The Interlopers

33

IT WAS A BEAUTIFUL MORNING, which was too bad. Yesterday's rain and mist would have been useful, but what I had was a clear blue sky, bright sunshine, and endless visibility. Since I had it, there was nothing to do but make use of it. With my nose to the ground, like Hiawatha on the trail of his winter venison, I let myself be seen marching off on foot in the direction up the valley that Holz had taken on horseback some hours earlier.

If Holz was where I thought, watching from high above and far away, and if he wanted to think I was tracking him, that was all right. It was more or less what I was doing, and I couldn't prevent him from anticipating it. But if he wanted to think I just wanted him to think I was tracking him, that was all right, too.

For instance, if he remembered the part of my dossier that said I was pretty good in the boondocks, he might start worrying about whether or not I could be trying to get back to civilization for official help by way of a different trail or no trail at all. A worried man can't sit still nearly as well as an unworried one; and a moving man is easier to spot than one who holes up in a bunch of rocks and stays there. I'd rather play mountain tag with the man than try to dig him out of hiding.

It was pleasant to be walking, working the soreness out of the riding muscles that had taken a beating yesterday. I could have been better dressed for the work, particularly in the matter of footgear-the cowboy boots of my Nystrom role were a bit slick-soled for climbing and a bit noisy for stalking-but on the whole I didn't feel that I was operating under any serious handicaps. At least I didn't have a bullet in me, and Holz did. And I wasn't brooding heavily about what a sad and lonely job I had, either, even though I'd once been a sucker for a dog in trouble.

I could hear the pup for a long time after I could no longer see the camp behind me. He didn't like being tied up and ordered to stay put, and he was telling the world about it. Finally, a shoulder of the mountain cut off the sound, and I was alone with the whisper of the fitful early-morning breeze that would have caused me a lot of worry if I'd been after moose or caribou.

As a matter of fact, the first sign of life I encountered was the crashing and thumping of a big cow moose taking off through the timber ahead after catching my scent. I found that hard on the nerves; and a bunch of whitewinged ptarmigan flushing noisily didn't help my peace of mind either. Even my first glimpse of Holz's horse, tied just at timberline, was mildly nerve-wracking. I mean, when you're after game that can shoot back, you react violently to anything that moves, even a horse's tail.

I considered the question of the horse for several minutes, crouching among the sparse trees halfway up the mountain. It could be bait for a trap, of course, but the likeliest explanation was that Holz had left the animal there simply because he was heading up into terrain no horse could handle. At last I moved forward cautiously. The big bay was happy to see a human being. I untied him and let him go. He'd probably wander into camp sooner or later, and Holz would probably see him and know I'd got this far. Then he would, I hoped, start wondering just why I'd made a point of advertising the fact.

There hadn't been much of a trail to follow up to now. The ground had been frozen when Holz had come this way. I'd stumbled on the horse more or less by following the shape of the country and guessing at the route a rider bound for a certain spot might pick at night.

But now, heading upward from there, above timberline, I had nothing whatever to guide me: it was all rock and rubble on which no tracks showed. It took me an hour to work my way up to a notch that let me cut around behind the mountains overlooking the camp and the lake. The going was rough and steep, and the country was wide open. From up here I could see that what I'd thought, yesterday, to be autumn snow on the faraway peaks was actually a series of permanent glaciers.

Some small white spots on a mountainside ahead, that I also took for snow at first glance, turned out to be mountain sheep that scampered out of sight when they spotted me, moving as easily as if they'd been running across a level meadow instead of a forty-five-degree slope of loose rock. The bad part was, of course, the fact that, crossing the open slopes myself much less rapidly and gracefully, I made a beautiful target for a man with a scope-sighted rifle waiting anywhere above; but no shots came.

Playing it by ear, or by instinct, I made a very wide circle, much wider, I hoped, than Holz had made to reach his vantage point above the lake, if that's where he'd really gone. Then I scrambled back across the rocky spine of the mountains into what I hoped would be the big valley I'd left. It turned out to be a small, steep side canyon instead and I had considerable trouble working my way down into it. I'm willing to hike all I have to, uphill or down, but I'm not much of a mountain climber, particularly in cowboy boots.

I finally got to the bottom of the gorge by sitting on, and sliding down, a steep sheet of rock, to the detriment of Grant Nystrom's slacks. Picking myself up, I fought my way down a little stream, over fallen trees and jumbled boulders, until the country opened up ahead, and there was the pond for which I was looking, far below me and off to the right, just where I wanted it. I stopped to check the rifle and prayed that it had taken less of a beating than my hands and knees, not to mention my shins and tailbone.

The rest of the approach just took time and caution. I stayed low, where the timber covered me, until I was directly under the point I'd decided to reach-as close to Holz's probable hiding place as it seemed safe to go. I took off the high-heeled boots, kind of wedged them under my belt, and made the final climb through the rocks in my stocking feet-when I used my feet at all. Mostly I was on hands and knees and sometimes, when the terrain required, on my belly.

It was hard work, but when I got to the pre-selected spot, I found that I'd made a good choice. Sheltered in a little hollow there, with a scraggly bush and some tufts of tough-looking grass for additional cover, I could watch the lake and the rockslide and the crumbling stone outcropping at the head of it, near which I figured my target would appear sooner or later. It was about two hundred and fifty yards away, within easy range of my borrowed weapon. I couldn't see the camp for the curve of the mountainside, but unlike Holz, I had no reason to watch that. At least I thought I didn't.

Nevertheless, when the break came, after over two hours of motionless waiting, it came from the camp I couldn't see: a single gunshot report, echoing off the mountainside. I reached for the rifle beside me, a futile gesture considering the range. I had a sickening sense of failure. Again, as with Libby, it seemed that my elaborate reasoning had been haywire. Apparently Holz hadn't behaved the way he should have-the way I'd thought he should have.

Instead of waiting obligingly where I'd wanted him to, he must have sneaked back to camp as I'd been sure he wouldn't. Now he was disposing of the easy part of the opposition, secure in the knowledge that I wouldn't be around to bother him.

I started to rise, but checked the movement. I'd made a certain investment of time and effort in this hiding place. To move now would be to throw it all away. I couldn't reach the camp in time to be of any help anyway, so I just lay there listening, and heard more shooting: this time a rapid-fire fusillade of five reports so close together that they sounded like a burst from a submachine gun. That was no slow bolt-action rifle with a maximum capacity of four rounds, I realized; that was a lever-action carbine worked by an expert.

I drew a long breath and lay there waiting for something that would give me a clue to what was going on. There was no more shooting, and for a while nothing moved, either below or on the high slopes I was watching. Then I saw a distant horseman fording the river below camp-a horsewoman, rather. I couldn't actually make out the face or the sex at the distance; but the rider was dressed in a yellow-brown outfit. Pat Bellman had been wearing her familiar denims when last seen. Davis had been in jeans and a dark green windbreaker; Holz in his checked wool lumberman's rig.

Watching Libby approach along the trail, wondering how she'd worked it, I almost forgot the man I'd come several thousand miles to meet. I was warned by a hint of movement at the very edge of my vision, high up around the mountainside where the stony slope ran up against a perpendicular wall of solid rock. Looking that way intently, I saw nothing for several minutes; then Holz came into sight once more, moving diagonally toward me. Obviously he'd been hiding high above the spot I'd expected him, just a little too far around the curving hillside to see me as I sneaked into place. Maybe my psychological warfare had had some effect after all, making him too nervous to stay in the one place.

He was using his rifle as a crutch, cautiously, as he made his way downward, limping. There was a bloody handkerchief bound around his right thigh. He was in a hurry now, taking few precautions, angling down across the rocky stuff toward the spot I'd figured he'd choose, but still too far away for a good shot. Besides, with only two cartridges, I wasn't about to monkey with a moving target. Sooner or later he was bound to stop.

Below, Libby was approaching the pond. A good distance behind her, just crossing the river, I saw Davis flogging a horse-my reluctant mare, by the looks of it-in pursuit. I didn't try to figure out what had happened to cause all this activity. I just returned my attention, and my mind, to Holz.

He slid and scrambled the last few yards to the outcrop at the head of the rockslide-and disappeared from sight. Apparently there was a hole among the rocks I couldn't see from my angle. He simply vanished, leaving me without a target. I steadied the cross hairs of the scope on the rock against which I'd seen him last, and waited.

Libby was just starting across the rockslide below him, down near the shore of the little lake. She was riding the big buckskin that had belonged to Jack. For a girl who'd claimed to have died in the saddle yesterday, she looked very good on it, erect and confident. She'd left her raincoat somewhere, and she was carrying one of the lever-action guns in her hand.

She had to check the buckskin and let it pick its own way across the rocks. I saw her glance back occasionally, apparently hearing Davis hammering down the trail behind her. There was no sign of Holz. I didn't know what he had in mind and I didn't let myself speculate on it. I'd done enough telepathy for one day. I just waited. Libby had made it across the rocks and was starting into the trees on the far side of the slide when Holz's rifle fired and the buckskin went down.

I was aware of Libby throwing herself clear and rolling aside, still clinging to the carbine, but now I was concentrating on the telescopic sight four inches in front of my eye. Suddenly my target appeared, clear and sharp in the field of the glass. Holz was leaning over and around the rock on which I'd been focusing, aiming at something off to the right that he'd apparently not been able to cover from his safe hiding place. I realized that he'd waited until the last possible moment to take Libby, hoping that Davis would come into his view, too. Now he was reaching far around for the second target..

I drew a long breath, let it out halfway, and held it. I put the cross hairs in the right place and added trigger pressure very gently, letting the piece fire itself when it was ready. There was a lot of noise and commotion. None of those Magnums, pistols or rifles, are gentle guns. Two hundred and fifty yards away, Holz lay for a moment quite still. Then, too soon for me to fire again, he slid limply off the rock out of sight. His weapon remained behind, neatly balanced on the ledge he'd been using as a rest.

I was up and running, watching the shadowed hole into which he'd disappeared. I swung high up the slope, trying to find an angle from which I could see the bottom of the crevice. Finally I found it and saw him lying there in the shadow, apparently dead. At a hundred yards I stopped and went to one knee. The sitting position is steadier and the prone steadier still; but I couldn't get down any lower and still see my mark. Kneeling, I took careful aim and fired my last cartridge.

The limp figure in the shadows moved abruptly. It rose, swaying, and emptied the pistol in its hand blindly in my direction. Flat on the ground, now, I heard a couple of bullets strike off to the left. One whined directly over me. Then Holz's gun was empty. He slumped back out of sight. I drew my own revolver and spent a full fifteen minutes making the final approach. I could have saved myself the trouble.

When I got there, he was quite dead, with his empty automatic in his hand. A guy named Kingston was avenged, if it mattered, and a more important gent, exact identity not yet determined, wouldn't be shot this fall, at least not by Hans Holz. I suppose you could call it a victory. I took the little envelope from his shirt, a box of cartridges from his jacket, and a set of car keys from his pants. I picked up his rifle and went off, leaving him there.