Montana farmer-stockman. [volume], July 01, 1951, Page 16, Image 16

About Montana farmer-stockman. [volume] (Great Falls, Mont.) 1947-1993

Image provided by: Montana Historical Society; Helena, MT

                
fialisATL
A Short Story
By JIM KJELGARD
HAMMERS STOOD on the ridge,
looking down into Lost Valley, when
he heard the blood hound bay. It
was a deep and resonant sound that
floated past him into the distance,
struck some invisible barrier there,
and shattered into a dozen hollow
echoes that came bounding back.
A second after the sound arose, it
was hushed.
Hammers shifted the heavy,
'scope-sighted hunting rifle from his
left hand to his right and turned
around. The wind that blew from
the direction in which the hound's
bay had arisen parted his straw
colored hair and brought a thin film
of moisture to his cold, agate eyes.
He turned again, to face the long,
rock-bound valley. He did not hurry
or make any motion that was not
deliberately calculated. Everything
was working out to an exact and
set pattern.
It was a pattern whose every turn
and minutest detail he had deter
mined even before he had stepped
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from the barn back in Coldwater
and shattered Vance George's spine
with a two hundred and twenty
grain slug from his rifle. Hammers
had known when he slew Vance
George that he would have to run
before Sheriff Joe Healey's blood
hounds.
But he had also known exactly
how he was going to run and where
he was going to go. Sheriff Joe
Healey would follow a pattern. Of
his two blood hounds, one would be
loosed on the trail to run ahead. The
other, leashed, would walk beside
Joe Healey. Cold water's sheriff, a
steady, slow man who would not
easily change his methods, invari
ably hunted that way.
For a moment, letting his jaw
hang open the better to hear, Ham
mers listened for a repetition of the
bloodhound's voice. There was none,
but he hadn't expected any. Joe
Healey's hounds did not often bay
on a trail. But they had tongued
once, and they were precisely where
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Hammers had thought they would
be. The pattern was working out
in exact detail.
HAMMERS STARTED down into
Lost valley.
That was a long, ugly, serpentine
gash in the earth. Huge boulders
were spread haphazardly on the low
hills that flanked it, and, in the
bottom of the valley, a sparkling
little stream wandered disconsolate
ly among the boulders. Here and
A
I
He knew exactly how
far to elevate the mus
ile of his rifle. . . . The,
first shot would kill Joe
Healey. ...
r
*
there a few scraggly bushes strug
gled for a root hold among the gray
desolation. But the only vegetation
worthy of note was four hundred
feet ahead of Hammers and on top
of the north ridge.
A big pine, with dead spikes of
branches halfway up its rough
barked trunk, had somehow found
a rooting place in the only patch of
soil among the dead, gray boulders.
For a hundred feet all around it,
seeds that the big pine had cast
down fought for survival in the
barren soil and some were winning
their fight. Little pines, from three
to 10 feet high, clustered thickly
about the base of the big one and
formed a green oasis in this valley
of no color.
Hammers glanced at it again. The
cluster of pines had been included
in his plans to kill Vance George,
and before he had blasted the back
of his old enemy with a slug, Ham
mers had come up here with a sur
veyor's tape and measured the dis
tance from the edge of the pines to
a big, alligator-like rock in the very
bottom of the valley. It had been ex
actly 381 yards, easy shooting range
for the rifle he carried.
HAMMERS WALKED on, meas
uring his steps with the clock-like
precise mechanism of a co-ordinated
and disciplined brain. When he left
Coldwater he had counted on an
hour's start. Of course the blast of
the rifle would have been heard and
investigated at once. Vance George's
body, lying in the darkened alley,
would be found almost immediately.
But it would still be an hour before
whoever found it collected his jolted
senses and reported that find to
Sheriff Healey, and until the sheriff
got on the trail.
Hammers stepped into the icy lit
tie stream and waded for 200 feet
down it. Even as he did so, he was
aware that it was a foolish thing
and a childish trick. Nobody in the
world could .throw a trained blood
hound off his trail merely by walk
ing in the water. The dog might
hesitate, but he would find the trail.
Just the same, to anyone watching
with binoculars from the head of
the valley, this little break, and the
dog's actions when he came to it,
would convey the impression of a
terrified fugitive who was striving
desperately to hide his trail.
KÄMMERS EMERGED from the
stream and started in to run. He
was still not panic-stricken or afraid
because he had calculated every
thing to the last decimal point. Joe
Healey's blood hounds could detect
body scent of a man at 1,000 feet,
But, with the wind against them.
they could not detect that same
scent at 381 yards,
Where the valley bent sharply to
west, Hammers mounted the north
slope. Reaching its summit, he aban
doned all pretense and started in to
run.
Hammers was almost back at the
cluster of pines when he saw the
hound go by. It was a big, dun
colored dog with flapping ears and
wagging trail, and it was trotting
slowly down Lost valley on the
exact trail he had made. Hammers
smiled, but made no effort to con
ceal himself. A blood hound was
interested only in the trail it fol
lowed and in the various scent
stories that trail revealed. It would
never trust its eyes or look for its
prey. Hammers watched the dog
go down the valley.
The pattern was' still working out
in exact detail. Within five minutes
Sheriff Joe Healeyf and the leashed
hound, would appear. Hammers lov
ingly caressed the rifle he carried.
He could not miss, and the citizens
of Coldwater had a deep and abiding
faith in their sheriff. They'd expect
him to be gone two or three days on
this hunt. With even 24 hours un
hindered start, Hammers knew he
could get so deep within the wild
erness that nobody would ever find
him.
HAMMERS LOOKED at the bot
tom of the valley to find the alli
gator-shaped rock. He discerned it,
and made his way toward the in
viting pines. He knew exactly how
far to elevate the muzzle of his rifle
from their outer-most fringe to the
alligator-shaped rock. The first shot
would kill Joe Healey, and it would
be easy to take care of the hounds.
Hammers backed into the pines.
^'^ ien was jolted into a cold,
terrifying paralysis by the sound of
an eas y. almost tired voice, "All
riS^t, Hammers, drop your gun."
Hammers let the hunting rifle
fall from nerveless fingers and
forced himself around to face Joe
Healey. Beads of sweat stood on
the sheriff's forehead and his face
was red, as though he had been
running. But the muzzle of the .38
into which Hammers looked did not
waver. Joe Healey spoke,
"You lousy, yellow-bellied bush
whackers all think on the same
track, don'cha, Hammers? Of four
I've followed up here in the last
nine years, ever' blasted one has
tried the same dam' thing.