First Blood

It was obvious to him what had happened. Buck fever. The first day of hunting season a man could get so excited when he saw his target that he stupidly pumped out all his shells without first pulling the trigger, completely mystified why he wasn't hitting what he was aiming at. Teasle couldn't let it pass, he had to make an issue of it. 'Come on, who did it? Who's the baby? Give me your gun, I'll give you one that shoots caps.'

The number on the cartridges was.300. He was about to check whose rifle was that caliber when he saw Orval point toward the edge of the cliff — and then he heard the whimper. Not all the dogs the kid had shot were dead. One had been shocked unconscious by the force of the bullet, was now coming to, kicking, whimpering.

'Gutshot,' Orval said disgustedly. He spat and stroked the dog he had been holding and gave its leash to Lester next to him. 'Hang on tight,' he said. 'You see how she's quivering. She smells that other dog's blood, and she's liable to go crazy.' He spat again and stood, dust and sweat mixed on the green of his clothes.

'Wait now,' Lester said. 'You mean this one might get vicious?'

'Maybe. I doubt it. Most likely she'll try to break free and run off. Just hold tight.'

'I don't like this one bit.'

'Nobody asked you to like it.'

He left Lester holding the leash and walked over to the wounded dog. It was on its side, kicking its legs, trying to roll over and stand, always sinking back on its side, whining miserably.

'Sure,' Orval said. 'Gut shot. That bastard gutshot her.'

He wiped his sleeve across his mouth and squinted over at the dog that was untouched. It was tugging on its leash to get away from Lester.

'Mind you hang on tight to that one,' Orval told him. 'I have something to do that'll make her jump.'

He bent down to inspect the wound in the dog's stomach, came up shaking his head disgustedly at the glistening rolls of intestine, and without a pause he shot the dog behind the ear. 'A God damn terrible shame,' he muttered, watching the body contort spastically and then settle. His face had changed from gray to red, wrinkled worse than ever. 'So what's to wait for?' he said quietly to Teasle. 'Let's go butcher that kid.'

He took one step away from the dog and staggered violently off balance, dropping his rifle, clutching queerly at his spine, the report from the gun in the woods below echoing as he whipped forward and hit the ground hard with his face and chest. The shock of landing split his glasses apart on his nose. And this time nobody returned fire. 'Down!' Teasle was shouting. 'Everybody down!' They dove flat on the ground. The last dog broke free from Lester and bounded over to where Orval lay, and it flipped around shot too. And pressed low in the furrow, fists clenched, Teasle was vowing to track the kid forever, grab him, mutilate him. He would never let up. No more because of Galt, because he could not let somebody who had killed one of his men get away. Personal now. For himself. Father, foster father. Both shot. The insane anger of when his real father had been killed, wanting to strangle the kid until his throat was crushed, his eyes popping. You bastard. You fucking sonofabitch. It was only as he went through in his mind how to climb off this cliff and get his hands on the kid that he suddenly understood how big a mistake he had made. He had not been chasing the kid. It was the other way around. He had been letting the kid lead them into an ambush.

And Jesus what an ambush. With the nearest town thirty miles over hard country, with the helicopter crashed and the dogs dead, the kid could pick everybody off whenever he felt like it. Because the land didn't go straight back behind them. Because eight feet back from the edge of the cliff the land sloped up. To pull back they would have to run uphill in open sight while the kid blasted away at them from the woods below, and where in hell did he get his rifle and how in hell did he know enough to work an ambush like this.

That moment, where the clouds were looming black in the sky, it thundered loud.

9

Orval. Teasle couldn't stop looking at him. The old man was spread out quietly on his face by the edge of the cliff, and Teasle could hardly breathe. Because of me. Just this once in his life he got careless, and I didn't warn him to stay down. He began crawling toward him, to cradle him.

'The kid'll swing around,' Lester said hoarsely.

Too hoarsely, Teasle thought. Reluctant he turned, worried about his men. They were only seven now, tight-faced, fingering their rifles, looking next to useless. All except Shingleton.

'I'm telling you the kid will swing around,' Lester said. The knee was ripped out of his pants. 'He'll swing up there behind us.'

The men jerked to stare up the rise behind them as if they expected the kid to be there already.

'He's going to come all right,' the young deputy said. There was a brown liquid stain seeping through the seat of his gray pants, and the men had shifted away from him. 'Dear God, I want out of here. Get me out of here.'

'Go on then,' Teasle said. 'Run up the slope. See how far you get before he shoots you.'

The deputy swallowed.

'What are you waiting for?' Teasle said. 'Go on. Run up the slope.'

'No,' the deputy said. 'I won't.'

'Then stop it.'

'But we have to get up there,' Lester said. 'Before he beats us to it. If we wait too long, he'll make it up there and we'll never get off this ledge.'

The dark clouds hulking closer lit up with lightning. It thundered again, long and loud.

'What's that? I heard something,' Lester said. His knee was scraped red where it showed through the rip in his pants.

'The thunder,' Shingleton said. 'It's playing tricks.'

'No. I heard it too,' Mitch said.

'Listen.'

'The kid.'

It was like weak vomiting, like a man choking. Orval. He was starting to move, hunched up, knees and head keeping his stomach off the ground while he clutched his chest, holding himself together. He looked like a caterpillar raising its back for traction to inch forward. But he wasn't going anywhere. Back arched high, he stiffened and collapsed. There was blood dripping from his arms and he was drooling, coughing blood.

Teasle was stopped in disbelief. He had been sure Orval was dead. 'Orval,' he said. And then he was hurrying before he knew it. 'Stay down,' he had to remind himself, pressing low to the rocks, trying not to make himself the target Orval had. But Orval was too close to the edge, Teasle was sure he would be seen from the woods below. He took hold of Orval's shoulder and struggled to drag him back to the furrow. But Orval was too heavy, it was taking too long, any second the kid might shoot. He tugged at Orval and pulled and dragged, and slowly Orval moved. But not quick enough. The stones were too jagged. Orval's clothes were catching on the sharp rocks near the edge of the cliff.

'Help me,' Teasle shouted to the men behind him.

Orval coughed more blood.

'Somebody help me! Give me a hand!'

And then in a rush somebody was beside him, helping him, both dragging Orval back from the edge, and all at once they were safe. Teasle let out his breath in a gasp. He wiped sweat from his eyes and didn't need to look to see who'd helped him: Shingleton.

And Shingleton was grinning, laughing, not loud, not hilarious, but laughing just the same. It was mostly all inside him. His chest was heaving and he was laughing. 'We made it. He didn't shoot, we made it.'

And sure it was funny, and Teasle started laughing too. Then Orval coughed more blood and Teasle saw the pain on Orval's face and nothing seemed funny after that.

He reached to unbutton Orval's bloody shirt.

'Take it easy, Orval. We'll have a look and fix you up.'

He tried to open the shirt gently but the blood had stuck the cloth to the flesh, and finally he had to tug at the shirt to free it and Orval groaned.