Cato’s fingers were numbed. The cold wind blowing through the gap between the door and the frame chilled the brass buckle-handle of the knife and the awkward pressure as he sawed back and forth at the tough, heavyweight saddle leather made his fingers ache.
He was almost through the second hinge. The first one, the bottom one, had already been cracked from continual movement of the door and exposure to the weather, and the sharp blade sliced through without a lot of trouble. But the middle hinge seemed to be of newer leather and it had folded back on itself, and the blade kept jamming, occasionally making a squeaking noise as he yanked it free of the gripping steer hide.
After each screech, Cato and the senator waited tensely, listening for Slip’s footsteps as he came to investigate. But wherever the man had chosen to hole-up out of the wind, he was apparently too far away to hear. Or he was just plumb lazy. Either way, Cato continued with his sawing but his fingers were becoming so numbed now that he couldn’t really feel his grip on the buckle and twice he dropped it. The second time it caught between the door and the frame and he had one hell of a job getting it free. Luckily, he had already cut through the bottom hinge, and he was able to get his feet against the bottom of the door and push it out far enough for it to release the knife. Jonas Locke tried to take a turn at hacking away at the hinges but he was too weak and the movement of his arms and shoulders brought groans of pain to his lips as the weals on his back started bleeding again.
Cato sat back on his haunches abruptly, blowing out his cheeks and wiping sweat from his face before it began to freeze up in the chill wind blowing into the cabin. The lantern was barely alight now and he turned the wick up a little.
“If we’re gonna run out of oil, we might as well make the most of what little’s left,” he said. “That’s the second one through. Now the top one’s gonna be a mite different. When I cut through it, the whole damn door might just fall outwards. If it does, it’ll make plenty of noise and we’ll be sitting ducks for Slip. You can bet wherever he is, he’s able to at least see the cabin. So we need somethin' to hold the door in place first, then we got to get Slip over here ...”
“Over here?” echoed the senator.
“Yeah. I’ll have to take your blanket, Senator. If I tear off some strips, we can make a rope, tie it to the inside part of the latch. Reckon you could hold it? There shouldn’t be much weight on it at first, maybe not at all. That wind’s blowing against the door from the outside, so it’ll tend to keep it upright.”
“I’ll try,” Locke said grimly. He knew their lives depended on their efforts.
Cato tore the blanket into a series of strips, knotted several together until he had a length of about ten feet. Then he made a similar series of strips and twisted both lengths together, making a crude but effective rope. He tied one end around the inside section of the latch and then, keeping it taut, took the other end back to where the senator lay. He put the rope into Locke’s hands in the gloom, for they were beyond the small pool of deep orange cast by the dying lantern light, and felt the rope go slack, even when the man strained to hold it taut.
“No good, I’m afraid, Senator,” Cato said, taking up the slack. “Anyway, you better start getting your warmer clothes on now we’ve ripped up the blanket. You’ll need both hands for that ... I’ll see if there’s some place I can anchor the end of this.”
“I’m ... sorry, John,” Locke panted regretfully.
“Better that you save your strength, anyway, I guess. Once we’re out of here, you’re gonna need it all.”
Locke nodded and started to struggle into his woolen shirt, sucking in his breath sharply as the fibers raked across his raw back wounds. Cato looked around for something to anchor the crude rope to but could find nothing handy. Then he saw the window, kept his weight pulling back on the rope, and found that he had about a foot to spare by the time he had reached the window. He kept it pressed against the wall with his knee while he jarred the warped frame loose and lifted it a couple of inches above the sill. Then, shivering in the cold blast of wind, he knotted the end of the rope and forced it under the window frame, holding it taut with one hand while he hammered the window down hard with the other, jamming the knot under the frame. He tugged on the rope and found it fairly taut. It would be tight enough to support the door’s weight, anyway, while he cut through the top hinge.
Cato returned to the door, picked up his buckle knife and worked the blade into the gap, beginning to saw away at the leather hinge. The hide was dry and tough and he couldn’t feel the razor-edged blade even bite into it, at first. Then he seemed to break through the outer, weathered covering and gradually the steel cut its way down through the creased leather. He strained to work a fingertip through and could just manage to touch the base of the hinge leather. He figured there was about a half-inch of sound leather left. Probably it was too tough for him to risk leaving it and to hope it would snap when he threw his weight against the door. So, sighing, blowing on his fingers, the lantern out now, unnoticed by him, Cato sawed and cut until the blade sliced clear through the last hinge. The door jarred down onto the jamb and sagged outwards an inch or so. He held his breath, hoping it wouldn’t fall out far enough to be noticed. The door jammed against the frame and held. He felt the blanket-rope now and it was as taut as a guitar string.
“How you doin’, Senator?”
“I could—use a—hand, John.”
Cato groped his way to the senator’s side and helped him struggle into his jacket. Then he got the man onto his feet and Locke swayed unsteadily. He took a few tentative steps and grabbed at the wall for support.
“You just stay upright, Senator,” Cato encouraged. “Move your legs a little. Use all the time we got while I try to get Slip over here. You okay?”
“I’m—fine,” Locke panted weakly and Cato knew they were going to have to be very lucky to get out of this alive.
He went back to the door, holding the brass buckle knife, and put his mouth up against the freezing slit between the door edge and the frame.
“Hey!” he bawled. “Hey, you out there, s’posed to be on guard! I’ve been shoutin’ my lungs out for help! The senator’s actin’ kind of strange. Makin’ queer noises. His breathin’s all ragged. I reckon he’s dyin’ ...”
Cato waited. Only the wind howled outside and only the senator’s breath hissing through his nostrils could be heard inside the cabin.
“Goddamn it! Where the hell are you? I tell you, feller, you don’t help us and the senator dies, I’ll see Duane knows you went off and hunted a warm spot instead of standin’ guard like you were s’posed to!”
Again he waited a long time, and he was about to call out again, in one final attempt to lure the guard to the door, when he heard a scraping sound as the man began to lift the bar. Cato swore silently. The guard had crept back stealthily, unheard, and had almost surprised them. Cato didn’t hesitate. He grabbed the blanket rope, hacked at it savagely with the blade, now dulled some from the work it had done on the weathered leather. It sawed through the strands of wool as he heard the bar slide back in its slot.
Then the rope parted and he heard the guard outside curse as he noticed the way the rear of the door sagged outwards. Cato released the rope and flung himself bodily at the door.
He crashed against the heavy woodwork with a wild yell but there was a wilder, though more muffled yell from outside as the door was smashed outwards. Slip tried to dodge, dragging at the Manstopper, as the heavy door came down on top of him. He lifted an arm protectively and screamed as the door crashed outwards and hammered him to the ground, pinning him from the waist down. He began to yell and Cato ran over the door, leapt down and stabbed with the knife. Slip convulsed as the blade sank into his heart and Cato, with the, strength of a madman, heaved the door aside.
He swiftly stripped off the gunbelt and his beloved Manstopper and buckled it about his waist. He searched the man fast and found only four shot shells in his pockets. He swore, ran back to the cabin where the senator was staggering out, stumbling to one knee. Cato grabbed his arm and yanked him upright, shivering already in the biting wind. The senator groaned in pain but Cato ignored it, urged him towards the trees.
“Come on! Run! That ranny’s yells might’ve been heard!”
He had hardly spoken before someone yelled twenty yards away, coming up over the rise that hid the cabin from the main ranch buildings and a gun crashed back there. Cato sent the senator stumbling into the trees and dropped to one knee. He saw three men pounding over the rise, guns in hand. His numbed thumb felt for the toggle on the hammer, jarred it into position and, as they fired and bullets spat past his head, Cato triggered the shot barrel. The heavy gun rode up in recoil as the thunder split open the night and two of the men spun about, lifted clear off the ground, legs kicking, screaming. The third man dived back over the rise and Cato leapt up and ran into the trees, thumbing the toggle back to normal .45 barrel. He found Locke hanging onto a tree for support and, hardly breaking stride, ignoring the man’s cry of pain, yanked him after him as they fled deep into the blackness of the timber-stand.
Before they had gone more than a hundred yards, they heard distant baying sounds behind them. Panting, sweating, staggering, they stopped, shivering as the wind howled around them. Cato saw the senator’s pale face turned towards him.
“Hounds!” Locke gasped.
“Yeah,” said Cato, feelingly. “Goddamn hounds!”
With the thought of this new menace driving them, they staggered off into the timber, climbing slowly up the mountainside.
In one way, the wind helped them; it shrieked and howled and froze the marrow in their bones, but it also stirred up the dust in the lower sections of timber. Above, far up the mountain peak, snow was streaming from the top, the permanent, powdery snow.
Locke was staggering drunkenly, stupid with the fatigue from his efforts at climbing up through the timber. He was leaning more and more on Cato and the small Enforcer’s breath barked in the back of his throat as he stumbled on, the baying of the hounds ringing in his ears. They were being forced up to the timberline by the pursuers and it was a place Cato would rather not go. With this wind blowing, and the snow streaming up there, it would be like going into a blizzard. While he and Locke were dressed warmly enough for the wind at the level of Wildcat Falls, he wouldn’t want to take any bets on the efficiency of their clothing above the timberline.
And the cold would weaken Locke even more. The senator had surprised him: he had plenty of guts. He was in obvious pain and his breath sobbed in agonized gasps, but he didn’t waste it complaining. He struggled on, helping Cato all he could, aware that he was slowing the Enforcer down. Again, he didn’t waste breath and time by trying to talk Cato into leaving him behind. For one thing, he was human enough not to want to be left to the mercies of Duane’s men; for another, he savvied that Cato had to try his damnedest to get him away. The smaller man felt he had fallen down in his duty by allowing Locke to be captured in the first place and Jonas Locke had seen enough of Cato to know the only way the man’s personal code would allow him to atone for that was to bust a gut in his efforts to get them both to freedom.
Or die trying ...
At first, Cato wondered why Duane’s men bothered with the hounds. He figured, if he had been one of them, he would have gotten his men mounted and on the trail of the escapees pronto. But going through the thick timber, with the wind howling, he realized it would be one hell of a job for a horseman to run their quarry to earth, especially at night. As it was, he cannoned off tree after tree in the dark in the thickest places and it was only where the timber thinned out that he could catch a glimpse of the mountain peak far above. He was able to use the paleness of the permanent drift snow up there as a direction: it silhouetted the trees, gave him some place to head for. He had tried striking out across the face of the slope for a spell but the pursuers were plainly coming straight up and it had put them too close to the baying hounds. He had decided not to waste any more time: they climbed as well as they could, straight up, heading for the timberline.
The senator fell and dragged Cato down to his knees. He had no breath left to urge Locke up, so simply changed his grip on the bigger man, dug in his boots and strained upright, lifting the senator and feeling the man fighting to keep his legs from buckling.
“Not—far—now!” he gasped, though the distance they had to go didn’t mean much. For sure, it didn’t mean safety. But it was something that might give Locke that shade extra drive to keep going just a little longer.
The hounds bayed excitedly downslope: they had obviously scented the tracks and Cato wondered what it was that had been used to give the hounds their scent. Likely some item of clothing they had left in the cabin. In any case, the hounds were coming and he feared them more than the men. Some of these backwoods hounds were little better than the wild timber wolves and would tear a man to shreds in seconds, terrible, agonizing seconds. The thought of being eaten alive sent the adrenalin surging through his aching muscles and he got a better grip on the senator and moved on, the slope becoming steeper now.
The timber was clearly thinning out. The trees were not so tall, either, and stunted bushes showed, and rocks with a powdery dusting of snow in the crevices. The wind was like a razor against their exposed flesh and sent probing fingers beneath their clothing. The senator’s teeth were chattering. Cato jerked his head back as something fluttered against his face, and then he realized it was a gust of snow.
There was a thin coating of snow underfoot and it lifted away to the thick white sheets covering the upper slopes of the Sierras. There were deep drifts in the hollows, silver, skeleton-like bushes with few leaves left on them at this height. The air was thinner and seared their lungs. Their eyes watered and the tears froze on their cheeks. Their ears felt as if they would snap off if touched and the ends of their noses were continually damp and numbed. Cato lowered the senator to the freezing ground, blew on his hands, and then eased the Manstopper in his holster, as he looked down the slope towards the timber.
There was a moving dot of light way down through the trees, hut it was difficult to estimate just how far down the slope it was. The hounds bayed and yapped and they seemed more distant than before, but that could simply be the thinner air not carrying the sound as well, or the timber screening them. There was no reason why they should have lost ground. If anything, they should have gained, for there was nothing to hold them back.
Except the search for tracks, which wouldn’t be easy in the dark, but come daylight they would have little use for the hounds. They would simply have to follow the trail left by Cato’s and Locke’s boots across the peak’s snowfields.
So they had better get going pronto and see if they could find some place to hole up that would give them some protection from this wind. And the bullets that he had no doubt would be coming their way before too much longer. He wished he wasn’t so low on ammunition. He aimed to keep the four shot shells for the dogs. If the pack rushed them, he figured he could blast them with the buckshot and keep his meager supply of .45 cartridges for the men. He hoped it would work out.
Cato reached down and got the senator’s arm around his shoulders, keeping his right arm free so that he could get at the Manstopper should he need it. Staggering and, for one tense second almost losing his balance, Cato started off and Locke’s legs moved automatically, though leadenly. They would be lucky to find shelter tonight, Cato figured.
He tilted his head back and saw the swirling, gusting snow above them. Sure was blowing a pint sized blizzard up there. They had better keep away from that part of the peak. He started to turn across the face of the slope and then abruptly changed his mind, moved directly up the steep slope, heading for the gusting, freezing snow clouds.
It might freeze their tails off, but that snow would wipe out their tracks and screen them from the hunters. There was nowhere else they could go. So he headed for the blizzard, knowing their biggest enemy would be the cold up there.
But he was wrong. There was a sudden baying, long drawn howl over to his left that had Cato actually jumping, his heart leaping into his throat and pounding rapidly. By hell, the dogs couldn’t have gotten that far up the slope after them! It sounded as if they were on the same level or only yards below.
Then he saw them and he swallowed the sick fear that burned the back of his throat.
It wasn’t the hounds from Diamond-D. It was a pack of stalking timber wolves and they were coming across the snow towards him, fangs glinting, jaws slavering.