If it were Buckdun who was stalking him, he would not attempt a shot until reasonably sure of a kill. Flint knew he must appear at odd times or places, establish no system of activity. He settled down to a duel of wits that might last for weeks.
Surprisingly, he found himself filled with zest for the coming trial. Where would Buckdun make his first try? Where would the hunter seek the hunted?
At the creek. Every man needed water, so Buckdun would expect Flint to come to the stream. And that was the one thing he must not do. He would get his water from within the cave, for Buckdun must be led into aggression and not allowed simply to wait. A man who moves is a man who risks, and Buckdun must be forced to stalk.
So began the strange duel that was to end in the death of one man, perhaps of two.
On the third morning after the fight in the Divide Saloon that broke Baldwin’s strength in Alamitos, the Kaybar hands had established camp on the old headquarters site, and cleared the charred timbers to rebuild. Ed Flynn, now able to sit up, was directing the construction of temporary quarters.
Short of sundown Buckdun rode into camp.
Nancy Kerrigan stood by the fire where Juana was cooking, and Rockley squatted on his heels drinking coffee. Gaddis had just carried coffee to Flynn, and he stopped beside him and turned to face Buckdun.
“Got you a start,” Buckdun indicated the cleared area. “How’s chances for coffee?”
” ‘Light and set.” Nancy used the customary term, but her tone indicated no welcome. “No man was ever turned from Kaybar without a meal.”
“Riding through,” Buckdun explained, accepting a cup from Juana. Nothing in the camp escaped his eyes, but Nancy was sure it was nothing in camp that brought him here.
“When you have had your coffee,” Nancy said, “you can ride on. I don’t want you on Kaybar range.”
He lifted his cold, bleak eyes to hers. “I have troubled none of your people.”
“And you won’t. If you are on Kaybar range after daybreak tomorrow you’ll be shot on sight. Any rider of mine who sees you and doesn’t open fire upon you, or any rider who offers you an even break, will be fired.”
“That’s hard talk.” Buckdun refilled his cup from the pot and looked at her with grudging admiration.
“I’ll be careful, ma’am, but believe me, I’m not after your people.”
“Did you tell Tom Nugent that?”
His expression did not change. “I never talked to Tom Nugent. I know nothing about him.”
Rockley stood up. “Finish your coffee,” he said, “and get out.”
Buckdun looked at him mildly. “You may come to town some day.”
“I’ll be there often,” Rockley replied, “and if you want it that way we can extend Kaybar range to cover Alamitos and hunt you there.”
“If any rider of mine is shot,” Nancy added, “we will hunt you down and hang you where we find you. Is that clear?”
“Nothing could be plainer,” Buckdun said. He crossed to his horse and stepped into the saddle. He looked down at her, standing straight and lovely beside the campfire. “Ma’am, folks have said disparaging things about lady bosses. I reckon they were wrong. You’ll do to ride the river with.”
“I doubt if he’ll give us trouble,” Nancy said when he had ridden away. “But my orders stand.”
“He’s not just riding,” Rockley said, “he’s hunting.”
A faint dust hung in the air upon the trail where he had gone, and Nancy felt a little shiver.
“He’ll get what he goes after,” Milt Ryan said.
“He’ll kill Flint,” Scott said. “You know it’s him he’s after.”
And after that nobody spoke while the shadows gathered and the bats began to appear, circling upon their ceaseless quest for insects in the night air.
Where was he now? Where was Flint?
Nancy walked from the fire and Johnny Otero, with worry in his eyes, watched her go. She paused and looked where the ridges were a dark line against the deep blue where the stars were.
Flint was out there somewhere — alone.
Chapter 18
It was very hot. The far horizon was piled high with gigantic masses of cumulus, but under the brassy sky the lava was burning to the touch. Buckdun lay in the shade of a stunted pine that grew from a crack in the rock, and watched the stream.
Two days ago he had been confident this would prove a trap for Flint but now he was no longer sure. Obviously there was some other source from which he could obtain water.
Nothing moved but a buzzard against the sun-filled sky. Flint was down there, he was sure. Two days before he found part of a track made by a freshly shod horse in wind-drifted sand near the lava. A few hours later he found the crack that provided access to the hideout, but he was wary of tight places. However, there were tracks within the crack, a number of them.
He must see more of the bowl. Taking his rifle he moved out of the shade. He wore hard-soled Apache-style moccasins and carried an extra pair in his haversack. He also carried jerked meat and a little tea. If necessary he could live for a week on what was in that pack.
Making no more noise than a prowling coyote, Buckdun moved across the lava, his eyes on the rim of the bowl. Eager for a glimpse of the interior, he stepped into the edge of the gravel, and his moccasin grated ever so slightly.
Instantly he was still. He knew the belt of gravel for what it was and swore softly. Lowering himself to a crouch, he remained where he was, listening.
He straightened up finally and took a long step forward to try and clear the gravel. A bullet whipped by his skull. He hit the rock and rolled over and over to get into a crack. He wound up, rifle ready, but panting and genuinely scared.
He waited and listened, but the blue sky drifted with puffballs of cloud and there was no sound beneath it. But that angry, whiplike sound of the bullet and the racketing report remained with him. It was the first time in six years, aside from the ineffectual shots fired by Ed Flynn, that he had been shot at, and he had not even seen where the shot came from.
He waited the afternoon through, knowing Flint would have seen where he went to the ground, and unable to shift his position from lack of nearby cover. Only when darkness came did he move. A tuft of brush had been placed on the pommel of his saddle, and adorning one sprig was an empty cartridge shell.
That shell was a mute reminder that Flint, had he wished, might have been lying in wait, and Buckdun led his horse some distance before mounting. Two hours later, after lunch and tea, he returned for another attempt.
Despite himself, he was worried. Was he losing his grip? Before, he had done the stalking, but now he himself was stalked.
He entered the crack and, after listening, slowly began to move ahead. If he could get into the basin and be waiting when Flint came out in the morning …
He had a cramped, closed-in feeling and an urge to get out. He rounded a corner and took a step forward. Something tugged at his ankle and instinctively he threw himself back and to the side.
In one wild instant he knew he had blundered into a trap. He heard rock grate upon rock. There was a tremendous crash, then dust stifled him, and he lay with his palms flat on the ground, gasping for breath. It took several minutes before the pounding of his heart slowed down and he realized he was unhurt. Panic surged through him. Get out … and get out fast!
Grabbing up his rifle he fled down the passage for a dozen yards before stopping. Panting, he listened for any sound of pursuit, and heard nothing, only a faint trickle of falling sand.
He considered the situation. Why not go back now? Another trap was possible but unlikely. Turning, he started back, climbing over the fallen rock. His hand touched the rock wall and it was cold . . . cold. He felt a momentary dread. Was it a premonition? Angrily, he shook off the feeling. This was just a job like any other. He took a step forward and, distrusting the rustling grass, moved to the side of the crevice.
It was a sudden move and it saved his life, for as he turned he tripped the trigger on the second trap. The arrow intended for his chest ripped his sleeve and dug deep into the muscle on the end of his shoulder.
He dropped to his knees, ready for a quick shot, sure it had been a direct attack rather than a trap, but after a minute or two there was no sound and his shoulder began to hurt. He put his hand up and it came away wet. He swore bitterly under his breath and got out his bandanna to stop the bleeding. Then he took up his rifle and went into the bowl, concealing himself in some brush.