Десмонд Бэгли - Landslide

I went back to the clearing and regretfully ripped a piece of my shirt and stuck it on a thorn not far up the game trail. I’d see these guys did the right thing even if I had to lead them by the nose. I humped the pack to a convenient place from where I could get a good view of my trap and settled down to wait and used the time to whittle a club with my hunting knife.

By my figuring the helicopter would be back pretty soon. I didn’t think it would have to go farther south than the dam, say, ten miles in eight minutes. Give them fifteen minutes to decide the right thing to do, and another eight minutes to get back, and that was a total of about a half-hour. It would come back loaded with men, but it couldn’t carry more than four, apart from the pilot. Those it would drop and go back for another load — say, another twenty minutes.

So I had twenty minutes to dispose of four men. Not too long, but enough, I hoped.

It was nearer three-quarters of an hour before I heard it coming back, and by the lower note I knew it had landed in the clearing. Then it rose and began to circle and I wondered how long it was going to do that. If it didn’t go away according to my schedule it would wreck everything. It was with relief that I heard it head south again and I kept my eye on the trail to the clearing, hoping that my bait had been taken.

Pretty soon I heard a faint shout which seemed to have a triumphant ring to it — the bait had been swallowed whole. I looked through the screen of leaves and saw them coming up the trail fast. Three of them were armed — two shotguns and one rifle — and I didn’t like that much, but I reflected that it wouldn’t make any difference because this particular operation depended on surprise.

They came up that trail almost at a run. They were young and fresh and, like a modern army, had been transported to the scene of operations in luxury. If I had to depend on out-running them I’d be caught in a mile, but that wasn’t the intention. I had run the first time because I’d been caught by surprise but now everything had changed. These guys didn’t know it but they weren’t hunting me — they were victims.

They came along the trail two abreast but were forced into single file where the trail narrowed with the bank on one side and the drop on the other. I held my breath as they came to the trap. The first man avoided the snare and I cursed under my breath; but the second man put his foot right in it and tripped out the pebble. The boulder toppled on to number three catching him in the hip. In his surprise he grabbed hold of the guy in front and they both went over the drop followed by the boulder which weighed the best part of a hundred and fifty pounds.

There was a flurry of shouting and cursing and when all the excitement had died down one man was sitting on the ground looking stupidly at his broken leg and the other was yowling that his hip hurt like hell.

The leader was Novak, the big man I had had words with before. ‘Why don’t you look where you’re putting your big feet?’

‘It just fell on me, Novak,’ the man with the hurt hip expostulated. ‘I didn’t do a damn’ thing.’

I lay in the bushes not more than twenty feet away and grinned. It had not been a bad estimate that if a big rock pushes a man over a six-foot drop then he’s liable to break a bone. The odds had dropped some — it was now three to one.

‘I’ve got a busted leg,’ the man on the ground wailed.

Novak climbed down and examined it while I held my breath. If any trace of that snare remained they would know that this was no chance accident. I was lucky — either the fishing-line had broken or Novak didn’t see the loop. He stood up and cursed. ‘Jesus! We’re not here five minutes and there’s a man out of action — maybe two. How’s your hip?’

‘Goddam sore. Maybe I fractured my pelvis.’

Novak did some more grumbling, then said, ‘The others will be along soon. You’d better stay here with Banks — splint that leg if you can. Me and Scottie’ll get on. Boyd is getting farther away every goddam minute.’

He climbed up on the trail and after a few well-chosen remarks about Banks and his club-footed ancestry, he said, ‘Come on, Scottie,’ and moved off.

I had to do this fast. I watched them out of sight, then flicked my gaze to Banks. He was bending over the other man and looking at the broken leg and he had his back to me. I broke cover, ran the twenty feet at a crouch and clubbed him before he had time to turn.

He collapsed over the other man, who looked up with frightened eyes. Before he had time to yell I had grabbed a shotgun and was pushing the muzzle in his face. ‘One cheep and you’ll get worse than a broken leg,’ I threatened.

He shut his mouth and his eyes crossed as they tried to focus on that big round iron hole. I said curtly, ‘Turn your head.’

‘Huh?’

‘Turn your head, dammit! I haven’t all day.’

Reluctantly he turned his head away. I groped for the club I had dropped and hit him. I was soft, I guess; I didn’t relish hitting a man with a broken leg, but I couldn’t afford to have him start yelling. Anyway, I didn’t hit him hard enough. He sagged a bit and shook his head dizzily and I had to hit him again a bit harder and he flopped out.

I hauled Banks off him and felt a bit dizzy myself. It occurred to me that if I kept thumping people on the skull, sooner or later I’d come across someone with thin bones and I’d kill him. Yet it was a risk I had to run. I had to impress these guys somehow and utter ruthlessness was one way to do it — the only way I could think of.

I took off Banks’s belt and hog-tied him quickly, then took off with the shotgun after Novak and Scottie. I don’t think more than four minutes had elapsed since they had left. I had to get to the place where the trail crossed the marsh before they did and, because the trail took a wide curve, I had only half the distance to go to get there. I ran like a hare through the trees and arrived breathless and panting just in time to hide behind the tall reeds by the marsh and at the edge of the trail.

I heard them coming, not moving as quickly as they had done at first. I suppose that four men hunting a fugitive have more confidence than two — even if they are armed. Anyway, Novak and Scottie were not coming too fast. Novak was in the lead and caught sight of the trail I had made in the marsh. ‘Hey, we’re going right,’ he shouted. ‘Come on, Scottie.’

He plunged past me into the marshy ground, his speed quickening, and Scottie followed a little more slowly, not having seen what all the excitement was about. He never did see, either, because I bounced the butt of the shotgun on the back of his head and he went flat on his face in the mud.

Novak heard him fall and whirled round, but I had already reversed the shotgun and held it on him. ‘Drop the rifle, Novak.’

He hesitated. I patted the shotgun. ‘I don’t know what’s in here — birdshot or buckshot — but you’re going to find out the hard way if you don’t drop that rifle.’

He opened his hands and the rifle fell into the mud. I stepped out of the reeds. ‘Okay, come here — real slow.’

He stepped out of the mud on to dry land, his feet making sucking noises. I said, ‘Where’s Waystrand?’

Novak grinned. ‘He’s coming — he’ll be along.’

‘I hope so,’ I said, and a puzzled look came over Novak’s face. I jerked the gun, indicating the prostrate Scottie. ‘Pick him up — and don’t put a finger near that shotgun lying there, or I’ll blow your head off.’

I stepped off the trail and watched him hoist Scottie on to his back. He was a big man, nearly as big as I am, and Scottie wasn’t too much of a load. ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Back the way you came, Novak.’