Twelve

In the rosy blush of blazing dawn the sheer cliffs changed from their typical dull brown hue to a bright flesh-colored tint, seeming to come alive, to glisten with vitality.

Nate King sat astride the black stallion, his gaze roving over the high ramparts as he diligently sought a clue to Satan’s whereabouts. The panther had not shown itself during the night, much to his disappointment. He’d stayed up late just in case the cat did, and now he felt the lingering effects of having gone without a decent night’s sleep.

Stifling a yawn, Nate rode eastward. Yesterday he had checked the west end of the cliffs; today he would scout in the opposite direction. A piece of jerky served as breakfast. He had been in too much of a hurry to partake of the fine flapjacks Shakespeare had been preparing when he left.

Nate regretted being so impetuous. His stomach growled without letup and he craved a hot cup of coffee. Well, he reflected, what’s done was done and he might as well buckle down to the matter at hand.

An animal appeared high above, then another, and another, all moving with fearless precision along the cliff face, bounding from outcropping to ledge to shelf. At times they were balanced on knobs of rock no bigger than a man’s fist. Yet they were as sure-footed in their element as a mule would be on terra firma.

“Bighorns,” Nate said to himself. One day soon he was going to honor a promise and take his son Zach bighorn hunting. The elusive creatures were prized for their taste, which most mountain men compared favorably to that of mutton. Many claimed bighorn meat was tastier and juicier. A few trappers made it a point early each spring, when the bighorns inhabited lower elevations because of deep snow on the crags, to bring one of the animals down and hold a grand feast. Nate had been to one of the raucous affairs, and it was there he’d first savored a bighorn steak. He couldn’t wait to enjoy another.

But today the presence of the bighorns above was bothersome since it meant Satan wasn’t in the area. Nate trotted on along the base of the cliffs, alternating his attention between the heights and the ground.

Midmorning found Nate at a place where a dozen or so boulders had fallen from on high. He ground-hitched the stallion, carried his parfleche to a rock slab on which he took a seat, and pulled the last piece of pemmican out. A few more hours and he would have traveled the entire length of the cliffs. If he didn’t spot Satan by then, he was inclined to call off the search and give McNair’s pit a try. It couldn’t hurt.

Nate chewed and thought and didn’t realize several minutes had gone by until the strident screech of a bird of prey drew his interest to a bald eagle soaring on the uplifting air currents. He watched the eagle sail in a small circle, then swoop at the crest. Again and again it did the same thing.

Intrigued, Nate hopped off the slab and stepped backward until he had a clear view of the top. The eagle would dive at the rim, flap its wings a few times, then swerve aside, regain altitude, and repeat the behavior. Either it was trying to snare a small animal, or it was trying to drive something off. But what could be up that high, Nate mused, other than a bighorn or a marmot?

Inspiration jarred Nate to his core. Wheeling, he sprinted to the stallion and mounted. A hard ride brought him to where the cliffs came to an end. Swinging around the rock wall, he saw a gradual slope leading up toward the summit.

The eagle was gone but Nate wasn’t taking anything for granted. He grasped the Hawken in his left hand, the stock supported by his thigh. As usual the ground was too packed to bear prints although he did come on a smudged print that resembled a cat’s.

It was well past noon when Nate found large black and white feathers scattered over a small area near the rim. Close by was a short tree in which the second eagle had probably been perched when set upon. A trail of feathers led upward.

Nate cocked the rifle and warily advanced. So far as he knew, panthers rarely attacked eagles. The bald variety, and the golden kind too, was formidable when provoked. Satan had to be very hungry to risk having his eyes gouged out.

The feathers were spaced at irregular intervals. Presently they led Nate to what appeared to be a wide cleft. Sliding off the stallion, he squatted near the edge and peered downward. The ghastly sight below made him recoil in astonishment.

At one time the ground had cracked and split wide, forming a thirty foot trough extending northward from the cliff rim. Littering the bottom of this trough were jumbled bones piled three feet high. Buffalo bones, deer bones, bighorn bones, they were all there. So were those of marmots, badgers, ferrets, beavers, raccoons, opossums, and assorted smaller animals. In the midst of the tangled mass lay the skull of a small horse.

Nate blinked, then leaned over the edge. He had never seen so many skeletons collected in one spot. They were a morbid record of Satan’s kills over the past decade, or longer. Easing onto the grade below, he stepped carefully to the pile and picked up the leg bone of a buffalo calf. As he did, he noticed a human skull among the assortment.

Quickly Nate pried the skull loose to study it. The victim had been a child, judging by the size, most likely a boy. It was very old, proving Satan had been a confirmed man-killer years ago.

A sudden scratching, as of claws on rock, reminded Nate of the peril in which he had put himself. He quietly set the boy’s skull down and turned toward the mouth of the trough. Was it his imagination or did a shadow flit across the opening?

Hawken leveled, Nate crept to the crest of the cliff. Here the trough angled lower into a funnel shaped hole in the stone surface large enough to permit a steam engine to pass through. From lower down on the mountain the opening would have been impossible to spot.

Sliding on his backside, Nate worked his way toward the hole. He felt confident, alert. His left foot hurt just a bit and his rib ached dully, otherwise he felt fine. Near the hole the rock surface flattened, enabling him to squat and peek into a dimly lit cave.

He’d done it! Nate had found Satan’s den! Now that he had, there was the question of how to flush Satan out so he could end the monster’s vicious reign of terror. An eight or nine foot drop would take him to the dusty floor, which wasn’t much of a drop at all, but landing would aggravate his left leg and might throw him off balance, giving the panther the opening it needed to pounce on him before he could snap off a shot.

Then, too, there was no way back out that Nate could see. Once down there, he’d starve to death if Satan didn’t get him first, and he didn’t care to end his days on such an ignoble note after having gone to so much trouble. Unfortunately, he hadn’t thought to bring a rope along. Nate straightened, hefted the Hawken, and debated whether to tell Shakespeare of his discovery so they could work out a plan together.

A bloodcurdling snarl erupted directly above. Spinning, Nate glanced up and beheld his worst nightmare come true.

Satan was poised on the rim of the trough, the dead eagle hanging limply from his mighty jaws, dry blood plastering his chin. The panther’s eyes were alight with primal fury. His sanctuary had been violated by the frail creature he had tried to kill several times without success, and the entrance to his haven was blocked: His inherent bloodlust swelled, dominating his being, and he took a stride nearer.

Nate was in dire straits. He couldn’t retreat very far with the cliff rim at his back. Nor could he go more than a few feet to the right or the left. His sole avenue of escape was up the funnel to the trough, and Satan had him cut off. He fingered the hammer of his rifle, hesitant to shoot for fear of provoking the panther into charging since even if he killed it, the beast’s momentum might knock him back over the edge or into the hole.

What else could he do, though? Nate realized, and jammed the stock to his shoulder. As he did, Satan dropped the eagle, snarled, and sprang. Then everything happened so fast, Nate had no time to react. The Hawken boomed, a cloud of gunsmoke bloomed, preventing Nate from seeing the onrushing cat, and the next heartbeat he was sent flying by a heavy impact on his shoulder. Frantically he flailed his arms, seeking a purchase, but there was none.

The shock of smashing down on his back whooshed the air from Nate’s lungs. Above him he saw the cave opening, saw Satan’s head appear and heard the mountain lion vent its rage with a rumbling growl.

Nate scrambled to his feet and backed away. Somehow he had kept his hold on the rifle. Holding it in his left hand, he drew a pistol, aimed it at the feline’s feral visage, and cocked the piece. Satan promptly vanished.

Halting, Nate wedged the flintlock under his belt again and hurriedly commenced reloading the Hawken. He glanced at his surroundings and learned the cave was much bigger than he had thought, so big, in fact, it qualified as a cavern.

From outside came more growling. Nate’s fingers flew. When the rifle was ready, he slid the ramrod into its housing and leaned against the rock wall to catch his breath.

The temporary respite gave Nate the opportunity to study the cavern closely. Enough sunshine poured through the gaping entrance to bathe the interior in light for a score of yards in all directions. Beyond the radius of the sunlight, to the east, reared bulky shadows, boulders, Nate guessed.

The floor was level where Nate stood and in the middle, where he had fallen, but on the east side it seemed to angle downward. The walls were smooth, as was the ceiling. There were no stalagmites or stalactites.

Nate focused on the opening. Sooner or later Satan would see fit to jump down after him. His wisest recourse, then, was to wait there and put a ball in the panther’s brain when it did. Accordingly, he inched nearer to the center of the chamber.

The growling above had ceased.

Butterflies fluttered in Nate’s stomach and he tried to calm his nerves by sheer force of will. He licked his dry lips, then stared at the east end of the cavern. Those bulky shapes were clearer now, and he saw that they were broken chunks of rock of varying sizes, some taller than he was, evidently all that was left of a toppled wall.

Where was Satan? Nate wondered. Why wasn’t the panther coming in to get him? He walked directly under the rim and craned his neck for a glimpse of the lion or its shadow but saw neither.

After five minutes elapsed and there was no activity above, Nate moved to the other side of the hole, cautiously keeping out of sight. The new angle proved no better. Puzzled, he cast about on the floor and found a suitable rock which he then threw upward. It clattered noisily but failed to spark a response.

Nate didn’t know what to make of this development. He didn’t believe Satan would simply wander off, not when he occupied the panther’s lair. Was it biding its time, waiting up there for him? Or—and here a new idea hit him—was there another way into the cavern, a way only Satan knew?

Venturing into the murky realm fringing the entrance, where the floor angled gradually downward, Nate came on piles of earth and heaps of stones, additional residue from the crumbled wall. There were more huge boulders than he had imagined, and he threaded his way among them with supreme care.

The cavern turned out to be enormous. Beyond the boulders the floor became level again. No sunlight filtered through, but Nate’s eyes had adjusted sufficiently to the dark to enable him to distinguish inky outlines. He walked forward taking small steps, testing his footing before applying his whole weight. Caves often contained nasty surprises such as crevices and pits, and he didn’t want to blunder into one.

Nate had gone over fifty feet by his reckoning when a soft puff of air struck his cheek. He halted, elated. A breeze meant there was another opening somewhere near, perhaps a means of reaching the outer world. Turning this way and that he tried to pinpoint which direction the breeze came from.

Satisfied the answer was off to the right, Nate worked toward a wall. It appeared solid enough, and there were no telltale points of light. Had he erred? No, because another whisper of air caressed his face, a little stronger this time.

Stopping, Nate ran his hand over the rough surface, feeling for a crack or a concealed passage. He moved to the left and squatted to check lower down. Immediately a blast of wind hit him head-on.

What was this? Nate asked himself excitedly. Groping over a wide area, he discovered a ragged hole the size of a melon. Through this the breeze wafted.

Nate kept searching in the hope there was another opening, one big enough for him to crawl through. But there wasn’t, and in his frustration he clenched his fist and swore under his breath.

Hugging the wall, Nate sought another way out. He refused to give up, refused to give Satan the satisfaction of prevailing. A troubling thought occurred to him a few yards farther on: What if Satan was smart enough to know that he would eventually succumb to hunger and thirst? What if the panther had no intention of coming in after him until assured he was good and dead?

That couldn’t be the case, Nate reflected. There wasn’t a mountain lion alive that smart, that clever. He kept looking, searching every nook and cranny, making a complete circuit without finding the yearned after escape route.

Suppressing an impulse to panic, Nate returned to the entrance. The sunshine sparkled as it fell through the hole, lending the setting an enchanted aspect like in a child’s fairy tale. But there was nothing enchanting about the certain fate awaiting Nate unless he found a way out of the trap in which he had unwittingly put himself.

A turtle-shaped boulder offered a tempting seat. Nate loosened the pistols for instant use and studied the rim nine feet up. How the dickens was he going to reach that high to pull himself out? He couldn’t very well sprout wings or build a ladder. And he couldn’t jump with his leg in the shape it was in.

The turtle-shaped boulder gave Nate a brainstorm when he slapped it in annoyance, stinging his palm. He looked down at it, frowned, then drew back as if it had slapped him in the face in return. Of course! he mused. Why hadn’t he thought of it sooner?

Hurriedly Nate moved about, seeking boulders light enough to lift and flat enough to be stacked one on top of the other. Right away he located two and lugged them under the rim, wincing as his hurt rib protested the exertion. One more brought the height to just over two feet.

Nate gauged the distance to the edge of the entrance and nodded. Climbing onto the top boulder, he perched like a hawk about to take flight. The top of the hole was less than a foot above his head. All he had to do was jump and seize hold. Only one thing stopped him, uncertainty over Satan’s whereabouts. Nate would be totally helpless for the few seconds he hung there before climbing up, and in that span Satan could take his head off with a single swipe.

Nate jumped down and went in search of another flat boulder. He had to look longer this time, but he found one and added it to his stack. Now when he stood on the top he could straighten high enough to see over the lip. Still, he paused, straining his ears to catch any sounds. A growl, heavy breathing, the pad of paws, anything.

The deep silence was unnerving. Nate slowly rose on his toes and risked peeking out. To his amazement, Satan was nowhere to be seen, not in the area of the funnel nor in the part of the trough visible from the entrance. Inexplicably, the panther had gone away.

Nate didn’t waste another moment. Resting the Hawken on the lip in front of him, he placed both palms flat, coiled his shoulders, and shoved upward. Once on firm footing, he grabbed the rifle and dashed up the incline into the trough and from there out onto open ground. Still, Satan didn’t show.

To say Nate was happy was the understatement of the century. He had stared death in the face, as it were, yet again, and lived to tell the tale. Maybe Shakespeare was right. Maybe he did have more luck than most two men combined.

Grinning at his deliverance, Nate turned to mount the black stallion and did a double take on finding the horse gone. A few partial prints told the story. Satan had tried to bring the stallion down, but the powerful black had fought back and fled with the mountain lion in earnest pursuit.

So now Nate knew why Satan hadn’t been waiting outside the cavern. He began running, pacing himself so he wouldn’t become fatigued too quickly, anxiously seeking sign of his horse and the cat. Thankfully he was going downhill.

Nate covered hundreds of yards before a sharp pang in his side compelled him to rest briefly. Striding to the crown of the cliff, he gazed in reverent awe out over the magnificent expanse of verdant countryside unfurled below the heights. On his way up he had been so intent on spotting tracks, he hadn’t paid all that much attention to the tremendous view.

Nate swore he could see almost to the broad Mississippi. Majestic mountains mingled with rolling emerald hills to the north and the south, forming undulating waves that grew smaller with distance. A sea of verdant forest covered most of the landscape, except for brown breakers where stark peaks and cliffs such as the one he was on reared skyward. Far, far to the east, at the very horizon, lay a stretch of grassy flatland like a green shoreline, perhaps the prairie itself.

Movement below shattered Nate’s contemplation of Nature’s awesome grandeur. He spied the black stallion making for woods flanking the heights. Satan still gave chase but was hopelessly outdistanced.

Nate continued jogging. His foot began aching terribly, and not to be outdone, his rib did the same. Regardless, he forged on, oblivious to everything except the need to save the stallion. Often he had to slow to allow his foot and chest to stop throbbing.

The afternoon waxed, waned.

On the brink of exhaustion, Nate halted close to the bottom of the cliffs, within an eighth of a mile of the forest into which the stallion had gone. Dripping with sweat, he sat on a rock and collected his strength for the next spurt. He looked up, saw the long shadow of an isolated tree spearing at him, and realized how very late it had become. Shifting, he was troubled to note the sun had partially dipped from sight. Twilight was minutes off.

From the frying pan into the fire, as the old saying went. Nate rose and hastened toward the trees. At least there he could find shelter, find a spot to hide until daylight, hopefully somewhere that offered some protection from the panther.

Nate knew that Satan would be on his heels eventually. Once the mountain lion gave up its pursuit of the stallion, it would venture back and pick up his scent. He had to be in a defensible position before it caught up.

The shadows of the foremost phalanx of pines formed a dark band on the paler grass. They blanketed Nate as he came to the forest and entered their gloomy dominion. An eerie quiet gripped the woods, a bad omen.

Nate found the stallion’s tracks readily enough and trailed them. It was doubtful he could overtake the horse before nightfall closed in, but he would try. He didn’t care to spend the night in the woods if he could help it.

To the west the sun sank steadily, painting the sky brilliant streaks of red, orange, and pink. The northwesterly wind increased, as always. To the south an elk trumpeted, a rare sound at that time of year.

Nate crept anxiously along, his grip on the Hawken as steely as the gleam in his eyes. More than ever he burned with a desire to put an end to Satan, to give the panther a small measure of its due for those who had fallen prey to its insatiable butchery. Satan was a deviate specimen, a freak of Nature, a lion that lived for the pure joy of slaughter rather than to merely fill its belly when hungry.

Suddenly Nate stopped, his eyes widening.

Coming toward him was the feline terror.