The Big Hunt (9 page)

Even before the girl reached the stallion, Kerry raced forward and went afork his gray with a flying bound. He lit down with feet digging into the stirrups and started the horse running in almost the same move.

“Watch those horses!” Mark shouted, for in the excitement and confusion Wainer's men ignored the animals selected to accompany Lord Henry on the trip and they showed signs of spooking.

Running to his horse, Mark jostled Calamity aside and swung into the saddle. His example brought the attention of other men to Lord Henry's stock and helped to prevent it scattering.

“Come on,” Potter growled to his companions, throwing a glance in the direction taken by the fleeing paint and pursuing gray.

“What's up?” Wingett mumbled through a swollen jaw and mouth.

“Barran's just left town and we're going after him.”

“Why?” asked Rixon.

“To get what's coming to us. He's carrying money on him and that gray'd bring a fair price from some Army officer.”

While broke, having been fired for their failure on returning to Corben, the other three showed no great eagerness to tangle with Kerry Barran again. True, he would have enough money on him to make the effort worth while, but they all knew the risks involved.

“He'll have that limey gal with him,” Wingett pointed out.

“Sure, but not that damned dog,” answered Pot
ter. “Let's get after them and if there's a chance, we'll take him.”

Having no alternative plan, and being under the marshal's order to get out of town—neither Berkmyer nor Corben wanted the quartet to be around to answer awkward questions—Potter's companions followed him to their waiting horses. Nobody gave them a glance as they mounted and rode out of town, headed at a tangent to the direction taken by Beryl and Kerry.

Mark's prompt action prevented the scattering of the horses from being too serious. Already they had become split away from each other, but he turned back a couple and then more men came up. Calamity threw open the gate to the corral which housed her own and Killem's teams, using the cracking of her whip to keep the animals already inside from leaving. Used to the explosive cracks of the bull whip, the team horses did not need touching with its lash to remain obedient to its wielder's will. After the horses had been corralled, Calamity turned and looked out across the range. Such was the broken nature of the land that Beryl and Kerry had already passed out of sight.

“Reckon we'd best get after them?” she asked.

“They'll be all right,” Lord Henry replied. “Beryl can ride well enough and Kerry will catch up with her before she gets too far away.”

“I dunno,” objected Calamity. “That paint had a fair head start and it's carrying less weight than Kerry's gray.”

“You trust old Kerry to fetch her back in one piece, Calam,” Killem comforted. “The country's a mite rough, but that paint's been raised in stuff like it and's too smart to run blind. Look how it took that fence.”

“There's that,” the girl admitted, knowing a panic-stricken horse would have smashed bodily into the fence instead of going over it.

“You sound concerned for Beryl's welfare, Calamity,” smiled Lord Henry.

“So I should be,” she replied, then grinned back. “That's my saddle she's using.”

“Oh, well,” drawled the peer, “if it doesn't come back, I'll buy you a new saddle.”

Just as Calamity sought for an adequate reply, she noticed certain absentees from the crowd. Taken with the departure of Kerry Barran, she did not like the idea of not seeing Potter's bunch present.

“Hey,” she said. “Those four yahoos who jumped Kerry last night were here.”

“So I saw,” Lord Henry replied. “I don't think we'll see any more of them.”

“You're right at that. They've gone.”

“If you mean Potter and that other bunch who
used to skin for Kerry,” Wainer put in, “they just now rode off.”

“Which way?” Mark asked.

“Down to the South-West, thought maybe they're headed for the forward construction camps, them not working for him any more.”

“Could be nothing to it,” Mark said doubtfully.

“I'd sure hate to count on it,” Calamity answered.

“Those blighters wouldn't dare do anything while Beryl's with Kerry,” Lord Henry objected. “But I hate to take a chance. I say, Mr. Wainer, I'd like a saddle if you have one.”

“Make it two,” Calamity corrected.

“Are you coining along, Calam?” asked the peer.

“Sure am,” agreed the girl. “We'd best have some of your horses, Wainer. There's not time to take bed-springs out of that bunch in the corral.”

“Good thinking, gal,” Mark said, knowing that using the horses from the corral would cause a far longer delay than taking mounts from the barn's hire-supply.

Crossing to the barn's door, Calamity opened it and looked to where the big dog came to its feet. She tried to hide the apprehension that rose as Shaun walked in her direction. One wrong move would see her badly bitten, that she knew.

“Easy there, boy,” she said quietly. “I'm not fix
ing to touch you. All I want to do is get you after your boss.”

Shaun walked by Calamity and across to where he had last seen his master. Dropping his head, he sniffed around, sifting through the mingled scents until he located the one he wanted. Watched by the girl and men, the big dog followed on Kerry's line to where the hunter mounted. For a moment the sudden disappearance of his master's scent picture fooled Shaun. Then he picked up the scent of the gray, which he knew well enough. Swinging on to the gray's line, he loped away in the direction the horse took when chasing after Beryl's paint.

“I feel better now,” she said.

“And so do I,” Lord Henry admitted. “Come on, Calamity, let's get the horses and ride.”

A
T FIRST
B
ERYL FELT JUST A LITTLE AFRAID AS THE
horse tore out of town with her on its back. Not blind panic, but merely a normal fear which could be kept under control. With the bit firmly between its teeth, Beryl had no way of stopping the paint. However, she soon found that it did not rush blindly along, endangering itself and the rider. Instead it ran as a wild animal fleeing from something unpleasant, fast but alert for anything which might cause it to injure itself. The speed at which the paint ran made falling off its back impracticable; even if Beryl had considered taking that way out. Not that she did, coming from a stock which
did not lightly flinch from danger. Once she knew that the horse was not in a wild blind flight, she settled down to keep her seat and enjoy the ride.

Kerry urged his gray after the paint, but soon knew he could not close the gap on the lighter-loaded animal until it tired. Booting the carbine, he concentrated on keeping the gap between them from enlarging and followed ready to lend a hand should Beryl find herself in difficulties.

On they went, tearing out over the rolling, open range. Kerry could not help admiring the girl's riding skill, especially when the paint went down a steep incline. Bounding out at the bottom, the horse lit down running. For a moment Beryl tilted dangerously, but by that time she had adjusted herself to riding astride and found no difficulty in regaining her seat. Dropping from his saddle, Kerry slid down the slope alongside the gray and remounted when they reached the bottom.

Not for three miles did the paint show any sign of slackening its pace. At last Kerry called up a burst of reserve speed from the gray and drew alongside the paint. He expected to see fear or concern on the girl's face; but read only exhilaration and excitement as she flashed a surprised but delighted smile at him. Edging his gray closer to Beryl's mount, Kerry leaned over. He reached out and his fingers closed on the paint's head-stall.
With a firm grip on the other animal, Kerry slowed his horse and brought both to a gradual halt.

“Are you all right?” he asked and jumped to the ground.

“Fine,” she replied, eyes sparkling and bosom heaving. Tossing her right leg across the saddle, she slipped down and landed before the hunter. “I
was
a little frightened at first, but that soon passed. Then when I found he wasn't running blind, I sat back and enjoyed the ride—not that I could have stopped him.”

Turning, she ran a hand along the horse's lathered neck. Without needing any instructions, she set to work cooling down the paint. After watching her for a moment, Kerry decided she could manage and attended to the gray.

“You must think I'm an absolute horror, Kerry,” Beryl remarked, when the horses had been cooled down and they prepared to walk some of the way back to town.

“Why should I, ma—Beryl?”

“Well, last night I became involved in a brawl. Then I appear this morning dressed like this——”

“What's wrong with the way you're dressed?” asked Kerry.

“It's hardly a costume a lady should wear in public,” Beryl smiled. “Not that I've been acting very lady-like recently.”

“I've seen a few ladies in my time. Not for-real ladies like you, though. Can't say any of them dressed that way, but I don't care.”

“Is that a compliment?”

“It was meant to be. Most of them ladies would've screeched if they saw a mouse and couldn't tie their shoes without help. Can't say I took to them. You're not like that.”

“I try not to be,” Beryl said. “Of course, I've been on hunting trips with my brother before and am used to roughing it. But I never dressed like this.”

“Once we get moving, you'll damn—sorry, ma'am, you'll near on live on a horse. They clothes'll be better than a fancy dress then. Reckon we'd best start heading back to town.”

“What kind of horse is this, Kerry?” Beryl asked, indicating the paint.

“Just a range mustang. You'll see plenty of them running wild on the Great Plains. Come from Spanish critters that escaped way back, so a railroad surveyor told me, with a mixing of blood from stuff that escaped or got lost from wagon trains.”

“Are there many of them?”

“I've seen herds of hundreds.”

An interested gleam came in Beryl's eyes. “Doesn't anybody try to catch them then?”

“Sure,” Kerry answered. “The Indians pick up what they want. A few fellers make good money picking up herds, breaking them and selling them.”

“All good horses like this paint?” the girl breathed.

“Nope. He's an exception. You don't see many that good.”

“But they have stamina and an ability to stand off local diseases. Crossed with blood stock, they could be turned into ideal mounts for this country.”

“That's strange. I was just thinking the same thing last night.”

Leading their horses and discussing the possibility of improving the range-raised mustangs' blood-line, Beryl and Kerry walked side by side across the rolling country in the direction of the town. Ahead the land dipped and rose in folds and valleys; outcrops of rocks and clumps of trees or bushes dotted the slopes and valley bottoms. Ideal country for an ambush, although Kerry, absorbed in conversation on an interesting subject, overlooked the fact.

Potter and his men had been unable to keep the departing riders in sight after they left town, but followed the tracks of the two racing horses. Unsure of how long the paint would run, or which route Kerry might take back to town, the quartet
separated and fanned out in a line to cover as much of the range as possible. In the center of the line, Potter caught sight of their prey first, signalling to Rixon and bringing the small man over. However, they could not attract either Wingett or Schmidt's attention. Potter would have preferred to bring all four of them together, but as he studied the situation, decided they were better off split up. Concealed among a fair-sized clump of bushes, he and Rixon appeared to be in direct line with Kerry and the girl. Off to the right Wingett left his horse hidden and inched his way through cover on a course which ought to bring him close to where the couple passed. Over on the left, Schmidt halted behind an outcrop of rocks, drew his rifle and covered where the big hunter and girl ought to go by. The two flank men had moved ahead some thirty yards, forming what might be termed the lips of the funnel down which their victims must travel.

“There he comes,” Rixon snarled, holding his rifle in sweating hands.

“Hold your voice down!” Potter hissed. “That damned hunter's got ears like a bobcat.”

With that Potter looked for a place where he might rest his rifle and still keep concealed. In addition to having keen ears, Kerry Barran had eyes like a hawk and used them constantly when on the range.

Loping along on his master's trail, Shaun covered the ground with the almost tireless gait gained by long hours of exercise. He could not track at the same speed the horses galloped, but kept up a fair pace. Faintly, carried by the wind, he caught the scent of his master and knew he drew close. Then another scent came, almost blocking out that of his master. Deep and low rumbled a snarl in the dog's throat as he recognized the body odor of two of the men who had been around so much and whom he hated. In addition to the smell of unwashed bodies, mingled with dried blood and general filth, he caught the unmistakable aroma of hate and hunting. Quickening his pace, the dog lifted his head from the tracks and ran on the wind-carried scent.

“I've got him lined up,” Potter breathed. “Don't shoot until he's between Wing and Smitty. Let's make good and sure of him.”

At that moment both heard the rapid patter of feet and rustling of the bushes, followed by a deep, rumbling snarl. Twisting around, Rixon saw the huge dog burst into sight and uttered a shriek of warning. Potter started to turn, recognized the danger and jerked his rifle around. Its barrel struck a branch and held, causing his finger to jerk the trigger. Flame tore from the rifle's barrel, but its bullet tore harmlesly through the trees.

Leaving the ground in a smooth leap, Shaun hurled at Potter. The burly man tried to tear his rifle free from the branch, released one hand and raised an arm to defend his throat. A numbing, burning sensation drove into the arm as Shaun closed his powerful jaws on it. Snarling in fury, the dog bore Potter backward and to the ground.

Rixon staggered backward, fear on his face as he stared at the struggling man and dog. The big wolfhound had always been a source of terror to the skinner and he realized that, unless he did something fast, a recurring nightmare where Shaun jumped him might come true. Jerking out his revolver—having dropped the rifle at the first sight of the dog—he fired a shot. Shaun yelped, jerked and flopped sideways to the ground.

“My arm!” moaned Potter, rolling hurriedly away from the dog and clutching at his injured limb.

“I'm getting out of here!” Rixon croaked and ran for his horse.

For a moment Potter glared at the dog, wanting to batter its still body into a bloody wreck. Then he, too, turned and made for his mount. Pain beat through him, knifing out from his arm. Only with an effort did he manage to drag himself into the saddle, then he clutched at the horn with his good arm and urged the horse after the departing Rixon.

All too well both men knew how Kerry Barran felt about his dog. Most likely the shot came soon enough to prevent him from riding into Wingett and Schmidt's ambush. In which case the hunter stood a good chance of escaping. He would find his dog's body and the Lord help the man who shot the wolfhound when Kerry Barran laid hands on him.

So, without a thought for their companions, Potter and Rixon fled in the direction of Otley Creek. Topping a rim, they saw riders approaching in the distance, recognized them, and changed direction rapidly. To be trapped by Dobe Killem, Calamity June, Mark Counter and that fancy-talking English dude meant being held until Kerry Barran arrived, and neither relished the thought. So they headed off across the plains, and might have felt relieved that nobody followed them.

For once in his life, Kerry Barran lost his habitual caution when out on the open range. Walking along with the girl, he missed noticing certain signs that ought to have been obvious to him—and would have been at any other time.

The first hint of danger came when a shriek sounded from a large clump of bushes about a hundred and fifty yards ahead. Then Kerry heard a familiar roaring snarl, saw one of the bushes shake violently and a rifle cracked out. Again the bushes
shook violently as if something heavy thrashed about among them. A revolver barked and Kerry caught the sound of his dog's yelp of pain. However, by that time he had other troubles.

In a single instant after hearing the first sound, Kerry reverted to his normal, keenly alert self. Over to his left he located a patch of unnatural color and a closer inspection showed it to be Wingett's shirt. Not that Kerry gave a thought to the skinner's choice of clothes. What interested the hunter was how Wingett lined a rifle in his direction.

Hooking an arm around Beryl's waist, Kerry lifted her from her feet and bore her to the ground. Her squeak of protest and amazement died as she heard a rifle shot and saw Kerry's hat whisked from his head by a close-passing bullet. In bringing Beryl to safety, Kerry released his gray's rein and she lost her hold of the paint. Startled by the shot and sudden movements, both horses continued to move on. Although neither went far before their trailing reins brought them to a halt, the gray carried Kerry's carbine well beyond his reach.

Not far from where Kerry and the girl landed on the ground lay a small dip. Still holding Beryl to him, Kerry rolled over her body, swung her up and across him so that they passed down the incline and out of Wingett's sight.

A snarl left Wingett's lips as his prospective victim disappeared. However, he had been in a position to see the carbine in the gray's saddleboot and knew the big hunter never carried a revolver. Ignoring his single-shot Ballard rifle, Wingett drew his revolver and charged through the bushes toward where Kerry disappeared. While covering the fifty yards which separated him from his victim, Wingett wondered if his bullet caught the hunter. Maybe nothing more than a body's convulsions carried the couple out of sight. Even if Kerry Barran still lived, his carbine remained in plain view.

Just an instant too late Wingett remembered the Indian fighting-axe Kerry always carried. Even as the thought, shocking in its realization, formed, the skinner reached the top of the dip. He halted, staring down, frozen by the memory and understanding of his danger, staring to where Kerry faced him, standing in the attitude of just having thrown something.

Once in the dip, Kerry rolled clear of the girl. His hand flashed to the tomahawk and slid it free. Taken from a raiding Sioux war chief, the fighting axe had been produced by a man with a fine idea of what such a weapon should be. It was made from real good steel—most likely bought from a trader who wanted to come back, and so sold
worthwhile goods—honed to a razor edge and perfectly balanced for slashing chop or skilled accurate throwing.

Kerry heard the crashing rush of Wingett's approach and realized what the other planned. Having worked with the skinner for some time, Kerry possessed a fair idea of how the other thought. Trust Wingett to take the most obvious way out.

“Keep down!” Kerry ordered, having already rolled from the girl, and came to his feet.

Right foot advanced, Kerry gripped the axe in his right hand and looked up the slope. He measured the distance with his eye and swung up his arm, keeping the axe's cutting edge aimed straight at where he guessed Wingett would appear. Back and forward Kerry swung the axe, just a couple of times to make sure it lined up correctly. There would be little or no time to correct his aim once the man appeared, but Kerry's keen ears told him just where Wingett would come into sight. Timing his move just right, Kerry wound up and swung his arm forward in a powerful sweep which propelled the axe through the air even as Wingett's head top showed over the rim. Turning over once in its flight, the axe streamed toward the skinner. A screech of terror broke from Wingett's lips. He tried to throw up his arm and ward off the hurtling missile, but left the move too late. Razor-sharp
steel bit into flesh and the axe's weight carried it deep into the side of Wingett's throat. Blood spurted as the steel sliced through the jugular vein. Wingett's scream chopped off and he stumbled backward out of sight, his rifle and revolver dropping from his hand.