Slippery Slope

by Robin Shaw

  Chapter 12

  BY the time the sun had risen, Craig had already covered two miles of the steep, rocky trail The dawn had been cold and gray, and he had huddled over his fire, cooking oatmeal and brewing coffee, soaking in the warmth. No wind had stirred the smoke, and it rose into the grayness above, a long thread to the sky.

  The forest was still. Great Douglas firs, hundreds of years old, formed walls for the trail, and under their canopy little vegetation existed, only here and there a small group of struggling hemlocks. A green desert, quiet and almost lifeless. The only sound that broke Craig's concentration was the cool, clear note of a hermit thrush and the occasional rustling of a chipmunk as it scampered from one tree root to another. There were no clearings. The trail had left the stream now and climbed a steep slope, its angle broken only by short steps of rock on which the moss grew damp in the morning dew. As Craig gained altitude, the vegetation changed subtly and slowly, the trees diminishing in height and girth and relinquishing their shortness for a more stunted and gnarled growth.

  It was nine before Craig broke out of the gloomy forest into the mountain pastures. A light wind stirred the grass, and the late autumn sun provided little warmth through the heavy clouds. The cloud cover was high, only occasionally masking the mountaintops ahead. The valley up whose flank Craig was climbing rose twenty miles into the Sawtooth Range and shared a watershed with the South Fork of the Payette, which ran down the other side toward Lowman and Idaho City. He kept a cautious eye open for other travelers, but there were none. Fall was not a popular season in the mountains—too late for clear weather and too early for snow in any quantity. The deer season was almost over and, anyway, the deer had mostly moved down to the lower ground in preparation for winter. Occasionally on the path Craig would notice the droppings of horses, dried up and at least a week old. But as far as Craig could see, looking over the hillsides brown with the dying grass and dotted with small pines, he was the only moving feature of the landscape.

  All around him the great mountains reared up, barren and forbidding in the gray light. Steep, rocky slopes plunged into the dark trench of the valley, here and there broken by deep ravines. The entire landscape was a study in browns, blacks, and grays, an uninviting and hostile environment.

  Craig struggled upward. His muscles were tired and his breathing was heavy. Days of sitting in cars had taken their toll. His pack, loaded down with all the necessities of mountain living and six days' food, weighed heavily on his shoulders. Despite the cold, he could feel the sweat running down his back, soaking through his shirt and into his sweater.

  Once, about halfway up the slope, he stopped, dropping his pack on a small, level place and collapsing beside it on the turf. He felt drained, empty. Above him the thin clouds moved across the sky soundlessly. A light breeze cooled him, moving his hair gently over his upturned face. Craig felt no enthusiasm for what he was about. The mountains seemed drab and lifeless, like great refuse heaps left by some previous civilization. He did not even have that sense of excitement normal to him when he was in the mountains alone. Nor did the dangers of his situation energize his feelings. It was as though he had surrendered control and was doing what he had to do without any expectation of benefit. Craig was aware that the chances of his meeting Martin were slim. Martin might already have collected the money and cleared the area, or he could have had second thoughts about the enterprise. Conceivably the police already had him in custody and were mounting a search for Craig. Was it worth continuing? Could he hope to achieve anything? He sat up and looked back down the way he had come. The tops of the trees undulated downhill, like a great sea moving in on a shore. Wave upon wave, they stretched out toward the horizon to merge with the Idaho plain, dark and menacing, a green threat, as though barring his retreat.

  Craig slung his pack on his shoulders again and resumed his climb. Once over the ridge, the trail would drop again to meet the small creek that ran out of Lone Fir Valley to join the Elkhorn. As Craig crested the ridge, the great peaks of the Central Sawtooths rose up to meet him, jagged and forbidding. Douglas Peak and Warbonnet, Payette Mountain, and there, at the head of Lone Fir Valley, half hidden behind the shoulder of the ridge of Atlanta Peak that he stood on, lay Mitre Peak.

  The small pass, on whose summit Craig stood, was a jumble of boulders thrown down without order. Occasionally a mist would sweep down over the air, and rocks as large as a ship would loom eerily up beside the trail. Should the mist continue, there was no chance of being able to inspect the face of Mitre Peak, and Martin might come and go as he pleased. It was cold up here, bitter cold and damp, and the grayness of the clouds suggested snow. To be caught in a blizzard in this hostile spot meant death, or at least a desperate fight for life, a fight that Craig felt ill-prepared to make. As yet there was no sign of snow, and the glimpses he had of the surrounding peaks revealed no white. Still he quickened his steps as much as he could among the boulders, following the scratch marks of previous feet.

  He passed a small mountain lake, its surface broken by short, evil-looking ripples, and began the long, gradual descent into Lone Fir Valley. He considered leaving the trail and striking directly toward Mitre Peak, but dismissed this alternative. On a fine day it would have been sensible, but with the unpredictable mist and the threat of a storm in the air, he chose the longer route. It would cost him half an hour but might save him. He had a map and compass in his pack, but the country between the pass and Mitre Peak was so un- featured and indeterminate that it would be easy to get lost and descend into some strange valley.

  It took him forty-five minutes to reach the junction of the Elkhorn and the secondary creek from Lone Fir Valley. The creek dropped over a rocky shelf and fell into a wide pool of the main river. On a fine day it was a beautiful spot, full of color and life, but today even the movement of the river seemed subdued and leaden and the fall lacked its customary sparkle. Craig paused long enough to scoop up several handfuls of the cold, refreshing water. A small trout darted from under the bank and shot for the shelter of the deep pool.

  As he followed the small trail winding its way up the creek, the cliffs of Mitre Peak loomed above him, gradually revealing their features. At first the cliff was a dark curtain, swept at intervals by fragments of light cloud, but as he approached, cracks, ledges, and overhangs took shape before him. There, up on the left of the face, though he could not see it, lay the cave containing the money. Had Martin reached it yet?

  The sun showed briefly through a gap in the clouds, as Craig reached the small lake below the mountain. His stomach ached with emptiness. Since breakfast he had only eaten a bar of chocolate, and he felt weak with hunger and exertion. He set up his temporary camp in a group of firs to the south of the lake perched on a rocky knoll which afforded a clear view up to the mountain but was protected from the view of anyone coming up the valley.

  Quickly he built a fire, collecting dried twigs and piling them on a scrap of paper from his pocket. They caught with the first match, crackling into life, smoky at first but clearing as its heat increased. He filled a pan with water and set it on top of the blaze. Taking some sausages from his pack, he put them in a pan and placed it at the side of the fire, where it would cook slowly.

  Soon Craig was lying back, resting against his pack, eating the sausages, drinking hot, sweet coffee, and inspecting the face. He had allowed the fire to die to smokeless embers. It was important that he remain invisible. So far luck had been on his side, but it would be foolish to publicize his presence with a large fire, much as he would have liked the cheerfulness of the blaze.

  He scanned the face. There was no sign of any movement. In fact, he doubted that he could see anyone at this range and cursed that he had not thought to pack a pair of binoculars. Perhaps he would have to move his base onto the ridge, where he would be closer to the face. To do this, however, would mean his abandoning the cover of the firs for the bare curve of the ridge. Moreover, there was no water there, and he could only last a short time. To
move up and down would be to invite discovery. This would have to do. If he moved to a spot where he could have a close view of the cliff, he would be obvious to anyone watching.

  Craig scrutinized the cliff, searching out features that he recognized. As he watched, the night two months before came back to him. There was the long crack disappearing into the face from the top of which they had roped down toward the cave. He searched for the ledge that terminated at the cave, and at first he could not identify it. Then he saw it, a thin thread of lighter rock in the black mass.

  Suddenly, Craig became aware that something moved on it. No! He was mistaken. A trick of his eyes. But there it was again, more a change of light than a movement. Craig could hardly believe his eyes. He tried to look for some feature that would be obscured by anyone moving. Some way ahead of the supposed movement was a light patch on the rock. It was difficult to estimate the size of the patch, but it looked as though it might be twice the size of a man. Craig waited, watching, eyes riveted on the area of the light patch that was close to the cave. He could see no movement now. Perhaps his eyes had deceived him. Some scraps of mist swirled across the cliff higher up, and it could be that what he had seen was nothing but a fragment of cloud. He hoped the cloud would not descend and hide the lower part of the face. Then he would be left in a state of limbo, not knowing whether to remain or pursue what perhaps was his imagination over the ridge. As he watched the gray area with anxious eyes, he suddenly saw its shape alter and shrink, as though the darkness of the surrounding rock had flowed into it. He could feel his heart race. There was no doubt now. Martin was on the cliff and almost at the cave. That it was anyone else was inconceivable. Craig saw the patch of light increased in size again as the figure passed.

  Martin must have roped down the cliff to the ledge. He could not possibly have climbed the way he and Craig had gone before, unless he were a mad man. Perhaps he is, thought Craig. One has to be mad to take the risks we have taken, and now Martin is pushing it one step farther. As yet, Craig had no idea what he could do if he managed to catch Martin. He wasn't optimistic enough to believe that he would listen to reason.

  Craig got up from his couch on the grass, drew a small pack from his larger frame sack, and began to repack a selection of his possessions into it. There was no point in carrying his entire load in pursuit of Martin. He would never catch him carrying that. On the other hand, he did not dare leave everything. Without fbod and a sleeping bag he might not survive if he could not complete the business this afternoon. It would take Martin perhaps three-quarters of an hour to collect the money and escape from the face. Craig reckoned that he could not reach the place where the cliff merged into the ridge in under an hour, so he would have to chase Martin into the valley on the oilier side. It was already two thirty, and that left perhaps three hours before dark. He was almost certain to have to spend a night out, and it was important that he be well equipped. He threw bars of chocolate, two rice and beef dehydrated dinners, the remainder of the sausages, and some sugar and coffee into the small pack. On top of it all he thrust his waterproof parka and a sweater. That would have to do. He tidied everything else into the large pack and carried it away from the campsite to a rocky area that sloped up from the grass. Craig pushed the pack under the shelter of a large rock and, prizing up surrounding rocks, covered it over. Making sure he could recognize the hiding place again, he hurried back to his small pack and set off.

  He walked fast, springing over the turf. His determination had returned. He had to stop Martin. He had to make him see reason. If he could persuade him to find another secret place for the money until the next summer, that would be enough for the present. Any more would be too much to hope for.

  Striding out, he cut across the valley and passed through a belt of trees that slanted down the stream. Above him the hillside was bare and rock-covered, but against its drabness he would be invisible. He kept his head down, watching his footing. Martin would have to leave the cliff at the same point as before, so there was no point in keeping a watch on the face. The important thing was to get there first, if possible, or if not, soon enough after him to be sure of catching him on the descent. Craig's tiredness had left him, despite his strenuous day. He knew Martin must also have covered a lot of ground, but he would lack Craig's urgency, provided he did not suspect pursuit. And there was no reason he should. He would be cautious rather than rapid. His main concern would be lest he attract the attention of the police. That Craig might be following him he could not suspect; far less that he could he within a mile.

  He reached the ridge, puffing and panting but feeling good. The cliff was hidden behind a rise of the ridge above him. A cloud blew over from the east, momentarily reducing his view to a hundred feet or so. He pressed on up the ridge. Provided he went uphill, he could not lose his way even in mist. When it cleared he was almost at the top of the rise, before the point at which the cliff met the ridge, a fast ten minutes ahead

  At the top he sank quickly to his knees on the damp grass. There, at the edge of the cliff, was a figure bent over something on the ground. The shape straightened up. It was Martin, without a doubt. Even at this distance Craig could recognize the characteristic set of his shoulders. He almost cried out, then checked himself in time. A cry would make Martin aware of the pursuit and he would be off. Craig knew that Martin would beat him in a race. He had to be close enough to count on surprise, to allow him to reason with Martin.

  Martin swung a sack onto his back and set off across the ridge, disappearing quickly from view onto the slope leading down to the valley on the other side.

  Craig ran, leaping from rock to rock, the small pack bouncing on his shoulders and thumping him in the small of the back. Down to the dip in the ridge he raced, knees jarring as his calf muscles responded to the jolting. Then across the short pass to where the slope fell away into the valley. There, perhaps five hundred feet below him, Martin was slanting his way across the grassy incline, heading for the valley. It was obviously not his intention to be making for Stanley, the escape route they had used in the summer. He must be making for the upper valley of the Payette, or for the next river valley over, that of the South Fork of the Salmon River. Craig doubted that it was the latter. The trail that followed the South Fork of the Salmon River was the longest. It was rocky and difficult and even dangerous in the lower section, where a steep canyon barred the way. No, the Payette was more likely, unfrequented and, more importantly, arriving at the road some miles from the nearest village, which was Lowman.

  But the urgent question for Craig was how to get close enough to Martin without his taking off. Certainly if he were to charge down the steep, open, grassy slope, Martin would take fright like a startled deer. He must somehow get ahead of him.

  Craig began to retrace his steps rapidly along the ridge on the Payette Valley side, looking for a gully that would lead him down out of sight of Martin and would intersect with his route. Once, after a few minutes, he thought he had found one, and descended into its gloomy depths. Slithering and jumping down its steep, grassy floor, he found that the slope ended in a cliff that dropped about a hundred feet before rejoining the slope below. For a second he considered climbing down it, but it looked difficult and loose. So, with his heart pounding and sweat drenching him despite the cold, he climbed quickly back to the ridge, pressing hard with his hands on his knees to assist his climb.

  Another few minutes down the ridge he found the ideal descent. A small stream, hardly more than a trickle after the dry summer, had cut and grooved its way down the slope in a uniform gradient. Its sides were eroded rock, and a shute of small rocks followed the course of the stream. Down this Craig leaped, scattering the pebbles before him and riding at times on a moving platform of rounded rocks worn smooth by countless centuries of wind and rain. He swooped and crashed in acrobatic movements down the gully for about two-thirds of its length. The rocks on which he moved became gradually larger and more static, until he had to begin to pick his way awkwardl
y from one to the other.

  The side of the ravine was about a hundred feet high, sloping on both sides of the stream in a wide wedge. Craig climbed up the side that he knew Martin must be approaching and cautiously inched himself over the edge. At first he saw nothing of Martin. Over the tip was a small rock knoll with a flat top, like a miniature castle, unique in the mountain slope. From below, it would merge into the hillside. On its flat top, like crockery on a giant's table, rested several large boulders surrounded by smaller rocks. Craig moved up over the tip of the gully to take up a position by the side of the largest and highest boulder. When he stood up beside it he could just look over the top. There was no sign of Martin. Perhaps he had already passed or changed his route to drop more directly to the trail below. Craig surveyed the hillside, which fell to the trail three hundred feet below. Over the trail there was a band of trees, and Martin might have gained them. Across that trail and over a small pass lay the watershed of the Salmon River.

  Behind him there was the sudden sound of a boot scraping on rock, then a soft, intermittent thumping as a rock rolled downhill onto the knoll. Craig froze. He crouched, pressing himself hard against the boulder, his whole being focused in his ears straining for the slightest sound. Martin was obviously descending to the hillock. A foot struck rock again, this time only a few feet on the other side of the large rock, and there below him, descending quickly but steadily, was Martin.

  "Hello, Martin," Craig said, straightening up and stepping from the shelter of the rock. The flatness of his voice surprised Craig. Martin turned quickly, his face whitening, his mouth slightly open.

  "Craig, what the hell are you doing here?" His eyes, a steely gray, fixed themselves on Craig. He stood immobile, his arms slightly away from his body and his legs spread out. Craig made no attempt to advance on him.

  "I could ask you the same thing," he said slowly. "I thought we had an agreement."

  "I'm doing what you were too chicken shit to try," replied Martin. He eased his pack slowly to the ground without taking his eyes off Craig. "I'm collecting the money."

  "You're out of your mind, Martin. Do you think the cops are so stupid? Do you think you can just pick that up and drive off? They must be watching every approach to this area."

  "Bullshit! I got in, didn't I? And I'll get out. They can't keep a lookout over the entire area." Martin was regaining his composure after the shock of seeing Craig, but he did not relax his stance. He looked like a large cougar, muscles on edge, coiled up in themselves, awaiting the signal to spring. "What's your game? Who told you I was here? That bitch Jean, I suppose. Well, what do you think you're going to do? If you think you're getting any of it, you're mistaken."

  "I don't want the fucking money, Martin. I haven't wanted it since they dropped it in our laps."

  "For Christ's sake, you expect me to believe that! So you chase me half across Idaho to tell me you don't want the money." Martin laughed, a cold, cheerless laugh. "You despise me, don't you? You think just because you were raised as the son of some fat cat and brought up in a snotty Eastern prep school that you're better than me? Well, you have another think coming." Martin spat the words out at Craig, his face twisted with rage. "It was my idea from the beginning. I did all the planning and thinking. You just came along for the ride, and your ticket isn't worth a hundred thousand dollars."

  "Martin, I don't want the money." Craig lowered himself to a sitting position, hoping to ease the tension. Martin did not relax. A look of disbelief was on his face. "Look," Craig continued, "I don't care if you have all the money. It's yours. But I don't want you caught, and you will be. Even if you get away from here, where will you go? You can't put the money in the bank. You can't spend it, except in small amounts. They may have the numbers, and anyway, even if they don't, they have our names and addresses. You can't believe they won't keep checking on us. Just before I left Seattle, a couple of FBI men called on me and asked a lot of questions. All I ask is that we hide it again, or if you don't trust me, that you hide it again until it's safer. If you're caught, I'm caught, and Jean loo, probably. And the way we're heading, that won't be long."

  A sneer appeared on Martin's lips. "Chickenshit Craig, again. What the fuck did you get into this for if you didn't want the risk? It's all right for you, with your daddy's money, but I intend to enjoy mine now. They won't get me in Brazil or Chile. And I don't give a damn if they get you."

  "Why are you doing this, Martin?" Craig fumbled in his pocket for a cigarette. "Didn't our relationship mean anything? Doesn't the fact that I've risked my life for you, and you have for me, mean anything to you? Remember that storm on Mount Washington? Shit. We never thought we'd get out of that. You wouldn't be here now if I hadn't held the rope as you fell. You know I'm not chickenshit. You know I would die to save you, but I won't stand back and watch you throw your life away—and mine too. All to lay your hands on the money nine months earlier."

  He tossed the cigarettes to Martin, but the latter made no attempt to catch them. The carton bounced beside Martin's boot and went a few feet on the grass. He's mad, thought Craig. He's out of his head. Nothing that Craig had said had softened the look on Martin's face or put any warmth into his icy eyes. Like an animal, timid but fierce, he stood there, tousled black hair against the gray sky.

  "I've learned one thing from this life," he said. "You give what you have to give and take what you need. The law of the jungle, Craig. You don't really give a fuck for me. I'm alone, and I always have been. You saved my life because you had to, because you wanted to for your own reasons, and I'm taking this money because I've earned it. You want to know where I came from, who I am? Well, I'll tell you. My father was a brutal drunk and my mother screwed for a living. That shocks you, doesn't it, Craig? You didn't know people existed like that, did you? You thought the whole world was old colonial homes with maids and a nurse to change your diapers. Well, I don't intend to listen to any of your bullshit about comradeship or honor. I have this money, and I intend to keep it. If you want it, come and take it from me. That's the rule of the game, Craig. And if I go down, I'm going to take you with me. I won't keep my mouth shut. If the police get me, then you're in it too. You were right about that. So don't get any ideas about anonymous notes. I'm going with this money, and if you want to stop me, you'll have to kill me."

  Craig opened his mouth to reply and shut it again without a sound. That was it. There was nothing he could say. No way he could pierce Martin's shell. He considered rushing him but dismissed the idea. Martin was more than a match for him. Craig was no fighter. His family had fostered his head rather than his body. Martin would smash him without difficulty. He was defeated without a contest. A profound disgust at his impotence began to creep through him, followed by a submission to fate. Resignation was comfortable, at least for a while. His life seemed to waver between passiveness and action and, he thought, always the wrong state at the wrong time. He had subconsciously sunk his head from Martin's gaze, and as he looked up again to where Martin was bent over his pack, suddenly he sat upright. Over Martin's shoulder, on the trail three hundred feet or so below, just coming into view, was a group of horsemen.

  "Martin! For God's sake! Look!" Craig gasped. Martin stood, a wary, suspicious look on his face. Craig pointed to the valley, and Martin slowly turned so that he could look in the direction indicated and still keep an eye on Craig. When he saw the horsemen he dropped to the grass. There were four of them, riding slowly. Even at that distance, Craig could tell they were searching. The first rider had his eyes on the trail, while those behind him sat half-twisted in the saddles, looking at the surrounding slopes.

  Martin fumbled in the side pocket of his sack, and his hand emerged clasping a large long-barreled pistol. There was a sharp click as he broke it open and inspected the chamber. Craig looked on with horror, unable to speak. Martin snapped it shut again and slowly raised his head to get a clear view of the trail below.

  "Martin," Craig hissed. "Martin." He could feel the arter
ies in his temples thundering, and a cold sweat sprang out on his brow. "Put that crazy gun away." "Shut up." Martin waved the pistol in his direction. ”Lie quiet."

  "For Christ's sake, Martin. If you shoot, we're done for"

  "We are anyway," said Martin, his voice icy cold, "if we're caught."

  Craig began to crawl down slowly to join Martin. With a rapid movement, Martin swung the pistol round to point directly at Craig. "Stay where you are," he said.

  Craig froze. Martin wouldn't think twice about shooting him or anyone else. To Martin's left was a table-sized rock, and Martin sidled into a sitting position beside it. In the valley the horsemen were proceeding still not directly below them. At the stream the Craig had descended they stopped, and the horses' heads dipped to the water. They seemed to be having an argument. One was pointing up to the high ridge behind Craig and Martin. The last rider swung himself from the saddle and bent to the stream.

  Craig was in a turmoil. By trying to extricate himself from this stupid venture he had only succeeded in enmeshing himself further. If they were discovered now, and if Martin were to shoot, which he certainly would, no way out was possible. Craig could see the long rifles in their scabbards hanging from the saddles. Should the group start up the hillside toward them, even unaware of their presence on this rocky knoll, a bloody battle would ensue. Martin would not surrender, and Craig would not have a chance to. Several feet below him Martin sat, his attention riveted on the group below. Craig slowly bunched his legs under him, keeping his upper body as immobile as possible. Time seemed suspended. A still from an old Western. The air was leaden and cold. The hillsides seemed to fall in great sweeps to focus on their position. A few flakes of snow began to slip through the air, slowly, reluctantly vanishing as they met the grass.

  Craig sprang. Half slithering, half falling, he launched himself on Martin, thundering his arm into the rock. The pistol seemed to float from Martin's fingers to roll over on the turf. It came to rest by the pack of cigarettes. Martin was taken by surprise and was winded as Craig's knee hit his chest. He threw up his arms over his face. Craig caught him by the neck and forced his head back on the rock. He was almost on top of him, panting and scrabbling with his feet to get purchase on the grass. His only hope was to knock Martin out. They fought soundlessly, like wrestlers on a television with the sound turned off. Suddenly, Martin's knee drove hard into Craig's loins, making him gasp and retch. Martin twisted quickly and was out from under Craig, flinging himself at the gun. Craig rolled sideways and grabbed at his foot, bringing Martin back to earth with a thud. A sharp pain ran through his shoulder as Martin flailed at it with his free foot. He was weakening. He could not hold onto the ankle for long. Martin twisted and seized his hair, dragging him toward him. Craig almost screamed with the agony. They rolled over together, Craig flailing at Martin's face in a desperate attempt to make him lose his hold. Through the pain, he was aware of the pistol, black and sinister on the turf, its barrel pointing toward them, about a foot from Martin's right shoulder. In panic he grabbed at Martin's face, his nails raking a long scratch down the tan. Martin had twisted Craig's lace down to the grass by his knee, one leg thrown across his back. With his free hand he reached for the gun. Struggling and lunging despite the pain, Craig forced his head and shoulders off the ground. Suddenly he saw the pistol swing through the air, butt first, and then a blinding agony seemed to split his head, rolling in his brain like thunder in a deep valley, flashing in fiery reds and blues, to pinks and grays, and at last, to black.