right over backwards, and he let a scream out of him like you never heard. It
must’ve hurt real bad.
He tumbled head over heels down the side of that steep knoll and wound up at the
bottom, his face all bloody. I stood there looking down at him.
The knoll was kind of like a pyramid too narrow for its height, covered with
grass and scattered rocks. That cloud was drifting over, and he could see me up
there, rifle in hand.
He figured I was going to kill him, and for a moment there I gave it thought.
“You get off down the mountain, boy,” I told him, “and you keep goin’. You folks
are about to get me upset.”
Still looking at me, he began to back himself off, still lying on the grass, the
rain pelting him. I looked around and there was nobody in sight. I turned and
went back down the knoll to my hideout.
When I got to the horses I pulled the picket pins and coiled the ropes. I stowed
them away and gathered the reins and was just about to stick a toe in a stirrup
when I realized how wet my feet were going to get in those moccasins.
My boots were handy so I got into my slicker and set down to haul on my boots
when my eyes leveled on that crack in the rocks.
It wasn’t no kind of a place, just a layered rock where one layer had fallen or
been pulled out leaving a kind of gap not over two inches wide. It was deeper
than it looked at first, and there was something in there.
I slipped my hand in and found myself touching some kind of a book. I took it
out and it was another daybook, almost like the first, but it was in worse
shape.
When I scrambled up that rock wall I must have stepped on a piece of the rock
that had been shoved in there to keep the wet off and the animals from gettin’
at it.
It was a daybook, and I knew it had been pa’s. I shifted it to my left hand and
started to slip it into my coat pocket when a voice said, “I’ll take that!”
It was Andre Baston, and he was right on the bank with a gun on me.
CHAPTER XXV
There’s times when a man might talk himself out of trouble, but this wasn’t one
of those times. Andre Baston was a killing man and he had a gun on me. I’ve
known men who would have shot me and taken the book out of my dead hand, but
Baston was not only a killer, he was cruel. He liked somebody to know he was
going to kill ’em.
Moreover he’d been used to those set-tos where there’s a challenge, seconds
meet, a duel is arranged, and two men walk out on the greensward—whatever that
is—and, after a certain number of paces, they turn around and shoot at each
other most politely.
Me, I’d grown up to a different manner of doing. You drew and you shot, and no
fancy didoes were cut. Nobody needed to tell me what Andre had in mind. I had
the same thing in mind for him only I wasn’t wastin’ around about it.
He’d said, “I’ll take that!” And he had a gun on me.
A man who doesn’t want to get shot hadn’t better pack a gun in the first place.
I knew when I laid my hand on that gun that I was going to get shot, but I also
had it in mind to shoot back.
I figured, All right, he’s going to nail me, but if he kills me I’ll take him
with me, and if he doesn’t kill me I’ll surely get him.
He didn’t expect it—I had that going for me, but it wasn’t enough. My hand went
to the gun and she came up fast and smooth. When she came level I was going to
let drive, and I kind of braced myself for the shock of a bullet.
My .44 bucked in my hands, and, an instant before it went off, his gun stabbed
flame. I just stood there and thumbed back that hammer. No matter how many times
he shoots, you got to kill him, I told myself. I just eared her back and let ‘er
bang, and Andre Baston kind of stood up on his toes. I let her go again, and his
gun went off into the grass at his feet and he fell off the ledge sidewise and
lit right at my feet.
“You!” There was an ugly hatred in his eyes. “You aren’t even a gentleman!”
“No, sir,” I said politely, “but I’m a damned good shot.”
Andre Baston, of New Orleans, died on the rim of Cumberland Basin with the rain
falling into his wide-open eyes, trickling down his freshly shaved jaws.
“Well, pa,” I said, “if this was the one, he’s signed the bill for it. You rest
easy, wherever you lie.”
With a sweep of my palm I swept the water from my saddle and stepped up there on
old Ap and pointed his nose down the basin, the buckskin right behind us. We
just climbed out of that shelf and rounded a clump of spruce, and I looked back
yonder at the knoll, hall-hidden in clouds now.
It came to me then, ridin’ away, that Andre had missed me. I’d been so almighty
sure I was going to get shot, I was ready to take the lead and send it back. But
he missed. Maybe when he saw me reaching he hurried too much, maybe the panic
came up in him like it does in a lot of men when they know they’re going to be
shot at—a kind of uncomfortable feeling.
But like I said, when you pick up a weapon you can expect a weapon to be used
against you.
They had them a sort of camp on the slope, a mighty poor shelter, I’d say. I
rode right up to them, two men I didn’t know, and Paul, looking like something
blown up against a fence by a wet wind. Of course, Fanny was there, startled to
see me, the softness gone from her features, her mouth drawn hard.
“You better go get your uncle,” I said, “He’s up mere lyin’ in the rain.”
They did not believe me. I had my rifle across my saddlebows, its black muzzle
looking one-eyed at them, so they stood quiet.
“Was I in your place,” I suggested, “I’d light a shuck for Bourbon Street or
places around, and when I got there I’d start burning a few candles at the altar
of your Uncle Philip. There’s nothing left for you here.”
The trail was muddy, full of doubles and switchbacks, with little streams
crossing it here and there. That was a day when it kept right on raining, and
through the rain, dripping off my hat I saw the fresh green of the forest and
the grass.
It was a narrow trail, no question of hurrying. All I wanted was to get to the
bottom, back down to Shalako where I could wrap myself around a few steaks and
some hot coffee. This was a day when I’d rather set by an inside fire and watch
the raindrops fall.
Every once in a while when I’d duck under a tree, a few raindrops, always the
coldest ones, would shake loose and trickle down the back of my neck.
Alongside the trail, sometimes close by, sometimes down in a rocky gorge below
me, was the La Plata. Waterfalls along the trail added to the river’s volume.
The trail was washed out in places.
Nobody used this trail but the Utes, or occasional hunters and prospectors.
Yet all of a sudden I saw something else. In the bank where the trail passed
there was a fresh, scuffed place. My hand went under my slicker to my
six-shooter.
Somebody had stepped off this trail minutes before, stepping quickly up into the
trees that lined the trail. One boot had crushed the grass on the low bank that
edged the trail.
Ap turned quickly around a corner of the trail and I glanced up, seeing nothing.
The man had gone into the woods, hearing me on the trail, and he hadn’t the time
to do more than disappear somewhere just within the edge of the trees. Who would
be coming up here on a day like this? No Indian, for it had been a boat track, a
wide boot, not far from new.
Nothing happened. I rode on, switching back and around on the narrow trail, and
when I reached a straight stretch I stepped up the pace and let Ap trot for a
while.
Safely away, I began now to look for more tracks. Occasionally I saw them,
shapeless, not to be identified, but tracks nonetheless, and the tracks of