Yancey had no intention of sleeping. He quietly moved his things out of the room with the broken window into the one next door, not even telling Hammond of his intentions. He grabbed some of the blankets and made them into a rough pile and covered them with the sheet and another blanket so that they resembled a man's shape lying in bed. Then he slipped out into the passage, forced the lock next door with his buckle knife and moved in.
After the fight with the man who had tried to knife him, Yancey figured maybe he could have gotten the drop on Duane and his men, but it would have been difficult to make them take him to the Diamond-D or wherever it was Duane was holding Cato and the senator. He figured Duane wouldn’t hang around town too long now: he knew Yancey was a hard hombre and looking for Cato and Locke. Most likely he would take his men and head back for his spread in the Sierras ... and get rid of the prisoners as quickly as possible. Likely Duane hadn’t figured on two Texas Enforcers coming after him and they were the elite of the governor’s personal trouble-shooters so he must know that there would be no letting up in the search if both disappeared in the same area.
Yancey would not be surprised if Duane sent a man to murder him in his bed first and rig it so that it looked as if the motive was robbery or something else that couldn’t be connected with Cato’s disappearance. So he sat by the bed in the second room with his Colt cocked in his hands, ears alert. He dozed a little, for it had been a long, rough trail into the Sierras, and then started awake, dropping off the chair to one knee, gun pointing to the door.
There were footsteps on the stairs leading up from the foyer. He cocked his ear again: they were going down. He relaxed slightly. Then he heard horses outside, horses lifted to a gallop swiftly, and he ran to the window, flattened against the wall beside it and eased the drapes aside with his gun barrel. Duane’s bunch were heading out of town to the north, riding fast. There was enough moonlight to recognize them. He counted five men.
Yancey grabbed his warbag, went out of the room swiftly into the passage, holding his gun ready. He hurried down the stairs across the darkened, deserted lobby and out into the street. His horses were in the stables behind the building, but he would not bother with the pack animal. He didn’t want to take the time to rig the saddles and packs, so he stuffed his saddlebags with whatever food and supplies he could cram in, dropped an extra carton of shells down the front of his jacket and then tossed his Texas saddle-rig over the sorrel and fumbled for the cinch.
A few minutes later he rode out of the stables and put the sorrel along Main Street, climbing onto the Sierra trail. He didn’t figure he would be able to follow Duane clear back to his spread tonight, but there would be tracks come daylight that he could use to lead him to the Diamond-D. Then he would be able to spy out the lie of the land before making his move.
The moon disappeared behind scudding clouds after he had been riding for maybe half an hour and Yancey cursed silently. He had been depending on the moonlight so that he might be able to spot Duane’s bunch from a high vantage point. He had spotted the jutting black silhouette of a ledge above the trail to the right and put the sorrel cautiously up the slope, picking its way between the rocks and fallen branches. The wind was cold and he shivered a little, figuring it would be a damn sight colder higher up the mountain. By the time he had reached the ledge, the moon had gone.
He looked at the heavy scudding clouds and the speed at which they were moving. There wasn’t a break in them and he figured the moon wouldn’t come out again this night. Fact was, it had all the signs of being a freezing, windblown night, likely with blizzards on the high peaks above the timberline. There was no sign of Duane’s bunch and the whistling of the wind through the pines and aspens prevented him from hearing any sounds they might have made. Looked like he had lost them tonight and he could ride around these hills all night without picking up any sign of them and, come morning, find himself hopelessly lost.
Warily, he let the sorrel pick its way down the slope to the trail again. He figured he couldn’t go wrong by riding along the trail for a spell, until he at least came to some place where he could camp for the night, somewhere that would be sheltered from the wind.
He found a place two miles farther along and up above the trail. Timber was thickening and he saw the bulge of a boulder clump on the hillside, with windblown brush around the edge. If ever a place looked like there was a cave somewhere in there, this was it, he figured. Yancey put the sorrel up there and found there was an overhang of a huge boulder that was as good as a cave. He spread his bedroll on a patch of spongy moss, built a fire in a rear corner so that the angles of the rocks reflected the heat onto his body and pulled the blankets up to his chin.
He might not be as comfortable as in a bed but he had sure spent more uncomfortable nights.
~*~
Cato and Locke weren’t going to make it, the small Enforcer decided as they floundered through the snow across the face of the peak. There were deep drifts that had them almost down to the waist and he was literally dragging the senator. He was nearing exhaustion and his lower body was freezing with the wet clothes clinging to him. The wind slashed at them, sending ice crystals into their faces like knives.
And, behind, staging, gathering for the rush in for the kill, was the pack of timber wolves.
The moon had disappeared behind the clouds and he didn’t know how many predators there were, but he knew only one needed to make the rush and draw blood and then the rest would be unstoppable. They knew the men were wounded; predatory animals had some sort of sixth sense that seemed to bring them unerringly to ailing prey.
Below, occasionally, he could hear the baying of the hounds, but they had dropped well back now and he figured it was even possible that the Diamond-D men had camped for the night, below the timberline, and were waiting for daylight before moving in.
Way things were going, Cato thought, his mind reeling with fatigue, all they would find would be their wolf-torn bodies scattered amongst the bloody snow.
A wolf howled mournfully and Cato’s near-numbed skin prickled with goose pimples. Groaning, straining, he hauled the semi-conscious senator along, hoping his right hand wouldn’t be too numbed to hold the Manstopper when the wolf pack gathered for the kill and moved in.
~*~
Yancey was too cold to sleep very deeply and he awoke before full daylight and figured he might as well cook some breakfast and get along the trail. It was tempting to stay in his blankets, hunkered down over the built-up fire, but if he moved now, he might even come on the Duane bunch before they had broken camp and the smoke from their fire would give him a direction.
He hacked up some stiff and leathery sowbelly and dropped it into the skillet along with a hunk of stale cornpone. The fat would soften the bread, lend it flavor, and he would wash the lot down with coffee. He set the pot brewing at the side of the flames and turned the sowbelly in the skillet. Ten minutes later, he was eating the last piece of cornpone, wiping some of the grease from his chin, when the coffee pot seemed to explode and leap into the air, spraying scalding coffee over one hand.
As Yancey hurled himself flat, dragging his Colt out, he heard the slapping echoes of the rifle shot batting across the face of the mountain. He pressed into the earth as more lead spanged into his camp and ricocheted wildly from the boulders.
The sorrel whickered and reared, pawing the air. Yancey rolled as the hoofs came down, striking sparks from the boulder. His gun was in his hand and, as he twisted, he caught a glimpse of the killer’s gunsmoke out there in the mist. Halfway up the slope, behind a deadfall with a slight overhang of rock above; a mighty good position. And, unless Yancey moved pronto, he would be pinned down and unable to move a little finger without having it shot off.
Even now, the killer had his range and it was going to be chancy making a move, but it would be a whole hell of a lot worse later. He had to abandon his rifle, the saddle to which it was attached being out in the open. Gathering himself, legs ready to spring, Yancey winced as a slug sent boulder dust flying against his cheek, then he hurled himself clear across the campfire and bounded over the rocks. Lead whined and hammered all around him and then there was silence and he knew the killer had had to pause to reload. Taking advantage of the break Yancey, instead of stopping to hunt cover, made a split-second decision, pounded across the slope, crashing through the brush, heading directly for the killer’s shelter. He saw a head move up there, just a glimpse, and knew he had been spotted. There was still fifty yards to go and it was all uphill. He dodged between stunted brush, leapt over boulders, ducked behind tree trunks, gaining ground all the time. It wouldn’t be long now, he figured. Already the killer must have the magazine tube at least partially loaded and he would only have to work the rifle’s lever to jack one into the breech—
Yancey saw the head begin to lift, the rifle barrel beside it. He thought he heard the metallic clashing of the lever working but couldn’t be sure because of his pounding feet and the roaring blood in his ears. He brought his six-gun around, triggered off two swift shots, seeing the bark fly from the deadfall. The gunman ducked, then lifted up swiftly as Yancey, with a wild yell, hurled himself bodily over the deadfall, striking with the Colt’s gun barrel. Metal clashed as his Colt hit the rifle barrel and knocked it aside and then his big body was driving the other’s backwards and there was an explosive grunt in his ear as his weight crushed the breath from the killer.
Yancey rammed a knee into a soft belly, lifted the Peacemaker to club the dark head but checked as the leather hat rolled off and he stared down into the hate-glinting eyes of Cindy, the Indian maid from the Wildcat Falls hotel. Startled, Yancey straddled her with one hand on her throat, the other with the gun ready to swing down and club her into unconsciousness. But she writhed, her arms hammering briefly at him and then she pulled at her belt and he caught a glint of steel coming in at his side. He flung himself sideways with a curse and felt the edge of the blade slash across his leather half boot but not going deep enough to touch his flesh. He kicked out with the same boot, heard her cry out as the heel cracked against her knuckles. Then he spun, lunged up, caught the knife hand and twisted sharply. She writhed in pain and released the weapon, a horn-handled, short-bladed Indian hunting knife.
Panting, Yancey flung her back to the ground and moved away about six feet, hunkering down, getting his breath back, glaring at her as he kept her covered with the six-gun. She lay where he had flung her, eyes dark with hatred.
“What the hell you doin’, shooting at me?” he panted.
She said nothing, her eyes drilling into him.
“Look, I got no time to stall around,” Yancey said grimly. “My pard’s somewhere out there in the Sierras in hell knows what kind of trouble. You’re either with me or agin me. By the look on your face and the lead you threw at me, I guess you’re agin me. I’d like to know why, but I don’t have time to hang around while you make up your mind to tell me or not.” He stood up and she tensed slightly. “I’ll take your boots and your horse and you can walk back to town.”
She looked startled as he came towards her. “My feet freeze!”
He shrugged. “Better than me risking a slug in the back by leaving you mobile.”
“Wait!” She looked steadily at him as he menaced her with his Colt and made to reach down for her boots. “I shoot at you because of Hammond.”
Yancey frowned puzzledly. “The hotel clerk? What about him?”
Her lip curled. “You kill him before you leave!”
Yancey felt the surprise straighten his face and she frowned slightly as he shook his head. “Not me. He was okay when I last saw him. In the lobby, before the feller tried to knife me in my room. Oh, yeah, he was out in the street with the crowd, that’s right. Last time I saw him. That’s gospel.” He frowned again. “But wait. Something woke me. I heard footsteps on the stairs. But they were going down, not up as I’d expected. Where was Hammond’s room?”
“Top of stairs …” she told him slowly. “You truly not know?”
“I truly didn’t. It must've been Duane or his men. They likely figured he talked to me about Cato. Duane ain’t the kind of feller to take that lying down; he’d have to show the rest of the town he won’t be messed with ...”
She nodded slowly. “Yes.” She squinted at him, watching every movement of his face. “You seem an honest man. But I see you threaten Hammond. Then you are gone, but Hammond is lying dead in his room, his throat cut.”
“Guns are more in my line. Did he mean something to you?”
Her face expressionless, she nodded, but said nothing. Yancey regarded her thoughtfully. “Okay. I still don’t have time to waste. If you believe me, and I’m speaking gospel, then you can help get the hombres who killed him. Can you show me the way to Diamond-D?”
“I know the way.”
“Yeah, but will you show me?”
Cindy hesitated, then slowly nodded. “All right. I think you speak true. If you have lied, I will kill you.”
Yancey knew she meant it. He reached out a hand and helped her to her feet.
“Let’s go,” he said.
~*~
Wolf Duane sat his saddle and his face was grim as he looked down at the nervous gun hung cowhand who had had the job of telling him that Cato and the senator had escaped.
“How’d he get the knife?” Duane asked very quietly.
“I dunno, Wolf ... he had nothin’ on him when Hog and Slip brung him in.”
“Where are they now?”
“Hog’s up in the hills, huntin’ ’em down ... he took the hounds ... Left a half-dozen of us here to wait for you. Slip’s dead. Cato slid the knife between his ribs.”
Duane’s mouth tightened into a razor slash. “He’s lucky. He wouldn’t have died so easy if I’d been here. How long have they been gone?”
“Around midnight, I guess.”
“And Hog ain’t run ’em down yet?” Duane roared.
“We-ell,” the cowhand said uneasily, “there was a high wind last night. Likely a blizzard on the peaks and they were headed above the timberline.”
Duane hipped in leather, glanced briefly at the unshaven men with him and then looked up at the cloud-cloaked peaks of the Sierras.
“All right. We get some hot food and coffee under our belts, then we all go up there,” he decided abruptly. “I want ’em run to earth by sundown and back on Diamond-D. Or I want to see their bodies up on the mountain ...” He started to dismount. “While we have breakfast, you and the others get fresh mounts saddled up.”
“Sure, boss,” the cowhand said with undisguised relief. Plainly he was happy that Duane hadn’t taken out his anger on him.
Duane moved purposefully towards the cook shack, pulling off his fur gloves, his eyes narrowed and deadly. He would scour the Sierras till hell froze over if he had to, but he aimed to get Senator Jonas Locke back where he could supervise his slow death. And Cato wouldn’t die easy, either. No man made a fool of Wolf Duane and lived to boast about it.
~*~
The wolf pack was still stalking them and Cato knew it wouldn’t be long now before the first one got up enough courage to make his tentative run of attack.
During the night, they had heard the pack gathering out in the darkness, howling at the moon when it was out, barking, snarling amongst themselves. But they had not made their rush after Cato had blown one to bloody shreds with the Manstopper.
They had paused by some rocks protruding from the snow, Locke dangling from Cato’s left arm, barely conscious, while the Enforcer strained his eyes to see if there was shelter for them. Cato had lowered the senator to the ground and, gun in hand, had plodded forward, found that there was a niche in the rocks that was sheltered from the wind and had a jutting overhang that would keep fresh snow from falling on them. He turned to call out encouragement to Locke and saw the gray shape of a lobo bellying across the snow towards the senator.
Cato had shouted into the wind, waving his arms and then had seen the other gray shapes as they slunk in closer.
The senator stirred, lifting his head laboriously out of the snow, faced rimed with a false beard of the crystals.
“Behind you!” he had croaked and Cato later figured he wouldn’t have heard the man’s warning at all if the wind hadn’t been blowing towards him.
He spun, barely in time to see the snarling, slavering jaws of a wolf in midflight as it launched itself at him from the top of the boulder. Cato’s Manstopper came up instinctively and he dropped hammer. The big gun thundered as the shot barrel blasted and the wolf’s yelp of agony was drowned in the noise. The hairy body was blown apart and hurled across the snow in pieces. Almost before the fragments had stopped pattering down, the other lobos had run in and were snarling and fighting and snapping over them.
During that time, Cato flicked the toggle to normal fire, put two shots into another wolf and saw it torn to pieces in front of his eyes as the pack turned and devoured it. While this was taking place, he floundered back to Locke, got a grip on him one-handed and half-carried, half-dragged the man into the shelter of the boulders.
The wolves finished their gory feast, leaving a dark stain on the churned-up snow, and then slunk off into the night as swirling clouds of snow howled down from the peaks and shrouded the mountain slopes. Cato and the senator huddled together in their niche, Cato reloading the Manstopper’s shot barrel with numbed fingers. He dropped one shell and was unable to find it. Rather than take the time groping around in the dark, he pushed home another and figured to look for the dropped one come morning.
“They—they might’ve heard the—shots,” Locke gasped.
“Can’t be helped,” Cato told him, belly growling emptily. “But I don’t think so. They’re below us. The wind was blowin’ up-slope and mighty strong. I don’t reckon they’d have heard the shootin’. In any case, it was shoot or make supper for the wolf pack. Had no choice. And thanks for the warnin’.”
Jonas Locke managed a fleeting grin but it was not visible in the darkness. “John, no matter what happens ... you’ve more—more than made up for any—dereliction of— duty ...”
“I’ll agree with that when I get you safely back to Austin, Senator,” Cato told him, straining his eyes out into the darkness, gun cocked in his fist. But there was nothing out there now but the swirling clouds of snow. Maybe the wolf pack’s hunger was satisfied for the moment.
Daylight would be different. The lobos would be able to see just how weak the two men were and, if more wolves had gathered during the night, they wouldn’t hesitate to attack. Cato knew he couldn’t hope to hold off a concerted rush by the pack, not even with the Manstopper. They would have to get off this damn naked slope as soon as they could. Get down to timber and rocks where they had some protection, maybe find the Lavaca River. Could be they could ride some of the logs down and come out at the lumber mill that he had heard about. The folk there would give them protection from Duane and his rannies, seeing as they were already feuding over land rights or something. Yeah, he had better plan on making the lumber mill their goal. It was always better to have some place particular to head for, instead of just wandering around strange territory.
In any case, they couldn’t last much longer up here on the snow slopes above the timberline. They had to get back to some food and warmth.
When daylight came, Cato saw at once that the wolf pack had grown in numbers. They were out there, crouched, waiting, yellow eyes tirelessly watching the rock shelter for the men to emerge. Cato was stiff and aching with cold, dizzy with fatigue, hunger and the high altitude. The senator, strangely, seemed to be a shade more lively this morning; he had slept well in the warmest part of the niche and it had been Cato who had only dozed fitfully, keeping watch all night.
“Wind’s still howlin’, but the snow’s not driftin’ across the face of the slope so bad,” Cato told the senator. “Wolves are waitin’ out there. If we don’t move, they’ll rush sooner or later. If we do, they’ll dog our tracks till we get tired and then they’ll come in to finish us. But, if we make the effort, we might be able to get back to the timberline, senator. I figure we should head for the river and try to get down to that lumber camp.”
Locke snapped his head up, teeth chattering. “Good idea, John. Any kind of movement’s better than stayin’ here. Got to get our blood circulating.”
“Way I figure it, too. So let’s go. I don’t want to shoot unless I have to with the wind dropping and tending to blow down-slope. Might carry the sound of the shot right down to Duane and his men.”
Locke nodded and Cato helped him out of the niche. The senator stomped his feet several times to get the circulation going, hugged his jacket around him and winced as it pressed on his raw back.
“Ready when you are,” he gritted and Cato knew it was costing him plenty to keep moving with his back the way it was.
Warily, they moved away from the rock shelter, watched by the wolf pack, waiting the opportunity to close in.
They went about a hundred yards before the first of the wolves made its move, a slinking, belly-down dash for maybe four or five yards, then it stretched out in the snow again, eyes watching the struggling men. One by one, the others joined it. It went like that across the entire face of the slope, like endless chess moves; the men staggered and floundered and stumbled on a few yards, then the pack moved an equal distance behind them, keeping the gap between them about the same all the time.
Cato didn’t like it. The wind was blowing down from the peak now, cold and gusting, driving a powdering of snow at them. But it was the direction that worried him. They had to head downwards as well as across the slope, and that wind would be blowing slap bang towards the pursuit, so, if the wolves came in and they survived, the gunshots would bring Duane and his rannies right to their position. Thing was, he wasn’t all that sure they could survive an all-out rush by the lobos. He would have to shoot straighter and faster than he ever had and the cold was eating into his bones, making him tremble almost constantly. He sure couldn’t afford to waste ammunition.
They came to a steep, smooth slope without a boulder showing through the curving snow or any brush jutting up. It led down to the first thin and ragged line of trees, a distance of a half mile. Panting, Locke sagging, the two men stood on their ledge and stared down at the glaring white expanse, blinding now that the sun was up.
“Damn me if that don’t look like it’s got a thin coatin’ of ice on it,” gasped Cato, casting an eye behind at the wolf pack. “Senator, I figure we’re goin’ for a sleigh ride. Without the sleigh!”
Locke had only time to glance at Cato, startled, and then the small Enforcer got a firm grip on the man and together they stepped off their ledge onto the wide, curving slope and began to slide and skid down on their backs. The ice wasn’t as thick as Cato had hoped and wouldn’t support their weight. It was only in patches, anyway, and soon they plowed into the snow and great fans rose around them and they began to roll out of control. Cato lost his grip on the senator and he tightened his numbed fingers about the butt of the Manstopper. His mouth filled with snow and he automatically sucked on it for they had had no food or water since leaving the Diamond-D prison shack. He bounced, the world spun and blurred and he was briefly airborne before smashing back to the snow with a jar that slammed the breath from him. He kept rolling and gathering momentum and he had the thought that he must have been loco to have stepped off that ledge that way. They would start a snow slide before they reached the timberline. Or they would smash into the trees and break every bone in their bodies. If the wolves hadn’t been behind, maybe he wouldn’t have taken such a chance. The hell with it. He couldn’t change his mind now.
Then he was skidding into the first skeleton line of stunted trees and brush and pounds of snow washed over him and he snatched out at the first blur of dark green that came close. His fingers caught and held and he yelled as his arm was almost jerked from his body. Snow piled over him and he fought in a panic to break through into the icy air, gasping, sucking down a deep breath. Breathless, he held to his brush and looked around. The senator was huddled against the base of a tree, only his boots and one shoulder and arm showing beneath a pile of snow. He was very still and Cato struggled out of his own snow pile, crawled across and began scooping armsful of snow away from Locke’s head. He got his face clear but there was no movement from the man. He had no breath to call Locke’s name so he tried to rouse him by shaking him. There was no response and his heart sank: looked like the slide had been too much for the wounded man.
There was a faint groan and Jonas Locke’s head moved slightly. Cato scooped the rest of the snow away from him and propped him up against the tree. Locke was blinking by that time and involuntary groans escaped his lips. His eyes looked glazed as they stared dazedly at Cato.
“We’ve made the timberline, Senator,” Cato gasped. “So far we’re winnin’ ...”
Locke was staring past him and lifted a silent, shaking hand. Cato whirled and saw the pack coming down the slide, snow up to their bellies, fangs bared as they ran in for the first attack. Cursing, he lifted the Manstopper and blew as much snow from the mechanism as he was able. There was no helping it now: he had to start dropping them before they got too close. He flicked the toggle to normal fire, seeing they were still distant, gripped the gun in both hands, using his left to steady his right wrist and rested the butt on a pile of hard packed snow. The gun crashed and the leading wolf yelped, his snout plowing up a line of snow briefly before his body somersaulted over and over down the rest of the slope. It didn’t even slow the others: this was their big rush and nothing was going to turn them from their quarry.
Cato bared his teeth and fired again and a second wolf howled briefly before falling lifeless. The Manstopper crashed again and again and each time he brought down a racing, slavering beast.
“Left!” croaked Locke.
Cato swung the gun that way and saw two wolves coming in, belly down, from the left. He flicked the toggle swiftly to the shot barrel and dropped hammer. The thunder of the shot barrel shook loose snow from the low branches of the skeletal tree and the wolves yelped and howled. One dropped with blood spattering the snow around him. The other ran off, limping, dragging its red-smeared hindquarters. The scent of hot blood seemed to drive the rest of the pack into a frenzy. They veered away and lunged at the dead animals, howling, snarling, fighting as they tore them apart.
Cato took the opportunity to reload with numbed fingers pushing the freezing cartridges home. He shoved in his last shot shell: he had been unable to find the one he had dropped in the dark last night. Out of the snarling, leaping, snatching welter of snapping fangs, the first wolf broke away, jowls dripping blood, and continued its lope across the snow towards the two men. It hadn’t taken a dozen steps before others broke off and came in on their interrupted attack. Cato raised the Manstopper, aimed carefully and fired. He winged one animal but the others ignored it now and came on. The Manstopper cracked seemingly endlessly, moving to the left, the right, dead ahead, up a little, a big swing left, a wide sweep clear across the face of the slope to catch a leaping, snarling lobo in midair, the bullet sending the jerking body flying away several feet. The face of the slope was littered with carcasses and Cato reluctantly used his final shot shell on two persistent animals that tried to get behind them.
The thunderous roar slapped and echoed across the face of the slope as it ripped the wolves apart in twin explosions of blood and fur, and the remaining four animals howled and yapped threateningly but backed off amidst the sprawled bodies of their comrades in the blood-stained snow.
Wearily, freezing, Cato fumbled out some more cartridges and thumbed them into the cylinder. He sucked his fingertips to get the blood circulating again and ran them over the loops on the cartridge belt. His face was grim as he glanced at the huddled, anxious senator.
“How many left?” Locke asked.
Cato stared at him a moment, then figured there was no use lying. “After this cylinder full, seven,” he said flatly.
Jonas Locke pursed purple, snow-dusted lips and looked slowly back up the slope to where the wolves were howling mournfully amongst their dead companions. It sounded like they were calling up more of the pack.