For some time he stayed awake, full of anxiety for North and afraid to pick up his nightmare where it had left off. But the mere effort of getting up only to lie down again had been too much, and eventually he fell comatose.
At sunrise he felt stronger than he had in days. Still, he took his time preparing breakfast, rested again afterward and then, relying on the support of a convenient spruce, pulled himself erect and leaned against the trunk while the vertigo and nausea passed. He choked back a spell of coughing. Pacing himself like an old man just back from the hospital, he faced the ordeal of saddling and lashing his remaining bundles across his horse's rump. North had reloaded his Remington and left it for him along with the extra cartridges Lightfoot had stolen from Fulwider's saddle pouch, and these he wrapped for storage in his blanket.
The bay reached back to snap at him as he was mounting, but it was a half-hearted effort, as the animal was bored and eager to return to the trail, and Fulwider ignored it. Dragging himself up and over its back required all his attention.
Four hours later he learned the reason for what he was now certain had not been Asa North's shot. Sprawled amid the undergrowth where it had come to rest, the dead wolf was so well concealed under leaves and twisting vines that his horse nearly stepped on it.
Instinctively he wrapped the reins around his wrist to take up the slack before the terrified animal could bolt. For a tense moment it danced about the carcass, blowing a keen note of fear and frustration through its nostrils, its eyes showing white. He backed it away from the twin scents of death and danger and stroked its neck until it calmed down, meanwhile examining the carcass from his high perch.
He was hardly expert enough to be able to distinguish one wolf from another at random, and yet he knew at a glance that this wasn't Black Jack. Smaller and less rangy, the beast had a coat of gunmetal gray streaked with brown and showed but one wound, a ragged opening behind its right foreleg an inch too high to have penetrated its heart. It had bled considerably before dying and had thrashed about so that it was hopelessly entangled in the serpentine growth that all but covered it. This in itself was reason enough for a wolfer in a hurry not to bother taking the skin, as that would demand several minutes of extrication before the first cut could be made. But Fulwider felt certain that this particular wolfer wouldn't have bothered in any case. He had shot the wolf out of habit; his real target still awaited his attention.
The question was, in which direction had that attention led him?
Even had the journalist been any kind of tracker, there was nothing to be gained from a study of the immediate terrain, carpeted as it was by thorny growth. Instead he took as his guide an axiom employed by the old wolfer he had interviewed in Rebellion: A pursued beast always heads for the high ground. Steering around the stiff carcass, he kicked his reluctant mount onward toward the peak.
The foliage grew thinner as they advanced. After another hour it vanished entirely, except in those spots where a single startling burst of green erupted through a fissure or a space where two rocks did not quite meet, invariably sporting a wild blossom of yellow or white or periwinkle to bob in frivolous incongruity between planes of bleak stone. At this point the bay's footing grew feeble, and he dismounted to lead it over the weather-rounded surface.
This was his first experience with mountain travel, and he was astonished to learn that the stability with which he had always associated the mighty monoliths was largely nonexistent. Millions of years of erosion and expansion had shattered the face into a thousand crevices, loosening the surface so that a single imprudent footfall was enough to send a cascade of stones roaring to the bottom, baring the succeeding layer to those same destructive elements for some future transient to upset, and so on, until in a distant millennia the mountain would be less than a memory.
Eventually, progress directly up the face grew impossible, and he set the horse's hoofs on a ledge that wound around the rocky summit. Tilting his head to catch the light, he was encouraged to see the outline of a steel shoe in the paper-thin dust that coated the surface. Even as he looked at it, the wind came up and carried part of it away in a gritty cloud. It was fresh.
The reddening sun was sliding down the conical peak of the higher mountain to the west when he came upon North's roan and black, still girded for travel, tugging at a sickle of grass in a sheltered notch. There was no sign of their master, and Fulwider felt a sudden pang of fear that in his eagerness the wolfer had forgot himself and stepped off the ledge. He looked down at the lofty pines spread out like a well-cropped lawn far below and the tendons behind his knees tingled.
He considered. The ledge was fairly broad; there seemed no reason to abandon the horses if North planned to continue along the same route. Logic suggested that he had chosen another where the horses couldn't follow. Twenty feet ahead of them a fresh-looking pile of rubble lay at the base of the wall, directly under a twisted trunk of stunted tree wedged between boulders six feet higher. It would be a simple matter to grasp the tree and begin scaling, dislodging small stones as one progressed.
Backtracking, Fulwider spotted a partial paw print in the damp alluvial soil at the bottom of a meandering gully less than twelve inches wide that carved its way up the mountainside at a gentle angle. It was ideal for the limited climbing ability of a wolf, but too narrow to admit a full-grown man in pursuit. North would have seen it quicker than the journalist, and in far less time he would have detected the animal cunning behind it, the attempt on the part of his quarry to throw him off by switching trails.
Fulwider left his bay grazing with the other horses and reached to wrap his fingers around the small tree, drawing up his legs and hanging to test its strength. He gasped at the pain in his side and shoulder and dropped back to the ledge. A few moments passed before he was willing to try again.
Much of his normal strength had returned since that morning and yet the sweat stood out on his forehead as he braced a sole against the mountain and pulled himself up with both hands. For a space his other foot scraped at the nearly vertical surface, and then it inserted itself in a triangular abrasion where some rockfall or other had plucked a shard from the smooth granite. From there it was almost as easy as mounting a ladder.
After ten minutes he hitched himself up and over a shallow escarpment and lay there, his chest heaving. Something oozed down his back and he knew that he had once again opened the wound in his shoulder. The wadded cloth North had secured to his neck flapped loose. He stroked the thick, hard scab that had formed over the cut, tore loose the crusted cloth and cast it away. Then he got up. There was no dizziness, so he continued.
From there the way to the crest was a steep but uneven grade made up of layered rock very much like the construction of Egypt's pyramids, forming a crude staircase. Shoots of grass and similar vegetation made the going treacherous, having cracked apart the stone. Once he placed all his weight on a flat overhang and had to snatch at a handful of tough bunch grass when it tilted under his foot. It rattled down the slope and struck the ledge below the escarpment with a loud report. He hoped none of the horses had been standing in its path. Slowly he lowered himself to his most recent purchase and waited for his heart to stop thudding before he tried again.
Farther up, he heard a noise and paused.
Or he thought it was a noise. On reflection, it seemed as if he had felt it only. The impression was that of a very low sigh. The wind had died at just that moment, and he couldn't be sure that what he had heard wasn't just the whimper of its passage around the mountain. Nevertheless he began handing himself in that direction.
It was slow going. Grasping likely knobs and crevices, he tested each before proceeding, paying out inches like rope. It struck him then that he might be heading toward danger, and again he stopped to consider.
If it was Black Jack he had heard—and as he thought about it he became convinced that the sound was more animal than human—he was approaching a wounded adversary, perhaps placing himself between the animal and esc
ape. He recalled Dale Crippen's assurance of the wolf's unwillingness to clash with man under any circumstances, but professions of that sort were easier to accept while seated before a warm campfire than while standing on a shifting platform three thousand feet in the air, a few yards away from an injured predator. He regretted having left his rifle with the horses, but he had needed both hands for climbing.
He nearly lost his footing when he continued around the curve and glimpsed gray fur within an arm's length. Rocks rolled out from under him as he hugged the mountain, breathing dust and granite. Then he perceived Asa North's angular frame under his shaggy coat. Relief pumped warmth through his veins like whiskey.
The wolfer was standing on a flat rock outcropping with his back turned to Fulwider. His shoulders sagged and the Ballard drooped at the end of his arm. He had fashioned a sling from horse tack and tied it to the weapon so that he could climb without surrendering it.
Fulwider was certain that North knew of his presence, and yet the wolfer didn't turn as he approached. All his concentration was centered on something just below him.
A rusted iron peg had been driven into the granite between his moccasined feet. Appended to it, a length of aged chain stretched taut over the edge of the outcropping. From that dangled a P-shaped device of corroded steel, clamped around the left hind leg of a great gray beast with head and shoulders as black as char.
The creature hung at full length over the green matting of forest far below, supported only by the trap. The leg thus ensnared was obviously broken. Its right shoulder was bloodied as well, but the wound was days old.
"He was running along that ridge up yonder." North spoke quietly, tipping his hat brim toward an uneven shelf twenty feet overhead. "I was drawing a bead when he leaped for this rock. I heard the snap and seen him go over."
He stopped. The wind hummed through fissures in the mountain. Then: "That trap must of been set ten, twelve years ago. The rest of the ledge has been gone at least that long. Who'd of thought it'd still work?"
A razor-thin gust came up, snapping their coattails viciously and moaning about their ears like a soul in torment. Then it died, and in the lull Fulwider heard something that gripped his heart like a cold hand. It was a whimper, soft and low and distinctly animal.
North stiffened as though struck. The two leaned out as far as they dared, watching and listening. As they did so, the trapped beast opened its black-lipped mouth and began to pant.
The wolfer wasted no time. In one smooth motion he brought the rifle scooping to the base of the wolf's skull and slammed an ounce of lead into its brain. The impact sent it swinging wildly at the end of the chain. The body jerked spasmodically, drew in upon itself, then relaxed, uncoiling by degrees. It swayed twisting in the returning wind. The chain creaked and parted with a pop.
The shaggy carcass plummeted for a thousand feet, bounded off a shelf of shale, and dropped out of sight among the pines. They kept watching for a long time after it had vanished.
"We'll never find it in all that," North said. "Even if we did, there wouldn't be nothing left of it after the varmints was through with it."
"I don't need the money anyway," put in Fulwider. "Reckon we can both live without it." The wolfer slung his rifle over one shoulder and turned away from the edge.
Chapter Twenty-Three
North and Fulwider made camp on level ground, where the wolfer redressed his partner's wound and they ate and rested for the journey back. Days later they were moving along the ledge over the river when they spotted eight horsemen crossing through the shallows. The rider in front was heavily built and had a shotgun across his saddle.
"Adamson," North observed. "Here's where we split up, New York."
Fulwider stared at him. "What for? You've done nothing to have to flee the law."
The wolfer smiled sadly, the mirth falling short of his yellow-brown eyes. "I'm like Black Jack some ways. Whenever I see a bunch of men coming in my direction, I go the other way."
"Where will you go?"
"They got this old wolf over in Wyoming they call Pop-eye. I hear tell he swallows cows whole and spits out the bones. Think I'll give him a try."
The journalist searched his mind for words. It infuriated him that whenever it really counted he could find none. At length he stretched out his hand. North clasped it briefly and let go. Physical contact unnerved him. He backed his horse behind Fulwider's, turned and retraced their steps up the ledge, tugging the loaded black behind. Soon they were gone behind a vertical ridge of iron-streaked stone.
At dusk, Fulwider came upon the posse at the base of the canyon. Rifles rattled. Sheriff Adamson held up a hand and the weapons were lowered. He looked businesslike in a linen duster the size of a tent, straddling a shaggy buckskin with a white blaze. The journalist reined in and waited for the group to overtake him at a walk.
"Where is North?" asked the lawman, stopping before the journalist. His small, bright eyes roamed the canyon.
"I have no idea," said the other truthfully. "We parted away back."
"You might as well tell us the truth. I have sent wires all over the territory with his description. He cannot get far."
The other horsemen were hard-eyed westerners wearing side arms and carrying rifles, some of them with scopes as long as their barrels. Fulwider recognized some of them from town.
"What is this all about?"
Adamson regarded him coolly. "Yesterday, Cal Dingle went fishing and hooked a dead man out of the river. It was Jim Stemmer, and he had a rope around his neck. What can you tell us about that?"
"He was murdered. Dick Lightfoot and Sam Fire Eye killed him."
A snicker rippled through the posse. Nothing stirred the sheriff's heavy face, however.
"Sam Fire Eye has been dead for weeks. You saw him die and I saw the grave. I am placing you under arrest." The shotgun's muzzles swung in Fulwider's direction. "John, see if he has a gun in that bedroll."
A small man with a tight, weathered face sidled his horse alongside the journalist's, rummaged a hand inside the bound blanket and pulled out the Remington. Meanwhile, its owner stammered out a half-comprehensible account of the events of the past week. Adamson sat unblinking throughout the narrative, a living Buddha.
"We will see if North's story agrees with yours," he said, when it was finished. "Did he say where he was going?"
Fulwider shook his head. It was the first time he had ever lied to an authority, but then he had done and seen many things since leaving New York that he had never thought he would, or even dreamed were possible. He could tell that the sheriff didn't believe him.
"I am disappointed." His heavy accent was tinged with genuine sadness. "Not long ago I warned you of the dangers of falling in with wild men. They will not be civilized. Any attempt to do so brings only ruin. I hoped you understood, but I see now that you did not."
He paused, as if to give the easterner an opportunity to change his mind. When he didn't reply, the sheriff's large face hardened. "John, Fred, in the morning you will escort Mr. Fulwider back to town. See that he does not leave until we return with North." He rapped the orders out harshly, glaring at the prisoner.
"You may never return," Fulwider pointed out, "with North."
Adamson had dismounted. Others followed his lead and began preparing for camp. On foot, he lost a great deal of the authority he enjoyed in the saddle, but the glance he shot the journalist was as solid as a blow.
"You have not heard the news. The man I was looking for, who strangled Mrs. Pollard for her gold? I found him. He stood trial yesterday, and next Friday he will stand on the scaffold. They said I would not catch him, either."
It was a jovial camp. The chief tracker, a black man raised by the Sioux who worked in the livery stable between posses, sang "Laredo" in a rich bass to harmonica accompaniment, and a moustachioed cowman on loan from Newcastle Ranch told a number of humorous anecdotes from his trail-drive past while the others ate sausages and fried potatoes around a chuckling
fire. Fulwider scraped his plate clean in silence and thought about what Adamson had said.
Tight-faced John manacled the journalist's hands behind his back at bedtime and settled him between himself and Fred, whose fleshy jowls and benevolent expression Fulwider recognized from behind the counter in the harness shop. He then tied one end of a six-foot length of rope to the chain and the other around his ankle, "Just in case you're fool enough to want to bust your neck wandering around ihem mountains with your wrists shackled." Amid coughs and whispered curses and premature snores, the posse bedded down for its first night on the trail.
Fulwider was lying on his back, staring at the stars in a clear black sky when amiable Fred hissed his name. John was snoring smoothly. The prisoner turned his head.
"That fellow North," Fred whispered. "He get Black Jack or what?"
Fulwider watched orange firelight play over the man's doughy features. "He got him," he said, after a moment.
"I knew it. Wake up, John! You owe me five!"
The deputies accompanied their charge to Rebellion, where he was confined to his hotel room for six days, allowed out only to eat. At the end of that period the posse came dragging in on hollow-flanked horses, their faces sunburned and stubbled. North wasn't with them.
An hour after he had seen them straggle past under his window, Fulwider was summoned to the sheriff's office. There he found Oscar Adamson still in his duster, glowering from behind a big library table with a scarred blond finish that served as a desk. His hat was on the desk and the late afternoon sunlight glistened on his pink scalp where it showed through his thin gray hair. Dirty and unshaven, he looked exhausted except for his eyes.
"Kindly do not say I told you so," he grumbled.
The journalist's heart leaped, but he kept the elation from his tone. "How close did you get?"
"What difference does it make? He led us down false trails and over shallow cliffs and through mud holes up to a man's elbow on horseback. One man broke his leg and a friend I have known for fifteen years has stopped speaking to me. Your partner is more than three-quarters wolf or he would be in one of those cells by now." He jerked a thick thumb over his shoulder at the two barred enclosures, at present unoccupied.
The Wolfer Page 13
