Trask found the way ahead growing steeper. He could feel the dun struggling as it combated the incline and the deep layer of snow covering it. A couple of times he felt the horse miss its footing and slip back on its haunches as it pushed to regain its balance. He could feel its muscles tense, heard the snort of anxiety as it strained against the pull of gravity. He eased out of the saddle, gripping the reins as he moved ahead, pulling and coaxing the animal. Snow kicked up from beneath the dun as it fought to stay upright. He saw its eye roll as a moment of panic seized it. Trask pushed back his own fear, not wanting the horse to feel his mood, and he spoke to it in a calm tone, aware that any untoward show of displeasure would only serve to scare the dun. He dug in his heels, kept up the pressure on the reins as he reassured it with his own voice. It felt like an eternity before man and horse reached a flatter section and the scare passed. Trask stepped close, stroking the nervous animal, using a gentle tone of voice to soothe it.
Under his thick coat Trask was sweating from the effort. He calmed his breathing. He leaned against the dun and peered across the saddle, back down the long slope and even through the swirl of eddying snow he could see the rider.
Still coming.
Still on his trail.
Trask felt the hot anger threatening to rise again.
Damn the man, would he never quit?
He knew the answer even as the question formed in his mind. Whoever the rider was he maintained a dogged pace.
As Trask watched, a suspicion began to form in his imagination. He was sure it was nothing more than that.
Suspicion.
It had to be that. Simply a creation of his overworked mind.
Because Trask was almost ready to believe the man following him was Bodie.
That couldn’t be. He had shot Bodie, face on, back at the Gibbs. Had seen him go down with Trask’s .45 slug in his chest. The manhunter had to be dead.
He had to be.
It had been a killing shot. He was sure of that. Even if Bodie had only been wounded, that kind of hit would have kept him on his back for a long time.
Right?
The man would not have been able fork a saddle and ride all the way up the mountain slopes. Bodie was tough. A hard man. But even he couldn’t …
Yet the longer he studied the oncoming rider the stronger his conviction became. If anyone could do it Bodie was the man. His persistence, often under difficult circumstances, was why his legend had grown.
Was why he was called The Stalker.
The man known to follow a trail as far as it went. The manhunter who never, ever, backed down. Who, it was said, would crawl on hands and knees to reach his quarry.
Bodie would follow a man to the front door of Hell and challenge the Devil himself to give up his man.
It had been a long time since Sam Trask had experienced a moment of fear. He was doing it right now. For long seconds he allowed that fear to take over. He clung to his saddle and watched the distant rider coming on. Getting closer with each second.
Bodie.
Coming for him.
Just as swiftly the lost moment faded. Was sucked away as the wind was tossing around the falling snow. Trask slammed a hand down on his saddle, causing the dun to shiver.
No damn way.
He wasn’t about to let some bounty hunter snatch away his freedom. He was Sam Trask, not some piece of trash ready to be trampled over.
All right, Mr. Bodie, you keep on coming because I’m ready for you. The minute you’re in range I’ll empty my gun in you and watch you bleed.