THE BULLET FANNED air by Chris’ cheek, going by. Chris bent low over the horse’s withers and allowed its momentum to carry it crashing into the startled posse man.
They all went down in a tangle of horses, arms, and legs. As he fell, Chris dragged his rifle from its scabbard. He saw the other lifting his gun muzzle, and without time for thought, Chris swung his rifle in a flat arc that landed with a loud slap against the side of the man’s head.
The man fell back with a strange sigh. Chris bent over him. The man was bleeding at the temple. Chris recognized him: Pablo Ortiz, one of Cavanagh’s old-time cowhands. Chris knelt to put his ear on the man’s chest; Ortiz was still breathing regularly.
Chris helped himself to the unconscious man’s gun belt and revolver, unloaded Ortiz’s .44-40 rifle, and pocketed the ammunition. Then he tugged Ortiz’s boots off and flung them far into the brush, one in either direction. It would take Ortiz quite a while to get back into the fight after he woke up.
Then Chris mounted up, picked up the reins of Ortiz’s horse, and led it away into the night. It was good to have a remount: he might yet need it.
He pressed northward with increased vigilance; the presence of Ortiz meant he was in the thick of the posse now, and there was no question but that Ortiz’s gunshot would bring others on the rim.
He swept down across a loosely timbered hillside. Some sound touched his consciousness and he pulled up, instantly alert.
Down below, at the fringe of the trees, two galloping riders almost collided. “Who’s that—who’s that?”
“Me—Ramirez. Who the hell are you?”
“Carstairs—Concho.”
“Save me a ride, Carstairs. Tell Boyd McLean I’ll sweep as far as Bald Mountain by sunup. I’ve got eight men on this sector.”
“All right. Say, you didn’t hear something funny a while ago?”
“Like what?”
“Sounded like a shot. It was pretty far off, though. I couldn’t swear to nothing.”
“Maybe. Nothing we can do about it now.”
“I’ll give your boss your message.”
“We’re wasting a lot of time back here,” Ramirez complained. The two riders separated and departed swiftly.
With grim excitement, Chris pressed northward on the trail of Ramirez. Here was his chance to ride the man down and force him to talk. For a moment, though, he had to admire the gall of the man. Ramirez had joined the posse that was hunting for a man innocent of the crimes Ramirez himself had committed.
But Ramirez eluded him. It was impossible to pick up the man’s trail in this intense darkness, once Ramirez had ridden beyond earshot. Cursing his luck, Chris pushed north, resolving to wait on Cavanagh’s doorstep, if necessary, until Ramirez showed himself again.
He had a rough time finding trails, but managed to aim generally northeast, relying on his particularly strong sense of direction and letting the horse pick the easiest passage, leading the riderless horse of the downed Pablo Ortiz.
He picked a careful path through a dismal chasm until the vaguely visible trail opened out onto a flat stretch. A mountain reared its massive tower above; he crossed a high saddle and penetrated the thick timber of a rangy plateau.
Something disturbed Ortiz’s horse: it threw back its ears and whickered. Sensitive to such signs, Chris halted and waited just within the trees until, suddenly, a small knot of riders broke into the open a quarter-mile away across the open.
Chris stayed put. The group of riders milled to a halt, talking among themselves, and then without warning the led horse of Ortiz threw up its head and neighed loudly, probably having scented a friend among the horses yonder.
“What’s that?”
“Somebody in them trees.”
They started to come ahead. Chris cursed, reining his horse around, and then one of the horsemen saw him. They all began to shout and one or two fired their guns. Chris faded quickly back into heavier timber and ran for it. Those shots, he knew, would be a gathering signal for every rider within miles.
Urging the marshal’s bay, he felt the horse falter and knew it didn’t have much steam left. It had been going steadily for altogether too many hours, even though he had been careful to conserve the pace. He hoped fervently that Ortiz’s horse was fresher; it looked long-winded and sturdy enough, at least.
Ramming into the open on an uptilted slope, he ran along the side of the mountain, hauling forward on the reins of the led horse until it was running beside him. Behind him, the riders had dissolved into the impenetrable shadows, but he could still hear them crashing after him. He gathered his legs atop the saddle and made a leap from one horse to the other, never losing stride.
He settled with a jar, almost losing his balance, and slid down into the saddle. While his feet sought the stirrups, he released the reins of the now-riderless bay and whipped it off downslope while he himself, lying low over the horses withers, angled uphill.
The ruse had its desired effect: the riders behind him, confused by his maneuver, slowed down and milled around for precious seconds of time, trying to decide which one of the shadowy horses to follow. Finally, they split into two groups of about three each and pounded away from each other.
Chris went over the top of the ridge at an angle, immediately making a right-angle turn when he went over the top. He plunged into thick brush and plowed through the growth, unable to avoid making a terrible racket. Branches tore at his clothes and exposed flesh. A whipping branch raked him across the cheek and drew a trickle of blood.
His one consolation was that the thick brush would hinder his pursuers just as much, perhaps more, since there were three of them.
He rammed in his heels, sending the horse forward in labored heaves until the dim mass of timber broke through ahead. He wheeled into its cover, halted within forty yards, raised Riva’s Winchester, and stood fast.
His breath was lunging in and out of his chest; he fought himself calm, to listen. Night winds shook the pine branches overhead: the storm was rising and he prayed for rain. It must be near morning. He felt fatigue, hunger, the lacerated pains of his brush-scratched cheek and rope-cut wrists. Yet, in spite of all that, he felt a heady excitement that always uplifted him in times of danger.
Somewhere in the gully, he heard a voice call out tentatively. A horseback shadow broke into view, advancing with cautious uncertainty.
Chris brought the Winchester up, laid his cheek along the stock, and aimed low when he fired. He saw the man’s horse stumble and go down at the forelegs. The rider flung when Chris put another rifle shot near him. He heard the approach of other pummeling riders not too far away.
The unhorsed man reared up and scrambled to cover, calling loudly. From the trees beyond, a rifle started talking in harsh steady signals: the crowd was drawing in, homing on that sound. Chris glimpsed the dotted muzzle-flame and fired once at it, then swung his horse up the ravine and climbed out of it, not hurrying: he didn’t want to make noise.
His shooting the man’s horse, and drawing rifle fire, had been a deliberate act, designed to lump the pursuers together: if they could be drawn away from their posts in the line, he would have a far easier time getting around behind them.
The rifle down below was still coughing gutturally; Chris wondered what the man thought he was shooting at. Chris walked the horse around in a half-mile circle, curling in a path that would take him back toward the source of the signal shots. He could hear men calling back and forth, but couldn’t see anyone.
Then, as he threaded the timber atop the ridge, the riders below began to emerge on the fringes of the trees in the gully, never fully taking shape but nonetheless recognizable. They drifted carefully across the gully and stopped on the near side, talking among themselves half-fearfully. Chris kept moving steadily to the west, along the line of the ridge top.
Then he had passed them; they were behind him, going away, and he had broken through the cordon.
Basing his course on the assumption that he was now clear, he turned squarely south and threaded the canyons of the middle peaks for an hour, after which he swung west and aimed for the valley.
The gray, overcast dawn caught him descending through a narrow gorge, riding warily for it would be a good place for a trap. It suddenly occurred to him to examine Ortiz’s saddlebags, and he was rewarded to find several strips of smoked, cooked thick bacon, which he ate greedily, washing them down with water from Ortiz’s canteen.
He reached a maze of little cross canyons and dismounted in a thick clump of trees; shaking with fatigue, he resolved to rest until the storm broke, which promised not to be long from now.
He settled down under a tree and closed his eyes.
“All right, Chris. End of the line.”
The words awakened him with a start. He opened his eyes to see a giant of a man looming over him, gun in hand.
It was, it had to be, Boyd.