Dark Shadow

by Roy F. Chandler

  Ahead lay the first mountain path, but Logan did not want that one. Guessing his plan to disappear into the trackless mountains, and with intent to head him off, some of those chasing him might choose the first path, but a great slice in the mountains separated that mountain from the rest of the range, and once on top there was no way to cross to where Logan wished to go.

  Logan was pleased with the way his own mount was holding up. The old horse had the wisdom to pace himself He did not waste strength on great boundings, but trotted ahead, eyes on the trail, tending to business, Logan thought.

  When the horse’s breathing began to blow, Logan piled out of the saddle and let the mount move at his easier pace. When he dismounted, Logan slung the Sharps over the saddle horn allowing him to run unhindered. He did not attempt great speed, but kept moving, favoring his painful hip, and by all the gods he was almost holding his own. The second trail up the mountains, the one he wanted, was coming closer.

  He judged how far back the first of the pursuing riders were. They were close, and he would slow dramatically when he began the steep path upward, but this was not the crooked and jagged-rocked mountain trace like the climb near the Zapata Water. This path was broader, and a fresh horse could move up or down swiftly and safely.

  Logan leaped from the saddle at the first rise of the mountain trail. He tugged the horse along, ignoring his exhaustion and his pain, forcing into his weary legs all of the energy he possessed. The need was to get over the summit before pursuers reached the bottom. If he was slow getting to the top his back would be exposed to anyone shooting upward. There was one turn in the trail that could provide some concealment, but a good shooter would simply move to a different angle, and Logan judged that the range from the base to the summit was less than eight hundred steps. Certainly the range was long, but a shooter with a repeating rifle could correct his aim, adjusting from rock spatters where his bullets hit as well as any ricochets, until he marched his bullets into his target.

  Only part way up Logan’s legs and lungs gave out, and wheezing like an asthmatic he barely managed to drag himself into the saddle. His horse responded slowly, but plodded ahead. With patient sympathy Logan watched the animal’s breath snort through the foam caked at its nostrils, but his back crawled, and he waited the first crack of a high powered rifle.

  And the shots came, rapid fire, a string of eleven by Logan’s agonized count. He listened for nearby hits or ricochets, but heard none. The shooting ended, and Logan's horse surged over the rim and into temporary safety.

  Logan was off in an instant, his legs quivery but still functioning. He jerked his rifles free and set them safely aside. He loosened the horse’s girth and dumped the saddle, canteen and saddle bags onto the ground. He wasted water sponging the horse’s mouth and nostrils and pouring more over the animal’s head and his own. The horse could not drink until it cooled, but if the water felt as good to the animal as it did to Logan the mount would be grateful.

  Then, with the long barreled Sharps in hand he scuttled to the rim. Using shadows and slow movement, Logan peered down on the activity. Three exhausted horses stood spraddle-legged, flanks heaving, chins nearly against the ground. Logan doubted any would again run far. Good God, how much had Punto offered for him?

  No one charged the mountain trail, so Logan took time to get his telescope. More riders reached the base of the trail while he made the short trip to his saddle, but the main body was still well out. Logan examined them with care. Vaqueros, he decided. Simple cowboys lured by an offer of money. That did not make them less deadly, and they were not ruining their horses simply to capture him. The one who had emptied his rifle at Logan’s back sure as hell meant to kill.

  Well behind, a smaller group of riders turned off to climb the first trail. Good, those men would be out of whatever action followed.

  Logan decided that resting his horse now would prove more valuable than attempting to gain a mile or two on his pursuers. He would rest here at the summit, protect the pass, and let the daylight bleed away. He stayed low, letting the posse wonder if he waited in ambush. If riders attempted the steep trail he would stop them, but each moment gained was to his advantage.

  Josh Logan had never seen such run out horses. In the desert country horses barely sweat because the moisture dried almost as it appeared, but the animals he saw below were mouth-rimed and their flanks were salt-caked. It the riders were not extremely careful, many of the horses would be broken and their value and usefulness burned away.

  Logan’s telescope showed vigorous arm gesticulating. Obviously a heated argument was developing. He hoped they argued until dark. If they did, he could probably slip away into the mountains and by traveling most of the night make pursuit improbable.

  He searched faces hoping to discover Punto among the bunched riders, if he had been present, Logan would have dropped him in his tracks, but the outlaw was not there. Logan was not surprised. The raider would never again knowingly place himself within easy range of Dark Shadow's rifle.

  Below, a decision was reached, and one of the first riders on the scene climbed onto his horse and attempted to goad the animal up the mountain pass. The horse refused with stubbornness worthy of a mule. Angrily, the horseman dismounted and viciously kicked the exhausted beast in its sagging belly.

  Logan supposed that killing a man for horse kicking was not the right thing to do, but if someone charged the mountain, and he had to shoot, Josh Logan hoped it would be the horse kicker.

  Although they had run him hard, Logan still hoped to avoid shooting any of the posse. These men were nothing to him. That they were lured into the chase by money was unfortunate, and he would prefer that they simply went away to live and ride another day.

  There was more arguing, but a large contingent abruptly broke away and began to walk and trot their weary beasts north. Logan judged they were heading for the next trail into the mountains. He had to agree that the solution was the most practical. There was no way that he could cover both paths, and he would have to flee before any of the riders topped out. Below him the dismounted rider jerked his rifle from its saddle scabbard and began to climb the trail on foot. The remaining half dozen stood beside their horses and watched their companion's effort.

  Logan let him climb only a short way, then he aimed carefully and fired. The bullet exploded on a large rock directly in front of the climber. The posseman appeared to whirl in midstride, lost his footing and skidded downhill on his face, but he was up in an instant and raced at astonishing speed back down the trail to stand gasping behind the protection of his horse.

  The activity could have been amusing, but there was no humor among the exasperated possemen. There appeared to be more disagreement, then all but the dismounted vaquero swung their horses and following their companions rode north toward the next mountain trail.

  Logan guessed he had a full hour before the tired horses could deliver the posse to the top of the first ridge. Then they would have a few rough miles to backtrack trying to find his trail. He might have longer, but Logan wanted time to fade back into the cuts and canyons and be well along on his escape.

  These were determined hunters, and if their organization was weak and decisions came only after lengthy argument, none had turned back. Logan had counted more than thirty hunters heading north plus the seven or eight that had taken the first path and were for the time being out of the action. That was a huge army to outwit or outfight. Flight was the best solution.

  Logan saddled and returned to the rim to check on his own trail. There was nothing below, but the single horse stood waiting. Where was its rider? Perhaps sitting in shade, just guarding the path?

  The man had been a persistent devil, and Logan wondered about that. A determined climber could make it up the sides of the ridge in many places. To attempt such a climb was lengthy, and with a rifle looking down on him perhaps suicidal. Still... Logan went to look, and around a slight nose that hid him from the path was the posseman, climbing like a goat
almost halfway up the ever steepening mountainside.

  God, the man was insistent. From above, Logan could have killed him with dropped stones, but the climber was getting in ever more dangerous circumstances. The cliff would steepen as he neared the top, and the climber could not see that from below. Worse, he would have difficulty feeling his way back down. When a climber cannot see where his feet have to go, down could be more treacherous than up. Logan smiled, the climber would be on the side of the mountain for longer than he expected.

  Then Logan laughed, belly shaking chuckles of pure satisfaction. He should have seen the opportunity before, but with so many enemies his mind, just as theirs, looked at the situation in expected patterns. The posse’s quarry was fleeing into the mountains. The quicker they moved the shorter the hunt would be, so they went at it. He, the pursued, was expected to run because he could go no other way. Except that—he could.

  He could go back down the path and have an unchallenged escape all the way to the mountains he preferred. He could do that, because in their self-interest no one had stayed to watch the trail. He supposed that the big group assumed the smaller bunch would stay, and the smaller had expected that the single dismounted rider would cover the trail. The cliff climber had not bothered. He no doubt feared missing out on the reward. The trail down the mountain had no one waiting.

  How far across was it? Logan judged that counting necessary angling north he would have to cover fifteen miles. With a worn-out horse and a jaded old rider, the distance was suddenly formidable.

  Still, reaching those mountains could mean safety. There, the posse had no chance to discover his hiding place. Logan judged the time he would need and measured it against the posse's worn condition and the amount of daylight remaining.

  He should wait until the possemen were past the top of their climb and again working south. The path up the mountains would have pulled their spent animals down even more. His own horse, not as tired, and profiting from more than an hour's rest since the climb, would be the best mount out there.

  Logan placed the now distant riders in his telescope. The first were just starting up the mountain path. All except the group that had belatedly abandoned this path were tightly bunched. Logan took a last look at the climber now beginning to search for his handholds and went to his horse.

  He let the animal drink the last of the big canteen’s water, and decided that, if carefully ridden, the horse still had stamina to use. He took the reins in his hand and began the walk down the mountain trail. His hip burned with a new fury, but the pain was lost in the pleasure of winning through. He would walk at least to the flat ground and save his horse for the long crossing.

  Night would catch him still on the flats, and that too was fine. He could locate the distant path up into the mountains on the darkest night, and if he was too closely driven he would use the closer path, the one well south of the Zapata Water. Once the sun set, no one would be able to follow him.

  Punto sat his horse on the crest of the first ridge. He had turned his men aside to climb the first path with the expectation of heading Logan off almost as he gained the summit, but a huge gash in the mountains had stopped them cold. They could not have known, but the frustration turned his mood savage. Logan knew, of course; he had hunted Apaches in these mountains, and he had avoided this trail. Punto damned the Dark Shadow to hell a thousand more times.

  Juan of the one eye pointed into the distant flat land and said, "Logan."

  Punto could not believe it. A single rider was walking his horse to the east, and there was no pursuit. Punto asked, "How in hell . . . Juan are you sure? No one is after him."

  The Yaqui did not bother to answer, and Punto knew it had to be Logan, but how could that mob of vaqueros have passed him, and where were they now?

  Juan pointed again, and there were horsemen spread out in a broad fan riding along the mountain ridge. The fools were on top, and Logan was riding away down below.

  Punto sighed deeply, knowing there was no target for his rage. He led the way back down their steep trail and turned north to meet the posse which he supposed would eventually return to the flat country.

  Logan was heading toward the Zapata Water, and if he was alive, Diego the rat might still be there. If not, others had ridden north during the night. One of them might kill Joshua Logan.

  Sombra Preta, the Dark Shadow, Punto began to hate the name and the man with new intensity.

  15

  Logan took his time coming down from the ridge. He walked ahead of his horse, his Spencer ready, his eyes searching the lower ground. Near the bottom, rocks fell to his left, but he knew they were from the cliff climber's struggles, and he kept looking ahead.

  He had enough time because he wanted the posse to fight their horses back south across the ridge tops before they saw him far out on the plain. The wearier their mounts became the less chance they would continue the pursuit.

  The cliff climber's horse stood where he had left it, and Logan judged that the ridden-out animal had recovered a bit. Logan tied his own horse nearby and saw to the climber's exhausted mount

  Behind the saddle the rider carried a large water gourd that sloshed when Logan cut it free. He slashed the girth letting the saddle fall to the ground and could almost feel the horse’s relief.

  Again using his hat, he watered the horse from the rider's gourd, forcing it to drink slowly by withholding the water after each dozen swallows.

  Again rocks clattered, and this time Logan took a look. Far up the cliff the climber was attempting to position himself to shoot. The vaquero's perch was treacherous, and he was struggling to even raise his gun. Logan snorted to himself. The man should recognize when he was licked.

  Logan stepped to his own animal and unslung the Sharps rifle. He carried it openly to a convenient rock, but before he was in shooting position the climber had realized his error and was frantically gesturing his surrender. Logan signaled for the posseman to throw his rifle away, and when he hesitated, Logan placed his sight on the man's body. Pinned helplessly against the cliff, the climber succumbed, and his weapon came crashing down the cliff face.

  Logan climbed aboard his horse and took the climber's reins in hand. A gentle nudge of his heels started them at a walk, and the posseman's animal marched docilely along. It would not do to let the fool climbing the mountain regain his animal or he might run the mount to death. A half-mile along, Logan gave the horse the last of the gourd water, slipped his bridle, and slapped him into a shambling walk off to a side. With a little luck the horse might never be recovered.

  When he paused to glass the mountains behind, Logan saw some of the posse starting to work their way south along the top of the first cliff. He figured they were out of the race. They had caught up once by riding their mounts into the ground, but they had no chance to do so again.

  Logan rode with some wonder at how everything had reversed for him. At morning light he had been in hope of shooting Punto from his saddle and possibly another one or two of the remaining raiders. That would have finished it, and he would have survived after all. Instead, he was on the run with dozens of relentless hunters on his trail.

  His mule and most of his supplies were gone and his horse was worn-out. In fact, he was worn-out. His hip ached worse than it ever had, and his muscles trembled with fatigue from strains unlike any he had placed on himself in a dozen years. He had actually trotted, and he had forced himself up the mountain trail as if he had been a young man. Astounding, but he would pay for it. For days he would be lame and weakened, and he would be continually tired. Yet, if he could reach his mountains and gain a pair of miles into them, he could rest in safety as perfect as he could have desired.

  When he judged a mile had been ridden, Logan dismounted and led his animal. It was always possible that some riders unnoted could still be on his trail, and he might need hard riding to stay ahead until night hid him. The horse would not be fresh for days, but Logan would reserve what strength the animal still had.
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  Horse and rider trudged the miles away, and their easy pace increased rather than drew down their strength. The sun crawled across the sky, and Logan shared his small canteen with the horse. There was no more water until the Zapata, and Logan dared not approach that stream.

  He toyed with the idea of swinging south when the sun disappeared and slipping into Caliente for resupply and lengthy watering, but that would be toying with fate. A dozen more possemen could be in town and waiting for just such an opportunity.

  His course should be to safety, and if he would be food short for some days so be it. He expected at least the next two light turnings would be spent sleeping anyway.

  Before dark he studied his back trail and there was dust way back, too far back to catch him this day—that was certain. Tomorrow they would be refreshed and again hot on his trail, but unless he had completely lost his senses, his pursuers would search for Josh Logan in vain.

  In full dark, he could still position himself by watching the ridge line against the lighter sky, and only a short distance before reaching the rugged trail into the mountains he halted and made final preparations. He judged it not yet midnight, so he would have hours to clamber up the miserable path and fade into the ancient Apache stronghold.

  Logan stripped the horse of saddle and bridle. There was no water in the mountains for a horse, but in daylight the animal would find its way to the Zapata Water. Left to forage, a horse could sustain itself on the spotty desert growths, and if no one claimed the animal, Logan hoped he might relocate it not too far from the life supporting stream.

  He hid his saddle and bridle behind boulders that had crashed from above, but expected they would be found. He tossed the large and empty canteen farther into the brush in hopes that it might be overlooked.