Here we did find a trail, and not a game trail, but one evidently used by Indians. It was narrow, as theirs usually are, and followed the natural contour of the wooded hillside. It led, as naturally as could be, to an overhang where some ancient long-vanished stream had undercut the cliff. And there was shelter, blackened in one corner by many fires.
The light offered at least another hour of riding, but another such shelter as this was unlikely, so we drew up and swung down. There was some fuel partly protected by the overhang and we found more. Soon a small fire was going. Our horses were stripped and rubbed down, but Bob Sandy had not appeared.
Suddenly I went to my horse. "I'm going back," I said, and then changed my mind.
"I'll go afoot," I said.
Kemble reached for his rifle.
"Stay here," I said. "If he's in trouble, one of us can handle it. It may be calculated to split us up." Kemble hesitated. "Maybe you're right." He was reluctant to remain behind, but one man can often do much, and I had the Ferguson rifle, which they had come to respect.
My rifle under my slicker to protect it from the rain, I walked out of the overhang and back down the path. Walking has ever been my favorite method of locomotion, and I walked rapidly, my ears attuned for any sound but that of the rain.
When a mile lay behind me, I began to walk slower, pausing occasionally to listen. Bob had been following at about a mile behind, and although he could have fallen back, I now felt sure that something was wrong. Before me, not a quarter of a mile away, I remembered we had crossed a clearing.
Turning from the path, I went up through the woods, moving swiftly and soundlessly. The wetness of the forest helped, my moccasins helped as well, for I could feel any branch that might crack under my feet before I rested my weight upon it.
My new route took me higher up the side of the hill so the clearing lay below me. Suddenly, across the clearing at the edge of the trees, a good hundred yards away, I saw Bob Sandy's horse. Closer by thirty yards, and down behind a deadfall, was Bob himself. His rifle was in his hands and he was facing back the way we had come.
Suddenly two men came out of the grass up there and started toward him. He swung his rifle to one, and there was no sound... missed fire!
Without thinking, my Ferguson came to my shoulder and I fired. One man stumbled, then fell.
Instantly, I reloaded. The other man had ducked behind a tree, mystified, I think, by the shot. It was likely they believed Bob dead or seriously injured, but now, after that shot, they believed his rifle empty, and the second man stepped from behind the tree and ran forward.
I took aim, held my breath, let it out easily, and squeezed off my shot. He had not seen where my first shot came from, and did not now.
The bullet struck him, but not effectively, for he merely drew up in stride, then threw himself into hiding. I was already reloading.
Probably it was the unexpected shot that stopped the man more than the effect of the bullet, for I was sure it was a scratch at best. But now he was sure he faced two men rather than one. My rifle was loaded, and I moved up through the trees, hoping for a better shot.
And in that instant, I heard the faintest stir behind me. Turning swiftly, I dropped to one knee, and the suddenness of my move and the drop saved me. A gun roared, at close range, and a tree that was now behind me spat bark from a grazing shot.
I did not fire. My sudden drop had left me, through no intelligence of my own, in an excellent position. Coming down, I was sheltered by the broken-off stump of a lightning-struck tree.
Over my head was the trunk of the tree itself, a portion of it still fastened to the stump.
Partial protection I had, and complete concealment. The unknown marksman had been too sure of me, silhouetted against the outer light as I was, but now I was hidden, and my drop had been so sudden he was not sure whether I had been hit or not. Above all, my rifle was in my hands, unfired. A pistol was a heavy weight behind my belt.
All was still. Listening for some sounds of reloading, the possible clink of a ramrod or some such slight noise, I heard nothing. Not far away, a shadow moved silently. I held my fire.
Someone was there. Despite the coolness, I felt the sweat break out on my brow. My mouth was dry.
Bob Sandy lay back there in the clearing, possibly in need of help, but the man in the woods wanted to kill me, and if I moved, he would do just that... if he had reloaded.
The advantage might be mine. A great drop fell from the tree trunk and ran a cold finger down my spine. It was growing darker.
"Move in from the other side, Joe." The voice was calm, having the inflection of an educated man. "We have him." Nor did I move. I did not believe there was a Joe. At least, not here. It was a ruse, a trick, a device to make me move or speak. I did neither.
At my hand was a dead branch some eight feet long, and slender as a whip. Carefully I closed my left hand upon it, lifting it soundlessly. Now half the art of the ventriloquist is misdirection, so holding my own mouth close to the broken stump behind which I crouched, I moaned ever so gently and at the same time rustled the leaves several feet away with the tip of my branch.
He fired. I saw the blast of flame, heard the bullet strike, and I fired my Ferguson.
There was a sharp gasp, then a stumbling fall, but I waited no longer. Back I went through the trees, running swiftly and almost without sound on the soft earth and rain-wet grass and pine needles. I ran swiftly down the hill, circling toward Bob Sandy's horse.
As I neared the horse, I spoke. I had cared for him a time or two, and he knew me, pricking his ears and taking a step forward. In an instant, I was in the saddle and racing down into the clearing.
"Bob!" I yelled.
He came off the ground like an Indian as I charged up to him, bridle free, my rifle in one hand, the other down to help. He came into the saddle as if he had done the trick a hundred times and we left the clearing at a dead run.
Behind us, there was a shot. From the second man, I think. But that was all.
Slowing down, I said, "Are you hurt?" "Through the leg. I've lost some blood, Scholar." As an afterthought he said, "Thanks, Scholar. I guess maybe I should read some of them books."
CHAPTER 13
Once away and into the winding woodland trail, I slowed down. Bob Sandy was hanging on with one arm, the other holding his rifle. "You did some shootin', Scholar. How many did you get?" "One," I said, "and either scared or nicked two more." "The way you was shootin' they must have figured they'd tackled an army." We rode up to the overhang and Talley reached up to help Bob Sandy down. "The Scholar saved my bacon," he said. "Had me dead to rights." "We thought we heard shooting," Kemble commented.
While Cusbe Ebitt worked over the wound, I explained briefly, with comments from Sandy, what had taken place. Then Bob explained what began it. He had been riding along a good mile behind us, and suddenly they closed in and opened fire without warning. "I don't know what this outfit is after," Bob said finally, "but they mean business." We gathered more fuel, cooked our meat, and sat about the fire. Several of us collected boughs for Lucinda's bed. Isaac and Degory built a crude shelter out in the woods and opposite the cave where a sentry could watch in both comfort and concealment. We had scarcely finished these chores when we heard the sound of a horse walking, and then a voice called out, "Hallooo, the camp!" Hastily, I threw a corner of blanket over my Ferguson rifle. There was no sense in letting them know what we had. Isaac had stepped back into the shelter and sat quiet there.