Attack, always attack… and keep moving.” “Good advice, if a body can do it.” “Well, I got nothin’ to gain, but I’ll sort of traipse along an’ see what happens, but don’t you go to dependin’ on me.
I’m like as not to disappear into the bresh come fightin’ time.” We started off, walking fast toward the north.
We kept along the edge of the woods, under the trees when a route offered itself, out at their edge when there was none.
My heart and lungs were acclimated to the altitude by now, and my condition was good. I moved out fast, keeping the Ferguson ready for a quick shot. The afternoon was well along and I had no doubt that in the leisure provided by a campfire they would try to learn whatever Lucinda knew.
Yet warily as I moved, my mind was busy with what could be done. To attack them head-on was out of the question. There were too many men and too many skilled woodsmen. So I must attack them where they were vulnerable, create confusion, and then somehow get their prisoners away. It was rather too much to expect of myself, but when one begins there is a certain impetus given by the fact of beginning, and I kept going.
Possibly because I had no idea of what else to do.
Being the man I was, eternally questioning not only my motives but those of others, even as I moved forward my mind asked questions and sought answers.
I suspect what I was doing would be called courageous. If I rescued them, it might even be considered an heroic action, but was it? Was I not conditioned by reading, by hearing, by understanding what I should do?
To simply sit by was worse than to do, for then I should have no idea of what was happening, of how my destiny was being influenced by people over whom I had no control.
The sunset was spectacular. The sky streaked itself with rose and the region of the sun became an indescribable glory. All my life I have used words, and yet I find times when they are totally inadequate.
So it was now, and not only because of the backlight left by the sun, which had vanished beyond the mountains, but because I had come upon Rafen Falvey’s camp.
There was no attempt at concealment.
Obviously he was not worried about Indians, which indicated he was rather a fool. It was, I assumed, an instance of his arrogance. One hates Indians or loves them, tries to understand them or simply guards against them, but one never takes them for granted.
Of course, he had a motive for display.
He wanted me, and he wanted whoever he did not have. His idea was to lure us to approach… which meant he probably had pickets posted rather well out.
I stopped, Van Runkle still trailing me at a little distance.
Falvey had not one fire going, but three.
Men moved in the vicinity of the fires. I was a hundred yards or so from the camp, and that I could see.
The mountain here sloped steeply down, the side covered with trees. Undoubtedly at least one man was stationed there where he could see anyone approaching the camp as the interloper came between the watcher and the fires. It was likely that one or more men would be stationed in the bottom itself, one out in the grass, another in the creek bed.
My eyes grew accustomed to the deeper darkness, and I could see that there was nothing in the next twenty feet, so I moved up. A few more discreet moves and I was able to distinguish faces in the company about the fire, and see where the horses were kept in a rope corral beyond it.
A part of my problem was solved. I had to create confusion and hit them where it would hurt most, and the answer was obvious–their horses.
Without horses, existence in this country was virtually impossible. And without their horses they could carry no treasure, nor could they escape.
If their horses were scattered, they must scatter in search of them.
Van Runkle now edged close. “What you aimin’ to do?” “Stampede their horses.” “Uh-huh. If’n you can get clost enough, and if’n you can cut that rope.” Crouched among the rocks, we watched the camp. The fires were high, and they were cooking. The smell of food reminded me of how hungry I was, but there would be no time for that now. The camp was in a scattered grove of trees near the stream, a poor place for defense, yet a good place to hold the horses. From their disposition, they must believe no Indians were in the vicinity.
“Is there a cave? Somewhere I can hide? I mean if I get her away from them, we’ll have to run.” Van Runkle hesitated. Obviously he had no desire to surrender his secrets, and he alone knew where the entrances of the caves were hidden.
But by some good fortune I had won him at least partially to my side. “There’s a cave up yonder.” He pointed up the slope and behind the camp. “It ain’t part of my lot so far’s I know, but she’s deep. There’s some holes back in yonder, so I’d not get too far in, if I was you. You’ll find it right behind some spruce with a half-peeled log lyin’ in front.” Well, it was a help. I disliked the idea of using an escape hatch I had not tested, but there was no remedy for it. If I was fortunate enough to get the rope cut and the horses stampeded, I would have to get away at once before they scattered out and found me.
The night was growing cold. I watched the fire with longing, and then began my furtive crossing of the meadow between my position and the belt of trees along the creek.
Somewhere out in the open there would be a picket, a man sitting or lying down and waiting just for me.
With luck I could pass far behind him. With no luck, I would be heard and shot without a chance.
Fortunately, the wind was picking up, and with leaves stirring and branches rustling, my movements might pass unnoticed. Carefully, I edged out of the trees, turned to grip Van Runkle’s hand, and then I was committed.
Kneeling at the edge of the grass, I peered off in the direction I must travel. Roughly three hundred feet, but during all of that time I would be exposed. I felt strangely naked and alone.
I had no experience of war, and at an age when many young men had encounters with Indians, I had been studying in Europe or America. What in God’s name was I doing here, anyway? Why had I ever left the east? And why was I taking such risks for a girl whom I scarcely knew?
Easing out to full length, my rifle across my upper arms, I squirmed out upon the grass, walking myself forward with my elbows. On my left I could hear the murmur of voices at the fires but could distinguish no words.
My body length… again… I crawled on. Sweat beaded my brow despite the chill wind. The earth was cold beneath me; the grass felt stiff and old. Leaves in the trees rustled, and I crawled on. Glancing back, I saw I was at least a third of the way out… at any moment I could come upon a sentry.
The thought occurred to me that I was in no position to defend myself if attacked, nor to attack myself. To accomplish anything I must rise, then strike, and it might be too late. Sliding my left hand down, I slipped off the thong that held my knife in its scabbard and drew it, then I took it in my teeth, the haft toward my right side.
It seemed silly and melodramatic, for I had seen old pen drawings of pirates carrying their knives so when boarding ships and using both hands in the process. But with the knife in my teeth, I had no need to rise, only to seize it and strike. I think it saved my life.
Inching forward, I fought down an impulse to rise and run for the trees, and held to my original pace, moving as silently as possible.
Holding my head down, I suddenly felt the need to look up, and did.
Not three feet from me was a guard sitting cross-legged on the grass. At the instant I saw him, he saw me.
A moment we stared. He started to move, opening his mouth to yell, and in that instant I grabbed my knife by the hilt and swung it left to right, a wicked slash.
He had leaned slightly forward as one will do when starting to rise, and my backward slash was with all my strength. I held a knife of the finest steel, with an edge like a razor, and it cut deep and back.