Bagley, Desmond - Landslide

by Landslide

  He took two steps forward and the rifle didn't waver. Behind him Lucy Atherton slipped into the cabin and smiled maliciously at me. I started to get out of the chair and he said in a hard voice, "Sit down, buster; you're not going anywhere."

  I flopped back. Why are you interested in Frank Trinavant?" I asked. "Hasn't he been dead a long time?" It was hard to keep my voice level. Facing a gun has a curious effect on the vocal chords.

  "Scared, Boyd?" asked Lucy Atherton.

  "Keep quiet," said Howard. He moistened his lips and came forward slowly and stared at me. "Are you Frank Trinavant?"

  I laughed at him. I had to work at it, but I laughed.

  "Damn you, answer me!" he shouted, and his voice cracked. He took a step forward and his face worked convulsively. I kept a wary eye on his right hand and hoped the rifle didn't have too light a trigger. I was hoping that he would come one step closer so I would have a fighting chance of knocking the barrel aside, but he stopped short. "Now you listen to me," he said in a trembling voice. "You're going to answer me and you're going to tell me the truth. Are you Frank Trinavant?"

  "What does it matter?" I said. "I might be Grant -- I might be Trinavant. Either way, I was in the car, wasn't I?"

  "Yeah, that's right," he said. "You were in the car." He went dangerously calm and studied my face. "I knew Frank, and I've seen pictures of Grant. You look like neither. You had a lot of surgery. I see. It must have hurt a lot -- I hope."

  Lucy Atherton giggled.

  "Yeah," he said. "You were in the car. It's only if you look real close you can see the scars, Lucy. They're just fine hairlines."

  I said, "You seem interested, Howard."

  "I wondered about that -- you calling me Howard all the time. Frank used to do it. Are you Frank?"

  "What's the difference?"

  "Sure," he agreed. "What's the difference? What did you see in the car? Now you can tell me, or you're going to have to get some more surgery done on that pretty face."

  "You tell me what I saw -- and I'll tell you if you're right."

  His face tightened in anger and he made a slight move, but not enough to bring him within range of my hands. It was awkward sitting down; it's not a position from which you can move quickly.

  "Let's have no games," he said harshly. "Talk!"

  A voice from the door said, "Lay that gun down, Howard, or I'll blow your spine out."

  I flicked my eyes to the door and saw Mac holding a double-barrelled shotgun on Howard. Howard froze and turned slowly, pivoting on his hips. Mac said sharply, "The gun, Howard -- lay it down. I won't tell you again."

  "He's right," said Lucy quickly. "He's got a shotgun."

  Howard lowered the rifle and I stood and took it as it slipped from his hands; if it dropped on the floor it might have gone off. I stepped back and looked at Mac, who smiled grimly. "I put the shotgun into the jeep this morning in case we needed it," he said. "Lucky I did. All right, Howard: walk over to that wall. You too, sister Lucy."

  I examined Howard's rifle. The safety-catch was off, and as I worked the action, a round flew out of the breech. I hadn't been very far from having my head blown off. "Thanks, Mac," I said.

  "No time for formalities," he said. "Howard, sit on the floor with your back to the wall. And you, Lucy. Don't be shy."

  Howard's face was filled with hate. He said, "You're not going to get far with this kind of thing. My boys will nail you, Boyd."

  "Boyd?" I said. "I thought it was Grant -- or Trinavant. The thing that's eating you, Howard, is that you don't know, do you? You're not sure."

  I turned to Mac. "What do we do now?"

  He grinned. "You go and follow Clare. Make sure she brings Gibbons on the run. We can nail this sonofabitch for armed hold-up. I'll keep him here."

  I looked at Howard dubiously. "Don't let him jump you."

  "He'd be too scared." Mac parted the shotgun. "I've got buckshot in this baby; at this range it would blow him clean in two. Hear that, Howard?"

  Matterson said nothing, and Mac added, "That goes for sister Lucy, too. You just sit there, Mrs. Atherton."

  "Okay, Mac," I said. "I'll see you within the half-hour." I picked up Howard's rifle and un loaded it, tossing the bullets into a corner. As I ran for the jeep I threw the rifle into the undergrowth and within a minute I was on my way.

  But not for long. There was a corner just before the turn-off to Fort Farrell and, as I spun the wheel and the jeep swung round, I saw a tree felled right across the track. There was hardly time to jam on the brakes and the jeep rammed it head-on. Fortunately I'd slowed for the comer but the impact didn't do the front end of the jeep any good, and I nearly rammed my head through the windshield.

  The next thing I knew was that someone was trying to haul me out of the cab. There was a shrill whistle and a shout -- "Here he is!"

  Someone's hand was on my shirt, bunching it up and pulling at me. So I bent my head and bit it hard. He yelled and let go, which gave me a moment to collect my wits. I could only see the one man who was coming at me again, so I dived across the cab and out the other side. The front end of a jeep is too restricted for a big guy like me to fight comfortably.

  I was still a bit dizzy from the crack on the head but not too dizzy to see the man coming round the rear of the jeep. He came a bit too fast for his own good and ran his kneecap into my boot, which just about ruined him. While he lay on the ground howling in pain I ran for the woods, conscious of the shouts behind and the thud of running boots as at least two men chased me.

  I'm not much good for the hundred yards' sprint because I carry too much beef for it, but I can put up a pretty fair turn of speed when necessary. So could the guys behind and for the first five minutes mere was nothing in it. But they tended to waste breath on shouting while I kept my big mouth shut, and soon they began to lag behind.

  Presently I risked a look over my shoulder. There was no one in sight although I could hear them hollering, so I ducked behind a tree and got my breath back. The shouts came nearer and I heard the crackle of twigs. The first man plunged past and I let him go, stooping to pick up a rock which just fitted into my fist. I heard the second man coming and stepped out from behind the tree right in his path.

  He didn't have time to stop -- or to do anything at all. His mouth was open in surprise, so I closed it for him, putting all my muscle into a straight jolt to his jaw. It was the rock in my fist that did it, of course; I felt a slight crunch and his feet slid out from under him. He fell on his back and rolled over and he didn't make another move.

  I listened for a while. The guy I had let go in front was out of sight but I could still hear him shouting. I also heard other shouts coming from the road, and I estimated there must be a dozen of them, so I took off again at right-angles to my original course, moving as fast as I could without making too much noise.

  I didn't do too much thinking at this time, but I realized that these were Matterson's dogs that were set on me with probably Jimmy Waystrand leading the pack. My first job was to give them the slip and that wasn't going to be too easy. These were loggers, used to the woods, and probably they knew more about them than I did. They certainly knew the local country better, so I had to make sure I wasn't herded the way they wanted me to go. A better thing would be to lose them altogether.

  The woodland this close to town held a spindly third growth of no commercial value and used mainly for cutting wood for the domestic fires of Fort Farrell. The trouble was that a man could see a long way through it and there was no place to hide, especially if you wore a red woollen shirt like I did. I thought I had got clear without being seen, but a shout went up and I knew I hadn't made it.

  I abandoned the quietness bit and put on speed again, running uphill and feeling the strain in my lungs. On top of the rise I looked across the valley and saw the real woodlands with the big trees. Once over there I might have a chance of dodging them, and I went down into that valley lickety-split like a buck-rabbit being chased by a fox.
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br />   From the shouts behind I reckoned I was keeping my distance, but that was no consolation. Any dozen determined men can run down a loner in the long haul; they can spell and pace each other. But the loner has one advantage -- the adrenalin jumped into his system by the knowledge of what will happen to him when he gets caught. I had no illusions about that; a dozen husky loggers don't put out a lot of energy in running cross-country just to play patty-cake at the end of it. If they caught me I'd probably be ruined for life. Once, up in the North-West Territories, I'd seen the results when a man was ganged-up on and booted around; the end-result could hardly be called human.

  So I ran for my life because I knew I'd have no life worth living if I lagged. I ignored the muscular pains creeping into my legs, the harsh rasp of air in my throat and the coming stitch in my side. I just settled down for the long, long run across that valley. I didn't look back to see how close they were because that wastes time; not much -- maybe fractions of a second every time you turn your head -- but fractions of a second add up and could count in the end. I just pumped my legs and kept a watch on the ground ahead of me, choosing the easiest way but not deviating too much from the straight line.

  But I kept my ears open and could hear the yells coming from behind, some loud and close and others fainter and farther back. The pack was stringing out with the fittest men to the front. If there had been only two men as before I'd have stopped and fought it out, but there was no chance against a dozen, so I plunged on and lengthened my stride, despite the increasing pain in my side.

  The trees were closer now, tall trees reaching to the sky -- Douglas fir, red cedar, spruce, hemlock -- the big forest that spread north clear to the Yukon. Once lost in there I might have a fighting chance. There were trees big enough to hide a truck behind, let alone a man; mere was a confusion of shadow as the sun struck through the leaves and branches creating dappled patterns; there were fallen trees to duck behind and holes to hide in and a thick layer of pine needles on which a man could move quietly if he looked where he was putting his feet. The forest was safety of a sort.

  I reached the first big fir and risked a look back. The first man was two hundred yards away and the rest were strung out behind him in a long line, I sprinted for the next tree, changed course and headed for another. Here, at the edge, the trees weren't too crowded and there were large vistas where a man could be seen for quite a long way, but it was a damn' sight better than being caught in the open.

  I was moving more slowly now, intent on quietness rather than speed as I dodged from tree to tree zig-zagging each time and keeping an eye on the way back because I had to make sure I wasn't seen. It was no longer a race -- it was a cat-and-mouse game, and I was the mouse.

  Now that I was no longer operating on full steam I managed to get my breath back, but my heart still pumped violently until I thought it was going to burst its way through my chest. I managed a grin as I hoped the other guys weren't in better shape and dodged deeper into the forest. Behind, everything had gone quiet and for a moment I thought they had given up, but then I heard a shout from the left and an answering call from the right. They had spread out and had begun to comb the woods.

  I pressed on, hoping they had no experienced trackers among them. It was unlikely they would have, but the possibility couldn't be ignored. It was a long time till sunset, nearly four hours to go, and I wondered if Matterson's boys would have enough incentive to go right through with it. I had to find a good hiding-place and let the search flow over me, so I kept my eyes open as I slipped deeper into the dappled green.

  Ahead was a rock outcropping of tumbled boulders with plenty of cover in it. I ignored it -- they wouldn't pass up a chance like that and they'd search every cranny. Still, that would take time -- there's an awful lot of holes where a man may be hiding compared to the one he is using, and this was my one hope. I heard a shout from way back and judged they were making poorer time than I, wasting valuable minutes in poking and prying, deviating to look behind that fallen log or into that likely-looking hole where a tree had fallen and torn up its roots.

  I didn't want to be driven too far .into the forest. I was worried about Mac and how long he could hold Matterson and his sister. Clare had gone to see Gibbons, but there had been no particular urgency at that time and Gibbons might not move his butt fast enough- So I wanted to get back to the cabin somehow, and every yard I was driven into the forest meant another yard to go back. »

  The firs soared up all round, their massive trunks branchless for a full fifty feet. Yet I found what I was looking for -- a young cedar with branches low enough for it to be climbed. I swarmed up into it and crawled out on one of the branches. The spreading boughs would hide me from the ground -- I hoped -- but as an added precaution I took off that revealing red shirt and wadded it into a bundle. Then I waited.

  Nothing happened for over ten minutes, then they came so quietly that I saw the flicker of movement before I heard a sound. A man came into view at the edge of the clearing and looked about him, and I froze into immobility. He was not more than fifty yards away and he was very still as he stared into the woods across the clearing, his head swinging round as he gave the area a real thorough going-over with his eyes. Then he gestured and another man joined him and the two of them walked across the clearing light-footedly.

  A man doesn't look up much. The bones of his skull project over his eyes just where his eyebrows are -- that's to prot ect his eyes from the direct sun. And looking up much puts a strain on the neck muscles, too. I guess it's all been designed by nature to protect the delicate eye from glare. Anyway, it so happens that only an experienced searcher will scan the tops of trees -- it's something that doesn't occur to the average man and there's a built-in resistance -- partly psychological and partly physiological -- to see that it doesn't.

  These two were no exceptions. They walked across the clearing emulating Fenimore Cooper's heroes and stopped for a moment below the cedar. One of them said, "I think it's a bust."

  The other cut him short with a chopping motion of his hand. "Quiet! He could be around here."

  "Not a chance. Hell, he's probably five miles from here by now. Anyway, my feet hurt."

  "More'n your feet'll hurt if Waystrand finds you falling down on the job."

  "Huh, that young punk!"

  "Can you whip him? You're welcome to try but I wouldn't put my money on you. Anyway, Matter son wants this guy found, so come on and stop moaning about it."

  They moved away across the clearing but I stayed put. In the distance I heard a shout, but otherwise all was still. I waited a full fifteen minutes before I dropped from the tree and, although it was chilly, I had left my shirt up there and out of sight.

  I didn't retrace my steps but cut across at an angle in the direction of Mac's cabin. If I could get back there and if Mac still had Howard cooped up he would make a valuable hostage, a passport to safety. I trod carefully, and viewed every open space suspiciously before venturing into it, and I penetrated right to the edge of the forest before I encountered anyone.

  In any crowd of men there is always one like this -- the man who doesn't pull his weight, the man who goofs off when there's a job to be done. He was sitting with his back to a tree and rolling a cigarette. He had evidently had foot trouble because, although he was wearing his boots, they were unlaced and he must have had them off.

  He was a damned nuisance because, although he was goofing off, he was ideally placed at the edge of the forest to survey the scrubland I had to cross to get to Mac's cabin. In fact, if Waystrand had placed him there deliberately he couldn't have chosen a better position.

  I retreated noiselessly and looked about for a weapon. This attack had to be sudden and quick; I didn't know how many other guys were within shouting distance and one squawk from him and I'd be on the run again. I selected a length of tree bough and cut the twigs from it with my knife. When I went back he was still there, had got his cigarette lit and was puffing it with enjoyment.

 
I circled and came up behind the tree very carefully and raised the cudgel as I edged round. He never knew what hit him. The wood caught him on the temple and he didn't even gasp as he fell sideways, the cigarette falling from his lax fingers. I dropped the club and stepped in front of him, automatically stepping on the glowing cigarette as it crisped the pine needles. Hastily I grabbed him under the arms and hauled him to a place where we weren't overlooked.

  I had a moment of panic when I thought he was dead, but he groaned and his eyelids fluttered a little before he relapsed into unconsciousness. I had no compunction about hitting a man when he wasn't looking, but I didn't want to kill anybody -- not because I didn't feel dike it but because a man could get hanged that way. The law is pretty strict about dead bodies and I wanted Gibbons on my side.

  He was wearing a dark grey shirt which was just what I wanted, so I stripped it from him and then searched him for good measure. He didn't have much in his pockets -- a wallet containing three dollar-bills and some personal papers, a few coins, a box of matches and a pack of tobacco and a jack-knife. I took the matches and the knife and left him the rest, then I put on the shirt, that neutral, pleasantly inconspicuous shirt which was as good as a disguise.

  I put him in a place where no one would stumble over him too easily, then walked boldly out of the forest, cutting across the scrubland towards Mac's cabin which couldn't have been more than a mile away according to my calculations. I had gone halfway when someone hailed me. Fortunately he was a long way off, too far to see my face in the fading light. "Hey, you! What happened?"

  I cupped my hands to my mouth. "We lost him."

  "Everyone's wanted at McDougall's cabin," he shouted. "Matterson wants to talk to you."

  I felt my heart give a sudden bump. What had happened to Mac? I waved, and shouted, "I'll be there."

  He carried on in the opposite direction, and as he passed, I angled away and kept my face from him. As soon as he was out of sight I broke into a run until I saw lights in the gathering darkness, then I paused, wondering what to do next. I had to find out what had happened to Mac, so I circled the cabin to come at it from the other, unexpected side and as I drew nearer I heard the rumble of the voices of many men.