It was too late for regrets. He should have thought of that before robbing the bank in Joplin. Too late for anything now except to wait, and run when he got the chance. And he smiled grimly, rubbing hard along the barrel of his .45. Who would have thought that it would have ended like this?
It was early morning when he awoke with the steel-hard light of winter slanting through the cracks of the propped-up door. There was a new smell to the air, a sharpness that had not been there the night before. He threw off the thin blanket and got to his feet numbly, knowing what he would see even before he pulled the door inward.
A long shelf of slaty, stonelike clouds had slipped in from the north during the night, and a gun-steel case was on the sky. The wind had settled and an uneasy hush lay over the prairie, and a prickle of warning started at Grant's neck and worked its way up to his scalp. There was snow and sleet in those clouds, and the kind of wind that only the plains country knew. He stepped outside into the funeral-like silence, a silence so heavy that the nervous stirring of prairie chickens startled him.
Then, from a distance, he heard the sound of hoofs, and his heart pounded a little faster in the hope that it might be Valois. But when he climbed the creek bank and lay belly down in the tall weeds, he saw two Creeks driving a small bunch of cattle to the south, ahead of the storm. When they over on his back and studied the sky thoughtfully. Already, in the east, the slablike clouds were shredded with sleet and snow, and the horizon shimmered behind a gauzy curtain of ice.
In a way the snow was good—it would cover any tracks that he might have left. At the same time it might hold up Valois. And—despite his resolutions—he found himself thinking of Rhea again. There was no telling how long a norther would last—it might hold up construction of the well for days. And there, he thought grimly, would go Rhea's dream, wiped out in a storm of snow and ice, and Ben Farley would have his way, after all.
He lay there for a long time, feeling strangely empty. And the loneliness at that moment was heavier than anything he had ever known before.
Almost too late did he hear the approach of more horses-several of them this time, coming from the north. Grant lay motionless in the rattling stand of mullein as the six horsemen broke out of a thicket at the far end of the creek and rode a plodding crow line cross-country toward Sabo. Grant heard his compressed breath whistle between his teeth when he recognized the lead rider as Jim Dagget.
Evidently the marshal hadn't wasted time trying to trail Grant from the lease but had picked up a posse and headed for the border to cut him off. Evidence of failure was etched like saber cuts at the corners of Dagget's hard mouth. The other riders glanced warily over their shoulders at the gathering storm, or slumped heavily in their saddles, sodden with fatigue and cold. Only the marshal rode stiffly erect, his restless, flashing eyes gouging at every bush and thicket.
Instinctively Grant pressed harder to the frozen ground as the marshal reined up a scant hundred yards away, and one of the riders said, “You see somethin', Marshal?”
“No. But it would be better if we spread out on either side of the creek and follow the stream back to Sabo.”
The rider grunted uneasily. “That norther's goin' to hit any minute now. Don't you think we'd better stick together?”
“Any fool can find his way home by following the creek, even in a snowstorm,” Dagget said. He tossed his head like an angry mountain lion and sniffed the air. “Grant's out there somewhere, probably between here and Sabo.”
“If he is, the storm will get him.”
“I don't want the storm to get him!” Dagget turned in the saddle and raked the riders with his anger. “That's a job I set for myself!”
The horses tramped nervously, betraying the emotions of their riders. “Well,” one of the horsemen said at last, not returning the marshal's gaze, “I guess we can spread out until the storm hits.”
The voices carried like bullets on the still air, and Grant could see the puffs of frost as the men talked; he could almost smell the warm animal odor of the steaming horses. As the riders quartered toward the creek, below the dugout, Grant let out the breath that he had been holding. This was too close for comfort. The sooner he got out of the Territory the better he would like it, storm or no storm. For he had glimpsed the marshal's rage, he had felt Dagget's iron-hard determination on the morning air. Dagget was a bulldog. He would never turn loose.
In spite of the cold, Grant felt his palms clammy with perspiration as he eased himself back down the creek bank. Then another thought occurred to him. What if Valois had started out with the provisions? What if the runner ran into Dagget as the posse followed the creek back to Sabo?
Then, suddenly, the air was no longer still. He could hear the storm coming like the subdued purr of a powerful locomotive from a great distance. The tall buffalo grass bent before the first gust, the weeds rattled, and the naked cotton-woods clacked their arms. A scattered volley of sleet slashed like buckshot against the creek bank.
Quickly Grant skidded down the creek bank, grabbed up an armful of driftwood, and made it back to the dugout before the storm struck full force. He propped the stockade door against the wind and packed loose dirt against the bottom. And now the snow came, and the slashing sleet; a dazzling white sheet seemed to have dropped in front of the dugout door so that Grant could not even see the other side of the creek. In this kind of weather cattle lost their way and died going around in circles, men froze to death on horseback, even the coyote and lobo wolf became confused and sometimes died.
But Grant's instinct warned him that Dagget would not become confused and would not die. Somehow the marshal would last out the storm. And then he would come again, searching.
So the storm had postponed the end but had not changed it. Grant stood for a moment at the door, watching the sleet and snow clog and fill the cracks, banking up against the stockade slab until the dugout was practically airtight, sealed against the storm.
Grant broke up a small mound of driftwood in the sod fireplace, shredded some dry bark, and got it going with a sulphur match. He smiled grimly as the thin ribbon of smoke climbed up to the porous ceiling, toward the half- filled opening that once had been the chimney. No use now worrying about smoke attracting attention from the outside!
Then, almost before the thought was completed, he heard the small, insignificant puff of sound, all but lost in the lashing of the wind. Grant came rigid, listening until his ears rang, waiting tensely for two more pistol shots— the universal call for help. Then, quietly, almost matter-of-factly, another small blunt note punctured the raging wind. Then, after a brief pause, another. And Grant crouched before the small fire, listening hard, but the only sound was that of the storm roaring through the draw of Slush Creek.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
AFTER A FEW minutes of listening to the storm it was easy to imagine that he had never heard the shots at all. It could easily have been something else, he told himself—dry branches cracking in the wind—a lot of things might sound like pistol shots in such a howling confusion of noises.
And anyway, it was none of his business. If one of the posse members had got into trouble, there were five other members to give a hand. And if it was one of the Indians-well, the Creeks knew more about this country than the white man.
But it was not so easy to let the thought drop there. The longer he waited, the harder he listened for other sounds that might be mistaken for pistol shots. There were none. He had not been mistaken; it had not been the sound of cracking branches. And as he crouched there, his hands held out to the bright warmth of the fire, he fought a quiet but bitter war within his conscience.
Suddenly he came to his feet, swearing hoarsely. Buttoning his windbreaker tight at the collar, he kicked the dirt away from the stockade door and shoved it back against the powdery drift. I've acted the fool so long, he thought savagely, maybe it's got to be my nature!
Outside the dugout the cold was breathtaking, the sleet slashed and cut like knives. He leaned heavily against the door and shoved it back into place. He paused a few paces in front of the dugout, already confused in the swirling white sea of snow. The icy weeds stood like tall, white bones, cracking like icicles as he pushed through to the creek. Here he dragged a cottonwood log up on the bank, then laid a long stick of driftwood across it to mark the point of the dugout. Breathing hard, he drew out his revolver and fired a single shot toward the swirling
