the Quick and the Dead (1983) (13 page)

Sunlight fell through the trees, bringing a shattered radiance into the gloom, the aspens poised in slender beauty along the way, and the moss on the rocks was of the deepest green. Nearby, in a small, swift-running stream, a dipper sat on a rock, cocking its head toward some unseen life at the stream's bottom. The bird bobbed, disappeared into the foam at the base of a small waterfall, then came up suddenly.

His eyes searched the green-shadowed stillness, and then he touched the mustang with his heel and it moved on, walking with delicate feet upon the damp leaves in the trail.

Con was worried. He would have preferred a sound, something he could place and identify. Were they following or not? And where was McKaskel?

He was back-tracking the sorrel, finding a tiny fleck of blood here, a crushed leaf there, the indentation of a hoofs edge somewhere else. They had entered a narrowing ravine, thick with a stand of trees, some rocks, many deadfalls. Con hesitated, his eyes scanning the narrow spaces among the trees, but there were not many places from which the horse could have come.

What he saw was slight, a tendril of bark hanging from a rotting trunk, still damp where it had been knocked loose from its place. Further on he found where a hoof had slipped on some wet leaves, and worked his way upward, the others single file behind him.

They emerged into the sunlight. Running hoofs had left their tracks in the open there, on the west slope of the mountain. They followed, crossed over the shoulder, and almost at once they saw him.

Duncan McKaskel was drawn back against a tree, and his shirt was bloody, there was a cut on his head and blood matted his scalp.

"Thank God!" he said fervently. "How'd you find me?"

Susanna dropped to the ground and ran to him.

"There's no fresh blood," Vallian commented, "looks like it's stopped. We've got to get him off this slope and down into the canyon."

"You mean to move him? You can't!" Con Vallian was pushing and prodding, looking McKaskel over thoroughly. "My guess would be you got you a badly bruised leg, a busted rib or two, and a cut on your scalp. You got a few scratches here and there but otherwise they don't amount to much.

"You'll be laid up for awhile, but you'll live." He grinned. "I reckon you will. I seen tenderfeet die of things wouldn't hurt a ten-year old girl out here, an' maybe you will, too.

"We got to get you off this rise. Be cold here tonight, mighty cold. Anybody huntin' you would have no trouble, out in the open like this."

"It was a lion," McKaskel said, "a lion jumped on my horse. My horse threw me but I managed to get a shot at it."

"Scared it," Vallian said. "Lucky you didn't hit it. A hurt mountain lion is a nasty piece of business, apt to cut up somethin' fierce."

"I think you are the most callous man I ever knew!" Susanna said hotly. "I don't think you're even sorry!"

"He ain't no kin to me, ma'am," Vallian replied, smiling, "an' out here in this country a man can get scratched up worse'n that doin' his day's work. I mind the time I had to amputate a finger."

Vallian reached down a hand. "Mac, you grab a hold. Have you in the saddle in no time."

"Now, see here!" Susanna protested.

"Ma'am, the sun will be down in an hour. Maybe less. When the sun goes down up here it'll be cold, cold like you never seen it. We're high-up ... maybe ten thousand feet ... so we'd better get down where we can build an' hide a fire and get out of the wind."

Duncan clasped his hand, and Vallian pulled him up and helped him on his horse. McKaskel's face was gray with pain, but aside from a grant as he heaved into the saddle, he managed to make no sound.

Vallian grinned at him. "You got you a little sand there, man. You nourish it some and you're apt to turn out quite a westerner."

"It's easy to be brave when all you have to do is talk!" Susanna said sharply.

Vallian chuckled, and rode out ahead of them until he came to a place to make camp.

"Well, here we are, McKaskel. We'll camp right here. Plenty of cover, firewood, water, and rocks and logs to fort up in case they should find us."

Chapter
XIV

Where they stopped there were aspens and an acre or two of meadow, thick with grass. An outcropping of boulders offered shelter, and there was dead wood enough to last for years, the result of some long ago blowdown when a fierce wind had channeled down the canyon, smashing all before it.

The fire was built of dry wood, the aspens' leaves would dissipate the smoke, and the outcropping of rock would shield their fire from observation. It was a good position, but there were many such. All a man needed to do was keep his eyes open and know what he was looking for.

All through the west country he knew of such places, most of which he had never used, but all were filed away in his memory for such a time as they might be needed.

Con Vallian had learned long since there was little that was original in this. Almost any camp you chose had been chosen before, many times, and nearly always one found the remains of old fires, arrowheads, spear-points or even the crudest of stone axes.

Con Vallian used his Bowie to gather boughs for a bed for McKaskel. When he had it made he spread his own bed on it. "You ain't going to be much use for a few days, Mac," he commented, "so you better rest up. I'll help your folks make out until you're up and around."

"I can't thank you enough, Vallian. This is mighty fine of you."

"Neighbors, sort of. Out here we set store by neighbors. Count them a blessing."

"But you are not our neighbor," Tom said. "Not really."

"Depends. All depends. Out here most anybody in a hundred miles is a neighbor. Folks are more scattered out. On the other hand, I don't know as anybody ever set limits on the word. My ma used to say anybody who was in need was a neighbor."

As he talked, Con worked, cutting boughs for more beds, bringing in fuel for the night's fire, pausing only occasionally to listen.

He liked the smell of the smoke, like the effect the sunset had on the leaves. He listened, and heard the rustle of the water in the creek nearby, heard a faint stirring in the leaves as a squirrel hunted for food. He stood up, and taking his rifle said, "I'll be back. There's grub in my saddlebags, but go easy. No tellin' when we'll get more."

Con Vallian disappeared into the trees, parallel to the way they had come.

"His father must have been a well-educated man," Susanna commented, when he had gone.

Susanna knelt beside the fire, stirring a little broth made from jerky. Their only utensil was Con's cup. A cool wind fluttered the leaves, and moaned softly in the pines. Tom came in with an armful of wood for the fire. "It's getting dark out there," he said. "Pa? Will bears come up to a fire?"

"I don't think so, son. Most animals are afraid of fire, and afraid of the man-smell."

Susanna glanced at him. "Did you hear something, Tom?"

The boy shrugged. "You always hear things in the woods. There's always some kind of a sound out there. Mr. Vallian says you have to listen for the usual sounds until your ears only pick out the unusual. I am not very good at that yet."

The flames fluttered. Susanna glanced over at her husband. He was quiet now, his eyes closed, but still awake. He must be in pain, but he showed none of it. Suddenly she was very proud of him. But she was frightened, too. There was no telling when Vallian would ride off again, and they were alone in the woods, and Duncan was hurt. It would be days ... perhaps several weeks ... before he could ride again, or even walk.

"Tom? Keep Pa's rifle close by. I have the shotgun."

"I wonder if they took our powder and lead? We'll need it, Ma. I didn't figure on being out more than an hour or two."

"Have you got much?"

"Not more than eight or ten charges for the rifle, and I don't think Pa has more loads than he's carrying in the pistol."

Con Vallian moved along the edge of the woods, testing each step as he put the foot down for fear of a fallen branch. He favored moccasins for woods work, and usually carried some, but his last had worn out and he'd not gotten a squaw to make a new pair for him. Those Injuns yonder on the plains. They would have done it. They were good folks ... unless you met them on a war party.

When he was well away from even the smallest sounds of the camp he paused and began to sift the night-movements with his ears. A branch rubbing against another, leaves rustling, something, a bird or squirrel or rabbit, maybe, rustling a nest into the leaves. He listened and decided all was well here, but then he moved on, walking on cat feet.

The stars were out but clouds were scattered. There was a high wind tonight. He was up wind of their camp, testing for smoke. There was none.

That did not mean there was no cause to worry. The Shabbitt outfit might be very close and lying quiet. He looked back toward the camp, but could see nothing. The place was hidden, and approaching it would be difficult because of the enormous number of fallen trees from the blowdown. New trees had grown up, some of them towering up to forty to fifty feet, but the old trunks lay in a maze. Even by daylight a horseman could not penetrate that barrier, nor could a man on foot move with any speed.

Gloomily, he stared down the long meadow, gray in the starlight. Something moved down there.

A vague movement ... bear, maybe.

He stood still, waiting. Duncan McKaskel ought to go back to that cabin. That was a right nice place ... water close by, and meadows for cattle. There were beaver in those ponds and where there was beaver there were fish, and all manner of wild life. Elk favored aspens, and there were aspens aplenty around that cabin.

No more movement down there ... the wind was from him toward the lower end of the meadow and if it was a bear or elk they had his scent by now.

Why was he here, anyway? What did he want with those eastern folks? They were no kin. He hadn't never seen them until he drank their coffee that morning ... it was good coffee, all right.

He looked away from the end of the meadow, letting the corner of his eyes hold sight of it. The corners of the eyes were sometimes better for locating movement.

Yes ... there was something down there. Maybe fifty yards off ... no, it would be further. His ears caught no sound but whatever was down there was coming closer.

His clothing was neutral in color, his body would fade into the trees behind him, so he waited. His fingers went to the Bowie. It was a good weapon at night, and a shot might bring that whole outfit down on him. Anyway, it might be an animal ... only he no longer believed that.

He waited, unmoving yet prepared. Whoever approached was coming along as silently as he himself had moved. Was it the Huron? Con crouched low, trying to hear any slightest movement in the grass, remembering his father's stories of the Iroquois, deadly enemy of the Huron Indians, and how they had decimated the Iroquois in the battles that followed the arrival of the French.

Con Vallian listened straining all his attention to hear. He had met the Huron only once, and had nearly lost his life. But this time--

There was a whisper of feet in the grass, a sudden rush from the night, starlight on a blade.

He threw himself to one side and felt the cold steel of the blade as it grazed him. His rifle in his left hand, he hit low and hard and up with the blade. It struck, something ripped and then he was hit hard on the shoulder. He rolled back, throwing up his feet to catch the Huron as he dove at him. His feet churned, smashing hard into his attacker's face, and then he was up, swinging his rifle with both hands.

It hit nothing but empty air. He dropped, groping for his fallen knife, and then he moved swiftly, silently off to his left, holding the rifle before him like a sword to guard off a sudden attack. Again the rush of feet. He dropped to his knees and the Huron spilled over him. He thrust hard with his knife again and again ... nothing.

Dammit, wherewas the man? Even as the thought flickered in his consciousness, a shadow loomed before him, striking his rifle aside, lunging at him again.

Vallian struck the side of the attacker's head with his fist. He felt the Huron stagger under the blow. He struck again, but the Indian was gone. Crouching, gasping for breath, Vallian waited, every sense alert, for the next attack.

He waited, then slowly straightened up.

All was still. Overhead were the stars in a vast and empty sky. The wind stirred the grass and the aspen leaves whispered mysterious sounds. Slowly his breathing slowed. The Huron--and it had surely been he--was gone.

Dropping to one knee he felt for his rifle and found it, then got up slowly.

"Damn!" he whispered softly. "Dammit to Hell!"

For the first time in his life he wanted to kill a man, and for the first time in a long while, he knew he was afraid.

Chapter
XV

When Con Vallian moved off into the night, Susanna listened to the faint sounds that lasted only as long as there was a shadow of him, and then they stilled. He was gone.

Duncan had finished his broth, and fallen asleep. Once, when he started to move, he moaned softly, and she felt fear go through her like a chill.