the Indians, drive a stage and ride shotgun without acquiring a feeling for the possibilities.
Chantryâs life was due to his own skill and to a certain amount of sheer coincidence. For if he was a foot past the spot where bullets struck, it was only circumstance and the fact that he was moving faster or slower than the men the bullets found.
Owen Chantry had asked no favors of destiny. He put himself in the hands of his own skills, a good horse, and a good gun.
Crossing the canyon at a place where another canyon joined it from the east, he climbed a rough but not too difficult trail. It was timber country. There were many dams among the aspens, which were favored by beavers and elks.
He took his time. At this altitude a man did not hurry, not even with a mountain-bred horse. Mac Mowatt was a tough old renegade who knew every trick in the book and could invent more on the spur of the moment. Nor were his followers to be taken lightly, for they were all bred on the frontier. To a man.
Chantry paused near a beaver pond, letting the horses drink a little while he studied the mountainside.
Always he was careful to stop against a background where his body merged easily into the colors. From a few yards away, he was almost invisible to the casual eye.
He studied the mountainside with no sweeping glances, but with a yard by yard survey, leaving no tree, no rock, and no shadow unobserved. Occasionally, he took a quick glance back over what he had just examined.
A squirrel leaped to a branch nearby and eyed him curiously. A few yards off, another descended a tree trunk headfirst, pausing to look around. Owen Chantry spoke to his horse and turned into the aspen, weaving through the slim and graceful white trunks, around deadfalls and occasional boulders, fallen from the mountain.
The hogback, a ten-thousand-foot ridgeâtimbered on top, the sides rugged and almost sheerâthrust out from the mountain just below a peak called the Helmet. Before him were the towering cliffs of the Rampart Hills. He avoided the route that he had first taken around to the back of the hills, but turned toward the trail Doby Kernohan had discovered.
His problem was simple enough. He was to get Marny Fox out of there and, if there was time, to get whatever it was they were all looking for. Not for a minute did he believe it was gold.
Tracks of deer and elk were everywhere, and twice he saw the tracks of a grizzly, distinguished from other bears by the long claws on the forepaws. He noticed a log the bear had ripped open to get at the termites.
Once he paused near a small stream to watch a dipper bob up and down on a rock. He saw a school of trout lurking in a shady place where a branch hung low on the water. No amount of seeing ever made nature old to him, and he was conscious of every movement and every sound.
It was very still. Sitting his horse among the trees Chantry could look up above the towering red cliffs at the clear blue sky, tumbled with banks of fleecy white clouds.
Somewhere he was conscious of movement. It was no sound he heard, but simply some feeling, some sense that alerted his nerves. He put a hand to the stock of his rifle, then stayed it. He could feel the weight of his pistol and sat quietly, listening.
No sound.â¦Touching a heel to the ribs of the black, he started forward, holding to the thickest stand of trees. He sat up straight, weaving among them, emerging suddenly into a small clearing. He crossed it at a fast walk.
He was now almost directly under the cliffs. Again he paused to listen, studying the narrow opening before him. Chantry swore softly under his breath. He had no love for such places. A man up in those rocks with a rifle.â¦
He rode forward swiftly, trotted his horse to the gap, and then started up. It was a steep climb, but the sooner up the better.
Topping out at the head of the draw he rode swiftly into the trees, then drew up and, dismounting, tied his horse with a slipknot as usual
Chantryâs life was due to his own skill and to a certain amount of sheer coincidence. For if he was a foot past the spot where bullets struck, it was only circumstance and the fact that he was moving faster or slower than the men the bullets found.
Owen Chantry had asked no favors of destiny. He put himself in the hands of his own skills, a good horse, and a good gun.
Crossing the canyon at a place where another canyon joined it from the east, he climbed a rough but not too difficult trail. It was timber country. There were many dams among the aspens, which were favored by beavers and elks.
He took his time. At this altitude a man did not hurry, not even with a mountain-bred horse. Mac Mowatt was a tough old renegade who knew every trick in the book and could invent more on the spur of the moment. Nor were his followers to be taken lightly, for they were all bred on the frontier. To a man.
Chantry paused near a beaver pond, letting the horses drink a little while he studied the mountainside.
Always he was careful to stop against a background where his body merged easily into the colors. From a few yards away, he was almost invisible to the casual eye.
He studied the mountainside with no sweeping glances, but with a yard by yard survey, leaving no tree, no rock, and no shadow unobserved. Occasionally, he took a quick glance back over what he had just examined.
A squirrel leaped to a branch nearby and eyed him curiously. A few yards off, another descended a tree trunk headfirst, pausing to look around. Owen Chantry spoke to his horse and turned into the aspen, weaving through the slim and graceful white trunks, around deadfalls and occasional boulders, fallen from the mountain.
The hogback, a ten-thousand-foot ridgeâtimbered on top, the sides rugged and almost sheerâthrust out from the mountain just below a peak called the Helmet. Before him were the towering cliffs of the Rampart Hills. He avoided the route that he had first taken around to the back of the hills, but turned toward the trail Doby Kernohan had discovered.
His problem was simple enough. He was to get Marny Fox out of there and, if there was time, to get whatever it was they were all looking for. Not for a minute did he believe it was gold.
Tracks of deer and elk were everywhere, and twice he saw the tracks of a grizzly, distinguished from other bears by the long claws on the forepaws. He noticed a log the bear had ripped open to get at the termites.
Once he paused near a small stream to watch a dipper bob up and down on a rock. He saw a school of trout lurking in a shady place where a branch hung low on the water. No amount of seeing ever made nature old to him, and he was conscious of every movement and every sound.
It was very still. Sitting his horse among the trees Chantry could look up above the towering red cliffs at the clear blue sky, tumbled with banks of fleecy white clouds.
Somewhere he was conscious of movement. It was no sound he heard, but simply some feeling, some sense that alerted his nerves. He put a hand to the stock of his rifle, then stayed it. He could feel the weight of his pistol and sat quietly, listening.
No sound.â¦Touching a heel to the ribs of the black, he started forward, holding to the thickest stand of trees. He sat up straight, weaving among them, emerging suddenly into a small clearing. He crossed it at a fast walk.
He was now almost directly under the cliffs. Again he paused to listen, studying the narrow opening before him. Chantry swore softly under his breath. He had no love for such places. A man up in those rocks with a rifle.â¦
He rode forward swiftly, trotted his horse to the gap, and then started up. It was a steep climb, but the sooner up the better.
Topping out at the head of the draw he rode swiftly into the trees, then drew up and, dismounting, tied his horse with a slipknot as usual
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