Десмонд Бэгли - Landslide

The next thing I knew was that someone was trying to haul me out of the cab. There was a shrill whistle and a shout — ‘Here he is!’

Someone’s hand was on my shirt, bunching it up and pulling at me. So I bent my head and bit it hard. He yelled and let go, which gave me a moment to collect my wits. I could only see the one man who was coming at me again, so I dived across the cab and out the other side. The front end of a jeep is too restricted for a big guy like me to fight comfortably.

I was still a bit dizzy from the crack on the head but not too dizzy to see the man coming round the rear of the jeep. He came a bit too fast for his own good and ran his kneecap into my boot, which just about ruined him. While he lay on the ground howling in pain I ran for the woods, conscious of the shouts behind and the thud of running boots as at least two men chased me.

I’m not much good for the hundred yards’ sprint because I carry too much beef for it, but I can put up a pretty fair turn of speed when necessary. So could the guys behind and for the first five minutes there was nothing in it. But they tended to waste breath on shouting while I kept my big mouth shut, and soon they began to lag behind.

Presently I risked a look over my shoulder. There was no one in sight although I could hear them hollering, so I ducked behind a tree and got my breath back. The shouts came nearer and I heard the crackle of twigs. The first man plunged past and I let him go, stooping to pick up a rock which just fitted into my fist. I heard the second man coming and stepped out from behind the tree right in his path.

He didn’t have time to stop — or to do anything at all. His mouth was open in surprise, so I closed it for him, putting all my muscle into a straight jolt to his jaw. It was the rock in my fist that did it, of course; I felt a slight crunch and his feet slid out from under him. He fell on his back and rolled over and he didn’t make another move.

I listened for a while. The guy I had let go in front was out of sight but I could still hear him shouting. I also heard other shouts coming from the road, and I estimated there must be a dozen of them, so I took off again at right-angles to my original course, moving as fast as I could without making too much noise.

I didn’t do too much thinking at this time, but I realized that these were Matterson’s dogs that were set on me with probably Jimmy Waystrand leading the pack. My first job was to give them the slip and that wasn’t going to be too easy. These were loggers, used to the woods, and probably they knew more about them than 1 did. They certainly knew the local country better, so I had to make sure I wasn’t herded the way they wanted me to go. A better thing would be to lose them altogether.

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.