The Hunted

by Ralph Compton

  Charlie followed her sight line to the mostly frozen brook, one of the feeder streams that flowed to the Salmon River down below. Hard to tell through the thickening snow, but it looked to Charlie as if it could be a man half in, half out of the brook. But that didn’t make any sense.

  “Must be a stump,” he said. “Reckon I’ll check on it, to be safe. We need water anyway. I’ll bring you back a drink.”

  Delia struggled feebly to uncinch herself from the travois. “I can help, Charlie. I’ll go down there with you.”

  “No, you won’t neither.” He laid a big paw on her head. “You keep still. I will be right back.” He unslung the cloth-wrapped shotgun from across his chest and turned to go. He tried to keep his big body between her and the thing at the brook, in case it turned out to be something hard to take. With each step closer, the thing looked less and less like a stump or a rock, and more and more like a man.

  “I mean it,” he shouted, looking back once at the frustrated woman on the trail.

  He chose his steps with care, as the new snow had begun to obscure everything before him. But not enough to hide the fact that when he got to the brook side, he was looking at a dead man, facedown in the snow. Shafts of two arrows were driven down into the man’s sides.

  Charlie kneeled down, brushed snow off the man’s head, and his suspicions were confirmed. “Norbert, what has happened to you, mister? By gum, you can’t keep yourself out of the water, can you?”

  Charlie shifted his knee off something hard, a rock or root, and happened to look down and got a fright. He’d been kneeling on the dead man’s arm. He brushed more snow off it and saw that it had been tied about the wrist and staked with leather stretching off to the base of a nearby sapling. He looked to the other side and found the same thing.

  “What did you find, Charlie?” Delia shouted from back on the trail.

  He swallowed, nibbled his mustache, and hesitated before shouting back, “Hang on a minute. Give me a minute here.”

  Charlie bent low and, keeping the shotgun gripped in one hand, he stepped closer to the brook, angled himself so that he kneeled with one leg beside the man. It looked to him as though Norbert had been cut in half. But why tie off his arms? Norbert hadn’t been scalped. His head where Charlie had brushed the snow away to get a look at his face had looked to be bruised up a bit, but not cut up and peeled. So was it the Indians or Rollie? From what he’d seen of the handiwork of both of them, he’d not put anything so foul past either.

  Charlie brushed more snow from the man’s back, saw the grimy buckskin tunic had been slit in ragged cuts crosswise, as though by a knife. He guessed it didn’t matter who had done it at this point, but that someone had done something bad to the man.

  Charlie inched lower and gingerly tested the ice with his boot, then his knee. It was solid all right, as he guessed it would be close to the bank. It was barely crusted over in the middle, a few feet away. He heard the gurgling, saw the cold flow bubbling here and there through holes up and down the length of it in the slowly forming ice.

  As with most mountain runs, he guessed that what it lacked in width it made up for in depth, gained in the spring when the freshets ran, gouging and carving their way downslope with the melt water.

  He cleared away more snow and saw a vague, dark outline, murky under the ice, of what he assumed was the lower half of Norbert’s body. “Oh, Norbert, whatever you did wasn’t hardly deserving of this end. You have my hearty sorrow, fella.”

  “Charlie?”

  It was Delia. He reckoned he owed her some explanation about now. “I’ll be up directly. Sit tight.”

  Charlie eyed the situation, decided not to slice free Norbert’s stiff, frozen arms, the fingers clawing as if in the middle of trying to drag himself out of the freezing water. But the arrows at his side had him pinned in place. He must have been sufficiently weakened at that point to not be able to snap the arrows, drag himself out and to safety.

  The ground hadn’t frozen so hard that the shafts, loosed at such close range as they’d required, wouldn’t sink deep enough to prevent an injured man from yanking them free. The pain must have been hard to take. Up to then, Charlie hadn’t looked closely at Norbert’s face, but when he did, he saw the buck skinner’s long face drawn even longer in a rictus of agony, his eyes, yellowed and wide, staring with glassy intensity at something Charlie hoped he’d never see himself. From the man’s look, it must have been the worst terror imaginable.

  If only those eyes could show him the last people Norbert had seen. Charlie looked back upslope toward the trail, but the snow had covered over anything that might be a useful track to him.

  Charlie laid the shotgun alongside Norbert’s prone top half and slipped his knife from its sheath. He used it to chip at the ice, a couple of inches thick, around Norbert’s waist, where it disappeared into the stream. Within minutes he had a ring cleared around the man’s midsection and pawed chunks of ice away, freeing the crusted-in buckskin. Soon the body was loosened enough for Charlie to drag him free. But first he had to remove the arrows pinning Norbert’s sides.

  Charlie gripped one low and gently worked it back and forth, but it soon snapped off. He cursed, then did the same with the other, snapping that one also. He sliced through the leather thongs tethering Norbert’s outstretched arms, then turned his attention back to the arrows. They had broken off low enough that he could raise Norbert up slightly off the jagged nubs. He gently lifted the body up by his arms, close under his shoulders. It was then that he saw the blackened snow and earth under Norbert’s body, saw the man’s guts frozen tight to the riverbank.

  Charlie froze for a moment, unsure what to do. He wanted to drop the man’s body and bolt back up the trail, drag that girl to someplace safe, anywhere—he had no idea where . . . anywhere.

  But after the moment of shock at seeing the frozen intestines and closing his eyes and pulling in a deep breath, he looked back to his task and set the man down gently. He would have to free the frozen parts of the man before he could finish dragging him out of the frozen, barely burbling brook.

  He also realized that the few minutes he’d spent dealing with the man were precious minutes they could have used on the trail, to once again find someplace to hole up for the night, make a shelter.

  But he couldn’t leave the dead man like this. Charlie thought for a moment, then lowered Norbert’s body back down to the ground. He fished in his mackinaw’s large outer pocket and pulled out a tin can, one they had been using to drink from. Charlie had a devil of a time doing it, but he kept ferrying water from the slurry of slush he’d made around Norbert’s body at the surface of the river. All the while he lifted with his other arm, trying to keep freeing the frozen man’s guts from the riverbank.

  Charlie splashed the water under the man, pushed up, splashed, pushed, loosening the frozen parts more with each dose of freezing water. He had to work quick or it would all freeze up again. Three, then four more inches and he’d have it. And finally Norbert lifted free of the frozen mud as Charlie had stretched as far as he could.

  He leaned back, out of breath and trying not to look at the frozen clot of gut and the blue-gray face with those shocked eyes staring wide open.

  “What are you going to do with him?”

  Charlie spun, breathing heavy and clawing for the shotgun. “Delia!”

  The girl had freed herself from the travois and had made her way down the trail. Her face was white and her hands trembled from the effort, but she stared at Norbert with a squint-eyed look, more curiosity than fear or disgust.

  Charlie sighed, rose to his feet. “I don’t know. But I’m about tired of finding death along this trail. I’d give a whole lot to be someplace else right about now.”

  “Me too,” Delia said, covering her mouth with a hand. “Hester would say, ‘If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.’”

  “I reckon she’
d be right too. And no, I don’t know what to do with him. But I couldn’t leave him like that.” Charlie looked at Delia. “I’m not sure how much you saw, but it was a grim sight.”

  “Hasn’t gotten much better, has it?” Delia finally turned away, hugging herself and pulling her blanket tight around her shoulders. She’d draped it over her head too, forming a sort of hooded cape, but now the entire affair was quickly being covered in the thick, falling snow.

  “Ol’ Norbert’ll have to make do with leaning against a tree and knowing he’ll fortify some animal or other in these hard, cold days of winter. Nothing else we can do, except maybe try to remember the good things about him. And we best get to it because the weather’s not waiting for us. You feel that breeze picking up?”

  Delia looked up toward the treetops, but ducked her head back down quick. The only thing Charlie knew she’d see was snow, snow, and more snow, coming down faster with each passing minute.

  Chapter 39

  It wasn’t far up the trail that Charlie and Delia found yet another wagon. The thick snowfall had covered much of any sign that might have let him know how many people and animals were still trekking toward Gamble. But a bit of ciphering told him that they would be down to their last wagon, down to how many horses and mules he wasn’t sure, since some could have run off or died along the way and they’d not seen them under the snow.

  “One thing is for certain, Delia. Ol’ Rollie Meecher can’t be too happy right about now. From the looks of it, they left this camp with their last wagon, and from the lumps in the snow, he left behind a lot of the goods he’d planned to gouge the Gamble folks with.”

  Delia didn’t respond. She was hurting, and this time she couldn’t even pretend the episode would pass soon. Charlie was thankful the abandoned wagon had more usable freight goods than ever. He laid Delia up under the wagon and set to work on building a windbreak on the north side of the exposed wagon. He tore off a few boards from the south side of the wagon and managed to deflect the wind and snow enough to keep the worst of the gale off the girl.

  The space under the wagon was far from cozy, but if he could get a fire going and maybe find some food to supplement the last of their meager ox meat left, they should make out okay. This blow was shaping up to be a corker. He finally managed to kindle a small blaze and fed it with hunks of boards he’d snapped braced against the wagon tongue.

  Then he checked Delia once again, found her wide awake, but in considerable pain. Her eyes were nearly shut and she held her mouth in a tight, hard line. She nodded in annoyance when he asked her a couple of questions.

  “I’m going to find you something to eat, don’t you worry,” he said.

  What he really wanted was to find something to help her with the pain. He didn’t know a thing about natural remedies, much less how to find the ingredients and concoct a tincture in the middle of a blizzard.

  He climbed up into the wagon and pushed snow off the odd shapes within. A couple of crates of tinned food, not bad. And there seemed to be plenty of it. He loaded his pockets. He could make do with tinned fruit, milk, and a couple of cans of corn. And then he saw something promising . . . but it couldn’t be.

  Still, he reached for it, brushed off the cold, clotted snow, and there it was—a bottle of whiskey, brand-new and standing in the corner of the wagon, behind the seat. Might have belonged to one of Rollie’s men, maybe Rollie himself, and they’d left it behind. But it might help with Delia’s pain. He dang sure doubted it could hurt.

  Charlie took another look around, scattering other items that would be useless to them—a set of three glass oil lamps, a few candles. He stuffed a couple into his pocket with the tinned food. You never knew when something might come in handy.

  The rest he’d do his best to burn for warmth. Some of these meager pickings would have been the very food and gear that Rollie had been so set on using against the residents of Gamble. Holding it hostage so they would be desperate enough to venture out in hopes of getting it from him. Until he killed them for trying.

  So if he was leaving all of these potentially valuable goods abandoned on the trail, what was he up to now? No doubt he was running scared, what with all the abandoned wagons, dead animals, and even a lost man—unless it was Rollie who did such terrible things to Norbert.

  Charlie left off with such thinking and dragged a pile of crates over to the edge of the wagon, then hopped down. Some he broke up for firewood, others he jammed in the snow to help keep the wind from gusting out the young fire.

  “Delia, I found some tasty food for us, girl. And something else, something that will help with the pain.”

  “What is it?” she said, her voice muffled from under the blankets and scrap of tarp he’d tucked around her.

  “Whiskey. Now, I’m no doctor, but I do know that this will help dull the worst of it, that much is for certain.”

  Delia spoke, but Charlie had to lean close to hear her. “I don’t know, Charlie. Hester wouldn’t think very much of me drinking.”

  “Well, girl, Hester ain’t here. And ol’ Charlie is. So I reckon we’ll have to risk disappointing her, because I know a thing or two about snake juice and it’s the best thing we have for helping you right now, Delia.”

  She didn’t say yes, but then again, she didn’t say no either. Then he saw her pale hand grab at her belly, heard her pull a sharp breath in through her mouth.

  “That tears it, girl. Not only is it the best thing we have for your pain, it’s the only thing we have.” He uncorked it and glugged a few liberal splashes into the drinking tin, then held it before her face. She nodded and he helped her hold the cup. Soon he saw her hand relax, her shoulders loosen a bit.

  “That better, Delia?”

  She nodded and like a little bird, moved her head forward. He helped her with another sip. “If you think that’s enough for now, I’ll heat us up some food. Scare up more wood before the storm gets worse.”

  “Thanks, Charlie. I feel better already.”

  “Well, good. But be careful. That stuff will sneak up on you. Best to ration it so you’ll have some for tomorrow too.”

  She nodded and he heaved his bulk back out from under the wagon. Once he felt the wind slicing at him, driving stinging flecks of snow and ice into his cheeks and eyes, he realized what a decent little shelter he’d made, and he was relieved for it. The girl would need a night’s rest, and so would he. For what, he had no idea. Whatever lay ahead, he hoped Lady Luck would keep them in favor.

  He’d tromped into the trees and kicked at the snow, hoping to turn up windfall branches, anything that might burn. He stumbled over a snow-mounded rock, landed on it with his knees, and realized it didn’t feel like a rock or a log.

  After clearing away snow, he felt the softness of hide stretched tight over a frozen body. There beside it lay another. He cleared more, got to the head, saw the stained snow under the fresh snow that he’d pushed away, and also saw the telltale oversized ears of the mule. His heart did a double dance in his cavernous chest and he mumbled a low “Oh no, not Mabel-Mae. . . .”

  The nearest one wasn’t. He stumbled over that carcass to the next, his mouth set in a grim line at the prospect of finding her dead. But it wasn’t. And while he hated to see these two had been laid low by something or someone, he didn’t mind admitting his relief that neither was Mabel-Mae.

  As near as Charlie could tell from low-scanning the terrain close by, there were few other beast-sized lumps in the snow, save for one smaller rise a ways behind the wagon. Looked to be a sizable bit of wood, something like a branch sticking up from it. He blinked away the snow crystals collecting on his lashes and struggled one step at a time through the knee-height snow. He tried to clear away the snow with a boot, but soon had to drop to his already-wet knees and use his hands. And he wished he hadn’t.

  Once the upright stick of a branch was closer to his face, he recognized it
for what it was—an arrow. Just like the ones that had been sticking out of Norbert’s body, pinning him in place at the brook. Who was this, then? Despair and fear drenched down over him all at once. Please don’t let it be Hester. . . .

  For long moments, Charlie Chilton didn’t dare clear away any more snow from whoever might be before him. If it was Hester, what would he tell Delia? It couldn’t be Hester. He didn’t want to live with himself knowing he’d been the one to let her down. She’d trusted him, counted on him to . . . no, he knew that wasn’t exactly the truth. She was a strong woman capable of taking care of herself. Wasn’t she?

  He forced himself to look down again, and then as if seeing his actions slowed down no faster than the sweep hand on a clock, Charlie watched as his mitten-covered paws dug and brushed the snow from the person.

  And as with the mule a few minutes before, Charlie felt guilt-tarnished relief at seeing it was a man’s body, Bo if he wasn’t mistaken.

  As with Norbert, he would not shed tears over this man’s death, but he did feel bad. No man begins life as a rogue and an ill-intentioned fool. He ends up that way as a matter of his own choosing. But Charlie figured Bo deserved more than to be left out here. He might well deserve better, as did Norbert, and all the rest of the bodies, human and animal alike, they’d left along the trail, but they wouldn’t receive anything special from him. Charlie had to care for the living.

  And unless he found Hester’s body somewhere hereabouts, he’d have to assume she was still alive and still with Rollie and Shiner, the only ones left. He had to find them before the vicious, killing Indians did. But everything seemed to fight against him—the weather, his traveling companion’s illness, hunger, and mostly the fact that both Rollie and the Indians were ahead of him.

  Then a thought occurred to him. An image of the drunken Bo came to mind, and Charlie recalled that the man had worn a holstered sidearm. “Sorry, Bo,” said Charlie as he dug out more snow around the body, but he found no gun belt. While he was at the grim task, he flipped the stiff body on its side and made a quick search of Bo’s coat pockets. He’d been hoping for matches, but found nothing that might be useful to them.