CHAPTER I
Dusk settled upon the land. It
was already dark within the confines of the coniferous forest. Tree limbs
drooped heavily under their rain-laden weight. A wind began to blow, fitfully
at first, then stronger. The nearby Chehalis
River ran bank full with dirty
brown floodwater, and was still rising. The rushing current and the wind were
the only sounds to be heard. And the monotonous pattering of
the unceasing rain.
In the dying light a man sighted
down a Winchester rifle over the
top of a Hemlock windfall. His dull faded clothes were soaked and rainwater
dripped from the brim of his hat. His boots and pants from the knees down were
caked with mud. A Colt pistol hung from a holster attached to a belt around the
man's waist.
Felton Connelly dearly wanted a
cigarette, but the risk was too great. He had been in this cramped position for
nearly an hour now without moving. The mud made a small sucking sound as he squirmed a little to ease a spasm in his leg. He peered over
the windfall trying to see into the rainy darkness.
He wondered what it actually was
that he looked for. Why he had stayed in that cramped position for the last
hour or so escaped him. Except that something was out of the ordinary.
Ever since someone had taken a
shot at him in Portland a few days
past, he was edgy. Now he was more edgy than ever. Not more than an hour ago
while walking through the forest, an alien sound came
from ahead of him. He crouched down behind the windfall, not wishing to walk
into unexpected danger. If there was danger. Once,
glancing along his back trail, he thought he detected a movement. So, he
decided to stay put.
The last vestiges of light
disappeared as the dark of night prevailed. Visibility was at best only a few
feet. Still, he did not move. He didn't have the nerve to move. He dearly
wanted the warmth of a campfire and the taste of harsh cigarette smoke. But,
some sixth sense seemed to warn him to stay put.
After riding the train from Portland
to Centralia, he caught a ride with
a teamster who was driving a wagonload of supplies as far as Rochester.
That was yesterday. For some odd reason, he thought he was being followed from
the time he left Centralia.
This morning, he left Rochester
on foot under cover of the predawn darkness. He thought he slipped away undetected,
but after passing Oakville in
midmorning he was sure he was being followed. Not that he had seen anything or
anybody on his back trail. It was that sixth sense that told him he was tailed.
Now, a few miles out of Oakville on
this stormy night, that same sixth sense was flashing another warning.
Maybe he should have taken that
Indian's offer of a ride in his cedar dugout canoe down the river from Oakville
to Aberdeen. He had thought it best
to stay afoot. The stream was rising rapidly due to the stormy weather and it
might have been a wild ride down the floodwaters of the river. Not to mention
that sitting in a canoe he'd be like a duck in a shooting gallery to an unseen
marksman.
He was having second thoughts. At
least he'd be in shelter and warm right now. Instead of laying
in the mud soaked to the bone and freezing his ass off. And the fact that
someone might be waiting for him to make a move. A move that
might be his last.
One thing he knew for sure. He
was a damn sight colder now than he’d been an hour ago.
The wind increased. A gust
stronger than the others caught the trees and relieved them of their weight of
water. Only to be burdened again by the steadily falling rain.
His stomach growled. He suddenly
remembered he’d eaten nothing since morning. With as little movement as
possible, he dug into a makeshift backpack lying beside him. Finding a piece of
jerky, he stuffed it into his mouth and began to chew.
He felt fear's icy grip on his
spine when a stick cracked a few feet away. He tightened his clench on the
rifle and tried to see into the inky blackness. He saw nothing. It must be the
wind.
A half-hour went by with no other
sound but that of the wind, rain, and the flooding river. He was shivering from
the wet cold. And, he dearly wanted that cigarette.
The hell with
it. He was going to smoke a cigarette. He was cold and hungry and
getting mad. The cigarette would improve his spirits. Let the bastards try to
get him.
He paused. Who? He still wasn't
sure there was somebody out there. But that sixth sense again told him he was
not alone in the forest this night.