The cave reminded Ben Garrett too much of his cell back in Julesburg and he was becoming edgy.
They seemed to trust him now, at least, to a certain extent. There were no restrictions on his movements in this hidden canyon, and they even allowed him to wear his six-gun. He felt he was lucky to be still with them in a way. After all, they could have dumped him as soon as they had cleared Julesburg, but they had brought him this far with Carney seeming to feel he was obligated to Ben in some way. It looked to Ben as if the man meant to keep his word about taking him to his hole-in-the-wall in Texas.
This bothered Ben some, seeing that he had in mind a notion to try to recover the stolen bank money—and use it to buy a clean slate for himself. He held a grudging respect and liking for Carney. Emerson, he wasn’t so sure about. The man smiled at him a lot, but his remarks always seemed to be snide.
Ben wished he knew why Carney was bothering with him. There seemed to be no real reason that Ben could see why Carney wanted him along.
“What you doin’ with your chin in your lap, kid?”
Ben started and pushed away from the wall near the mouth of the cave, as he turned to stare at Carney. The man slouched against a rock, picking at his teeth with a sliver of wood.
Ben shrugged, then winced. “How much longer we gotta stay here in this cave?”
“Not long. Why? Gettin’ you down?”
Ben nodded. “Reminds me of Julesburg.”
Carney laughed shortly, waved an arm towards the moonlit canyon beyond the cave mouth. “No door, kid. You can walk out of here any time you like. It’s no colder and no damper than the cell. You gimme a choice and I’ll pick this here cave every time.”
The young outlaw sighed. “Guess you’re right. But—we ain’t movin’ around much.”
“Will be come sunup. We been here long enough. Things ought to have quietened down some in the canyon by now. There was a posse day or so back but nothin’ else. It’s safe enough to move.” He shoved Ben’s shoulder roughly and gave him a crooked grin. “Before you go plumb loco from bein’ cooped up, huh?”
Ben smiled faintly. “We start for Texas come sunup, then?”
“Now, kid, I never said nothin’ about startin’ for Texas. All I said was we move out of the cave. Which we do.”
Ben looked puzzled.
“Ben, I gotta tell you somethin’. Why you think we headed straight for this neck of the woods, huh? Tell me.”
“Because you knew it was a helluva tangle of brush and arroyos and so on.”
Carney had started shaking his head before Ben had finished speaking. “Nope. It’s one reason, sure, but there’s another—and a mighty important one.” He bored his gaze hard into Ben’s curious face. “The bank loot. It was never recovered, kid. Reason was, it was hid too well. Right here.”
Ben allowed his mouth to gape a little. “You sort of hinted it was someplace close by, but I thought we was lying low to dodge the posses.”
“Killin’ two birds with the one stone.”
Ben was silent for a while. Then: “How do you know it’s still where you left it?”
Carney’s face hardened. “Better be.”
“Yeah. But how can you be sure? I mean, there were three of you held up that bank. Two of you were caught—and one, well, who knows?”
Carney smiled crookedly. “Free as a bird.”
“Where?”
Carney’s face tightened now and Ben knew that he wasn’t quite as confident as he tried to sound.
“He got himself a job. An honest one. He’s been workin’ at it ever since, waitin’ until things cool down some. He couldn’t just quit, dig up the dinero and hightail it, without raisin’ a lot of eyebrows. Not in the job he got. Aw, I guess he’d cross us if he could. Still might—that’s why we aim to move in first.”
Ben snapped his head up. “You’re gonna cross him?”
Carney smiled crookedly. “Well, I figure Lonnie and me need some sort of compensation for doin’ six months in Julesburg.”
“Won’t he know about Texas?”
Carney laughed harshly. “So what?”
Ben frowned but Carney clapped the young outlaw on the shoulder.
“Better turn in and grab yourself a mite more shuteye, kid. We’ll be movin’ out come sunup.”
Ben turned into his blankets again but he didn’t sleep. He lay there, pretending to doze, until the first grey light of day filtered into the cave. They pulled out shortly afterwards.
They rode out into the early morning canyon mists and followed tortuous trails to an area that Ben felt a mountain lion would have trouble getting into. They rode for well over two hours, climbing, descending, once even passing through a natural, low tunnel that pierced a whole mountain. If was full of bats that set the horses prancing.
The tunnel led them into a brush-choked gorge that took them nearly an hour to fight through, and then it was back to climbing again; up a narrow, rugged trail and around the face of a cliff. At the top, the trail suddenly plunged down into what Ben thought was merely a fissure in the ground. But, narrow as it was, there was just enough clearance for them to get through, walking and leading their mounts. He was surprised to find a gloomy, bottleneck canyon below. His legs were shaky and his fingers were aching from being wrapped so tightly around the reins.
Carney and Emerson knew exactly where they were going. They mounted at the foot of the trail and rode out to the far end of the canyon, smashing their way through tangled blackberry, sage and juniper. He knew he would never find his way out without their help.
They rode to what seemed like a solid wall of granite and then dismounted. Ben climbed down, too, and followed the two killers up a loose rock fall to a solid boulder balanced on the top. Behind the boulder was a space large enough for one man.
Inside, there was a hole in the earth with some flat rocks piled around the edges.
Carney backed out and his face was murderous. Emerson shoved past, took one look, then swung back, ripping out a curse. Ben frowned. He knew the loot was missing and that the ‘third man’ had taken it.
“He’s busted loose,” said Carney.
“Who?” Ben asked, before he could stop himself.
Both men glared at him. It was Emerson who answered, with eyes narrowed and burning with the lust to kill.
“Pres Alton, damn him!”
Ben frowned. “Pres Alton? The—the lawman?”
Carney nodded. “That’s him.”
“He was—the third man?”
Again Carney nodded. “Yeah. We split up after the robbery. Alton cut out first. Heard there was a town called Howard that needed a lawman. He figured—we all figured—it would be a good joke for him to apply for the job. Idea was he’d be in this neck of the woods and able to keep an eye on the loot.”
“Or run off with it.”
“We’d been pards a long time and pulled a lot of jobs together. Anyway, like I told you, that money was real hot. The law would’ve been watchin’ for big spenders, or fellers who seemed to get rich all of a sudden. Once Alton was settled as lawman, he had to stay there for a spell. Would’ve looked kinda odd if he’d quit after a month or so and took off, and then next time he showed someplace he had a heap of dinero. We’d done this kind of thing before; pulled a robbery, stashed the loot, and laid low for a spell before spendin’ it. That’s how come we kept out of jail for so long.”
“But not this time.”
“No. There was a slip-up someplace and Lonnie and me got caught but we had no worries about Alton. He tried to get us out a couple of times but couldn’t do it.”
“So you had to use me.”
Carney nodded slowly, his eyes cold and hard. “But looks like Alton kinda got tired of waitin’ for his share and came on and picked it up. Like he tried to sic that posse on us, too, and drygulch us.” He slammed a fist into the palm of his hand. “Son of a bitch crossed us good!”
“He’ll head for Texas,” Emerson said. “We’ll catch up with him, Vin.”
Carney snapped his head around. “We sure will. But it’ll be a long time before he—or we—gets to Texas.”
Emerson frowned. “You gonna stick around here then?”
Carney pointed to the open hideaway behind the rock. “Only a day old if that, them tracks. Alton won’t be expectin’ us to trail him through here. Likely figures we’re miles away. We go careful, watch what we’re about, we could have him nailed ... and the dinero in our saddlebags by sundown tomorrow.”
“Judas! Kinda risky, Vin.”
“You want to let him get away with our share?”
“Hell, no ...”
“Then we start trailin’ him.” Carney swung down the rock-slide immediately and headed for the horses.
Ben glanced at Emerson and the man scrubbed a hand down his dirty beard and then sighed, shrugging at the young outlaw and starting down after Carney.
The hunt for Pres Alton was on.
Clay Nash, too, was on a manhunt. A man-and-woman hunt, trailing Silver and Liz Garrett.
Various people had described Silver to Clay as a stranger with too much interest in Liz, but it was the liveryman who finally put him on his trail.
He knew who his quarry was. He recognized the description well enough. Silver was a man he had crossed trails with on other occasions. The man was a bounty hunter by profession and if the reward was large enough Silver would buy into any deal. He and Nash had clashed once or twice but there had never been any violence as such. If there had been, only one of them would still be walking around now.
For Silver was a man who settled everything with his gun; no fists for him. If words ran out, the next step was bullets.
But Nash also knew him to be a dogged, cold-blooded killer, and he was now showing signs that it was the kill that was as important to him as the bounty. After so many years of hunting men for blood money, it happened with these bounty hunters at times. After all, they were only killers and none of them took the trouble to give a man a fair shake. If the reward dodger said ‘dead or alive’ there was no doubt they would bring in their quarry dead. They sometimes brought him in that way, even when the dodgers made no mention of the man’s condition.
Silver survived by an animal cunning that some folk mistook for ingenuity and a fine knowledge of the wilderness. He could track well enough and he was damn good at covering his trail, finding campsites that gave him all the advantage should he be attacked. But this was inbred survival instinct, similar to that of an animal. Nash had no regard for Silver whatever. There were some law agencies that used him over and over again because he got results, but Nash didn’t like the man, in fact, he would rather see an outlaw get away than fall victim to Silver’s drygulching bullets.
He knew why he had taken Liz Garrett prisoner and could reason the way the bounty hunter would use the girl as a bargaining point when he caught up with the three fugitives.
Carney and Emerson wouldn’t bother about Liz, but Ben would.
And any dissension created in the camp would work in Silver’s favor.
Nash felt that when he and Silver next crossed trails, it would be the last ride for the bounty hunter.
The canyon country was hell to ride through, let alone try to trail a man with a woman hostage. But Nash had lived with Indians once, down, in his native Texas, and this fact had saved his life on several occasions when he had been able to utilize the knowledge he had picked up. It stood him in good stead again now as he hunted some sign of Silver and his hostage in the wild country.
It wasn’t easy, but he found enough sign to give him an idea of the bounty hunter’s general direction, though he moved slowly, cautiously, knowing how Silver could veer off at any angle, even double back and get behind him. The man would play it safe. He would know someone might well locate the campsite where he had grabbed the girl and read the sign. The fact that he hadn’t taken time to cover his tracks either meant he was in a hurry or that he didn’t really care. Which made him more dangerous than ever.
For that meant Silver was ready to kill anyone who came after him and tried to stop him. As Nash had guessed: Silver was enjoying the kill itself these days.
It made him wary and he rode with care, his rifle on his knee, eyes watching ahead, scanning the countryside, looking for signs that might give him warning there was danger ahead. Much of the time he spent walking or down on one knee, examining the ground or some crushed grass stalks, an overturned stone with dark marks from dampness or a minute piece of an ants’ nest adhering to it. He watched the birds hovering in the air currents above the canyon at sundown, saw where they swooped and homed-in on water. There would be several rock pools in this country that the birds would use and he knew that Silver would make notes of their locations. A man could easily become lost in here, especially when taking devious trails, and it was an essential part of wilderness survival to know where water and food could be located at all times.
On the third evening, Nash watched some birds winging home before dark and he was about to tick off that particular waterhole on the list he had made when suddenly the flight of birds veered off sharply. They circled, hovered, swung down and rose up into the coloring sky again. They planed in over the canyon walls, took one more wide sweep, and then shot off to the west where he watched them become a series of black dots. He checked his list again: there was a waterhole there.
Something had stopped them going to the first one; they had veered off to an alternative rock pool and he wanted to know why. It could be that there was some predator drinking there already, but if so, the birds would likely only have hovered around until it had had its fill. But whatever had prevented them going down was, apparently, still there, for they had forsaken it entirely.
There was a good chance that someone was camped at that first waterhole. And it could very well be Silver and Liz Garrett.
He couldn't find his way about this country too well in the darkness, but there was an hour or so of light left and Nash started out on the rugged climb up the canyon wall along the narrow, crumbling, twisting trail. He made it to the top after an exhausting series of climbs and slides, most of the time on his feet, pulling on the reins of his horse, throwing his weight back, literally dragging the frightened animal after him. Its hoofs had scrabbled wildly and several times had sent rocks crashing off the edge of the trail. It was no more than a narrow series of natural steps in the canyon wall, some parts wider than others. After he had finally reached the top and sprawled near-exhausted on the grass, he wondered how in hell he had made it up here.
One thing was certain: if he were going to get down from here, it wasn't going to be the way he had come.
There was a flat area on top of the wall, about thirty yards wide, before it fell away in a steep but negotiable slope on the far side. When his breathing had settled down to its normal rhythm, Nash got to his feet, his legs still a little shaky, and took up the horse's reins again. He walked to the far edge of the wall and looked down.
There were no stars yet, no sliver of moon. He sat down after tethering his horse and giving it a hatful of oats. He chewed jerked beef and drank canteen water while waiting for the moon to rise. But something was bothering him; a kind of distant, rushing sound. It seemed to be coming up out of the canyon. At first he had thought it to be the wind, funneling in through a bottleneck entrance. He could feel the warm, gentle up draught against his face. It was not capable of making the sound he could hear. There was no rain about; not even a cloud in the sky to hide the stars.
Still, he could hear that distant, constant whisper; exactly like rain on shingles heard from far off.
Then the moon rose suddenly and he searched the wide area beneath him. There was no glowing campfire, but there had to be water down there somewhere and he felt he should be able to detect some reflection from the moon’s light. He was looking for a rock pool or maybe a waterhole that had been scooped out near the base of a cliff. He wasn’t expecting to see a full-blown stream, but when the light sheened off a silver ribbon of water cutting across the northern corner of the canyon, he knew what was making that strange rushing noise he had been unable to place.
It was a waterfall.
There was no sign of a camp anywhere along the bank, but there was a chance he might pick something out during daylight. However, he didn’t aim to be perched up there when the sun rose. He would take his chances and move down the far slope and be on the canyon floor by the time early light flooded the area. His plan was to cut directly across the stream and then follow its course along towards the drop-off and the waterfall. If anyone were camped there, it had to be on the near bank, for the stream followed the base of the cliff too closely on the far side for there to be room for a camp.
Still, it might bear checking out; Silver would be just the kind of man to locate a flat rock with enough boulders to give him shelter so that he could make a hidden camp over the water.
Nash rolled into his blankets and fell asleep almost immediately. He was awake just before the last stars faded from the sky in the east and he chewed on jerky again as he saddled the horse and spoke quietly to it. He gave it some water from the crown of his hat, some oats, and then mounted.
It was a dangerous descent and the sky above the canyon walls was pale gold by the time he had reached the floor in one final, slithering, weaving rush. He hauled rein, soothing his mount with gentle words, stroking its neck, looking up at the sky. It was still dark in the canyon, but it wouldn’t be for much longer. He would have to hurry if he was to surprise anyone camped along that stream.
But, though he searched the stream bank warily and thoroughly, he could find no signs of a camp, at least not in the dim light. Maybe when it was full sunlight he might find some minute clues that would set him onto Silver but right now there was nothing. No smell of wood smoke, for Silver would not be silly enough to use a fire until he was certain there was no pursuit. And, of course, Silver was trailing Carney and the others at the same time, which meant he had to watch ahead as well as behind.
And then Nash saw the grassy bank at the stream’s edge. It had been churned up where a horse had slipped. He drew his rifle from the scabbard and silently eased back the hammer, for there was already a shell jacked into the breech. He started to dismount, his eyes going to nearby cover. He was thinking that it was not like Silver to leave sign as plain as this …
And then the rifle blasted from across the stream.
Nash’s horse reared up, whickering thinly and pawing the air as blood spurted from an eye socket. Nash threw himself away from the crashing animal as the rifle blazed again. He felt the hammer blow of a bullet biting into the triceps of his left arm. The impact spun him around and saved him from the next shot that came hard on the heels of the one before. The lead clipped an ear and he felt blood spraying. If he hadn’t been twisted by the second shot, he would have taken the slug through the head.
He slammed into the grass and felt the earth beneath him tremble as the horse crashed down and kicked wildly in its death throes. It had all happened very quickly.
Reacting instinctively, he threw himself in against the animal’s warm carcass as he heard two more bullets strike home. At the same time he spotted the ambusher’s hideout: tight in against the cliff base, behind some rocks that looked from this side as if there was no room behind them for a lizard, let alone a man.
He raised himself a little to return the fire but jerked over backwards as a bullet smashed into his rifle’s receiver and sent it spinning from his hand. Nash lay there, wincing as the pain started to knife through his upper left arm. He shook his right hand and snatched at his Colt—but it had fallen from his holster, probably when the horse had reared. It was nowhere in sight and it looked as if the animal had fallen on top of it.
This meant that he was not only wounded, but unarmed.