Roy Dudley The Calico Chimera Page 1

CHAPTER 1

   Wind-blown and icy rain formed an impenetrable curtain, closing visibility to a few feet; the wind and rain whipping man and horse, turning the slopes into treacherous mud. Continuous lightning flickered overhead, a pale candle soon extinguished by the fury of the storm. The following thunder echoed angrily, reverberating among the peaks and assaulting the ears with its fury.

   Dave Cameron reined his unhappy horse to a stop, only slightly concerned. He reached absently for his pipe, discovered his slicker covering it, and dropped his hand to the saddle horn. The horse shifted impatiently and was quieted automatically.

   Dave did not know the slopes or the country, rendering riding dangerous on the muddy inclines. He hesitated, sorting his impressions of the terrain, but watching the storm too, and remotely enjoying its savagery.

   Holding the reins in one hand, he dismounted stiffly, shifted his hand on the reins closer to the horse's head. He stood quietly, from all appearances an immensely patient figure, impervious to the elements. This was a contradiction of his character, this seeming patience in a largely impetuous man.

   His restless horse pushed his muzzle against Dave's side inquiringly. "Easy does it," Dave drawled, and scratched the horse's ears.

   The rain had not come suddenly, and he could have sought shelter with time to spare. Instead, he had pushed forward in the evening of a darkening day, impatient to reach the valley below him and thread the foothills. This first rashness had cooled under the press of the present danger; and he reviewed the appearance of the mountainous terrain in his mind. Somewhat reassured by his recollections, he descended, leading the horse and quartering the slope, seeking a sheltered spot to wait out the rain.

   He passed into a grove of pines, and hopefully, paused in the lee of a large tree. The rain proved to be too heavy for the needles to sift. Rain poured onto his head in a concentrated flood. He abandoned this doubtful shelter and cast about somewhat blindly until he blundered into the tangled branches of a large deadfall. This would have to do it. He unsaddled his horse and dropped the reins, knowing the horse would find his own shelter and would not wander far.

   Dave worked his way through the dead branches along the trunk, feeling his way until he reached the roots. He found a meager three feet of head room under the tree trunk, and crowded into this scant shelter to squat on his haunches and wait out the rain. The approach of dusk saw the rain diminishing to intermittent light showers which soon ceased. Thunder rumbled ominously and lightning assaulted its assault on the higher peaks without mercy. A weak radiance pushed upward in the western sky, a halo in the sky to mark a sinking sun, a hole half-cloaked by clouds.

   Dave meticulously built a small fire from shredded bark, warmed his hands and started his sparse supper. His horse pushed close, liking the man smell, the warmth of the fire and the companionship. After a night's sleep and a hasty breakfast, Dave continued his eastern journey down the long slope. Traveling was slow, the slope slippery, and it was near mid-day before he entered more fertile country. Nightfall found him on the last of the slopes above a green valley.

   He allowed his horse to follow a trail of sorts, one dim and ill-defined, but a man-trail. Dave camped some thirty feet off this trail, at a handy place, just below a branching trail where passage became more definite. Below him, through the intervening branches of pines, he glimpsed grazing cattle; and once, a rider formed a high shape within his limited horizon.

   He cooked a meager meal over a small fire, then prudently extinguished the fire. Sitting motionless in the approaching darkness, he ate his meal, watching twilight darken the land and fade into night. By full darkness, his face had turned pensive, heavy with the thinking of a man long alone and far from familiar places.

   It was long after full darkness when he spread his slicker over the wet surface for a ground sheet and rolled into his blankets. He was soon asleep, the soft voices of the night soothing his ears. A faint sense of trouble brought him wide awake. Perhaps the trouble rode the winds of a breeze, a slight sound; and perhaps it rode the wings of something less understood. Nevertheless, it awakened him fully. A chill breeze brushed his face and rustled the pines. He lay quietly, wary and feeling out this warning. No unusual sound intruded. He shifted his body without a sound, and had the comfortable grip of his revolver in his hand. Although pushed by a nameless sense of danger, he had no sense of immediate trouble and slowly threw his blankets aside. With his revolver at his side, he sat up, tugged on his boots and buckled his gun belt about his waist. Another slight hesitation, and he holstered his revolver. He eased himself nearer his horse, both to keep the horse quiet and for the comfort the animal's presence afforded.

   The star clock indicated an hour after midnight. The darkness cloaked a starry sky, enveloped the slope and blanketed the valley solidly. The sleepy call of an owl sounded, nothing else. He concentrated his senses more fully, feeling and listening. Nothing, other than an ancient sense of danger prickling his senses, remote but definite. In the course of a stormy life, he had learned to trust this feeling, but had not learned to rationalize it thoroughly. He saddled and bridled his horse in the darkness, moving slowly, making little sound. After a slight hesitation, he rolled his blankets and packed his bedroll by feel. With no reason and with no tangible evidence of anything amiss, he stood irresolute for a moment before tying his blanket roll behind the saddle. He was prepared to leave if necessary. The warning was that definite.

   A gun shot racketed across the valley, awakening echoes, the sharp crack of a rifle from far out in the valley. Dave waited, fully alert. Within minutes, the muffled sound of a running horse climbing the slope rode the breeze. Still he waited. The sound of horse's hooves drew nearer, and the labored grunts of the animal became more pronounced. A horse wouldn't last long under that kind of punishment; and a man who treated a horse that badly was in one helluva a hurry or damned careless with horse flesh. The sound of more horses reached Dave, these pretty far away and following the first rider. At least, the horses explained the hast of the first rider.

   Why the shot? The pursuers were out of effective range of the rider. Was there a third party involved? Was the shot a warning? A warning of what? or for whom? With his mind caught up in the various possibilities, he must remind himself that this little drama was none of his business. Any man with a touch of sanity would stay under cover and allow the chase to pass.

   Dave believed himself to be such a man. He idled the horse away from the trail, until satisfied he could not be seen, and not likely to be scented by passing horses. To wreck his brief self-satisfaction, he heard something which changed his mind entirely; a voice urging the horse to greater endeavors, a female voice.

   He paused only for a moment, then mounted and returned to the trail, trying to adjust his thinking. He waited until the rider was almost on top of him, and the rider's horse had spooked, before he spoke.

"Hold up! Hold it! I'm a friend," he called softly. The climbing faltered. He repeated the words more softly yet. The climbing horse stopped, his breath sawing in his throat.

"Where does the trail to your right lead?" he asked quietly. And when there was no answer, he snapped impatiently, "Quick now."

   The gloom under the trees was so complete that it allowed him only the faint shine of a white face, an erect form and a dim shape. There followed a lengthening silence, the woman wondering if she could trust him and his questions. He relaxed, letting her take her time. She hadn't much to guide her, only a voice in the darkness.

"Back to the valley," a husky voice replied.

   He hesitated momentarily, trying to assess her sparse words, impatience pushing him hard and rashness having its way with him. The voice was unusually calm and with no attempt at disguise which he could detect.

   "Is it clear all the way?" he asked.

   "Yes, except for low tree branches."

   "Take the left fork up the hill," he drawled. "Walk your horse and stop before your friends reach the fork. I'll lead them off."

   Although lack of time pushed against him heavily, his words were even and unhurried.

   "Why?"

   A sudden rashness boiled over, the curious question bringing a wry chuckle from him. "Dunno. Just do as I say."

   "All right."

   "Maybe you'd better get moving then," he suggested with another soft chuckle. He dropped in behind her, followed her to the branch in the trail and stopped his horse.

   he continued along the left fork, her horse stumbling but his breathing easing. A faint, "Thanks," floated down to him. Dave waited quietly, until the sound of her horse had died and the racket of those climbing the trail became louder. The recent rain furnished a slippery footing; and the cursing of riders blended with the sounds of horses slipping and sliding. Judging solely from the sounds made by the horses and riders, Dave guessed at five or six horsemen. Did they know they chased a woman? Did they care? Would they shoot? At this thought, a cool breeze played its fingers along his spine. They had already shot.

   He allowed his horse to drift slowly along the dark trail; and when the riders pulled up at the branching of the trail, he pushed his horse to a gallop. This was not a fast gallop, for an acute puncher might notice a difference in the horse's gait.

   A wild yell sounded and a revolver popped. A heavy voice yelled, "Put that up, you fool." And the chase began.

   Dave held the pace down to be certain his pursuers would not lose him in the darkness. His horse was the fresher and stronger; and he could leave them behind if he wished. The expected and forewarned branches whipped Dave's face and clothing, forcing him to partially shield his face with one hand and duck low across the horse's neck. He recklessly increased his pace until his pursuers' tired horses dropped back, beyond revolver range.

   The trail was a barely discernible, lighter slash across the blackness, crowded with trees, but reasonably smooth and at an even gradient. Then his horse slipped on a sharper slope, and he must trust to his horse's superior senses. Holding a light hand on the reins, and not extending his mount, he steadily drew away.

   The sound of his pursuers faded, the only sound, the muffled hooves of his own horse. In a short time, he slowed the horse to a more sensible pace.

   The crowded trees abruptly broke away to either side; and he entered a valley relatively clear of trees and brush. He immediately curved to the right and slowed to a soft trot, roughly paralleling his previous course, but in the opposite direction. Within a minute, he returned to the trees, idled the horse up a ragged slope and stopped.

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