High Citadel / Landslide (57 page)

The woodland this close to town held a spindly third growth of no commercial value and used mainly for cutting wood for the domestic fires of Fort Farrell. The trouble was that a man could see a long way through it and there was no place to hide, especially if you wore a red woollen shirt like I did. I thought I had got clear without being seen, but a shout went up and I knew I hadn’t made it.

I abandoned the quietness bit and put on speed again, running uphill and feeling the strain in my lungs. On top of the rise I looked across the valley and saw the real woodlands with the big trees. Once over there I might have a chance of dodging them, and I went down into that valley lickety-split like a buck rabbit being chased by a fox.

From the shouts behind I reckoned I was keeping my distance, but that was no consolation. Any dozen determined men can run down a loner in the long haul; they can spell and pace each other. But the loner has one advantage—the adrenaline jumped into his system by the knowledge of what will happen to him when he gets caught. I had no illusions about that; a dozen husky loggers don’t put out a lot of energy in running cross-country just to play patty-cake at the end of it. If they caught me I’d probably be ruined for
life. Once, up in the North-West Territories, I’d seen the results when a man was ganged-up on and booted around; the end-result could hardly be called human.

So I ran for my life because I knew I’d have no life worth living if I lagged. I ignored the muscular pains creeping into my legs, the harsh rasp of air in my throat and the coming stitch in my side. I just settled down for the long, long run across that valley. I didn’t look back to see how close they were because that wastes time; not much—maybe fractions of a second every time you turn your head—but fractions of a second add up and could count in the end. I just pumped my legs and kept a watch on the ground ahead of me, choosing the easiest way but not deviating too much from the straight line.

But I kept my ears open and could hear the yells coming from behind, some loud and close and others fainter and farther back. The pack was stringing out with the fittest men to the front. If there had been only two men as before I’d have stopped and fought it out, but there was no chance against a dozen, so I plunged on and lengthened my stride, despite the increasing pain in my side.

The trees were closer now, tall trees reaching to the sky—Douglas fir, red cedar, spruce, hemlock—the big forest that spread north clear to the Yukon. Once lost in there I might have a fighting chance. There were trees big enough to hide a truck behind, let alone a man; there was a confusion of shadow as the sun struck through the leaves and branches creating dappled patterns; there were fallen trees to duck behind and holes to hide in and a thick layer of pine needles on which a man could move quietly if he looked where he was putting his feet. The forest was safety of a sort.

I reached the first big fir and risked a look back. The first man was two hundred yards away and the rest were strung out behind him in a long line. I sprinted for the next tree, changed course and headed for another. Here, at the edge,
the trees weren’t too crowded and there were large vistas where a man could be seen for quite a long way, but it was a damn’ sight better than being caught in the open.

I was moving more slowly now, intent on quietness rather than speed as I dodged from tree to tree, zig-zagging each time and keeping an eye on the way back because I had to make sure I wasn’t seen. It was no longer a race—it was a cat-and-mouse game, and I was the mouse.

Now that I was no longer operating on full steam I managed to get my breath back, but my heart still pumped violently until I thought it was going to burst its way through my chest. I managed a grin as I hoped the other guys weren’t in better shape and dodged deeper into the forest. Behind, everything had gone quiet and for a moment I thought they had given up, but then I heard a shout from the left and an answering call from the right. They had spread out and had begun to comb the woods.

I pressed on, hoping they had no experienced trackers among them. It was unlikely they would have, but the possibility couldn’t be ignored. It was a long time till sunset, nearly four hours to go, and I wondered if Matterson’s boys would have enough incentive to go right through with it. I had to find a good hiding-place and let the search flow over me, so I kept my eyes open as I slipped deeper into the dappled green.

Ahead was a rock outcropping of tumbled boulders with plenty of cover in it. I ignored it—they wouldn’t pass up a chance like that and they’d search every cranny. Still, that would take time—there’s an awful lot of holes where a man
may
be hiding compared to the one he is using, and this was my one hope. I heard a shout from way back and judged they were making poorer time than I, wasting valuable minutes in poking and prying, deviating to look behind that fallen log or into that likely-looking hole where a tree had fallen and torn up its roots.

I didn’t want to be driven too far into the forest. I was worried about Mac and how long he could hold Matterson and his sister. Clare had gone to see Gibbons, but there had been no particular urgency at that time and Gibbons might not move his butt fast enough. So I wanted to get back to the cabin somehow, and every yard I was driven into the forest meant another yard to go back.

The firs soared up all round, their massive trunks branchless for a full fifty feet. Yet I found what I was looking for—a young cedar with branches low enough for it to be climbed. I swarmed up into it and crawled out on one of the branches. The spreading boughs would hide me from the ground—I hoped—but as an added precaution I took off that revealing red shirt and wadded it into a bundle. Then I waited.

Nothing happened for over ten minutes, then they came so quietly that I saw the flicker of movement before I heard a sound. A man came into view at the edge of the clearing and looked about him, and I froze into immobility. He was not more than fifty yards away and he was very still as he stared into the woods across the clearing, his head swinging round as he gave the area a real thorough going-over with his eyes. Then he gestured and another man joined him and the two of them walked across the clearing light-footedly.

A man doesn’t look up much. The bones of his skull project over his eyes just where his eyebrows are—that’s to protect his eyes from the direct sun. And looking up much puts a strain on the neck muscles, too. I guess it’s all been designed by nature to protect the delicate eye from glare. Anyway, it so happens that only an experienced searcher will scan the tops of trees—it’s something that doesn’t occur to the average man and there’s a built-in resistance—partly psychological and partly physiological—to see that it doesn’t.

These two were no exceptions. They walked across the clearing emulating Fenimore Cooper’s heroes and stopped
for a moment below the cedar. One of them said, ‘I think it’s a bust.’

The other cut him short with a chopping motion of his hand. ‘Quiet! He could be around here.’

‘Not a chance. Hell, he’s probably five miles from here by now. Anyway, my feet hurt.’

‘More’n your feet’ll hurt if Waystrand finds you falling down on the job.’

‘Huh, that young punk!’

‘Can you whip him? You’re welcome to try but I wouldn’t put my money on you. Anyway, Matterson wants this guy found, so come on and stop moaning about it.’

They moved away across the clearing but I stayed put. In the distance I heard a shout, but otherwise all was still. I waited a full fifteen minutes before I dropped from the tree and although it was chilly, I had left my shirt up there and out of sight.

I didn’t retrace my steps but cut across at an angle in the direction of Mac’s cabin. If I could get back there and if Mac still had Howard cooped up he would make a valuable hostage, a passport to safety. I trod carefully, and viewed every open space suspiciously before venturing into it, and I penetrated right to the edge of the forest before I encountered anyone.

In any crowd of men there is always one like this—the man who doesn’t pull his weight, the man who goofs off when there’s a job to be done. He was sitting with his back to a tree and rolling a cigarette. He had evidently had foot trouble because, although he was wearing his boots, they were unlaced and he must have had them off.

He was a damned nuisance because, although he was goofing off, he was ideally placed at the edge of the forest to survey the scrubland I had to cross to get to Mac’s cabin. In fact, if Waystrand had placed him there deliberately he couldn’t have chosen a better position.

I retreated noiselessly and looked about for a weapon. This attack had to be sudden and quick; I didn’t know how many other guys were within shouting distance and one squawk from him and I’d be on the run again. I selected a length of tree bough and cut the twigs from it with my knife. When I went back he was still there, had got his cigarette lit and was puffing it with enjoyment.

I circled and came up behind the tree very carefully and raised the cudgel as I edged round. He never knew what hit him. The wood caught him on the temple and he didn’t even gasp as he fell sideways, the cigarette falling from his lax fingers. I dropped the club and stepped in front of him, automatically stepping on the glowing cigarette as it crisped the pine needles. Hastily I grabbed him under the arms and hauled him to a place where we weren’t overlooked.

I had a moment of panic when I thought he was dead, but he groaned and his eyelids fluttered a little before he relapsed into unconsciousness. I had no compunction about hitting a man when he wasn’t looking, but I didn’t want to kill anybody—not because I didn’t feel like it but because a man could get hanged that way. The law is pretty strict about dead bodies and I wanted Gibbons on my side.

He was wearing a dark grey shirt which was just what I wanted, so I stripped it from him and then searched him for good measure. He didn’t have much in his pockets—a wallet containing three dollar-bills and some personal papers, a few coins, a box of matches and a pack of tobacco and a jack-knife. I took the matches and the knife and left him the rest, then I put on the shirt, that neutral, pleasantly inconspicuous shirt which was as good as a disguise.

I put him in a place where no one would stumble over him too easily, then walked boldly out of the forest, cutting across the scrubland towards Mac’s cabin which couldn’t have been more than a mile away according to my calculations. I had gone halfway when someone hailed me.
Fortunately he was a long way off, too far to see my face in the fading light. ‘Hey, you! What happened?’

I cupped my hands to my mouth. ‘We lost him.’

‘Everyone’s wanted at McDougall’s cabin,’ he shouted. ‘Matterson wants to talk to you.’

I felt my heart give a sudden bump. What had happened to Mac? I waved, and shouted, ‘I’ll be there.’

He carried on in the opposite direction, and as he passed, I angled away and kept my face from him. As soon as he was out of sight I broke into a run until I saw lights in the gathering darkness, then I paused, wondering what to do next. I had to find out what had happened to Mac, so I circled the cabin to come at it from the other, unexpected side and as I drew nearer I heard the rumble of the voices of many men.

Someone had brought a pressure-lantern from the cabin and set it up on the stoop, and from where I was lying by the stream I could see there were about twenty men lounging about in front of the cabin. Counting the dozen who had chased me and who were still coming back from the forest, that made a force of at least thirty—maybe more. It looked as though Howard was gathering an army.

I stayed there for a long time, maybe an hour, and tried to figure out what was happening. There was no sign of Mac, nor of Clare and Gibbons. I saw Waystrand come into the group. He looked tired and worn, but then, so did I, and I didn’t feel a bit sorry for him. He asked someone an obvious question and was waved to the cabin. I watched him enter and didn’t have long to wait for an explanation of the gathering, because almost immediately he came out again followed by Howard.

Howard stood on the stoop and held up his hands and everything became quiet except for the croaking of frogs around me. ‘All right,’ said Howard loudly. ‘You know why you’re here. You’re going to look for a man—a man called
Boyd. Most of you have seen him around Fort Farrell so you know what he looks like. And you know why we want him, don’t you?’

A rumble came from the group of men. Howard said, ‘For those of you who came in late—this is it. This man Boyd beat up my father—he hit a man more than twice his age—an old man. My father is seventy-six years old. How old do you reckon Boyd is?’

My blood chilled at the audible reaction from the mob in front of the stoop. ‘Now you know why I want him,’ yelled Howard. He waved his arm. ‘You’re all on full pay until he’s found, and I’ll give a hundred dollars to the man who spots him first.’

A yell went up from the mob and Howard waved his arm violently to get silence. ‘What’s more,’ he shouted, ‘I’ll give a thousand dollars each to the men who catch him.’

There was pandemonium for a while and Howard let it go on.

I could see the twisted grin on his face in the harsh light of the pressure-lantern. He held up his arms for silence again. ‘Now, we’ve lost him for the moment. He’s in the woods out there. He has no food, and my betting is that he’s scared. But watch it, because he’s armed. I came here to beat the daylights out of him because of what he did to my old man, and he held me up at rifle-point. So watch it.’

Waystrand whispered to him, and Howard said, ‘I may be wrong there, boys. Waystrand here says he didn’t have a gun when he made for the woods, so that makes your job easier. I’m going to divide you up into teams and you can get going. When you catch him, keep him there and send a message back to me. Understand that—don’t try to bring him back into Fort Farrell. This is a slippery guy and I don’t want to give him a chance to get away. Keep him on the spot until I get there. Tie him up. If you don’t have any rope then break his goddam leg. I won’t cry if you rough him up a bit.’