Cutthroat Gulch

by Richard S. Wheeler

  I’m coming, Castle, he thought.

  He settled on the rock and waited a while more. Patient observation often netted him information, sometimes crucial information. But he saw nothing more. He chose a route downward over rock debris that would show no boot prints, and eased around to his horse, which stood with ears alert staring at him. He found some of his own prints in the soft needle-strewn soil near the horse, and brushed them away. He led the horse to harder ground and then brushed away its prints with a branch. His concealment efforts would not escape close observation, but maybe Castle was getting careless. His sort usually did, especially in a sanctuary like this, insulated by miles of dense forest in any direction. Blue mounted the roan and followed the parade of hoofprints north, the shotgun cradled across his lap. He paused frequently simply to listen, to catch changes in the rhythms of nature, to examine the shadows where danger might lurk. It took him an hour to negotiate the mile, but then he abruptly found himself on the periphery of the hidden park, amazed by a sea of thick grass watered by a runnel off the distant mountains. The copper-colored bay grazed nearby. Blue halted, slid off his horse, led it to the deep shade of blue spruce, and waited. He didn’t mind the wait. He had learned to enjoy the natural world and read it. He did not know where Castle sheltered, if indeed he sheltered at all. But there would probably be a camping place with a cook fire arrangement back in trees that would dissipate smoke. Blue decided not to penetrate the grassland, but to stick to the periphery, deep in forest, even though passage would be noisier. He worked slowly northeast, staying fifty yards in, taking his time, working along a game trail. His patience saved his life. An obscure black cord had been strung across that trail, the trigger of a deadly trap powered by a bowed sapling that would have lanced into him with force enough to smash his bones. Blue stopped the gelding cold, shaken. Gently he backed the horse up, and then dismounted to study the trap. So Castle did not trust the forest to keep Blue out. If there was one of these, there would be more, each of a different type: deadfalls, pits, alarms.

  Castle knew Blue was coming. Grudgingly, Blue acknowledged it. Blue chose a different course. He led his gelding straight toward the meadow and out upon it. Suddenly he was in bright daylight, visible to anyone there. In the quiet sunbaked park he mounted the strawberry roan and rode close to the edge of the forest. There would be fewer traps or pits or deadfalls in open meadow, and he was willing to announce his presence rather than deal with deadly snares.

  Blue rode straight toward the copper-colored bay, passing through fields of indigo larkspur that sweetened this devil’s paradise. The bay stopped cropping and watched him. Blue rode close, seeing no saddle marks or sweat or sign of recent use. So Castle was out on his other horse, the black one Blue had seen only once, the one with wide hoofs. Blue thought maybe he would take the copper horse with him, but later, and only if nothing came of this.

  Where would a man set up camp? Blue surveyed the periphery of the forest, seeing nothing. Water would tell him. He rode to the runnel that bisected the park and followed it upstream until he found himself in a savannah dotted with copses of aspen and willow. And there, thirty yards from the creek, was the campsite, nestled under a long-leafed willow tree that would diffuse any smoke. Even here, Castle had been careful. His fire pit snugged into an amphitheater in one of those little ridges of schist that webbed the plateau, which would shield the flame even at night. Blue had to admire a man who took such care even when surrounded by a barrier in all directions. A stack of dry wood awaited use, some of it covered by an ancient canvas.

  From there it was no problem finding where Castle slept, where he kept a horse picketed, how he lived. The killer scorned amenities, built no shelter against mountain storms, kept his presence to a minimum, lived with nature. He had subsisted largely on game, which he had strung up, butchered and skinned at a certain limb. Blue found the bones of several mule deer and one elk nearby, cleaned white by predators. But not by bear. He doubted that bears would pierce this deep into thick forest. All in all, Blue thought, Castle had picked a perfect locale. But where was he?

  If Castle wasn’t here, he was prowling. Blue was disappointed. He had pierced to the very lair, figured out Castle’s ways, gone where no posse would go, read Castle’s very thoughts, played a wily game, but Castle wasn’t in his hideaway. Blue decided to leave a few calling cards. He would trip as many snares and deadfalls and traps and alerts as he could, and then ride off with the stolen bay horse. Castle would return here on a jaded horse, and have no replacement. Castle might work down the great coulee, and find his other two horses gone too. And that would be the beginning of the end for the outlaw. But it wasn’t the missing horse that would afflict Jack Castle; it was the discovery that old Blue was still his match, that old Blue had smoked him out, found a place unknown to the rest of the world, a place that would shrug off posses, and that from now on, no place was safe. Let the man digest that.

  Blue spent the next hour springing traps, slicing trip-cords, caving in pitfalls, and triggering the alarms, which consisted of noisy sliding rocks. It was a fine afternoon’s work. He found Castle’s spare tack hanging from a limb at camp, selected a halter and lead rope, and easily haltered the copper bay. Then, while he let his own horse graze, he boiled up some of Castle’s cached beans, replenished his own food stocks, took every last bag and tin of grub from Castle’s larder, rolled oats, corn, flour, beans, coffee, sugar, tins of tomatoes, and hauled them into a tight hollow right in the heart of the meadow, where they would lie unobserved even by Castle’s keen senses. Then Blue hunted down the most-used trail out of the park. That proved to be a game trail heading due north, much to Blue’s surprise, and Blue followed it cautiously, his shotgun at the ready. The bay trotted along behind, offering no trouble.

  But at a rocky spur the trail divided, one east, one west. The eastern one would probably arrive in Blankenship, by some roundabout route, and the western one would head toward Centerville. Blue chose Centerville. If Castle was stalking, it would be around Tammy’s ranch. Blue headed down that game trail, which showed signs of heavy use, and was caught in deep forest at dusk, and knew he was going to be too late to find a good camp. Castle’s trail was loaded with deadfall and low limbs, and would jail Blue the moment the light failed. It was going to be a tough night, at least until the moon rose. Blue tried hard to remember what time it had risen last night, but couldn’t. He only knew that if he didn’t find some hollow in the forest soon, he would spend a parched, chill, hungry, mosquito-plagued night, and the horses would get no drink and no grass.

  A storm was building over the peaks. Flickers of lighting pierced the forest canopy, chattering light very like chattering noise. Sometimes these mountain storms rode off in some other direction. Others simply hung on the peaks. And some roared down the slopes to drench the lower country. Blue hoped he would be lucky, but this one was off to the west, and that spelled trouble. He paused in the dusk, the silence broken only by the whine of mosquitoes, and pulled the saddle off the wet back of the roan. He blanketed the copper-colored bay and threw his saddle over that one, and cinched it up. Then he swapped the halter and bridle, and clambered aboard the big bay, the horse stolen from the stranger in what seemed like some infinity ago.

  “Go,” Blue said, touching heels to the animal. His roan tugged at the halter rope a moment, and then followed. The bay nickered, as if he had wanted to carry Blue all along, and Blue slackened the reins. Let the animal pick his way. Blue hoped the bay, which had traversed these trails, would take him somewhere, anywhere. Blue’s only concern was the occasional low-lying limb, but he rode low, protected his face, and gave the bay its head. A flash of ghostly lightning revealed a narrow woods trail ahead. Blue pushed onward into full dark, illumined only by blinding white flashes, his passage lost amid a continuous boom of distant thunder.

  Then the bay burst into an opening, and just beyond, into open country, as if a knife had cleaved the upland slopes from the forest. A chattering burst of
lightning startled the horses, but even more did it startle Blue. Ahead, beside a rushing creek, stood a horseman.

  Chapter 25

  One flash, then darkness. Blue kicked the bay hard left, knowing a bullet would pierce the blackness where he had been an instant before. But none came. Blue waited for the next flash, his old Navy revolver in hand, and when it came, a stuttering of light, the horseman was gone.

  Blue moved again, never staying in the same place, but zigging back to the right, waiting for the shots that didn’t come. He kept moving, letting the nervous bay take him closer. The next jolt of lightning revealed no one. No rain had fallen, and possibly none would because this mountain cloudburst was whipping away beyond the peaks. But the roar of distant thunder was almost constant. It had to be Castle, and he itched to race into the slopes ahead, but he knew that meant either death at any ambush point, or loss of the trail, which could lead in any direction. He would have to wait until light, circle until he found tracks, and then follow the trail in the soft, moist soil. He was close now, closer than he had been for weeks. Castle was probably heading for his forest refuge when they met. The lightning was fading fast, and darkness engulfed this place. Blue stilled all his instincts to give chase, headed for that brook, let his horses drink, and dismounted. His flesh crawled. Castle was fully capable of sneaking back on foot. Blue led his horses fifty yards down the creek until he found a thicket of red willow brush, and pulled his animals into the screening foliage. At least no one could enter without crackling the deadfall underfoot.

  Tomorrow, as soon as the light quickened, he would follow that fresh set of hoofprints, and by God nothing would stop him until he had Jack Castle dead or alive. The horses were hungry and restless in the brush but Blue couldn’t let them graze; not yet. He pulled his slicker and blanket off the cantle, and settled against a rough rock and waited. Manhunting was mostly waiting and pouncing, and now he was waiting in the pitch dark, the lighting a faint flicker beyond the sawtooth peaks. He heard the sounds of nightlife anew, a croaking frog, the scrape of crickets, the small squeaks of nocturnal roamers.

  A half-moon topped an eastern ridge, swathing the high country in amber light. Wearily, Blue haltered his horses and slowly led them out of the brush and picketed them on the lush creek-side grass. Then he settled in deep shade under the low boughs of a sentinel pine, and waited for dawn. He was hungry but there would be no cooking this night.

  He felt his heart toil heavily in his chest, and knew he had pushed himself to his limits. He hated like hell to admit that his body was slowly aging or that he could no longer do his job the way he did it in his prime. Everything ached. He needed sleep and couldn’t sleep; he needed to stay awake and alert, but couldn’t do that either. Death, pursuit, bad food, days in the saddle, all had taken their toll, and not even a stubborn old man could cope with the betrayals of his flesh.

  But stubborn is what defined Blue. He ignored his weariness, hunkered deep into the roots of the tree, and thought about cutthroat trout, the warm bright moon, and the sweetest moments with Olivia through those fine years of living.

  Dawn startled him, and he realized he had dozed a little. He studied the peaceful mountain country, wondering what lurked off in the haze. He buckled his belt and holster into place and walked quietly back to the place where he had seen that horseman, wondering if it had been an apparition. The tracks made it plain that it hadn’t been. He followed them for a few yards, a clear trail angling south and west, heading for lower country. He had a fresh trail, and one that would take him to the man he wanted. This time, he would outrun Castle.

  A while later, after he had downed some boiled oats and fed and the horses saddled and loaded, he started along that fresh trail, his shotgun lying coldly across his lap.

  He rode all that morning, tracking along a trail that was so clear a greenhorn could have followed it. Castle obviously didn’t much care whether Blue was following him or not. The hoofprints of a well shod horse proceeded inexorably through meadow, the brown needle floors of forests, straight across creeks, over rocky ridges, and finally into mixed evergreen and aspen forest at much lower altitude.

  There in a quiet park Blue paused to stretch. He swung a leg over the tired roan and felt the earth jar his feet.

  “Looking for me?”

  The sharp voice scraped from behind. He swung around, bringing the shotgun with him, crouching–only to discover Absalom standing ten yards back, unarmed, hands at his side, his fine stiff duds looking strange in this wild.

  “You!”

  “You’ve been following me since last night.”

  “You! Where’s Castle?”

  “Who knows?”

  “Why are you here?”

  “You going to quiet down and talk or not?”

  “Not until I find out what the hell you’re doing, leading a sheriff on some wild goose chase.”

  “I didn’t lead you anywhere. Following me was your decision.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Looking after you.”

  “Looking after me! You’re the one needs looking after.”

  Absalom didn’t reply. His gaze was unblinking.

  Blue was furious. “How’d you get behind me?”

  “What you mean is, How did some tenderfoot like you outsmart me the old sheriff. That’s what you’re saying. That’s why I’m here. Because I can get behind you.”

  Blue growled. He lumbered over to his son and faced him down. “I want answers. Now.”

  “I just told you.”

  “Told me?”

  “You’re not ready to listen yet. I guess I’ll be going.”

  “The hell you will.”

  “You’ll stop me? With what? That shotgun?”

  “I damn well will.”

  Absalom started to walk off.

  “Boy! Give me some answers.”

  Absalom stopped. “When you’re ready.”

  “Do you realize that right now Jack Castle might have us lined up in his buckhorn gun sights?”

  “You’re not ready to listen to me.”

  “You’re up in these mountains looking to get yourself killed, city boy like you.”

  Absalom headed for a shady dell, and settled in the grass. Blue followed, full of questions.

  “Where’s your horse, boy?”

  “Far enough away to keep him silent.”

  “How’d you know where to find me?”

  “I didn’t. But if I were Sheriff Blue Smith hunting the man who murdered his wife, I’d go where posses won’t look. Like that forest. Hundreds of square miles of it. Pretty good hideout. You found Castle’s hideaway, Right? That park, the one you can see if you look hard and you have a sense of the land, that’s it. I knew you were in there. I’m right, aren’t I?”

  Blue wasn’t going to admit that his tenderfoot son was right about anything. “Where’s Tammy?”

  “At her ranch.”

  “Why aren’t you guarding her?”

  Absalom shrugged. “I’ll tell you when you’re ready to listen.”

  “I’ll listen. Make it fast. I don’t have time to waste on explanations.”

  Absalom laughed. The boy looked lanky and strong, and life outdoors had darkened his flesh and given him a glow. But he still looked like a greener in all those fancy duds. Boy, hell, he was just about thirty.

  “You tell me something,” Blue said. “Long ago, when Jack was sparking Tammy, did anything happen?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know what I mean. Did he...outrage her?”

  Absalom stared. “How would I know?”

  “You telling me the truth?”

  “No, he didn’t. I’m pretty sure of it. He brags a lot. He couldn’t have kept it quiet. And Tammy would have howled if he’d done anything. But why? Why that, now?”

  “You hiding something from me? What are you two up to?”

  Absalom pulled into himself. “If you don’t trust me to tell you the truth then you
wouldn’t believe anything I say. You obviously don’t trust Tammy, either. Not back then, and not now.”

  Blue didn’t retreat. “I’m making it my business. You hear me?”

  “I shouldn’t have stopped you,” Absalom said. He stood, brushed debris from his pants, and walked away.

  “Where the hell are you going?”

  Absalom turned. “I’m over twenty one. Where I’m going is my business.”

  Blue chewed furiously on that, even as his son hiked away, heading upslope and into some woodlands.

  “Wait!”

  But his son continued to show his back to his father.

  Blue squinted at the hazy ridges, looking for the flash of metal, the stirring of birds, but the day remained peaceful. That boy had learned a few things after all, getting around behind him like that, making himself at home in the big country. Not very many men could get around Blue and come up behind.

  The boy was trying to talk to him, explain himself, but he was still so touchy he’d rather walk away than please his father. Blue knew the reason but hated like hell to admit it: when Castle got out, Tammy and Absalom figured old Blue Smith needed help and knew Blue would never admit it. Blue snorted. He had a killer to catch, and now he would have to look after Absalom, too, because if Castle caught Absalom in his gun sight, there’d be another funeral.