Crouching in the hole, he waited. Had he left any marks they could see? The sand of the basin had been churned by the feet of buffalo or cattle. But if the stone had left any fresh earth exposed—what then?
What was most in his favor was the sheer unlikelihood of a cave or opening anywhere around. There was simply no probability of such a thing.
As he crouched there he heard horses’ hoofs again, and muffled talk, then a woman’s voice. It was shrill, and he could make out the words faintly. “Nobody can vanish into nothing like that! He’s got to be here!”
For a little while the muttered talk continued, then there was silence. He put a hand on his rifle and moved it about. Behind the ledge where it had been lying was a solid wall, but behind him and on the other side of him, he touched nothing.
He listened, but there was now no sound outside. The air around him seemed fresh enough. He felt in his pocket and found a match, and struck it on the hammer of his rifle. The match flared, burned up brightly, and he peered around.
The cave sloped down toward the back. Where he had crawled in, it was a narrow tunnel, no more than three feet across, and where he now stood it was a little more than six feet. Behind him, he had the impression of va/s, and from somewhere he heard the drip of water.
When he had found this cave as a child he had shown it to his father, but there had never been time to explore it. How large it was or where it led he had no idea.
From a few sticks, perhaps pulled in by some animal long ago, he selected a couple and lighted them. They were dry, and they burned well enough. He made his way down the slope and found himself in a fairly large room from which a passage led. At the bottom there was a pool of clear water. A small stream trickled into it, and this at one time must have been the spring he had drunk from as a boy, but the floor of the cave seemed to have fallen and the trickle of water no longer reached the surface at this point.
He tasted the water and found that it was cold and fresh. He drank, then drank again. Then he returned to the spot near the opening and sat in the dark and chewed on a piece of jerky. When it was finished, he crawled up in the hole and pushed against the slab of stone. It would not budge.
He pushed again, but it did not move. Desperately, he lunged against it, but in the narrow passage it was difficult to exert any great force. Finally he drew back, struggling for breath.
He sat down and fought against the panic that was welling up within him. He forced himself to think, remembering something his father had said. “Use your head, boy. That head of yours is the one thing that makes you different from an animal of any other kind. When you feel yourself getting scared, sit down, relax, and let yourself be calm. Then study it out. You will find an answer.”
He sat quietly, and slowly the panic left him. That stone weighed no more than fifty or sixty pounds. It was several inches thick and it had slid down from above the hole. The old runoff water from the spring had fallen into the sandy basin, several inches lower than the hole. So if he put the pressure on the very top of the slab, it might be tipped forward and over.
But what if those outside had found what he had done? Suppose they knew there was a hole here and that he had crawled in? And knowing that, suppose they had heaped earth over the rock, packed it in, to let him stay there and die?
There was no use in supposing. He was not going to escape his dilemma by sitting and worrying about it. What he had to do was try for a way out.
He crawled up in the narrow hole once more, but this time he did not fight the rock. He felt with his fingers for the very top of the slab, and then he pushed.
Nothing happened.
He waited a moment, gathered strength, and
pushed harder; the slab moved and a trickle of sand fell into the cave from above.
A moment longer he waited, and then he pushed again. The slab moved outward a little more and fell, and the hole gaped at the top, letting in both light and air.
Again he pushed … and a bullet clipped the top of the slab and spat sand into his face.
“Stay there!” The unfamiliar voice was harsh.
“You’re dead, so stay dead!”
He backed away. He might chance a shot, but he would have to get far enough into the hole to be able to see a target outside before he could fire. On the other hand, they would have a target they could not easily miss.
He put his rifle down carefully, felt for the sticks, and held a match to the frayed end of one. It caught, went out, but caught with the next match. Taking up his rifle and several other sticks, he went down the slope toward the back. The flame bent slightly back toward the way he had come. There was a draft here, a slight movement of air from somewhere ahead.
He went on, moving as swiftly as he could. He found occasional small pieces of wood, changed sticks, lighting from his previous torch. He crossed the roomlike area and glimpsed several dark openings, but went on in the direction of the draft.
There was a trickle of water on the cave floor, and he bent over and dampened his face. It cooled quickly from the movement of air. He had walked perhaps a hundred steps when he saw a faint gleam of light. He lighted another dry stick and hurried on.
The gleam of light came from a small opening only a few yards ahead, but suddenly he came to an abrupt halt. For the light he saw was coming from an opening at the edge of a heavy canvas curtain, weighted at the bottom with a wooden pole. He went up to it and pulled it slightly aside.
He looked around in amazement, then swore softly. He was standing at the back of the root cellar on the ranch where he had grown up. Before him was a wall of shelves. He started to move it, and found the wall turned on a pivot.
The place was empty, dusty, long-undisturbed by anything other than pack rats. Here his family had stored vegetables they had raised in their small kitchen garden, and here, his father had always warned them, they were to take shelter in case of Indian attack.
He remembered the day he had shown his father his cave that he called The Hole. His father had been properly astonished, properly admiring; and his father, he now knew, had known of it all the time.
Now he knew where he was, and he knew where the ones outside must be. He checked his rifle and went to the door. It was half hidden behind the bole of a huge old cottonwood, and there was a little light coming through the crack where the boards of the door had shrunk. He peered out and could see nothing, but he did hear horses cropping grass.
Rifle in his right hand, ready to fire, he moved the door with his left. Dust and sand fell, but it moved easily.
Nothing out there but the trees and grass, the ruins of the barn, some scattered gray boards, and the brush beyond. Then to the right he glimpsed the horses, cropping the grass.
He went up the last step, and moved out. He stood listening, but heard nothing.
From behind the cottonwood he scouted the area carefully with eyes and ears. Nothing.
He walked toward the horses, and took the bridle of the first one. He stepped into the saddle, and catching the bridle of the other, walked the horse carefully away. The men who watched the hole for him could continue to watch, but they would have a long wait.
He rode to where he had left the dun. The horse was down, and dead. He swore bitterly. The dun had been a good horse, a noble horse, and he wanted to see no horse die. He stepped down, stripped his gear from the dead animal, and exchanged it for that on the horse he was riding. Then he mounted up.
Leading the spare horse, he started north. The first thing to do was to find the herd.
Chapter 18
From the hill above Butte Springs he glimpsed some scattered cattle and rode toward them. He gathered them, taking it easy to save his horses; he led the extra mount so he could switch if need be. There were eighteen head, and he bunched them, then pushed on, gathering more.