Читать книгу Trailing Trouble - Jim Kjelgaard - Страница 6

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The stranger rode easily, as though he belonged in the saddle and was thoroughly accustomed to horses. His mount seemed a part of him, an extension of his own body and muscles, and so fine was his control of the horse that he had to pay almost no attention to it.

Perfectly motionless, but ready for instant action, Tom studied the horse and rider as they approached.

The black horse was a fine animal, lacking the rugged blockiness of the local mountain horses. He had the arching neck and small head of a thoroughbred. His legs were slender, his hooves small and dainty. But he was not a show horse. There was that about his ribs and chest that bespoke endurance, and the black handled himself very well on this rough trail. Obviously he had been in such places before. Tom turned his attention to the rider.

He was, Tom decided, in his early fifties. But there was about him none of the paunchiness and flabbiness which are often the mark of middle-aged men who do sedentary work. His age showed in his lined, weather-beaten face, and in the graying hair that lay neatly beneath an almost white sombrero. His feet rested lightly in the stirrups, and one hand barely gripped the reins. The other was nearly concealed by the full sleeve of a light jacket. The man wore riding trousers that were neatly tucked into riding boots, and a white shirt graced by a black bow tie.

Tom looked his astonishment. The strange rider fitted no category with which he was familiar. He was apparently at home in the mountains, but he looked as though he would be at home anywhere, as though he were a man able to grace a campfire or a formal dinner.

Still, he had Pete, and anybody who had Tom's horse had also better have a plausible explanation.

Tom waited until the stranger was only five yards away, then walked into the trail. Smoky walked with him, and pressed against Tom's side to await the next move. The big hound had lived amid violence so much that, when a stranger approached, he never decided what to do until the moment came to do it. Like Tom, he must make snap decisions and they must be the right ones.

Tom lifted the rifle so that the stock was beneath his elbow and the muzzle pointed at the stranger. His right hand played about the breech, ready to cock and shoot the rifle should that be necessary. The rider reined his black horse to a halt, and Pete nickered gladly when he recognized Tom. There was a moment's silence.

"Good morning."

The stranger's voice was the pleasant, well-modulated one of an educated man. He sat easily on his horse, with no trace of fear or alarm about him. Yet he must know that people who blocked mountain trails might not have the friendliest of intentions. He was, Tom decided, a man who knew how to take care of himself.

"That led horse belong to you?" Tom said quietly.

"Unfortunately, no. I found him wandering by himself about two miles back. The picket rope was dragging from his neck. I think he must have been staked, and broke his rope."

"I see."

It was an honest explanation. Besides, the stranger who sat his black horse so well could not be the horse thief, since he was already mounted. Evidently the rustler had tried to ride Pete again, been thrown, and Pete had made good his escape. Tom lowered his rifle, and the stranger smiled.

"I cannot help wondering why you were pointing that muzzle at me. Do you do that to every rider you find on this trail?"

"Only to special ones."

"In future, you should make a more careful choice of your victims."

The stranger raised his right hand, the one that had been concealed by the flowing sleeve, and a small pistol appeared in it. Tom gulped. He had had this man covered, but in turn, and without even knowing it, he had been covered, too. And who would have shot first had it come to shooting? Tom looked quizzically at the little pistol.

"Does that thing really shoot?"

With a quick motion, the stranger raised his arm. The pistol barked, and ten yards away a bit of fungus growing on a tree shattered. Tom looked more respectfully at the rider, knowing that he had selected his target and hit it. Anyone who could shoot like that was a bad man to start an argument with. The stranger spoke again.

"What's really on your mind, young man?"

"That's my horse you're leading."

"You have proof of that?"

Tom's anger rose, but subsided again. The stranger was within his rights. Anybody could claim a horse, and almost anybody, if he thought he could get away with it, would be glad to acquire a horse as fine as Pete.

"He was stolen from my camp yesterday morning," Tom said. "I've been trailing him ever since."

"Plausible, but hardly more than circumstantial evidence. Have you any other proof to offer?"

"Yes."

Tom walked up to Pete, and the little horse arched his neck and snuffled happily. He bent his head to sniff noses with Smoky, then began to nibble Tom's arm with his lips. The stranger smiled.

"That's what I meant, and you've proved your point, worse luck! I was hoping nobody would claim him."

Tom grinned. "Pete would be of no use to you."

"And why not?"

"You couldn't ride him."

The stranger sat erect, his gray eyes flashing. "Care to say that again?"

"Sure. You couldn't ride him."

With effortless ease the stranger dismounted. He came forward, and Pete tipped his ears in a friendly fashion as he let the stranger stroke his nose. Taking the picket rope, the stranger looped it around Pete's jaw, passed it over his head, and brought it down on the other side to pass it through the jaw loop. Thus he had a hackamore with two reins.

"Happy landings," said Tom, still grinning.

The stranger put one hand on Pete's back and vaulted astride. For a moment Pete stood still, waiting until the stranger had a good seat. Then his head went down and his heels went up. He kicked, and almost in the same motion he reared. Then he went sideways, twisted his body, and twisted again. Daylight showed between Pete's back and the stranger's seat. He tried to tighten his legs, but once more Pete twisted. The stranger went up and out, described a little arc, and landed in the leaves. Pete looked around to see where his rider had gone, then crowded close to Tom.

Not at all disconcerted, the stranger rose and brushed the seat of his pants.

"Quite a horse. Some time I'd like to have a go at him when he's wearing a saddle and bridle. Can you ride him, son?"

Tom mounted easily, and Pete stood perfectly still. Then he pranced a little, just to show that he could. Of all the men in the world, Pete wanted to carry only one, and that man was on his back now. He made a happy little circle, neck arched and hooves dancing. Tom reined him to a halt. The stranger smiled pleasantly.

"I'll definitely concede the point. He's your horse all right."

"Thanks for returning him. Now would you mind telling me just where you picked him up?"

"Not at all. About two miles down this trail. There are three small pine trees very near the trail to the west, and a stand of white birch to the east. Why do you ask?"

"Got a date with a horse thief."

"Oh! I see and I don't blame you. But it will be rough trailing."

"Not when Smoky's along."

"Man-hunter, is he?"

"The best."

"Very convenient, and I take it you're some sort of law enforcement officer." The stranger smiled and extended his hand. "So we'll know each other should we meet again, my name's Orsway, Mark Orsway."

"I'm Tom Rainse." Tom shook the extended hand. "Stick around when you get to the cabin down on Rainse's Creek and I'll see you there."

"I may do that. Good luck."

The man who called himself Mark Orsway mounted his black and started down the trail. Tom swung Pete back. The little horse had already hit a hard trail, but there was plenty of fire and spirit left in him. He wanted to travel, and Tom let him go at a fast trot while Smoky loped easily beside them. Coming to that place which was flanked on one side by three small pines and on the other by a stand of white birch, Tom dismounted and studied the trail.

This was it. Beyond, only one horse had walked in the trail. From here on, the tracks of two intermingled. Leading Pete, Smoky pacing at his side, Tom cut a wide circle on the east side of the trail. He found where Pete, dragging his picket rope, had emerged from the forest and presumably been picked up by Orsway.

With no man to hide it, Pete's trail through the forest was an easy one to back-track. Besides, here and there were many places in which Tom did not even have to look for tracks. A horse, having open forest or an elk path to walk on, naturally would not crash through thickets or brush. A man who knew horses could almost tell by studying the brush where they were likely to travel. Two miles along the back trail, Tom emerged in a little meadow.

It was now a familiar scene: a small mountain meadow carpeted with grass and flowers, but plowed and chewed by the hooves of a plunging horse. It had to be the place where the rustler had made his final attempt to ride Pete. Leaving only enough for the hackamore, Tom cut the picket rope. He slipped it under Smoky's collar, mounted Pete, and directed the big hound quietly.

"All right. Hunt him up."

For a moment the tawny hound stood still, snuffling heavily while he got his bearings. He started out slowly, across the meadow and into the forest beyond. Smoky looked back once, and Tom waved him on. The tawny hound broke into a trot. Pete matched the pace. A very smooth-running horse, Pete at a trot or gallop was as steady as a rowboat.

The trail wound through trees and brush. Smoky was running with his head up now, taking his scent from shrubbery to which odors clung. He never used his thunderous, rolling bay on the trail, and that was now a distinct advantage. A noisy dog telegraphed his whereabouts to whatever he was chasing, but not Smoky.

They ascended a ridge, cut down the other side, and swung back. Tom exulted. Yesterday the rustler had had things all his own way. Today the situation was reversed. No man on foot could stay ahead of a man on a horse for very long. They should overtake the fugitive before too much time had passed, and Smoky was certain to give warning when they came near. There was no chance of being bushwhacked as long as the big hound ran ahead.

Suddenly, to the west, a rifle cracked. Tom stopped Smoky gently, with a little tug on the rope, and reined Pete to a halt. He looked in the direction from which the shot had come. It told him nothing, but Tom marked the spot. Nobody had any business using a rifle at this time of year because no hunting season was open, but some of the mountaineers still shot whatever they cared to whenever they pleased. Later, he would investigate the shot. However, he had no time now.

"Go on," Tom told Smoky.

They climbed a slope, cut through a grove of huge pines, and started down the other side. Tom marveled. Whoever the horse thief was, he knew how to travel. Only a man of great endurance could have stayed ahead of Smoky this long. Certainly the horse thief kept himself in good physical condition.

Coming among the open trees, Pete broke into a canter and Smoky increased his pace accordingly. Suddenly the trail took a right-angle turn and Tom pulled up, puzzled.

A dirt road, one of the very few roads in the mountains, cut across the side of this mountain. North, it led past Rainse's Creek, and the cabin Tom shared with Buck Brunt, into the mountain town of Hilldale. South, it wended its way across mountains into the smaller mountain community of Bigelow's Cut. Far to the west of the road, accessible only by trails, the Gistache River snarled its foaming way through virgin white pine, the finest stand of untouched pine left in the country. Tom's frown deepened.

The rustler had already proven that he was no fool and no tenderfoot. Furthermore, though it was true that outlanders in increasing numbers were coming to the mountains to hunt, fish, or simply because they liked mountains, not many came this far back. Anybody except a native would draw attention and be marked. Why was the rustler swinging back toward a road, where he risked discovery? Resuming the trail, Tom got his answer.

Coming to the road, Smoky loped straight across it and into forest on the other side. The rustler had no intention of lingering near the road; he merely wished to cross it so he could get into timber again. He had edged through the forest and onto a trail that led to the Gistache region. Tom touched Pete with his heels, and the little horse stepped briskly out.

The Gistache, noted for its fighting rainbow trout and its unique beauty, was in the deep wilderness. Even a bloodhound might have difficulty in trailing any fugitive able to reach the river, and Tom wanted to overtake his man before he got there. Ordinarily he would have had no worries; the Gistache was almost a day's ride away. But he was chasing a man whose woodcraft matched his own.

Running ahead, Smoky came to a halt so abruptly that Pete had difficulty in stopping before he ran the hound down. Smoky stood still, head up and tail stiff behind him, as he tested the wind. The big hound turned to look at his master.

Tom dismounted cautiously, and watched Smoky. When he snapped his fingers, the tawny hound glided in to him and stood beside his master. He remained alert as he continued to test the winds. Tom led Pete off the trail into a thick copse of young hemlocks whose needle-clothed branches formed an effective shield, and tied him out of sight of the trail.

Pete stamped restless feet as Tom shortened the rope on Smoky's collar and drew the big hound very close to him. Rifle ready for instant action, never taking his eyes from Smoky, he soft-footed out of the thicket and back toward the trail. Keeping one or more trees between himself and anything that might lie ahead, he tried to work out a practical plan of action.

Evidently the rustler knew that he was being chased, and that the odds were against his escape. Therefore, Tom guessed, he had stopped to lay an ambush which Smoky had detected. Now, without exposing himself, Tom tried to locate his enemy.

He stopped behind a big tree, and flicked an arm around the trunk. There was no response, no shot thudded into the tree's opposite side. Either the rustler hadn't seen him, or he was too smart to fall for any such ruse. Tom looked intently at Smoky.

The tawny hound was still tense, sniffing, and he kept his nose turned toward the same place. Lowering himself to the ground, Tom peered around the tree. He saw only more trees, and bit his lower lip perplexedly. Undoubtedly the rustler was lurking behind one of the trees he saw, but which one? It took only one shot to kill, and probably the rustler would not hesitate to shoot. Tom dared not expose himself.

Reaching down, he picked up a stick and snapped it between his fingers. Tensely he waited for any reaction, and when none was forthcoming he crawled backward, away from the tree. Smoky, still interested in the grove they were leaving, paced reluctantly by his side. Tom circled among the trees, keeping Smoky beside him, and cut around so that he approached the same grove from the back. Carefully, watching Smoky all the time so that he could not be surprised, he stalked from tree to tree toward the place where Smoky indicated the rustler was hiding. Then, finally, Tom peered furtively around a tree trunk and saw his quarry.

He was a tall, thin man dressed in a soft gray shirt, black trousers thrust into high boots, and a gray hat that perched crookedly on his head. He was plastered close to the tree trunk, now and again peering around it at the place where, he supposed, Tom hid. Tom stared in amazement.

Presumably the rustler had been armed; somebody had certainly fired a rifle very near this place. Yet the man behind the tree had no visible firearms, nor any weapon at all except a short hunting knife which he held in his right hand. Tom stepped out from behind his tree.

"All right," he said clearly. "You can drop the knife."

The man whirled, surprise and dismay written across his thin face and showing in his eyes. His fingers tightened around the knife and he took a forward step. Tom's voice sharpened.

"I said drop it!"

Slowly the fingers unclenched and the knife dropped to the forest floor. The stranger stood still but, though he seemed uncertain of himself, there was no trace of panic about him. Tom's astonishment mounted.

He had definitely determined that the rustler was a mountain man, but the stranger who awaited him was not. Even though he was dressed in outing clothes, there was a certain air that stamped him as an outlander. Tom hid his feelings. Lots of people who didn't look the part were capable of stealing horses and of laying a hard trail afterward.

"Why not finish your job?" the stranger said. His voice had the polish which only formal education can impart.

"What job?" Tom said shortly.

"You have a good open shot. You can't possibly miss."

Tom snorted. "I'm not in the habit of shooting people. Even horse thieves."

"Horse thieves?"

"It's a good act," Tom said. "But it won't work. And I suppose this is the place to tell you that anything you say may be used against you."

"Are you arresting me?"

"You guessed it."

"Are you an officer of some kind?"

"I'm a game warden."

"Well, good heavens!" There was obvious relief in the other's voice. "If you had mentioned that in the first place, we might have avoided a lot of melodrama!"

"What are you talking about?" Tom snapped.

"This slinking around behind trees. When I suspected you were coming—I heard your horse—I also suspected that you had the same unpleasant habit as an earlier passer-by on this trail. He shot at me."

"Shot at you?"

"Yes." The stranger removed his hat and pointed at a hole through the crown. "He didn't do so badly, either, considering the fact that he seemed to be in a hurry. What is going on here, anyhow?"

Tom wavered, trying to determine the joker in this situation. There seemed to be none, anyhow none that could be detected at once, but there were many things that didn't tally. He had been tracking a hill man, he was sure, and the person who stood before him was certainly not a mountaineer. He was too educated, too well-dressed, and he lacked the hill man's mannerisms. But just who was he, what was he doing here, and what, if anything, did he have to do with the man Tom had been chasing?

"Maybe you should do some talking, Mister," Tom said pointedly.

"I've nothing to hide. My name's Lashton, Alex Lashton. I went into the Gistache to do some fishing. Only I didn't do any."

"Why not?"

The man who called himself Alex Lashton shrugged. "I got into the Gistache yesterday. Ten minutes after I started making camp on the river, one of those house-sized boulders that are stuck all over the cliffs rolled past within five feet of me. I went to gather firewood, and nearly stepped on a six-foot rattler. That was two near-misses in half an hour, and I thought it was all. But an hour later, another boulder did its best to smash my camp and me with it. I started back then. The Gistache's too jinxed for me. Finally, half an hour ago, this character came trotting up the trail and took a shot at me as he passed."

"Did you know him?"

"I had never seen him before, and hope I never do again."

Tom's head whirled with the many riddles that confronted him. Who had really stolen Pete? Orsway? Lashton? The man who, if Lashton was telling the truth, had shot at him? Was Lashton telling the truth? As Lashton had said, what was going on here, anyway?

"Well," Tom said, "as long as you're going out anyhow, Mr. Lashton, let's walk together. I want you to meet and talk with my partner, Buck Brunt."