![Last Train to Bannock [Clayburn 02]](https://fs.ageofbook.com/515491/thumbs/152x264/last-train-to-bannock-clayburn-02.jpg)
one of the other guards. Clayburn studied the next nearest boulder intently, raised himself an inch on his elbows and toes, and worked his way toward it. It was a strenuous, tiring way to travel over even a short space. By the time he reached the next boulder he was clenching his bared teeth to still the sounds of his hard breathing.
Resting, he spared moments for another look around. It didn't buy him the location of either of the other guards.
There was now only one more boulder between him and his objective. He stared at the deep shadow under it for long precious seconds, goaded by the awareness that Adler and his raiders were getting closer with each one of those seconds. When he was as certain as he could be that no one was on his side of the boulder, Clayburn snaked across the intervening space toward it.
Again he made it without anything happening. This time he did not pause when he reached the boulder, but continued around it in the shadow of its base, making sure there wasn't a guard against the other side of it.
Now there was nothing between him and the boulder where he'd seen movement. Nothing to hide him the rest of the way but the night. The pale shine of the stars seemed suddenly very bright.
In the shadow of the boulder where he'd seen movement before he could see none now. The man who had to be there was invisible. He might be standing or sitting; might be looking straight at Clayburn…
Clayburn slipped his fingers inside his left sleeve and drew the knife from its sheath. Holding it point-forward, he began inching toward the boulder on knees and toes, his taut-held body almost brushing the earth as he moved.
This time he did not move in a straight line, but angled off to his left so that the bulk of the boulder would no longer be directly behind the guard in its shadow. Halfway across the open space Clayburn finally saw the vague shape of a man, detached slightly from the boulder itself, outlined against the star-filled sky.
The man was standing, leaning a shoulder against the side of the boulder, a rifle in the crook of his arm. He was tall, and seemed heavily built, but Clayburn couldn't be sure of his shape below the shoulders where it merged with the boulder. As Clayburn watched, the man's head turned. Clayburn froze against the ground. The man looked his way, but not down at the ground that close.
The instant the man's head turned away Clayburn moved again, slowly closing the distance between them. The man unfolded his arms, dropped the rifle to his hand. Clayburn froze again, then resumed his movement when the man only stretched, flexed his big shoulders, and transferred his rifle to the crook of his other arm.
The guard scratched the side of his face, glanced off toward the slope up which Clayburn and Blue had come, then looked past the wagons at the looming mesa.
By then Clayburn was almost under the man's feet. He came up off the ground like a tightly wound steel spring suddenly uncoiling. His left hand fastened on the guard's mouth to stifle any outcry and his right drove the point of his knife between the man's ribs next to the spine.
The guard's whole body convulsed. His rifle fell. Clayburn broke its fall with his boot to lessen the sound of it. He held the struggling man in an iron grip and forced the blade deeper in his back, twisting. The guard's struggles became weaker, uncoordinated, then ceased entirely.
Clayburn held the sagging weight and lowered it silently to the ground. For a second he remained bent over the dead body, his breath coming fast through his clenched teeth, his legs rubbery, his throat dry and a bitter taste in his mouth. Then he pulled the knife free and wiped it on the dead man's sleeve. He straightened against the boulder and looked around. There was nothing to indicate that the other two guards had been alerted, wherever they were.
Blue appeared
Resting, he spared moments for another look around. It didn't buy him the location of either of the other guards.
There was now only one more boulder between him and his objective. He stared at the deep shadow under it for long precious seconds, goaded by the awareness that Adler and his raiders were getting closer with each one of those seconds. When he was as certain as he could be that no one was on his side of the boulder, Clayburn snaked across the intervening space toward it.
Again he made it without anything happening. This time he did not pause when he reached the boulder, but continued around it in the shadow of its base, making sure there wasn't a guard against the other side of it.
Now there was nothing between him and the boulder where he'd seen movement. Nothing to hide him the rest of the way but the night. The pale shine of the stars seemed suddenly very bright.
In the shadow of the boulder where he'd seen movement before he could see none now. The man who had to be there was invisible. He might be standing or sitting; might be looking straight at Clayburn…
Clayburn slipped his fingers inside his left sleeve and drew the knife from its sheath. Holding it point-forward, he began inching toward the boulder on knees and toes, his taut-held body almost brushing the earth as he moved.
This time he did not move in a straight line, but angled off to his left so that the bulk of the boulder would no longer be directly behind the guard in its shadow. Halfway across the open space Clayburn finally saw the vague shape of a man, detached slightly from the boulder itself, outlined against the star-filled sky.
The man was standing, leaning a shoulder against the side of the boulder, a rifle in the crook of his arm. He was tall, and seemed heavily built, but Clayburn couldn't be sure of his shape below the shoulders where it merged with the boulder. As Clayburn watched, the man's head turned. Clayburn froze against the ground. The man looked his way, but not down at the ground that close.
The instant the man's head turned away Clayburn moved again, slowly closing the distance between them. The man unfolded his arms, dropped the rifle to his hand. Clayburn froze again, then resumed his movement when the man only stretched, flexed his big shoulders, and transferred his rifle to the crook of his other arm.
The guard scratched the side of his face, glanced off toward the slope up which Clayburn and Blue had come, then looked past the wagons at the looming mesa.
By then Clayburn was almost under the man's feet. He came up off the ground like a tightly wound steel spring suddenly uncoiling. His left hand fastened on the guard's mouth to stifle any outcry and his right drove the point of his knife between the man's ribs next to the spine.
The guard's whole body convulsed. His rifle fell. Clayburn broke its fall with his boot to lessen the sound of it. He held the struggling man in an iron grip and forced the blade deeper in his back, twisting. The guard's struggles became weaker, uncoordinated, then ceased entirely.
Clayburn held the sagging weight and lowered it silently to the ground. For a second he remained bent over the dead body, his breath coming fast through his clenched teeth, his legs rubbery, his throat dry and a bitter taste in his mouth. Then he pulled the knife free and wiped it on the dead man's sleeve. He straightened against the boulder and looked around. There was nothing to indicate that the other two guards had been alerted, wherever they were.
Blue appeared
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