by Len Levinson
The horse approached McDermott, and Dawson looked down at him. McDermott opened his eyes to half-mast and saw Dawson towering above him, the sun above his right shoulder. McDermott tried to raise his gun, but didn’t have the strength. His life was ebbing away and he could barely think.
Dawson raised one stout leg over his saddle and stepped down from the stirrup onto the ground. He pulled out his six-gun and walked to where McDermott was lying.
McDermott watched him come closer. His consciousness was leaving him, but he recognized who it was. “Well looka who’s here,” he said with a rasp. “The fattest man in the world.”
“You killed my son,” Dawson said, pointing his gun at McDermott’s head.
“If I had the chance,” McDermott wheezed, “I’d kill you too.”
“You don’t have the chance.”
McDermott knew what was coming, and closed his eyes as his body was wracked by a paroxysm of coughing. Dawson waited until he was finished, then brought the barrel of his gun to within an inch of McDermott’s head. Dawson thought of his son and pulled the trigger.
The gun fired, and Dawson looked at the mess he’d made. Holstering his gun, he walked back to his horse, feeling a sense of accomplishment. “One down, one to go,” he said.
He climbed onto his horse and followed the assembly of riders galloping over the prairie in the distance.
Stone noticed his horse slowing down, and the mountains were still far away. “C’mon, old boy,” he said to the horse. “Don’t give up now.”
A fuzzy, unwholesome sound came out of the horse’s nostrils every time he breathed; his body was coated with sweat and his eyes were bloodshot.
“Just a little bit farther,” Stone coaxed.
Stone turned and saw the posse gaining on him. He wished he had old Troop C of the First South Carolina Cavalry with him. Then he’d turn around and charge the bastards.
A bullet whizzed by his left shoulder, and another struck a few feet from his horse’s hooves. Stone crouched lower in the saddle and uttered a prayer.
He thought of the farmhouse he’d seen earlier in the day with McDermott. Good horses had been in the corral, but he didn’t want to steal one. Now he realized a good horse might spell the difference between living and dying. He wished he’d stolen one of those horses in that corral. McDermott had been right.
He flashed on McDermott, lying on his back in the grass. He probably was dead by now. “Poor son of a bitch,” Stone muttered. “I hope there’s a good whorehouse wherever you are.”
Stone only had three cartridges, and that was another good reason they should’ve raided the farmhouse. He couldn’t make much of a stand with only three bullets. McDermott must be laughing, wherever he is right now.
He noticed his horse straining more. “Just a little farther, boy,” he said. “Don’t stop now.”
“He’s slowin’ up!” Atwell shouted. “We got the son of a bitch.”
The thunder of the posse’s hooves echoed all around him, and the men could see they were drawing closer to Stone; each wanted to be the one who put a bullet in his hide.
Red Feather was on the right flank of the posse, and he wanted that extra hundred dollars. In order to get it, he’d have to fire the first clear shot at Stone, and there was only one way to do that. He’d have to bring him down before he got into the mountains, and he didn’t have much farther to go.
Red Feather saw a low hill to his right. He pulled his horse’s head to the side and angled it toward the hill, separating himself from the rest of the posse. Atwell saw him out of the corner of his eye. Where’s that crazy injun goin’?
The posse continued its headlong charge toward Stone, and Red Feather’s horse galloped up the side of the hill. The horse charged onto the top and Red Feather pulled on the reins. He yanked his rifle out of its boot and jumped to the ground. Dropping onto his stomach, he raised the butt of the rifle to his shoulder and lined the sights up on Stone.
It wouldn’t be an easy shot because Stone was three hundred yards away and moving at an angle to Red Feather, but Red Feather had been a crack shot in his youth and still thought he had a good eye.
Red Feather took a deep breath and held it. He clenched his teeth, led Stone slightly, and squeezed the trigger. Stone was low in his saddle, moving his body in tandem with the motions of his horse. The trigger moved the final fraction of an inch and the rifle fired. It kicked into Red Feather’s shoulder, and Red Feather saw Stone’s horse go down.
Stone thought the horse’s fighting heart had finally given out, and the next thing he knew he was hurtling toward the ground. He raised his arms to protect his head, crashed into the sod, and flipped in the air. He landed on his back and rolled over quickly to avoid landing underneath the horse. Bruised and aching, he climbed to his feet. His horse was trembling, its eyes wide with horror. Blood oozed out of a hole in its ribs. Stone wanted to put the animal out of its misery, but couldn’t waste the ammunition.
He looked up and saw the posse bearing down upon him. The only thing to do was run like an animal. A bullet kicked up dirt a few feet away. Stone pulled the canteen off the pommel of the saddle and slung it over his shoulder, running toward the mountains. A bullet whistled past his left shoulder, and Stone dodged to the right. His long muscular legs propelled him forward as he summoned up his last remaining reserves of strength.
A bullet struck the ground near his feet as he was running around the base of a hill. The mountains were a hundred yards away, and he dug his boots into the ground, gasping for air. He could hear the hoof beats of horses in the posse behind him and knew he didn’t have much time. He had to find shelter quickly, or else he was a dead man.
His heart chugging in his chest, his mouth dry as paper, he saw a pile of boulders at the foot of the cliffs. It was as good a place as any to make a stand.
He couldn’t see the posse now. The hill was between him and them, which meant they couldn’t see him either. He ran the final yards flat out, gulping air, and dived behind the rocks.
The moment he landed he drew his gun and made sure it was ready to fire. Then he reached for his canteen, unscrewed the lid, and took a swig, wondering if it were the last drink he’d ever swallow. The posse wasn’t in sight yet, and he had a few more minutes to relax before the final grand surge of his life.
He sat against the rock cliff and everything was still around him, but in the distance he could hear oncoming riders. At least he’d be able to die fighting like a man, instead of swinging from a noose.
A jackrabbit scurried out from beneath a bush and ran toward the stone wall of the mountain. It looked as if it were going to collide headfirst with the wall, but somehow kept going, disappearing out of sight into the wall.
Stone wrinkled his brow and sat straighter. The rabbit had run through the cliff! Stone crouched low and moved toward the spot where the rabbit had gone. The rock was darker than the rest of the wall, but as Stone drew closer, he noticed it was an optical illusion. The rock wasn’t really darker. There was an opening in the mountain!
It wasn’t a big opening, and in fact was barely big enough for a man Stone’s size to squeeze through, but it offered the possibility of escape. Stone wondered where it led.
He turned back toward the posse, and it still was out of sight behind the hill. He squeezed himself into the opening, the rough rock walls scraping against his shirt and jeans. He saw that it turned to the right, and continued to push himself along, hoping he’d find a safe place to hide.
The passageway widened after the right turn, and then he saw a left turn. It narrowed again, and he squeezed through, bruising his ribs.
Then he stopped, dazzled by what he saw before him: a wide canyon basking in the sunlight. Boulders were strewn all around, and there was a sea of grass. It was a lost place, a freak of geological nature.
He wriggled through the last few feet of stone passageway and wondered if he were the first man ever to set foot in the hidden canyon.
The posse
galloped past Stone’s horse, still in its death throes on the ground. No one stopped to put the horse out of its misery, because all the riders wanted John Stone. They galloped up the top of the hill, looked ahead at the mountains, and Stone was gone. Atwell raised his hand and the riders pulled their horses to a stop. The horses danced and shifted in their excitement as the men held tightly to their reins.
“He must be hidin’ someplace!” Atwell shouted. “Spread out and look fer him!”
Red Feather climbed onto his horse. He was still on the hill where he’d shot Stone’s horse, and had seen Stone run away. From his vantage point, he’d been able to follow Stone’s path of retreat, and knew approximately where Stone had sought shelter.
Red Feather rode his horse down the side of the hill. He was confident he could find Stone, especially since Stone was now on foot. Red Feather’s main worry was that one of the white riders might find him first.
Red Feather didn’t want to be obvious. If he rode directly to the spot where he’d last seen Stone, the other riders would notice and try to get there first. They knew he was the expert tracker, and would try to anticipate his moves.
Red Feather decided to take his time. Stone was dismounted and couldn’t go far, so there was no hurry. He saw the other posse members riding back and forth at the foot of the mountains, and Red Feather smiled, because the fools were only obscuring Stone’s tracks.
He heard hoof beats behind him, and it was Hank Dawson.
“Where the hell is John Stone?”
Red Feather pointed toward the mountains.
“He got away?”
“I find him for you, Mr. Dawson.”
“What the hell happened?”
“I shoot his horse.”
Dawson spurred his horse and rode toward the mountains, and Red Feather followed more slowly. He came to Stone’s horse groaning and trembling on the ground, lying in a pool of blood. Red Feather dismounted, yanked out his long knife, and cut the horse’s throat.
Red Feather saw where Stone had fallen, gotten up, and walked to the horse. Then Stone’s tracks headed for the mountains. Red Feather saw spots on the ground where bullets had landed. I not shoot straight as I used to, Red Feather thought, but I kill John Stone anyway.
The men from the posse had dismounted and were searching among the rocks at the base of the mountains. Their rifles and pistols were in their hands and they were ready to shoot Stone when they found him. Atwell puffed a cigarette and watched the search. Stone had to be around here someplace, but where the hell was he?
Atwell heard hoof beats behind him and turned around in the saddle. He saw Dawson galloping toward him, and Atwell didn’t look forward to speaking with him.
Dawson stopped beside Atwell and looked toward the mountains. “Where the hell is he?”
“Somewheres in there.”
“You stupid son of a bitch!” Dawson spurred toward the base of the mountains. “He’s around here someplace, men!” he shouted. “If you don’t find him—you’re all fired!”
Stone stood on his knees behind a big boulder and unscrewed the top of his canteen. It was half-full, and there was no telling when he might find water again.
He raised the canteen and took a swig. It was silent in the canyon. Stone was so hungry his stomach ached. He regretted not eating raw rabbit that morning, or stealing something from the farmhouse he and McDermott had seen.
He thought of McDermott dying in the grass, and wished he’d listened to the old owlhoot when they were back at the farmhouse. McDermott understood survival, and all Stone knew was a war.
He sat beside the boulder and peered at the opening in the mountain. If they came for him, they’d have to come one at a time. He’d get the first three, and after that it’d be his jackknife until the bitter end.
Dawson was becoming increasingly frustrated. Stone could not’ve vanished into thin air. Where the hell was he?
Not far away, Mullins and Reece approached the rocks near the passageway and saw tracks, but thought they might’ve been made by other men in Dawson’s posse. They walked over Stone’s tracks and looked behind the rocks, but he wasn’t there. They searched about and saw the passageway, but the shadow made it appear a solid wall of rock. Mullins and Reece walked away, holding their guns before them cautiously, ready to fill Stone full of holes.
Meanwhile, Red Feather rode toward Dawson. He was dreaming about the good time he was going to buy with the reward money. He’d lay in bed with a young woman and do all the things old men dream of.
“Where the hell have you been?” Dawson demanded as Red Feather pulled alongside him.
“Where you want me to be?”
“I want you to find that son of a bitch!”
“I find him, you not worry, Mr. Dawson.” Red Feather pointed toward the base of the mountains. “Your men are fools. I was raised in this country, and know these mountains well. I find your man.”
“That hundred-dollar reward is yours if you bring him to me dead or alive, and I already owe you a hundred dollars for the tracking job, but if you bring him alive, I’ll give you an additional hundred dollars.”
Red Feather pondered that vast amount of money for a few moments. “We are talking about three hundred dollars altogether, yes?”
“Yes,” said Dawson, perceiving the greed in Red Feather’s eyes.
Red Feather saw himself as a rancher, raising cattle, having a young wife. “I have him for you tonight,” he said.
Red Feather rode to the area where he’d seen Stone disappear. He pulled his rifle out of its scabbard, jacked the lever, and dismounted. Looking at the ground, he saw the marks of horse’s hooves and men’s feet. If Stone had left tracks, surely they were obliterated by now. But he had to be someplace close, hiding, maybe even looking at Red Feather just then.
Red Feather felt a chill go up his back. Narrowing his eyes, he scanned the cliffs and ledges in front of him for the telltale silhouette of a man. Stone wouldn’t dare shoot, because that would give away his position, but he’d shoot if he realized he’d been discovered. Red Feather would have to be careful.
He stepped forward and searched among the bushes at the foot of the mountains, holding his rifle ready to fire. He peered behind rocks and gazed into depressions in the ground. He came to a tree and looked up at its branches, but no one was there. Systematically he scoured the area where Stone had gone.
Finally he came to the pile of rocks where Stone had first taken refuge. He saw the many tracks of boots on the ground and cursed underneath his breath. His work would be easier if he were alone.
He searched behind the rocks and realized it would be a good place for a man to make his last stand. He would’ve chosen this spot himself, if he were the fugitive. He crouched behind the rocks and saw many tracks of boots. Dawson’s men had been here, but had Stone been here too? Red Feather looked at the passageway, but the shadow was darker and the opening more difficult to see than before.
He realized there was something familiar about this spot. Searching his memory, he recalled playing in this area as a child, and there was something special about it, but he couldn’t remember what. His mind drifted back over the decades, and doors that had been closed for years opened. Finally it came to him. There was a hidden canyon on the other side of the mountain, and it was possible to reach it through openings in the rock wall.
Red Feather arose and walked toward the side of the mountain. As he drew closer, it seemed impenetrable. He reached out to touch it, and his hand went right through. At first he thought he had a powerful medicine, but then realized with a jolt that this was one of the openings into the hidden canyon.
He smiled and poked his rifle into the opening. Through the dark mists of memory, an incident came back to him. He’d played in this very spot as a child, and with his friends had passed through the opening to the hidden canyon.
Stone could’ve gone through here. Red Feather realized he’d picked up his trail. He looked back at the white men, and did
n’t want them to know what he’d found, because they’d come over and make a racket. You had to creep up on your quarry. The white men all were busy, running around in the dark like chickens with their heads cut off. Nobody was paying any attention to Red Feather.
Slowly, with no abrupt motion that might attract attention, Red Feather sank into the rocks. He saw a scrape mark and some crumbled dust on the bottom of the opening. The mark was fresh.
I found him, Red Feather said to himself. He crept forward and found another scrape mark and more crumbled dust. It was about the distance of a full stride from the other mark. Raising himself up, he looked at the sides of the passageway. There were white spots where ends of rocks recently had been knocked away by somebody pushing his body past them.
Red Feather was convinced that Stone had come this way, and there was no longer any need to study tracks. He sucked in his belly and moved through the passageway, aiming his rifle straight ahead in front of him.
“What happened to the injun?” Dawson said.
Atwell pointed toward his left. “I thought I saw him over there.”
“No,” Dawson replied, pointing toward his right. “I thought he was there.”
“I don’t think so, Mr. Dawson.”
Dawson shrugged. “Well, there’s nothin’ to worry about. He knows his way around these parts. He seemed awful sure he could find Stone.”
“They say injuns can find anything they want,” Atwell said. “They’re the best trackers in the world.”
Red Feather came to the end of the passageway, crouched low, and pointed his rifle straight ahead. If Stone was out there, he might have his gun trained on the opening of the passageway. If Red Feather were a young man, he’d move swiftly to a position of safety behind boulders, but he wasn’t a young man.
He could go back and get the others, but then he’d have to share the reward money. No, he’d better press on by himself. He still had the old Comanche cunning.
