Deadman Canyon by Louis Trimble Read Free Book Online Page B

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    The trail from the high grasslands dropped steeply down a mountainside, narrowed to a cut across the face of a cliff rising out of a deep-bottomed gorge, and then broadened to enter a pine-fringed meadow.
    Clay shagged the bawling steers onto the narrow part of the trail and reined in the dun. He watched the steers as they plunged in panic across the cliff face to the safety of the meadow. There, in typical ornery cow fashion, they calmed down and began to crop grass as if the idea of coming down here had been their own all along.
    Clay studied the rough surface of the trail and the sheer drop alongside it. The fact that he had not been bothered by the sniper since coming up here bothered him. He had seen no one after sending Marnie and Pike running home with their tails between their legs.
    A delayed attack wasn’t Bick Damson’s usual way of operating. He had never waited in his life that Clay could remember, but always bulled in, arrogantly sure of his own strength. And Damson wasn’t a man to stand by and let the story of how Clay had handled his men get around. Even if Damson wasn’t behind the sniper, Clay reasoned, he would have tried by now to get back at Clay for what he’d done to Marnie and Pike.
    Unless Vanner had talked Damson into waiting. Clay considered this possibility. Vanner was a man who would seldom rush hurriedly into anything. He would bide his time, looking for the approach that would let him do the most damage with the least risk.
    Clay had the uneasy feeling that moment wasn’t far off. Each night he built a small signal fire on the rock above his camp, letting the judge and Tom Roddy know that he was all right. By now, the meaning of that fire would have circulated around town, and everyone would know Bick Damson hadn’t made good on his threat to run Clay out of the valley. And once the townspeople started to laugh at Damson, something would have to give. Clay didn’t think that even a man like Kemp Vanner could hold Damson back once the big man realized he was being made a public joke.
    Clay squeezed his eyes into a squint at the glare of the bright October day and raked a careful glance over the jumble of hills on the far side of the gorge. His gaze lingered on a deadfall made from the roots and branches of a huge pine uprooted by some previous winter storm. Had he seen a stirring there or was this waiting and wondering making him jumpy?
    He looked away and back again. There was no sign of movement near the deadfall. The air hung still and quiet in the sunshine, without even a hint of a breeze. Clay grunted.
    “Another few days of this and I’ll be seeing snipers in every shadow,” he told the dun. He gave it a slap. “Let’s get those cows down where they belong.”
    The dun nickered softly and moved out onto the narrow trail. Clay rode with one hand on the butt of his rifle. He felt a little foolish, but the uneasy feeling stuck in his craw and he couldn’t cough it free.
    He was nearly to the meadow when a rifle shot hammered through the still, cool air. Clay felt the whip of the bullet tug at the crown of his hat. He threw himself forward over the dun’s neck and lashed back with his heels. The dun surged forward as a second shot sent chips of rock flying just behind its kicking hoofs.
    The trees fringing the meadow cut off the sun abruptly. Clay straightened up and reined the dun to a halt. He pulled his rifle from the boot and dropped to the ground. He hurried back to the first tree at the end of the trail. From here he could see the far side of the gorge. He stepped into the open and raked the distant slope with three quick shots. The echo of his firing boiled through the rocks and then faded away. The air hung silent and golden in the sunlight, mocking him emptily.
    Clay stepped behind the protection of the tree and stared at the hillside. Nothing stirred. There was no hint at all that a man bent on killing him had been there a few moments before. Angrily, Clay