coming out of the pass and disappearing into the trees.
Crouching on his heels, he peered through the stand of aspen and tried to make out what lay below and ahead of him. After a while, moving on cat feet, he worked his way along the slope. He had gone only a short distance when, glancing down through the trees, he saw a man crouching behind some rocks. He held a rifle in his hand and he was watching the slide. For a moment Brian considered attempting to go down the slope to the man, but he would almost certainly be heard, and because of the intervening growth, a bullet might be deflected. He pulled back and continued silently along the slope. For some time, perhaps for an hour, the man would stay there. Suddenly he thought . .
. a horse! Somewhere nearby the man's horse must be picketed.
Ever so slowly, and working with infinite care, he eased down the slope, searching from every vantage point for a glimpse of the horse. And then he saw him, feeding in a small meadow some two hundred yards from the hidden rifleman.
It took him twenty minutes of painstaking work to get to the horse, but only seconds to gather the reins and get into the saddle. Yet at this moment a horse was not what he wanted, for any rider would be under observation by the Kelsey outfit wherever they were.
Searching for an opening, he found one, and scrambled the horse up the slope into the trees. For several minutes he stayed in the saddle, working his way along the slope, pausing every time he could get a glimpse of the pass below or the opening valley ahead. He could still see the trail in the grass, and could see it as well from up on the mountainside as in the valley.
Only now he could see two trails, one evidently made when Kelsey's riders discame up the valley. He was now on the flank of Atlantic Peak, with the Sweetwater Needles ahead. Most of the peak was above timberline, so he kept lower, working his way around deadfalls and blow-downs.
Suddenly he saw the horse's ears prick and he drew up. Down through the trees, off the slope and on the very edge of a wide sweep of grassland he saw a camp, almost a mile away.
Smoke was lifting from a fire and he could see movement. He rode on, carefully working his way closer. He was several hundred feet higher than the camp, and when he decided he was within a quarter of a mile he drew up and got down.
For the first time he checked the saddle. There was an empty rifle scabbard, a blanket roll behind the saddle, a pair of saddlebags. He opened one of these and found a small sack of .44's, caps, and two loaded cylinders. A neatly wrapped packet of jerky and hardtack, and in the very bottom a dozen rings, several watches, and a handful of coins, mostly gold. It was obviously loot from the wagon train. In the other saddlebag there was a pair of socks, a sack of tobacco, and a derringer, double barreled and loaded. He pocketed the .44's and the spare cylinders, the packet of food, and the derringer. Then with his knife he cut the saddle strings from the saddle, and stuffing the other items into a pocket, he took one string and fastened a lanyard to which he tied the trigger guard of the derringer. Slipping off his coat, he tied the rawhide around his arm above the elbow to let the gun dangle within two inches of the edge of his cuff. Then he put on his coat.
Leaving the horse tied to some brush he went on along the slope, always moving carefully.
When closer to the camp he squatted down among the aspen and studied the layout.
Judging by the horses, there were at least ten men down below. Some were sprawled on the ground sleeping; one was cleaning a rifle, another was preparing food over a fire, and others were idling about, talking. He could hear no voices, and he worked his way down the slope, wary of making the slightest sound. When he stopped again he could distinguish the voices, and he could also see his gray horse, and several other horses he thought he recognized.
Shifting his position so he
Crouching on his heels, he peered through the stand of aspen and tried to make out what lay below and ahead of him. After a while, moving on cat feet, he worked his way along the slope. He had gone only a short distance when, glancing down through the trees, he saw a man crouching behind some rocks. He held a rifle in his hand and he was watching the slide. For a moment Brian considered attempting to go down the slope to the man, but he would almost certainly be heard, and because of the intervening growth, a bullet might be deflected. He pulled back and continued silently along the slope. For some time, perhaps for an hour, the man would stay there. Suddenly he thought . .
. a horse! Somewhere nearby the man's horse must be picketed.
Ever so slowly, and working with infinite care, he eased down the slope, searching from every vantage point for a glimpse of the horse. And then he saw him, feeding in a small meadow some two hundred yards from the hidden rifleman.
It took him twenty minutes of painstaking work to get to the horse, but only seconds to gather the reins and get into the saddle. Yet at this moment a horse was not what he wanted, for any rider would be under observation by the Kelsey outfit wherever they were.
Searching for an opening, he found one, and scrambled the horse up the slope into the trees. For several minutes he stayed in the saddle, working his way along the slope, pausing every time he could get a glimpse of the pass below or the opening valley ahead. He could still see the trail in the grass, and could see it as well from up on the mountainside as in the valley.
Only now he could see two trails, one evidently made when Kelsey's riders discame up the valley. He was now on the flank of Atlantic Peak, with the Sweetwater Needles ahead. Most of the peak was above timberline, so he kept lower, working his way around deadfalls and blow-downs.
Suddenly he saw the horse's ears prick and he drew up. Down through the trees, off the slope and on the very edge of a wide sweep of grassland he saw a camp, almost a mile away.
Smoke was lifting from a fire and he could see movement. He rode on, carefully working his way closer. He was several hundred feet higher than the camp, and when he decided he was within a quarter of a mile he drew up and got down.
For the first time he checked the saddle. There was an empty rifle scabbard, a blanket roll behind the saddle, a pair of saddlebags. He opened one of these and found a small sack of .44's, caps, and two loaded cylinders. A neatly wrapped packet of jerky and hardtack, and in the very bottom a dozen rings, several watches, and a handful of coins, mostly gold. It was obviously loot from the wagon train. In the other saddlebag there was a pair of socks, a sack of tobacco, and a derringer, double barreled and loaded. He pocketed the .44's and the spare cylinders, the packet of food, and the derringer. Then with his knife he cut the saddle strings from the saddle, and stuffing the other items into a pocket, he took one string and fastened a lanyard to which he tied the trigger guard of the derringer. Slipping off his coat, he tied the rawhide around his arm above the elbow to let the gun dangle within two inches of the edge of his cuff. Then he put on his coat.
Leaving the horse tied to some brush he went on along the slope, always moving carefully.
When closer to the camp he squatted down among the aspen and studied the layout.
Judging by the horses, there were at least ten men down below. Some were sprawled on the ground sleeping; one was cleaning a rifle, another was preparing food over a fire, and others were idling about, talking. He could hear no voices, and he worked his way down the slope, wary of making the slightest sound. When he stopped again he could distinguish the voices, and he could also see his gray horse, and several other horses he thought he recognized.
Shifting his position so he
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