He got through the trees, saw a narrow game trail, and hit it running. He was bleeding, and he had no idea how far he could go. But if he stopped only death awaited him.
He ran down the trail, ducked through another patch of aspen, and suddenly saw a steep, rocky cleft leading up toward the crest of the ridge.
Could he make it? Could he make it in time, before they reached him?
He went into the cleft and began scrambling up. The movement hurt like the very devil, and the top of the cleft was still about forty feet up. He climbed on up, and the rocks rolled back under his feet.
From below him there came a shout, then a shot. Rock fragments stung his cheek. He reached the top, rolled safely over the edge, and saw a boulder poised on the brink. Lying on his back, he put the soles of his moccasins against the boulder and shoved hard. The rock moved, teetered, and then went crashing down.
A yell of alarm sounded from below, then a scream. Other rocks cascaded after the first one. He pushed himself to his feet.
He was in a high valley, not unlike the neighboring valley in which the cabin stood. The valley floor was covered with grass, with a little snow along the sides in areas sheltered from the sun, and some snow lay beneath the trees. The cabin valley was over the low ridge to the north.
He started to run, wanting to get among the trees before his pursuers came into this valley. He was bleeding from the shoulder wound, and after a few running steps he slowed down and began to walk. Crossing the meadow on a diagonal line, he entered the trees at a spot where there was no snow.
Glancing back, he could see no trail behind him, but he knew he must have left one. He worked his way up toward the crest of the ridge, which was several hundred feet higher than the meadow.
When he had climbed almost halfway he stopped to get his breath. He was high up, and the altitude as well as his wound was getting him. Crouching close to a deadfall where he could watch the way he had climbed, he got out his handkerchief and plugged the wound as best he could. It was not serious in itself, but the loss of blood frightened him.
As he waited he saw the first man appear … with great caution. Laying his rifle down, he hitched himself into a sitting position, then lifted the rifle again and, bracing his elbow, took careful aim. He took a deep breath, let a little of it go, and eased back on the trigger. The man below had climbed a little higher for a better view. Catching him in the V of his sight, Ruble Noon tightened ever so gently on the trigger. The rifle leaped in his hands and the man spun around and dropped, scrambled up, and fell again.
Using the rifle to help himself up, Ruble Noon got to his feet and, without even looking back, continued on. He must be at an altitude of at least eleven thousand feet now, and he had taken only a few steps when he had to pause again to get his wind. He looked back, but saw nothing.
He went on, and was nearly at the top of the ridge before he looked back. He could see a number of figures moving over the meadow toward him.
Again he sat down, steadying the rifle and wishing for a sling to hold it still. He took aim at one of the figures. They were now six or seven hundred yards behind him; and at such a range, even with perfect conditions, he might be several inches off in his shots, enough to make every one a miss, and the men below were fairly close together-he could put every one of his shots into a twenty-foot square. Seated and well braced, he squeezed off five quick shots. The men in the meadow scattered like quail. One of them stumbled and fell, then stood up again.
Ruble Noon got up slowly, reloading his rifle as he did so. He had done better shooting, and he thought of Billy Dixon at Adobe Walls, who had knocked an Indian from his horse at just under a mDe … but that was with a Sharps buffalo gun, a big .50.
He climbed on to the crest of the ridge, which was half bare at this point. Looking across the cabin, valley, he could see the location of the cabin, but could not actually see the cabin itself, which was hidden in the shoulder of the rock.
He was very tired from the climb and the altitude. He sat down, breathing deeply of the cold, clear air. They would come after him, he knew, but they would come cautiously, not knowing when he might shoot again.
The best thing for him now would be to get to the cabin, get Fan, and with her work their way to the ranch. Miguel should be there now, and with Arch and Hen to help, they should be able to handle whatever came … if they could get back.
In spite of his tiredness, he had to go down the ridge and across that other meadow. Would there be somebody watching the ranch house? Or had they already captured the place? Did they already have Fan?
He started to rise, but his knees gave way and he sat dT$wn abruptly. For a moment he waited there, feeling fear within him.
This was too open a spot. There was no place here in which to fight. He did not try to get up again, but instead he lay down and rolled over three times to get off the ridge. Then he caught hold of an outcrop and pulled himself up. He would make it – he had to make it.
Chapter Fourteen
The ridge, the divide between two hanging valleys, had been scoured by glacial action. The trees along its steep flanks were Engelmann spruce, with a scattering of gnarled and ancient bristle-cone pine.
Ruble Noon worked his way carefully along the slope, knowing that a fall might finish him. His wound had stopped bleeding, but it was still a reason for caution, for though no more than a flesh wound, it had weakened him by loss of blood.
He paused by an old spruce to catch his breath again, and a camp-robber jay, drawn by his presence, hopped from limb to limb.
The ground here was mostly covered by broken rock littered with the bare bones,of fallen trees, or by rocks half covered with lichen. He found a narrow, steep slide of gray rock and worked his way down, ending up in a thick patch of bracken and lady fern, mixed with scattered clumps of columbine.
He pushed himself up with his rifle and continued on down through a stand of spruce, until he halted on the edge of the grassy floor of the valley, thick with patches of low-growing flowers. He hesitated there, his eyes searching the prospect before him.
The cabin, still hidden among the rocks across the narrow valley, was scarcely two hundred yards away, but the distance seemed very great when he considered that there was no cover, and he would be a perfect target in that space. But here was no other way.
He did not know what he would find when he got there. Fan Davidge must be his first consideration. After all, she was his reason for being here at all. She might be a prisoner, or she might be dead, and he might walk into a trap; but it was a risk he could not avoid. For better or worse, he must cross that open valley and get to the cabin.
His rifle ready in his hand, he took a long breath and stepped out from the spruce trees and started to walk. He took long, easy strides on the soft grass, and aimed toward a point of rock on the far side of the valley.
At twenty steps he permitted himself a glance around … nothing was in sight. At twice that distance he was still alone, still moving forward.
He looked at the pinnacle, about a hundred and fifty yards off. He had been a good distance runner once, but never a good dash man. However, he had never had anyone with a rifle behind him when he tried dashes… and that could make a difference.
He held to his pace. Ahead and a little to the left he saw the scattered small rocks of a moraine-nothing very imposing, but a chance of some slight cover. He went on. …
A branch cracked in the stillness. He glanced over his shoulder-a man was there, lifting a rifle to his shoulder.
Ruble Noon took off like a startled deer. Gunfire was sure to attract others, and he wanted to be able to shoot from shelter. Whatever running he was going to do had better be done now.