Chapter 7
Crossing the river before sun up, the brothers rode to a point a hundred yards short of the trail Adam followed the prior day, halting by a flat boulder marking a faint gap between two trees. Dropping from his saddle, Pike pulled off his riding boots, trading their spot in his saddlebags with a pair made for miners having thick leather soles with tread cut in for better grip. Pushing into them, he knelt to tie laces then straightened, stepped onto the rock and adjusted his pack while slinging his rifle over his shoulder on a strap designed years earlier to keep the Winchester within easy reach when climbing.
Looking at Step, Adam murmured, “Third morning from now. You know where.” Step waggling his head in acknowledgement then saying, “And the fourth morning if you’re not there, two dozen men from town and a few up from Denver will be scouring this mountain looking.”
The youngest Pike frowned through gray morning light. “Comes to that, shoot any that moves as it won’t be me.” he suggested solemnly then disappeared from sight.
Step blinked unbelievingly. He’d heard maybe a dozen men tell of Adam appearing as if out of the ground or vanishing into nowhere and dismissed them all until this moment as yarns of those less perceptive or, perhaps, ones making excuses. With a shake of his head, he stared, seeing with his own eyes Adam evaporate faster than steam from a kettle before spurring his horse and leading Adam’s to a quick trot toward town, mind half on the day’s duty while half worked over how Adam did that.
Tucked in a deep hollow behind the rock, Adam chuckled silently, seeing Step’s amazed look and liking much knowing he could still surprise despite years together. Quietly turning, never wanting to use one trail twice if it could be avoided, he began climbing a line parallel to the dry watercourse outside the cave, using tree limbs and bulging rocks as handholds. On his list first was to check the cave, making sure Petra had found Pike’s second way in and determine the direction he’d gone after.
While edging his way up, Adam let his ears and eyes roam free for any sound or movement as his mind worked through his plan. Petra believed, foremost, himself a superior hunter now pursuing a target less skilled. There would be no chance to persuade him to abandon this vengeful quest until his will and confidence were shattered. Adam’s entire plan depended on Petra knowing at levels primitive, private and deep inside he could not win and, even then, Pike knew the likelihood of ending the matter without bloodshed was slim.
Reaching his objective, Adam turned west, warily darting between massive pines and through prickly underbrush almost noiselessly until overlooking the dry stream. Edging in, he studied the ground, spotting after a moment a hoof print left the day before and a boot print where Petra had dismounted to stare at Pike’s small lane to the cave. Smiling briefly, he backtracked the man’s path a dozen yards until confident what direction had been taken and where Petra likely had holed up overnight then flitted back, easing over the dry run to the cave mouth.
Listening as before but not so long, Adam jumped into Angela’s cave, as he had come to think of it, dashing to the rear instantly. The notion that Petra might be inside was contemplated but discarded, Pike confident the man would never let himself be trapped in a small space with no exit and equally sure Petra wouldn’t expect Adam to use it again either. Stepping onto a boulder near the rear, he reversed the pack to his chest, pulled gloves from it and donned them while studying a fissure faintly showing sky hundreds of feet above. Reaching in, he formed fists with both hands then hauled himself up with shoulders and knees braced against rock sides while lifting his arms higher, repeating until he’d gotten a deer’s nose past half way to the top where he rested.
Feeling his breath slowing to normal, Adam realized other brother Step’s observation was more true than he was wishful of admitting. He wasn’t seventeen like he’d been when first climbing through this chimney. That time he hadn’t paused a blink encouraged as he was by Hawkins men taking random potshots with Spencer carbines hoping shards of rock and metal caroming about would shred flesh. He outwitted those men by grace, finding a way to climb out unknown to them or him made possible by his superb physical condition and a desperate favoring of living another day.
His second climb, made a few years later and going from top to bottom, had been just for fun, Pike liking the exertion on a day hot, dry and dusty on the plains below, was also made without a break. Part of his explorations, wishful of having complete knowledge of land so close to his community, he’d devised several means to reach the chimney against a time of need before clambering down. Since, he’d worked across the mountain outside several times, alertly noting changes in how trees grew and fell or where rocks tumbled during battering storms so common at higher elevations.
Peering up, he shifted the rifle to a more comfortable spot, aware now as he had been then an enemy suddenly arriving over head couldn’t possibly miss with a bullet or rock dropped bringing fresh anxiety to move. As a small grunt escaped, he shifted his feet suddenly, liking how much better narrow toe riding boots fit cracks than wide miner shoes did so gave careful attention to footing as he stretched overhead. Straining, shoulders and arms protesting his effort, Adam climbed steadily, pleased when the fissure widened allowing him to brace thick thighs on either side to ease tension on lesser muscles.
Finally coming within a short arm’s length of the top, he removed his old battered hat, the new one left home so not to be damaged, and stuffed it in his pack to permit peeking over the rim without a telling profile. From his earliest battle on Nebraska plains, Pike thought keeping hat on head was the surest way to reveal himself to any foe waiting and had seen many die by doing so, most often from arrow or shots never seen or heard. Habits, whether wearing a hat or riding so much that foot paths were overlooked, were comfortable in easy surroundings but turned fatal when the country was hostile.
Making a final push, knees and feet securely perched, he peered out, slowly surveying a small hollow where the chimney exited and found all as expected. On three sides, heavy stands of woods hid him from view while rocks stacked by nature blocked the fourth, assisted in that end by a couple full days Adam spent adding to the wall. Tossing his pack and rifle over, he gripped the edge, boosting his stocky frame quickly from the hole, rolling twice and drawing a pistol when landing then lay quiet, every sense alert to any sign Petra might have found this place.
A heavy breeze swirled snowflakes overhead, brushing limbs denuded of leaves against pine boughs in a chorus of natural noise. Rising to a squat, Pike pulled his gear to him, securing the pack before brushing dust and pebbles from the rifle, checking its action briefly to insure no damage was done unlikely tho’ such might happen. Satisfied, he edged to the piled stones, a brief chuckle at recalling many harsh words he’d directed at himself for working to improve cover in this spot when expecting to never need it again and sincerely gladdened now at preparations completed against futures unknown.
Glancing over, still hatless, Adam let his eyes rove left and right, up and down then repeated his survey in reverse, focusing on no one thing but on everything. Patiently, calmly, he let shadows, images and sounds arrive, sorted by experience and instinct into proper niches of his mind before deciding all was in order. Easing back, he passed the dark circle from which he emerged wraith-like, settling under broad, low hanging evergreens for additional listening, finally gliding into the underbrush soundlessly toward his first planned stop.
Four hundred feet below and almost a hundred yards to the west, Petra sat nestled between two evergreens, eyes restlessly combing trails around the small cave. With morning nearly gone, he’d seen nothing suggesting the Marshal had arrived but his trusted hunter’s instinct tingled steadily. His quarry was present he was certain but puzzled as to how and where. He’d been fooled once, Marshal having superior knowledge of the land, and focused on not allowing that to happen again. Many times he’d stalked men on their home range taking advantage of terrain they knew well but rarely needed so forgot or disregarded, always
surprised at how seldom men truly learned land they rode over every day.
In that respect, he held in high regard near legendary stories of Pike’s extensive knowledge and memory of country covered or heard. For most of ten years, Anton had studied Adam Pike, sitting long hours in saloons buying drinks for men he secretly despised to glean single kernels of wisdom about Marshal. Long ago he’d lost count of campfires attended, the number of cowhands, outlaws or lawmen heard spinning yarns about his hated enemy, all time invested to achieve a reward nearly at hand.
At first, he scorned yarn tellers weaving fabulous tales but, over time, heard them too often, too consistently to dismiss them. Gradually, over fierce objections in his thinking, he built a healthy respect for Marshal’s ability, even visiting Morale on two occasions to judge for himself. The first time, riding by stage, he’d loitered around on some pretense, absorbing every detail of Pike’s life then rode in several years later with a group of men heading east for work on cattle drives from Nebraska and Colorado to Abilene. It was on this visit he learned of the wedding and birth of twin daughters, spawning his earliest, best plan for revenge so recently ruined after years of nurturing.
Breathing soft, Petra scanned the forest, rocks and ridges around him, supremely confident no amount of knowledge Marshal had of this land could surpass his own ability in the wilderness. He knew the red fox squirrel sixty feet up had been ripping through pine cones for seeds almost an hour so would move soon while hearing a sage grouse behind to his right scuffle in the underbrush for a meal. A bare scrub tree growing out from a rock edge told him when the wind changed direction as if speaking aloud. Part of this country as much as animals and birds, Anton would track Marshal unseen, reveal himself at the last moment then end Pike’s life in final proof of his dominance.
That Petra had to become known to Marshal was centered in his thinking; to simply kill would serve poorly. Pike had to look into Anton’s eyes in a final moment, had to know evil committed against his father years before was being visited back to him. Without Marshal knowing, his vengeance would be hollow, unsatisfying. He had chances, several times, to shoot from safe cover at distances well within his considerable capabilities but passed on them for just this reason. Petra held no wish to attend Pike’s funeral unless Marshal fell knowing the name of his killer.
Abruptly, the hair on the back of his neck prickled. Holding his breath in complete stillness, he let his vision take in every image while hearing every sound fully certain some minute piece of the world around him suddenly changed.
Whirling, he aimed at a crashing in higher underbrush, squeezing the trigger as a large buck pranced in terror over tumbled, broken trees before disappearing into the forest. Exhaling, eyes swiftly working backwards along the deer’s path, he saw a flash of cloth, the briefest glimpse of tan not natural in a place where no such sight had been before. Relentlessly examining the area, he walked low, slipping to where his horse stood and took the reins, leading the animal up a thin trail angled to intersect where the man above would arrive.
A sharp grimace flicked over his face. ‘A woodsman?’ he sneered silently, ‘Can’t move down a trail without spooking grazing deer?’ accepting this event as further, unneeded proof that Marshal Pike as an adversary was unworthy. Veering right up a dry stream, walking low with his horse behind on reins made long to give distance between them greater than usual, Petra slowly picked his way higher in the manner of a big cat, every foot set softly with purpose, brushing aside leaves left under a small stand of aspen he circled. Pausing, he sniffed the air for a clue but found none in the steady wind from above, holding then considering choices for his advance.
Losing sight of Petra in the woods, Adam squinted, separating dim shadow from tree trunks, identifying sharp rock edges which faded easily against bland, ordinary backgrounds. Sitting lightly on a low branch behind a shattered fir, he studied each place Petra could emerge, nearly ignoring the game trail to his right ending only yards from where Anton sat when Pike tossed a rock at the buck knowing his pursuer would also. Easing to his toes, he looked above then reached to a branch several feet higher, raising himself to a new perch then pulled his gloves off, stuffing them deep into his pack, letting the day wander past in silence without hurry or haste.
Petra was a consummate hunter, a fact Adam would use to lead him to points selected where Pike could begin driving cracks into the man’s confidence. Believing in himself completely, Anton would think he was pushing Adam into a vulnerable position, unable to defend every approach available and so become an easy target but, with a horse to tend and lacking familiarity of the terrain, it was a plan Pike could exploit to his own advantage. Refusing to underestimate an opponent, Adam would assume Petra knew more, could do more then was likely true and act accordingly.
Sliding along the bare branch, Pike felt it bow wanting to break as he cautiously tossed one leg over followed by the other, facing uphill. Bracing on bare hands, he brought his feet up under, balancing on the limb as he bent at the knees, eyeing another tree barren of leaves reaching close to him. Jumping lightly, he caught a branch, swung up and hooked a heel over it, shimmying with his back to the ground until reaching the trunk where he released his feet. Dangling briefly while surveying the ground below, he dropped almost soundlessly on leaves dampened by rain and snow.
Lowering himself to a squat, Adam sat against the huge tree, eyes riveted below, biding his time until Petra revealed himself. The hunter couldn’t be allowed to lose track of his target but also had to be made to work or would deduce Adam’s intent, provoking changes in methods less predictable than Pike was wishful of facing. Habits of men changed little, he knew, particularly when they brought success so regularly and he saw no reason to expect different from Petra. Years of his own notes, those from Eckert and other Marshals supplemented with observations of lawmen across the Territory and testimony of witnesses or friends of men killed drew a picture almost complete in his mind, knowledge Petra certainly had no clue existed or was known.
A scrub jay went silent after an hour of annoying screeching then flew out of brush some thirty yards downhill from where Pike sat. Grinning a bit, he surveyed dense growth but saw nothing so held a moment before scaling a rock leaning to his left. Peering over the peak, he ran his gaze along a muddy track beneath him, finding after a moment two twigs no thicker than his wrist laying over pebbles and jumped. Snapping as he landed, the wood flipped over, Adam’s prints clearly visible where the points imbedded the ground as he pushed off into a trot up the incline. Forty feet beyond, he ducked through a gap between two spruce, immediately veering back to his right over a flat rock, small clumps of mud left to mark his passage.
Head cocking instantly hearing sounds not regular, Petra peeked through coarse brambles for movement, noting the point where it rose. His eyes scanned back, seeking an avenue useful for getting higher, wanting behind his prey but saw only sheer rock and evergreens impassable in silence. Reversing his gaze, he shortened the lead on his horse to let them wind within the timber over brush until finding a deadfall along which they could move, kneeling at the end into a hollow where he considered the damp ground ahead.
To his right, a twig stood, one end buried with clods of dirt rising on each side. Head swiveling, Petra viewed both directions then lay the reins to the ground, inching over without exposing himself to rifle fire. Resting on his haunches, he scrutinized the track, confusion caused by the tread replaced by understanding having often seen miner boots in his work, following then toe marks leading away absent other imprints with mud churned up. He puzzled over Pike running, looking then to every side, working out a direction his quarry had used to reach this point but found no avenue disturbed, giving birth to a vague, unsettled sensation.
Shaking his head, Anton rested on his heels peeling away notions no longer sensible. Known as a horseman of considerable skill, Marshal was on foot and wearing boots indicating intent to climb among rocks and rubble. Frowning, Petra slowly thought through w
hat the man planned, seeing clear Pike believed himself both hunter and hunted. As darkness crept in, overcast skies no assistance under high canopies of pine and massive hardwoods, he nodded to himself, inching around to his horse and withdrawing downhill toward a suitable campsite found during earlier explorations of the area.
Kindling a hatful of fire with dead dry wood, what little smoke rising dispersed by long drooping boughs of evergreens overhead, Petra sat. His back to meat sizzling in a pan so to hear what few sounds might penetrate a wind of declining intensity and careful not to look into the fire to keep vision sharp in the dim light, he poured coffee and drank the hot liquid with pleasure, hating the raw cold and snow of mountains more every year passing. Most recent autumns, he shifted work to the south where ample opportunity arose around mines and cattle ranches to avoid bone-chilling nights and frost filled days.
He’d had enough of those as a young man to desire any more than needed. The winter after Pike killed his father, Anton survived in their small log cabin, time split between hunting for food and splitting firewood for heat with untold hours occupied filling gaps in walls which allowed menacing cold winds to attack. Leaving the place behind instantly when spring permitted, less than a month later he rolled into a mining camp south of Boise seeking work only to find more men willing to dig than needed but none capable at hunting to feed them. All summer and into fall, he roamed meadows and canyons of southern Idaho keeping larders full for several companies of hungry men while developing skills which served him so well for years.
A mine owner there first approached Anton about having a special problem, a competing outfit better funded buying up claims from prospectors and wildcat operations threatening to push him off a promising mountain. Offering more money than Petra believed possible, his request was simple; get rid of a man bankrolling their work. Proving to be a simple matter to one as capable with a rifle as Petra, it led soon after to another with a special problem summoning Anton, paying less than the first but still a handsome sum for results as satisfactory. In under a year, Petra was making regular rounds in widening circles, solving difficulties for miners growing in size and wealth if not morality or ethics.
The fading Civil War era opened new horizons for the young man, happily willing to abandon frozen mountain caves and cabins to work for individual ranchers troubled by nesters or rustlers then, as his reputation grew, for cattleman associations from the Canadian border to Mexico. Those men, hoping to build outfits considered respectable, liked most that Petra was never discovered, rarely suspected of any involvement but simply drifted into an area, completed assigned tasks then disappeared leaving no trail back to his employers.
At least three cattle wars, two in Kansas and another in Texas, ended unceremoniously through judicious use of Petra’s rifle, his elimination of ranch owners, foremen or bosses with brutal efficiency permitting those paying him to overrun all opposition in short order. One of those Kansas jobs, in fact, had been the only time he was close to being caught, eluding a dogged bunch of hard-headed cowhands after a three day chase with the novel idea of swapping his brown gelding for a chestnut mare, a new hat and vest before swinging behind his pursuers and joining them, drifting away unnoticed the next night.
Using a lengthening string of acquaintances, bar owners and cathouses, Petra found himself in demand across the territory for one purpose only, to kill. Never once did he consider his work improper or less than honorable, rather he exalted the precision of his efforts. Senseless violence surrounded life in the West, gunfire being an ordinary occurrence in every town. Men died daily at the hand of others for reasons petty and mindless or no reason at all, a truth repulsive to Anton priding himself as he did on never using a gun except when hired to do so.
Slicing his meat in the fry pan held in front of him, Petra forked a chunk of potato into his mouth and washed it down with a swig of coffee, letting his senses guard while clearing his head of thoughts about Marshal Pike. His back against a rock that tilted out over him, thin lines of trees covered his right flank, their fallen leaves ready to rustle if crossed while his horse grazing to the left gave assurance of an alert should any approach from that direction. He was free to let the day’s actions recede, swirl within and come together in clearer understanding. Never able to force good solutions by conscious effort, Anton had learned long before that too much focus served him poorly finding his best work was done when he allowed observations to blend with instinct.
Completing the small meal, he refilled his cup then covered the fire with a coating of sand, just enough to keep coals from smothering so he could ignite them easily in morning, setting his coffee pot on a rock nearby to cool before shifting his seat a shade further under the trees. Listening, he noted the wind had dropped greatly, bringing a calm to air spotted with large, drifting flakes of snow. Raising his mug, he took a swallow then froze, hand at his mouth as he stood.
A hundred yards downhill, perhaps less, a light flickered. Tiny, too steady for a campfire, it lit a halo barely visible, impossible to believe it could be seen. Resuming his seat, a chill ran up his spine as stories of spooks heard as a boy in the Oregon forests came to back to him. He chuckled softly, shaking away childish notions while working to fix a location of the light on his mental chart, seeing it suddenly disappear. Cocking his head, eyes swiveling while holding perfectly still, he breathed softly, unsure what Marshal was up to but confident it was him.
Taking another drink, Petra dismissed the pinpoint as trickery serving no purpose when another appeared suddenly, half the distance away and further up the slope. Frowning tightly, Anton eased from his seat to a stump several feet below, nestling near it for a better view. Eyes flicking between the first and second, this one brightly reflecting off a rock face behind it, he pictured the terrain while calculating distances not figuring how Pike moved from one to another so quickly. Sipping coffee, brow furrowed in the dark, he let his eyes relax, focusing instead on hearing sounds which travel well at night better than most men realize even when through trees and brush.
Nothing came to him but the gleam of that senseless light and an imperceptibly small knot in his stomach which reached his mind but not his awareness. Marshal was up to something, he decided, so marked the place for investigation in the morning before choosing, just as it disappeared, to ignore it further this evening. Exhaling, Petra felt an edginess coming over him, the long, intense day calling now for sleep in preparation for a chance to end this chase tomorrow. His bedroll spread out, he set his cup by the pot and turned to lay when another light fluttered to life but from the opposite direction and far higher up.
Anton stared. There was no way Marshal could have covered that distance in such a short time, let alone in the dark. ‘Could there be a second man out here?’ he thought, wary at a possibility never considered then dismissed the idea. Pike was known for operating alone, denying help regardless of circumstances. Petra dissected the idea again but could settle on nothing which let him believe Marshal would bring anyone else up here, knowing the danger and certain as he would be that Petra had no reluctance to kill any one seen in these mountains until Pike was dead.
Back tensed, his mind raced furiously after answers to Marshal’s doings for a few minutes until a harsh laugh abruptly barked up in him, a relaxing sensation flowing as he realized Pike wanted to produce exactly that effect. Amused, Petra stretched, pulling his blanket over him after setting a pistol close to hand and his rifle beneath the cover with him. Pike might think Anton Petra could be put on edge by such mindless tactics but he’d permit none of that to happen. What was needed now was sleep while his mind assembled what happened during the day into a plan for the next morning, the final push to exterminate a hated man and extinguish, like those little lights, the fetid flames that had seared him for a decade.