He waited for a while, watching the house. There was a trough behind it into
which water ran, water from a spring. He could see and hear the water falling
from the pipe into the trough. As he watched, a deer came down from the trees
opposite and drank at the trough. Waiting for the right shot, he killed the
deer with an arrow and went forward to skin it. He was expert, and it took him
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but little time to skin out the deer and save the best cuts of meat, yet ever
and anon he straightened up to listen and to look all about him.
Aside from the structure beside him the place reminded him of a corner of the
Seven Devils country in Idaho. His father had sometimes hunted there with old
Cougar Dave, crossing the mountains to get together.
He went up to the back door and tried it, but it was locked. He walked around
the building and tried the front door, and it opened easily under his hand. He
stood in the doorway, making a careful survey of the inside.
Along one side was a row of bunks, enough for a dozen men. There was a stove
and a much older fireplace. A few utensils lay about, and old clothes hung on
nails along the wall. There was much dust and no evidence the place had been
occupied for years.
The clothing was ragged and old, most of it filthy. He guessed convicts had
been working here, probably at a mine, for he had discovered a few tools and a
miner's lamp. There was nothing else of use. He backed out and closed the door
behind him. Surrounded by mountains as it was, he took a chance and built
fires to smoke his meat and dry it. For three days he remained where he was,
cleaning the deer hide and resting. On the fourth day he buried what remained
of the carcass, hid the sticks on which he had dried his meat, and wiped out
what tracks he had left, sifting leaves and dust over the area. Only then did
he strike out upstream.
Following the stream he came to its source and found himself facing a low
saddle in the mountains. He slept there, and on the following morning started
across the pass over the saddle.
The morning was cold, and there was ice along the shores of the stream he
followed. Plodding on steadily, he saw no game. He had walked several miles
when he became aware of a faint drone. Pausing to listen, he heard it again,
the faint but unmistakable sound of a helicopter!
Hastily, he glanced around. Some low-growing spruce mingled with larch grew
along the
stream; running, he took a dive under the nearest spruce, pulling himself in
tight beside its trunk. The spruce branches swept the ground, making perfect
cover.
Had he been seen? He had not seen the helicopter, not taking time to look
around for it. But had they seen him?
It was overhead now, circling. Then it rose, flying higher, took a half turn
around the basin, and then went off downstream. Watching through parted
branches he saw the copter dip down; it seemed to be landing near the
structure.
Suppose they came upstream, looking? It was all of five miles of uphill
walking, but they could hop it and land close beside him. He had to get away,
but once out from under the spruce he would be in plain sight if they flew
this way again, and cover was scarce.
To go or not to go? He waited, listening, thinking.
Peering through the spruce branches, he studied the terrain before him. Some
two hundred yards away was a cluster of granite slabs, apparently pieces
broken off by frost that had slid down the mountain. Once among them he should
have cover, and his clothing blended well with the surroundings. He left the
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spruce at a run and then slowed to look and listen. He saw and heard nothing.
Were they still at the log house? Had they discovered some sign of his
presence that he had failed to eradicate? He trotted on, weaving his way among
the rocky debris, and reached the small forest of slabs and took shelter among
them. No sound, nothing.
He was about to leave his shelter for another run when he heard the
helicopter. It was coming in low through the very pass he had chosen. The
slabs of granite had fallen in several places, so they provided crude
shelters. He crawled well back under one slab and waited.
The copter came in so low he could feel the wind from the beat of the rotor
blades, but it continued on through the pass and turned north to avoid the
peak that faced the end of the pass, lying a few miles further east.
Rising, he followed on through the pass. There was little cover, but he knew
he must accept the risk. Often, he saw the tracks of animals, and several
times, of wolves. He was carrying meat, and even though it had been smoked and [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]