The disheveled tumbler shook his long hair out of his eyes and held up his hands. “Hey, man, don't shoot!” he cried. “I just lost my footing.”
Gordon lowered the gun.
The man got up. He examined his boots. “Shit!” he said in disgust. “Scuffed all to hell.”
“What were you doing up there?” Gordon scowled at him.
“Working, man. Working.” The young man looked around. He spied what he was looking for, a drawing tablet lost in his fall, lying among the stones. He picked it up. He handed it to Gordon. “I'm doing a series of, you know, desert sketches. For a book. Like fantastic!”
Gordon looked at the drawing. It was quite good, he thought grudgingly. He had taken an instant dislike to the artist. Perhaps because the man had so obviously startled him. In the lower right corner the sketch was signed with a flamboyant Jerry Hayden.
“You're Jerry Hayden?” Gordon asked.
“That's me.” The artist brushed himself off. “Slightly the worse for wear and tear.”
Tartly Gordon handed the sketchpad back. “I suggest you be more careful,” he said. “Especially if you travel about the valley alone. An accident up here can be serious. If not fatal.” He enjoyed the little threat.
“Sure, man. Sure…”
Gordon glanced around. “How'd you get here?”
“In Sarah.”
“Sarah?”
“My buggy.” The artist grinned. “She's parked around the bend”
“Just be sure you don't block the trail,” Gordon admonished sourly.
“Really.” Hayden grinned amiably at him.
Gordon turned on his heel and stalked to his jeep. The artist looked after him, the grin on his face fading slowly as the Ranger got into the vehicle, skillfully turned it around and drove from the canyon.
Indelicately he waved a finger at the departing jeep.
There were at least a dozen of them, crushed and ravaged, scattered on the ground. Ward bent down. He fingered the stringy pulp. It had not yet dried brittle hard.
“He's been here,” he said. “And not too long ago.”
Wilson kicked one of the crushed cacti. “Cactuses can't keep you alive,” he said “They only help you die a little slower.”
“Cacti,” Ward said automatically.
“Yeah. Cacti.” Wilson glanced at him. “You sure it was the Major?” he asked.
“Yes,” Ward answered. “Reasonably so.” Was anything ever more than reasonably certain? he thought. He looked at the trampled cacti. Inwardly he felt pleased. Tom was learning to survive. With some surprise he realized he'd actually expected it. Tom had come through the grueling Air Force survival course in better shape than anyone else in his group. Ward knew that for a fact. He'd been the examining doctor… It was amazing the great amount of stamina and inner resources man possessed, he thought. He remembered his father's harrowing stories about the notorious Bataan Death March. In 1942. He'd been there. Sixty miles of forced marching under the most grueling, inhuman conditions imaginable. Twelve thousand American boys had begun that ordeal, most of them sick or injured; all of them starved. One in five had died. Miraculously the others had found the strength and stamina to survive… Perhaps it was no miracle, Ward thought. Perhaps man does have a reservoir of unsuspected resources within him.
He gazed up into the rugged mountains. “He may still be up there,” he said. He glanced at the sun, dipping down toward the horizon. “We'll still have about an hour of light,” he estimated. “Let's take a look.”
The two men got into their scout and slowly drove into a narrow wash between the steep and jagged rocks. There was no road and the going was rough.
Presently they stopped. They dismounted and scanned the weather-furrowed mountain peaks towering over them, edged in golden pink by the setting sun. Already the shadows below were deep and dark.
Suddenly Wilson started. Excitedly he pointed. “Up there, sir!” he called. “On that ridge… See it?”
Ward ran a few paces into the draw to get a better vantage point. His eyes searched the ridge high above. There… Movement…
It was Tom.
Wilson joined him. “It's the Major, all right,” he said. He cupped his hands. “Hey! Major!” he called. “Major Darby!”
High above they could see the figure of Tom abruptly turn and look down upon them. For a brief moment he stood frozen — then he scrambled to reach the crest. In his efforts he dislodged several small rocks and they came trickling down the steep slope, gathering speed and loosening other stones, sweeping them along
Ward and Wilson shielded themselves from the rain of pebbles that pelted the wash.
When they looked up at the crest again, Tom was gone.
“Dammit!” Ward said. “It'll be dark in less than an hour.” He started to run back to the scout. “Wilson!” he called. “Get on the radio! Notify Captain Jarman we've spotted him!”
Wilson ran with him. He glanced up at the ridge as he ran. “How long will the Major keep running away?” he puffed. “When will he learn we're only people?”
They reached the scout. Wilson at once picked up the mike.
“Armadillo One,” he called urgently. “Armadillo One. This is Armadillo—”
A growing rumble from above made him look up.
Down the jagged mountainside, bouncing from one protruding rock formation to another — like a grotesquely misshapen ball in a giant, crazily tilted pinball machine — a huge boulder tumbled toward them, rapidly building an avalanche of rocks and stones, rushing with increasing speed and noise directly down on them.
They leaped for the cover of the canyon wall — even as the huge boulder came crashing down into the draw, narrowly missing them. With an ear-grating crack of torn metal it slammed into the scout as a hail of smaller rocks pelted the vehicle and the cowering men.
The dust settled. The silence was suddenly oppressive. Ward went over to the scout. The rear was dented and buckled; one wheel hung askew on a broken axle.
And the radio was smashed. Totally destroyed.
Ward gazed up at the ridge high above. He stared down the wash. He looked at the mangled scout. They were without communication. It would be a long walk back. He looked at Wilson.
“He's learning,” he said quietly.
“Yeah,” Wilson said. “Learning to fight back!”
8
He had him in his sight. There was no doubt — it was the downed pilot. He could make out the green flying suit even in the deceiving twilight. With his field glasses he followed the man's laborious progress down the eroded ravine. He had seen him come across the far crest, obviously wary and uneasy, constantly looking back over his shoulder and stopping to survey the terrain before him.
Lying quietly among the rocks at the vantage point on the ridge overlooking the gorge, he watched the man. The light was getting poor. He could not take the chance of missing his target. The pilot's course would bring him quite close within a few minutes. Close enough to make missing him impossible — even in the darkening twilight. And he did have a scope on his gun.
He glanced toward his rifle, leaning against a rock nearby. He'd put it there to keep sand from getting into the muzzle and the sight — and to keep it out of the sun, which had still been blazing down when he took up his position a couple of hours before.
He'd made his 1600-hours contact with his L.A. control and had been given his new priority orders. At once he'd gone up into the mountains above Furnace Creek and picked an observation post taking in the greatest possible area. It had paid off, dammit! He had the poor bastard spotted. He felt a satisfaction. On his next contact he'd report success.