Even now, the killer had his range and it was going to be chancy making a move, but it would be a whole hell of a lot worse later. He had to abandon his rifle, the saddle to which it was attached being out in the open. Gathering himself, legs ready to spring, Yancey winced as a slug sent boulder dust flying against his cheek, then he hurled himself clear across the campfire and bounded over the rocks. Lead whined and hammered all around him and then there was silence and he knew the killer had had to pause to reload. Taking advantage of the break Yancey, instead of stopping to hunt cover, made a split-second decision, pounded across the slope, crashing through the brush, heading directly for the killer’s shelter. He saw a head move up there, just a glimpse, and knew he had been spotted. There was still fifty yards to go and it was all uphill. He dodged between stunted brush, leapt over boulders, ducked behind tree trunks, gaining ground all the time. It wouldn’t be long now, he figured. Already the killer must have the magazine tube at least partially loaded and he would only have to work the rifle’s lever to jack one into the breech—
Yancey saw the head begin to lift, the rifle barrel beside it. He thought he heard the metallic clashing of the lever working but couldn’t be sure because of his pounding feet and the roaring blood in his ears. He brought his six-gun around, triggered off two swift shots, seeing the bark fly from the deadfall. The gunman ducked, then lifted up swiftly as Yancey, with a wild yell, hurled himself bodily over the deadfall, striking with the Colt’s gun barrel. Metal clashed as his Colt hit the rifle barrel and knocked it aside and then his big body was driving the other’s backwards and there was an explosive grunt in his ear as his weight crushed the breath from the killer.
Yancey rammed a knee into a soft belly, lifted the Peacemaker to club the dark head but checked as the leather hat rolled off and he stared down into the hate-glinting eyes of Cindy, the Indian maid from the Wildcat Falls hotel. Startled, Yancey straddled her with one hand on her throat, the other with the gun ready to swing down and club her into unconsciousness. But she writhed, her arms hammering briefly at him and then she pulled at her belt and he caught a glint of steel coming in at his side. He flung himself sideways with a curse and felt the edge of the blade slash across his leather half boot but not going deep enough to touch his flesh. He kicked out with the same boot, heard her cry out as the heel cracked against her knuckles. Then he spun, lunged up, caught the knife hand and twisted sharply. She writhed in pain and released the weapon, a horn-handled, short-bladed Indian hunting knife.
Panting, Yancey flung her back to the ground and moved away about six feet, hunkering down, getting his breath back, glaring at her as he kept her covered with the six-gun. She lay where he had flung her, eyes dark with hatred.
“What the hell you doin’, shooting at me?” he panted.
She said nothing, her eyes drilling into him.
“Look, I got no time to stall around,” Yancey said grimly. “My pard’s somewhere out there in the Sierras in hell knows what kind of trouble. You’re either with me or agin me. By the look on your face and the lead you threw at me, I guess you’re agin me. I’d like to know why, but I don’t have time to hang around while you make up your mind to tell me or not.” He stood up and she tensed slightly. “I’ll take your boots and your horse and you can walk back to town.”
She looked startled as he came towards her. “My feet freeze!”
He shrugged. “Better than me risking a slug in the back by leaving you mobile.”
“Wait!” She looked steadily at him as he menaced her with his Colt and made to reach down for her boots. “I shoot at you because of Hammond.”
Yancey frowned puzzledly. “The hotel clerk? What about him?”
Her lip curled. “You kill him before you leave!”
Yancey felt the surprise straighten his face and she frowned slightly as he shook his head. “Not me. He was okay when I last saw him. In the lobby, before the feller tried to knife me in my room. Oh, yeah, he was out in the street with the crowd, that’s right. Last time I saw him. That’s gospel.” He frowned again. “But wait. Something woke me. I heard footsteps on the stairs. But they were going down, not up as I’d expected. Where was Hammond’s room?”
“Top of stairs …” she told him slowly. “You truly not know?”
“I truly didn’t. It must've been Duane or his men. They likely figured he talked to me about Cato. Duane ain’t the kind of feller to take that lying down; he’d have to show the rest of the town he won’t be messed with ...”
She nodded slowly. “Yes.” She squinted at him, watching every movement of his face. “You seem an honest man. But I see you threaten Hammond. Then you are gone, but Hammond is lying dead in his room, his throat cut.”
“Guns are more in my line. Did he mean something to you?”
Her face expressionless, she nodded, but said nothing. Yancey regarded her thoughtfully. “Okay. I still don’t have time to waste. If you believe me, and I’m speaking gospel, then you can help get the hombres who killed him. Can you show me the way to Diamond-D?”
“I know the way.”
“Yeah, but will you show me?”
Cindy hesitated, then slowly nodded. “All right. I think you speak true. If you have lied, I will kill you.”
Yancey knew she meant it. He reached out a hand and helped her to her feet.
“Let’s go,” he said.
~*~
Wolf Duane sat his saddle and his face was grim as he looked down at the nervous gun hung cowhand who had had the job of telling him that Cato and the senator had escaped.
“How’d he get the knife?” Duane asked very quietly.
“I dunno, Wolf ... he had nothin’ on him when Hog and Slip brung him in.”
“Where are they now?”
“Hog’s up in the hills, huntin’ ’em down ... he took the hounds ... Left a half-dozen of us here to wait for you. Slip’s dead. Cato slid the knife between his ribs.”
Duane’s mouth tightened into a razor slash. “He’s lucky. He wouldn’t have died so easy if I’d been here. How long have they been gone?”
“Around midnight, I guess.”
“And Hog ain’t run ’em down yet?” Duane roared.
“We-ell,” the cowhand said uneasily, “there was a high wind last night. Likely a blizzard on the peaks and they were headed above the timberline.”
Duane hipped in leather, glanced briefly at the unshaven men with him and then looked up at the cloud-cloaked peaks of the Sierras.
“All right. We get some hot food and coffee under our belts, then we all go up there,” he decided abruptly. “I want ’em run to earth by sundown and back on Diamond-D. Or I want to see their bodies up on the mountain ...” He started to dismount. “While we have breakfast, you and the others get fresh mounts saddled up.”
“Sure, boss,” the cowhand said with undisguised relief. Plainly he was happy that Duane hadn’t taken out his anger on him.
Duane moved purposefully towards the cook shack, pulling off his fur gloves, his eyes narrowed and deadly. He would scour the Sierras till hell froze over if he had to, but he aimed to get Senator Jonas Locke back where he could supervise his slow death. And Cato wouldn’t die easy, either. No man made a fool of Wolf Duane and lived to boast about it.
~*~
The wolf pack was still stalking them and Cato knew it wouldn’t be long now before the first one got up enough courage to make his tentative run of attack.
During the night, they had heard the pack gathering out in the darkness, howling at the moon when it was out, barking, snarling amongst themselves. But they had not made their rush after Cato had blown one to bloody shreds with the Manstopper.
They had paused by some rocks protruding from the snow, Locke dangling from Cato’s left arm, barely conscious, while the Enforcer strained his eyes to see if there was shelter for them. Cato had lowered the senator to the ground and, gun in hand, had plodded forward, found that there was a niche in the rocks that was sheltered from the wind a
nd had a jutting overhang that would keep fresh snow from falling on them. He turned to call out encouragement to Locke and saw the gray shape of a lobo bellying across the snow towards the senator.
Cato had shouted into the wind, waving his arms and then had seen the other gray shapes as they slunk in closer.
The senator stirred, lifting his head laboriously out of the snow, faced rimed with a false beard of the crystals.
“Behind you!” he had croaked and Cato later figured he wouldn’t have heard the man’s warning at all if the wind hadn’t been blowing towards him.
He spun, barely in time to see the snarling, slavering jaws of a wolf in midflight as it launched itself at him from the top of the boulder. Cato’s Manstopper came up instinctively and he dropped hammer. The big gun thundered as the shot barrel blasted and the wolf’s yelp of agony was drowned in the noise. The hairy body was blown apart and hurled across the snow in pieces. Almost before the fragments had stopped pattering down, the other lobos had run in and were snarling and fighting and snapping over them.
During that time, Cato flicked the toggle to normal fire, put two shots into another wolf and saw it torn to pieces in front of his eyes as the pack turned and devoured it. While this was taking place, he floundered back to Locke, got a grip on him one-handed and half-carried, half-dragged the man into the shelter of the boulders.
The wolves finished their gory feast, leaving a dark stain on the churned-up snow, and then slunk off into the night as swirling clouds of snow howled down from the peaks and shrouded the mountain slopes. Cato and the senator huddled together in their niche, Cato reloading the Manstopper’s shot barrel with numbed fingers. He dropped one shell and was unable to find it. Rather than take the time groping around in the dark, he pushed home another and figured to look for the dropped one come morning.
“They—they might’ve heard the—shots,” Locke gasped.
“Can’t be helped,” Cato told him, belly growling emptily. “But I don’t think so. They’re below us. The wind was blowin’ up-slope and mighty strong. I don’t reckon they’d have heard the shootin’. In any case, it was shoot or make supper for the wolf pack. Had no choice. And thanks for the warnin’.”
Jonas Locke managed a fleeting grin but it was not visible in the darkness. “John, no matter what happens ... you’ve more—more than made up for any—dereliction of— duty ...”
“I’ll agree with that when I get you safely back to Austin, Senator,” Cato told him, straining his eyes out into the darkness, gun cocked in his fist. But there was nothing out there now but the swirling clouds of snow. Maybe the wolf pack’s hunger was satisfied for the moment.
Daylight would be different. The lobos would be able to see just how weak the two men were and, if more wolves had gathered during the night, they wouldn’t hesitate to attack. Cato knew he couldn’t hope to hold off a concerted rush by the pack, not even with the Manstopper. They would have to get off this damn naked slope as soon as they could. Get down to timber and rocks where they had some protection, maybe find the Lavaca River. Could be they could ride some of the logs down and come out at the lumber mill that he had heard about. The folk there would give them protection from Duane and his rannies, seeing as they were already feuding over land rights or something. Yeah, he had better plan on making the lumber mill their goal. It was always better to have some place particular to head for, instead of just wandering around strange territory.
In any case, they couldn’t last much longer up here on the snow slopes above the timberline. They had to get back to some food and warmth.
When daylight came, Cato saw at once that the wolf pack had grown in numbers. They were out there, crouched, waiting, yellow eyes tirelessly watching the rock shelter for the men to emerge. Cato was stiff and aching with cold, dizzy with fatigue, hunger and the high altitude. The senator, strangely, seemed to be a shade more lively this morning; he had slept well in the warmest part of the niche and it had been Cato who had only dozed fitfully, keeping watch all night.
“Wind’s still howlin’, but the snow’s not driftin’ across the face of the slope so bad,” Cato told the senator. “Wolves are waitin’ out there. If we don’t move, they’ll rush sooner or later. If we do, they’ll dog our tracks till we get tired and then they’ll come in to finish us. But, if we make the effort, we might be able to get back to the timberline, senator. I figure we should head for the river and try to get down to that lumber camp.”
Locke snapped his head up, teeth chattering. “Good idea, John. Any kind of movement’s better than stayin’ here. Got to get our blood circulating.”
“Way I figure it, too. So let’s go. I don’t want to shoot unless I have to with the wind dropping and tending to blow down-slope. Might carry the sound of the shot right down to Duane and his men.”
Locke nodded and Cato helped him out of the niche. The senator stomped his feet several times to get the circulation going, hugged his jacket around him and winced as it pressed on his raw back.
“Ready when you are,” he gritted and Cato knew it was costing him plenty to keep moving with his back the way it was.
Warily, they moved away from the rock shelter, watched by the wolf pack, waiting the opportunity to close in.
They went about a hundred yards before the first of the wolves made its move, a slinking, belly-down dash for maybe four or five yards, then it stretched out in the snow again, eyes watching the struggling men. One by one, the others joined it. It went like that across the entire face of the slope, like endless chess moves; the men staggered and floundered and stumbled on a few yards, then the pack moved an equal distance behind them, keeping the gap between them about the same all the time.
Cato didn’t like it. The wind was blowing down from the peak now, cold and gusting, driving a powdering of snow at them. But it was the direction that worried him. They had to head downwards as well as across the slope, and that wind would be blowing slap bang towards the pursuit, so, if the wolves came in and they survived, the gunshots would bring Duane and his rannies right to their position. Thing was, he wasn’t all that sure they could survive an all-out rush by the lobos. He would have to shoot straighter and faster than he ever had and the cold was eating into his bones, making him tremble almost constantly. He sure couldn’t afford to waste ammunition.
They came to a steep, smooth slope without a boulder showing through the curving snow or any brush jutting up. It led down to the first thin and ragged line of trees, a distance of a half mile. Panting, Locke sagging, the two men stood on their ledge and stared down at the glaring white expanse, blinding now that the sun was up.
“Damn me if that don’t look like it’s got a thin coatin’ of ice on it,” gasped Cato, casting an eye behind at the wolf pack. “Senator, I figure we’re goin’ for a sleigh ride. Without the sleigh!”
Locke had only time to glance at Cato, startled, and then the small Enforcer got a firm grip on the man and together they stepped off their ledge onto the wide, curving slope and began to slide and skid down on their backs. The ice wasn’t as thick as Cato had hoped and wouldn’t support their weight. It was only in patches, anyway, and soon they plowed into the snow and great fans rose around them and they began to roll out of control. Cato lost his grip on the senator and he tightened his numbed fingers about the butt of the Manstopper. His mouth filled with snow and he automatically sucked on it for they had had no food or water since leaving the Diamond-D prison shack. He bounced, the world spun and blurred and he was briefly airborne before smashing back to the snow with a jar that slammed the breath from him. He kept rolling and gathering momentum and he had the thought that he must have been loco to have stepped off that ledge that way. They would start a snow slide before they reached the timberline. Or they would smash into the trees and break every bone in their bodies. If the wolves hadn’t been behind, maybe he wouldn’t have taken such a chance. The hell with it. He couldn’t change his mind now.
Then he was skidding into the first skelet
on line of stunted trees and brush and pounds of snow washed over him and he snatched out at the first blur of dark green that came close. His fingers caught and held and he yelled as his arm was almost jerked from his body. Snow piled over him and he fought in a panic to break through into the icy air, gasping, sucking down a deep breath. Breathless, he held to his brush and looked around. The senator was huddled against the base of a tree, only his boots and one shoulder and arm showing beneath a pile of snow. He was very still and Cato struggled out of his own snow pile, crawled across and began scooping armsful of snow away from Locke’s head. He got his face clear but there was no movement from the man. He had no breath to call Locke’s name so he tried to rouse him by shaking him. There was no response and his heart sank: looked like the slide had been too much for the wounded man.
There was a faint groan and Jonas Locke’s head moved slightly. Cato scooped the rest of the snow away from him and propped him up against the tree. Locke was blinking by that time and involuntary groans escaped his lips. His eyes looked glazed as they stared dazedly at Cato.
“We’ve made the timberline, Senator,” Cato gasped. “So far we’re winnin’ ...”
Locke was staring past him and lifted a silent, shaking hand. Cato whirled and saw the pack coming down the slide, snow up to their bellies, fangs bared as they ran in for the first attack. Cursing, he lifted the Manstopper and blew as much snow from the mechanism as he was able. There was no helping it now: he had to start dropping them before they got too close. He flicked the toggle to normal fire, seeing they were still distant, gripped the gun in both hands, using his left to steady his right wrist and rested the butt on a pile of hard packed snow. The gun crashed and the leading wolf yelped, his snout plowing up a line of snow briefly before his body somersaulted over and over down the rest of the slope. It didn’t even slow the others: this was their big rush and nothing was going to turn them from their quarry.
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