LEFTY HAD GAZED somberly at the pool, disliking those dark and troubled waters, but fascinated even as he was repelled. Abruptly he had remembered an extra flask, provided for him by Eggers which he had stowed away for an emergency. Retrieving it, he had returned to the same spot.
Now, emptying his revolver, triggering with frantic haste at the thing in the pool, he was assailed by a disturbing suspicion. Was he seeing things which were not there, imagining a man cavorting in those dark depths?
The hammer clicked on empty shells, and he stood, head thrust forward after the manner of a buzzard, staring, shaking with nervous reaction. It wasn’t possible, yet there had been something, and now it was gone. That was most unsettling of all. Shocked almost to sobriety, he considered the possibilities. Only an otter or beaver possessed the ability and size to frolic in such a pool, but there was no stream within miles, nothing which might attract them.
There was no logical explanation, and the illogical was even more disturbing. He had imagined Montana Abbott there, and that was bad enough, but for him to no longer be there was worse.
Hoag swung suddenly, stumbling away, all but falling where the slope was slick. Forgotten was his initial plan to climb to the mine and open the door. What mattered was to place as much distance as possible between himself and this spot.
Montana’s reaction to the blasting gun was instinctive, ducking below the surface as more lead tore into the pool. His glimpse of the gunman on the bank was distorted, but there was no doubt in his mind as to who would respond in such fashion. The only surprising part was that Lefty should chance to be there, apparently on watch. Even if he had foreseen the possibility of an attempt at escape by that route, it was a long chance that he would watch the pool, rather than forestall the try by a more direct method.
But he was there and shooting. And, as Montana had long since discovered, you couldn’t argue with a gun.
This new dilemma was as icy as the water. Having come this far, there was no going back. He must escape quickly from the pool, then circle and climb and get the door open, or perish of the cold—if he did not drown or stop a fresh hail of bullets, once Hoag had reloaded. Worse, he was caught without a weapon, with no means of fighting back.
The strong push of the current sent a pulsing tide through the pool, the rippling effect making it difficult to see clearly below the surface.
A beaver or otter could remain submerged for quite a while, but he could not. The need for air forced him to surface again, at the far side of the pool, shadowed by the overhang. Gulping deep breaths, he remained immobile, treading water, and it came to him that he must be out of sight from the bank on the other side. At least he would not drown, but he had to wait.
Shifting position carefully, he made out Hoag, staring, battling his doubts, trying to resolve both fear and suspicion. If he chose to hang around and see what might happen, there would be nothing for it but to swim across the pool under water, then break suddenly and try to grapple him. before he could shoot. Except for surprise, almost every advantage would be with Hoag in such an encounter.
Cold was like the growth of an icicle. Montana shivered violently, then, as he steadied, Hoag had vanished.
He looked again, fearing a trick, a ruse to get him to show himself, while the killer crouched in ambush. But that was the chance he had to take. Swimming across, his limbs hesitant as though the blood was congealing in his veins, he managed to scramble out. It was not a graceful exit, but a frantic flopping on icy bank and snow. He came erect, and cold as the water had been, the bite of air needling through sodden clothing was sharper.
Tracks in the snow led up to the pool, then away. He noticed their retreat as he began to climb, only there were two sets. Whether both had been made by Hoag, or if he still lurked, was another chance he had to take. He reached the foot of the slope below the tunnel mouth and began to climb, and again was in a fresh dilemma, a problem he had not foreseen.
The temperature of the snow was near the freezing point, but the air was a few degrees colder. Its effect on dripping clothes produced a sudden icing, rendering the slope doubly slippery, a frantic chore as he clawed his way up.
Resolution and his initial rush carried him to the door, then numbing fingers frustrated his effort to locate it. During the night the door had become invisible, covered along with the rest of the slope by an additional foot of snow. Hazily it occurred to him that it had stopped snowing, but already the storm had blanketed away all sign.
Such a storm was the customary dividing line between early fall and Indian summer. Winter had a way of showing its teeth, then, growling, retreating to survey the result. Days or weeks of near-perfect weather might follow. Along the Rockies’ crests this snow would cling, but here it would probably melt.
But that would require at least a week or so; for now, winter had taken over.
He swept snow away with a brush of arm and fist, and in the effort almost lost his precarious hold. But his sense of location was accurate, and he saw the rough outlines of the door, set like a cork in a bottle. A heavy wooden bar had been fitted across it, apparently wedged into slots at either side. He clawed at the bar, fingers like stumps. It refused to budge.
Desperately he pulled himself higher and aimed a kick, hammering with a heel of his boot. The bar came loose.
It twisted, teetered uncertainly on the slope, then slid, scooting away from his frantic grab, plunging to the foot of the slope and out of sight in the deeper snow.
Remorsefully he watched. The bar could have served as a pry, to lever the door loose. His guess that it not only fitted tightly into place but might be frozen fast, hard to dislodge, was accurate. Clubbed fingers would have gushed blood, had they been more animate.
Open that door he must, and quickly. His clothes were crackling, stiffening with ice. So encased, he would soon be helpless. Unless he could get inside to shelter and a fire, he was finished.
And so would be the girls, trapped helplessly on the far side of the barrier.
He kicked again, thankful that he had kept his boots on. Before risking the watery way out he had toyed with the notion of removing his boots, then had decided that they might prove more of a help then hindrance. Without the heavy leather with which to pound, he would be helpless.
To kick and kick again was an exhausting chore. The cold sapped his strength, slowing his blood. The risk of losing his footing and sliding in a wild plunge to the base made it worse. If that happened, he could never struggle back up.
The wood groaned, yielding, a crack appearing along the rim of snow. Another kick tipped it, tantalizingly but not enough. He shoved with both hands, lifting. Unexpectedly, the heavy door tipped to the side, balanced precariously. He shoved, and it teetered, then plunged down the hill as the bar had done. In a wild gyration he saved himself from following, fell back and in.
Jarred and breathless, but unhurt, he sprawled, then both women were exclaiming over him. Actually only a few minutes had passed since he had stepped into the water, but the ordeal had seemed endless to them, forced to wait, prey to uncertainty, hearing the burst of gunfire, followed by a still more dreadful silence.
Between them, aided by his own effort, they got him over to the fire, blazing cheerfully. It at least was working according to plan. The smoke which had been gathering just above their heads was finding release, the air clearing. Daylight from the opening dimmed the yellow glow of the lantern.
“Those shots,” Melissa gasped. “You aren’t wounded?”
“Nary a scratch,” he assured her, which was true enough, as regarded the shooting. Other contusions were not worth the mention.
Practical-minded, they thrust a blanket at him, then tugged at the icy buttons of his clothing. Again he was shaken by a chill, unable to control his muscles or help himself. Numbly he was aware that they were peeling a veritable layer of ice away from him, covering him with more blankets. The fire’s heat was grateful, seeming to bounce away as it hit, to be lost.
Melissa held a cup to his mouth, and he swallowed hot coffee. The shaking subsided, spasms of shivering alternating with a growing sense of warmth. Serene was wringing out his sodden garments as they thawed, propping them against the wall back of the fire.
He downed a second cup of coffee, blanket-wrapped like an Indian, observing absently that the blaze gave off very little smoke. Still that lift above the hill might be seen. His mind sharpened to still real dangers.
“Hand me my gun,” he requested, and placed it within reach. “One of you keep a sharp watch at the opening all the while. Warn me if you hear anything. Hoag just might sneak around and start to spray bullets down here.”
He was not too worried at that possibility, though it had to be watched for. He had no fear of the door being replaced, to pen them in. It would be too heavy and clumsy for one man to tug back up so steep and slippery a slope.
They talked in a release of tension, and he explained what had happened, making light of the descent in the tunnel of water. In retrospect, that was an experience he’d sooner not repeat. Fortunately, there had been no time for a feeling of claustrophobia, for the terror of so shut-in a place. He had never been afflicted with such fears, but it would have been easy to fall prey to a terror worse than facing a gun.
Swaddled in all the available blankets, he gradually grew comfortable, which again was none too soon, with the supply of firewood down to the final sticks. All three kept a wary eye on the opening, but apparently Lefty Hoag was not minded to return. Under the circumstances, that was understandable. The adventure, for him, had taken on weird and unchancy aspects.
Unless keeping a sharp watch, Hoag would be unlikely to spot a thin mist of smoke. In his mind there was no doubt that, whether by hot lead, cold water, or being penned in his tomb, Montana was no longer a problem, or ever could be. For his own safety as well as his employer’s, it was better to leave the covering snow undisturbed, the grave sealed.
Montana’s clothes were still damp, but he was warm. Dressed again, the weather was no longer a problem. He boosted the girls up to the opening and out, handed them the blankets and what remained of their food, then, given a hand up, was outside also.
Clouds still lowered, a solid mass thrust against the looming Rockies. It was nearing noon, as the watches confirmed. The wilderness world stretched silent and lonely, but not so unbroken as during the hours of storm. Tracks were beginning to appear—the delicate tracery of wood or field mice, adjusting to the change which had come to their world; equal lightness of birds, interspersed here and there by grimmer, more purposeful trails where predators hunted. From the flounderings of weasels in too-soft snow to the pad of lynx or coyote, there was stir.
With the improvement in the weather the hunt for them would be intensified, but the chance that anyone would be looking where they were was too long to count on. The country was vast and, for them, trackless. By this time, fear would outweigh hope.
That would not stop the search, but they would have very little to go by. His own immediate pursuit had seemed in some respects hasty and ill-considered, but with storm on the way, Montana had weighed the odds, and with each hour he had had fewer regrets. Hostages such as Melissa and Serene, in the hands of such captors, becoming increasingly fearful and frustrated, would have fared poorly.
It was a long way back to town, and his horse would have been appropriated. But after the ordeal they had undergone, even so weary a trek was hardly serious.
“We’ve blankets, some grub, and our health,” Montana summed-up the situation. “And sooner or later, we’ll find somebody and get a lift.” Riding horses, traveling at a steady trot, it had been a long journey out. Breaking trail through the covering snow would be slower. But his hope was that, somewhere along the way, the stage would come. Bone-shaker that it was, they would welcome the chance to ride it again.