Flint (1960) (21 page)

Buckdun was accustomed to dealing with the roughest men, with horses and with guns. His few contacts with women had been on a pay-as-you-leave basis, and Lottie Kettleman was a woman from another world.

Like many a lesser man he was conquered by sex. The thought that he should also get the money from Baldwin struck him as eminently practical, and he was amazed that such a pretty little head could think of such a thing.

And now he was here, doing what he did best, stalking a man for the kill.

Flint returned to the hideout and remained there. He slept a lot, drank much beef broth, and cultivated his small garden. He spent a lot of time with his horses, and he broke another of them to ride with no more trouble than had been given him by the red stallion.

Doc McGinnis had told him that rest, freedom from worry, and simple food were the best things for him.

He had always liked reading, and now he had the chance. Usually he took his books to the inner pasture and read, with the horses for company. The weather had grown warmer although the nights were still cool.

On the morning of the fourth day after the shooting in the Divide Saloon he was about to venture out upon the malpais when sunlight winked in his eyes. Turning his head he caught another wink of light from the rim of the mesa. Somebody was up there, probably with field glasses.

He remained absolutely still, knowing that only movement is easily seen, and at such a distance nothing else would reveal his presence.

After several minutes he lowered himself a foot or two then, after a brief wait, dropped back into the basin. It might be that reflected light was not from a field glass, or if so the observer need not be looking for him. But that was not the way to play it. He would assume the worst.

Returning to his seat on the rock he eliminated all from his mind but the problem at hand. If he was being stalked it was because somebody wanted him dead, not an unexpected conclusion in the light of recent events.

The strongest man is he who stands alone. Flint knew he need expect no help from anyone, but then he had never expected help.

From expecting death he had come to want life, and during these past months he had come to a new appreciation of all that was about him, the vast breadth of the Western sky, the warmth of the sun, drifting clouds, the gracefulness of a moving horse.

The strong, fine feel of a gun butt in the hand, the smell of leather, the odor of sage on a hot, still day, the twittering of birds, the crunch of sand under the boots, the cold, wonderful feeling of water in the throat after a long thirst, the way a woman moves when she knows an interesting man is watching, the flight of an eagle against the sky, and storm clouds on a summer day ... these were things he remembered, he felt, things that he had never appreciated until he thought they would soon be taken from him.

Life, he decided, was never a question of accumulating material things, nor in the struggle for reputation, but in the widening and deepening of perception, increasing the sensitivity of the faculties, of an awareness of the world in which one lives.

Living with this new feeling he had for the first time learned to listen. Disturbed by no people he had become aware of the smallest sound upon the lava beds. The falling of a seed pod, the rustling of a pack rat, the rustle of wind in the grass, the creak of expanding or contracting timbers subjected to heat or cold, all these he knew and his mind separated them from any unfamiliar sound.

Living with awareness had enriched his life, but it had also prepared him for the ordeal that lay before him. His eyes learned to know each natural movement, to place each shadow. If he wished to live he must live with a constant awareness of danger.

They would send Buckdun to kill him.

He must remain near the horses, for their perceptions were quicker than his, and their reactions could be a warning.

He began his arrangements at once. At a point well within the entrance passage he rigged a simple deadfall trap with a large slab of rock balanced to fall. With a thin strap of rawhide about a foot above the ground and well hidden in grass and brush, he prepared his trip and trigger.

Then he sat down in the warm sun and built a bow and an arrow, and this he rigged with the arrow directed down the passage, chest high above the ground. Due to the angle he was able to conceal the bow near one wall. Yet such traps had small chance of success against men like Buckdun, and he might decide to come across the lava itself. Making several trips, after it grew dark, he carried gravel from the stream bed and prepared a wide, apparently accidental belt of it on the sides where the hideout bowl could be approached. Anyone crossing that gravel must make a sound that could be heard below.

He did not for a minute doubt that Buckdun would find him.

From the window of the rock house he could see the bowl itself, the entrance, and part of the rim. After a small meal he lay down on his bunk and, with a carefully hooded light, read until he was sleepy.

At daylight he checked his traps, prepared a lunch, and went into the basin where the horses were kept. Lying on the rim of the lava field above the basin, he studied the terrain with care, knowing such knowledge might mean the difference between life and death. Not far away was one of those ugly pits, all of sixty feet deep, the bottom a litter of knife-edged slabs of rock that had been the roof of the blister. A fall into such a place would mean an ugly death -- or eventual starvation.

If it were Buckdun who was stalking him, he would not attempt a shot until reasonably sure of a kill. Flint knew he must appear at odd times or places, establish no system of activity. He settled down to a duel of wits that might last for weeks.

Surprisingly, he found himself filled with zest for the coming trial. Where would Buckdun make his first try? Where would the hunter seek the hunted?

At the creek. Every man needed water, so Buckdun would expect Flint to come to the stream. And that was the one thing he must not do. He would get his water from within the cave, for Buckdun must be led into aggression and not allowed simply to wait. A man who moves is a man who risks, and Buckdun must be forced to stalk.

So began the strange duel that was to end in the death of one man, perhaps of two.

On the third morning after the fight in the Divide Saloon that broke Baldwin's strength in Alamitos, the Kaybar hands had established camp on the old headquarters site, and cleared the charred timbers to rebuild. Ed Flynn, now able to sit up, was directing the construction of temporary quarters.

Short of sundown Buckdun rode into camp.

Nancy Kerrigan stood by the fire where Juana was cooking, and Rockley squatted on his heels drinking coffee. Gaddis had just carried coffee to Flynn, and he stopped beside him and turned to face Buckdun.

"Got you a start," Buckdun indicated the cleared area. "How's chances for coffee?"

" 'Light and set." Nancy used the customary term, but her tone indicated no welcome. "No man was ever turned from Kaybar without a meal."

"Riding through," Buckdun explained, accepting a cup from Juana. Nothing in the camp escaped his eyes, but Nancy was sure it was nothing in camp that brought him here.

"When you have had your coffee," Nancy said, "you can ride on. I don't want you on Kaybar range."

He lifted his cold, bleak eyes to hers. "I have troubled none of your people."

"And you won't. If you are on Kaybar range after daybreak tomorrow you'll be shot on sight. Any rider of mine who sees you and doesn't open fire upon you, or any rider who offers you an even break, will be fired."

"That's hard talk." Buckdun refilled his cup from the pot and looked at her with grudging admiration.

"I'll be careful, ma'am, but believe me, I'm not after your people."

"Did you tell Tom Nugent that?"

His expression did not change. "I never talked to Tom Nugent. I know nothing about him."

Rockley stood up. "Finish your coffee," he said, "and get out."

Buckdun looked at him mildly. "You may come to town some day."

"I'll be there often," Rockley replied, "and if you want it that way we can extend Kaybar range to cover Alamitos and hunt you there."

"If any rider of mine is shot," Nancy added, "we will hunt you down and hang you where we find you. Is that clear?"

"Nothing could be plainer," Buckdun said. He crossed to his horse and stepped into the saddle. He looked down at her, standing straight and lovely beside the campfire. "Ma'am, folks have said disparaging things about lady bosses. I reckon they were wrong. You'll do to ride the river with."

"I doubt if he'll give us trouble," Nancy said when he had ridden away. "But my orders stand."

"He's not just riding," Rockley said, "he's hunting."

A faint dust hung in the air upon the trail where he had gone, and Nancy felt a little shiver.

"He'll get what he goes after," Milt Ryan said.

"He'll kill Flint," Scott said. "You know it's him he's after."

And after that nobody spoke while the shadows gathered and the bats began to appear, circling upon their ceaseless quest for insects in the night air.

Where was he now? Where was Flint?

Nancy walked from the fire and Johnny Otero, with worry in his eyes, watched her go. She paused and looked where the ridges were a dark line against the deep blue where the stars were.

Flint was out there somewhere -- alone.

Chapter
18

It was very hot. The far horizon was piled high with gigantic masses of cumulus, but under the brassy sky the lava was burning to the touch. Buckdun lay in the shade of a stunted pine that grew from a crack in the rock, and watched the stream.

Two days ago he had been confident this would prove a trap for Flint but now he was no longer sure. Obviously there was some other source from which he could obtain water.

Nothing moved but a buzzard against the sun-filled sky. Flint was down there, he was sure. Two days before he found part of a track made by a freshly shod horse in wind-drifted sand near the lava. A few hours later he found the crack that provided access to the hideout, but he was wary of tight places. However, there were tracks within the crack, a number of them.

He must see more of the bowl. Taking his rifle he moved out of the shade. He wore hard-soled Apache-style moccasins and carried an extra pair in his haversack. He also carried jerked meat and a little tea. If necessary he could live for a week on what was in that pack.

Making no more noise than a prowling coyote, Buckdun moved across the lava, his eyes on the rim of the bowl. Eager for a glimpse of the interior, he stepped into the edge of the gravel, and his moccasin grated ever so slightly.

Instantly he was still. He knew the belt of gravel for what it was and swore softly. Lowering himself to a crouch, he remained where he was, listening.

He straightened up finally and took a long step forward to try and clear the gravel. A bullet whipped by his skull. He hit the rock and rolled over and over to get into a crack. He wound up, rifle ready, but panting and genuinely scared.

He waited and listened, but the blue sky drifted with puffballs of cloud and there was no sound beneath it. But that angry, whiplike sound of the bullet and the racketing report remained with him. It was the first time in six years, aside from the ineffectual shots fired by Ed Flynn, that he had been shot at, and he had not even seen where the shot came from.

He waited the afternoon through, knowing Flint would have seen where he went to the ground, and unable to shift his position from lack of nearby cover. Only when darkness came did he move. A tuft of brush had been placed on the pommel of his saddle, and adorning one sprig was an empty cartridge shell.

That shell was a mute reminder that Flint, had he wished, might have been lying in wait, and Buckdun led his horse some distance before mounting. Two hours later, after lunch and tea, he returned for another attempt.

Despite himself, he was worried. Was he losing his grip? Before, he had done the stalking, but now he himself was stalked.

He entered the crack and, after listening, slowly began to move ahead. If he could get into the basin and be waiting when Flint came out in the morning ...

He had a cramped, closed-in feeling and an urge to get out. He rounded a corner and took a step forward. Something tugged at his ankle and instinctively he threw himself back and to the side.

In one wild instant he knew he had blundered into a trap. He heard rock grate upon rock. There was a tremendous crash, then dust stifled him, and he lay with his palms flat on the ground, gasping for breath. It took several minutes before the pounding of his heart slowed down and he realized he was unhurt. Panic surged through him. Get out ... and get out fast!

Grabbing up his rifle he fled down the passage for a dozen yards before stopping. Panting, he listened for any sound of pursuit, and heard nothing, only a faint trickle of falling sand.

He considered the situation. Why not go back now? Another trap was possible but unlikely. Turning, he started back, climbing over the fallen rock. His hand touched the rock wall and it was cold . . . cold. He felt a momentary dread. Was it a premonition? Angrily, he shook off the feeling. This was just a job like any other. He took a step forward and, distrusting the rustling grass, moved to the side of the crevice.