Last Train to Bannock [Clayburn 02]

by Marvin H. Albert

  Blue looked off in the same direction, and scowled. "Dunno… He was over there last time I looked."

  "Exactly where'd you see him last?"

  "Back there by that break in the rocks. Where the big lightnin'-blasted pine is." Blue did not point. "Maybe Roud saw somethin' in there and went for a closer look."

  "Yeah… that's what I'm afraid of. I'll go look for him."

  "Maybe I better come with you."

  "No. Stick with the wagons. If I'm not back by dark, pick a safe campsite."

  "And if you don't come back-ever?"

  "I'll be back," Clayburn told him as he turned his sorrel away. "Only the good die young."

  "You're gettin' older by the minute," Blue said, but Clayburn was already out of earshot.

  He didn't ride directly to the east. Instead he went west until Blue was swallowed up behind him by the falling snow. Then he turned south, riding a long circle behind the wagons. He cut north again when he was well east of the wagon train, beyond sight of it.

  When he came to the narrow defile through the rocks where Blue had last seen Roud, Clayburn stopped his horse and dismounted. He tethered the sorrel inside a thick stand of high juniper and continued on foot, taking his carbine with him. Moving in a crouch that gave him the protection of the rocks and bushes along the way, he came in sight of the split and charred pine trunk Blue had mentioned. He squatted behind a clump of gooseberry bushes and scanned the bottom of the defile that cut east from the pass.

  If Jim Roud had turned away from the wagon trail there, his tracks had been smothered under the falling snow.

  Clayburn remained where he was for a time, considering the possibilities; not liking any of them. Then he moved on, keeping just below a humped line of ridge, following the direction of the defile. His finger was taut against the carbine's trigger guard. Every twenty yards he paused to scrutinize all possible cover within sight. The defile widened and grew deeper, then opened into a crosscut ravine through which a shallow rock-choked stream rushed down through the mountains. Clayburn eased himself into a cluster of snow-covered rocks for a look into the ravine below.

  Jim Roud lay face down in the stream, the back of his head and body showing above the white foam of the water. His arms and legs were sprawled out from him, toes touching the near bank, hands almost reaching the other bank.

  A heavy knot formed in the pit of Clayburn's stomach. His eyes dulled. The lines of his face became slack, then slowly hardened again.

  He bellied down in the snow and stayed that way, very still. Roud was dead and nothing could be done for him. To go down to his body now would be pointless, and could be suicidal.

  Roud's horse was not in the ravine. Clayburn studied the dense thicket of pine, juniper and balsam on the other side of the stream. The Apache might have taken Roud's horse and be on his way by now. But Clayburn didn't think so. Thinking with the mind of an Apache, if he had killed Roud he would wait within sight of the body-long enough to see if anybody came looking for Roud.

  If a single man came searching, he would wait till the man got to Roud's body. Then there would be two bodies in the stream, and two horses to take away as booty-something for a warrior to boast of for the rest of his life.

  If more than one man came, an Apache could easily slip away in that thick forest on the other side.

  Clayburn stayed where he was, hidden among the rocks, not moving though the intense cold began to numb the flesh of his face and hands. He scanned the thicket opposite for any unnatural line of shadow, any snow dropping from a shaken bough. He saw nothing, but he was a very patient man on occasion. Snow began to cover him, merging his form with the general whiteness all around.

  The limit of the time the Apache would wait was reached, and passed. The wagon train was getting farther away. If anyone was going to come looking for Roud, he should have come by now. It was time for the Apache to relinquish his ambush position and take word of the wagon train to his bunch.

  Clayburn continued to wait, gambling that someone was there on the other side of the stream, and that he wouldn't go off by merely fading deeper into the forest. There were easier ways out of the ravine, for a mounted man.

  He was giving himself ten more minutes of waiting when a dense tangle of balsam on the other side of the stream betrayed movement within. An Apache warrior emerged astride a spotted pony, leading Roud's horse and carrying a rifle in one hand. He paused for a glance at Roud's body in the stream, and a swift survey of the surrounding area. His searching glance moved directly over the rocks among which Clayburn lay, without seeing anything that alerted him.

  Clayburn could have shot him then. He wanted to. But he wanted more to find out first the location and size of the band the Apache belonged to. He waited till the Apache turned his pony and started up the ravine along the stream bank. Then he squirmed backward out of the rocks and hurried to his horse. Mounting up, he rode into the defile. Reaching the ravine, he crossed the stream without looking at Roud's corpse.

  When he got to the other side, he found that the snowfall was already obscuring the trail left by the Indian pony and Roud's horse. Clayburn kneed the sorrel to a faster pace, squinting ahead to make sure he didn't approach within sight of his quarry. When the tracks became more distinct he slowed the sorrel a bit, but not too much.

  It was dangerous, trailing an Apache warrior that close. Apaches had a habit of watching their back trail, and they learned ambush technique from the cradle. But with it snowing like this, to drop back farther would be to risk losing the tracks entirely. Clayburn kept the distance between them what it was. But he rode with the carbine ready in his hand, his finger close to the trigger.

  The Apache's trail led out of the north end of the ravine and cut east with the stream. It entered an expanding gorge with rising walls along which stunted scrub pine sank roots among great outcroppings of rock. Clayburn followed the tracks east for over an hour. Then they turned north, still following the stream.

  The stream angled and twisted, now east, then north again. Following the tracks beside it, Clayburn caught sight of a pass farther east of him-the pass up which Adler's wagons would be coming. The stream-and the Apache's trail-cut nearer to the pass, then away from it, continuing upward through the mountains in the same general direction as the pass but never exactly parallel to it.

  The approach of dusk began to make itself known-early because of the overcast sky. About the same time the falling snowflakes diminished. It continued to snow, but less thickly. This meant that the tracks Clayburn was following filled up more slowly. He was able to see them farther ahead-and at the same time drop farther behind the Apache without losing his trail.

  But it also increased the danger of the Apache seeing that he was being followed.

  Before long Clayburn began to suspect that the Apache had spotted him. The tracks ahead cut away from the stream for the first time, angling up a rugged incline toward a high, long cliff. As Clayburn left the stream behind and approached the cliff he saw the farthest tracks led into a break in a massive outcropping of rock.

  He slowed his horse, studying the outcropping through the lightly falling snow. There didn't seem to be any way out of it. His hunch that the Apache was laying an ambush for him began to pluck more determinedly at his nerves.

  Of course, he could be wrong. But he'd learned long ago that it was healthier to have all your wrong hunches on the safe side. Twisting the reins, Clayburn angled the sorrel away from the direction of the Apache's trail, aiming for a place a bit to the left of where it entered the rock outcropping.

  He kept the sorrel to a walk until just within accurate rifle distance of the rocks, considering the difficulty of aiming through the falling snow. Then, abruptly, Clayburn wrenched the reins right, kicked hard with his heels, and kept kicking. The sorrel leaped to its right and broke into a flat, all-out gallop. A split second later a rifle shot cracked out-much too late. A spout of snow rose and collapsed yards behind the speeding horse.

  Hu
nched low over the sorrel's neck, Clayburn kept it racing for all it was worth, wrenching it now to the left, now to the right, in an utterly unpredictable zigzag course. Twice more the Apache fired at him. One shot kicked up snow under the sorrel's belly. The other winged over his back. Seconds after the last shot Clayburn and horse were under a shielding overhang at the base of the outcropping. The only thing the Apache's shots had accomplished was to let Clayburn know where he was.

  Without pausing, Clayburn slid from his horse and sprinted to the left till he reached a tight little gully leading upward. He climbed upward swiftly, hugging the bottom of the gully to conceal himself below its shallow sides. The problem was that just as he knew in general where the Apache was, so the Apache had a good idea of where Clayburn was. And the Apache was bound to be swiftly changing his position, too.

  By the time the gully came to an end under a big spur of rock, Clayburn could only be sure that his enemy was still somewhere to his right. He scanned the convoluted and haphazard formations in that direction as much as possible without showing himself. The Apache was nowhere in sight, and there were dozens of folds and crannies where he might be.

  According to the strategy of such a hide-and-seek duel, the Apache should at that moment be working his way up higher among the rocks. The man higher up always had the advantage, the better chance of spotting the man below first.

  Clayburn hesitated. Then, instead of continuing upward himself, he crawled under the spur and began working his way to the right. He moved with infinite caution, seeking the protection of overhead ledges and projections, pausing every few seconds to look behind him and through cracks and openings above. Where necessary he squeezed himself under giant fists of rock or crawled through narrow fissures-always conscious that the Apache might suddenly appear where he wasn't looking, with a clear shot at him. He was aware of an intensifying sensation of numbness in the small of his back, as though the nerves there were preparing themselves for the expected sudden impact of a fast-moving chunk of lead.

  But he also knew that his enemy would be under the very same strain. They were each both hunter and hunted.

  When he was several yards past the area from which the Apache had fired at him, Clayburn stopped and studied the rocks above. If his calculations had been right, his man was somewhere up there, and looking in the other direction for him. If so, there was a chance of coming up behind him, or at least getting close to him without being spotted. Uncomfortable ifs, but ones by which he would have to live or die.

  Clayburn began working his way upward, the carbine gripped tight in his right hand. He found a tight, jagged seam in the face of the rock leading upward, and used it. He climbed slowly, careful to make no sound. The way became steeper, and he had to seek holds for his feet, his free hand and his right elbow, slowing his progress still more. Hauling himself up that way, having to hang on to keep from falling, he was sharply conscious of how defenseless he'd be in the vital first split second if the Apache spotted him.

  Relief flowed through him when he finally reached the upper end of the seam. He rested on a narrow little ledge under a massive shoulder of rock, breathing through bared teeth till the action of his lungs became less violent. Then he wiped sweat from his eyes and surveyed the jungle of rock formations around him.

  The Apache should be somewhere to his left now. perhaps a bit higher or lower, but close. Clayburn got his feet under him and started working his way to the left, crouching so low that his chest almost touched his knees. He placed his feet with care so as not to set any of the snow shifting downward to betray his position. He came to a twisted stone pinnacle that barred his way, began moving around it under a high ledge.

  A dusting of snow fell on his hat and shoulders.

  Clayburn whipped part way around, his right foot scraping on bared rock under it, his carbine smacking to his shoulder as he brought it up to fire at the ledge above.

  There was nothing up there but a slight stirring of wind.

  Clayburn had barely started to turn back to his original position when the Apache materialized three feet in front of him. The Apache stepped out from the other side of the stone pinnacle, bringing his rifle around for a point-blank shot at Clayburn as he made the step.

  There was no time for Clayburn to bring his own carbine to bear. In the same instant that the Apache appeared he instinctively did the only thing left to him. He wrenched himself forward and around to his left, swinging the carbine in a swift, vicious arc like a club, getting all the power of his shoulders behind it. The barrel of the carbine thudded against the side of the warrior's neck.

  The boom of the Apache's rifle and the sound of his neck snapping as he was knocked sideways against the pinnacle came together. Hot lead seared skin from Clayburn's side three inches below his armpit. The Indian crumpled like a puppet with all its strings cut.

  Clayburn stared down at the Apache's inert form with a blank look on his face, breathing harshly, dizziness swirling in his head.

  It lasted only seconds, then it was over. His brain steadied, and legs that had begun to tremble ceased to do so. Clayburn relaxed his grip on the carbine and straightened, looking out and down at the land below.

  Roud's death had been avenged. But too soon, before the Apache had led him to the rest of his bunch.

  Still-there was a possibility. He gazed thoughtfully at the stream below. His Apache had followed the stream this far. And the band he belonged to was likely to be camped near water. It would be dark in a little over an hour. Unless he and Blue had been wrong about how close the Apache party was likely to be…

  Clayburn made his way back down. He found Roud's horse and took him along, releasing the Indian pony to wander off. He wasn't worried about the other Apaches finding it or their dead companion. By then the tracks leading back toward Cora's wagons would have been long obliterated. Mounting his sorrel and tugging Roud's horse along by a lead rope, he continued to follow the upward course of the stream. He rode warily, knowing it was more than an even chance the rifle shot had been heard by other Apaches.

  He was a half hour's riding north of the Apache he'd killed when he saw a tendril of smoke rising ahead. Instantly turning away from the stream, Clayburn rode into a stand of pine. Hidden within the timber, he pushed on in the same direction. It was murky under the heavy overhanging boughs, and Clayburn let his horse go slowly, feeling its way around tangles of underbrush.

  When the trees began to thin out on a steeply rising incline, the smoke was on Clayburn's left, between him and the stream. He kneed his horse up the slope. Higher up the timber became sparse and stunted, the incline became irregular with big sharp upthrustings of rock. Clayburn reached the top of the slope between two of the rock thrusts-and found himself looking down at the Apache camp.

  It was near the stream, a rough, temporary resting place with two slapdash shelters fashioned of pine and balsam boughs leaning against stakes sticking up out of the ground. One Apache warrior was carrying wood past the ponies to a newly built cook fire. Clayburn counted the other men. There were no women. He counted eleven warriors in all.

  From the absence of women, and the young, fit look of each warrior, and the transient nature of their camp, they were a raiding party, out for blood and loot. But Clayburn doubted that they'd try any full attack on Cora's wagons, even if they chanced to find them. They might try sniping, though they would have nothing to gain by it but enjoyment. But as long as no wagon fell behind, and no man strayed away as Roud had done, they were likely to leave the wagon train alone. It had too many men, and with every teamster armed the numerical odds were too even. Judging from the size of the two shelters, even if all the raiding party weren't in the camp at the moment, there couldn't be more than a couple others-not including the one he'd killed.

  Apache warriors gambled with their lives. But like all sensible gamblers they preferred the odds to be at least slightly in their favor before staking everything. Still they could make trouble if they happened to discover the
wagon train.

  Clayburn was about to turn away when another Apache climbed into view over the crest of a ridge off to the right. At the same moment the newcomer looked over and spotted Clayburn.

  The Apache yelled his warning to the camp below as Clayburn whirled his sorrel around, tugging Roud's horse after him. Cora's wagon train was off to the west. Clayburn raced to the east, toward the other pass.

  He hadn't gotten far before he heard Apache ponies coming after him.

  FOURTEEN

  Ranse Blue picked the campsite for Cora's wagon train as dusk closed in. They were in a wide, level stretch of the pass now. Blue chose a place against a high, perpendicular cliff, with no timber or sizable rocks close enough to be used by night attackers. Kosta quickly saw to getting the evening meal ready, so that he'd be done with the cooking before full dark. There'd be no fire to reveal their position that night, or in the nights that would follow.

  As the mules and horses were corralled within the square of wagons Cora stood by the cook fire, gazing anxiously to the east. "Why isn't Clay back yet?" The question was more of an expression of her fears than a query directed at Blue. "He should have come back by now…"

  "Most likely he found that Apache," Blue said, with more gentleness than he ever used with any of the men, "and decided to trail him."

  "But we need him here."

  "We need to know where the rest of them Apaches are, and how many, too."

  "Then what about Jim Roud?… He hasn't come back either."

  "Could be he went along with Clayburn," Blue lied, "to help in case he ran into trouble."

  Kosta glanced up at Blue, saying nothing but knowing as well as Blue that it wasn't so.

  Cora knew it, too. When she settled down in her bedroll that night after the meal she was thinking of Roud's cheerfully ugly face. And she found herself thinking of him already as someone in the past, not as someone who still lived.

  Weariness made her fall asleep in spite of her thoughts. But it was a restless, troubled sleep.