by Jake Logan
“I’ll ask her when I find her,” Slocum said. His words were swallowed on the rising wind. Turning from the vista lit like copper and gold in the setting sun, he found a decentspot to make his camp for the night. As much as he relied on his sense of being spied on, he found himself too tired to read it one way or the other.
After a cold meal, Slocum drifted off to sleep, wrapped in his blanket. A fire would have kept the icy night at bay, not to mention roving animals hunting for an easy meal, but warning Berenson seemed riskier. Stiff and sore, he awoke just before dawn.
He saw silver eyes staring at him in the night. They blinked, then left. The timber wolf had decided Slocum was too much effort for a quick breakfast. Slocum relaxed his grip on his six-shooter, then stretched and got to his feet. He needed a couple shots of whiskey to get rid of the cold and ache, but he had damned little left of the bottle he had been working on when Castle had hired him to find Arlene. Slocum decided to save the few swigs remaining.
“Maybe I can lure Berenson with it. He has a taste for my grub.” He laughed at this and the memory of the general store owner saying that Slocum had become his best customer. It was all too true.
Time to change that.
Slocum rode through the meadow where the last of Mayerling’s deputies had been killed, seeing the pile of gnawed white bones. He cut through the meadow and went around the stand of trees, riding north parallel to the rim. He worried less about Berenson having a rifle than he did falling into a concealed pit or other trap. But he never saw anything to worry him until a curious clicking sound reached him. Slocum halted, cocked his head to one side, and listened hard. The best he could tell, it was a six-shooter hammer falling repeatedly on an empty cylinder. It stopped as suddenly as it had started.
Slocum rode farther north until he came to a ring of rock. Peering down into the ring he saw the ashes of a cooking fire. Circling the area set his heart beating a little faster. Deutsch and Arlene had camped here. How they had reached the rim ahead of him was a mystery, but he had lost them for at least a day. Deutsch might have gotten lucky—or Berenson might have somehow signalled to them an easier route to the rim. If Arlene was bait, Berenson would not want to go after it if he could lure it to him.
Slocum wondered how crazy Rolf Berenson was.
A trail led off at an angle. Slocum saw two sets of footprints. One was considerably smaller than the other. Deutsch and Arlene. He wished he could tell if the woman walked ahead or behind, but he couldn’t. The only thing he could tell was that they both went along the trail, one in front of the other.
Slocum checked his six-gun and then jumped to the ground. He had been this way before and had an inkling of what to expect. Before he had gone ten paces, he froze. Where were Arlene’s and Deutsch’s horses? They were nowhere to be seen, yet both of them had taken this trail on foot. There wasn’t any sign either had returned.
Slocum turned even warier. Berenson had lured them away. Maybe the old coot had taken a fancy to horses now. Slocum worried about leaving his own behind, but what lay ahead was the answer to a lot of questions.
He turned a sharp bend in the trail and looked out across a small, grassy clearing. The trees popped up again not ten yards away, leaving a cozy spot for deer to graze. He saw scat from both deer and bear without leaving the shelter of the forest he had just traversed.
A whistling sound warned him of trouble. Slocum swung around, six-gun levelled, but the attack came at a higher point than he expected. A pistol crashed down on the top of his head. His floppy hat cushioned most of the blow, but Slocum staggered back into the clearing, fighting to keep his balance. He lost that fight and sat down heavily with the world spinning in crazy circles around him. Again he heard the swishing sound.
Slocum closed one eye to keep the blurriness from affecting his aim. For an instant he doubted what he saw. Then he fired and missed. Deutsch dangled upside down from the tree limb Slocum had passed under. The gunman swung his six-shooter around, making the same metallic clicking sounds that had alerted Slocum in the first place.
“Out of bullets, Deutsch?” Slocum steadied his gun with both hands and fired again. He missed by a yard. Deutsch was swinging frantically now to avoid being an easy target. Slocum’s head felt as if it would explode, but he got off a third shot that proved better than his first two. Deutsch screeched in pain.
Slocum got to his feet, stumbled, and then righted himself. His vision cleared, and he looked up to see the rope fastened to a flexible sapling and running up and over the tree limb. It took no imagination at all to picture Rolf Berenson fashioning this trap. Deutsch had fallen into it as easily as Slocum had. But Deutsch had held on to his six-shooter.
“Empty?” Slocum laughed and called out, “What’s wrong, Deutsch? Did Berenson unload your smoke wagon while you were asleep? He’s a sneaky bastard. Then you came trotting along and got yourself strung up.”
Slocum circled the tree and cursed. Deutsch had been trapped, but the rope had abraded enough to let the man break it. Slocum kept looking high and saw Deutsch’s elbow poking out carelessly from behind the trunk of the next oak tree over. Taking careful aim, Slocum fired. Deutsch screeched like a hoot owl again.
“I winged you twice. The next time the bullet goes through your damned head. Tell me where Arlene Castle is, and I won’t drill you.”
“She’s off with him.”
“Berenson?”
“Who else? They rode off together.”
“On your horse? He stole your horse?”
“I shouldn’t have trusted him.”
Slocum didn’t know whether to laugh or simply stare in disbelief. How could Deutsch ever trust Rolf Berenson? Why did he expect the hermit to trust him when he had come to kill him? Deutsch wasn’t making sense.
“I’m not going to let her stay with him.”
“He’s cunning. You won’t find him. He knows this country too well.”
Slocum was rounding the tree, going out in the clearing to get a better look at where Deutsch hung. It was almost his death. Deutsch had reloaded and opened fire. The first round hit the toe of Slocum’s boot and knocked his foot out from under him. This lucky shot saved his life. He stumbled and fell facedown on the ground as four more rounds tore through the air where he had stood only an instant before.
Slocum squeezed off another round and sent oak splinters flying. From the sounds Deutsch made, a splinter had embedded in his face.
Rolling until he got behind a rotted log that wouldn’t afford any protection at all, Slocum began the task of reloading.
“What do you want with him, Slocum?”
“Not the same as you, Deutsch.”
“I figured that. What’s he matter to you, anyway?”
“His wife hired me to fetch him back to Texas.” Slocum cocked his single-action pistol, aimed, and waited. He was not disappointed. Deutsch swung around, still standing on the same tree limb. As he came into sight from around the thick oak trunk, Slocum squeezed off a round. This one went straight and true. Deutsch doubled over and then tumbled from the branch to fall with a crash in heavy brush.
Slocum knew better than to go running over to see if he had finally put a killing shot into the man. He stepped over the rotted log and then froze. He listened hard and heard horses neighing. At least two. Moving as if he were dipped in molasses, Slocum turned and caught sight of two riders. He couldn’t see the one, but the other had to be Arlene Castle.
He levelled his pistol, hoping for a shot at Rolf Berenson, who had to be the second rider, but he was a heartbeat too late. He caught sight of Arlene vanishing into the forest at a dead gallop. Slocum took a step in that direction, knew he could never get close enough for a shot, and immediatelyfound the trail back toward the spot where he had left his horse. The horse looked up from its contented grazing and let out a loud whinny of complaint.
“Come on, you’ve rested,” Slocum said. He vaulted into the saddle and lit out after Arlene and Berenson. He got back to the cl
earing and crossed it at a gallop. Their altitude in the mountains robbed the horse of its usual stamina. Slocum had to rein back and go slower. While it was a possibility, he doubted Berenson would lay an ambush for him now. With Arlene in his clutches, he could dictate terms and not have to sneak around. More than this, the traps he had put out for his unwitting visitors had required considerable time and effort to construct.
Following this trail proved easier, although it was rockier. When the road left the far side of the forest, Slocum slowed and studied the entire area to be sure he wasn’t off on a wild goose chase. A steep trail led upward and deeper into the Gila Wilderness. And at the top of the incline he caught sight of Rolf Berenson peering back down.
“Whoa,” Slocum said as his horse reared. He kept control and wheeled the horse about. When he looked at the top of the trail again, Berenson had disappeared like smoke in the wind. Slocum remembered how dangerous it had been getting up the trail to the canyon rim on his first foray after the elusive hermit. What lay ahead was unknown, and he didn’t want to get halfway up and find himself trapped by a rock fall.
But he had no other choice but to follow. Arlene was up there. Slocum urged his horse onto the arduous trail. Loose gravel made the horse’s footing precarious. Sliding more than once showed the horse could not climb with a rider astride its back. Slocum slid to the ground and led the horse upward. Even without its rider’s weight, the horse had difficulty reaching the top. Slocum wondered if Berenson had another way to this higher elevation. He and Arlene had gotten to the top far faster and with seeming ease.
He crested the hill and looked around. The far side of the hill slid away in a gentle slope, with a raging river cuttingthrough the middle of valley. From what he remembered of a map he had seen, this was a section of the Gila River higher up than where he had led the Castle wagons across on their way to Silver City. Nowhere did he see any sign of his quarry. Slocum felt a frustration that refused to go away, but joining it was a steely determination not to let Rolf Berenson make a fool of him. More than this, there was no telling what the old man might do to Arlene now that he had captured her.
Slocum rode down into the grassy valley and found the tracks within the hour. He settled down for a long hunt.
By the time the sun began dipping behind the sheer cliffs at the far side of the river valley, Slocum noticed something peculiar about the rock. The cliff faced to the east, and with the sun setting behind the mountain, much was left in dark shadow. But across the face were spots of darker shadow, as if hundreds of caves dotted the rock from the valley floor to the highest sections of the mountain.
Slocum rode closer. By the time he saw that the caves were more likely hollowed-out entrances, the sun had set, leaving only the twilight.
“I’ll be damned,” he said as he studied the sheer face. Those caves had once held Indians. Slocum had heard stories of cliff dwellers but had always thought they were tall tales best whispered around campfires.
A rock falling from high up on the face caught his attention. His eyes worked up past the mute caves until he spotted one just under the lip of the rim. A silent figure stood at the edge of the opening, half white and half gray.
Like a woman wearing a white blouse and a brown skirt.
“Arlene!” he shouted.
There was no response. And the figure disappeared into the side of the mountain.
Slocum didn’t have any idea how to get up there, but he would have to figure out a way if he wanted to rescue Arlene. He rode closer to the base of the cliff to begin the climb.
11
Slocum found the holes bored into the side of the mountain useful as hand- and footholds as he climbed. From the rotted wood still thrust into many of the holes, he suspected the Indians who had lived in these cliff dwellings had used poles as either supports for awnings over each cave entrance or as ladders. His back was aching and his hands felt like they had been sandpapered by the time he had gone only fifty feet up the face of the cliff. Needing a rest, he swung into one of the caves and sat bent over. The cool interior helped him relax. During the heat of the day, it would be even more comfortable.
On impulse Slocum tried to stand and move about in the cave, only to find he had to crawl on hands and knees. The Indians who had once lived here had either gotten around inside the same way or were nowhere near Slocum’s six feet in height. Poking about, he found a firepit and a small chimney that vented the smoke out the front of the cave. Broken pots and other utensils were strewn about. He imagined the woman who had lived here tossing aside anything no longer useful in her haste to leave.
Why haste? He did not know, but something had driven the Indians away. He found a small depression in the rock, deep enough for a gallon or two of water. He had not consideredthat. Live high on a mountain face and fetching water turned into a real chore. Otherwise, the floor was covered with rock dust and a few spiderwebs dangled about. The rock room was particularly clear of other insects. Slocum nodded to himself. Rodents would not be a problem, either, unless they figured out how to burrow through solid rock.
He returned to the entrance and looked down. The sun had set and the stars were poking through a high layer of thin clouds, casting a ghostly light on the valley. He suspected the Indians had farmed here and done well. The roaring Gila River provided all the water they could ever want for drinking, cooking, and irrigation. If attacked, they need only clamber up the wood poles in the sides of the cliff face and then remove them when the last of their people had reached safety in their high caves. No surge of attack would succeed against them if the enemy had to climb the rock to get to them. Even if dropping rocks on the attackers’ heads as they climbed did not work, when the attackers reached the caves, they would be as exhausted by the scaling as Slocum now was.
He stretched his arms and felt a twinge in his side. The Spanish bayonet wound was healing as well as could be expected, but it would heal faster if he had Arlene to apply a new bandage. Poking his head around the lip of the cave, he looked up into the night sky, hoping to catch another glimpse of the woman. She had not appeared to be injured, but there was no telling what Berenson might have done to her. This had to be the man’s hideout. Ready-made housing, good protection, water, and plenty of game in the river valley.
Slocum snorted, as he knew now why Rolf Berenson was so scrawny. If the man made many trips up and down the face of this cliff, he would work off anything he might eat and then some. It also put Slocum on guard even more. Skinny the hermit might appear, but his muscles would be like steel wire and springs.
After taking a deep drink from his canteen and slinging it back over his shoulder, Slocum rubbed his hands on his jeans and began his climb again. He had reached the fifth level on the first part of his climb. This time his strength began to fade after only two more levels. Again he swung into a cave and sat cross-legged in the entrance, looking out over the valley. He listened hard for sounds from above. There were only about five more levels of caves before the top of the cliff. Berenson must have staked out one of them for his home. Try as he might, Slocum heard nothing.
A longer time passed before he regained his strength for the climb. It took it out of him clinging by fingertip and toe to narrow holes.
He had made it up another level when he heard movement above. Leaning back precariously, Slocum peered up at the black rock above him. A smile came to his lips when he spotted a flickering light from a fire in the cave just above him. He could not see into it because adobe block had been stacked to midway in the mouth. This prevented anyone from spying a fire inside if they roamed the banks along the river.
“Got you,” Slocum said with some satisfaction. He edged across laterally, then went up two more levels so he was above the cave from which both smoke and the delicious odor of cooking meat poured forth. He balanced himself carefully, then swung out and inward over the low mud brick wall, his feet hitting the rock floor and sliding out from under him as if he had stepped onto ice. The rock dust here was a
s thick as in the unoccupied caves. He ended up sitting with his legs thrust out in front. He grabbed for his six-shooter and had it out before the huddled figure at the fire could turn.
“Arlene!” He lowered the gun and looked around. “Where’s Berenson?”
“He left me here.”
“Can he hear us? From above?” Slocum saw how the chimney for this fire pit vented into a crevice in the mountain rather than being turned to go out the front. Sounds travelled along such a crevice easily. If Berenson spied on them, he could probably hear every word they said.
“I don’t know where he is. What are you doing here, John?” She twisted about clumsily and sat cross-legged on the floor. Arlene poked at the meat roasting on the spit. “I don’t know if there’s enough for both of us, but I can share.”
“Don’t worry about that. How did he get you here?”
“He lowered me on a rope.”
Slocum cursed. He had hoped there was a stone staircase or possibly wooden poles thrust into the conveniently bored holes to form a crude ladder to the top of the mesa. As much trouble as he had reaching the cave from below, Arlene would never have the strength to climb to the top of the cliff. He wasn’t even sure he had enough muscle left himself, but he knew he would find it somehow.
“Does he stay here or is he in another cave?”
“Another, of course,” she said. “He has been a perfect gentleman.”
“Other than taking you prisoner when Deutsch offered you up as bait.”
“What? I don’t understand, John. What do you think happened?”
“Your pa wants me to rescue you. Deutsch kidnapped you and—”
“He did no such thing! How could Papa even invent such a tall tale?”
“You went with him on your own?”
