.
For thirty minutes, Flint studied every cranny within reach of his eyes, and when he moved it was against the wall, utilizing every bit of brush for concealment
At his camp he stuffed his slicker pockets with food, and the pockets of his pants and coat with cartridges. Then he risked a small fire under the overhang. After he had his coffee he doused the fire and took up his rifle.
As he moved away from the camp he was trusting the horses and almost missed the warning. He looked around in time to see the red stallion’s head come up sharply, and he dropped to his hands, hearing the whip-crack of a bullet as he did so.
The horses had run off a short distance but were looking past him, so turning about he crawled and slid along the grass with his rifle across his arms in front of him. Reaching the front of the ice cave, where the ground fell away sharply, he took shelter and peered through a small space between the rocks. He was shifting his head to peer through at a different angle when a bullet struck the rock within inches of his face, then ricocheted into the depths of the cave.
He crouched, hesitating. Would Buckdun expect him to move to right or left? One thing Buckdun would not expect would be a shot from the place where the bullet struck.
Risking a glance, Flint decided the only place Buckdun could use for shelter was a hummock of lava on the rim about sixty yards away. From his study of the terrain he recalled that the hummock was not thick, and most lava was quite porous in that area. Lifting the rifle, he drove three fast shots at the hummock of rock, then moved off twenty yards in a crouching run and took another shot. His standing for that shot was perfectly synchronized with a movement by Buckdun, but Flint fired too quickly and the bullet missed.
For an hour, nothing happened.
/> Then he heard a stone strike rock. From the force of the impact he knew it was thrown. After a brief wait he worked his way back to the ice cave, remembering that a few days before he had seen a crack or blowhole that allowed a little light to fall into the cave. He had not investigated to see if the hole was large enough to permit him to get through, but now he did so. It was a vent made by escaping gases long ago. He climbed through, and scrambled out into a clump of rock slabs and brush, tearing his hand cruelly on the rough lava.
Momentarily blinded by a flash of lightning that struck somewhere hear, he lay still, awaiting the crash of thunder. It came, and with it, the rain.
It came with a roar and a rush. Lightning crashed and the smell of brimstone was in his nostrils and thunder rolled and reverberated against the walls of the mesa. The rain swept across the malpais in driving sheets and then, through the downpour, he saw Buckdun.
Dimly visible, Buckdun was running across the lava five hundred yards away. Snapping his rifle to his shoulder, Flint squeezed off three shots, saw Buckdun veer sharply to break his line of fire, then vanish into some crack or hollow.
There was no shelter atop the lava, but Flint was determined to waste no time. Rising, he moved as swiftly as possble over the lava to get around the end of the basin. Once he heard a dull boom under his feet and felt an instant of fear, but his next step took him to solid rock.
Avoiding smooth patches that might conceal death pits beneath them, he scrambled over rough and broken lava, slipping once and skinning his knees. When he was around the end of the basin, he slowed down. His slicker was close to the color of the basaltic rock, and he moved now with great care.
A shot came from nowhere and something struck his shin a wicked blow. His leg buckled and he went down. But when he pulled up his pant leg he saw only a great, rapidly growing swelling, split along the top. He had been struck by a fragment of rock knocked loose by the bullet.
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