Did he have a horse hidden somewhere? Did he stay on the mountain at night?
One thing I had going for me. He had visited Meg Rossiter, and that could mean he moved on and off the mountain. There was every chance I could intercept him. Working my way on I went through a grove of aspen, circled some spruce, and then changed direction, going back and up on a diagonal line.
It almost worked. Suddenly, not a hundred yards off I saw a foot, gray moccasin, gray buckskin. My rifle came up and I fired … just as the foot was withdrawn. Instantly I put two shots into the brush above where I’d seen the foot, then slid thirty feet down the mountain, got up and ran through the brush. I ran swiftly and silently, swinging around to get above him.
There was no sound. My heart was pounding. Running at that altitude was not the thing to do, even though I’d spent a good time in the high-up mountains, nobody runs long up that high unless they’ve lived there for years.
There was small chance I’d hit anything. The shots into the brush were fired as much to make him wary as to hit. Of course, I wanted to nail him—I had to—but the chance of scoring was small.
When I’d gotten my breath back I listened, then went on up the slope, using all the cover I could find, until I was at least a thousand feet higher up the mountain. Then I studied the terrain all around me. Timberline was close above, which cut down my room to maneuver, but which also trimmed down his chance of getting around me.
My position was good. Only a thin line of wind-torn trees and rocks separated me from the barren top of the mountain. On my right the mountain was also bare for about four hundred yards, beyond that a clump of brush and trees, low growth, but enough to conceal. It was an island, however, and farther down, the slope was bare.
Before me was a weathered outcropping covered with lichen, the gnarled trunk of a weather-beaten spruce and low brush.
For a long time nothing moved below me, then suddenly a bird flew up. It might mean anything or nothing at all. I waited, rifle ready. Taking a piece of jerky from my small pack I began to chew on it while watching the slope.
Suddenly, I heard a rock strike, then a trickle of gravel. It was on the slope to my right, but nothing moved there. Flattening out, I studied the terrain to my left, and an instant later I caught the movement. He darted, just a shadow in the brush, running to get a little closer. I led him a little and fired. He hit the ground and I fired again and again. Gravel rattled on the slope below, but I did not move. If he was dead it did not matter, if he was alive he would be waiting for me to come to check on the results of my shots, and I would do neither.
An hour passed … soon it would be sunset. Below me I heard a muffled groan, but I remained where I was. If he was dying, he could die without me. If it was a trick, and I was sure it was, it would not draw me out. Yet the coming sunset worried me for the sun would be setting just beyond that patch of brush and there would be a period when I could not see in that direction due to the glare of the sun.
It was time to move. Swiftly and silently I went along the mountainside in the opposite direction, avoided the beginnings of Sawmill Canyon, crossed over it and through a grove of aspen, some of the largest I had ever seen. While I rested there I reloaded my rifle.
We could dodge around these mountains for weeks taking potshots at each other, so something had to be done to bring it to an end. I’d dusted him a few times, I was sure of that, and I had done it to worry him. I wanted to force him to great activity, for when a man moves he takes a chance.
Night was coming on, so what would he do? If I had a girl like Meg waiting I’d get shut of this black old mountain and ride over there. He’d have to go back across the La Plata to get over to Cherry Creek and the Rossiter place, and there was a good chance he’d left his horse over there, safely out of the way.
Well, I went down off that mountain fast. Circling around, I got to our camp, got my horse and headed for Cherry Creek. Getting my horse back into the brush out of the way, I watched the ranch. Sure enough, it wasn’t more than an hour before that there Vern Huddy came a-riding up like a Sunday cowboy all slicked out in a fresh shirt and a black coat. He left his horse at the rail and went up the steps.
I thought for a minute of finding myself a place out there in the brush and pickin’ him off when he came out. That’s what he would have done to me. But dry-gulching just wasn’t my way. I never could have faced up to Galloway and Parmalee if I’d got him that way … not to mention Meg if she ever found out. And she probably would … I’m not much good at keepin’ quiet about something I’m ashamed of.
I got up and led my horse down, watered it, and led it to the hitch rail and tied it right alongside his. Then I went up the steps and rapped on the door.
Rossiter answered it. “Howdy there, boy! Good to see you! You’re just in time for supper!”
He led the way into the dining room and you never saw such a picture. Vern Huddy’s mouth must’ve have opened a good bit when he saw me. His face went kind of pale, he was that surprised. And Meg, she was surprised, too, but she wasn’t surprised for more than a second and then she was pleased. Here she had two men a-courting her at the same time. Of course, she knew nothing about what had gone on up on the mountain that day.
“Mr. Sackett,” she said primly, “I want you to meet Mr. Huddy.”
Me, I grinned at him. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting Mr. Huddy,” I said. “In fact, I’ve been thinking about him all day.”
“You have?” Meg was puzzled.
“Oh, yes! He’s the kind of man to keep you thinking about him. I can understand why a girl might give a good deal of thought to him, but ma’am, if you’ll accept my word for it, he’s a mite hard to pin down.”
“Mr. Huddy and I,” she said primly, “only met a few days ago.”
“You’d better tie to him whilst you can,” I said. “He may not be with us long.” I was feeling good. I’d surprised them both and thrown them off balance and I was feeling in the mood for fun. Anyway, this was a chance to size him up a little. I’d never actually seen him before.
He was well set-up but a mite on the thin side, with a narrow, strict-looking face and not much sense of humor to him. It made him look a little older than I knew he was. He was mad now … I could see that plain as anything. I could also see that he thought well of himself and liked folks to fear him. Kill me he might, before this was over, but make me fear him he couldn’t. He was just another man with a gun, and I’d seen a-plenty of them.
When he turned his head I saw a burned place on his forehead … it could have been from a branch but was more likely from a bullet. Had I been wrong about that groan I heard? Had he been knocked out and lying there all the time?
“Mr. Huddle,” I said, “looks to me like you ran into something in the dark. Best be careful.”
“My name is Huddy,” he said testily, “and I shall be more careful. But I don’t think the job I am doing will take me long. It is almost too easy.”
“Now that’s the way a man should look at his work,” I said heartily. “I like to see a young man with ambition. That’s what it takes to get ahead.” Meg went for another platter of meat and I added, cheerfully, “Full of lead.”
His eyes were ugly. He didn’t find me much fun, I’m afraid. “You’re easy,” he said, “there’s nothing to you, tomorrow—”
“Why not tonight?” I suggested. “We can ride down the road together, take our distance and shoot it out. You can have it as you like.”