Treasure Mountain s-17 Page 15

  Somewhere an owl spoke his question to the evening, and the aspen leaves hung as still as you'll ever see them, for they move most of the time.

  It was a mighty fine thing setting there getting the feel of the night, a kind of stillness like you never felt anywhere else but in the far-off wilderness.

  There was no vanity here, nor greed, there was only a kind of quietness, and the thought came upon me that maybe this was how pa wanted to go, out on some rocky ledge with the whole world falling away before him, a gun in his hand, or a knife--the love of the world in his guts and the going out of it like an old wolf goes, teeth bared to his enemies.

  I never was much to mind where my bones would lie once the good Lord had taken my soul. I had a feeling maybe I'd like to leave myself upon the mountains, my spirit free to lean against the wind.

  Death never spent time in my thoughts, for where a man is there is no death, and when death is there a man is gone, or the image of him. Sometimes I think a man walks many lives like he does trails. I recall a man in a cow camp who was a-reading to us about some old battle the Greeks had fought a time long ago, and suddenly I was all asweat and my breath was coming hard, and I could feel a knife turning in my guts.

  The man looked at me and lowered the book and said, "I did not know I read so well, Sackett."

  "You read mighty well," I said. "It's like I was there."

  "Maybe you were, Tell, maybe you were."

  Well, I don't know about that, but the shadows came down the canyon and the trees lost themselves in it, crowding all together until they were like one big darkness.

  And then I heard in the darkness a faint chink of metal on stone.

  So ... after all, I was not alone. Something, somebody was out there.

  The butt of my gun felt cool in my fist. I did not draw my piece; I just sat there, listening. There was no further sound, and, softly as a cat walks, I went from there and back to my camp.

  My fire was down to coals.

  I brought the horses in closer, picketing one on either side of me, and then I went to sleep. Nothing, man or beast, would come near without a warning from them, and I was a light sleeper.

  Once, in the night, awakened by some small sound, I lay for a time. Overhead I saw a great horned owl go sweeping down some mysterious channel of the night, piloted by I know not what lust, what urge, what hidden drive. Was it simply that, like me, he loved the forest night and liked to curve his velvety paths among the dark columns of the spruce?

  I am one with these creatures of the night and of the high places. Like them I love the coolness, the nearness of the stars, the sudden outthrusts of rock that fall off into the unbelievable vastness below.

  Like them, sometimes I think I have no sense of time, no knowledge of years, only the changing of seasons but not the counting of them.

  And then I was asleep again and awake with the faint grayness of the morning.

  Out of the blankets, I glanced at the dead coals. No fire this morning, no smell of smoke for them if they hadn't got the smell last night. Hat on first, like any good cowhand, then boots, and then the easy, practiced flip of the gun belt about my waist. Stamping to settle feet into boots, saddling up, loading the gear without sound, spreading the fire. It had left no coals, burning down to the softest of gray ashes.

  A few minutes to smooth out the earth where my boots left tracks, a scuffing up of trampled grass. A good tracker would know there'd been a camp, but time would be needed to tell who was there or how many. In the saddle then, and riding between the trees to the north.

  Where Heffernan Gulch came into Junction Creek there was a bend in the canyon of Junction that shielded me from downstream observation, so I took advantage to find my way across Junction and up the trail along Heffernan Gulch.

  Almost at once I saw it. A deep cut in an aspen, a notch cut with an axe--not a blaze--pa never liked the glaring white of a new blaze. "If you want to follow my trail, boy," he used to tell me, "you've got to look sharp."

  It was his notch, and to make it sure, another one fifty feet along, "All right, Ap," I said, "this is the trail. This is the one we've been looking for."

  Ap's ears flickered around, then ahead, pricked, interested. We walked on.

  Occasionally I glanced back. As far as I could see there was nothing. Yet what might be sheltered under those trees?

  There was one more notch on that trail, and I came near to missing it. The tree was big and old, a spruce, and it was tumbled on its side at the trail's edge. A casual glance caught the old notch there ... and after that there were no more trees.

  The trail showed no recent signs of use. Rocks had rumbled down from the face of the mountain, but there had been no big slides. The appaloosa picked his way delicately over the fallen rock, the buckskin following.

  The trail grew steeper. Far above I could see the outer rim of the cirque that was Cumberland Basin. Above me loomed Snowstorm Peak, more than twelve thousand feet high, and before me and on my left was Cumberland Mountain, nearly as high.

  Both mountains were bare and cold, towering a thousand feet above timberline, their flanks still flecked with patches of snow or long streamers of it that lay in crevices or cracks.

  Turning up the collar of my jacket, I hunched my shoulders against the cold wind. The trail was narrow, a drop of hundreds of feet if a hoof should slip.

  Here and there were patches of ice--dark, old ice, and old snow as well.

  In places, my knee rubbed the inner wall of rocks. Further along, the mountain slanted steeply away, but here it fell sheer from the trail to a long, steep talus slope that ended finally in the tree line, a ragged rank of stiff and noble trees making a bold stand against the destruction that hung over them.

  Glancing back, I caught a movement. A rider came out of the trees far below me, and then another and another.

  They didn't look familiar, and neither did their horses. With my field glasses I could have recognized them, but what was the point? When they caught up, if they did, they would make themselves known, and they'd have a chance to get acquainted with me, too.

  Seems to me folks waste a sight of time crossing bridges before they get to them. They clutter their minds with odds and ends that interfere with clear thinking.

  Those folks were certainly following me, and it was equally certain they were none of my people. When they caught up there'd likely be trouble, but I wasn't going out hunting it. I was looking for signs of pa.

  Far and away on my right lay a vast and tumbled mass of distant peaks and forest, bare rock shoved up here and there, high mountain parks and meadows ... magnificent country. Overhead, the sky was impossibly blue and dotted with those white fluffs of cloud that seemed always to float over the La Platas and the San Juans. Trouble coming or not, this was great country, a man's country.

  The trail took a turn and I lost sight of them below. Alongside the trail there was a beautiful little patch of blue, like a chunk of the sky had floated down to rest on that frost-shattered rock and gravel beside the trail--it was some alpine forget-me-not. Down the steep slope where a fallen man or horse would roll and tumble for seven or eight hundred feet, I could see the bright gold of avalanche lilies here and there.

  The last few yards was a scramble, but Ap was a mountain horse and the buckskin seemed content to follow any place Ap would go. When we topped out on the rim there was a view you wouldn't believe. Down below us was a huge basin, one side opening and spilling down into La Plata Canyon. There was another vast glacial gouge on my left, and ahead of me I could see the thread of that high, indent trail winding its way--across the country, a thin thread through the green of the high grass that was flecked with wild flowers of every description.

  All around were vast and tumbled mountains. I was twelve thousand feet above sea level. Far off to the north I could see the great shaft of the Lizard Head and get a glimpse of Engineer Mountain, and off to the east were the Needles, White Dome, Storm King, and what might be the Rio Grande Pyr
amid, near which the Rio Grande rises. It was the kind of view that leaves a man with a feeling of magnificence, but there just ain't words to cover it.

  Old Ap, he seemed happy on that high place, too, but he snorted a little when I started him down the thread of trail that led through the gravel and the frost-shattered rocks on the inside of the cirque.

  It was like going down the inside of a volcanic crater, only there was a meadow at the bottom and no fires.

  The man lying under the spruce had been there since shortly after daylight. He had a Sharps rifle, one of the best long-range weapons there is, and he had a natural rest across the top of a fallen tree. His view of the trail down the inside of the rim was clear and perfect, and when he saw Tell Sackett top the rim he was pleased. This was going to be the easiest hundred dollars he had ever earned--and it surely beat punching cows.

  He was a dead shot, a painstaking man with a natural affinity for weapons and a particular ease with rifles. He let Sackett come on, shortening the distance for him.

  He picked his spot, a place where the steepness of the trail seemed to level off for a few feet. When Sackett reached there, he would take him. The range was roughly four hundred yards--possibly a bit over. He had killed elk at that distance, and kills had been scored with a Sharps at upwards of a thousand yards.

  He sighted, waited a little, then sighted again. About twenty yards now ... he settled himself into the dirt, firmed his position. Sackett was a salty customer, it was said. Well, soon he'd be a salted customer.

  He looked again, sighted on a spot below the shoulder and in a mite toward the chest, took a long breath, eased it out, and squeezed off his shot.

  The best laid plans of mice and men often seem to be the toys of fate. The marksman had figured on everything that could be figured. His distance, the timing, the fact that the rider was at least a hundred and fifty feet higher than himself. He was a good shot and he had thought of it all.

  He had the rider dead in his sights, and a moment after the squeeze of the trigger William Tell Sackett should have been bloody and dead on the trail.

  The trouble was in the trail itself.

  At some time in the not too distant past, nature had taken a hand in the game, and in a playful moment had trickled a small avalanche off the rim, down the slope, and across the trail. In so doing it left a gouge in the trail that was about a foot deep.

  As the marksman squeezed off his shot, the appaloosa stepped down into that gully. The drop--as well as the lurch in the saddle that followed--was just enough. The bullet intended for Tell's chest nicked the top of his ear.

  The sting on my ear, the flash of the rifle, and the boom that followed seemed to come all at once, and whatever else pa taught us boys he taught us not to set up there and make a target of yourself.

  Now it was a good hundred and fifty yards to the foot of the trail and every yard of it was bare slope where I'd stand out like a whiskey nose at a teetotalers' picnic. So I just never gave it a thought, there wasn't time for it. I just flung myself out of that saddle, latching onto my Winchester as I kicked loose and let go. I hit that slope on my shoulder, like I'd planned, rolled over and over, and came up at the base of the slope with my rifle still in my hands and a mad coming up in me.

  Nobody needed to tell me that anybody shooting at me now had been posted and waiting for me. This was some sure-thing killer out scalp hunting, and I have a kind of feeling against being shot at by strangers. Least a man can do is introduce himself.

  When I reached the bottom of that slope I had a second boom ringing in my ears, but that shot--it sounded like a Sharps buffalo gun so he must have reloaded fast--had missed complete. Nonetheless the thing to do at such a time is be someplace else, so I rolled over in the grass, hit a low spot, and scrambled on knees and elbows, rifle across my forearms, to put some distance from where I fell.

  Chances were nine out of ten he figured he'd got me with the first shot, because I fell right then. Chances also were he'd wait a bit and if I didn't get up he'd come scouting for the body, and I meant to be damned sure he found one ... his.

  Ap had stopped only a moment. That was a right sensible horse and he knew he had no business up there on that bare slope, so he trotted along to the bottom. The buckskin stayed right with him, the lead rope still snubbed to the saddle horn.

  I was going to need those horses so I kept an eye on them. Pretty soon they began to feed on the meadow.

  When I'd scrambled fifty yards or so, I was behind a kind of low dome, maybe some dirt pushed up by the last small glacier when it slid off the walls and pushed along the bottom of the cirque.

  My ear was bleeding and it stung like crazy, and that kind of riled me, too.

  That man over yonder sure had a lot to answer for.

  Careful to keep my rifle down so the sun wouldn't gleam on it, I edged along that earth dome until I was on the far shoulder of it. Then I chanced a look toward those spruce trees where the shot had come from.

  Nothing.

  Minutes passed. About that time a thought occurred to me that had me sweating.

  Those folks coming up the trail back of the mountain would be topping out on the crest and looking down into that basin. Now while that sport over yonder with the Sharps couldn't see me--at least I hoped he couldn't--I'd be wide open and in the clear for those people when they topped out on the rim.

  They'd have me from both sides and I'd be a dead coon.

  I've been shot at now and again, and I've taken some lead here and there, but I never cared for it much. To tell you the truth, I'd as leave let it lay. There's something mighty disconcerting about a bullet in the brisket ... lead sets heavy on the stomach.

  The trouble was I'd about run out of places to go. From here on, I was in the open unless I could squeeze right into the ground. Nowhere could I see more than two or three inches of cover, and I was going to want more--a whole lot more.

  One thing I did know. If those people topped out on that rise and raised a gun at me, they were going to find it was an uncomfortable place to be. Because I was going to start shooting, and their horses would come down off that rim one way or the other, probably running and buck-jumping.

  Of a sudden I heard a faint stir, and I turned very carefully.

  A man, rifle held in his hands ready for use, was standing just in front of the spruce trees. He was standing stockstill and he was listening.

  I eased my rifle forward and waited. The man stood there, took a couple of steps forward, and stopped again. From where I'd fallen when he fired he would be merged against that spruce background and not easily seen; from where I now lay he was outlined stark and clear. He took another step forward, and then one of the riders topping the ridge evidently got a glimpse of me. He up with his rifle and let drive, and I shot at the man by the spruce trees.

  I left the ground in a diving run. I had no hopes of scoring a good hit, but the bullet turned him. As I had run to his right, which meant he had to swing toward the hard side, he missed his shot at me. I went into some hummocks of grass and rubble, rolled over three times, and took another diving run into the woods.

  Turning, I shot three times at the bunch on the ridge as fast as I could work the lever on the Winchester. I was shooting at a target seven or eight hundred feet higher and some distance off, but the bullets lit among them.

  Like I figured, it blew things all to bloody hell. One of those horses jumped right straight out ahead of him, hit that slope on all fours, went to his knees, throwing his rider, and, still sliding, scrambled up and made it to the bottom.

  Another of the horses came down the slope on that narrow path hellbent for election with the rider hanging on with both hands. The horse hit the bottom of the trail and stopped short, and the rider went right on over his head. He hit hard, got up, and fell over.

  The other two who had been up there disappeared down the other side. I kept on moving. Somewhere in this same patch of woods was that killer who had come close to notching my skull a f
ew minutes back.

  If I'd put a bullet in him, I'd be lucky, but I might just have burned him or his rifle or hit near him. Any one of those things can make a man jump.

  I lit out at a run along the slope, keeping into the trees. Mostly I went downhill because that was the easiest way to go. Then I slowed down and worked my way along the slope to get to where Ap was feeding.

  There were dips and hollows in the land, brush and trees here and there, but mostly just grass and flowers. The rim of the cirque was just over yonder, so I went that way, doing the Injun in the grass, snaking along when necessary, running when I could.

  At that altitude, even if you're used to it as I was, you just don't do much running. Finally I hunkered down between three thick-boled old spruce and waited, catching my breath and trying to see where they were located.

  My horses were grazing about a hundred yards off, and one of theirs, his saddle under his belly, stood spraddle-legged about that same distance away but closer to where they must be.

  Having a moment to spare, I fed some shells into my rifle and held my place. At least two of them had reached the bottom, and one was in no shape for action, judging by the tumble taken. One of them was out in front of me somewhere and so was the one who first shot at me.

  Time dragged by slowly. Shadows began to gather . In the basin. On the rim there was golden sunlight, and there was a pinkish tinge to the clouds. Out over the basin, somebody called ... it sounded like a woman, but that couldn't be.

  Looking toward my horses, I decided to try for them. I went forward, keeping to the deepest grass and wild flowers, some of which were almost waist-high.

  No telling who they were out there. Andre Baston and Hippo Swan? Probably. But they had started one bunch of killers after me a good while back, and they'd surely not hesitate to try again. Killing was something you could buy cheap, these days. The chances of being charged with a killing out here were slight.

  Many men went west, many never came back, and few questions were asked.