He needed more than one, when it came to that. He found himself searching their faces for some hint of what he sought, but he did not find it.
Red was not among them, and that worried him, for Red should have been here.
He waited for the last mule and rider to pass, and let dust settle behind them. The thought came into his mind that he had always expected to wind up dead in a canyon somewhere, and this might be the time.
He let his horse take its own pace, unworried, for he knew the trail and nobody could go anywhere but straight along. Just short of midway there was a cutoff he would take, but nobody else would be apt to find it without being shown.
The sun came up behind clouds that steadily grew darker. There had been rain clouds over Rafter, but they had been a good while catching up. Somewhere ahead he could expect attack by Hollister and his men.
Ben Stowe expected it and, knowing Hollister, Mike was sure it would come. Who would Hollister have with him? Babcock, of course, and some of the other soreheads. But how many? And where would it be?
Hollister, he felt sure, would not know of this trail, nor even Babcock. They had never been on good terms with Rafter, and their range had been far from here.
It was a steep, climbing trail, with many a switch-back and double. It had been made by Indians or mountain sheep, and it was the only way across the mountain for miles in either direction.
The higher slopes were covered with stunted pines and juniper; the canyons fell away from the trail to the bottom of steep cliffs. Here and there rounded hills rose by the trail, and they offered inviting chances to escape it, but they were all deceptive, ending in sheer cliffs or slides of shifting rock.
Presently rain began to fall, scattered drops at first, followed by a steady downpour.
Shevlin drew up, got out his slicker, and slid into x. Up ahead he could see the others doing the same.
Occasionally the leaders would draw up to catch their wind, and the party would close up. Shevlin watched for the turn-off… he had rarely come this way, and he was worried that he might miss it. It was a steep, alternate route that cut a good mile off the distance. There was no other chance to get ahead, and that was where he needed to be.
He saw the twisted, lightning-struck pine on the ridge only a moment before he saw the slide of shale. The slide slanted up steeply, ending against the sky. It was a stiff scramble for a good horse–not over sixty feet of shale, but it appeared to go nowhere, and certainly was an unlikely beginning for a trail.
The big horse took it without urging. On top of the slide was a ridge of slate, slanting back less steeply. Here, barely visible, was a narrow way worn by years of passing, but invisible to any but a trained eye. This was the cutoff, and the horse took to it readily.
Beyond lay a vast jumble of grass-covered slopes, pine-crested ridges, deep canyons, knolls covered with jagged, broken rock. It was a place where no man seemed to have come, a wild and lonely place, high under the gray clouds, with only the whispering rain and the sound of his horse’s hoofs to attend him.
Eight miles away, Ray Hollister crouched in the slight shelter of a wind-hollowed cliff. He hadn’t shaved in a week, and his jaws itched; his mouth felt gritty. It was damp and chilly, and the coffee was made from grounds used for the third time.
He looked at Halloran, who was stretched out, comfortably asleep, and he felt a sudden, vicious urge to kick him awake. John Sande was a dozen yards off, huddled under a fallen oak, its branches so matted with driftwood that no rain came through. Babcock sat near him, nursing the fire with sticks.
Hollister spoke suddenly. “Where the hell are they? If they left town like Jess said, they should be here!” Babcock glanced over at him. “Ray, if that old wolfer said they left town, they left,” and then he added, in a milder tone, “and don’t rile him. He’s likely to cut out and leave us.” Just then Jess Winkler came down through the rocks across the hollow, and came over to where they waited.
“They foxed us,” he said, grinning at them. His broken, yellowed teeth showed under the gray mustache. “They surely did!” Before Hollister could speak, Babcock said, “How could they? This is the only trail.” “No, it ain’t. Winkler squatted on his haunches. “I keep forgettin’ about that kid, that Shevlin.” “He’s no kid,” John Sande commented. “I seen him. He’s got shoulders like two of us.” “I think of him as a kid,” Winkler said.
“That was how I knowed him afore. Now I keep forgettin’ how canny that youngster was, an’ how he prowled these mountains. He’s taken them over Lost Cabin.” “Never heard of it,” Babcock said.
“Lost Cabin trail… it’s an old Indian trail. Somebody built a stone cabin up there, built it long before any white man was knowed to be in this country. Built it an’ left it. Why, I ain’t seen that trail in sixteen, seventeen years!” “What do we do now?” Halloran said, sitting up.
Winkler took up a twig and marked on the sand. “That trail goes about so.” He drew another line to indicate the railroad, and a cross where Tappan Junction stood. “They’ll be headin’ for there. If we haul out of here now, we can nest down in a packet of boulders about here.” He made another cross in the sand. “We can make it in about an hour, if we’re lucky, and that would be maybe an hour before they do.” They were gone, and their fire was dying to coals, hissing under occasional drops of rain, when a rider passed on the trail, not more than thirty yards off. It was Ben Stowe, wearing a new yellow slicker, his hat brim tilted down.
For the first time in months he felt content. He was up in the saddle again, and he was riding away from trouble. Of course, there would be trouble aplenty at Tappan Junction, but it was the kind of trouble for which he was well prepared and which he clearly understood. Also, within a few minutes, unless his calculations had gone astray, part of his work would be done for him somewhere back in the hills… or perhaps out on the bunch-grass levels where the tracks were laid.
Somewhere along the line Ray Hollister would come upon Mike Shevlin, and in the gun battle that must surely follow, men would die on both sides, and every man who died made his own problem that much simpler.
He had a good horse under him, and no slow-moving pack mules to worry about. At Wood’s Ranch he would swap horses, exchanging the sorrel he now rode for a tough buckskin he had kept at the ranch, and he would make fast time down to the Junction. He would be waiting there with the contents of that bundle behind his saddle, and after that the gold would be his and his alone.
An hour after he rode past the dying campfire, unaware that it was there, two other riders came along. By that time the fire was entirely out–only the blackened coals remained.
Laine Tennison was more angry than frightened, but Red was triumphant. His triumph, however, was beginning to wear thin, for he was no longer so sure that he had judged right in kidnaping this girl.
It had been simple enough, back there at the Nevada House. He knew that Laine Tennison represented trouble, and he had guessed she was one of the owners of the mines, or was associated with them. He had acted promptly, and upon impulse, as he did most things.
Mike Shevlin was gone, and it could only be the girl in the room. He had detected a faint perfume near the door that told him his guess was right. After discovering that the door was barred from within, he decided that by morning she would be hungry. He had simply knocked on the door shortly after daylight and said. “Mr. Shevlin, your breakfast is here.” Nobody he knew had ever had breakfast served in his room, but she was a city girl and might not know it wasn’t done at the Nevada House. With a slight clatter he put down some dishes he had brought up for the purpose, then walked away and tiptoed back.
Laine.was hungry. After a moment or two she opened the door, and he forced his way in before she could close it.
And now he had her here, on the road to Tappan Junction.