Novel 1978 - The Proving Trail (v5.0) (28 page)

With all tracks washed out, they were not going to find me unless by accident or the smell of my smoke, and I wanted my coffee enough to take the risk. Brushing off any twigs or leaves I’d picked up, I carefully rolled my blanket and ground-sheet.

It was still raining but it had settled down to a fine, gentle rain. Building up the fire a bit, I warmed the saddle blanket a mite and then saddled up, wiping away most of the water on the roan’s back before I put the blanket on him.

If my friend found me, he was going to have to be good. Still, he would know I was directed to Burro Canyon, and the rest might follow from there. But this was not a much-used trail, and I believed it would drop off to the west and let me down into White Creek or at the head of Echo. I’d never been up this far before. I was a mite southwest of the West Peak of the twins, and they towered above me. The nearest one was over thirteen thousand feet and the other only slightly less. There were several lesser peaks, including Sawtooth, just west of them.

Stepping into the saddle, I turned off along the bench I was on, keeping the aspen between me and the trail below. Now I was through running. They were somewhere about and I meant to find them.

From time to time I paused to listen. Sounds carry well in the mountains, although a peak or a shoulder of mountain can screen them away from a man. Yet I heard nothing.

The trees grew thicker. The bench fed onto a small plateau between West Spanish Peak and the White Peaks. It offered a way north, skirting some slide rock by a very rough route.

Topping out on a low ridge, I pulled up at the edge of the spruce and looked back the way I had come. It was well that I did, for they were there, maybe four or five miles back. Four, I counted, following right along the way I had come. And there very easily could be more of them somewhere around.

Above me loomed the naked rocks of West Spanish Peak, and I sat my saddle, watching them come, only specks along the trail, unrecognizable as anything but men on horseback at this distance. Turning, I glanced up at the peak that towered above me.

This was Huajatolla, the double mountain, often called “the breasts of the world.” There were dozens of legends about them and about their being the home of the highest gods. Years ago pa had told me stories of the gold that was said to have been taken from them by the Aztecs and carried away to Mexico. Legends, or the stuff of legends. If mines there were, they have been long since covered by slides. Sun worshipers were rumored to have had a temple on the eastern peak.

Wind ran a ripple through the aspen just below me, moving across them like a small wave in a sea. The rain had stopped. Here and there the sun threw a shaft of light down from the clouds.

On my left staggered platoons of spruce advanced up the steep sides of the West Peak, platoons broken by inroads of slide rock weathered from off the peak. Here and there pockets of snow remained clinging to shadowed places. The pass swung westward here to descend to White Creek, but I turned north, planning to cut over to the head of Echo. And then I saw the knoll.

It was low, covered with spruce, some of them fallen across and among some moss-covered boulders. Long ago someone, Indian or white, had camped there, for a little circle of blackened stones indicated where fires had been. Behind it on the slope there was grass, then scattered spruce, and a dim trail through the spruce seemed to point toward Echo Creek. Riding up the knoll, I turned in the saddle and looked back down the trail. From this spot one had a perfect field of fire.

Dismounting, I led the horses back to that grassy slope and picketed them there. Taking my Winchester, I walked back to the rocks and brush atop the knoll and sat down in a comfortable place.

I was tired of running, tired of wondering what came next, ready for a showdown. They were many and I was one, but before this day was over, I told myself, I’d lessen the odds.

Warm sunlight came through the broken clouds. Far-off rain still obscured the distance. I nibbled at a cracker, and a curious whiskey-jack hopped close, watching for crumbs. Breaking off a piece, I tossed it to him, and he accepted it quickly and hopped nearer, either trusting too much or secure in his ability to fly quickly up and away.

They were closer now, coming on without seeming to worry, sure no doubt that I was still running. The rifle felt good in my hands, my position was excellent, and I had a getaway route at the back. Nor was the knoll isolated. If need be, I could move to either direction under partial cover.

My shoulder was still stiff and I moved carefully, sparing it. Good health, natural strength, and the clean, fresh air of the mountain country healed wounds quickly. I took a sight on a turn in the trail. It was a good four hundred yards off. To the right of it a splash of scarlet gilia ran down the slope, the flowers red as blood.

Pushing my hat back on my head, I placed my rifle on the tree trunk I intended using for a rest and got out another cracker, sharing it with the whiskey-jack.

How did a man feel, living his last hours? Was I, now? The air was fresh off the peaks, cool with a chill of snow and the icy cold that was up there, only a couple of thousand feet above me.

A bird flew up down by the trail, and the first rider appeared. They were hunting me and they had shown they would kill without hesitation, so I shot him.

My sight was purposely low, for they were coming up the mountain, but my bullet went where intended, a flickering light on his vest, a medallion, perhaps, or a gold nugget on his watch chain.

He must have convulsed at the moment the bullet hit him, spurring his horse by accident, for the gray horse leaped forward, the rider swaying loosely in the saddle, then falling.

He toppled from the saddle, hitting hard beside the trail, falling in that splash of gilia while the gray horse came running on up the slope and past me, stirrups flopping.

The rifle shot slapped against the rocky peaks and echoed off down the canyons, and then it was still. The whiskey-jack rustled impatiently among the leaves, and far overhead an eagle soared.

My eyes went from the trail, where the others might appear, to the fallen man. A man shot so is rarely killed at once but dies slowly, yet to aim at a man’s head when the body presents so much the better target was foolhardy. There was no movement. Either the fallen man was still in shock, was shot through the spine, or was lying still to deceive me. In any case, I remained where I was.

For a long time nothing happened. Yet I was wary. Perhaps they were talking over their next move, yet perhaps one of them had already gone to the ground and was now trying to encircle me. If so, he had several bare or almost bare patches of ground to cover, of which I had already taken note.

The sun was warm and comfortable. On the trail below nothing moved, but I was not deceived. They were somewhere along that slope, edging toward me no doubt, watching for a shot. Carefully I eased myself further down behind the logs for better protection.

Another man gone. Was anything worth the death of so many strong men? They could draw off…I could not. I had only myself on whom to depend, and it was I they were trying to kill, so I had no choice but to fight. If they were to pull off now, it would be the end of it as far as I was concerned, but beyond this point I was not going to run. No longer could I stand to live with death hanging over me and about me.

Suddenly a flicker of movement caught my eye, and a man darted from behind some rocks and ran for cover. Briefly he was in full view, but it would have been a scratch shot and I did not fire.

Then there was a time of waiting. Soon that man would have to move, and when he went for the next cover, he would be in the open for a good thirty steps, time enough and more.

Uneasily, I looked all around. It was too quiet. A glance at my horses, and they were cropping placidly at the grass. Suddenly I had an urge to get out, to get on my horse and get out, as fast as I could.

Moving along deeper into the grove, I took another careful look around. Of one thing I could be sure. They were neither the kind of men to quit nor the kind to sit waiting, so I knew that somewhere, somehow they were moving, trying to get to me or get around me.

Worried now, I swept the slopes of West Spanish Peak but saw nothing.

Turning swiftly, I went back through the trees overlooking the meadow where the horses were. I started to step out and go to them, but hesitated. Softly I called. The roan looked up and took a couple of steps toward me, and I called again. He took a bite of grass and drifted my way, the other horse following. When they were near, I spoke softly again. “Come on, boy, right over here.”

He came, taking his time, ears pricked, yet playing a game with me. He was not going to make it easy. He would have to be coaxed a little. Again I spoke, more softly, and he took a step toward me, then another.

Glancing back along the trail, I saw nothing. Carefully I scanned the slope that rose on the east. Nothing. Westward the ground fell away toward Sawtooth and the canyon of Chaparral Creek. There was a trail a mile or two west that dropped off toward the Cucharas River. The other trail, along which I had come and which led past my temporary base, led northward and then dropped off into Echo Canyon. To the eastward, which was on my left, there were patches of slide rock in among the trees. Timberline here was about eleven thousand feet, I figured. Judging by the plant growth, I was a mite below ten thousand feet.

Nothing stirred.

Worried, I moved up a little, keeping low to the ground. They weren’t just setting there waiting for me. They were the hunters and I the hunted, and they were coming at me from somewhere. Higher up on my left those patches of slide rock left them open spaces to cross, and that slide rock could sound like a lot of bottles rattling against each other when you crossed it. From my right they had to come up slope through the trees to get at me.

My position was good, but I didn’t like it. I never liked being stalked. A cool wind came down off the West Spanish Peak, and overhead a lone buzzard swung lazily down the sky, then hovered over the trail to the south. That man I’d shot…well, that was three of them gone.

I wondered if Yant was out there. Elias surely was. And suddenly I realized they were in no hurry. They had me. No doubt even now they were moving to get behind me, to hold me here until I was dead.

They knew I could shoot. They knew now that I wasn’t going to be easy, and they also knew that they could not afford to lose more men.

Again I looked around, trying to imagine how they planned to come at me, but I could see no way. My position, such as it was, was good.

To hell with them! I wanted some coffee and I was going to have it. Snuggling close under a spruce with low-hanging boughs, I built a small fire, never taking my eyes from my surroundings for more than an instant and always ready to catch any movement from the corners of my eyes. The rising smoke would dissipate itself upon the spruce boughs. They would smell smoke and wonder.

For the first time the thought came to me that I might not get out of this alive. In the rush of action there is small time for thought. Now there was. These people wanted me dead, and they had killed before this. They were out there, how many I did not know. There might be four, and there could be a dozen. I put the coffeepot on the fire. Then I smiled to myself. They would smell the coffee and they would wonder.

Felix Yant would like that touch. He had enough of a sense of irony to appreciate it, and it would make them think I was not afraid.

Was I afraid? Yes, I guess I was. I was scared to death.

“Kearney?” The call was low, a woman’s voice. “Kearney, come here, I want to talk to you…alone.”

I’ll just bet she did.

“Kearney? We haven’t had any trouble, you and I, and we mustn’t have any. Why don’t we just ride out of here? Just you and me?”

Reminded me of that story pa used to tell me about Ulysses putting wax in the ears of his crew whilst he had himself tied to the mast so’s he could hear the song of the sirens. Only I didn’t need any wax. I recalled that brad loaded with sticky poison and left in my boot.

So I sat right still and said nothing at all. Yant, I knew, was an impatient man. I hoped the others were, too. What was the name of the one I’d been warned was most dangerous? Vrydag, Joseph Vrydag. I wondered if he was out there.

That was the trouble. I was alone and there were several of them, all of them shrewd, conniving people.

Were they waiting for dark? Hoping I’d try to get away? The little knoll on which I’d taken refuge was only a few feet higher than the country close around me and covered not over a third of an acre, if so much. There was a tight grove of trees, mostly spruce, and some boulders, several of them waist-high. There was considerable brush. The chance that they could hit me by just shooting into the area was a hundred to one or better.

Going out of here, my only way was north, but I’d heard much talk of this area and knew from that and my own experience that there were three ways I could take. Due west past Sawtooth there was a trail into Chaparral Canyon and down to the Cucharas. Right behind me was the trail down Wade Canyon and another that branched off it and led to Echo Canyon.

Trouble was, I was sore. I was tired of running and ready for a showdown. Or so I told myself. Probably I was a damned fool, seeking a showdown when there were so many against me. So far I’d been lucky, too lucky for it to last.