The Hunted

by Ralph Compton

  “I don’t believe it!” Shakes looked down toward Perton, caught the barkeep’s eye, and winked, then turned a furrowed brow back to the excited young conversationalist.

  Perton had to admit, not having any love for Rafferty, nor for Marshal Watt, that the news didn’t bother him terribly much. What it did do, he thought as he plunged a couple of beer mugs into the murky wash water, then toweled them off, was get him excited about all the money he was going to begin making as soon as his shift was over.

  He’d already figured out a way to get himself up to Gamble before the rest of these saps in this town. Only thing he had to do was finish packing his gear into his sled, pull on his snowshoes, and hit the trail. He had a rifle, a sidearm, a couple of knives, and plenty of woods know-how.

  This was the sort of break he’d been waiting for since he came down from Winnipeg two years before. He’d ended up in Monkton, nearly broke, and taken the barkeep job as a way to keep grub in his belly and as a way to reprovision himself for extended prospecting forays into the promising reaches of the Rockies. He’d scramble to places where a single man with no pack beasts could get to better than anyone else, except maybe a mountain sheep.

  But reprovisioning had come hard, mostly because of the prices Jasper Rafferty charged. But all that had changed in the past half day. Beginning with the news that Pawnee Joe had told them last night at the bar. It was the single-most exciting bit of information Perton had heard since arriving in the dismal little river town.

  To think that Watt and Rafferty had been holding out on them all, keeping the promise of the little mine camp of Gamble all to themselves. As if providing the start-up money for the folks up there, then keeping them hidden away once strikes had been made entitled them to think that sort of information was theirs and theirs alone. It was enough to make Perton spit.

  “Where did Rafferty get to after he shot the marshal?” Shakes had a decent blue cloud boiling up from his pipe and he’d begun working on his beer. Perton guessed the old man would nurse that one for a while.

  “He headed here, to the Royale,” said the young man, looking around the place as if he’d been there.

  Perton had been and the young man had been nowhere in sight. But he was right, nonetheless. Rafferty had stormed in, shouting a blue streak for Pawnee Joe’s blood, claimed he was going to shut him up before he did any more damage to his well-deserved coming fortunes.

  No one knew what he meant at the time, of course, but a pile of men jumped Rafferty and disarmed him. They hauled him off to jail, only to find that Rafferty had already been there and shot the marshal. That’s when Pawnee Joe must have figured he had nothing left to lose, so he up and told everyone with ears all about the golden city that Gamble was about to become.

  Perton looked at the mantel clock on the shelf high above the mirror-backed bar. Twenty minutes to go until his shift was over, and then he would head to his rented room, store with his landlady, Mrs. McGillicuddy, what few possessions he didn’t want to bring with him, and head north, to Gamble. Perton figured he could make the trek in three, four days, depending on the weather.

  Then he could get a feel for Gamble, take in the land, and lay claim to the most promising spots before all the talkers in town finally showed up. He guessed, from the hubbub of the last few hours, and the run on Rafferty’s place, that a whole lot of folks were fixing to head to Gamble. But he’d get there before them all. Pity, he thought, that I couldn’t have the place to myself.

  Just then a boy still in short pants stormed in, slamming the door back on its hinges.

  “Ho there, boy!” said Perton. “You ain’t allowed in here, you know that.”

  “But I got news!” said the lad, his face red and his chest heaving. “Marshal Watt died. Doc did what he could, but the marshal’s dead!” The kid bolted back out the door, banging it behind him.

  Every man in the place fell silent. Then Shakes said, loud enough for all to hear, “Well, boys, that means Rafferty’s earned himself a hemp necktie, wouldn’t you say?”

  The cheer that roared through the Royale Gaming Hall felt to Perton as if it were rattling the place’s window glass. Within two minutes, the bar emptied. Perton smiled. He could leave even sooner now that the customers were gone.

  Time to hit the trail to Gamble, Perton, he told himself as he untied his apron for what he knew would be the last time.

  Chapter 42

  The last thing Hester had expected she would do in daylight, sitting across a weak campfire from a man who wanted to do her harm, was fall asleep. And yet she did. Sleep got the better of her. She was awakened by an errant blast of gusting snow that hit her full in the face as if that was its sole intention from the moment it first gained speed. Jerked fully awake as if by ropes from behind, she felt her heart thumping hard.

  “No!” she shouted into the breeze, snow clouding her face, flitting into her open mouth like mosquitoes in summer. She had no idea how long she’d been asleep—though it couldn’t have been more than a few minutes. She cautiously crept over to Rollie’s side of the fire. It wouldn’t do to have him catch her slinking around on his side of the fire if he were only relieving himself off behind a rock or tree. But when she bent to investigate what looked like too many tracks leading away from the drunk’s spot beside the fire, she saw smooth tracks as though made by . . . bare feet? No, not bare feet but feet wearing moccasins. And that didn’t set well with her.

  She shouted the single word “No!” again, harder and angrier, when she saw that Rollie was missing and had been taken by that cursed Indian. The very one she had seen, earlier, no doubt, spying on them and waiting for . . . what? Why hadn’t he killed Rollie and her too? Why rob her of her prize? She had been so close to killing Rollie and being done with it. Why hadn’t she knifed him when she had the chance?

  She finally followed the tracks and saw they stretched well beyond the horses, who still stood hitched, leaning into the wind. At least the Indian hadn’t killed them . . . yet. For a long moment she stared into the teeth of the wind-driven snow, her anger growing to a seething rage second by second. How dare that man steal her revenge!

  With a growl of hate and disgust, she spun, firm decision guiding her actions. She stopped in her tracks. Passing the horses once again, she worked quickly to unbuckle them. Some of the leather gave her trouble, so she pulled out her stolen short knife and hacked through the leather. Soon the horses were freed, though they were so exhausted they didn’t move.

  She had no time to do more than smack them on the rumps to try to instigate movement in them, let them know they were finally free to at least seek their own shelter. She was sure they would die, but she had at least done what little she could for them. Especially given the fact that she was about to undertake a task that she doubted she would survive.

  Skirting the wagon, Hester rigged up a hackamore on Mabel-Mae. Without taking the time to saddle her, instead she climbed into the wagon, then onto the tall mule’s back. A single, somewhat-rested animal high-stepping in the snow would get her farther up-trail than her own weary legs.

  The snow had already begun to fill in the tracks of the two men, one deep set and bold, the other, a dragging, half-stumbling set that looped wide, then left furrows and troughs in the snow. This looked to Hester as if the moccasin-clad man had clunked and dragged Rollie. The fact that his tracks showed he was somewhat able to walk meant to Hester that the Indian hadn’t killed him.

  Rollie’s inebriation would certainly have aided the Indian in some respects, since Rollie was, despite his drinking, a muscular, tense man who reacted with sudden, violent movements. But judging from their previous encounters with the Indian, he would be more than a match for Rollie. Especially a drunk Rollie.

  Hester was also sure of two things: The man would eventually kill Rollie, and it would not be a pleasant death.

  She had gone quite a distance before she realized she ha
dn’t taken the time to rummage in the wagon for a weapon. She didn’t think there was much of an arsenal secreted in there, but then again Rollie had been full of surprises. She cursed herself and patted her waist pocket—the short knife was still there. Good. At least she had that.

  Hester looked down once again and saw no tracks. They had changed course several yards back. She paused Mabel-Mae, reined her around, and saw that the tracks angled to the right, into a cleft in the steep hillside. Visoring her eyes, she barely saw that they trailed all the way up the hill and disappeared high up, as far as she could see. How could that one man get another half-drunk man that high up without assistance?

  For the first time, the flame of anger in Hester’s belly guttered. Such a man would be powerful, too powerful to defeat. Mabel-Mae angled her head out of the wind, and Hester snapped out of her daydream. No, she could not let unfounded thoughts of her new foe shake her from avenging the deaths of so many innocents. Come what may, she would succeed in killing Rollie.

  With that renewed thought in her mind, Hester dismounted, patted Mabel-Mae once on the neck, and headed on foot up the steep cleft in the rocks, following the trail in the snow, a trail that almost looked as if it were left for her.

  • • •

  It took but a few minutes before Hester’s breath dwindled to short gasps and sharp pains lanced up her legs and knotted hotly in her sides. Still she pressed on, following the ragged mess of footprints in the snowy hillside.

  At least off the trail, up into the trees and between old piles of boulders, she found occasional relief from the gale and stinging snow. Her fingers had been numb for days, and the socks she’d worn for mittens had begun to shred against the jags of rock she used to drag herself upward. It felt as though she had ripped the very ends of her fingers off, but still she kept going.

  Up ahead the thin trail looked as though it leveled off—maybe she’d soon reach the top. Then what? Put it out of your mind, Hester, she told herself. And keep moving.

  She reached the top a few minutes later and despite the fact that she knew a murderous Indian lurked somewhere ahead, she was too exhausted to do much more than flop on her side in the snow and let her breathing calm down.

  As she lay there, her breath pluming into the snow-filled sky, Hester noticed that the storm seemed to have slowed; certainly the wind had died down to stray gusts. She guessed they still had a couple of hours of daylight left, maybe less.

  Then she heard a noise that seized her breath in her throat—a scream. A man’s scream. She’d heard that voice before. Rollie. He was being tortured and he wasn’t far away. While she lay there without breathing, she heard another sudden sound—two gunshots, followed by more screams.

  The anger toward the strange Indian she’d felt earlier came back twofold, and she pushed herself onto her knees, wavered there a moment, then got her feet under her. Rollie was hers. She alone had earned the right to put him deep into his own misery before she ended it for him.

  Hester pulled in a deep breath and, stepping high, she trudged forward, on somewhat level ground, toward the sound of a man’s sobbing screams.

  The land continued on, level and rocky, dappled with trees. Hester followed the fresh trail and within minutes of reaching the top found herself at the edge of a clearing that measured but a few dozen yards across before dropping off again at the edge across from her. She found herself peeking between trees at a scene that even her hardened heart could never have imagined.

  A broad-shouldered man of average height stood with his back to her. His long hair, a curious reddish brown color, flowed loose down the back of his buckskin tunic. Spiking and wagging from the top of his head were a number of feathers and woven thongs that wagged and wavered in the breeze. Clutched in one hand, a long-bladed knife, smeared in bright red blood, dripped on the snow. In the other hand he held Rollie’s Colt revolver. This was the Indian. The killer. The torturer.

  Twenty feet beyond him, three men were loosely tied to trees. Those on the ends were obviously dead, perhaps had been so for some time. Trussed in sagged poses, they had been sliced and peeled and skinned and now sported wads of fresh snow spired atop their shoulders and heads. In the center, facing Hester, and also loosely tied to a tree, Rollie Meecher half stood, half sagged.

  Arrows wagged from his upper legs, two in one, three in the other. The meat of his upper arms had been shot, as the blackened puckered wounds showed. Strings of bloody spittle drizzled from his battered mouth, from matching slices in his cheeks, from above his forehead. But where his hair had been, a bloody smear now glistened, almost as if he wore a knitted red wool cap. Hester realized Rollie had been scalped.

  She stood, mesmerized, as the Indian pulled back an arm and let loose a short yip. Time seemed to slow for Hester as she watched the knife fly as if guided by an unseen string, straight at Rollie’s gut. Rollie’s head whipped upright, his bloodied mouth wide in surprise, his eyes wide, as well, two white-rimmed flashes in a reddened face. They seemed to see Hester, lock with her eyes for a finger-snap moment, then rolled upward before his head whipped side to side in agony’s relentless grip.

  Hester yelped, “No!” but was already on the move by the time the Indian began to turn. She hit him low, buckling his legs and sending him whipping backward to sprawl in the snow.

  He growled in anger at the unexpected intrusion. Hester rolled clumsily from atop him and felt his strong hand grab her ankle above her boot top, squeezing in a grip that she knew could never be loosened. But she kicked at his hand anyway and was rewarded with a bark of pain. She wasted no time in scrambling from his reach and watched as he tried to rise. He managed to push himself up on one knee, but wobbled and fell back, clutching the other leg, his mouth spread in a grimace of pain. She must have hit him harder than she thought, and for that she felt relief.

  As Hester pushed backward away from him, she saw his face fully for the first time, and noticed he wasn’t an Indian. At least not a full-blooded Indian. Couldn’t be—he had blue-gray eyes, a honeyed tone to his skin, and the reddish brown of his hair was unlike the straight black hair she’d seen on Indians.

  But if she thought she had rendered him incapable of movement, she was mistaken. For as soon as she took her eyes from him, shifted them back to Rollie as she stood in the deep snow, she sensed movement behind her and before she had time to turn, she felt two powerful arms lock tight about her.

  The Indian stood behind her, squeezing the breath from her, lifting her off the ground until her boots wagged limply in the snow. She felt his face nuzzle her neck, close, smelled the sour, wild-animal stink of him, the breath of a wild meat-eater.

  “Why have you done this? Why have you betrayed me? I let you live, white woman, so that you might hunt for a long time to come. Because you have endured cruelties that only whites might put upon other whites. You lived where others died.”

  Even as he squeezed the life from her, his voice confused Hester—he spoke better English than most men she had met lately, but there was something stilted about how he conveyed his confused—and confusing—thoughts, something edged in sharp rust, jagged and cruel. How had she betrayed him?

  “And yet you have turned on me, betrayed me, left me to cleanse the mess from this lost place. . . . For that, you must now die.”

  And she realized he was correct—if she did nothing for a few seconds more, she would be all but dead. And was that so bad? No, she mustn’t let him win! She had to avenge Delia, Charlie, who knew how many others? With the last of a strength she had not felt in long days of fatigue and drudgery and freezing pain, Hester convulsed in the Indian’s arms, thrashing her arms, whipping her head backward into his. She felt the back of her head connect with his, heard him shout in pain. Still she writhed and slammed against him, kicking with all her fading strength, and landed a heel perfectly against something that caused the man to drop her immediately and fall away from her.


  Hester fell forward into the snow, gasping and retching, sucking in icy breaths. Behind her the Indian moaned and forced air and spittle between his clenched teeth, suppressing mighty bellows of pain.

  Hester worked to stand and breathe, and to ignore the sharp pains in her sides. Surely he had damaged her ribs. Never had she felt so tired or alone or helpless or sad or angry, all at once. And then she saw that in their struggles they had worked their way closer to the edge of the clearing farthest from where she’d entered between the trees. She guessed they were now a dozen feet from the drop-off. Was it a cliff? A slump of but a few feet before leveling off again?

  While the man struggled to regain a standing position, in her mind Hester weighed caution and reason and found them both lacking. And even though she longed to do nothing more than lie in the snow and breathe her last, once more she rushed at the Indian. And once more, she caught him unawares, driving right into his damaged leg. It was bent badly at the knee in a way that nature never intended.

  He howled in pain and rage, pummeled her with mighty fists, tried to push her away. But Hester had found a determination, the last of it in her body, in her mind, in her very being, and she dug in the snow with her legs, pushing against his unbalanced body. And inch by inch they went to the edge. And then they went over.

  Chapter 43

  It was still a couple of hours before dark when Charlie heard what sounded like far-off shouts. The wind blew a norther, driving gale-driven snow down at them from the upper cleft ahead in the trail, so he thought for a moment that the sounds might have been a trick of his hearing, something in nature made louder, stranger by the storm. But it also sounded an awful lot like screams, followed by a couple of echoing shots, as if someone had cranked a few rounds out of a revolver.