"I'll get me to the Wagon-wheel an' deal with Mister Gar-stone there. Anyways, thirty-five thousand is a sizeable stake, an' mebbe ..." A sinister scowl ended the sentence, and then, "The Rainbow River comes out'n these hills. I gotta find it; I'm fair sick o' traipsin' this Gawd-damned wilderness."
He picked up his rifle and blanket-roll containing his scanty supply of food, and set out, heading south-east. An hour later he was standing on a high bench screened by bushes, whence the ground dropped abruptly, flattening as it reached a great crack in the surface which he guessed to be Rainbow Canyon. He was about to descend and verify this when a horseman came in view. Bundy swore, and ducked under cover; it was Dover. Peering through the sheltering foliage, he watched Tiny, Hunch, and Yorky follow, with a pack animal. Then, after a brief interval, Malachi, with a companion at whom the foreman gazed with bulging eyes.
"Trenton," he whispered, as though afraid they might hear though they were nearly a thousand yards away. The man he had left for dead, riding to Rainbow, with his--Bundy'senemies. Trenton would know all, the murder of Lake, and his own duplicity. The completeness of the catastrophe stunned him. But stay, the rancher might have been unconscious during that last visit to the tent. But if not, they would hang him in Rainbow; Trenton would see to that. It was too big a risk to run.
"I'll have to close yore trap, Zeb," he growled. "Anythin' you've told them others don't signify, an' Garstone can't prove nothin'. But this ain't the place; I gotta have a good getaway.
Rifle in hand, he slunk along after the unsuspecting travellers below, his callous brain at work. With the rancher silenced, he must again seek Garstone.
"Couple o' slugs'll give me the dollars an' a pair o' hosses to carry me out'n the Territory," he told himself. "My luck must 'a' turned or I'd 'a' walked right into Rainbow to git mine."
Considerably cheered by this reflection, he began to watch for a suitable spot. He had no difficulty in keeping up, for the quarry was moving slowly. Presently he noticed that the bench was dipping and bringing him nearer to his target. Gripping his rifle in feverish eagerness, malignant eyes on the man he meant to slay, he suddenly saw the opportunity slipping away. The horsemen had reached a point where the walls of the canyon closed to within forty yards of one another and abruptly widened again. This narrow gap was spanned by a natural bridge of rock, bare, and offering no cover. If they decided to cross this, trailing them would be well-nigh impossible, the land on the far side of the river being open, and almost treeless, offering few chances' of concealment. As he had feared, they turned.
The sight spurred him to action; it must be now or never. The passage across the gulf was narrow, the surface rough; they would ride it in single file. This would give him time to get close--there must be no mistake. He scrambled down from the bench, fighting his way through the scrub until he reached the edge. There he knelt, panting, weapon levelled; he was only two hundred yards distant.
"I'll hold off till they're all over," he decided. "If any o' the rest git curious, I can send 'em after Zeb, one at a lick."
He watched them negotiate the bridge, singly, as he expected, and his lips drew back in an ugly snarl of satisfaction when he saw that Trenton was the last. Sighting full at the broad, bowed shoulders, he steadied himself and pulled the trigger. Through the smoke of the discharge he saw the rancher fall forward on the neck of his horse, which, startled by the report, leapt onwards.
"Got him," he gritted.
Even as he spoke, two quick reports rang out; a bullet shattered twigs just above his head, and a second smashed into the breech of his rifle and ruined the mechanism. With an oath he threw aside the useless weapon and turned his eyes to the right, whence the shots had come. A black horse was thundering down upon him, and the rider, standing in his stirrups, was assiduously pumping lead from his Winchester. Sudden, staying behind with the idea of obtaining fresh meat, had come on the scene just as the assassin fired.
The foreman shivered; he hated, but also feared the hard-featured puncher who had thrashed him so severely. In the moment of triumph, he had met disaster. He must do something. Escape through the brush was hopeless against a mounted man, he would be ridden down, trampled under those iron hooves. The drumming beat grew louder, bullets were humming past his ears; in a moment or two . .. A desperate device suggested itself. The widening of the canyon below the bridge brought the rim of it within a hundred yards. If he could reach that, the cowboy's horse became useless; they would be on equal terms.-- Keeping under cover as long as possible, he then abruptly swerved into the open and raced for the canyon, zigzagging to avoid being picked off. He reached the edge safely, saw, some fifteen feet below, a narrow ledge running along the rock face. A break in the rim enabled him to clamber down and breathe again; he could not be seen from above.
So quickly had the whole affair happened that when he looked across the canyon the rancher's companions were only then lifting him from his saddle. But a bullet which chippedthe cliff below showed that he had been observed. It would also tell the pursuer where he was. Bundy pulled his gun.
"If Green follers me here, I'll nail him," he grated. "An' with his hoss an' rifle ..."
During the brief suspense, doubt crept in. His foe was fast--terribly fast. Bundy remembered that other time, when a lightning draw had foiled a foul trick which few men would have survived, and death had stared at him out of grey-blue eyes. What was it like to die? The violent jarr of the bullet, seconds --perhaps moments--of merciless pain, and then--nothingness. The look of blank amaze on Lake's face returned to him. Would he too--? He strangled the thought. His mind raced. Seventy thousand bucks; there must be a way.
A fiendish look told that he had found one. Changing his gun to his left hand, he picked up a chunk of rock with his right, leaned limply against the cliff so that the missile was hidden, and waited. The scrape of slipping boot-heels on a hard surface warned him that the puncher was descending. A moment and he appeared, six-shooter levelled. The foreman's face was a pasty yellow; he made no attempt to raise his weapon, seeming to be exhausted.
"Don't shoot, Green," he cried hoarsely. "I give in."
"Chuck yore gun towards me, an' put yore paws up," Sudden said sternly.
Bundy obeyed, lifting the left arm only. "Can't manage the other," he whined. "Damn bronc fell, bustin' a leg an' my collar-bone. I had to finish him."
The story was plausible enough; the man was apparently minus mount and rifle. All the same, the cowboy was not convinced. Unhurriedly he moved forward and half-stopped to lift the surrendered weapon. Like a flash, Bundy's "injured" arm flew up and down. Too late, Sudden detected the action and straightened; the great stone struck him on the chest instead of the head. Reeling back under the force of the blow, he lost his foothold on a slippery incline and vanished into the abyss.
Bundy, beads of cold sweat on his forehead, heard a shout of rage from the distant spectators, but no bullets came. Wondering at this, he secured his revolver, and creeping to the edge of the ledge, peered over. What he saw nearly sent him after his victim. Twenty feet below Sudden was clinging to a dwarfed mesquite growing from a tiny cleft in the rock. For a moment the astounding sight paralysed him; then, with a blasphemous imprecation, he prepared to deal the finishing stroke. Sudden saw the threatening muzzle, and nerved himself for an effort of despair.