Devil's Manhunt

 

At fourteen, Tim had gone wandering across the West as a boy of all work, under the most indifferent masters, a runaway from a home that wouldn’t have him. He had learned prospecting in two heartbreaking years under the absolute tyranny of old Scotty O’Rourke—who had outlived three partners and had tried to outlive Tim. The world-weary youngster now saw himself as a successful young man; he wanted a ranch of his own, fine horses to ride, and the wherewithal to influence the unkind.

 

At twenty-three he had it all within his grasp. Now and then he would straighten up, limber his back and gaze ahead of him. But he was not seeing red rocks and pines; he was seeing ranch houses, thousands of cattle grazing, white horse fences and himself in fine clothes. It was an innocent dream.

 

At four o’clock on the afternoon of July 13, it was shattered entirely and utterly.

 

A shadow fell across his sluice and Tim stopped, not looking back, but staring at the reflection in the cold blue gleam of a Winchester barrel.

 

The first words he heard bit deep. They were indifferently, even wearily, spoken. “Wait a minute, Sven, don’t kill him.”

 

Tim held on to the sluice box to keep his hands from shaking. He turned carefully until he stood leaning against the rough, hard slabs, water curling around his ankles, sweat growing cold on his face. The man called Sven was rendered even more huge by his standing on the bank two feet higher than the water.

 

He was shaggy, with matted hair; his clothes were nondescript and slovenly. His face was big, with small eyes.

 

The other man was seated on a rock. He was young, handsome, about twenty-eight and dressed in neat corduroy.

 

“I don’t know how you feel about it, Sven,” he said, “but I’ve no taste for the muck and moil in the July sun. There are a few thousands yet in the gravel pile and our friend here appears to be a willing worker. Aren’t you, son?”

 

Sven grunted and lowered the end of the Winchester to the ground. It looked like a small stick in his hand, and the big pistol which girded him was a toy against the hugeness of his thigh.

 

“Don’t let us interrupt your work, my friend,” said the young man.

 

“How did you make it across the sinks?” said Tim.

 

“Why, as to that, there are two men who didn’t—two men and a mule.” He laughed quietly and looked at his gun.

 

Tim saw the extra canteen which was slung about Sven, and knew with an abrupt insight why the two were not here.

 

“A pleasant place,” said the young man. “I dare say that you have had all this peak with its foothills to yourself. Looks like there is game. I told you there would be game, Sven. Something to eat. Something to kill.”

 

“You vant Aye should shoot some meat, Mr. Bonnet? Or you vant to hunt it again?”

 

“Seen any mountain lion or bear up here, my young friend?”

 

Tim looked from Bonnet to Sven. Something of the terror of his situation was coming clear to him, turning his stomach like ground glass.

 

“Our young friend here doesn’t seem to be of much help as a hunting guide. Supposing you step out there, Sven, and take a bead on a potential banquet. If you see any bear or puma, or anything worthwhile, let me know.”

 

Bonnet did not bother to aim a weapon. He had already possessed himself of the rifle that had been in Tim’s camp and had loaded it. He let it lie unnoticed at his feet.

 

Tim looked at the rifle and at the far bank. A crooked, almost hopeful smile appeared faintly on Bonnet’s face. He hitched himself back a few feet from the rifle. His tongue caressed his parched lips. Tim was cold inside. Bonnet hitched himself further away from the weapon, and his smile grew, showing even, perfect teeth.

 

Bonnet reached inside his coat and brought out a short gun which he tossed down the bank so that it lay only a little further from Tim than the rifle was from Bonnet.

 

Tim’s fingernails were sinking into the sluice. He could envision himself lunging forward and grabbing the gun, could see Bonnet snatching at the rifle. He tried desperately to anticipate the outcome, crouched a little lower.

 

Suddenly Tim sprang up the bank, sweeping the Smith and Wesson into his grasp and leveling it. With some astonishment he saw that Bonnet had not moved but stood looking with bright eyes upon Tim. The Smith and Wesson’s hammer fell on an empty chamber, then another—another, another, another and another.

 

Bonnet picked up the rifle, jacked the shell into its chamber and laid the weapon across his knees. “Throw the gun here, young man. In a few days, when you have all the gold out of that gravel and neatly sacked, you and I may yet entertain ourselves with a little sport.” He laughed quietly.