The museum area adjoining the Furness Creek Ranch was crowded with relics from the bygone mining days in Death Valley. A giant twenty-mule-team borax wagon, heavy and high-wheeled, lorded it over weathered crushers, drillers, ore carts and pumps, A conglomeration of corroded tools and pieces of old machinery played court to a massive, rusty locomotive. The pale moonlight, stabbing through the twisted forms and shapes of the ancient equipment, peopled the night with weird and ominous shadow creatures as Randi walked through the deserted grounds.
She felt increasingly uneasy. She was acutely aware of her footsteps crunching the gravel on the path, each step cutting at the silence that pressed in on her. It was the only sound she heard — except for the hollow pounding of her own heart. Unconsciously she speeded up her pace. The eerie indistinctness of the feeble light reaching down through the iron frameworks lent a disturbing aura of menace to the place.
She froze in mid-stride. Coming from the deepest shadows ahead of her, a faint, sharp clang of iron against iron had startled her. She stood stock still, staring into the darkness. Her heart raced. She listened, every muscle tense.
All was quiet.
She felt angry with herself. It was nothing but a little night creature scurrying among the old gear. She was being ridiculous. She could blame it only on the tension and exertion of the last two days. She walked on.
Ahead of her a towering, gibbet-like derrick loomed tall and foreboding in the night, casting a deep black shadow across the path.
She walked toward it.
Suddenly she screamed. A short, shrill scream, choked off by terror. From the blackness behind the gallows hoist a nightmare apparition jumped out, a fearsome specter that squarely blocked her path.
Tom!
He looked completely what he was — a dangerous, wounded creature, trapped, desperate — and ready to kill in defense of its life. The terrifying sight seared itself on her mind in one split instant.
The head injury, matted with dark, clotted blood; the wild, ferocious eyes filled with hatred and fear; the teeth bared in a maddened snarl that split his savage face, streaked with grime; the dirt and dust, caked in the stubble of his beard; his clothing tattered; the wound on his shoulder, wet and bloody, the cloth around it torn.
It was Tom.
It was her husband.
Instinctively she shrank back — and he leaped for her. His hands ripped at her blouse, tearing it.
She cried one anguished word—“Tom!”—and fell to the ground.
Tense. Taut. His face wild and savage, his hands held clawed before him, Tom stood poised over the prostrate form of his wife. He knew he could fight his enemies; he knew he could inflict injury and damage on them when they came at him. Destroy them. But this one lay quiet. Motionless. Presenting no menace. He waited. Lynx-eyed, he watched her. At the slightest sign of danger he would rip the life from her. He had meant to do it. Now. Traced to this place of hiding where he had crept to lick his wound. But this enemy on the ground did not stir. It was not like the others. Slowly, gradually, the terror-fury left him.
He stiffened when she opened her eyes and looked at him in horror. But she did not move. She only stared up at him. He saw fear in her eyes. And — something else. He did not know what…
Randi felt the grip of terror tightening in her throat as she lay petrified, gazing up at the brutish creature that was her husband. As realization of his true state of mind grew in her, so did her horror. She saw no spark of reason; no hint of recognition. Only feral savagery. And — curiosity…
Slowly she sat up.
Tom watched her warily, ready to pounce. But a deep-seated instinct continued to tell him that this foe was different. This enemy meant him no harm. Absorbed, he looked down at the woman. He reached out a hand and pushed her on the shoulder. She shrank back. But she did not resist. He was deeply curious. He sensed — and scented — a presence that excited and aroused him. The presence of — a female. Again he reached for her.
“Good night, Frank.”
Tom froze in alarm at the sudden sound of the man's voice coming from the distance. Instantly alert, defiant, he turned to face the new threat.
“See you tomorrow.”
“Good night.” Another voice.
There was the slam of a screen door swinging shut — and footsteps crunched on the ground.
Randi's heart beat wildly. Her thoughts raced. They would help. The men would help. If she could attract their attention, call out to them, they would help… She glanced at Tom, her eyes filled with fear and desperation. She had to. She would call out.
With a sharp intake of breath she opened her mouth, her cry ready in her throat.
Instantly Tom whirled on her, his face dark with rage. He lunged toward her — and she cowered against the derrick in heart-stopped silence.
For a moment Tom stared at her. The footsteps were coming closer. He turned to flee. Almost immediately he whirled back and grabbed the woman, roughly hauling her to her feet. Dragging her along, he ran into the distorted shadows of the dead and silent mining relics.
Terror-stricken, Randi stumbled after her husband. Where was he taking her? Why? She found it impossible to think clearly. In the flood of thoughts let loose by her shock whirled the bits of knowledge and information about Tom she had gleaned from Major Trafford. In her terror she tried to gather them, to fathom what to do. She could not.
Through the palm grove they ran — and out onto the night desert.
Presently Tom let go of her. She stumbled after him, occasionally breaking into a half-run to keep up. She didn't know what else to do.
Ahead of them on the desert floor a large hillock loomed in the darkness. Overgrown with vegetation, blue-gray in the moonlight, the dune afforded protection and concealment. Tom headed for it.
The salt bushes, the desert holly, the creosote bushes grew densely on the little sand mound. Tom crawled in among them, pulling Randi along. In a small, sandy hollow they settled down. For a while they sat regarding one another.
Hesitantly Randi spoke.
“Tom?”
He watched her intently. But there was no recognition nor comprehension on his face.
“Tom… Please,” Randi said. She tried to keep her voice from trembling. “It's me — Randi… Please, Tom… Please know me.”
He listened. This was not the grating, rumbling noise or the high-pitched whine of his pursuers and tormentors. This was not the roar of the light that struck him and hurt him. Unconsciously he touched the wound high on the crown of his head. He felt soothed by the soft sound. He watched. He listened.
But he did not know how to respond.
Slowly Randi lowered her head in despair. Her voice was a whisper in the wilderness.
“Oh, dear God…”
Day Four
1
Paul could feel the hot anger born of frustration rise in him. He fought to keep it in check, but his grip on the telephone tightened until his knuckles showed white.
“Perhaps with more men, Colonel,” he said, his voice taut and brittle. “With a reasonable—” He stopped, obviously cut off. He clamped his mouth shut, cording the muscles in his jaw as he listened. Ward, Trafford and Stark watched him steadily. The air-conditioning in the Chief Ranger's office was already going full blast, although the sun had just begun to tinge the Funeral Mountains to the east with pink.
“There is no doubt,” Paul said firmly. “He was shot by one of the wranglers — near the corral. He was probably looking for water. The man thought he was shooting at a bobcat; but from the description he gave us of what he saw, it could only have been Tom.” He listened. “No, I don't know how serious it is. But we—”