He had been sure that Ben Stowe would be pleased, but now he was beginning to worry. Ben was a man who liked to order things his own way. It was too late, however, to think about that–there was nothing to do but ride on.
CHAPTER 19
When Mike Shevlin rode out of the dark pines he faced a vast green slope, perhaps a thousand acres of untouched grass, slanting away from the rounded crest of the mountain toward the dark canyon off to his left.
To his right and well ahead of him, three dark jagged crags tore at the sky, trailing drifts of windblown cloud like streamers of smoke. The rain was a gray veil, the grass a brilliant green, while the sky was masked with lowering thunderheads.
There was no wind on this slope shielded by the mountain, but he was chilly under the slicker; and his wet hands worried him, for if he needed a gun he would need it fast–and with accurate aim.
It took a long time to cross the wide green slope. At the end it fell sharply away into the last canyon before Lost Cabin, and he drew rein here and sat his horse, looking across at the squat gray shape, tantalized as always by the wonder of it. Who had found this wild and lonely place so long ago?
At this point he was over a mile higher than Rafter Crossing, and a good thousand feet above the trail followed by the pack mules. There might be accidents due to the weather, but there was no danger of them going astray.
Nobody he knew at Rafter had ever seen Lost Cabin, and he himself had not talked of it, wishing jealously to keep this place for himself. Many knew about the Cabin, some scarcely believing in it; but there it was, on the slope across the canyon, under the shadow of ancient trees. A dwarfish army of cedars was massed not far below it, as if waiting to leap upon it in some moment of stillness.
At last Shevlin was angling steeply down, searching out the old trail, glad that he had a good mountain horse, when he saw them. At first he could not believe his eyes.
He drew up sharply, peering down at the five riders coming out of the draw, about a mile away. He saw them begin to fan out among the rocks and trees.
They were not more than a hundred yards from the trail, which at that point came out into the open for a good half-mile, just beyond the low glacial ridge where the five were taking shelter.
Their backs were to him–but for how long? If they happened to turn he could be plainly seen up here.
He had to get off this slope and into the trees.
Jess Winkler… Of course. He should have thought of the old wolfer who had been riding these hills for years. Winkler must be down there.
Nobody else could have known of the trail the mules were using; and the trail these five had taken to get here from below must be one even Shevlin knew nothing of.
He walked his horse along the slope and got into the trees without being seen. Then, screened by the dripping trees, he rode at a dead run, racing against time. If the pack train had had no trouble they would soon be along, riding like sitting pigeons into the range of Hollister’s guns.
Against the five men down there, he had the nine with the pack train. But they would be scattered out along the line of mules, and the first volley would surely eliminate some of them unless they could be warned.
Hollister was a fair hand with a rifle, good with a six-gun. And Winkler–well, Winkler would never miss. When he aimed from a rest, he killed. Babcock was good too, and the others were probably at least average.
He raced his horse for about a quarter of a mile, slowed to a walk over more difficult ground, and then raced on. He came out of the trees behind Hollister and his men, and a good two hundred yards away. He could see them settled down and waiting, and just as he had spotted the fifth man, the first of the pack mules came into sight.
The first man in the pack train was a tall, lean, stoop-shouldered Texan; there were six mules before the second man appeared. In a matter of minutes they would all be strung out along the trail, and helpless. And he knew that Hollister would hold his fire until all were within easy range.
Mike Shevlin felt a curious emptiness inside him. He knew what was coming.
You could die down there, he told himself. He tugged on his hat brim and started down the slope behind the waiting men.
His horse walked quickly, daintily. Shevlin touched a flank lightly with a spur, and the horse began to canter. The five men below were fixing all their attention on the approaching mule train.
Suddenly one of the men with the mule train saw Shevlin, and drew up sharply. At the same instant, Shevlin shucked a six-shooter and slapped the spurs to his horse.
The startled animal almost leaped from under him, then went pounding down the slope, running like the wind.
There came a startled exclamation, and one of Hollister’s men whirled toward him, and Mike let go his first shot.
He was not over fifty yards off, but the shot was a clear miss, serving only to make the man jerk back, off balance, out of position for a shot.
Guns started to bark, and Shevlin saw the lean Texan in the van spur his horse up the slope. He caught on fast, that one. Mike saw one of the men lift a rifle, and then he was among them. He chopped down and shot full into the man’s face, seeing it flame with blood as the bullet struck a glancing blow that knocked the man sprawling under his horse’s hoofs.
Shevlin reined around quickly, glad he was riding a good cutting horse used to making quick turns.
The Texan was among them too, his horse down and screaming, the man himself firing–falling and firing.
Two more men came up the slope and one of them launched himself in a long dive at Winkler, and the two went rolling.
As his horse came around, Shevlin saw two more men from the pack train spurring up the slope, and then his horse, tired from the long ride, put a foot down wrong and they both fell. He rolled over, but came up still gripping a gun as Hollister ran up to face him.
“Damn you!” Hollister screamed. “I should have killed–was Mike Shevlin felt the gun bucking in his hard grip, and he saw Hollister jerk as if lashed by a whip, jerk again, and fall forward on the wet slope of grass.
Hollister rolled over and started to get up, but Mike put a bullet into his chest at a range of six feet. Then he turned swiftly to face whoever was left.
The sound of the gunfire was rolling against the hills, then rolling back in echoing, muted thunder.
It fell away and was lost, and there was no other sound but the rain falling, and somewhere a man groaning.
Mike picked up Hollister’s unused gun, thrust it behind his belt, and walked across the grass.
John Sande was lying face down on the grass, dead. A man sitting against a rock just beyond Sande turned and looked at Shevlin. “You played hell, Mike,” he said, almost without expression.
It was Babcock. His right arm was a bloody mess. Numb with shock, he was gripping his arm tightly against the flow of blood, and gazing hollow-eyed at Shevlin.
Halloran was lying dead, too, shot clean through. The Texan was dead, and two others from the mule train. There was no sign of Jess Winkler.
Down on the flat the mules were bunched, and four men, rifles ready, clustered about them. They had played it the smart way, bunching the animals and holding them tight, ready for anything.
Mike Shevlin looked carefully around. One of his men was missing,… probably the man who had tangled with the old wolf-hunter.
He shouted at the men with the mules, and two of them came up the slope, riding warily. “You,” he said to the nearest one, “take care of that man’s wounds. He’s too good to die this way. You”–he indicated the other man–“catch up the horses.” He walked over to his own horse. It had gotten up, and came toward him as he approached. He mounted and rode slowly in the direction where he had seen Winkler and the other man fighting.
He saw Jess Winkler first. The old man was on his face on top of the other man, and something was gleaming from his back. Mike drew up and looked down. What he saw was the needle-sharp point of a knife, an Arkansas toothpick.