The failure to hear anything from Kissling worried him. What could have happened? Kissling had wanted to shoot. He was a trigger-happy kid … well, not so much a kid as a young man who acted like one more often than not. Kissling would shoot if he glimpsed a target, but he would surely shoot too quick, and probably die because of it.
He knew why Kissling had gone up the mountain, for he knew from experience that it was easier to go than to wait.
They moved along, wary of every shadow, but seeing nothing at all.
“How do we know that he’s been up there?” Charlie asked suddenly. “We ain’t seen nothin’.”
“She went this way and we’ve got to get her back. Suppose she gets off scot-free and goes to the law?” Lang suggested. And then he added, “You can bet she knew where he went. You recall he disappeared clean off the map when he went thisaway.”
Ruble Noon heard them coming and moved deeper into the trees. He was at home here in the woods, as at home as any creatures of the wilderness. He liked the stillness, with only the far-off faint murmur of voices, the sound of wind in the trees; yet now that he was faced with what must be done, he hesitated.
He had been a hunter of big game, a famous marksman, president and owner of an arms company, and a newspaperman, a writer of sorts. And then he had become a hunter of men. After that had come the blow on the head, and the amnesia. He seemed to have lost none of his skill because of it, but he had lost, or seemed to have lost, the concentrated intent, the purpose.
These men who were hunting him were outlaws, they were killers, and if they found him they would kill him, and they might kill Fan as well. Certainly they would terrorize her, bully her, keep her a prisoner. They were his enemies, enemies of society, beasts of prey. And yet he did not want to kill them.
Now his very lack of intent was a danger. In the situation he faced there could be no time for hesitation, no time for philosophical considerations. He must kill or be killed … and he did not want to die.
He waited, crouching low, hearing their movements. Twice he caught glimpses of them through the leaves, and at least once he had Charlie dead in his sights, but he did not fire. But every step brought them nearer to Fan, nearer to a moment when he would no longer have a choice.
How many were there down there? At least six, he thought. He had not seen all the outlaws at the Rafter D, and there might even be more, but six he had detected.
He tried to think of some way he might stop them without actually firing on them. They probably would not hesitate to kill or capture him if given the opportunity.
He lifted his rifle, eased the pressure on the trigger just a little, and took a breath. He let it out easily, and –
He heard the step behind him even as his finger was tightening to fire. He threw himself backward quickly, and took a wicked blow on the shoulder as he fell.
Rolling over, he came up with the rifle and fired …. too quickly. He missed, scrambled back into the brush, and heard a yell from the trail. Then came a crashing of brush, and above him to the right he heard a voice.
It was a cold, contemptuous voice, and it was the voice of Judge Niland. “I grew up in the woods, Ruble Noon. I wasn’t worried about you, because I knew I could kill you myself.”
Coldness came over him. He was hit, he knew that, but he hoped not badly. It was the fact that it was Judge Niland that was such a shock.
He had been watching the group on the trail, and had allowed his attention to lapse elsewhere. He was a fool.
He eased back among the trees. He would need now every bit of woods skill he had ever possessed. He dared not shoot at Niland, for if he did half a dozen rifles would on the instant pour fire at the spot where he was. And Niland knew this. Ruble Noon heard his voice speaking confidently.
“Move in slowly, Ben. We’ve got him. He hasn’t got a chance.”
His left arm felt numb and he lifted a hand to his shoulder – it came away wet. Wiping it on his pants leg so the blood would not drop on the ground, he eased back a little more.
The steep mountainside was covered with pines or clumps of aspen. Niland was somewhat above and behind him, the others were coming from the trail, so he backed away, working his way down and across the face of the mountain.
Taking his rifle in his left hand, he used his other hand in slithering back among, the trees. On the pines needles he made almost no sound as he moved in a crouch.
Something rustled in the direction of the trail, but nothing sounded from above, where Niland was. The Judge was good -he had not lost his touch.
He knew they might be close upon him, but he dared not lift his head to look. He went into the aspens almost crawling, squirmed downhill a bit more, then got up and scuttled several yards before dropping again.
Somebody shouted: “There! I saw him!” It was Charlie’s voice.
The brush crashed lower down, and in front of him, and suddenly Lang broke through not forty yards away. They saw each other at the same instant, and Charlie’s rifle came up. His eyes were bright with triumph as he tightened his finger on the trigger.
He was looking along the barrel at Noon, saw him there, dark against the green of the aspens and the white of their trunks. Noon was holding his rifle in his left hand, and Charlie took time to shout, “Come on! I got him!”
Even as he fired, he saw a stab of flame from Ruble Noon’s rifle. The butt was under Noon’s left arm, the rifle pointed with his left hand.
He’ll never hit anything that way, Charlie told himself as he fired.
Something seemed to turn under his heel, and his rifle went off into the ground. He stared … puzzled, wondering why he had dropped the muzzle. He started to lift it again, but he was overcome by a sudden weakness. The earth slid from under his feet and he lay face down on the pine needles. He got his hands under him and started to push up, and was startled to see the ground where he had fallen was red with blood.
He got to his knees and suddenly began to cough. It was a racking cough that hurt terribly. He put his hand up to wipe away the wetness around his mouth, and stared stupidly at the hand. The wetness was blood, a kind of frothy blood. He blinked, and was suddenly afraid.
He knew he had been hit in the lungs. He dropped his rifle and ripped open his shirt. He could see the hole in his chest… small, and not very important-looking – Only a trickle of blood came from it.
He wanted to yell for help, but at first no voice came, and when he called a stab of pain went through him.
“Ben! Help me! For God’s sake – ”
Nobody answered, but he could hear them moving along the slope, searching for Ruble Noon.
He took up his rifle and started along the slope. He was no longer eager to find Ruble Noon. He no longer wanted to find anyone. He wanted to get to his horse, to ride to the ranch. If he could get there that girl… Fan Davidge … she would take care of him.
He made it to the trail, and started downhill toward the horses. He stumbled and fell, and lay on the leaves in a patch of golden sunshine. It reminded him of the spring where they used to go for water back on the claim in Arkansas. He used to lie in the sun like this, smelling the grass, listening to the water.
He could do with a drink, but he no longer wanted to get up … or hadn’t the strength. They’d be along soon, and they’d find him … ma would find him. She always had. She’d know what to do….
Ruble Noon was in the aspens. The slim trunks of the trees stood so close together and there were so many of them that there was not one chance in a hundred of a bullet hitting him even if they saw him. There was no clear line of fire from any direction.
He got to his feet and ran, ducking and dodging, worming his way through the trees, intent only on getting away. Behind him somebody fired, and he heard the smack as a bullet bit a tree.