Chapter 13
HIS right eye opened easily, but his left seemed gummed down. His hand reached slowly up and tested it gingerly. The light was brilliant and blinding. Craig shut his eye again. His limbs were immobile but comfortable. He opened his eye again, and a shaft of pain darted through his head. The dazzling light revealed nothing, and it was a strain to keep his lid open. A world of white without relief forcing tears into his uncovered eye.
Slowly, gradually he became conscious that he was cold, a deep, chilled iciness that ate at his bones. His left eye came unstuck a little, revealing the same whiteness. Craig shifted slowly and carefully, rotating on his shoulder. An area of black wavered into his vision and suddenly came into focus. He fumbled his hand toward it and, as his stiff fingers brushed against the object, they signaled the roughness and texture of rock. "Rock," his brain said to him. "Rock." "Rock and snow," it shouted. Craig rolled again, and trees and sun replaced rock and snow. He struggled, pushing with his sticklike arms till he had attained a sitting position. The landscape swayed, trees, sun, and mountains. It took shape and steadied.
Craig found himself lying, half in, half out of the shelter of an overhanging rock. Around him, black and gray stones stuck out of the snow like islands in a Chinese sea. Below him the valley, white, scarred with dark green, and beyond the mountains, cold and desolate. Suddenly he realized, as though he had needed sight to inform him, that he was thoroughly chilled. The sky was clear but the sun was a low flesh- pink ball casting no warmth. Over the far eastern forests it stood.
Craig raised his hand to his eye again. A growth appeared to be on his upper cheek and his brow. He followed it upward to his hair, which was matted together. Blood. Abruptly it came back to him. Martin. Where was he? Of course. The fight. He tensed involuntarily, as though in expectation of another blow. But no one was there. He was all alone; "alone on a wide wide sea," his brain said incongruously. He must get some warmth into his body. He raised his hands to his mouth to blow on the stiff fingers. The wristwatch said seven fifteen. The second hand still swept unconcernedly around.
Craig stood up slowly, feeling like the morning after his first fraternity party. His breath hung in the air like pipe smoke. The large rock felt hard but comforting against his shoulder. Without its shelter last night, he must surely have died. Under his feet the snow was not deep, reaching just over the sole of his boot. The only color on the immediate landscape was his dark-blue sack lying about five feet away and below him the red edge of the cigarette pack, like some flower thrusting through the snow. Tentatively he stumbled toward his pack. The first priority was warmth. His fingers felt lifeless as he reached for the pack, and he was astonished at their pallor.
Below him the forest invited. Wood. Fire. Heat. Slithering and falling, sliding in the wet snow, limbs aching and head bursting, he descended. The trail by the stream was virgin. The horsemen and Martin had gone, leaving no trace, as though they had never existed. A cold, obliterating blanket of snow lay over everything. Nature's death shroud for the year. Mine too, perhaps, Craig thought. Feeling no pain, he snapped twigs and piled them on a patch of ground he scraped bare of snow. In the bottom of his pack he found the waterproof watch container and a new pack of cigarettes. One match served for both fire and cigarette. He knew he was being foolish. Nicotine constricts the blood vessels to the extremities, but he did not care. He needed psychological comfort even at the expense of physical well-being.
The dry twigs snapped from the dark underside of the firs crackled and broke into life. Somehow, he mused, we have forgotten that the real joys of existence lie in the essentials. In fire, in warmth, in food and drink. Not in money or power or possessions. He piled more and more wood on the fire, watching the flames leap around the branches and feeling the warmth seep into his flesh. His circulation began to move again and his hands thrust out to the fire smarted intensely with the rush of blood. Soon he had bacon and sausages crackling in his pan. He was passionately hungry and weak through his hunger. A moist mist rose from his pants. He had exchanged his sodden shirt and sweater for dry ones from his pack, and as the warmth seeped into him he began to come to life again.
What had happened to Martin he had no idea. Most likely he had waited till the police had ridden on or turned back, then set off, leaving Craig still unconscious from the blow lying on the ground. His last conversation with Martin came back to him—the unreason, the hate, and the madness of it. There was some germ in Martin, growing over the years, nurtured by his experiences, that was dangerous to all who came into contact with him. Craig had succumbed to it, briefly but almost fatally. Luckily his mind had developed the antibodies before it was too late. But the germ was still dangerous. Craig realized that he stood at a crisis point in his life. He was at the threshold of something, vague, undefined, and as yet highly vulnerable.
The only way he could move on was to extirpate the old. He would have to destroy the money if he were to survive. It was as simple as that. The realization hit Craig almost by surprise, squatting there like some aboriginal hillman over his fire, solitary amidst the snow. He had been groping toward this discovery, but when it came, it was so simple that the decision seemed to extend backward in time. It was the only act that would free him. Martin was beyond the reach of reason. The time for reason was past. That was the trouble with the academic world—it had divorced itself from action. And as a child of that world, Craig had suffered. Only action would suffice now. It would have to be single-minded. When he had approached Martin before, he had not known what he wanted to do. Get Martin to delay? Persuade him to abandon the venture? Somehow dispose of the money? And he had been smashed to the ground, impotent, useless.
He threw some more branches on the fire. The sun had risen higher in the sky, and around him the snow dripped steadily from the trees. The question now was where Martin had gone. Here at the hub of this great mountain range many possible escape routes existed. How was he to decide which one Martin had taken?
Craig began by eliminating the least likely alternatives. The group of police on horseback had obviously come up the Payette Trail and had been going toward Roaring Fork. So that trail was out. A horse party moved fast and the trail was exposed. Martin had been heading north when Craig had intercepted him. And he had been slanting away from Stanley. Since he had been unsuspecting, it was reasonable to assume that he was going where he wished to. That left the Payette, the South Fork of the Salmon River, and the Ollallie Trail. Even if he had been heading for the Payette, Craig felt sure that he would have changed his mind because of the pursuit. The Ollallie was a possibility. It was a little-used trail, an old Indian path that led through magnificent country but was long and tiring as a means of getting back to the road. Moreover, it exited very close to the Forest Service Headquarters near Lowman and, because of its numerous meadows, was popular with bear hunters, especially in the lower reaches.
That left the South Fork of the Salmon River. It was a long walk though a beautiful water trip. The advantage of surprise was on its side. It would be the least expected exit. The trail was treacherous, through the canyon of the river, and the only sensible way to do it was by boat. Still, at this season it was protected from the elements.
Craig could not decide between the Ollallie and the South Fork of the Salmon River. He poked at the fire. Even in the short time he had sat by the trail, the day had warmed considerably. He drew his sack over beside him and began to take an inventory of his food supply. Still enough for three days, if he was sparing. Craig did not have a great appetite when in the wilderness; he tended to live off his reserves. He succumbed to the temptation of some peanuts and munched as he thought.
Suddenly he remembered that Martin had been enthusiastic about using the Salmon River as an escape route from the scene after caching the money. He had suggested leaving a canoe near the head of the river and using it to put distance between them and the drop area. The river was a fast-flowing one, and a canoe could pass down it in two days. Craig
had talked him out of it. Most of the early rapids on the river would be dangerous to negotiate in the dark. Perhaps Martin now had a canoe hidden on the river. He dismissed this idea. Martin had not had enough time since leaving Denver to make the arrangements. Maybe he hoped to steal a canoe from one of the summer ranches that occupied the land at the head of the river. That could be it. About three ranches existed in the upper stretches as summer playgrounds for the wilderness-minded rich. They could be reached only by small airplane and closed their operations at the beginning of September. All of them had several boats and canoes, and their boathouses would not be too secure. Martin had been down the river before and was an expert canoeist. Craig had only walked most of its length. The point where the South Fork flowed into the main river was so remote from Lone Fir Valley that there would be no watch there. A lone walker, though unusual, would not excite suspicions. That must be it. Craig was convinced that Martin had chosen the South Fork. He began repacking his sack and preparing for the walk. He lit a cigarette from the embers of the fire before extinguishing it. Speed was essential. Martin had had a good start, and if he were to surprise him, he had to move fast.
Craig slung the pack on his shoulder and set off through the melting snow toward the low pass leading to the river. He felt much better now, physically and mentally. He had come to his final decision. He must destroy the money. It would not be easy. Martin was armed and he was not, but he was resolute and prepared for the conflict. Martin could not suspect that he would follow him, could not imagine that he would be so foolish. It was nine fifteen. Martin could not have covered a great distance last night. The snow would have impeded his progress, and there was no clear trail to the river. A wild stretch of rocky, featureless hillside had to be climbed to the narrow pass that gave access to it. To commit yourself to that landscape at night with a blizzard brewing was not the act of an experienced mountaineer like Martin. So he must have camped in the forest to wait for first light.
Craig's head ached a little as he struggled upward. That had been quite a blow from the pistol butt. Next time he would have to take Martin by surprise and overpower him before he had a chance to use the gun. Next time Martin would shoot, probably to kill.
The top of the pass came quickly, and Craig paused briefly on the summit. There, winding below him, silver in the early morning light, a shining thread in the landscape of white and green, lay the river. Craig crunched through the snow, firmer at this altitude. He was still stiff from his beating, but internally he was at peace. On a climb, once you commit yourself all fears and tensions seem to ebb away in the action. Now that the doubts and indecisions of the previous days had been replaced by an act of will, Craig's path seemed to him to be as well defined as that of the river flowing clearly and strongly in the valley below. It was such a relief to be single-minded that Craig thought little of the danger that lay ahead. For a few moments on the pass, with the earth laid out before him, he became godlike, aware that if anyone was to solve his problems, it could only be himself. There would be no deus ex machina available to lift him out of his dilemma. Below him, somewhere, scurrying for safety, was Martin, carrying with him Craig's freedom. There was no alternative but to stop him.