Десмонд Бэгли - Landslide

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?’