One rider had ridden off by himself, leaving the other behind. That would be Barnabas heading for the Empty, which was hard to get to from here unless a body knew every twist of the trail.
But where was Logan Sackett?
She knew he had to be in bad shape, and a hunted man in bad shape would hunt a hole. He would want to be out of sight, and he would need water and a place for his horse. Em Talon scanned the country, studying every possible nook or corner that might offer such a shelter. There were several possibilities but all came to nothing.
Logan Sackett had vanished.
Could he have followed Barnabas? It was a possibility. In any event there was one thing she could do. She could make a lot of tracks so those who might try to find him would not guess that he was hidden, as Em was quite sure he was.
Yet the cirque’s high walls eliminated any possible way out on three sides. A rider or walker would have to go down the mountain. Mounting her mule again she also turned toward the open side of the cirque and walked the animal down the dim trail into the canyon.
White, slim aspens lined the trail on either side, their pale green leaves trembling slightly. Due to some quirk of temperature or wind currents this grove was higher on the mountain’s slope than the aspen was usually found. The grove was littered with the long dead trunks of fallen trees, remnants of some old landslide or snowslide. She was well into the grove when she heard a sound of horses.
Drawing rein, she listened below her, below on the trail she had herself followed into the cirque.
A moment later they came into view. There were eight men, all tough men by their look. The man in the lead was Chowse Dillon, occasional cowpuncher, occasional outlaw, consistent troublemaker. They were no more than a hundred and fifty yards right down the hill, a hill too steep for a horse to climb except on the switchback trail they followed. Yet by the trail they must follow they were a half mile away.
Em lifted her rifle and put a bullet into the dust about a foot in front of Dillon’s horse. Most of the riders were undoubtedly on broncs—she had counted on that. The sudden spat of the bullet as well as the thunder of the heavy rifle in the confinement of the rock walls was enough.
Dillon’s horse reared straight up, spinning halfway around to bump the horse behind. Instantly horses were buck-jumping all over the narrow trail and one of the horses went over the edge, rider and all, rolling into the trees and deadfalls below.
Two men unlimbered their six-guns and shot into the trees where she was, but they were shooting blind and hit nothing. The shooting only added to the confusion. Emily Talon rode calmly on down the trail she had been following, leaving them cursing and fighting their horses.
The trail was never more than four or five feet wide. Somebody was up there with a rifle and willing to dispute the trail, and nobody was eager to be the first to accept the challenge.
Yet she had ridden scarcely a quarter of a mile, winding down a steep trail, when she picked up the first sign since leaving the cirque. It was the white scar left by a glancing blow from a shoe, and it was fresh! She tried listening for the horses of the men she had seen on the trail but she could hear nothing but the tumbling waters of a nearby fall.
Em Talon did not like the place. She did not like any place that drowned the sounds from her ears. She wanted to hear … she needed to hear.
The falls was about eight feet wide, a fairly thin sheet of water except at bottom where it plunged among some boulders and slabs of rock. There it was a thick white burst of foaming water that then plunged off down the mountain in a series of steep cascades.
At the top of the falls trees leaned over the stream, and near the base was a mass of fallen timber, trees washed down from above, some of them with masses of roots, leaving a veritable maze.
Emily Talon contemplated her situation. Somewhere up the mountain behind her were several of Jake Planner’s men, and down at the ranch Barnabas, the son she had not seen in years, was returning home or trying to. Neither Pennywell or Al knew him, and they were just as apt to shoot as not
Suddenly Em decided there was but one thing to do. She had to get off the mountain and back to the Empty. If Logan was anywhere about he was well hidden, too well hidden to be found while she herself was hunted. She hesitated a moment, but the mule was tugging at the reins, wanting to go on down the mountain, and she gave in.
At that moment she was less than seventy yards from Logan Sackett and he was looking right at her, trying to call. But he was too weak. His hoarse shouts could not be heard above the noise of the falls. Em Talon rode on.
15
There I lay, weak as a cat and scarce able to crawl, and I seen that ol’ woman draw up there and look down toward me. She was lookin’ right square into my eyes, only I was behind the falls and could not be seen. I tried to yell out, but I could scarce make a sound louder than a frog croaking, and she heard nothing.
That she was huntin’ me I had no doubt, and in the shape I was in I dearly wanted to be found. Yet she kept turning to look back up the trail and that made me wonder. A short time back I’d been asleep and something waked me. It could have been a shot, although behind that falls even a shot was muffled. Yet something on her back trail worried her, and she rode on.
Looked to me like I’d covered all sign, all right, but I’d done it too durned well. There was every chance I’d die right here, and nobody would find me or know what happened. Well, I’d not be the first western man that happened to. Many a man rode off them days and never came back … there was a sight of things could happen to a man that had nothing to do with guns or Indians or anything like that.
A man could get throwed from his horse and die of thirst, or he could drown swimming a river, get caught in a flash flood, fall off a cliff, get bit by a rattler or a hydrophoby skunk, or cut himself with an ax. A lot of men them days traveled alone and worked alone, and if they had an accident that could be the end of them.
I’d known of three men who amputated their own legs, and a half dozen who had trimmed fingers off their own hands. There wasn’t no medical corps around like there’d been during the war … a body just had to make out as best he could.
Now this place I’d found wasn’t the only one like ft. When water falls off a ledge a certain amount of it just naturally kicks back against the wall, and after years have passed that water wears away the rock slow or fast depending on the force of the water and the softness of the rock. Sometimes it will wear away until with the river cutting down from above it cuts through the rock. Then the flow will go under what had been the rim, leaving a natural arch.
The space behind the falls is often small, and in this case it wasn’t far from the year when the riverbed would drop. In other words, I’d lucked out. There’d been a sight more space back there than I reckoned.
Nor was I the first to use it. Pack rats had been back there, and judging by some old droppings, a bear had holed up there one time. Getting to it had been a puzzle, but I’d found a way through the maze of old tree trunks, broken branches, hanging streamers of torn bark, and the like, and I led my horse right into it.
That horse didn’t much care for it at first, but after a bit he settled down. I was all in, and I dragged my gear into a corner back from the water and laid myself out. By dark I was in bad shape. I felt hot all over and my mouth was dry. I had me something of a fever and knew I was in trouble, bad trouble.
When I saw Em I tried to call out, but she heard nothing and rode on. I was still watching when the first of the riders came into sight They were almighty cautious, and there was eight of them. Only one of them glanced toward the falls, and he didn’t seem much interested.