He was emerging from a stand of spruce when he caught a glimpse of movement ... several riders, rifles in hand, moving along an open meadow at a lope.
"Shabbitt!" He swore softly. Even at the distance he could recognize several of them, and it was equally obvious that they were going somewhere, not just wandering or searching. Then, faintly, his eyes seemed to pick up the track of a wagon!
He stood up in the saddle and tried to see along the slope to his right. They were riding into a gap in the hills where the wagon, if those really were tracks and not his imagination, had gone. They rode as if expecting trouble.
Turning his mount, he rode swiftly along the mountain side in their direction, and cutting down through the trees, although keeping under cover, he came upon a game trail.
It was a chance, and he took it, knowing at the same time that many such trails can be useless for horses. A deer, holding its head low, can often go under limbs and brush that a horse must skirt around ... and often enough the hillside is too steep for such travel.
Suddenly, ahead of him, he saw a thin trail of smoke. There was no way he could arrive before the Shabbitt outfit. No way at all.
They were closing in on the place below, riding up the stream ... yet, looking at it from above he could see they must slow down, for soon there would be no good way to go unless they took to the water. Even then their progress would be slowed.
Far off to his left now he could see a dim trail that led up the canyon, and the place to which they seemed to be going lay due north from where he now was.
Here and there the growth thinned down and it was becoming more and more difficult to keep out of sight. He shucked his rifle, holding it ready in his hands. One man alone against seven, he must trust to surprise.
He dipped down through the trees, crossed a low saddle and down to a bench. Unknown to him he was coming in to the cabin from the east and was riding down to the bench where Duncan McKaskel had pastured his mules.
Emerging from the aspens, he drew up, listening. He had gotten a little ahead of them, for they had to skirt deadfalls and driftwood, and the footing along the rocky stream-bed was not good for fast riding.
He cantered across the pasture, skirting a small lake, and drew up among the trees near the edge of the bluff that dropped off into the wide river bottom. He heard no sound from below.
Weaving through the trees, ducking for the lowest branches, he pulled up suddenly. Below him were some old beaver ponds, with many fallen logs, some dead trees standing, and the smooth, clear water of the ponds. As he watched he could see the widening ripple where a beaver swam ... unalarmed.
Turning his head he saw the cabins, and near them, the wagon. No horses or mules, no movement, no sign of life. Perhaps the merest shadow of smoke from the campfire near the wagon.
The beaver was working away, undisturbed.
He listened, and thought he detected a faint splashing. He glanced at the pond ... the beaver was gone.
Several marmots were in sight, bustling brown bundles of fur, playing on the green grass below. One of them was within thirty feet of the house.
It was empty then.
Duncan McKaskel, his wife, and son were gone.
Where?
A faint sound reached him and he glanced downstream.
They were in sight now, riding through the scattered trees beyond the beaver ponds, partly shadowed by the cottonwoods, the narrow-leaved trees of the high country. They emerged on the far bank, and scattering out, picked their way across.
In a sudden rush, they swept up to the house and leaped from their saddles. Red Hyle was first at the door. He emerged at the rear door, glancing all around, swearing.
Dee Mantle had gone for the wagon. He could be heard moving around in the wagon, then he thrust his head out. "Hell, there's nothing here! Not a damn thing!"
Slowly they came out, looking all around. They were no more than sixty yards off and their voices carried easily in the clear air.
"Gone. Now where the hell—?" Dobbs was saying.
Of them all, only Purdy Mantle seemed undisturbed. "It wasn't worth the trouble," he said disgustedly. "I don't think they ever had anything, anyway."
"They left their wagon and their clothes an' stuff. They'll be back."
"Back when?" Shabbitt asked irritably. "Hell, maybe they just figured to Hell with it an' left their wagon an' all. If they had gold, they done taken it with them. To Cherry Creek, more'n likely."
"We can wait for 'em," Booster suggested, halfheartedly.
Ike Mantle was disgusted. "We've wasted enough time. If we pick up their sign, we'll follow on. I think they got the gold with 'em, or it's buried. Maybe it's buried right here."
They stirred around, searching the house again, and the wagon. Suddenly, Booster pointed. "Look! There's been some diggin', yonder!"
He indicated the corner of the yard some distance from the cabin where Duncan had begun spading up a garden.
"Hell, that's just a garden! He's figurin' on growin' corn or peas or something."
"Yeah? An' what better place to hide something? Right where nobody'd be surprised to see the ground dug up?"
Several of them started for it. Red Hyle looked on in disgust, then walked to his saddle horse and stood there, one hand on the pommel, the other on the cantle, his head bowed.
On the slope above, Con Vallian watched the men a moment longer. In a few minutes they would start hunting for sign. They would look around and try to find any tracks left by the McKaskels, so he knew he'd better get at it first.
He rode swiftly through the trees, changing direction a dozen times to find a way through, always reaching the same short, steep bluff. But this time among the trees, riding over the edge he let his horse slide to the bottom, then crossed deliberately toward the stream. He found a narrow trail, apparently leading from the cabins below to somewhere north. In the trail were the hoofprints of several horses and at least one mule.
Crouching low to avoid overhanging limbs, he rode swiftly along the trail, crossing the stream over and back several times and suddenly emerging into a small clearing.
Obviously someone had worked a claim here. There was a rocker, long unused, and even a rusted shovel and pick. On the far side the trail led out of the clearing and away from the creek.
Pausing to listen, he heard no sound, but followed the trail up out of the river bottom as it turned sharply left and back to the southeast.
Now what was this? Returning the way he had come?
Not quite. He had reached the point of a triangle and was now taking a route back south, away from the steepest mountains, but much farther to the west.
Nobody had left the trail. Like him they were following a well-marked route. Yet now, out in the open and away from the shadows he noticed something he had missed ... the trail of one of the horses was several hours older than the following horse and mule.
What did it mean?
Somebody had left the cabin, had not returned, and the others were following after. The first horse carried the heavier rider—Duncan McKaskel.
He rode into a small grassy hollow and started toward the other bank when he pulled up sharply, hearing voices. Slowly, he walked his horse on up.
Susanna and Tom were there, Susanna on one of the sorrels, Tom on a mule. In the clearing, not twenty feet from them stood the other sorrel. Its haunches were bloody, and its saddle turned under its belly.
There was no sign of Duncan McKaskel.
Chapter XIII
Con Vallian sat, taking in the scene. He knew better than to go charging into such a situation. Duncan McKaskel might be lying close by, his body hidden by grass or brush, and his attackers might be nearby, also waiting for those who would come after McKaskel.
Susanna was down on the ground, looking quickly about her. The boy went to the horse and began removing the saddle.
Staying near the edge of the trees, Vallian slowly rode in a half-circle toward the tableau before him. He held his ri
fle easy in his hands, prepared for whatever might come. Nothing in his life had prepared him for things to turn out right. When they did, he was pleased, when they did not, he was ready.
As he rode his eyes swept the earth for tracks. He was sure, since Susanna and Tom had obviously not found McKaskel, that Duncan had been hurt elsewhere. His frightened horse had run off, leaving him stranded and afoot. On the plains that could be the death of a man, in the mountains, where there was water and food, even if a man knew where to look, it could still mean trouble.
Before he reached them he found the trail. The sorrel had come plunging down a steep bank, dragging a whip of a broken branch along with it.
He glanced up the bank. The horse had still been frightened when it came over the bank, so it might not have come far.
He rode up to them and they turned swiftly. "Get that saddle cinched up," he said flatly, "and mount up. We're a-wastin' time."
"Mr. Vallian! My husband is hurt! He is somewhere around here and—"
"No, ma'am. He's nowhere around there. He's back yonder," Vallian jerked his head toward the east, "an' he may be hurt, but if we don't get out of here, we'll all be in a fix. That Shabbitt outfit found your place, and they'll be trailin' after."
Leading the sorrel, they turned and followed Vallian.
He was thinking fast. They would find that trail as easy as he had, and they'd come following after. No sense in going up that bank ... he doubted if the woman and boy could make it, anyway, and he knew that atop the bank there was a long gap in the trees that led away toward the foot of a mountain.
Chances are the horse had come running right down that open space, and that he hadn't run more than a mile.
He had not taken the time to do more than glance at the horse. The scratches might be those of a lion, or perhaps it was only gouged by the forks of a broken branch. There was no time to stop and make sure, and it was unimportant in the long run. First they had to try to find McKaskel, and then they had to find a place to hole up. If they did not find McKaskel right away, the second would have to come first.
He turned in his saddle and glanced back. No dust in this country. The trails were seldom used and too grassy. There was a chance they might stop at the cabin and wait, but it was more likely they'd come on.
You got yourself in one hell of a mess, he told himself irritably. Why can't you stay out of other folks' affairs? These people are nothing to you.
Well, they weren't anything to him. Only that Susanna woman, she made a right good pot of coffee, and where was he going anyway? Besides, he liked to hear McKaskel talk. It wasn't every day a man encountered a real educated gentleman.
He led the way and he did not look back. The trail was one a blind man could follow, and there was no need to cast about. The gelding had come out of those woods like the mill-tails of Hell, bleeding some, too. He could see the bright crimson flecks of blood as he rode, and the trail through the tall grass was plain.
How long had McKaskel stayed with the gelding? Probably he'd been thrown right off. It looked like a lion had jumped the horse, maybe a young lion who didn't know any better, or one who saw the horse but not the man and sprang in hunger and haste. The horse would have leaped, fought, struggled, tumbling Duncan McKaskel into the brush. He might have been hurt seriously, simply scratched by brush, or attacked by the lion.
These western lands brought death suddenly, without warning, and in a hundred ways. It had a way of exploding into violent action leaving a man broken and bleeding, far from any help. Many a father or son rode away never to return, many a lone hunter left coffee on the fire to picket a horse or fetch a bucket of water, and that was the end of him. Sometimes his bones were found. Often enough not even that.
Con Vallian drew up, listening. The following horses stopped one by one, and in the silence he strained his ears beyond their breathing, beyond the little sounds of their presence, yet he heard nothing.
Sunlight fell through the trees, bringing a shattered radiance into the gloom, the aspens poised in slender beauty along the way, and the moss on the rocks was of the deepest green. Nearby, in a small, swift-running stream, a dipper sat on a rock, cocking its head toward some unseen life at the stream's bottom. The bird bobbed, disappeared into the foam at the base of a small waterfall, then came up suddenly.
His eyes searched the green-shadowed stillness, and then he touched the mustang with his heel and it moved on, walking with delicate feet upon the damp leaves in the trail.
Con was worried. He would have preferred a sound, something he could place and identify. Were they following or not? And where was McKaskel?
He was back-tracking the sorrel, finding a tiny fleck of blood here, a crushed leaf there, the indentation of a hoofs edge somewhere else. They had entered a narrowing ravine, thick with a stand of trees, some rocks, many deadfalls. Con hesitated, his eyes scanning the narrow spaces among the trees, but there were not many places from which the horse could have come.
What he saw was slight, a tendril of bark hanging from a rotting trunk, still damp where it had been knocked loose from its place. Further on he found where a hoof had slipped on some wet leaves, and worked his way upward, the others single file behind him.
They emerged into the sunlight. Running hoofs had left their tracks in the open there, on the west slope of the mountain. They followed, crossed over the shoulder, and almost at once they saw him.
Duncan McKaskel was drawn back against a tree, and his shirt was bloody, there was a cut on his head and blood matted his scalp.
"Thank God!" he said fervently. "How'd you find me?"
Susanna dropped to the ground and ran to him.
"There's no fresh blood," Vallian commented, "looks like it's stopped. We've got to get him off this slope and down into the canyon."
"You mean to move him? You can't!" Con Vallian was pushing and prodding, looking McKaskel over thoroughly. "My guess would be you got you a badly bruised leg, a busted rib or two, and a cut on your scalp. You got a few scratches here and there but otherwise they don't amount to much.
"You'll be laid up for awhile, but you'll live." He grinned. "I reckon you will. I seen tenderfeet die of things wouldn't hurt a ten-year old girl out here, an' maybe you will, too.
"We got to get you off this rise. Be cold here tonight, mighty cold. Anybody huntin' you would have no trouble, out in the open like this."
"It was a lion," McKaskel said, "a lion jumped on my horse. My horse threw me but I managed to get a shot at it."
"Scared it," Vallian said. "Lucky you didn't hit it. A hurt mountain lion is a nasty piece of business, apt to cut up somethin' fierce."
"I think you are the most callous man I ever knew!" Susanna said hotly. "I don't think you're even sorry!"
"He ain't no kin to me, ma'am," Vallian replied, smiling, "an' out here in this country a man can get scratched up worse'n that doin' his day's work. I mind the time I had to amputate a finger."
Vallian reached down a hand. "Mac, you grab a hold. Have you in the saddle in no time."
"Now, see here!" Susanna protested.
"Ma'am, the sun will be down in an hour. Maybe less. When the sun goes down up here it'll be cold, cold like you never seen it. We're high-up ... maybe ten thousand feet ... so we'd better get down where we can build an' hide a fire and get out of the wind."
Duncan clasped his hand, and Vallian pulled him up and helped him on his horse. McKaskel's face was gray with pain, but aside from a grant as he heaved into the saddle, he managed to make no sound.
Vallian grinned at him. "You got you a little sand there, man. You nourish it some and you're apt to turn out quite a westerner."
"It's easy to be brave when all you have to do is talk!" Susanna said sharply.
Vallian chuckled, and rode out ahead of them until he came to a place to make camp.
"Well, here we are, McKaskel. We'll camp right here. Plenty of cover, firewood, water, and rocks and logs to fort up in case they should find us."
Chapter XIV
Where they stopped there were aspens and an acre or two of meadow, thick with grass. An outcropping of boulders offered shelter, and there was dead wood enough to last for years, the result of some long ago blowdown when a fierce wind had channeled down the canyon, smashing all before it.
The fire was built of dry wood, the aspens' leaves would dissipate the smoke, and the outcropping of rock would shield their fire from observation. It was a good position, but there were many such. All a man needed to do was keep his eyes open and know what he was looking for.
All through the west country he knew of such places, most of which he had never used, but all were filed away in his memory for such a time as they might be needed.
Con Vallian had learned long since there was little that was original in this. Almost any camp you chose had been chosen before, many times, and nearly always one found the remains of old fires, arrowheads, spear-points or even the crudest of stone axes.
Con Vallian used his Bowie to gather boughs for a bed for McKaskel. When he had it made he spread his own bed on it. "You ain't going to be much use for a few days, Mac," he commented, "so you better rest up. I'll help your folks make out until you're up and around."
"I can't thank you enough, Vallian. This is mighty fine of you."
"Neighbors, sort of. Out here we set store by neighbors. Count them a blessing."
"But you are not our neighbor," Tom said. "Not really."
"Depends. All depends. Out here most anybody in a hundred miles is a neighbor. Folks are more scattered out. On the other hand, I don't know as anybody ever set limits on the word. My ma used to say anybody who was in need was a neighbor."
As he talked, Con worked, cutting boughs for more beds, bringing in fuel for the night's fire, pausing only occasionally to listen.
He liked the smell of the smoke, like the effect the sunset had on the leaves. He listened, and heard the rustle of the water in the creek nearby, heard a faint stirring in the leaves as a squirrel hunted for food. He stood up, and taking his rifle said, "I'll be back. There's grub in my saddlebags, but go easy. No tellin' when we'll get more."
The Quick And The Dead Page 9
