Ralph Compton - Bluff City

Gorman and two others were over by the horses. They, too, had their backs to the log.

Clay Adams picked that moment to slowly stand. The ropes fell away as he rose. With feigned nonchalance he stepped to the log. Smiling at Melanie, he offered her his arm as if they were at a cotillion and he was asking her to dance. She cast an anxious gaze about the clearing, then hooked her arm in his. Together they moved toward the edge of the clearing.

Sam Cavendish fell into step beside them. “This is plumb loco,” he whispered. “We’ll never make it.”

But they did. They gained the cover of the trees, and the instant the night swallowed them, Clay said, “Run!” He did so, holding onto Melanie.

The woods were thick with undergrowth and presented obstacles in the form of downed or partially downed trees, and deadfalls. Clay picked his way with an ease that baffled his companions, and it was not long before Cavendish whispered, “How in hell can you tell where we’re going?”

“By the north star,” Clay revealed. “I took a fix on it in the clearing. We’re heading northwest toward your mine.”

“It will take a month to get there on foot,” Cavendish exaggerated.

“With any luck we won’t be on foot for long.”

“I have a question,” Melanie whispered. “How did you get those ropes off? I saw Gorman tie them. The knots were good and tight.”

Clay’s right hand rose and something glinted dully in the starlight. “I keep a knife strapped under my right pant leg.”

“A revolver, a knife,” Melanie said. “What kind of clerk are you?”

“The kind who hopes to go on living a while yet,” Clay said.

“That’s no answer.”

“Save your breath for running.”

She did. They all did. They ran as fast as the terrain permitted, repeatedly avoiding calamity only by virtue of Clay’s extraordinary ability to navigate in the dark. He spotted logs and thickets and tangles before they did.

Suddenly, from the vicinity of the clearing, there rose hard yells and angry curses.

“They’ll be after us now,” Sam Cavendish said.

“But they don’t know which way we went,” Clay said. “They’ll have to scatter. Only a few will come in this direction.”

“What can you do with just a knife?” Melanie asked.

“A lot,” Clay said.

With alarming rapidity the clamor of pursuit spread as riders plunged into the forest. They shouted back and forth to one another, which made pinpointing them easier.

Presently Clay stopped and turned his head, listening. “Hear that?”

The crash and crackle of undergrowth had grown ominously loud. Some of the outlaws were coming right toward them.

Chapter 13

“Stay close,” Clay whispered, and led them to a deadfall. Scores of saplings had been felled by the hand of nature, either in a storm or during one of the powerful chinook winds that tore through the mountains during the winter months.

“We can’t get across that,” Cavendish said.

“We don’t have to.” Clay came to a gap wide enough for two people. “Here will do. Stay put until I come fetch you.”

Melanie held onto his arm. “What are you up to?”

“Getting us horses.”

“Be careful. They have guns.”

“I’ll have surprise on my side,” Clay said. He helped her into the space, and when she had hunkered and was next to invisible, he touched her arm and whispered, “Whatever you hear, whatever you think you hear, stay put. Don’t come to help me, no matter how much you want to. If I’m not back by morning, head northwest and you will strike the trail to the mine.”

“We won’t desert you,” Melanie said.

“See that she listens to me,” Clay said to Cavendish.

“You heard the man, girl.”

Clay whirled and retraced their steps for perhaps twenty-five yards. Then he darted behind a low pine. No sooner did he crouch than two outlaws appeared, riding half a dozen yards apart.

“See anything yet?” one man asked the other.

“Not unless you count trees.”

“They might not even have come this way. If you ask me, this is a waste of time. But we can’t turn back until Jesse signals.”

“It doesn’t matter which way they went,” the other outlaw said. “Even if they slip by us, Stark sent four men up the trail to keep them from reaching the mine.”

By then the pair were close to the pine. For a moment Clay thought they would go by on his left, but each reined wide, one to the right, the other to the left. They were scanning the terrain ahead. Neither looked down.

Like a giant spring uncoiling, Clay launched himself at the outlaw on the right. The man had his hand on his revolver and went to jerk it even as Clay was in midair. Clay was quicker. With a swift thrust he buried his knife in the man’s ribs. The outlaw stiffened and cried out and sought to use his spurs, but Clay, grabbing the man’s shirt, gave a fierce pull.

Down they went. Clay alighted on his feet but the outlaw hit on his side and cried out a second time.

Clay spun. The other outlaw had reined toward them and was in the act of drawing a revolver. Clay could not possibly reach the man before the revolver went off, so he did the only thing he could; he threw the knife.

The man howled as the blade bit into his arm. Clay had thrown the knife at the man’s chest but it imbedded itself in the man’s rising arm. Almost in the same motion Clay hurtled forward so that he reached the man barely a second after the knife. Launching himself like a two-legged battering ram, Clay slammed the outlaw from his horse. Both of them tumbled hard but it was Clay who regained his feet first.

The outlaw rose as high as his knees and tugged on the knife to yank it out. It came free as Clay sprang, and suddenly Clay was confronted by his own weapon in the hands of a killer who very much wanted to repay him for the pain he had caused. Clay avoided a stab to the throat and dodged a slash to his thigh.

Hissing like an enraged bobcat, the outlaw feinted to the right and lanced the knife to the left. Again Clay saved himself, but by the merest whisker. Back-pedaling so he would have space to move, Clay did not see the small boulder he tripped over until he was falling.

Clay landed on his back. The outlaw reared above him, the knife upraised. “Now I’ve got you, you damned jackrabbit!”

Clay kicked out. He hoped to knock the man’s legs from under him. His right foot connected with a kneecap and there was a loud snap. The man yelped and staggered, then cut at Clay as Clay, a shade too eager, pushed erect. Clay winced as the blade sliced into his arm. It did not slice deep, but it drew blood.

Hopping on his good leg, the outlaw gloated, “I got you that time! I felt it! Come closer and I’ll cut you again!”

Staying just out of reach, Clay circled. Twice he sprang, only to be driven back by the knife.

The outlaw never took his eyes off Clay. Holding the blade close to his body so Clay could not grab his arm, he matched Clay step for step. Suddenly he glanced over Clay’s shoulder and a suggestion of a grin quirked his mouth. He quickly caught himself but it had been enough of a warning.

Clay leaped to the right, and twisted.

The other outlaw was still alive. Bleeding profusely, one hand pressed to his chest, he had his six-shooter in his other hand, and he fired at the exact split instant that Clay leaped aside. The slug intended for Clay’s back cored the chest of the outlaw with the knife, whose face was etched with astonishment as he fell.

Before the man with the revolver could fire again, Clay was on him. He got hold of the man’s wrist and wrenched, seeking to force him to drop it, but the outlaw desperately clung on. Throwing a leg behind him, Clay pushed. It had the desired effect. The outlaw sprawled onto his back, and in a twinkling Clay had a knee on the man’s chest and landed several punches in swift succession. At the third blow the outlaw went limp.