The Old Wolves (22 page)

“Maybe we can't climb it, you old scudder, but that don't mean Greta can't. Later, much later, long after good dark, I'm gonna crab on out there and take a better look at it. If it looks like the crack might go all the way up, and someone beside our old selves
might
be able to climb it, I say we try it.”

Greta and Drago shared a look. Greta turned back to Spurr, hiked a shoulder. “Why the hell not?”

Boomer shrugged, then, too. “Might as well die out there than in here, I reckon.”

TWENTY-SEVEN

The night got colder and darker. The snow continued to fall. It was not a hard, fast snowfall but a steady dusting that accumulated like feathers on the ledge outside the cave.

Spurr and Boomer took turns hunkering as close as they dared to the ledge, looking around in the darkness and listening for more outlaws intent on stealing up to the cave.

By the time midnight had rolled around, no one had tried. Keneally's men all seemed content on letting Spurr, Drago, and Greta endure a miserable night in the cold cave without further harassment. Even if they'd had wood to burn, Spurr would not have built a fire. A fire would have made him and his trail partners easy targets and made it impossible for them to watch for anyone stealing up out of the dark night.

The outlaws kept the fire built up after midnight. Likely, they'd keep it going all night long. Spurr figured they'd have at least two men—maybe only one—watching the cave while the others slept. The way the outlaws would see it, there was little need for all of them to watch. After all, they were after only two old men and a girl.

One or two watchers, with the watch changing every couple of hours, would do.

At least, Spurr was banking on only that many keeping watch.

He was also banking on the notion that sometime after midnight, the watcher or watchers would nod off. Or at least get so tired that their senses would become dull enough that Spurr, Greta, and Drago could crab over to the cleft and climb without being heard or seen.

The three hunted ones waited restlessly, nervously, until after three
A.M
. Then Spurr took a drink of water, grabbed his rifle, slung his canteen over his shoulder, and kept his voice low as he told Drago and Greta, “Cover me. If I think that crack looks climbable, I'll give a soft whistle. Very soft, so be listening for it. Then Greta, you come. Crawl real slow and quiet-like. Then you, Boomer.”

They were all three huddled together in the middle of the cave.

Spurr worried over it some more, tugging on his beard, and then he said, “And for godsakes, don't make any noise to draw their attention. I'm hoping whoever they got watchin' the cave fell asleep or is busy playin' with himself.”

“Don't count on it,” Drago said. “Just stay low an' quiet, Spurr.”

Spurr curled his upper lip at the old outlaw. “Kiss me for luck, Boomer?”

“I will.” Greta hugged him, pecked his cheek. “Good luck. I hope we can climb up out of here, but”—she shook her head—“I'm not counting on it.”

“That's prob'ly wise.”

Spurr took a final pull from their last bottle, handed the whiskey to Drago. He left his saddlebags, which would be too unwieldy to climb with in the event the cavity was climbable, and then crawled, belly down to the cave opening and beyond. He'd removed his hat so he'd make a smaller shadow, and now he cast a quick glance into the darkness of the downslope.

The fire shimmered orange between the black velvet silhouettes of boulders. He had no idea where a possible watcher would be lurking. If the man or men were close and keeping a sharp eye on the cave mouth, Spurr would likely find out soon enough.

Holding his rifle in his one hand, keeping his canteen slung straight down his back and away from the ground, he crawled around the left wall of the cave and, with painstaking slowness, gritting his teeth, continued to crawl along the base of the ridge. There was a slight breeze swirling the fallen snow—the snow had stopped falling around midnight—and he hoped it would obscure his silhouette.

Still, he held to a snail's pace, moving one elbow and one knee, and then the other elbow and the other knee, keeping his rifle above the slight ledge he was on so it wouldn't make any noise. Once, he dragged the butt, and he froze and whipped a look down the slope.

Nothing moved or stirred. The fire continued to shimmer but he could see less of it from his current vantage.

He continued crawling. When he'd covered the last few feet to the cleft, he was happy to see that it was even deeper than it had appeared from the cave. It was damn deep as a closet, and it was angled so that, facing the cleft, Spurr's shoulder was almost but not quite perpendicular to the canyon.

The cavity's angle to the canyon should keep Spurr and the others out of view of the outlaws. Now, to see if they could climb it . . .

Ah, to be a few years younger. Make that thirty years younger . . .

He leaned forward, squinted at the long fissure and followed it up with his gaze, pleased to see that it appeared to run to the crest of the ridge fifty or so feet away. He leaned his rifle against the ridge, set a moccasin on a little cleft about a foot up from the ledge floor, and reached up with his left hand, finding another hold—a pocket in the crenelated rock.

There was some gravel and shards in the pocket. He dug them out and started climbing, his heart beating faster when he found that the fissure seemed to have plenty of places to put his feet and his hands. At least it did within ten feet of the bottom.

He had to assume it would have plenty all the way to the top. He had no choice. The problem was, his heart was beating fast because of his excitement at having possibly found a way out of the cave and out of the canyon, but it was also beating fast from exertion. And his chest ached.

Sweat was cold beneath the band of his hat. He could feel the perspiration dripping like melting snow down his back.

Could he make it all the way to the top?

He eased himself back down to the floor and glanced at the rifle. He wouldn't be able to climb with it. Have to leave it here. He turned to peer back along the ridge to the cave mouth. He saw two silhouetted heads poking out of the cave's darkness, and made a brief, soft whistling sound.

One of the silhouettes slid out away from the cave mouth and dropped low to the ground. Spurr hunkered on his haunches, wincing nervously as he watched Greta inch her way toward him. It took her over five minutes to reach him, moving slowly and staying low, and when she did, Spurr helped her up and gently pulled her back inside the notch, out of sight from the canyon.

“You think we can climb it?” she asked in his ear.

Spurr nodded as he turned to watch Boomer crawl toward him. The old lawman stretched a glance out around the wall of the notch and saw the orange shimmer of the outlaws' fire.

A few granular snowflakes blew in the breeze. The night was eerily quiet. He wondered where the watcher or watchers were. If they were staring this way, he hoped like hell they didn't pick out the moving shadow that was Boomer Drago.

If they did, he and his partners were dead.

Drago took only a little longer to traverse the ten feet between the cave mouth and the cleft where Spurr and Greta waited, holding their breaths. When he did, Spurr saw that the old outlaw had brought his rifle, too.

“Gonna have to leave it,” Spurr said in his ear. “Gonna need both hands.”

Drago glanced out toward the gauzy-dark canyon, then turned back to Spurr and nodded.

“Who wants to go first?” Spurr whispered above the breeze rasping across the hollow.

“Greta should go,” Boomer said.

She turned to look up at the crack running nearly straight down from the top of the brow-like mantle of rock. She leaned against the crack and started climbing. Spurr held his hands out in case she fell. When she was six feet above him, she stopped and looked down.

“All right?” Spurr asked her.

She nodded, looked up, and continued climbing, loosing chunks of rock in her wake. Some of the chunks pelted Spurr's hat brim and landed on the ledge floor around his moccasins with light clinking sounds.

Spurr turned to Boomer standing directly behind him, nearly brushing against him. “You go next.”

The outlaw shook his head. “You go. I'll cover your bony ass.”

“I may not make it. Don't wanna block the way.”

“You got as good a chance as I do.”

Spurr was getting riled. He hardened his jaws as he put his face within four inches of Boomer's, and said in a raspy bark, “I ain't gonna stand here an' chin with you all night, Drago! Now, one of us has to go, an' I'm playin' the fiddle. Dance!”

As Drago gave a haughty chuff and stepped around him toward the cleft, Spurr gave his gaze to the canyon. Apprehension dropped like a stone in his belly when he saw a shadow pass in front of the fire, angling up the slope toward the cave.

He didn't see the shadow for long, but something told him it was not a good sign.

Someone was stirring. It might be one of the gang members heading up the hill to relieve one of the watchers, but it might also mean one or more was making a move on the cave. It would be a good time of the night to do it, when it was as dark as it was going to get and when the two old men and girl might have fallen asleep or at least let their guards down.

Drago bumped into him from behind. “Shit!” the outlaw rasped.

Spurr turned to him, his heart thudding wildly now, anxiously. “What the hell is it?”

“Skinned my knee!”

“Get the hell up there, you old coot—I think your boys are movin' around!”

“Shit!”

Drago lifted a foot to a small cleft inside the cavity. When he put weight on that foot, it slid off the cleft, and he fell forward, cursing again.

Spurr sighed, shook his head. Oh, well, it had been worth a try.

“I don't think this is gonna work,” Drago said in Spurr's ear.

Spurr looked up. Greta was about fifteen feet above him and Boomer, holding her position and looking above her as though for a place to put her hand. Spurr turned to Drago. “Give it one more try. If you can't make it, your boys'll be more than happy to entertain you for the rest of the evening.”

Drago chuffed heavily and then turned back to the cavity. He fished around for some holds, managed to maintain them, and started climbing. He climbed clumsily, looking like he could fall out away from the notch at any time, but Spurr would be damned if the old outlaw didn't keep crabbing his way up the crack behind Greta.

Spurr glanced out at the canyon once more. Several shadows were moving along the slope. They appeared to be moving
up
the hill, toward the cave. In the quiet night, he heard the snick of a boot scuffing gravel. A man said,
“Shhh!”

The shadows stopped moving. Spurr counted at least four. If he could see that many in the darkness cloaking the slope, there must have been more. The entire gang—which was probably down to six, more or less—must be closing on the cave, hoping to surprise their quarry with a lead bath.

Spurr looked up the cavity before him. Drago was moving slowly, carefully picking his hand– and footholds. Greta was so far up now that Spurr could only see her vague shadow against the darker background of the ridge.

Spurr thrust his left hand into the cavity, grabbed ahold of that pocket he'd grabbed before, and lifted his right foot onto a slight shelf about a foot above the ledge. He heaved himself up, feeling with his right hand and his left foot for another hold higher up.

He found them, pushed off his foot, and pulled with his hand. His heart fluttered. He was breathing hard, dizzy, his chest feeling like a bird was pecking away at his ticker. Behind and below, he sensed more than heard or saw movement on the slope beneath the cave.

He kept the brunt of his concentration on the cavity before him, picking out handholds by sight as well as by feel, probing each foothold carefully before setting his weight on it. One misstep and he'd fall to the ledge. If the fall itself didn't kill him, Keneally's men would have the honor, but they'd no doubt take their time acquiring it . . .

Spurr was about a third of the way to the ridge, feeling like a bug on a wall, moving slowly and deliberately but steadily, sweat dribbling down his forehead and his cheeks and down his back beneath his shirt. He set his right moccasin into the same crack in which he'd placed his right hand a moment ago.

The crack broke under his foot. Gravel went clattering off down the cavity. Spurr dug both hands into separate holds and syphoned all his strength to his arms while he ground his right foot deeper into the crack, until he'd regained purchase.

Cursing, he listened to the clattering of the gravel on the floor of the ledge now about thirty feet below.

A voice rose on the downslope—not loud but loud enough for Spurr to hear from his lofty perch over the canyon. He heard foot thuds, the rake of gravel along the slope.

He cursed and continued climbing, gritting his teeth and grinding his jaws with every push and heave. He looked up to see Drago about fifteen feet away. The old outlaw had stopped. Spurr could see his face, firelight reflecting wanly off his cheeks above his beard, as Boomer looked down at him.

“Keep . . . g-goin'!” Spurr raked out as he pushed and pulled himself up the crack, Boomer's sweat dribbling cold against his face.

“Was that you?”

“J-just keep movin'!”