A Study in Revenge (33 page)

“Yes,” the chief said.

“Not to make you reconsider your decision to leave me unharmed, but after this is done and you march me down the mountain at gunpoint, what’s to keep me from climbing up again tomorrow to take the stone back? Or even if I never returned, the next person up the mountain, white or Abenaki, is going to see the stone and think it would make a fabulous keepsake.”

“I don’t mean to leave the stone in plain sight. I will bury it. And in the night Pamola will come and take the offering and carry it back with him into the heart of the mountain.”

Grey remained silent for a moment, considering the chief’s explanation and waiting to hear if there was any more to the plan. When nothing more was offered, Grey said, “I see. Hide it beneath a few loose rocks and it will remain safe forever. A foolproof plan.”

“You have learned the white man’s way of closing your eyes and your heart to anything but that which you can see and touch, measure in weights and scales, and put a price on. I won’t waste my breath trying to convince you otherwise. I have long since learned that’s a fool’s chase.”

Chief Jefferson finished applying the ceremonial mask of red and black dyes. He stripped off his deerskin shirt, revealing a torso that was still muscular for a man of his age. He began applying the dyes to his body, making several various patterns and animal shapes.

Grey smelled different herb-tinged fragrances wafting past him from the fire. He heard Chief Jefferson’s high, clear voice, then the lower rumbling sound of Louis as he joined the chanting. It was a prayer of offering to the Great Spirit and the storm god, Pamola. Grey could follow most of the words, but he tried to put the chanting out of his mind. His two captors were distracted. He tried shifting his tied wrists back and forth in an effort to fray the cord, but there wasn’t enough slack in the rope.

While he worked, his eyes scanned to his left, back down his earlier path to the summit. It had the advantage of familiarity if he were able to untie himself and somehow grab the thunderstone before making a dash for freedom. On the other hand, the long downhill stretch would leave him unprotected against any attack coming from above and behind. Plus, unless he could disarm the Abenaki men, an escape in that direction would mean a footrace. He was younger than his captors, but perhaps they were more accustomed to strenuous climbs. Their legs might not be as sore and tired as Grey’s were from his ascent. His eyes went right, out past where Chief Jefferson was conducting his incantations. There the ridge led toward a treacherous crossing over the thin, rocky ridge known as the Knife Edge.

The trip north had provided ample time for Grey to read up on
various accounts of Katahdin. None of these ever failed to mention, in the most respectful tones, the Knife Edge. A mile long and a mere two or three feet wide in spots, the crossing was not for the faint of heart, or even the brave when strong winds or poor weather kicked up. That direction was unappealing, but it might provide the best chance of escape. The crossing would require each man’s full attention. If Grey could get a hold of the thunderstone and reach the Knife Edge, he would have a chance of putting space between himself and his pursuers. The terrain there was treacherous enough that they would be preoccupied with their own safety and unlikely to be firing a rifle at him. Besides which, if they did shoot, Grey would tumble off the side and fall thousands of feet to his death with the thunderstone in his arms. Then the stone truly would remain on the mountain for all time, but Chief Jefferson would never be able to complete his ceremony.

Grey kept his wrists moving back and forth. The rope was snagging on the rock behind him, but he couldn’t feel any lessening of the tension. He leaned forward and bowed his head toward his knees, trying to put more pressure on the bindings behind his back.

The sharp report of a gunshot rang out clear in the thin mountain air. He thought it came from his left and slightly behind him, though it was hard to be sure in the open space and with the echoes and reverberations cast by the various rock outcroppings. He looked in the suspected direction. Two hundred yards off, he saw a thin puff of smoke.

Back to his right, he heard a short, inarticulate cry from Chief Jefferson. Grey’s head whipped around in time to see Louis crumple to the ground. A faint mist of blood droplets hung in the air where the man’s head had been a second earlier. As the short man’s limp body sank into place among the uneven rocks, Grey’s eyes settled on the ragged bullet hole in his forehead.

G
REY TWISTED HIS BODY, ANGLING AWAY FROM THE DIRECTION
of the shot to get the majority of his vital organs behind his rock. His bound wrists held him in check, leaving some of his limbs exposed. Chief Jefferson stared dumbly at the sight of Louis sprawled before him. He stumbled back a step, and a second bullet passed by. The chief flung himself to the ground behind a low wall of granite.

“Untie me, you idiot!” Grey shouted.

Chief Jefferson stared back at him, a blank look of shock on his face. Another bullet rang off the edge of the rock shelf behind which the chief crouched. The noise seemed to stir him back to the moment.

“How do I know he isn’t with you?”

“Yes, of course. That’s why he let your man sneak up and disarm me. We wanted to lull you into a false sense of security.”

“If he’s not with you, why’s he only shooting at me?” the chief asked.

“Because I’m tied up. He can kill me at his leisure once you’re dead.”

Chief Jefferson glanced around, looking for anything that might save him. He saw Louis’s hunting rifle leaning against the rock and within reach. He snatched it and checked that the weapon was ready to fire. After taking a moment to collect himself, the chief peeked out to get a look at the shooter’s location. Another incoming round forced him to duck back.

“Think of it this way—untie me and he’ll have two targets to shoot at.” Grey tried to keep the urgency in his voice from bubbling over; he needed to keep the chief reasonably calm under the circumstances. “You’re only half as likely to get killed on any given shot. Doesn’t that sound nice?”

Chief Jefferson ignored Grey and focused on his aim. He stared down the barrel, waiting for what felt like an endless stream of seconds
to trail by. Finally he pulled the trigger and his head bobbed to the side, peering past the discharged smoke to see his target.

“Damn,” he hissed.

“He had time to choose his spot,” Grey explained. “Sheltered and with good visibility. Given the distance, and the hole in Louis’s brain, I’d say he’s an expert marksman, probably using a telescopic sight. You have a Trapdoor Springfield ’73, single-shot. I suspect he’s armed himself with a high-grade sniper rifle. He likely has an impressive quantity of ammunition. How many rounds did Louis bother to shove into his shirt pocket today?”

The truth of his ammunition problem landed on the chief’s face like a pile of rocks. He threw a desperate glance at his dead friend, as if he’d hoped that somehow his memory from the past two minutes had been false and the body was actually located within arm’s reach. Chief Jefferson set his hunting rifle against the ledge that shielded him. He got his feet steady beneath him and leaned forward in his crouch. One more look over the rock at the unknown shooter, a deep breath, and he pounced.

He landed, bounded forward once more, and reached Louis’s sprawled body. His hand darted into the breast pocket of the dead man’s shirt but came up empty. He didn’t have time to search Louis, so he reached across the body, grabbed hold of it by the shoulders, and yanked, trying to draw the body to shelter. The deadweight, angled away from him and draped awkwardly across the jutting rocks, was too much. The chief’s own frame remained fixed in place as he struggled with Louis’s lifeless husk. The pause was enough for the gunman. A bullet ripped through Jefferson’s left arm, just below his shoulder, taking a chunk of flesh with it.

The chief screamed as he fell off to the side and instinctively thrust his body back to the shelter of the rocks. A sheet of blood ran down his arm. He studied the wound a second before glancing back to the thunderstone and the small ceremonial fire he’d lit there. Keeping low, he moved in that direction.

“Where are you going?” Grey asked.

“Got to stop the blood loss,” the chief hissed back at him.

He reached the fire and pulled out a burning stick. The chief whacked the stick against the rock to extinguish the small flames and then pressed
it lengthwise against the bloody line of exposed flesh left by the bullet. Chief Jefferson gave an impressive display of stoicism, managing to stifle any sounds for upwards of two seconds. When the noise came, it was more of an angry roar than a pained scream. He cast the stick away and fished a handkerchief out from his trouser pocket. Using his teeth and his right hand, he managed to tie it slackly around his wound.

“For the last time—cut me loose! Before you pass out from pain and he moves in for the kill.”

To the extent that any internal debate still waged on, it was brief. Chief Jefferson took his knife in hand and readied himself for another leap. Ten feet separated him from the rock that held Grey bound in place. He leaped. A half second later came the report of the sniper’s rifle, but the shot never stood a chance. Chief Jefferson hunched down, making himself as narrow as possible behind Grey’s rock. Two more shots rang out while the chief slashed at the length of rope that wrapped around the boulder. One bullet sailed overhead, while the other smashed into the rock and sprayed dust over the two men.

Chief Jefferson, a bit too eager to regain cover, leaped back toward his former position without having fully cut through the last few strands of the rope. Grey had to give several forceful jerks of his body to snap the cord. He turned around so that his face was pressed to the rock as he slipped his wrists free and got his legs under him. He’d been tied in an awkward sitting position too long and wanted to get his circulation going again before he made any sudden movements.

The shooter must have sensed the standstill and taken advantage to rush ahead to a new position twenty yards closer.

“He’s coming,” the chief warned. “We need to do something. Do we split up?”

“No—he has the range to cover us both even if we head in separate directions.” Grey said as he glanced behind him. There was the Knife Edge, the only trail leading off the peak that didn’t lead toward the shooter. The thin ledge, nearly a mile long and with the look of a serrated razor, was still preferable to a sniper’s bullet. A short cloud plume passed above the center of the trail. Several more clouds, low enough to scrape over the Knife Edge, were approaching.

“Put the stone in my sack and toss it to me,” Grey ordered.

“You want to trade it for our lives?”

“He’s already committed murder. He won’t leave two eyewitnesses alive even after he has it. No, we’ll make an attempt across the Knife Edge. You’ve lost blood—I’ll carry the weight.”

The chief paused but saw the sense in it. Staying low to the ground, he made his way back to the thunderstone, placed it in Grey’s satchel, and tossed it over. Grey shoved in the severed length of rope that had previously lashed him to the rock.

“Now my pistol,” Grey said.

“My shooting hand’s still good.”

Grey shook his head, then glanced over his shoulder. The shooter had advanced another twenty-five yards. “He’s getting closer—no time to argue. I’ll fire off two shots as you head down the trail as fast as you can. Our best hope is to put distance behind us, and soon. If we can get out far enough, those approaching clouds will shroud our movements until we’re out of range. The gun.”

The chief tossed the revolver to him.

Grey assumed a prone position and fixed his sight on the shooter’s current rock. “Go!”

Chief Jefferson rushed off in a hunched-over position. The shooter raised his rifle to aim, and Grey fired. The bullet didn’t strike the shooter’s rock, and Grey had no idea of how far he’d missed by, but his effort was enough to force the rifleman to duck. A quick glance behind showed that Chief Jefferson was making himself a hard target as he moved over the thin rock trail in a wobbly motion. Grey hoped this was due to the uneven downsloping terrain and not the man’s loss of blood. In any event, the chief wasn’t gaining distance as quickly as Grey had hoped.

The next time the shooter raised his weapon, Grey rose up off the ground and made a show of firing without actually pulling the trigger. It was enough to cause the shooter to flinch and go for cover, buying the chief a few more precious seconds. The bluff worked only once more before the shooter decided to stay exposed and get a shot off at Grey. After the next shot of his own, Grey turned and bolted ten steps down the trail before dodging behind a granite slab. Rock fragments erupted near him. He made sure the thunderstone was secure in his satchel and
the leather strap firm across his chest and over his shoulder. With a final look toward the sniper, Grey leaped from his cover and bounded down the jagged trail as fast as he dared.

A shot struck fifteen feet below him on the exposed rocks leading sharply down into the southern basin. He couldn’t detect the exact spot where the bullet had landed. Whatever faint scratch it made paled beside the remnants of countless years of lightning strikes, stark gray scars that had exploded upon the face of the cliffs, leaving shattered rocks. Distracted for a moment, Grey glanced down two thousand feet below, noting the still-bleak appearance of the basin pond reflecting back the grim sky overhead. A gust of wind shifted his weight, and Grey dropped to all fours to steady himself. At least the shooter was facing the same unpredictable buffeting winds while trying to gauge each bullet’s course.

Grey got to his feet and scrambled forward. He focused only on each step, the next landing spot, no longer paying any heed to the cliffs built of countless rough slabs and jagged rocks like massive stone fangs rising up to meet him on either side of the Knife Edge. Another minute, and several more rifle shots, passed before he managed to pull up close behind Chief Jefferson. Grey stepped to the side, down from the uppermost layer of rocks. Leaning in sharply to match the angled slope, he negotiated his way past the chief and assumed the lead. He looked back; whoever had been so intent on killing them wasn’t following across the Knife Edge to finish the job.